NaNoPicNiCo

I saw a woman in a bear costume in work just now. She was walking from reception towards the canteen.

I could tell she was a woman because she wasn't wearing the head at first. It was a woman's head on top of a bear body. To be honest, I didn't even notice the bear body. I only put the whole bear together when the head went on.

She was talking to a couple of people. None of them were talking about the fact that she was a bear. Maybe they hadn't noticed either.

I went to the toilet, and when I got out, the bear was gone. I don't know where she went.

Why was there a bear in the office? Is it Children In Need?

I didn't get a look at the front of the bear, so I couldn't tell if it was Pudsey. I would have needed to see her from the front. Some people might be able to recognise Pudsey from behind, but they probably wouldn't admit it.

I did a tweet about Pudsey once. In fact, it's a two-parter.

Pudsey Bear's whereabouts are on a Children in Need-to-know basis.

If I die before I finish this tweet - and I easily could - that Pudsey thing could be my goodbye. Tragic. I should have said 'bearabouts'.

I'd like to dress as a bear. It would be comfortable. You could probably just lie down and go to sleep anywhere, even on some stone steps or a thorn-bush. I'd love to be able to just drop and sleep. It would be my super power.

My NaNoWriMo writing isn't going well. If I continue writing at my current rate, I won't finish until March 2014. That's five months. It's no good. It's supposed to be NaNoWriMo, not NaNoWriFiMo.

But it's not about the word count. Not this year. It's just about writing. Slow and steady wins the Man Booker Prize for Tortoise Fiction.

***

I bet, somewhere in the world, there's a stripper called Crystal Maze.

***

It's quiet in the office today. I did hear what sounded like mauling just now, but that was probably the radiators.

I think a group of people in my office were watching the new Christmas adverts online. I could only hear a bit of the audio. I can't believe it's that time of year again: me not being invited to something.

I'm not going to watch the new Christmas adverts online. I want see them on television, muted, whilst I listen to an answerphone message from somebody else's lawyer, just as they were intended.

I assume there's going to be one with a winsome cover of popular song, one with Ant and Dec driving a hovercraft, and one that tries to subvert the whole thing by raping a snowman.

***

Interesting. After writing about rape jokes ages ago, I haven't done any. I haven't even felt the need to. I'm proud of myself.

But I thought of that snowman one, and then couldn't think of a good alternative. The word "snowman" seemed to be a funny one to finish the list. So I needed a verb. And I think it needed to be a harsh verb. "Killing a snowman" isn't funny. "Stabbing a snowman" would have no effect.

I just think that they rhythm of the joke, and the concept of subverting Christmas advert conventions, demanded the use of that word.

I might be wrong. I'm willing to admit that. I just want you to know that whilst I did write a "rape joke", I thought about it carefully, and feel that it is artistically justified.

***

Here are some bonus bear tweets that aren't just here to pad out this entry:

Stroking your beard makes you look thoughtful. Stroking your bear makes you look less thoughtful. And don't try stroking Bea.

I tried to follow my own advice, but it lead me up an alley and now I'm in some sort of bear trap.

Sometimes it's just not scarf-weather, Rupert. I mean, you're a bear. You have FUR. Maybe it's a circulation problem?

It would be terrible if you were going on a hot air balloon trip, and got mauled by Yogi Bear as soon as you got in the basket. Terrible.

It takes a lot of courage to admit you're wrong, especially if you're trapped on a falling bear.

You know when it feels like your head is full of cotton wool? You're probably a stuffed animal of some kind (eg bear).

"Should I start locking my Canadian golf supplies shop?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" "Um..." #conversationsthatmighthappen

I'd never eat a bear's porridge. Think of all the hairs! Goldilocks was a madman.

Beware of Greeks gifting bears.

It's the saddest thing. My friend, the cardiophobic bear, went to a counsellor and pawed his heart out.

I'd love to attend a Teddy Bears' picnic, but they always give such short notice.

What kind of bear parents name their son Bungle? I mean, with that name he's only ever going to be a total disaster.

The thing I like best about Valentine's Day is that I get to wear my giant pink fluffy bear costume without anyone looking at me askance.

I really wish I could hibernate. I could, physically. It's just social convention that stops me. Bears get all the breaks.

The Care Bears really dropped off the face of the earth, didn't they?

Looking back, I'm sure even Disney would admit it that was a mistake to reinvent 'The Gummi Bears' as 'The False Teeth Bears' for Season 7.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed! Good! That is its purpose!" #practicalbears

Teddy bears don't go round and round MY garden.

Remember that horrible episode of Yogi Bear where he finds Boo Boo's corpse in a pic-a-nic basket? Terrifying. I think it inspired Se7en.

"Put your hands in the bear like you just don't care... about the bear's welfare!" - Me, in that sort of club.

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.

The play's the thing - Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. Or maybe a kind of modified bear trap.. No. No, I'll go with the play.

I've got a cold nose which, according to the vet, means I'm a healthy polar bear. My cubs will be relieved.

Never make eye contact with a self-conscious bear.

I covered my bathroom walls in bearskin and now I'm infertile. INFERTILE. IN FUR TILE. TILES LIKE A BATHROOM TILE. AND FUR. #goodjokes


***

Huh.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five tweets about bears.

Do most people have that many? That's not even including the Pudsey ones, or the ones that didn't make any sense.

Twenty-five bear tweets.

My ancestors would be baffled if they could see how I spend my days.

Tasteful

Mood: Saturday.

Listening to: the end of Final Score on BBC One.

I'm enjoying the animated reporting from the different correspondents. Some are ridiculously dramatic, attempting to channel the spirit of Stuart Hall (God rest his still-alive soul).

They can never match Hall, though. He's the master:



I feel quite moved by that.

But as I should probably have some music on here too:




Reading: A long, beautifully-written, but sadly fictional, article about how amazing I am.

Playing: air piano to the above Conversation music. Air piano is an underrated pursuit. Air guitar dominates the market.

There should be "air" versions of more activities.

Sometime I'll play air chess. Or air domestic abuse.

I also like to do some air airbrushing, air hairbrushing, and air Care Bear lair prayer. The latter involves praying for the safety of the Care Bears' habitat, but not really praying. Just miming it.

["Nice one Paul. That idea, which isn't interesting or funny in any way, is made better by writing a sentence with similar-sounding words in it."]

Thank you.

Eating: Lebanese food. It was delicious.

Drinking: Lebanese water. It was almost exactly the same as British water. But slightly different. You need a delicate palate to tell the difference.

I like to think I can differentiate between a huge number of types of water. For example, solid water tends to be ice. And water in the shape of a chair tends not to be water at all, but a chair.

I'm also brilliant at identifying herbs and spices, even ones that have yet to be discovered by human tongues.

Just give me any dish, and I'll list the flavours: turmeric, oregano, sea salt, river salt, lighthouse salt, basil, meat, nutmeg, any other kind of meg, pepper, Thousand Island Dressing (or Grand Island Dressing), cheese, Tabasco, Texaco, hake, coriander, liquid water, phR0Ot or parsley.

The above are the hidden ingredients of Tic Tacs, but your taste buds are probably too clumsy to register them.

Hilarious Tweets:

@diamondbadger

I refer to my eyebrows as "mybrows" and everyone else's as "thybrows". Also, I alienate people.


This tweet can go in my blog.

***

It's really fun to say "Jamie Carragher" in a Scouse accent. Try it.

Go on.

Seriously.

I'm not going to continue if you don't try.

No, not in your head: OUT LOUD.

You CAN do it!

DO IT!

...

There.

See?

Wasn't that fun?

...

Why are you crying?

***


I'm watching TV adverts over my laptop's shoulder. I'm finding them confusing. There's one with a cat, and one with some numbers.

They all seem to advocate gambling and cultural decay.

I don't even know what a warranty is.

Who's that? I recognise him from that thing that he's in. You know, that advert.

Why are all these people dancing?

Oh, I should say that the TV is on mute.

I'm not stupid or anything.

["Paul! Remember me? The square bracket/quotation marks guy?"]

Yes. I remember you.

["We've all got together (me, curvy brackets guy, that italics chick, the dude in a different font) and decided you should stop writing this blog post."]

Are you not enjoying it?

["It's not that. It's just... well, you know... I think it's time to stop. It's the right time. You don't want to outstay your welcome."]

Oh. OK.

["Great, great. Glad you understand. Maybe select a hilarious incongruous picture first? To end the blog?"]

Like this?


Hello?

...






...


Hello?

The Answer

I wonder if I should follow the example of June's (not a) diary approach to writing this blog. It would generate a higher post-count.

I realise that I'm the only person that cares about (or even notices) the amount of blog entries I do, but that doesn't mean it's not important. I'm the longest-standing reader of this blog.

I've been with myself through thick and thin, ups and downs, new homes, new jobs, and trips to Holland and Barrett to buy seeds.

So I should be catering to myself. That's why I mainly post pictures of myself. This is a masturbatory exercise. Sometimes literally.

Well done, Paul. Keep reading. Don't worry, I'll keep the post-count up.

You complete me.

Not that I don't appreciate my other readers. Whoever and if-ever you are. I should start to cast my net a little wider; try to draw in a whole new demographic. Perhaps people who aren't interested in looking at various configurations of my face.

Maybe I'll start flyering. I liked it so much in Edinburgh, I could bring my skills to the streets of my home town. Just flyers displaying the blog's URL.

What's that, Paul? Photos of my face?

Yes, OK. I'll have some of those too. Perhaps a couple of dozen.

It would be a clever recruitment strategy. I could be the next Communists.

I like that last sentence. It doesn't conform to traditional grammar. But grammar can be bent and forged into any shape I don't will won't seen fittest, did she.

So, that's the marketing plan. I work in marketing.

Well, I work in "marketing".

Well, I "work" in marketing.

Where was I? Ah yes - Biarritz. I think I left my wallet there.

Much like the blog posts of June, this isn't a diary. But I will summarise the events of the day so far.

I might take a Tarantinoesque approach to narrative structure by starting with the end. Which is now. Which is Sunday afternoon.

If anything interesting happens this evening, it may go unrecorded. Unless I write about it tomorrow. But it's probably not worth thinking about. The chances of anything interesting happening are somewhere between "slim" and "there won't be anything interesting".

I'm watching the Chelsea-Arsenal game. Arshavin just had a shot on goal.

Which reminds me, Andrey Arshavin has a website. It's so amazing that I can't believe I haven't written about it here before. I don't think I have, anyway.

Please go there:

http://www.arshavin.eu/en/

The true gold is in his Q&A sessions. He speaks good English, but has an interesting turn of phrase. I love it when non-native speakers use English, because they know the rules but come at things from an entirely fresh perspective.

I'll copy some examples, but if you go there yourself, you'll see the hilarity. The Q&As are in the news section.

So, what does Andrey Arshavin think about things? Here are some illustrative answers:

3. From LeBiKa
Hello Andrey,I’m your biggest fan, but I’m also a fan of David Beckham! I have always had this question: I wonder what they think about each other? Unfortunately, I can’t ask Beckham, but I hope that you’ll respond. =) Lena
A.A: The paradox lies in the fact that we don’t think about each other

12. From adar7
My girlfriend has very touching feeling towards your butt, how have you managed to achieve such a result, share your secret, she also likes your arms and legs!
Arshavin: I got it from my parents. Doesn’t she pay any attention to your coxofemoral joints and limbs? ;)
7. From Boldzhur
Hi, were you good at chemistry?
Arshavin: I had no problem with organic or inorganic chemistry. Chrome! :))))))

Q:
when you where 13 was you fast ?
AA:
Yes, and even when I was 7. Fast as a lightning.

Q: Andrey, are you frightened of bears?
AA:
On the contrary, I like bears.


I've spent too long looking for those. It's now nearly halftime.

Continuing my summary of the day: I awoke late. I watched the Man City-Newcastle game.

Hmm. I haven't really done much.

It's lucky that I rambled for so long before starting this (not a) diary portion.

Anything else? I did some laundry. No interesting things came out of it. Except for my magic sock. But I'm sure you all have your own magic socks. It's nothing special.

I played the guitar for a little bit. No interesting things came out of it.

Except a song I wrote about my magic sock.

But I'm sure you all have your own songs about your own magic socks. It's nothing special.

I fear reading the words of Andrey Arshavin has rendered my own syntax unusual.

I shall stop typing now. Well, not right now. After I've finished this sentence, I'll stop (after hitting the closing bracket and the full-stop key).

Timber

I wonder what would happen.

Anything could happen. Something will happen. But what would happen?

It would have to happen to a man like me. Or someone with different characteristics.

It would happen. Wouldn't it? It wouldn't, would it?

In a wooded area.

[Bear with me - I'm going somewhere with this.]

[I use that sentence to get away with bear theft]

[Never take a bear as a hostage. The honey overheads are immense, and if the bear gets Stockholm syndrome... well... you've got an amorous bear to deal with...]

Why would it happen? And furthermore, how?

How would it happen? And wheren?

Wheren will it happen?

[I'm combining where and when. You don't need both. It's economizing; along the same lines as smaste.]

"Wheren shall we meet?"
"The corner of four and five o'clock."
"WHAA?!"

It doesn't seem like it will happen. But it might.

It didn't. Everything didn't happen at some point, except for God. She happened. Wheren? Who can say?

Whohow?

God. I said that already.

I'm going to combine words until we have a vocabulary of six all-purpose words.

To start with: leg. A combination of "leg" and "example".

And then five more.

It would be a wise linguistic move. Or would it?

Remember when I used to write these posts? Written at an hour so late that sense was an enemy of free expression? Well, welcome back.

Whohow's the man?

Cometh the hour, cometh the comet.

It happened. It could have not, but didn't.

Wheren I read this tomorrow, I'll recoil. Then rub honey on the gums of a new-found friend and wait for God (whohowherenever She is) to make the first move.

'Afraid' is only a four-letter word

Fear.

Even the word itself conjures up the concept it represents.

Fear.

It's enough to strike itself into the hearts of those full of it.

(Fear)

It's just like 'ear'. But that's not scary. That F must stand for something rotten.

What are you afraid of?

That's not just a rhetorical question. Feel free to answer it.

People tend to be afraid of spiders. But that's it.

That's the only acceptable fear. That won't get you funny looks. If you're jokingly discussing fear with some chums, and you say "I'm afraid of dying alone in Wales" they will judge you.

Or heights, I suppose. But that's not really fear. That's just altitude prejudice.

I'm not sure what I've afraid of...

Socialising with strangers, I suppose. That prospect is enough to make me feel nauseous. I'm not good when placed in that situation. I'm always afraid I'll punch something (or someone) embarrassing.

I'm not scared of spiders. I'm not crazy about them, of course. If I had the choice, I'd rather not have one living in my brain. But I don't mind them too much.

I'm not scared of the dark either. I quite like it. People don't judge my body paint in the dark. Except for my glow-in-the-dark bodypaint. Which they always judge as: "endearing".

I don't like toads. I really don't. But I'm not sure if I'm afraid of them. I don't worry about them at night. I don't build complicated toadshields. I don't fear a Planet of the Toads scenario.

Who would? Who would?

It must be really difficult to have one of those strange phobias. Like those people who are terrified of buttons or chocolate hens.

It's a handicap that's not really spoken about. But it must make their lives difficult. How can you get a job or find true love if you're paralysed with fear at the sight of the Jolly Green Giant? You can't. You just have to make do.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself.

To quote the Duke of Wellington: "The only thing I am afraid of is fear. And unicorns."

Except of course for the fear of the fear of fear. That's twice as bad as normal fear. Sometimes I wake up screaming at the thought of being subject to the fear of fear. It scares me. It really does.

I'm afraid I've exhausted my fear entry.

For additional content, why not try re-reading this post, substituting the word 'fear' with 'bear'.