The Best Man

I came up with a group of supervillains the other day.

The idea is a companion piece to my group of heroes, The Bike Brigade.

I like to think the two groups are linked because they are both supremely impressive works of a keen imaginative artist. But there's a possibility that their similarity is due to them being mainly puns on a single idea. But who's to say whether a derivative trunk will lead to derivative branches? No-one is to say that. The most original of leaves can spring from a lame-ass oak.

So, here it is.

The main villain is The Matrimoniac.

She's an insane woman, who is obsessed with marrying people. She wears a veil to hide her identity, throws explosive bouquets and ties tin cans to the backs of her prospective victims.

She also sends invitations warning her "fiancé" that their time is running out.

With all of these ideas, it's worth asking whether I am a sexist. Why is The Matrimoniac a woman? I could just have easily have made her a man. Isn't a wedding-obsessed female villain (explicitly presented as "crazy") terribly reductive?

Those are worthy questions. And having asked them makes me one of the most enlightened men you're likely to meet.

Keep in mind that three of the Bike Brigade are female, which accounts for nearly half. So, if anything, women are over-represented (as we all know they only make up 29% of the world population).

Also, The Matrimoniac will pursue men, women and transgender people. That makes me very open-minded. I also tried to look up the most up-to-date politically correct term for a transgender person (Are they transgendered? Can I use the abbreviation 'trans'?). This makes me even more open-minded, even though I didn't really find a definitive answer and just gave up after thirty seconds of research.

Admittedly, The Matrimoniac would never consider an inter-racial marriage. So in that sense, I am being conservative. But - and this is key - I haven't yet established which race The Matrimoniac belongs to! She wears a veil!

All in all, this is pretty watertight.

The Matrimoniac's gang includes:

The Bridal Party

Horrific, shrieking hen party: drunk, wearing angel wings and nurses' outfits, drunk, staggering, carrying shoes, urinating in the street.

Like all women do.

Ahaha! Not really! That was just some Gervaisian ironic prejudice! Remember all the stuff I wrote about earlier? I'm not sexist. I've proved it by raising sexism as a possibility and then immediately dismissing it.

Also - and this is key - The Bridal Party are made up of actual, human-sized hens. The birds, I mean.

So you can't be sexist against hens. Chickens don't have the same kind of social structure we have. The only pressure for hens is to lay eggs, and I fight against that pressure every day. A hen should control what goes into and what comes out of her own body. It's not up to some (largely rooster-filled) legislature to tell them what to do.

I've been doing my part by eating hens before they've had a chance to lay eggs. I've also eaten some eggs.

An Ordained Minister

The Matrimoniac will need someone who has marrying powers, otherwise each forced wedding will require a lot of admin. I haven't come up with a good name for the minister yet. Maybe The Great Ordain (like 'Great Dane'), or Vicarus (he or she can have wax wings).

The Witnesses

Two staring, mouthless apparitions, who must be present for the ceremony to be legitimate. They just stand there and stare. They're also there for the wedding night.

The Organist

Accompaniment, both musical and inside-out.


Basically, you can just pick any element of a wedding, and make a pun out of it. That's how these kinds of ideas work (wring-bearer = strangles people; page boy = is made of paper; usher = Usher (the singer); rice = poisoned rice).

Each attempt at forcible marriage will be thwarted, so as to take bigamy off the table. I'm not sick.

I'll sketch out some costume ideas.

***

I dropped my water bottle lid on the floor, so I had to get rid of it.

Not the floor, obviously. I meant the water bottle. If I'd have got rid of the floor, it would have caused a number of problems.

It's a communal office floor. To get rid of it would require a majority vote in favour. Organising the vote and counting the ballots would take a lot of time. So that's one mark against it.

Another consideration is the carpet. If we got rid of the floor, we'd have quite a large section of carpet to move. You can't recycle carpet. The council won't let me anymore. So we'd have to find somewhere to store it. It wouldn't fit in a filing cabinet. So we'd probably end up with rolls of carpet lining the walls. And that could be a fire hazard.

The third, and most salient, objection to removing the floor is that it would set a dangerous precedent. If we removed our floor, soon people in other offices would talk about doing the same. Mass floor removal would be a headache for the people in facilities.

All in all, I think removing the floor is a non-starter.

Where was I?

Oh yes: I bought a new water bottle.

Capital Letters

Dear Santa 

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

In the run-up to December, your mailbag must be quite the sight! In your busy period, you hear from children from all over the world. I'm sure it is both heartening and overwhelming!

It is now mid-January. Christmas is over. You have done your duty. Millions of children are enjoying their presents. And it is your time to relax.

But I wonder if you might get a little lonely. After all, the pressure and the activity are now over. In my experience, there can be a period of low mood after a significant event. There's so much build-up that the aftermath can be a desolate time.

That's why I'm writing. In January, the letters suddenly stop. Even the most premature of Christmas letters will surely not arrive for a few months. It must just be bills and junk mail.

So I write this to provide some human contact in what may be a lonely time. Are your elves on holiday? I imagine they are.

Don't worry: I'm not asking for anything! That must be a rarity in one of your letters!

I just want you to know that you are appreciated all year round. 

Enjoy your time off. Relax. You deserve it.

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

What do you think?

Philip Anderson is my new character.

According to Wikipedia, there's a cyclist, an editor and a Nobel laureate with the same name. But I still think it's usable.

Philip Anderson is his own man.

His main characteristics seem to be that he writes thoughtful letters to fictional beings.

I might write a film about him.

***

Dear Zorro

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

I just wanted to thank you for all of your good work. Though official channels of justice (the police, the courts, etc) are important elements in a civilised society, sometimes we need an agent of good who operates outside of traditional institutions.

Being an outlaw must be a stressful (though highly enjoyable!) occupation, and I thought you might appreciate a note of appreciation from the people you serve.

Keep up the good work!

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

The film would be a heart-warming Gump-esque tale about a naive, good-hearted outsider, whose eccentric behaviour overcomes cynicism, making the world a better place.

He writes these letters all the time. They're seen, read and mocked by post office staff. But a woman who works there (our female lead) appreciates the sentiment of Philip Anderson's writing, and falls in love with him.

She agrees to help him get his letters to the desired recipients. I haven't worked out the whole plot, but I think Anderson will get to meet the President.

***

Dear Pinhead (from out of Hellraiser)

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

I would hate to be presumptuous (and please forgive me if I seem patronising), but you seem like someone who might enjoy a bit of human contact.

Harvesting souls must be exhausting! I don't even harvest wheat (a human crop), so can't imagine what your workload must be like. Admittedly, I don't know too much about you, having merely skimmed your Wikipedia page, but I would like to offer my moral support in all your endeavours.

I too was something of an outsider growing up, and can appreciate how difficult it is when your looks and interests are perceived as "abnormal" by the majority. I just want you to know that it's OK to be yourself. You shouldn't feel any pressure to conform, or to not have pins in your head, just because other people think that's the right way to be.

We are all individual, and we all decide how we should live.

Again, I don't mean to infer some inner struggle where there isn't one. I'm probably just projecting, because I remember my own mindset when I bought my leather jacket!

I've probably rambled too much! I'll just sign off by saying that you are an important part of the universe, and you are loved more deeply than you'll ever know.

Yours
Philip Anderson

 
***

The examples I've included here (Santa, Zorro, Pinhead) aren't necessarily those that I'll include in the final script. There are probably copyright issues with some, if not all, of these. But you get the idea.

As far as casting goes, I feel that we need a strong leading man. Hanks is perhaps too obvious a choice. And I'm showing my age when I suggest Meg Ryan for the postal worker!

Perhaps something along these lines:

Philip Anderson: Adrien Brody
Post Office Woman Love Interest (possibly called Jane or Hannah): Reese Witherspoon
The President: Method Man

And there will be a whole range of interesting supporting players that they'll meet along the way. Daniel Radcliffe would look good as a train driver, I think.

***

Dear Philip Anderson

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

If you're who I think you are, you'll be freaking out right now.

I am you. And I really need some help.

Am I real?

Please respond.

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

Charlie Kaufman usually writes his own stuff, but I would think he'd be willing to collaborate.

If any producers are interested in... optioning(?) this, please call my agent.

If any agents are interested in representing me, please drop me an email.

If any (free) email providers are interested in offering me their services, I'd really like to reserve philip.anderson@[yourdomain].com

I look forward to hearing from you all, in reverse order.

The Yellow Tree

I told you it was yellow.

It hasn't been touched up - that's what it looked like, fresh out of the camera (phone).

When we saw it, Lucy said it was "the kind of yellow Van Gogh would have painted with".

She's right. It was an apposite and intelligent remark.

I'd forgotten that she said it until she reminded me, which shows just how oblivious I am, and just how pushy she is.

Apposite, Intelligent, Pushy.

That should be on Lucy's business card.

But pushy should be in bold.

Whenever people meet Lucy, the first word that comes to mind is "pushy". We know this to be the case, because she nagged so many people into filling out her survey.

She might object to me describing her like that. But, as the two of us are the only people who read this blog, it doesn't matter. If a tree is insulted in the woods ("crap trunk", for example) and there's no-one else to hear it, does it register as offensive?

That's for the squirrels to decide.

***

I've never been an avid anything.

How about this for a new character?

Avid David

He'd have to be French, so the rhyme would work. Or with an accent: Dávid. I don't know if that's correct, but I'll assume it is.

Avid Dávid

Also, he could be an aphid.

You'd have to pronounce it with the short a - ahphid - so the rhyme would work. Does anyone pronounce it like that? It needs more work. Or more accents.

OK. Forget that. Keep the proper pronunciation, and keep the French Dávid. We could have Avid Dávid, the Way-Fit Aphid.

That's quite nice. Do people say "way fit"? Young people must. I spoke to a young person once, and they spoke that like that. They didn't mention aphids.

But you probably don't want two adjectives in a single character name. Having the qualities of avidness and (way) fitness included in a proper name seems like overkill.

Generally, you only use one adjective. The Clint Eastwood character isn't Dirty Smelly Harry, is he? The lead singer of Blondie isn't Dirty Smelly Harry, is she? You see my point.

I might just stick with Avid Dávid. We can always drop in the aphid element later on.

I don't know where the character of Avid Dávid would find a home. He could be the title character of a television programme. If so, we can hold off on the aphid revelation until mid-season. The early episodes will focus on his avidness. That's the core of the show.

Or I could play him on stage. It will be a character act. He can be my Pauline Calf. I can do a pretty good French accent. False moustaches are cheap. Or I could use my own moustache.

It might be a little broad, but that's what people like in comedy these days. It's all Mrs Brown's Boys these days.

Who's to say I couldn't be the next Mrs Brown's Boys? I could be. The stage character would become a TV character! It's all come full circle!

Les Fils de Avid Dávid

Google Translate can be my co-writer!

It could be a big hit! You can do loads of jokes about baguettes. Seriously: loads.

I just need to find something for Dávid to be avid about. He can't just be avid about nothing in particular... Maybe I can make him an avid entomologist. That would pave the way for the whole aphid revelation.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I have too many ideas.

They're ruining my life! LOL! ;_)))))) #thumbsup

Rind

Bus metaphors are like buses: you wait for ages, and then everyone in the world does the same one at once and there's graffiti on the seats.

Southampton are fourth in the Premier League! I thought I'd better squeeze that celebration in before it ceases to be true. Liverpool are playing Sunderland at the moment. If they win, we'll crash all the way down to fifth, like a common Pete Best.

But for now, the sun is shining. And I'm making a shitload of hay.

Come on, Sunderland!

I had a bacon sandwich for lunch. I don't eat bacon very often. When I have it, I'm reminded of my childhood, shilling for Danepak.

Ooh. Disallowed goal for Škrtel. The linesman flagged him for having too few vowels in his name.

Have I written about bacon before? I wouldn't like to go off on a pork tangent and find that I'm retracing my own greasy footsteps.

I wrote something about bringing home the bacon. I swore a lot more in 2008

There's also this old tweet (all old tweets are blue and bold and italicised):

I just googled "The Full English Patient", expecting to find a Ralph Fiennes made of sausage, beans and egg, with a bacon Binoche. NOTHING.

Pretty good. Not great. But OK.

And this one, which is just a bit weird:

There's nothing more comforting than a bacon sandwich stroking your hair and going "Shhhh. I'm here, I'm here".

I also did a bit of stand-up about formed bacon.

But that's not much. Eight hundred and twenty blog posts and only a few bacon references.

I think it goes to show how little importance bacon has in my life.

I've heard people say that bacon is always the thing the vegetarians miss the most. But I could easily do without bacon. For me, venison is the major meat-magnet. No matter how nice Quorn can be, it's doesn't have the deliciousness of deer.

I could go for some deer right now...

***

INTERLUDE

New character idea: Major Meat-Magnet

Initial Notes:

He's in the army. Double-barrelled surname, so posh?

Just a name, or can he attract meat? Strategic benefit?

Dead humans = meat? If so, meat attraction detrimental on battlefield: buried in corpses.

Costume design crucial factor in character's success.

Further work needed.

INTERLUDE ENDS

***

I don't really eat venison. I do like sausages though. Have I written about sausages more often than I have bacon?

Sunderland free kick in dangerous area.

Sausage history is written by the Wieners.

Ooh! Hits the crossbar! 

The wiener joke isn't great. And you're supposed to capitalise 'wieners'? I'll trust that my past self did the proper research.

I've wasted thousands of pounds on sausages and parasols.

At first I thought this was just a weird profound joke, but it relates to some kind of hilarious bit of barbecue business.

Oh man, Liverpool have scored. I didn't see the goal. I was too busy italicising and emboldening tweets.

Debate it all you want: they're called COCKTAIL sausages. So you just sit there, smug as you like, whilst I enjoy my Brown Russian.

Funny.

I think that's it. There were a few other things, but they were meaningless. I don't want to waste your time with meaningless information. Focus on what's important: old meat-related blog content and insignificant football results.

Sigh.

Two-nil Liverpool. Suarez. Fifth it is.

I should probably go. Not physically - I'll stay on the sofa - but I should end this blog post.

This is mainly just to bring September's blog post total up to six. Six seems to be the usual amount these days. It used to be sixteen or seventeen when I was younger. But it's 2013. Insight is scarce.

Six posts is fine. I won't abide five.

Throw-in.

I'm off to raid the fridge for hooves.

Can Create Something Out Of Nothing

Too long between posts. Much too long.

What have I been up to? What haven't I been up to!

To what have I not been up?

I have not been up to:

a) mischief
b) no good
c) my neck in something
d) the minute
e) scratch
f) Scotland
g) get lucky

I've come up with several ideas for this entry, but they all seem a bit facetious. The facetiousness may not be noticeable if you're reading this, but it's very evident to me. My teeth are gritted, and everything that's even remotely positive is sarcastic. Sarcasm can power through gritted teeth if it's concentrated enough. It's like radiation. You can measure it with one of those Ghostbusters clickysticks.

I have a small ball.

Let's deal with that.

It's a football, but a small one. A miniature version of a big football. I won it in a prize draw for the 2010 World Cup. That was three years ago.

That was three years ago.

I've been kicking it around our flat for the past few days, with some breaks. It has improved my close control and my mental state. I'm the best in the world at what I do, and what I do is dribble a small ball around a pillar.

I can do complicated flicks and step-overs; I can ricochet passes at a variety of angles, from a variety of cupboards; I can curl the ball around the curve of our sofa, avoiding the coffee table. I can annoy our downstairs neighbour.

Who needs grass when you have badly-cut laminate flooring?

Sometimes I'll miscue and shatter a portrait of a Ming vase, but it's a small price to pay.

I couldn't do any of it with a full-sized ball. A full-sized ball would make the kitchen a death trap. But a small ball is fine. It's good to kick a small ball into the kitchen when Lucy is cooking a hot meal. Scalding is good. Ambulances are good. Skin grafts are good.

The new Premier League season is starting soon, so I'm going to buy a cricket bat.

***

I came up with a new character the other day. It's not one of those ones that's nothing more than a stupid play on words. It's a fully-fledged character, with his own internal life, complex morality and compelling back story. In fact, his name isn't important. The character could thrive even if it had no name, like that cowboy one.

Names are nominal. That's literally what nominal means.

Look past the label, and see what's in the jar. Don't judge a book by its Wikipedia entry.

My new character is something new, and something exciting.

"Fab" Rick Softener

His full name (not that it's important) is Fabulous Richard Softener, but he prefers "Fab" Rick Softener.

It's not important why he's called that, other than illustrating his character. He's the kind of person who would have a name like he does have.

He's complicated, because part of his name is in inverted commas. Also, he lives in America.

I'm trying not to give away too many details.

(He's not Chinese, if that's what you're thinking.)

Intellectual Property Crash

Some new character ideas:

The Obligeisha

Dr Leon Respect

Lady Mode

Vacillator Alligator

Seven-Storey Dame

Lunch P. Ritter

Senator Yoke

I haven't got any descriptions for them, but I think they speak for themselves.

***

I sieve too much. I never cook, but I can't stop sieving.

Some things are fine to sieve. Flour, polenta, lumpy dust and many more.

But it's not enough. I've started sieving..|. oh, I don't know. A bicycle or some shit.

***

I've indicated with a red line (|) the exact moment where I lost faith in that idea. I might go back through previous entries and try to identify similar|

Mission Statement

My new band is called Ear Mistake.

"We're Ear Mistake" begins the introduction in our debut album's liner notes. It's written in red.

"We're Ear Mistake. And this is our mission statement: STUFF NOTES DOWN THROATS. 

We don't believe in art. We believe in vibrations. Our songs are made to educate, flagellate and deform. These are liner notes. No-one even knows what liner notes are these days. Even releasing a physical CD is tantamount to rutting in the dirt. Well, good. Good. We do rut. We will rut. Come and rut with us. Play this loud.

Ji Ki - Vocals, Lead Mouth Organ

Chris Wade - Vocals, Clicking Noises

Chris Wade (girl version) - Drum Segments

Dorothee Justice - Bass

Navajo - Bloodsource

Produced by Ear Mistake, Vauxhall, 2012"

You may not see my name up there. That's because I'm working under a pseudonym. I'm one of those people with the funny names. I forget which one.

"We're Ear Mistake" begins our intro on stage. We've only had one gig, but this was the intro we used. We spoke it in green.

"We're Ear Mistake. This first song's called Into Question The Whole Status Quo."

Then we launched right into it.

Then we broke up and had all copies of our debut album pulped/melted/moved to Recycle Bin.

My old band was called Ear Mistake.

Under-appreciated at the time, but they've attracted a cult following since their demise.

RIP Dorothee Justice. Such a sad loss.

***

Fun fact: my spell-check doesn't recognise "Vauxhall". As an alternative, it suggests "Valhalla". Which is pretty much the same.

Suff.

That's my new quirk. I say "suff" to punctuate things I say. It can mean whatever you want it to mean. Suff.

I hope no-one's already using it. I've already had T-shirts printed.

A quick web search...

Damn.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=suff

I've really been misusing it.

Oh man, I just remembered I said it to a little girl... I wanted her to think I was cool. That explains why she returned my "suff" with such aggression and then dropped out of school.

Fun fact: "stands for shut up fuck face" is how I describe my political outlook on my new campaign flyers. I'm a shoe-in!

And that's the end of this blog post!

P

I've invented a new superhero. I do this quite often. I've built up quite the array of deep, complex, original characters.

You might remember The Human Lull, Ad Infinitum, Paul Instructon, The Khaki Dynamo and the ever-popular Bike Brigade. I'm more prolific than Stan Lee. I haven't managed to turn these into multimillion dollar franchises yet, but that's just because I'm not very good at drawing faces, henchmen, or attention to myself.

The basis is there, though. Upon this foundation, a mighty publishing empire shack may be erected. The shack will be built of ideas, carpeted in money and will contain an en suite bathroom of wonder.

And now a new legend can be added to my impressive pantheon: Ross Phosphorus.

As with the rest of my creations, I haven't really got any specific details to go along with a name. I think he's Scottish, and I think he's quite dour. The dullness of his personality will contrast with his powers, which involve a lot of glow-based attacks.

Apparently, phosphorus compounds are used in a lot of fertilisers. So he can do that too: grow things. Maybe he can grow himself. Though that may be diluting the concept.

His primary villain may or may not be the nefarious Professor Parasol (because of the whole 'blocking out light' thing).

I'm not saying he'll be the new Spider-Man. But there has to be a market there somewhere. It's just so fun to say Ross Phosphorus in a Scottish accent. Go on - try it.

You see?

Kids will be doing that all over the world. But not in Scotland, because they're no longer amused by their own accent. Also the character will be poorly researched and will only include the most obvious Scottish stereotypes (the wearing of onions, and cars).

As I said, I can't draw, but I've produced a decent mock-up. I think you'll get the idea:

 

I'm inspired already.

There are a lot of merchandising options, too. Kids like night-lights and torches and fertiliser. Parents love parasols.

The demographics are literally two.

I'll get working on the first issue. I think his origin will have something to do with phosphorus.

I can smell the money already. Mmm. (By the way, this blog post constitutes a trademark/copyright, so hands off!)

On another day, this post could be eighteen pages long, with a full outline of story arcs and supporting cast (hint: Phosphorusty The Robot).

But this isn't another day. This is this day. On this day, I have nothing more to give.

The Big Idea

You can all relax. I've made the discovery that will make me rich and famous.

It's quite a relief. I've spent years searching for the 'big idea' that will earn me millions.

This blog has proved to be something of a financial cul-de-sac. My naan bread-based takeaway Naan Of The Above never really took off (I don't know how to make naan bread).

But finally - FINALLY - the answer to my prayers is here. This idea with garner a lot of media attention. I'm not saying I'm going to be the next Matt Groening, but I do have a beard and a certain level of genius.

So. Here it is.

The Bike Brigade

They're a group of bicycle-themed superheroes. They fight crime using various bikey powers. Their enemies might be cars or pedestrians or something. Or pollution. I haven't really thought about it.

I'm not 100% sold on the name. 'The Bike Brigade' seems a bit lame. If anyone has any suggestions for a better one, I'll cut you in for six percent of the profits.

But the members of the Brigade (or 'BB' for short) as as impressive as the group name isn't.

Members:

Peddler

Founder, financial backer and driving force of the Bike Brigade. Peddler is a nonagenarian who fought crime in the old days (i.e. pre-1980), riding a penny-farthing. Now too old to make a difference, he's set up a new generation to continue his legacy.

Peddler is bedridden, but is still able to operate complicated pedalo-style machinery with his powerful legs. He's probably avenging something, but no-one really cares what.

The Spokesman

The leader of the group. The Spokesman is an eloquent orator, and has the power to control spokes. He can probably shoot them out of his hands. In fact, his hands are made of spokes. He's classy, professional, but has a certain wry charm. Possible catchphrase: "There's nowt so queer as spokes". (He's a gay Yorkshireman)

Vandalbars

Randal "The Vandal" Bandalbars was a troubled teenager from a broken home. He took his frustrations out on the windows, bus shelters and pensioners of his run-down neighbourhood. But the law finally caught up with him, and put him in the stocks (they still do that in Scotland). But they trapped him between two sets (sets?) of stocks, so his arms were outstretched in a T-shape. Left there too long, his arms are now permanently outstretched - JUST LIKE A PAIR OF HANDLEBARS.

But the punishment changed his outlook. Now he must cope with his arm curse and use his hooligan skills to fight crime, all the time also fighting against his rebellious impulses.

Belle

A beautiful metallic robot, who tinkles delightfully to alert people to her presence. Belle was created by a a mad twee scientist who also created the sleeping kitten grenade and flutterscotch (a cross between butterflies and whisky).

Belle turned on her evil master and joined the Bike Brigade's noble cause (whatever it turns out to be). Belle is relentlessly pleasant, to the point of making her a really dull character. But she sure is sexy!

Saddlesaur

On an early BB mission, one of Peddler's time machines accidentally took them back to prehistoric times. On returning home, they found a stowaway - a dinosaur with a head shaped like a saddle. Taking this as a good omen, Saddlesaur was formally invited to join the team.

Saddlesaur is fast and hugely powerful, but she's not too quick on the uptake. She's a dinosaur. They're not that bright by today's standards.

Tyra

Tyra made her name as the meanest professional wrestler in the Dakotas. With her tyre-style girth, she is nearly invulnerable to pain. Looking for more exciting challenges, she's joined up with the BB to kick arse and grip the road. She's African-American, sassy, and has a furious temper. But, to make sure this isn't too patronising or reductive, she also has a PhD in physics.

(For those keeping track at home, suggesting that a PhD is somehow incongruous with being sassy and black, is itself incredibly offensive. But writing this little disclaimer shows that I'm aware of it, freeing me up with more appalling stereotypes later on.)

Dick Chainey

On a tour of a munitions plant, former US Vice President Dick Cheney masturbated whilst thinking about all the foreigners that would be killed by the weapons all around him. His semen (which possesses demonic properties, not yet understood by medicine) fell through a grate and landed on a harmless inanimate bike chain.

However, the strange properties of Cheney's malevolent fluid somehow fused with the atoms in the chain, granting it sentience. The chain, now able to take humanoid form, is a metallic clone of Cheney, but the purity of the metal keeps the evil locked away. Christening himself Dick Chainey, this new hero uses his chain-based powers to fight evil with the Bike Brigade, all the while keeping the dark, evil, Republican, side of his character hidden from his team-mates.

Headquarters:

A bike shed somewhere.

Transport:

I can't decide if they all combine into a giant bike (Power Rangers-style), or if they ride separate bikes. They can't really have a car, can they? It would muddy the waters of their message (whatever that is).

***

So, what do you think?

I think we should go straight to a Saturday-morning cartoon series. We'll merchandise the HELL out of it (every child in the Western world will want a Dick Chainey action figure).

Also, as it's advocating cycling (important for maintaining a healthy bike physique), we can have them advertised in schools. We can have people dressed as the BB giving talks on bike safety.

Eventually, I'm sure Michael Bay will be interested in a movie. I'm already casting it in my head.

Its great to finally get this out there! I suppose I might be busy buying houses and whatnot with my vast royalties, so if I don't post for a while, that's why. Keep a look out for me in Forbes.

And remember: you heard it here first!

A Confession

There's something I've been meaning to tell you.

The whole News of the World scandal has really brought discussion of journalistic ethics to the forefront of public debate. People are realising the levels of deception and criminality involved in putting together a tabloid newspaper.

But all forms of journalism deserve the same level of scrutiny. If a writer abuses your trust, it is a dereliction of duty. And if the ethics of one part of an organisation are suspect, everything else falls like a house of cards.

News International (a company already associated with domination, poor taste and lowest-common-denominator reporting) has found itself tainted by these hacking allegations. And its takeover of BSkyB is now in question.

It is in this current climate that I feel it necessary to come clean.

I certainly haven't committed any actions as objectionable as those emerging in this current scandals. But I have been dishonest.

I don't want to find myself tainted with the brush of deception. I hope you'll appreciate how difficult it is for me to do this, and will, if not forgive my transgressions, at least respect my decision to not continue the lies.

So I have to tell you that I have been involved in creating a layer of fiction.

---

The truth is this: this blog has been produced not by a single individual, but by a team of writers for just over four years.

We've never explicitly claimed that this was the work of just one person, but we did realise that most people believed it to be the case.

Paul Fung is only the figurehead of a rotating group of writers, who take turns contributing articles to the Headscissors blog.

By writing in the first person, and implying a sense of continuity, we have all had a part in weaving this tapestry of fiction.

It must be said that a prolonged deception was never our intention.

When this blog started in 2007, it was an attempt to provide a platform for new writing talent; a breeding ground for the writers of tomorrow. For convenience's sake, it became easy to suggest that this was the work of one man - Paul "DiamondBadger" Fung - and as time went on, the lie became so deep that it was impossible to extricate ourselves from the falsehood.

This blog has cultivated a small, but loyal, readership. And it is to them, to you, that we offer our most sincere apologies.

DiamondBadger does not exist.

Paul Fung does not exist.

Our claims to depict events in his life are a complete fabrication. No-one has ever met him or interacted with him. His name was originally suggested as a joke, but it stuck.

The picture displayed on the blog's homepage is a file photo of a young Puerto Rican filmmaker.

This will probably make retroactive sense, now the truth is out. No one man could produce work of such quality so consistently for so long. It also explains the huge variation in writing style, punctuation, and levels of ability.

Occasionally, you may have noticed Headscissors blog entries of a seemingly infantile standard; entries that made no sense; or entries that were totally at odds with most people's perceptions of what writing should be. These were all produced by work experience people, and in some cases the children of the staff members.

Some of the anecdotes contained herein have been entirely invented. Some have been adapted from our real lives.

But despite this surface lie, we feel the tone and the integrity of this blog have been essentially truthful. We've held ourselves up to moral standards. Not high standards, admittedly. But standards nonetheless.

It is these standards that have causes us to finally stand up and admit that we were wrong.

We hope you don't take this as an irrevocable breach of trust, and that you will continue reading the work of people that have amused, informed and enchanted you for four years.

We are truly sorry.

To help mend these bridges, we'd like to introduce you to the current Headscissors writing team. There is a fairly high turnover of staff at this blog, as our members are often head-hunted and poached to write on other projects.

Past Headscissors writers include actress and comedian Miranda Hart, journalist and activist George Monbiot, television impressionist John Culshaw and current Secretary-General of the United Nations Ban Ki-moon (the latter is responsible for the much loved post on waffles).

Our current team are ambitious and creative, and are sure to go on to great things.

Head writer Gareth Davees

Gareth has been writing for Headscissors since August 2008. He brings with him a wealth of experience from his days as a PR executive of a major oil company. He also founded the improvised comedy troupe Laughter The Lord Mayor's Show which has performed in Bristol, Weston-super-Mare, and the Kingdom of Lesotho.

Gareth has a particular fondness for the posts where 'Paul' claims to be tired or miserable.

Nancy Kliff

A newcomer to the team, Nancy caught the team's eye with her snappy one-liners, convincing dialogue and devilish wordplay. This is Nancy's first writing job. She's training to be a zoo examiner.

Liam O'Phidian

Liam has a particular talent for the 'serious' blog posts that seem to claim a particular political or social world view. His incisive rhetoric and Will Self-esque verbal dexterity has earned him an honorary doctorate from Southampton Solent University. He is also a talented stand-up comedian, having recently been signed by a major agency under the stage-name Matt Richardson.

Jill Gill

Jill is an experienced television writer, having contributed to many soap operas including Eastenders, Doctors, Sons, Daughters, and Sons & Daughters. A writer from the beginning of Headscissors, she has taken on more of a supervisor's role, but still has time to produce to the odd gem, such as the famous 'live blog' entry).

Helena Mastersso

Helena does the book reviews, and her contract is currently up for renewal.

Olav Zukov

Researcher, maverick and author of the Frank55 series.

***

We understand this transition will be a difficult one, and the spectre of 'Paul Fung' will remain for some time. But we hope that you'll forgive our trespasses and come to enjoy the new Headscissors team as we take this blog into its fifth year.

You, the reader, are what makes this all worthwhile. And with this new initiative of absolute honesty, we believe Headscissors will enter a new golden age.

Recent events have shown that people will not stand for questionable actions in their journalists. We believe that this is entirely correct.

Please join us on our walk of redemption. It should be an entertaining journey!

Yours,
"DiamondBadger" (The Headscissors Writing Staff)

Higher Function

It's been a day of peaks and troughs. But that's what you get when you sell military hats to pigs.

Ahaha.

I could have tweeted that. But I saved it for you because I love you.

I've been so productive that I need to unwind. That's what this is.

I'm going to be quick - like one of those fast cartoon animals. The Roadrunner. Or Speedy Gonzalez. Or Sprinty Von Raccoon.

I'm just going to impart some wisdom, leave you astonished, and then get the hell out of here. No messing around.

Waffle? Ramblings? Digressions?

Not on my watch.

(I don't have a watch - too much wrist weight makes you sluggish)

[My friend - let's call her 'A' - said I use too many brackets in this blog. I can take constructive criticism. I appreciate it.]

{Actually let's call her 'A (bitch)'}

So here is my fast, sudden, lightning-bolt truth bullet:

COMEDY IS A STANLEY KNIFE

Impressed?

It's true. As true as anything I've ever typed.

I will elaborate on that.

Right on it.

But then I'll go.

I have a plain to catch.

That's right - a plain.

I've bought a big flat net.

Waterproof? To catch the rain?

No need. No Spaniard, I.

COMEDY IS A STANLEY KNIFE.

You might think I mean that allegorically. Comedy is the precision tool with which we slice and trim everyday life. The knife cuts through hypocrisy, it takes off the ridiculous edges of convention, it forges new paths and sections new... uh... sections.

Comedy is best when sharp and wielded by an expert hand. Like a graphic designer or an architect. The blunter the knife, the more banal the observations, the more pointless comedy becomes. Michael McIntyre's comedy is less of a knife and more of a flannel.

(I have no opinion of McIntyre - I've seen very little of him - but he seemed like the easiest reference there. I don't have time to be obscure.)

But I don't mean that. I'm not analysing the function of comedy through a tool-based metaphor.

What I mean is that COMEDY - the word 'COMEDY' - looks like a Stanley knife.

Look at it.

COMEDY.

The 'C' is the rounded handle, and the right-hand fork of the 'Y' is the blade.

COMEDY IS A STANLEY KNIFE.

Let's rotate it, and you'll see what I mean.

See? C-handle at the bottom, Y-blade at the top.

The word COMEDY looks just like a Stanley knife.

If you're attentive, you'll notice that this only works for upper-case COMEDY.

Lower-case comedy has that annoying stalk of the little 'd'. And a vague little 'y'-tail stub.

comedy is not a Stanley knife.


COMEDY IS A STANLEY KNIFE


I sense your mind has been blown. And rightly so.

Now I'll make good on my promise, and leave you to clean up the cerebellum smeared all over your computer screen.


Meep meep! 

¡Andale! ¡Andale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! 

Guten Tag! Ich bin ein schneller Waschbär!

***

And like THAT...


...I'm gone.

Sick Children

I haven't posted anything here for a while, but that doesn't mean I haven't been generating ideas. I've kept notes of all the interesting things that have passed through my brain over the past week, and I will discuss them in turn.

My notes read as follows:

1. Shop polite - good day to you - trousers
2. Dead child on back of bike story
3. Race for knife
4. "8"
5. Overused joke words
6. Newton and the swan
7. TripWire
8. Therape

Actually, these are pretty self-explanatory. Maybe I'll leave it like this.

***

...



PSYCHE!

(Remember when people used to say "psyche"? As though they'd "psyched you out"? Like PJ and Duncan? Remember PJ and Duncan?)

***

Shop polite - good day to you - trousers
On Tuesday, we went to the Co-Op to buy some milk, some rolls, some frozen sweetcorn and some Weetabix Minis (which they didn't have - I got Weetos instead).

That's not the whole story.

We were waiting in the queue by the self-service check-outs when a male member of staff approached. I believe he was a member of staff because he was wearing the correct uniform and had an authoritative manner. I suppose it could just have been an unambitious Jackal-style master of disguise.

"Can I take that for you, sir?" he asked. But not in a helpful manner, more in the manner of someone who suspected me of thievery. Waiting in line to pay for your items is the oldest trick in the thief book.

I agreed, because I was in a bit of a stupor. Whenever we walk home, I space out a little bit. It's too far to walk really, but I'm a creature of habit. My laziness is pronounced, but short-sighted. I'd rather incur the pain of constant long walks than use a small bit of energy to change my behaviour.

In fact, I was in such a stupor that I would have agreed to anything at that point. He was wearing a uniform. I barely had enough composure to continue respiring.

"If you'll just follow me to the back of the shop, sir..."

"If you'll just lock that door behind you, sir..."

"If you could just slip down your trousers for me, sir..."

And I'd oblige, sure that he knew what he was doing, but with the slight, nagging doubt that any sexual assault might last so long the sweetcorn would defrost.

Luckily, he was being helpful, and not malicious in his initial request - just speaking in a very formal way. He took our basket to another checkout (one of the ones by the tobacco counter) and scanned our shopping.

He was brusque and mechanically helpful, straddling the fine line between sentient robot and utter sarcasm.

He literally said, after the transaction was complete, "I bid you good night".

Who says that in 2011? "I bid you good night"?

I think I might have accidentally stumbled into a poorly written student play about a Co-Op worker's attempts to thaw his icy exterior by coaxing people towards where they keep the cigarette lighters.


Dead child on back of bike story
This one isn't as funny as it sounds.

Lucy and I were talking about how sometimes you'll see a cyclist coming towards you, and you think they're talking to themselves. It's only when you pass that you see there's a child seat on the back of the bike and the conversation is a real one.

I thought you could write a good/harrowing story about a parent whose child was killed (probably hit by a lorry or something), but who went crazy and kept believing the child was alive.

They'd cycle through the streets, still talking to the child they thought was in the seat behind.

But the parent could never look back, or else the illusion would be broken. It would be like a modern version of Orpheus and Eurydice, except the main characters would be wearing reflective vests and unflattering helmets.

Race for knife
This led into a discussion that I can't quite remember, but doesn't seem that funny in hindsight. It was about someone trying to raise awareness of people being stabbed (the joke being that people are probably already aware of that danger). But I suppose there probably are anti-knife crime charities, so it doesn't really work.

The only real reason to right this down was the Race for Life/Race for Knife pun.

Not really worth it, but I can't edit this out now. My notes are my compass (which must be why I keep drawing wonky circles).


"8"
This one came about from a couple of tweets I wrote:


Deleted scene in Disney's Snow White: an 8th dwarf - known only as '8' - is revealed in the basement: a giant floating telekinetic baby.


Deleted scene in Disney's Robin Hood: after Marian & Robin's wedding, "8" appears in the sky and razes Nottingham to the ground (eye lazers)


I don't know where this idea came from, but I like the idea of a really sinister character being put into cartoons. Cartoon characters are often quite sinister anyway, but it would be good to have something really disturbing.

I think "8" would look a bit like The Watcher from Marvel Comics:

I also like the idea that the character was put into the first cut of every Disney film, but each time they chickened out from leaving him in the film.

"We just don't think the audience is gonna like this weird baby guy slaughtering all the main characters at the end of the movie. Kids don't like that! No-one wants to see Piglet disintegrated!"

That's why Hollywood's in the toilet. No-one takes chances anymore.


Overused joke words
There are certain words and references that are overused in jokes. These aren't always the same - they go in and out of fashion - but there's a weird synergy where particular objects or concepts become de rigueur.

(I've never written 'de rigueur' before. There's something about the sound of that phrase that's repellent; like the term itself wants to make people sound disgusted at having the temerity to use it.)

This is particularly common in surreal comedy, where people need 'weird' references to sound unconventional. (For reference, see every single post of this blog)

There's nothing intrinsically funny or unfunny about these words, it's just about what's expected and what's unexpected. If words are used too frequently as surreal reference points, they become commonplace and so are not funny. Then a whole new school of words take their place.

Historically overused 'surreal' references are to badgers and voles. (Bill Bailey - who I love - uses these, but so do lots of others) I don't know why woodland creatures are seen as emblems of oddity, but it seems they are. Now, whenever I see a comedian joke about a badger, it seems awfully cynical and unimaginative.

In fact any reference to badgers in writing, stand-up, or even internet usernames, is a clear sign of a lack of imagination.

The word that has recently come into fashion is 'tears'. Including 'tears' in your analogy or flight of fancy is all the rage.

If I had done my research, I'd have a good example here. But I don't. Probably because my screen is obscured by salty eye-discharge.

(Just search this blog for 'tears'. I do it all the time.)

People should stop using 'tears' for a while, just until it gets weird again.

Not quite the same is terms used in one-liners, particularly on Twitter, but also in live sets. Everyone seems to have an easy joke about OCD and dyslexia now. It's all a bit formulaic:

"My dyslexic friend invited me round for lunch - turned out we were hanging a black man with the Ku Klux Klan!"

"My friend's an Obsessive Compulsive pyromaniac. He sets fire to thing, but always in the right order!"

(I just came up with them - you can see how easy and rubbish it is)

So maybe people should see the proliferation of these subjects in jokes and lay off a bit. Then again, anything can be funny of you put enough thought into it. My friend Tom Greeves has an excellent bit about OCD, so I should probably abandon this rant.

I'm probably too obsessed with jokes being original, but sometimes the pool of comedy references seems so shallow. I want people to spread their wings.

Speaking of which, I once knew this dyslexic badger with OCD. He kept insisting on being called a Abdegr!

Ah!

Ahaha!

See what I mean?

Newton and the swan

My mum was staying at St Hugh's College recently, and we met her there. On arriving, we noticed a swan motif above the doorway. We speculated about whether there was some quirky Oxford anecdote about the swan, like the one surrounding the Boar's Head Feast.

Lucy suggested that there might have been a Newtonesque moment of scientific discovery, when a swan landed on someone's head.

We wondered what Newtonian physics would be like if they were mostly swan-related, eg: "A swan remains a swan, unless acted upon by an external force", "Each swan has an equal, but opposite, goose" etc.

Oh how we laughed.

It turns out the swan comes from St Hugh himself:


Hugh's primary emblem is a white swan, in reference to the story of the swan of Stowe which had a deep and lasting friendship for the saint, even guarding him while he slept.

The swan would follow him about, and was his constant companion whilst he was at Lincoln.

Now, I don't want to be sceptical here, but I question how deep a friendship can be between a Saint and a swan. I'm not saying there was no affection there, but I'm not sure if the swan would have been capable of connecting with Hugh on a spiritual and intellectual level.

Unless Hugh mainly honked.

The above information also implies that the feelings of friendship predominantly belonged to the swan, and that Hugh was perhaps ambivalent. I think it was at least 50/50.

Apparently, Hugh is the patron saint of sick children, sick people, shoemakers, and (of course) swans.

Sick children and sick people. It's good to be both, just in case personhood doesn't kick in until 18.

I wonder if a shoemaker has ever made shoes from swans. That would really test Hugh's loyalties. I reckon swan slippers would be really comfortable.

Unfortunately, only the Queen is allowed to wear them by law.


TripWire
I think it would be good to watch alternate episodes of The Trip and The Wire, and imagine they're taking place in the same universe.

Both are close to reality, but not quite real.

Of course, each takes place in a different country so there would be no crossover between the two. But still. Imagine it.

The TripWire.


Therape
I'm writing a thing with a friend about relationship counsellors. We've only just started, but I'm sure it will win awards, kudos, plaudits, pludos and awudos.

I've been saving my documents related to this project in a folder on my desktop. Because I'm an annoying idiot, I like to name my computer folders stupid things. They're not even jokes - just pointless wordplay. I get annoyed by other people that indulge in such things, but can't help myself.

So this folder is about therapy. I thought I'd name the folder after this, but amusingly spell it with an 'e;' at the end, in the Greek style (a la Penelope or Calliope).

So I named it Therape.

It was only a while later that I realised that this could be misconstrued. Any other person (be they friend or policeman) wouldn't have the knowledge of my mindset, and would think I had a desktop folder called The rape.

It could get me into trouble.

It would be a strange thing to have a folder like that. For only rape-related files. And not rape in general, but a specific one. THE rape.

You'd probably at least hide that folder somewhere on your hard drive. Don't put it on the desktop.

I'd almost admire someone with that level of organisation.

"Hmm. Well, I've got lots of stuff related to The rape - rope receipts, sketches, mp4 files... Should probably create a folder.

Now should this go in 'The rape' or 'Pictures'? Hmm. Best make a copy and put one in each."


I'm sure you're all aware of my distaste for rape jokes, but remember: this one is about accidental wordplay. The noblest of all humours (except maybe yellow bile).

So this is all fine.


***

Right! That's what making notes gets me! Possibly too many words.

I should do this gradually in the future. Or just forget things, and make up content on the spot. It's worked so well in the past.

Now all I need is a blog title.

Normally I like to choose an oblique phrase, which somehow links the disparate content. But this content has been so disparate, I couldn't gather it together with an infinite dustpan and overarching brush.

I'd better just pick something.

***

LATE NOTE:

I just did the spell-check, and it suggested I correct 'Weetabix' to 'Wetbacks'. That can't be politically correct, can it?

I guess Blogger hates Mexicans.

Two Steps Back (title ref: 8H98JJupW2)

Good evening.*

*appropriateness of greeting may vary based on time of reading

I had thought that my busyness might be about to wane. I was incorrect. If anything, I feel even busier. My job has involved helping set up a new database system.

Yes, you're right to be impressed.

But transferring data is more complicated than it sounds. And more tedious.

It has infected me. I can't remove the technostench, even when I leave the office. All my dreams are now viewed through the framework of this new system. All of them. Disparate concepts are connected by unique alphanumeric reference keys and look-up fields and custom links. I need to log in to my own brain.

I think I've gone crazy. And not in an entertaining way, where I shout and wear colourful pantaloons. In a genuine way - where I just loose my grip on the world and everyone feels a bit sad.

I'm sure it is only for a short time. It must be. But my to-do list seems to spawn new tasks faster than you can say virulent rabbit mitosis. I'm worried that by the time it's over, I'll have forgotten how to love or, even worse, how to blog or tweet.

I'm trying to force myself to write these, so I can get back on the horse-wagon. So I apologise if I don't reach my previous standards.

"Paul, you could reach your usual standards if you were trapped in a mineshaft sans hands (and sans Hans, your German mining instructor)."

Who wrote that? I should stop leaving my computer unattended when I go to run a bath, the operation of which is a logistical minefield at the best of times.

This is my fourth post of September. My previous record for sparse blog posts was September 2007, where I only managed five posts. It looks like I wasn't too chipper then either. Maybe I have Septembral Affected Disorder.

But in September 2008 I managed sixteen posts, including a gem about ironing my scrotum.

And I managed 12 posts in September 2009, including a photo of Steve Stone.

I'm sure it will pass. I can weather this storm.

I'll probably come up with an interesting idea soon, and everything will be back on track.

Any minute now.

.

.

.

Hey! How about a new character? They're always fun! And wacky!

My new character is called Michael Hedges.

He works in a shop. It's a stationery shop. He's thirty.

Imagine all the adventures he can get up to!

You already have. Because he can't get up to any adventures. He doesn't even try.

***

Gold!

I should finish with a photo. I like doing that, because it shows up on my automatic Facebook blog update. It makes me look like I've done some research, when all I've done is Googled this sentence and then posted the fourth image result.


It appears to be Paula Abdul.

True story: in primary school I was singing her song Opposites Attract, and in the bit where she sings "two steps forward, and two steps back", I took two steps back and collided with my teacher.

It was embarrassing.

It was the video with the cartoon cat.

He exemplified the concept of the opposite, because Paula Abdul was neither a cat, nor animated, nor an animated cat.

Remember that?

Remember?



True story: the video for the Fall song Two Steps Back also involved a cartoon cat, which was asphyxiated by Mark E Smith before filming had even begun.

But I didn't know that at the time. I was in primary school.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 11

So. Here it is. The last day.

The last gig.

The last word. Was "gig".

Tonight was our final performance as a group. Tomorrow, three of us are going home. And I'm fucking delighted. So much so that I've included some superfluous profanity.

That's not to say that I haven't enjoyed it...

But that's a discussion for another time. I'll do a full Edinburgh conclusion post-mortem post (mortem) later. So hang on to your hats and breath for that one.

But I don't want to ignore today aka yesterday, aka Day 11, aka my twelfth day in Edinburgh, aka The Prince of Mystery, aka Tuesday.

I woke up late, and went into town, getting distracted by a really cool bookshop. It was the books more than the shop, though no doubt the shop was an important factor. Would I have stopped to look at a pile of books on the street? Probably. But navigating the categories would have been more difficult without the shop element.

But if it was just a shop with no books, I probably wouldn't have stopped. There were many shops on the way that had no books. But did I stop in any of them? Yes. One. To get a smoked salmon roll. But that's clouding the issue.

It was a good shop, that's all. The bookshop. And the roll shop. Shops are nice. And so, I suppose, is capitalism. We're all learning something today. Eg. EDIT YOUR WRITING.

After the shop debacle, I wandered around, met objects, listened to shiny pavement, looked in a cathedral, got baffled by tartan, went to see Matt do a gig, drank some Diet Coke, did some tepid flyering, then went to our final show.

It was a really good one to end on. We weren't full, but the audience were great from the outset. Everyone did well. I did OK, but went a little bit crazy.

At one stage, I fumbled my line, but blamed the character I was playing at the time (a teacher). I named him Mr Amnesia, and improvised about three minutes as that character. Mr Amnesia, it seems, is just a weird idiot. I just staggered about dropped the mic, messed around with switches, and generally behaved like a fool.

The audience were incredibly patient. At times, it felt like I was approaching art. I probably should have done it for longer, but retreated back to my safe act. It was decidedly odd.

I think all of us have gone slightly crazy at various points, and I'm glad I saved mine for the end.

I wonder if Mr Amnesia might make a comeback. He could be my Alan Partridge.

I'll get working on a sitcom pilot.

After the show, we rushed to see Matt in the Chortle Student Comedy final. Except we didn't get there on time, as he was on first. Though that was annoying, we watched the rest of the night, which was of a pretty good standard, though we did have some cast-iron dicks sitting in front of us.

By which I mean decidedly annoying people, rather than mettalophalluses.

We went out for pizza afterwards. Bantering loudly, we teased each other and acted like idiots. It was fun. After Bantergate (which I'll name for Alex who loves banter and the suffix "-gate"), I went home. And here I am.

We need to get up early for the return trip, so I shouldn't be doing this at 3:09am. And yet... and yet...

Oh, and before the gig, I insisted (like a petulant nerd) that we had our picture taken. No-one had a camera, so we used my rubbish phone one. An audience member kindly took it. I've doctored it to make it look slightly less/more shit. I was going for a Doc and Marty from Back to the Future III-type deal. But it just looks like a poorly treated birthday snap from 1990.

Still: the memories...


Home, James!

Sorry, Jon.

Home, Jon.

Lullabye

After the record-breaking 19 blog posts last month, July's paltry sum is a bit of comedown.

But I'm sure August, with its myriad excitements, entertainments, confusements and amusements will provide some fodder.

It's only natural to have a bit of a summer lull. I like a lull. I can wrap myself in it like a blanket. (I almost typed 'warp myself in it', which is also true).

I might write a comic about a superhero called The Human Lull. She's just... well... you know. ... makes things...

Lull.

(Her secret identity is Barbara Letdown, mild-mannered something)

For now, here's my review of the film Inception in the form of a facial expression:

Danto's Peak

What do you think of the new look? A bit feminine perhaps, but I've always been in touch with my feminine side. I used to watch Dawson's Creek.

Also, if you imagine some of those splodges are blood, you'll realise that I'm a real man. A REAL MESSED-UP MAN!

That doesn't even qualify as a joke.

I had another meeting today. Unlike last time, I left my interior monologue recorder at home. Luckily, I can bring you insight of a different kind. During the meeting, I drew this:

It's a robot.

But that's not all. There are layers of subtext there. I did a module on Aesthetics at university (and got a 65 - my second best mark thank you very much), so I know what art is. And I know what I like.

This fulfils both of those.

The robot's eye is one of the pad's ring-binder holes. I'm clever that way.

He has a circle around his head. A propeller? A halo? A Jewish kippah?

Is he waving? Is his other fist clenched?

He says he's not drunk. But is he?

Is he?

I don't know. That's for you to find out.

I showed this to Arthur Danto, and he convulsed in admiration.

I've just decided to name the robot Danto in his honour.

Maybe he'll become a recurring character, like the Metropelican or Ging Gu.
I could do a Danto/Frank55 crossover.

The possibilities are as endless as I am friendless.

I should curate some kind of exhibition of my doodles. I'm sure I can find some old notebooks containing some real gems.

Everything's going well for me. I'm fine. I'm really fine. Everything is fine.

Beaming

I'd love to cackle. But being neither witch nor Kriss Akabusi, I don't have the gumption or the talent to do so.

I'm also unable to guffaw. I tried once, but simply created a methane parrot.

I don't like my laugh. I don't like my smile either. I think the thought of myself being happy makes me very upset. That's not strictly true. In fact the emotion of happiness is generally a positive one. I just disapprove of external expressions of it.

But only in me. I like other people smiling, even if they have metal teeth or are the Joker. I quite like people laughing, unless they have an annoying laugh. But that's only 70% of people. The other 30% are fine.

I've stopped smiling in photos.

And laughing in photos. I mean, that was pointless anyway. Unless you have one of those sound cameras. And they cost upwards of eight yen.

But the thought of avoiding smiling like a goon makes me cheerful. And it struggles to express itself through my lips. I try to repress it, but it's a real battle. It usually emerges as a grimace.

Of course, a grimace makes me look stupid. Which makes me sad. But by that point, it's too late. The picture is taken, my soul has been stolen, and I'm displayed to the world as Cardinal Oddmouth.

Cardinal Oddmouth sounds like a Dick Tracy villain. I might travel back to the 30s and invent him. And while I'm at it, I can kill Hitler. Or if not kill him, hide him in a mineshaft with some early Woody Allen until he changes his tune.

Speaking of segues, I heard this awesome song on Andrew Collins and Richard Herring's 6Music show this week. It is cooool:

dan le sac Vs Scroobius Pip - Last Train Home

Summery

This isn't a diary.

That should be obvious from the lack of tear stains (cyber) and my lackadaisical approach to its security. My real diary is under my pillow (in New York's East River).

That being said, I think some people use blogs to describe the day's events. I've done that on occasion, but I usually lose interest in that approach. It's mainly because nothing particularly interesting happens to me. Richard Herring can write about his daily life because it involves regularly performing stand-up, being on TV and radio, and palling around with celebrities (albeit ones that most people haven't heard of).

But I write a lot of blog entries at work (in designated break periods, of course). So if I was to summarise the day's events, it would just be:

Woke up. Felt angry at the world. Came to work. Did boring things.

Which is, of course, fascinating. But you can imagine that if it was repeated daily, some of the magic would fade.

But it means that I have to generate blog content. This usually just comes from the polluted stream of my consciousness. The results can sometimes be entertaining (like an amusingly-shaped piece of flotsam), or depressing and banal (like an amusingly-shaped piece of jetsam).

So, given that the river is more of a trickle today, and that I've been at home, I'll write an account of my activities. It could be hugely exciting.

I didn't leave the house today.

I woke up at 12:45, which was delightful. I love a good lie-in, but they have been hard to come-by lately. But a good eleven hours sleep was ideal. I think that's my ideal level of sleep. If only I could have eleven hours every day - I think I'd be operating with the power of a chess grandmaster wrestling Mozart in a canoe.

Anyway, I was just in time to watch the England game, which was interesting. For me. The team weren't great, but I'm all for lowering the expectations of the media. Playing Japan also gave me the opportunity to bring out my always accurate (and never offensive) Japanese accent. It's mostly gleaned from Japanese wrestling commentators, and mainly involves shouting "BODDDY-SLAMMMA"or "SHIYYININGGGA-WIZZAAARDOH!" into the mirror. I'm well-adjusted. Remember, it's not politically incorrect to do that, as I'm part Chinese - which gives me immunity for mocking that entire region. Carte blanche-supremacy, if you will.

I noticed that one of the billboard sponsors was Thames Valley University. Part of me thinks that any student who makes their university decision based on a football advertisement is probably not the most desirable candidate. But another part of me thought: "Hmm. Thames Valley University! Sign me up! A course in Sports Ad Science seems like a good idea!". Then a third part (the brain) thought: No. Don't do that.

After the match, Lucy and I just lounged around in bed. We opened the windows wide, and let the beautiful proto-summer air swirl around. We have a tree outside our bedroom window. It's fun to watch it change with the seasons, to pick its fruit, or to harvest any cats that have strayed for the last time.

Looking at the foliage, we quickly identified the leaf in charge. Every tree has a commanding officer - someone who'll take charge of the whole operation. Our tree's leader is Keith Heath, the Chief Leaf. He's small (like Napoleon), but forthright (like Neapolitan).

Hey, that reminds me of the Metropelican! Remember him?

Not much else happened in the afternoon. We lounged, we read, we drank tea. It was all quite tranquil. I think all weekends should be three days long. And all weeks should be two days long. And there could be a new construct (a weekendeekend, perhaps) to make up the difference.

In the evening, we watched Lewis, and were delighted to see our old college, Mansfield, in some of the scenes. I'd love to be in Lewis. I reckon I could play a murderer. Or murderee (I don't want to spoil the ending).

I might write an episode, using my knowledge of Oxford. Most episodes would involve Lewis and Hathaway sleeping in, and then naming leaves.

And now I'm writing this. My iPod is on random, and is currently playing the Elevator Mix of Gwen Stefani's What You Waiting For?

Which is odd.

So that is a summary of my (lack of) activities. Don't weep for me; I like doing little.

Anyway, whilst my body is inactive, my mind is racing with a thousand thoughts: creating new characters, solving leaf-based mysteries, and evolving faster than a mouse in Richard Dawkins's house. Also, I came up with this:

'Hippo' is the politically incorrect abbreviation for a hipsy.

I'd better slow down tomorrow.

March Hare

I'm slipping and sliding through the day, colliding with things, grasping nothing: moist and tired. I feel like I don't have any bones.

I could do with some purpose. A crusade of some kind (without the Muslim-killing).

Protesting about the closure of 6Music is one thing. I've already written a passionate email to the BBC and signed some petitions. But I can't see myself chaining myself to anything. Not about that.

I've considered becoming a vigilante of some sort. I'd need to decide on weaponry. Obviously, guns would be difficult to come by (and I wouldn't want to step on The Punisher's toes). Knives are boring. Maybe I could use acid of some kind?

I could carry it in balloons. As long as the balloons didn't dissolve. Which they almost certainly would.

I could be known as Kid Corrosive.

Or maybe the more alliterative Kid Korrosive.

Or Kidd Korrozivv.

But I'm probably too old to have the prefix 'Kid'.

In any case, I'd probably resent it. I bet the both Two-Gun Kid and Kid Flash had reservations about the inevitable goat speculation.

If I was a woman, I could be called Dissolva. But I'm not a woman. And not even self-inflicted acid-spillage could change that.

I think I'd be too scared to fight mob bosses and bank robbers and supervillains. I'd probably go after people who commit white-collar crime. Or litter.

I hate littering.

And if a few people need to have their faces melted off to learn a lesson... well... that's justice. Justice with a capital Letter.

***

I came up with the title of this post before writing it.

There wasn't anything about a March Hare in it.

But it is March. And I am faster than the average tortoise.

And smarter than the average hare (but not the clever ones).

Men in Uniform

I did some stand-up on Tuesday night. I hadn't expected to be on, so was poorly prepared. Luckily, I was wearing a suit, which made everything ok.

Suits are lots of fun. I felt like I was playing a character, which nullified the nerves. I tried some new things and some old things, and it seemed to go pretty well.

I should wear a suit all the time. I feel protected in a jacket and tie. Like returning to the warmth and safety of a polyester womb. There's something about having the wherewithal (or the wearwithal) to have a matching jacket and trousers that creates the illusion of competence.

I might start sleeping in a suit. It would get quite hot, but I'd get some serious dream props.

Lack of material caused me to take a long time about everything. I spent minutes looking away from the mic stand, and then back at it. It was like a doubletake, except more. Double-doubletakes. Loads of them. In a way, I wish I'd done nothing but that.

I'm hoping to one day excise all words from my stand-up. I can be an increasingly annoying Charlie Chaplin.

Like Charlie Chaplin.

***

I don't know if it's worth fighting August's poor post count. Maybe I should cut my losses and aim for an abundant September.

But I can't help but keep plugging away. I'm like Rocky. Fighting an enemy no-one cares about, in an arena no-one can see, for a cause that no-one could possibly support.

There's something admirable about futility. There's something especially admirable about Admiral Futility.

He could have changed his name, but didn't.

He stayed strong.

Even though he wasn't in the armed forces.

Admiral Futility: the bravest window-cleaner in all of Aldershot.