Caspar David Friedrichie Rich

I was going to do a photoshop of the Caspar David Friedrich painting Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, with a young ghost looking out at the mountains.

It would have the following caption:

'Caspar David Friedrichie Rich'.

It would be a play on Caspar David Freidrich and the cartoon character Richie Rich.

But then I realised that Richie Rich wasn't a ghost, no matter what the Simpsons might say:

Somehow, probably because of this Simpsons joke, I'd conflated the ghost and the rich boy.

I must have been further confused that the painter's name contained both Caspar and Rich. My brain had mixed it all up.

It's confusing.

I think the whole thing is muddied beyond repair. Of course, I could do a couple of things.

I could Photoshop the ghost onto the painting and put something like 'Caspar David Friedrich the Friendly Ghost' (or just 'Caspar the Friendly Ghost' for the intelligentsia).

Or I could Photoshop the wealthy child onto the painting and do the original 'Caspar David Friedrichie Rich'. But is Richie Rich recognizable enough from behind to make that obvious?

I really don't want to google "Richie Rich from behind" to check. Especially not at work.

It's a shame, because it seemed like such a perfect comedy idea at the time.

Oh well.

Also, I don't have Photoshop.

Drawn

I had an all-day meeting this week, and I'm still alive! It's probably my greatest triumph. You never know what you can do if you put your mind to something. If you put your mind to paper, you can cover it in brain smears! Yeah!

The most important thing to come out of the meeting was a whole page of doodles. As you might remember from previous entries, I'm quite the artist when bored and confined. Mostly, I've just done a few isolated pieces, but this week's meeting generated this:

It's my Guernica.

It's tough to complete art of this scale in what's supposed to be a work event. So how did I do it without anyone noticing?

I didn't. Everyone noticed. They just didn't care, and neither did I.

Let's have a look at some of the individual elements.

Not much up here. Spider-Man's head (I can't do his body), a man with a moustache, a weird squiggle that might be a face, a strange lantern-like shape.

This is a very interesting section. You'll notice a lot of mixed iconography: constellations, religious symbols, a witch's hat/traffic cone, and even a couple of extra faces. The lines and circles suggest a birthday party. They do.

The piece is dominated by this creature. It has the tail of a lion, the head of a... lizard(?) and appears to have shaved its legs some time ago. This really speaks to our primordial past, saying "Hey! Primordial Past! What's with the spikes and that?".

An odd sideways geometric face, a trident and some kind of cannister. Then there's a coat of arms, displaying these words:

OPINION
OBLIVION

That's my family motto. But, similarly, might it also perhaps not be maybe?

Two not disturbing faces that are crying!

This is probably my favourite section. This woman is wearing culottes with stripes on them, and has whips for hands. I think they are crackling with electricity. But look at her face! With so few lines, at such a small scale, I've really captured her personality. She's cheeky, but with an underlying sadness. Possibly because of her terrible haircut.

 

Not much of interest here. A ballroom dancer with a weird crossed-out face, an angry, ugly man, and a shining machete. The white boxes are where I've censored my only actual work-related notes. I wouldn't want to give away any of our company secrets.

Oh, I forgot to censor that one. Never mind, it doesn't make any sense.

This one's hard to see, but I think it's a stylised castle on a hill (in the bottom right-hand corner), and a sun with large rays. One of the rays goes up to meet the ballroom dancer's dress with pleasing symmetry.

Finally, there's this guy. He's wearing some kind of robe, and has a halo. He's probably a monk. Also, he has a weird lip/moustache thing going on, like a holy catfish.

So.

What have we learned?

The world is a place of complexity and wonder. Nature, spirituality, violence, electric whips and geometry form the soup we call reality. The line between emotion and mathematics is blurred; anger and grief are everywhere.

The monk looks at the ballroom dancer. What does he see? A secular, unknowable beauty? A demon in sheep's clothing? Is oblivion the only valid opinion? Does Poseidon rule the oceans, or are they filled with dinosaurs?

Why didn't I include that weird devil/fox face on the right-hand side in my analysis? Do I have something to hide?

I'm not here to offer answers. That is not the duty of the artist. Our job is to merely show people the universe and say THIS IS ME. THIS IS YOU. WE ARE A TRILLION SPIDER-MEN SPINNING A SINGLE WEB. DARE YOU GAZE INTO YOUR OWN SOUL?

Then nod and leave the room. The canvas will soak up the fluids we have brought forth.

It's a good thing scanners exist, or this work might have been confined to the page. Now it will live forever.

...

My God. It really will.

The Sculptor

Michelangelo famously claimed to be able to see his statues fully-formed in blocks of marble, waiting for him to reveal them. Similarly, I also sometimes claim things.

I'm not claiming to be Michelangelo's equal. He was, by all accounts, a very skilled artist. I am not. But our penchant for making claims is something we both share. We are not equals, but I could, in some sense, be seen as part of the same lineage: an unbroken line of claimers dating back to authoritative cavemen.

"Buffalo strong; need many spear," they might have claimed.

I don't have an interest in buffalo, and spears are now obsolete technology. But the essence of their statement is something I can recognise.

History can seem like a bewildering sea of activity. There have been so many people, living in such a wide variety of circumstances, that trying to situate yourself within them is almost impossible. What bearing does one atom have on the whole? What importance can be ascribed to a single monastery brick?

The further we zoom out, the more insignificant we become. But if we zoom further in - enough to make out the inoculation scars on our upper arms - we become not just an important thing, but the only thing.

It is only through our connection to others that we can hope to find a sense of perspective. The perspective will still be warped and subjective, but it will at least give us something to hold onto.

As I get older, I'm starting to compare myself to others more often. I don't know why this should be.

I suppose I just want to see where I stand in the League Table of Humans.

When I was younger, it was still early days. The rankings didn't mean so much because there was so much time in which to accumulate points.

But I have fewer years now. My range of possible finishing positions is getting smaller and smaller. Things are starting to settle down - people are finding their level.

I'm probably not going to beat Michelangelo, even though I (hopefully) have several years in hand. I'll really have to pull off something spectacular to climb above him.

We may both be equal in our propensity to claim things, but that's not really going to sway anyone. It's even less significant than goal difference.

I don't know what the measures of success are in the League Table of Humans. I like to think that money isn't too important a factor, but it's probably in there somewhere, maybe just above juggling on the the scale of human worth.

The factor that has the most weight is some kind of abstract spiritual well-being. I don't mean spiritual as in something beyond the natural world (because there isn't anything), but in the sense of something more profound than the number of cars you own, or the number of countries you've visited.

I think maybe a person's well-being isn't cumulative, but is only added up after you die. That's why people recant on their deathbeds.

At this point, I should probably say that I don't really know what I'm writing about here. At no point during this post have I had an objective, an argument, or an idea to convey. I've skirted round the edges of some interesting things, but haven't been able to put together a coherent message. I have, at least, written in a fairly serious tone, which may have bamboozled people into thinking that what I've said is somehow insightful.

That's the closest I can get. It might be that I have some kind of opposite charge to that of truth, and so we repel each other. I've tried to work my way around this natural law. I've attempted to approach truth with brute force. I've lashed myself to smaller truths, hoping they will carry me towards revelation.

But I can't change my charge. Truth will always be out of reach. I aspire towards it, but am doomed to fail. This awareness may seem like a kind of truth, but it isn't really. It's just an acceptance of falsity. All of the optimism and linguistic trickery and imagination in the world can't overcome the twin powers of magnetism and pragmatism.

All I can do is continue to write in the same style, still - despite dipping into meta-analysis - talking about nothing of any substance. And yet here I am, about to click the 'publish post' button.

What I call content may not be what you call content. For you, this might be an exercise in futility. For me, it is Monday. We may be packing different luggage, but our suitcases are equally heavy.

Where Michelangelo saw a block of pure white marble, I see a pure white text box. Where he frees the statue within, I chisel away blindly until you can all see is the black.

Spineless

You may think it's been over a week since my last post, but it has actually only been about ten minutes. Time is getting ever faster. I feel like my life is flashing before my eyes, but I don't even get the blessed consolation of an imminent death. [/upbeat paragraph]

I was going to write something about how I don't read modern fiction, but that seems like it might require some thought. I fear thought. I'd rather avoid it, if it's at all possible.

Oh. I don't think it is possible. The moment I thought about thought, it was all over. It's a fait accompli. There's no getting around it: I thought it. I fought it, but I couldn't abort it.

Why don't I read modern fiction?

Because it's all rubbish!

Ha ha ha! Oh Paul, you are a card.

It's not all rubbish. I don't believe that any more than I think all modern film, music or pancakes is/are rubbish. I've gone on record as hating the veneration of a golden past.

The main reason I don't read modern fiction (and I'm probably talking about anything written since, let's say, 1973), is that I have limited time. I'm obsessed with making the most of my free hours. So how can I justify spending my days reading an unknown prospect, when there are so many established classics for me to read? I can't justify it.

I'm already wasting so much time watching DVD extras and chortling at .gifs on Tumblr. I don't want to spend time on the latest Booker Prize winner, when (for all I know), it might be terrible. I haven't read A Tale of Two Cities. That has to take precedence. If I'm going to spend time looking at words and ideas on a printed page, I'm better off wading through the literary canon. Non-canon works are too much of a gamble.

That's not to say that I'll like everything in the canon. But at least it's worthy. The book might have a historical significance. It's probably referenced in all manner of articles, late night discussion programmes and tweets by Stephen Fry. Even if I don't enjoy it, it's equipping me with some useful tools for the long climb towards pretension.

My prejudices tend to be confirmed on the rare occasions that I do read something from the last forty years. I pretty much always find what I'm reading to be underwhelming. "Is that it?" I might say to whoever's sitting next to me. "It was OK, but... man. It took me eighteen hours to read this. I could have built a ship in a bottle in another ship in that time."

I might be similarly nonplussed by a Joseph Conrad novel, but at least it will be a nonplussing of some pedigree. I can attend lecturers on the nonplussing, and see how it has influenced later works of mild dissatisfaction.

But there must be some great modern fiction out there. There must be something that I'd love. I'm probably just looking at the wrong things.

Or perhaps my bias means that I'm predisposed to hate any work that might use The Bee Gees as a reference point. I'm looking at current fiction with shit-tinted spectacles, just as I accuse other people of doing with music! What a fool I've been! I've been hoist with my own petard. I shouldn't have bought one really. Who needs a petard? But I was conned by a clever marketing campaign.

I think the real reason that I don't read modern fiction is nothing more than confusion. I find the whole thing completely baffling. Who are the good modern authors? Are they respected? Are they critically acclaimed? Is this book seen as trashy fiction? Is that book something of substance?

I look at a rack of bestsellers and the covers might as well be pictures of question marks (though to be fair, The Riddler's autobiography is a smash hit). Perhaps I fear that my critical faculties (which for film, TV and music have been carefully honed by years of reading snobbish hipster edicts) will let me down when it comes to the printed word. What if I really love Dan Brown? What if I love Twilight? I'd never be able to show my face again. My reputation as a person who only likes good things will be in tatters. Which would be terrible, even though I'm the only person aware of that reputation, and I seem to believe that it was tattered in the first place.

Can I get on the modern fiction horse? I could. But would I be able to look at things objectively? I don't know. I just don't know.

That's why I find it safe to stick with known quantities. Venturing into the unknown is a scary prospect. You might find that you're a rubbish hiker and are afraid of campfires.

Knowing nothing about modern fiction makes me less of a well-rounded person. Then again, who's to say that a knowledge of professional wrestling is any less roundening? I don't have to be an expert in every field. There are people out there who are devoted experts on modern fiction, but who don't know where I put my keys. Swings and roundabouts. What's good for the goose is greener on the scratched back of my hand as it washes my other foot.

In conclusion, I don't need to bother reading modern fiction.

Most of my conclusions are ones which validate my own inadequacies and postpone self-improvement. My conclusions are really holding me back. But you can't argue with them. They are the final word.

All Hail Conclusions.

***

That's the end of this week's thought. Join me again next time for more letters in the same font.

I might write about a Nominal Inanimate Enamel Animal.

Inflation

This has been the best sentence ever!

Oh. Oh dear. That was the best sentence ever. Now we have nothing left to look forward to. I might as well throw all of my keyboard keys into the bin, and then bury my bin in the Florida Keys. I might as well do that.

But there are still some good sentences out there, I suppose! Just because Shakespeare is the best writer and Caroline in the City is the best sitcom, it doesn't mean people should stop making plays, sonnets and... things with Leah Thompson in. That would be awful.

So we'll persevere. We'll keep on churning out sentences, our heads held high, our pens pressed against out WHSmith wide-lined A4 pads of writing paper, staring defiantly into the horizon. As long as we're not blinded by the rising sun, we'll be fine. Futile, but noble.

We'll never top the first sentence in this blog post, but it doesn't matter. Glorifying the pointless is part of the human condition. All art is the art of failure.

That's not depressing. It's liberating. Once expectations are at an all-time low, your options are infinite. Things literally couldn't get any worse, which is why life couldn't be any better.

What better way to demonstrate this admirable futility than with a compilation of my most recent, most good, tweets? What better rhetorical device to use as an introduction than this one?

None. None.

My tweet-rate has dropped recently, but there are probably still some decent ones in here. Probably. I haven't checked.

I'll meet you on the other side, and we'll assess the quality of the offerings.

For now, don't blink. Don't blink for even a second. Because it's time for another edition of:

The Art of Failure

***

I like my coffee like I like my jokes about how I like my coffee: overused.

***

In the future, Chinese Whispers will become Chinese Retweets. Remarks will remain identical at each stage, occasionally preceded by "This."

[Editor/Paul's Note: This may be incoherent to non-tweeters. It may also be incoherent to tweeters. It may also be incoherent to the Chinese.]

***

I hate it when taxi drivers try to talk to me on my death bed. What are they even doing here?

***

It's true that I tried smoking pot in snow and in sleet, but I didn't in hail.

***

In other news, frozen bong water makes a fantastic ice lolly.

***

My publicist has advised me to pretend I have a publicist (who gives terrible advice).

***

The best thing about watching Aston Villa is it gives Lucy a chance to do her "Albrighton and No Hove" joke. Again.

***

Half term! The commute was so civilised without kids. They should do a reverse Logan's Run, where everyone is killed before they reach 30.

***

I have a sore throat. The doctor suggested I shouldn't have smoked so many sandcastles. I want a second opinion.

***

People think I'm a bear for 3 reasons: 1) I had porridge this morning, 2) I look like a bear, 3) I keep forgetting to lock my front door.

***

I like filling my tweets with cultural references. For example, every word in this tweet is a reference to the film/song in which it was used

***

I'm worried my tiara makes me look effeminate, so I've draped it in phallic bacon.

***

I give very little money to charity, but I do always eat the end-pieces of a garlic baguette. #selfless

***

Tweets. Are. Like. Buses. The. More. Stops. There. Are, The. More. People. Get. On. Board.

***

I'm thirsty. I wish I could reassign some of my existing body liquid. My Lilt pouch is never going to get used.

***

I woke up on the wrong side of my face this morning.

***

I've just put on my fuzzy thinking cap. I've only got a vague sense of what I'm doing, but at least my head is nice and warm.

***

[Paul/Editors Note: The following eight tweets were some (then) topical Valentine's Day content. I'm very much in tune with current events, daddio.]

Not feeling very Christmassy today. I guess I'm just getting older.

***

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

***

I would've loved to have been at the meeting where everyone voted the heart as the most romantic organ.

***

I can't wait for the Valentine's Day backlash backlash backlash backlash. It's about time they got theirs.

***

Sad scenes in M&S. Just dozens of confused men clutching flowers and trying to decide which is the most romantic type of houmous.

***

An accountant fingers a pink balloon, trying to decide whether or not to claim it's ironic. He decides to play it by ear. A mistake.

***

Scores of hollow-eyed Lotharios trying to judge cava by quality of font.

***

A bearded loser settles for cheesecake. That was I. That was me. That was the author of this tweet.

***

Whenever I see an elderly person, I'm keen to demonstrate how non-threatening I am, so I throw all my knives to the floor at their feet.

***

I avoid buying Moroccan-topped houmous because there are too many bad associations. (My girlfriend's still angry with me for losing her fez)

***

Hey, does anybody want to swap the answers for the questions?

***

"I'ma be gettin' my Gina Gersh on TONITE!" - like, 8 people probably.

***

The best way to punctuate a clever quip is by biting into a piece of dry toast. Especially if you've just slammed a baker.

***

My friend's baby was born with the strength of ten tigers. It was a Phantom pregnancy.

***

Anyone who uses the word "passionate" in a job application letter should be immediately rejected. Unless it's their surname.

***

I'm wearing a pink shirt. I feel like a formal pig.

***

I don't know my own strongth.

***

Please wash your hands before eating them.

***

"The play's the thing of the jungle / Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King of the Jungle." I failed to excel as a big game hunter.

***

Just now, someone brushed past me as I was writing my name with syrup. Ruined. The name, the syrup, the day. RUINED.

***

Stick a fork in me: I'm a cutlery rack.

***

So... are "trousers" basically a balaclava for legs? #fittingroomquestions

***

Is it OK if I imagine the coat hangers are my father? Or yours? #fittingroomquestions

***

Why is there another me in there, trying on the same clothes? #fittingroomquestions

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What's a miwwer? #fittingroomquestions

***

Speech impediment? #fittingroomquestions 

***

Can I try this curtain on? #fittingroomquestions

***

You can activate your ranch's bovine beacon until the cows come home.

***

Rubbing eyes: incomprehension. Rubbing hands: anticipation. Rubbing lamp: emancipation. Rubbing thighs: a lifetime ban from Euston station.

[Paul/Editor's Note: I did this "poem" at my stand-up gig, but changed 'Euston station' to 'Liverpool Street station' to intentionally sabotage the metre.]

***

More people die in hot air balloon rides each year than die in hot air balloon rides each month. #balloonstats

***

I've had the Brady Bunch theme in my head all morning. This afternoon? A bullet.

***

I always spend my first waking hour googling things I dreamt about, just to see if they really exist.

***

I always spend my second waking hour criticising my first hour's sentence structure.

***

Here: have a nice refreshing glass of renegade! Actually, no. You can't have any.

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Like "renege"-ade? Oh forget it. I should stop tweeting things I think of when I'm Paul.

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Details of my immortality are to be published only in the event of my death.

***

I really hate it when people call me "luv" in pits.

***

"A problem Chered is a problem halved" - Cher

***

My business card is just a photo of the inside of my wallet, so I can pretend it's a mirror when it's in there.

***

Right. I'm going to have a Rutger Hauer. (That's my slang term for "shower with Rutger Hauer")

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I'd never hit a man with glasses. One should do the trick.

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You know when you're trying to come up with a new abbreviation for the top hat? That.

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I'm going to have my children raised bilingual, by Lingual. (Lingual is the au pair)

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I've just eaten a paradoxicle. It's a delicious ice lolly kept cold by special freezers that run on melted paradoxicles.

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I always try to realise something new each day, apparently.

***

Cross-dressing is fine, but I prefer a more sophisticated crucifix vinaigrette.

***

POEM: The Krays // spent days // calling corn "maize" // (It was only a phase)

***

I put quotation marks around graffiti to make it post-modern. But someone put quotation marks around my quotation marks. Banksy wins again.

***

If there ISN'T a curried squirrel cabal running everything, why is "conspiracy" an anagram of "spicy acorn"? COINCIDENCE?! #openyoureyes

***

I've found a Post-it note I wrote to myself a while ago that just says "ACTIVATE LORNA".

***

I'm writing a song about receiving a cheque from my grandfather clock. It has an unusual time signature.

***

I don't think I'm awake. I just looked up, and there are hundreds of Zs clustered on the ceiling.

***

I just climbed on my desk, and it turns out they're actually Ns. I have no idea what THAT's about.

***

I just razed an eyebrow.

***

Voice: nasal. Eyes: hazel. A succinct appraisal.

***

"There are no small parties, only small actuaries".

***

You can use that quote if you're sending out invitations for an insurance company social event. They'll love it. They'll love you.

***

Well, that wasn't bad. But those last two weren't a good way to end the list. To be fair, I did dream that 'actuaries' thing, but still. Maybe I should tweet something quickly now, to make the whole thing end on less of a downer...

***

This is the end of the blog post, isn't it?

[Paul/Editor's Note: Yes, it is.]

Frank55 Spreads His Wings

I'm not a professional cartoonist. I can't draw, don't have any pens, and have never been paid for anything even remotely worthwhile. But I am a passionate amateur. Is it possible to be a cartoonist if you lack any of the essential skills and equipment?

Yes it is.

Frank55 is a character I created. He's the flagship (and only) character of my creative... boatyard. I've shown you his adventures before: here, here, and a little cameo appearance here.

I've realised that I can't hide these genius needles in the huge haystack of my archive, so have created a place for Frank55 to call his own:

http://frank55is.tumblr.com/

It's on Tumblr. I don't really know how Tumblr works yet. I spent a long time messing around with the settings and background. I'm sure you can tell. It seems pretty fun. I need a new place to waste time - Twitter, Facebook and this blog aren't enough. I find that I'm only distracted for 90% of my waking life. I'm trying to nudge it up to 95%.

I joined Google+ a while ago, but I haven't really spent enough time there. Also, I don't know anyone else who uses it. I've just used it to write a sporadic analysis of the slotted spoon. If anyone would like to add me to their circle, please do. (I think that's the right terminology. I'm not making a inappropriate proposition.) My stage name is 'Paul Fung', which is a letter-for-letter copy of my actual name.

But Tumblr is my chosen platform for Frank55. If you visit the above link, you'll see all of the existing cartoons, plus quotes from experts, plus an unpublished third cartoon (that I apparently didn't post here because I thought it was rubbish). If you'd like to "follow" me on there, please feel "free" to do so.

You can also see the most recent instalment, which I include below, to give you a flavour of my artistry.

Pretty moving, right?

I'm hoping to get some kind of publishing deal. Webcomics are big business now. They're a way for people to show off their talents and reach a wide audience.

I could bring out a book. I might need to be more productive, though. Five cartoons in nearly four years isn't enough. I'll try to step things up.

I might also start a Tumblr page for myself. I can't be cluttering up the Frank55 page with interesting links and photos and videos. It needs to be pure, unadulterated ART.

I hope I'm not spreading myself too thin. This blog, my tweets, and now a "regular" cartoon... I just hope I can maintain my current high standards.

***

Now that's out the way, here is some entertaining content. I give with one hand, and give with the other. And if someone wants to hand me an ice-cream, I have to hold it in the crook of my elbow. I then give that away.

I'm worried that this much generosity will lead to me giving everyone the same clothes off my back, which could lead to infighting and spine pneumonia.

In other news, I was in my work canteen today, and overheard a physics expert at another table describing Stephen Hawking as "fundamentally second-rate". He said it with such conviction, that I've started to believe it. Stupid Hawking.

I suppose Hawking's celebrity must annoy other physicists. He gets all the plaudits, all the glory, all the women, and they have to do the hard graft. It's the same with Prof Brian Cox. That pretty boy is basking in the limelight (analysing the limelight's wavelength and eloquently describing the behaviour of limephotons), when the REAL scientists are wrist deep in gluons and sweating into a beaker.

But I suppose that's the way of the world. It happens in all walks of life. The Queen makes all the headlines, but its the unsung royals that are putting the blue-blood, blue-sweat and crystalline tears into making this nation one of the greatest in Western Europe.

It's just the way it is. Let the Coxes and the Queens and the Hawkingses be the glamour-magnets. There's work to be done. And you can't smash protons together if a paparazzo is staring up your lab skirt.

***

I seem to have mislaid my entertaining content. I'll rummage around and see what I can wrangle for next time.

I hope you enjoy the wedding you might be attending this weekend.

Caption Competition

"CAPTION COMPETITION"

Every time there's a caption competition, no matter what the picture is, I always send the same suggestion for a caption: "CAPTION COMPETITION".

This has a couple of benefits:
1) It is appropriate.
2) If I win (or when I win), they'll have to print it. And people will assume that it's a whole new competition. They'll send in suggestions to caption the picture, even though my caption has already been chosen. In fact, I'll enter again. My suggestion will be "CAPTION COMPETITION", and the whole cycle will start anew. It will be like a piece of conceptual art. The New Yorker will probably give me a staff job.

Another good technique for caption competitions is to use dialogue spoken by characters not featured in the picture itself. For example:

"I think I might be getting a sore throat." - Old Woman (not pictured)

It doesn't relate directly to the picture, but who's to say there wasn't an old woman with a sore throat in that room somewhere? I'm certainly not to say that.

People will search for some double-meaning, but there isn't one. They might think it's some commentary on how politicians never listen to the pleas of pensioners. But it isn't that. It's just something that woman said.

A well-known "alternative" caption technique is to just state exactly what's happening in the scene. For example:

"Two people in costumes hold bubble-making items and capture the attention of two children."

I think this is a bit predictable. Something done by lesser captioners (like Nick Ward). People espousing this method tend to think they're being satirical, but they're not. I like to turn that whole thing on its head.

"Two people in costumes DON'T hold bubble-making items and DON'T capture the attention of two children."

You see? Much better. It raises doubts. That's what all great artists should do. 

Some people try to say that captioning "funny" photos isn't art. But they're wrong. It is art. It is exactly art.

Art is about labelling the world in misleading ways. I'm the captioners' Picasso. I've been called that before, by Caption, the country's leading captioning magazine. (Not this country, but still...)

Lately, I've been experimenting with autobiographical captions. These help to flesh out not just the picture in question, but the captioner's frame of mind.

"Make sure this guy can't move! Much like a friend of mine who writes captions. He can't move because he's STIFLED. Stifled by life. Stifled by the rigours of the captioning profession. Trapped in a prison of his own snappy summarising. He can step outside and objectively view everything except himself. He tries! He tries! But no man can caption himself. The only caption awaiting my friend is the one on his tombstone - carved by a bitter contemporary (like Nick Ward) - which simultaneously, bitingly, sums up and dismisses his life. The poor bastard. He'll only be happy when he's dead."

It might need a bit of fine-tuning, but I think that could grace any humorous up-market publication. People are bored of traditional captions. They want something deeper.

The world of captioning never stands still. Which is why we find it difficult to describe it. You can't caption a moving image.

That's just subtitling. 

And subtitling is not art.

Despite what Nick Ward's idiot subtitling brother Jonathan says.

"Blue"

--- EDIT 15:10 PM

I've just tried my first technique. Let's see if it works.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/discussion/comment-permalink/14070330

Shtick in the Mud

I'm feeling a bit dry. Creative-wise, rather than body moisture-wise.

I'm bored of work. That's no surprise. I'm also bored of Twitter, which is a surprise. It's probably just temporary, but I've started to find my own shtick wearying.

Hey. Shtick only has one 'c'. That's the greatest surprise of all.

I'd like to move to a tropical island. I can't decide how inhabited it should be. I'd probably need some people around to make pizza and deliver pizza and dispose of pizza boxes. It's going to be a mainly pizza-based economy.

Or maybe it should be a totally untouched paradise. Lucy and I can drink from coconuts and befriend turtles. We can sleep in the leafy canopy and play pineapple golf. Reliable Wi-Fi might be a problem, but I'm sure a few palm trees and electric eels will keep things ticking over.

This is already more plausible than Lost.

Maybe amnesia would help. I don't know if controlled forgetfulness is more or less achievable than a monkey-run sand hospital, but I could give it a try.

Each day, I'd be newly amused by my own antics.

Ha! Sand hospital!

Novelty becomes harder to come by as you get older. Just like Drifter chocolate bars. Memory is the problem - like a bacteria that infects a once-fresh idea, leaving it wilting and grey.

That's why people with degenerative brain diseases are always so chipper!

On the other hand, memory can be useful. It's no good being able to tell yourself the same joke every day if you can't remember your email address.

OK. So I'll keep the memory.

Maybe gravity is the problem. Same old boring stick-me-to-the-ground gravity. Gravity is such a drag. Or is that friction...? Either way, life would be a whole lot more exciting if we were floating around. Think of all the things you could do!

Go on, I'll wait.

...

Pretty good, right?

Also, it would take Superman down a peg or two. Or up. Depending on our airborne orientation. Then again, he can propel himself somehow. Really fast. We'd just be flapping around like meat butterflies. Best not to rile Superman. He's under enough pressure as it is.

Well, how about a new haircut?

That might snap me out of my malaise. I'd love to have some kind of blonde bob. People could call me "the blonde bobshell". If they had a cold.

I suppose these lulls just come along every now and then. I'll feel better in a few days - tweeting like the wind, laughing at my own passé hair, grateful for gravity, non-eeled.

I'm grateful that I can share these thoughts here. I can't afford to see a psychiatrist.

***

In other news, my mild dissatisfaction wasn't one of the main stories.

***

In udder news, milk production continues despite some experts claiming "lactation leads to eventual death in 100% of mammals". Some things are worth dying for, I suppose.

***

In smother news, it takes longer than you might think to suffocate an inanimate clay rhinoceros.

***

I made a clay rhino at school once. It was a white rhino. I'm not sure why I chose that particular rhino. Probably an innate Aryan bias. I didn't sculpt a black mamba. Though that might be anti-reptile prejudice, rather than racism. A black mamba would have been easier to make, too.

I remember my rhino's horn didn't last long. Sticking-out bits are vulnerable when a clumsy child is around. And a clumsy child was around, Jamie. Don't think I've forgotten.

I don't have a natural aptitude for sculpture. Later on, I did make a disturbing glazed monster that survives to this day (though is missing a couple of teeth). I'll try to find it and analyse it in depth.

I was never very good at art. The things I drew tended to look unlike any known physical object. I couldn't draw noses. Or arms. Or a curved, pencil line. My painting skills were poor. My parents sent me to an art class for a while, but my goat painting failed to win any acclaim.

I'm not sure why I use the pejorative term 'sent me' there. What I mean is my parents kindly gave me many opportunities to try creative things. I'm very grateful for that, even though I hated most of them (the classes, not the parents).

There was the art class, piano lessons, learning how to do computing (which was phenomenally prescient of them), judo (I lasted one lesson), science experiments, guerrilla warfare, sword juggling, bear-baiting, bait-bearing, horse chestnuts.

I might have imagined some of those...

What fantastic parents! They gave me all the chances I could possibly need to be a genius.

And now look at me.

They didn't sent me to blog college.

Maybe I should try to sculpt again. At the time I made that white rhino, they were highly endangered. But now they seem to be thriving:

Almost at the edge of extinction in the early 20th century, the southern subspecies has made a tremendous comeback. In 2001 it was estimated that there were 11,670 White Rhinos in the wild with a further 777 in captivity worldwide, making it the most common Rhino in the world.

The Northern White Rhino still seems to be in trouble, but who cares about that? I only like southern whites. I should move to Georgia.

Now I'm not saying that my sculpture was the only reason that the white rhino is no longer endangered. But sometimes art can highlight societal and natural problems. And who's to say that a young conservationist didn't see my sculpture, all battered and hornless, and feel compelled to save the species? Who's to say that? I don't think anyone is to say that.

So if I do get back on the sculpting horse, maybe I can save a few more species. I might be able to boost the numbers of the Chacoan peccary, or the Woolly Tapir.

I might win a Nobel prize! For clay-work and environmentalism. I could be a cross between Michelangelo and Oskar Schindler.

The only thing that might hold me back is my ignorance of when to capitalise animal names. Is it White Rhino or white rhino? Woolly Tapir or woolly tapir?

Also, my knowledge of goat anatomy is poor.

And I'm prejudiced against lizards. And non-whites.

Maybe I should lower my expectations.

A Drifter will do nicely.

Drawing a Blank

If you're wearing ice skates whilst reading this, take them off.

Even if you're on an ice rink or frozen pond. You shouldn't be wearing the skates. I've specifically written this entry with the un/de-skatéd in mind. If you have some kind of foot-blade related accident whilst trudging through this paragraph, it's nobody's fault but your own.

I'm undecided about rollerblades. On the one hand, they are a type of skate. But on the other, there is no sharp metal foot-machete involved. I suggest you take off your rollerblades, but there shouldn't be a problem if you choose to wear them.

Also, take that pigtail out of your mouth. This is serious business.

And turn off your pagers. Mobile phones are fine, but I can't abide pagers. In fact, if you have a pager, please make a hole in the ice and throw it in. A seal might be grateful; all pinnipeds are Luddites.

Ready?

Good.

Here we go.

...

I haven't decided what to write about yet.

But my previous conditions still obtain.

***

Oh, there's something I should quickly clear up after my previous blog post:

I will never become a hitman. I probably came across as being vague in my response to that issue. I am not suited to the job, and wouldn't like to do it, even if I was.

Let's just draw a line under it.

_________________________________

I seem to have become fond of that expression. I've used it twice in recent posts. That's probably too much.

Let's draw a lion under it.

I could work for Disney.

Not as an animator, of course. But they probably need people to wash dishes or do data entry.

I'd try not to imply that Walt was a Nazi. I don't even know if he was.

***

I was going to do a series of "let's draw a [BLANK] under it" jokes.

(Not "let's draw a blank under it" - that's different)

But to be honest, I don't think I'm going to be able to beat that lion. It's probably my proudest artistic achievement.

Except for that time I drew a duck playing Monopoly (on the saxophone).

She's playing Monopoly!

But not the board game!

It's obviously a piece of music called Monopoly! ISN'T THAT CLEVER?

SHE'S EVEN LOOKING DOWN AT THE SHEET MUSIC!!!!!

17 May 2010 was a fantastic day for British art. Even if this was the only piece of British art created that day. And I think it was.

There's also the fact that the saxophone, whilst brilliantly realised, also looks a bit like a duck. It reflects something about the role of music, and of the instrument as an extension of the self.

LOOK HOW MUCH THE DUCK IS CONCENTRATING!

I'm underrated as an artist. I don't need no easel. Easels are easy. Easel Peasel.

True artists use MS Paint.

***

Todd Rundgren has just come up on shuffle on iTunes. I think it's probably a sign.

I'm not sure what it's a sign of. Probably that I own at least one Todd Rundgren track (I actually own two).

Oh. Now it's Dilated Peoples. I'm so cool and eclectic and diverse.

These updates probably aren't too interesting.

Dilated Peoples is like dilated pupils. Clever, right?

A bit like the pupils on a certain duck, possibly tripping on the drug that is music?

***

I'm going to go now, but first I should clear up a couple of things:

1) I'd be a rubbish hitman.

2) No matter what you hear, no matter what you've seen in this post today, no matter what the tabloids or internet conspiracy theorists would have you believe, I am NOT Banksy.

I'm not.

I'm just not.

Bread and Scrape

In my day, the government gave us all a day.

Everyone had one. On your sixteenth birthday, you were allocated one twenty-four hour period, and it was yours with which to do whatever you wanted.

My day was Friday 11th January 1900.

But there was a miscalculation in The Ministry of Day Apportionment. They'd miscalculated.

In 1998, the year I turned sixteen, there were around 58,649,000 people in the UK. And whilst there had technically been more than that number of days up to that point, the government was hindered by several flaws in the system:

1) They only included days after 0AD, as BC days were deemed 'stodgy' and 'Old Labour'.

2) The landed gentry, the royals, and all former England football captains were granted special privileges. Instead of a day, they were given entire weeks, and in some cases, years. Bryan Robson's week was from 1853, and included both the Battle of Oltenitza and the founding of the Republic of Lower California. Princess Margaret had 1771. With the privileged receiving so many extra days, there were fewer for the middle and lower classes.

3) Jack Straw refused to allow days in the future to be included, because he claimed that "the concept really freaks me out".

I was very lucky to be given a day. I put some patio chairs there, and occasionally went there for some 'alone time'.

In my day, there was a slight problem with damp.

Soon, people were forced to share days. Then the policy was abandoned altogether. But by then it was 1999 and we were all busy hunting for Prince (who had stolen the year from Richard Branson, claiming "Issssss MIIIIIIIINNNE!").

***

I lost confidence in that comedy concept. There might be something there, but it is not ripe for picking at the current time. In the current climate.

Hey! How about, right...?

How about:

I don't feel comfortable making jokes about raisin hurricanes. Not in the currant climate.

How about that?!

That's a joke. An actual joke. 

Sure, it doesn't really make sense. But the important thing is that it's HONEST.

***

Break your blog into sections

Break your blog into sections

Point your readers in several directions

Break your blog into sections

Avoid detection! Avoid detection!

STRUCTURAL, STRUCTURAL INSURRECTION!

Break your blog into sections

Break your blog into sections

Vote for a dog in your local elections

Break your blog into sections

I love that song.

***

If you print this blog post out, you can cut out all of the words and rearrange them into whatever order you like. You could make me sound really racist if you wanted to. I don't know why you would. But you could.


Also, you could fold this entry into a paper plane. Use these bits as wing-flaps:

\\\\ ////

This woman can be the pilot:

__-----___
}~~~~~{
    ''''    ''''
  @   @
     ^
     =


ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL?


If you're reading this on a laptop, desktop or tablet computer, you probably shouldn't cut anything out. You might need those sections of the screen later, for the odd drag-and-drop, article perusal or full-screen movie experience.


***

INT. MEXICO - DAY

A man sits at his computer. A man looks at his computer. A man seethes at his computer. The man is PAUL. A womanly beast sits a short distance away, flossing. She is HAAT.

PAUL

When should this blog post end?

HAAT

You'll know when.

PAUL

Are you sure?

HAAT

I don't know.

PAUL

I think it might be time to end it now. 

I think I might have 'jumped the shark' 

with the name 'Haat'.

HAAT

He who seeks answers may only find 

lots of question marks piled into 

the shapes of letters. The letters may 

spell out the word 'ANSWERS'.

PAUL

Yeah, I'm pretty sure this should be the end.

In the distance, a cloud of dust signals the approach of a horse-drawn cart. Three figures are visible on the cart.

PAUL (cont'd)

Who are they?

HAAT

You'll know when. 

PAUL

When?

HAAT

When you see them.

The cart draws closer. The figures emerge from the dust. It becomes clear that these figures are all the actor William Sadler, in his three most famous roles: DEATH from Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, dumb hick prisoner HEYWOOD from The Shawshank Redemption, and the villain COLONEL STUART from Die Hard 2: Die Harder (remember, he's in the nude near the beginning).

PAUL

Is that...? That guy. That actor. 

You know. The one with the square jaw.

HAAT

William Sadler?

PAUL

I don't know. I don't know what his name is.

HAAT

It is. It's William Sadler. 

In his three most famous roles.

PAUL

Huh. Hey, wasn't he in Deep Space Nine too?

HAAT

I don't know.

DEATH

Hey guys. Do you know if this 

is the right road to get to Juárez?

PAUL

I don't know.

HAAT

Me neither.

HEYWOOD

Dang.

COLONEL STUART begins to strip, and the sun sinks below the horizon.

Stretch

I was born at a very young age, and have ever since been building upon that achievement.

At first, I was a pitiable creature. Unable to stand or make even the most rudimentary omelette. But as I grew, I grew hair, I grew teeth, I grew strong, I grew weary, I grew up.

Soon I was able to control my bladder. I was able to wear proper clothes. I grappled with a spoken tongue. And before long, I was at university, putting all of those skills into practice.

Some years after completing my education, I found myself writing a blog post very much this one.

Still more time passed, and I grew my hair to an obscene degree. My hair care routine used so much water that people in the third, fourth and sixth worlds suffered terribly from drought (both water and shampoo).

Later still, I developed my own religion. I called it Listianity, and it was based on the compiling of spurious lists. There were ten main principles behind it:

That's right. Ten.

Eventually I passed away peacefully in someone else's sleep (test-driving my new Inter-Dream Submarine), eventually winning a posthumous Nobel Prize for Dysentery.

At the point of death, I found myself able to float through time. No longer linear, time became one big picnic blanket, and I was free to investigate its many corners as I so pleased.

From the mini Scotch eggs (Napoleonic Wars) to the cheese and onion quiche (birth of Socrates); from the jug of Pimm's (1988 European Championships) to the Maltesers (the Malteser War of 5200AD).

I found this freedom exhilarating. I took some time to travel back to 2011 to complete this blog post, filling myself (and my many readers) in on all that had/has/will transpire(d) over the next several Centurenia.

Eventually, I arrived at the Big Bang just in time to watch the fireworks.

Then I travelled back to 2011 again to write these last two lines.

***

Some of the above is untrue. But humans have a unique ability to enjoy fiction. Animals can't do it. If you show a horse a Brian De Palma film, the horse will display almost no interest.

Animals do lie, of course. A hoverfly will pretend to be a wasp, to fool predators into leaving it alone. An earthworm will claim to be pregnant to ensnare her Catholic lover into continuing the relationship. A Myna bird will present a fake ID to get served in Morrisons.

But deception is not fiction. The animal can lie, but cannot create; can hide the truth, but cannot build new beautiful, plausible, truths of its own.

Except for the AmDram Ram. But his performances are so unpolished, you might as well be watching a jumper smoking a pipe.

Humans alone can harness the power of fiction. We can explore the deepest recesses and furthest reaches of our brain spectrum. Our tentative fingers of creativity stretch out into the dark. There's nothing there, so we postulate a world in our fingerprints.

And imagination has a real bearing on the real world too. If it wasn't for the imagination, we wouldn't have had such breakthroughs in science. If Benjamin Franklin hadn't imagined a world without keys, we wouldn't have the washer/dryer.

If Newton hadn't been daydreaming Babylon 5 fan fiction, we wouldn't have Strongbow.

So when I tell half-truths about my origin and destination, don't think that I'm wasting your time.

Because I'm changing the world.