I'm reorganising my web browser bookmarks. Merry Christmas.
I'm officially on holiday until twenty-fourteen. We have mince pies and barbecue sauce in the house. There are lights and slippers. The whole set-up screams "festive" and "why am I sentient?!", so we've had to start wearing earplugs.
Tuesday - 12:03am:
Days have passed. Things don't seem to happen at Christmas.
It's very windy. I can hear it outside. It's Christmas Eve.
There are too many lights on in this room.
I've turned some of them off.
I feel like my senses have been dulled. Writing is difficult. Thinking is difficult. It must be something about Christmas. I ate a mince pie not long ago. Now I can't think. Why?
Whose interests does it serve, this listlessness? (I had to google "sluggish synonym" to find that word.)
A whole nation of people, drowsy, dull, clumsy, lethargic. A nation of half people. The end of December every year, the nation becomes blunt.
Normally, I'd suggest that it's the machinations of consumerism. It's easier to sell products to dullards. But that doesn't really explain it. It's Christmas Eve. The shops will be closed soon. Most people have already completed their disproportionate Xmas spend-a-thon by now. But the main Christmas period (eve; day; day [boxing]) are when we are at the nadir of our torpor.
Or, would the nadir of our torpor be when we are energetic? Perhaps the zenith of our torpor? I don't know. I'm... struggling.
Google is of little help.
We've all been brainwashed. But brainwashing usually serves a purpose. People are brainwashed into betraying their country, giving up smoking, or agreeing with Ayn Rand.
But this brainwashing seems to be so empty. The iconography and ideology behind Christmas is so muddled, that I'm not sure what we're supposed to think. We're not suppose to think anything. We're just supposed to eat chocolate.
Writing this has been like swimming through a viscous trough. Each word is a mountain to be scaled. Each sentence is a tour of duty in some godforsaken war. I'm trying to reach the truth, but the festive pastry is making me forget myself; the mincemeat is making itself of me.
It's not a conspiracy, I don't think. It can't be. No-one benefits from a world of slugs. It's probably more of a natural phenomenon. Perhaps the world needs a few days of non-interference to complete some vital maintenance. Maybe the planet's axle is being greased.
But what about those who don't celebrate Christmas? Or don't celebrate it by watching terrible television in paper hats?
I can't even begin to work out their role in this disgusting equation.
Just look at how disgusting the equation is. The equals sign is two dead snakes, decaying slowly.
Tomorrow, I'll have forgotten all of this. This hasn't been a revelation. I've revealed nothing. But I have, out of the corner of my eye, seen the obfuscating curtain.
Tomorrow, I won't see the curtain. I'll just see the solid wall, covered with photographs of robins.
And it won't matter. Not all revelations are worthwhile. Not all truths are important. Who cares if I eat another mince pie, and my brain gets slower and slower and porridge and stopping?
Who cares if I decide to watch The Big Bang Theory?
It's nearly 2014. And nothing sharpens the wits like a pre-recorded Jools Holland gesturing towards a venerable Hispanic gentleman knocking the shit out of a marimba.
Here's a quick summary of Lucy and Paul's jolly holiday so far:
1) We both started feeling ill on the evening of Dec 20th
2) Had to decide whether or not to get our train to Devon to stay with my family the following morning
3) Decided to get the train
4) Regretted number 3
5) Struggled on a busy train, and eventually made it to our destination
6) Spent an ill evening being generally pathetic, unentertaining and uncomfortable
7) Spent a hellish night of illness and leaking roof
8) Asked if we could go home the following day
9) Forced my poor mother to spend seven hours of her day driving us back to Oxford (which she did very graciously and cheerfully)
10) Continued to feel ill
11) Ate some soup
12) Began this list
Ho.
Ho.
Ho.
Well, the weather outside is frightful...
We're not too bad, really. It's much better to have a bit more room and to be in familiar surroundings. I hope we're not making too big a deal of this. But it hasn't been the most pleasant of Christmases.
I should point out that Lucy has dealt with it much better than me. She's been strong and brave. I've totally caved in. I'm sure I have some strengths that counterbalance this weakness, but none spring to mind. I'm quite good at singing songs about sweet 'n' sour chicken balls, I suppose... That makes up for it.
We struggled to the supermarket yesterday to stock our empty cupboards. We bought plenty of supplies which we one day hope to be able to eat.
No point in dwelling on this. I just thought it should be recorded for prosperity, so that 2013 Paul can look back on this and be grateful for any remaining functional limbs.
***
Everybody's talking about Christmas at the moment. It's all over the newspapers and the social networks. You can't swing a dead cat without someone sewing tinsel into its tail and offering you a Ferrero Rocher.
It's getting a bit much. You can only read so many people's hilarious snowman jokes before you're compelled to desecrate the grave of Raymond Briggs. (His being alive is another sprout in that particular stuffing ball).
So to mix things up, here are eight hilarious jokes about other holidays. These can go in your Easter crackers for next year, or even your Ash Wednesday Humour Log.
***
4th of July/Bonfire Night/Bastille Day:
Q: What did one firework say to the other firework? A: "I've hidden my fuse! They'll never find it! Shhhhhh!"
Q: What do you call a firework with a French accent? A: Marie the Firework.
--
Easter: Two eggs walk into a prosthetic leg rental outlet. "Same again next weekend?" asks the proprietor, grinning. "You bet!" says the eggs. They roll out, giggling. Q: What happened when the Easter Bunny had a mental breakdown? A: He was HOPPING MAD and sadly took his own life!
-- St Rhinoceros's Day:
Q: What do you call a man with a horn on his head, and kindness in his heart? A: St Rhinoceros.
--
Thanksgiving:
Q: What kind of PIE does a bicycle PUMP serve to his family (or KIN) at Thanksgiving? A: Bicycle pumps don't eat pies.
--
Summer Solstice: Q: What do druids have for afternoon tea at the summer solstice? A: Scone Henge. or (if you pronounce "scone" the other - correct - way): Q: What do druids have for afternoon tea at the summer solstice? A: Some scones at Stone Henge, or a big handful of earth or something. Stupid druids...
That counts as the same joke. So you're owed one more.
-- Pentecost:
Q: How much does pente cost? A: Don't be flippant.
***
That took much longer than you might imagine.
I'd better get back to the merriment. I've been wearing my paper hat since last year.
At Christmas time, when I was a child, my dad used to take my sister and me to see old people.
He had a system for deciding which old people they would be, I assume. I never asked.
He was a GP, and the old people were his patients. We'd go and see a few elderly women in the run-up to Christmas.
I don't know who instigated these visits. Were these women on particularly friendly terms with my dad? Did he offer to bring his kids along? Did they ask for it? Were they clamouring for a glimpse at youth? Was it a treat for them? Was it a treat for us? Was it a treat for my dad?
Tonight, I'll phone him and get to the bottom of it.
Here's how I remember it (he may have a different, and more accurate, recollection):
I didn't particularly want to go, but also didn't hate going.
I was partly motivated by the possibility of a Christmas gift (A £5 book token! Just for showing up! And a card!), but this wasn't the only reason I went.
I was reasonably bored and reasonably polite.
I found old people's homes a bit weird, but interesting.
I wonder if I'm remembering it all wrong. I might have complained constantly. I might have mercenarily demanded my money as soon as we entered the room.
One of the perks of visiting an old people's home was that we got to use the lift.
Children don't have much use for lifts. Most of their doings are ground floor doings. There are stairs of course - they were fun to sit on and fall down - but no lifts. There are occasional ladders (bunk bed, tree house, adventure playground), but no lifts.
There weren't many lifts in the 80s.
So to have the chance to press buttons that made slidey doors go all whoosh and clank was a delight.
The women's flats were full of Christmas cards. In the run up to Christmas, this is a joyful sight. If those cards remain up in July, the whole thing takes on a melancholy air.
They had Christmas decorations, too. These were weird. They were all different to the ones we had in our house. Different. They had a slightly different style of tinsel. Weird.
There would be photos of family members. There might be old sepia-toned snaps of men in hats and women in hats and hatless 70s holidays.
The women would ask us how school was (probably), and we'd answer (eloquently). My dad might get given a Christmas present. It would usually be a bottle of alcohol that he would never drink. But it's the thought that counts.
I wonder if our presence lightened up their day, or simply interfered with their schedule of Duck Hunt and amphetamines.
It was probably just a nice gesture. Christmas must be the worst time to be lonely, especially in an old people's home. We were a breath of fresh air and fresh blood.
I suppose they're all dead now.
***
Woo-hoo!
What a delightful way to begin a blog post! It's not seasonal, it's not a proper piece of writing, it's not researched and it's as gloomy as Eeyore's funeral.
But it's interesting to revisit things that happened to you a long time ago. Uninteresting things. Time makes interesting anecdotes of us all.
It's been quite the week here in Diamondbadgeria (which sounds like a disease, but it actually an allegorical country)!
On Monday, I did something.
On Tuesday, there was the rained-off England match.
On Wednesday, there was the England match.
On Thursday, there was the blog post about the dead Christmas old people.
On Friday, there was a mistake with tenses. And Armageddon.
But you have to keep a stiff upper lip. No point in moping around, just because the working week saps your spirit and you have nothing to hope for but an exciting coma.
People underwent greater hardships during any of the wars. You've got to puff out that chest, raise that chin, but your back into it (your chin), and keep working for Queen and Country.
It's a blessed time to be alive. In this place. It's tough elsewhere in the world, but here I am, in quite the privileged position. No need to be downhearted! I'm white and male and middle-class. I own my own shower radio in the shape of a penguin, that might still work for all I know!
Let's all be very thankful for the bounty that chance has dropped through our letterbox. Eat the free mango and ham and fruit buns that constitute that bounty. Eat them, appreciate them, and use them to fuel bounty-droppings of your own in the future! Kindness creates kindness. In much the same way as Frankenstein creates a monster that people often call the same name as his name!
I think you've been juiced up enough. Here's some proper content:
Proper Content
by
Paulo Fungi
Lance Corporal Nicholas Julian Sinclair Reynolds Chatham Davies-Wright
I can't believe it's Christmas again already! We bought our tree today. I thought we might have left it too late, but luckily the garden centre must have overstocked or something.
...
You can continue that hilarious comedy conceit on your own time. I'm busy.
Once again, we find ourselves staring down the barrel of a year with an unfamiliar number at the end of it; in this case: 2. I haven't experienced a year ending with a '2' since 1992 (I was in suspended animation from 2001-2004).
I'm sure you're all planning your New Year's Eve party, which will involve you dressing up as someone who doesn't find the whole thing tedious. You might also be dealing with post-Xmas depression. Perhaps you're trying to get rid of all the mince pies you bought on December 19th. They were on special offer. And you can never have too many mince pies (you thought)!
Now, you have dozens of them, and no-one will take them off your hands. The council will have to send round a special van to collect them from a glittery wheelie bin, along with old tinsel and broken children who have died of happiness.
The future is looking bleak. But today isn't about the future! It's about the past twelve months! This year will soon be forgotten, so let's cling onto it with a redundant list. Everyone does these retrospectives. Some of them have talent, or do them on a professional basis. So why should I add to the teetering pile of fraudulent hindsight?
Because I respect you.
DiamondBadger's Headscissors Review of 2011
(I'm changing the presentation this year. Underlining headings is so 2008.)
If you'd like to see what I've written about in previous years, you can do so here:
I've just re-read these as part of my rigorous presentation, and I almost smiled twice.
2011 was the year of TOO MUCH NEWS. They crammed everything into this year, so I don't know what they have in mind for next year.
Luckily, I'm too self-involved to discuss world events. Instead, I'll complete various categories of "things" and add a couple of new "things".
I'm a good writer.
Life-Changing Event of 2011
I don't know if I've had a life-changing event this year. Am I exactly the same as I was in 2010? Perhaps I am. I'm older, I suppose. But that's not unique to this year. (I've got older twice before: once in 1989 and again in 1993)
I went on a big march in March (I always remember when it was, because when it was was also what it was). But, other than making me slightly smugger, I don't know if it changed my life.
I bought a Sharpie sometime over the summer. That was pretty big. The event, not the pen.
Maybe I haven't changed. But is that such a bad thing? I might be exactly where I want to be. If it ain't broke... use "isn't" instead.
I know! I've got it! The Life-Changing Event of 2011 was that, for the first time in ages, my life didn't really change!
Nothing will ever be the same again!
Film of 2011
I should retire this category. I never see enough films to make it indicative of anything. I suppose I liked Captain America the best. But that seems unsatisfying.
I should expand it to include films which came out pre-2011, but I saw for the first time this year.
A Fistful of Dynamite would probably win that one. I also saw In Bruges for the first time a few days ago and really enjoyed it.
OK - what I'll do is: NEXT year, I won't open with this category. I don't want to get off on the wrong foot. I'll start with something that will allow me to wax lyrical, and demonstrate how interesting I am. Because I'm not a dull man.
Not dull at all.
If there's one thing I'm not, it's dull.
Shoe of 2011 (new category!)
The left.
TV Programme of 2011
I've watched quite a bit of television this year by my standards. Most of it has been on DVD, but it still counts.
Honourable mentions go to:
The Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes - a fantastic comic book cartoon that I should have listed last year
Frozen Planet - Attenborough shows how it's done once again: spectacular, mind-blowing, moving, chilly
I watched all four seasons this year, and enjoyed them immensely. I can't get into a lot of US drama, because they seem almost too polished. They take an interesting premise, fill it with expensive-looking sets, attractive actors and witty dialogue, and it leaves me feeling cold.
Breaking Bad is different. It really got under my skin. Tremendous performances all round, constant tension, and some real Holy Shit moments.
I'm looking forward to the next season a little too much.
But the Best TV Programme of 2011 is Louie.
Again, I watched both seasons this year, so this may not be a fair representative of 2011, but I don't care. Comedian Louis CK has created a show that's part stand-up, part sitcom, part drama, and all fantastic. It looks good, its arguments are complex, it's laugh-out-loud funny, it's occasionally terrifying.
This is the kind of television that I wish there was more of. I can't praise it highly enough.
Music of 2011
I'm confused about what music came out when. I forget. I mean, an album that came out in January might as well have come out during the reign of Xerxes the Great.
But here are some things that look like they came out in 2011.
Various - Before the Fall
This was a great compilation that came out this year, consisting of the original versions of songs The Fall went on to cover. Varied and weird and lots of fun. This has furnished me with many music club playlist tracks, creating the illusion that my tastes are more diverse than they actually are.
Includes this gem:
Blanck Mass - Blanck Mass
I seem to become more interested in this kind of music lately, which is what? Ambient? I don't know. But this album was really good. I think they include one of the guys from Fuck Buttons, but I'm not professional enough to find out.
Ben Folds released a career retrospective CD this year, which was a lot of fun. It included a track recorded in 2011 (Yeah! That's this year!) with Amanda Palmer, Neil "Sandman" Gaiman and Damian Kulash as 8in8.
This song is very nice.
Finally (and I realise this has gone on far too long), the song I've listened to the most this year was released in 1967 as an album track. It's by Phil Ochs (who I've probably written about too much this year). It's slightly preposterous, but I can't get enough of it. This is my Song of 2011.
Misunderstanding of 2011
I was called to a tribunal at work for allegedly making lewd gestures at the cafeteria staff. I thought they said it started at 10, but it was actually 9:30. Embarrassing.
Knock-Knock Joke of 2011 (new category!)
Knock knock
Who's there?
It's the CIA, Mr Bin Laden. You've left your headlights on.
Oh. Oh, OK. Hang on a minute, I'm not wearing any shoes
Stuffed Animal of 2011
Edgar Breadgar AKA Toastface Killah
Lucy bought him at the London Film and Comic Con this year. He appears to be a Japanese toast puppet. We named him.
Tendon of 2011
The patellar tendon. Close one this year.
Albert of 2011
Stand-up of 2011
I've seen shockingly little stand-up this year, possibly as a result of last year's Edinburgh burnout. So the winner of this year's best stand-up is me. I did two shows, both of which were above average. Of course, there were other people on those bills who may have been technically "better" than me, but none of them were as handsome.
Well, OK. Some of them might technically have been "more handsome" than me, but none of them had the same face and name as me.
Well, OK. Some of them might have been "my funnier twin from another dimension", but they are dead now.
Podcast of 2011
I haven't listened to as many podcasts this year, but have very much enjoyed Marc Maron's WTF podcast, where he interview with comedians and actors, and gets stuck into the nature of comedy and neurosis (particularly his).
Number of 2011
Twenteen.
Celebrity Sighting of 2011
I saw Dylan Moran outside the New Theatre in Oxford. I think that might be it. I think I also saw Rory McGrath on the street at one point.
Pretty slim pickings. Never mind - I did see several of my friends, some of whom are bound to be famous in the coming years (keep an eye out for massacres).
Picture of a Vegetable Made in MS Paint of 2011 (new category!)
Odd Celebrity Crush of 2011
Jeff Goldblum?
That's not that odd, except that I'm a heterosexual man. I think I saw an episode of Larry Sanders that he did, which was funny. Also, he was on a Simpsons DVD commentary, which will automatically make me lust over someone.
Yeah, that is pretty odd.
Language of 2011
Horse Latin
Tool of 2011
The invisible chisel (or "invisichisel")
Annoyance of 2011 (new category!)
Irrationality. There have been a lot of moments this year (and every year) that have made me angry, due to the closed-mindedness of people.
I suppose I'm mainly thinking of the hoo-ha surrounding the riots, but it happens all the time. People don't stop to think what they're arguing about. I think people have a set position in their head about every topic, so that when someone mentions "immigration" or "badger culls" or "Felix Dexter", they can go right to their pre-prepared argument. They have no idea what they, or the other person, are saying.
Genuine discussion and debate are rare beasts.
Also, I really hate Felix Dexter.
Disclaimer of 2011 (new category!)
I don't really hate Felix Dexter.
Clothing Item of 2011
I've been wearing hoodies a lot this year. They're comfortable, and make me feel like I'm in touch with the youth of today. And if I'm wearing my hood up, I can literally be in touch with the youth of today without anyone giving a useful description to police.
Best Bit from My Review of 2011
"Ambient? I don't know."
Prediction for 2012
I predict that I will have an actual life-changing moment. I'm being shot into space in March, so that should do it. I've never worn a helmet before.
Secondly, I predict that one of The Beatles will come back to life and also, prior to that, will die. Ringo, I think.
Thirdly, I predict that I will panic about four things in September - one of them will have something to do with the metric system.
***
That seems to be about the size of it. I hope this has made you smile once. But no more than that. I need to save up my smile-prompting skills for 2012.
Have a glass of champagne for me on New Year's Eve. I'll be avoiding all aspects of the countdown because I'm scared of the number seven and happiness.
No - don't put that there! *SMASH* My bust of Busta Rhymes!
*DING-DONG* Who could that be?
*CRACK* *PUNCH* Ohhhhhh, nooooo! It's an unexpected criminal!
***
Slapstick doesn't really work in blogs.
Mood
Neutral. This is the first of five days off work, and I'm feeling paralysed by possibility. What should I do? What shouldn't I do? Why shouldn't I?
I'm also worried that I might be blogging too much, with too little result(s). Am I diluting my brand? Do I have a brand?
I'd hate to think so.
Perhaps I'm too fixated on my post count. In the back of my mind, I'm considering the possibility of beating last year's number of blog posts. I did 138 in 2010. This is number 131 in 2011. It might be tight.
But no-one cares about that except me. I should be blogging less frequently, but thinking about it more. I'm sure I could come up with something well thought-out and consistently funny if I put my mind to it.
But (2) I suppose the haphazard approach has defined this blog. I don't want to change my tack now, do I?
I could try to set myself a goal for one serious, proper, considered post every two weeks or so. I'm sure everyone is eager to hear my views on the economy.
I wonder if I'm just treading water.
I certainly seem to be doing so on Twitter. After pathetically begging for more followers on my birthday, I still haven't reached 300. I seem to gain a few and lose a few every now and then. Perhaps I was just never meant to reach the big three-oh-oh.
This has been rather indulgent so far, hasn't it? I get like this every now and then.
People aren't interested in me; they're interested in the big laffs.
What do you call an iPod with three legs?
A TriPod
There you go. Taste those crumbs.
Of course, this is just the 'mood' section. I'm expected to be maudlin up here. But the sections below will be bulging with more gold than a conquistador's knapsack.
I hope you're wearing goggles, because you're about to laugh your eyes out.
Listening to
Christmas music. Not much, but too much.
I don't know if I like Christmas music because I don't know if I like Christmas. Festive songs have no value of their own. They're avatars. Cyphers. Other words that probably don't mean that.
If you like Xmas (that's right: Xmas), the songs remind you of the pleasure of family and good food and childhood excitement. If you don't like Xmas, the songs remind you of the displeasure of family and disgusting food and childhood excrement.
I'm undecided about all of it. Which probably adds to my neutral mood. I don't like feeling neutral. It's unsettling. I feel bad. Which means I don't feel neutral any more. Which means I feel good. Which cancels out the bad, making me feel neutral again. And so on.
This hasn't been as funny as I'd hoped. So let's do some hilarious festive jokes!
*
What do you call a snowman with a mince pie in his mouth?
A clever solution to dwindling food storage space
*
Santa (peering out of the window): Looks like rain, dear. Mrs Claus: Of course! They pull your sleigh! Santa: What? Mrs Claus: They pull your sleigh! Santa: Yes, I heard you. I just wondered what you meant. Mrs Claus: I... I just meant... Santa: What? WHAT? Rudolph: STOP FIGHTING. IT'S CHRISTMAS.
*
What does Lou Reed want for Christmas?
Heroin.
*
Did you hear the one about the man who looked like a Christmas pudding? Someone covered him in brandy and lit him on fire. To save face, he claimed it was a protest against the Chinese occupation of Tibet! Ironically, doctors were unable to save his face.
*
You see? Laughter is the greatest gift of all.
Also, I've been listening to this:
Reading
The Better Angels of Our Nature by Steven Pinker
I got this for my birthday, and am really enjoying it. It's about how, despite a common belief to the contrary, violence of all kinds has decreased. I'm really interested in how people always view their own generation as the worst ever, and see the past as a golden age, so it's good to have some stats to pass this up.
Thanks, Pinker.
Here are some Steven Pinker jokes:
*
Due to his rosy complexion and graceful gait, Steven is known in some circles as The Panth Pinker.
*
Before Steven came along, the patron saint of linguists was St Pink. (Now it's St Even Pinker. Get it?)
*
Knock-knock
Who's there?
Steven Pinker
Steven Pinker who?
What?
Steven Pinker who?
No. That's it. That's my full name.
Steven Pinker who?
I just told you... Rudolph: STOP FIGHTING. IT'S CHRISTMAS.
*
Is it possible to die of being too prolific? If so, I'd better get my affairs in order.
Watching
Fist of Fun
I ordered this from Go Faster Stripe, which is an independent comedy DVD shop. I've bought quite a lot of stuff from them before, and they're great. This is their biggest venture: paying a lot of money to distribute Stewart Lee and Richard Herring's cult 90s sketch show, because the BBC didn't want to.
The package has a ridiculous amount of extras, including commentaries, bonus shows and the live studio rushes.
I never watched FOF when it was on (I only leapt on the Lee and Herring bandwagon with TMWRNJ), so it's been lots of fun to finally see all these in full.
I haven't watched enough to give a full review, so here are some jokes about Lee and Herring and fists and fun.
*
Did you hear about the man who had a fish in his ear? He was hard of hearing. Also, the fish was a herring.
*
What's the difference between Bruce Lee and Sara Lee? One of them ices cakes, and the other one cakes ices!
(To "cake an ice" is kung fu slang for kicking a bit of wood)
*
Knock-knock (the knock was made by a clenched fist)
Who's there?
Steven Pinker.
Steven Pinker who?
Look, we've been through this...
I know - but I find it fun. Rudolph: THIS IS NO FUN
*
Of course, Pinker doesn't believe in Rudolph. That's an extra layer of comedy.
Playing
With a spinning top. It's the best spinning top I've ever spun. I might write a whole blog post about it. It's amazing. I don't do anything else.
*
Did you hear the one about the man (who might have been Steven Pinker, but it's not important for the joke) who accidentally sat on a spinning top?
He got a spinning bottom!
*
Ahahaha. I'm proud of EVERY WORD OF THIS.
Eating
A wholemeal roll.
*
Did you hear about the gymnast who used krill instead of a gym mat?
He was the expert at the WHALEMEAL ROLL.
(Whales eat krill)
(Gymnasts roll)
*
The gravity in my black hole-meal roll is so strong that even light spread can't escape.
*
Still going well!
Drinking
Orange juice
*
Knock-knock
*SHOTGUN BLAST*
Now you're Steven REDDER. Because of the blood. Rudolph: *sniff* Just like my nose. Fish-Ear Man: Pardon?
***
This has been an excellent use of my time. And yours.
I'll give you until the count of three to get off my property. But not now. I've forgotten where I keep my numbers.
I'm running out of ways to begin blog posts. So I just wrote "SNOW PIG!". Seriously. Just look.
I think it's because Lucy and I were watching Frozen Planet and there was a strange snow formation in Antarctica. It looked like a snow pig, but I don't think it could have been. Snow pigs only live in the Northern Hemisphere. Everybody knows that.
It's December. This used to be my favourite month, because it contains both my birthday and Christmas, and I was a shallow child.
But now I'm less shallow. Actually, that's probably not true. I'm probably just shallow in a different way. Or just jaded. Jaded and shallow. Like a scummy puddle.
I'm indifferent about my birthday. Next year I'll be 30, which might make me freak out. And I've begun to actively dislike Christmas. You always become the thing you hate the most. As a child, I hated my future self.
So it's all just early darkness and novelty reindeer socks. December is no longer my favourite month.
On the other hand... December is my favourite month!
Think of all the great stuff! The joy of giving! Eating a hot mince pie on a frosty evening, listening to carol singers, politely declining a cup of mulled wine but enjoying the smell!
Everything is fantastic. Also, I'm really looking forward to the Christmas specials of TV programmes I don't enjoy watching. None of the programmes I like are going to do a Christmas special. But that's mostly because I only watch Fundamentalist Islam TV.
This year's festive line up on FITV looks a bit bleak. It's just [FUNDAMENTALIST ISLAM CLICHÉ 1], [FUNDAMENTALIST ISLAM CLICHÉ 2] and [FUNDAMENTALIST ISLAM CLICHÉ 4].
That was an interesting dead-end alley down which to journey. But it's time to move on.
***
Mood
Saints have just lost, so I should be angry. But West Ham lost, so I'm not too angry. It's Saturday, so I'm not too angry. No-one close to me has died recently, so I'm not too angry. Poverty and starvation exist, so I should be angry. I forgot to order orange juice in our grocery delivery, so I should be angry. I'm wearing trousers, so I should be angry. I'm really good looking, so I'm not too angry.
All in all: I'm fine.
Listening to
This is a nice wintery song. Hmm. My spellcheck doesn't like wintery. It likes wintry. And it doesn't like spellcheck. It likes spell check. My spellcheck is an idiot.
This song threatens to be really boring several times, but then just about rescues itself. I think that's a strength in a song. You don't want to be unequivocally good. Where's the fun in that?
Actually, maybe it is boring.
I was listening to this yesterday. It's much less boring:
Reading
Comics. Yes, I'm a grown man. Yes, I'm reading comics. You can't argue with a bit of Mark Waid's new Daredevil series.
Just try.
Watching
I've been watching the clock tick by as I try to think of what I've been watching. It's the clock on my computer, so it's probably not actually ticking. But it is a representation of passing time in the form of pixel-shapes.
Anyway, I'm watching that. I've also watched my contemporaries pass me by. Through a long lens. They look great.
Flaying
I haven't been flaying anyone. I don't know where you heard that. I haven't been staking out my contemporaries with a long lens, breaking into their houses and removing their skin. Where did you get that idea? It's a serious allegation. Why did you bring it up?
I haven't been doing that. And I resent you suggesting it.
Eating
I had sausage and tomato sandwich today. With mayonnaise. Mayonnaise with a hint of mustard.
That's not enough for me. I don't want people to beat around the mustard bush. I want mustard to be stated clearly and plainly, all over my tongue.
Drinking
Coffee. Delicious coffee. Black as the blood of Jeremy Kyle, but not as riddled with evil. It just has a hint of evil.
***
Sensational!
I've just patted myself on the back. Good work. I certainly did type some words'n'things.
I don't know if this is quite enough for a blog post, so here's some bonus content:
Faster and faster she ran, past the opticians, past the newsagent, past the coffee shop, past the police station, past the charity shop, until finally her legs gave way, and she crumpled in a heap outside Greggs.
Inside the shop, a kindly gentleman bit into his sausage roll. Outside the shop, Betty was crying with happiness. Inside the sausage roll, trouble was afoot.
I've always considered myself to be an observant person. I see things other people miss. I have a tremendous eye for subtlety and nuance. I can read between the lines.
In another world, I could be a Poirot-style detective; solving mysteries with nothing but intuition and finely-tuned perception.
I've used these skills to work out a couple of interesting facts in which you might be interested. I haven't seen any of these online, so I don't think anyone else has figured them out. But you, loyal reader, have the inside track. Use these tidbits to impress your colleagues, astound your family or bamboozle a maniac long enough to wrest the axe from his gnarled fingers.
So, here they are. Two fascinating, groundbreaking observations:
1) It's Christmas
2) It has been snowing
There. Use those weapons as you see fit.
I'm in Devon at the moment. We drove down on Tuesday (well, we didn't drive down - we're too important/incompetent).
It was rather beautiful: white ground, white sky, white mist, and the sun trying to cut through it all like a laser beam.
We drove through picture postcard villages that made Christmas card images seem accurate for once.
But with all the family and the nice food and the relaxing by the fire, there hasn't been much time to write sarcastic paragraphs on Strictly Come Dancing or post pictures of my beautiful withered face.
I can't avoid it totally, though. I don't want this to be the Month of Fewest Posts (which is currently September 2007 with 5).
So let's plough on, like a plough through some non-specific frozen water.
What to write about? Well luckily I done read some books.
A bit of light political theory to start with. I like John Stuart Mill. He was in favour of giving women the vote long before they got it, and generally seemed quite open-minded and liberal.
I also read in the Raymond Williams book from a while ago that he was in favour of the right to assemble. He was one of those old school liberals that tried to do what's right in a fusty old fashioned world. And he was probably quite fusty and old fashioned too. But was one of the good ones.
Mill is associated with utilitarianism (popularised by his father James and Jeremy Bentham), which says that we should aim for the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Which means it should be legal to butcher Richard Littlejohn, I suppose. But Mill was open to new ideas, which is an excellent quality in a philosopher. Most don't manage it. I suppose if you fill your brain with too much stuff, it's difficult to open it again.
***
Roald Dahl - Fantastic Mr Fox
This came free with a box of cereal. That's the source of most of my literature. I've spent many an autumn evening deciphering bran-flake Braille. That explains why the cover is an image from the Wes Anderson film (which I haven't seen).
Dahl was my favourite writer as a child. When I was a child, I mean. When he was a child, I found his work quite simplistic (also, I wasn't born).
Of course, we all remember my review of JATGP. Well, FMF is pretty good too. It's quite fun and positive, though possibly sends a slightly anti-feminist message. Mr Fox is the clever one, and does all the adventuring, whilst Mrs Fox stays at home to prepare a feast (even when she's starving to death).
Reading this made me hungry.
For foxburgers.
***
JD Salinger - Various
I didn't re-read these four books. I read them all too recently, and have written about Salinger too much before. (Eg here and here)
Needless to say, they're all good and great and favourites.
***
There it is. I'll need to post a few more times this month to avoid the ignominy of a sub-5 post count.
I hope wherever you are, you're warm and safe and naked.
My expression in that photo doesn't reflect my feelings about the book. I look displeased up there. And maybe I am displeased, but not with Mr Burgess. I enjoyed the book a great deal.
I was going to write lots of insightful things about the use of language, the themes of adolescence and social control, and the relation to the Kubrick film version, but I'm sure it has already been covered by people more qualified and skilled than I.
Maybe I'm displeased about my giant hand, or the lack of colour in my face.
It's a lot easier to read novels than non-fiction. If my shelf was all novels, I'd have raced through it. But I am interested in the non-fiction stuff: the politics, the history, the social analysis.
It also helps me understand the fiction on a deeper level. I'm sure Machiavelli and Spenser will really sharpen my appreciation for the themes in Fantastic Mr Fox and Russell Brand's BookyWook.
I should either:
a) Write something interesting about the books I'm reading, or
b) Use the books as a springboard to other interesting ideas
I seem to be doing neither of those things, due to my waning mood.
Perhaps I should just stop writing this blog for a while until I feel more motivated. But I worry that that time may never come. So it's best to have these little chunks of dour vapidity to act as placeholders for a while.
Also, I should stop suggesting that what I write is dour and vapid. I think that, but only because of my current mindset. I'm sure everyone reading this was thrilled by the insight and energy of my writing, and was subsequently shocked to learn of the low opinion I have for my words.
It's all about attitude. From now on, I'm going to enthuse about my blog to such an extent as to become obnoxious and unreadable.
Then I'll have to tone it down to create a sense of balance. It's tricky to walk that fine line between wet blanket and loud-mouthed bravado blanket (though using both does keep the heat in, during these cold winter nights).
I should also stop putting my face in these blogs. I don't like being reminded of my sullen visage every time I click on the page.
On the other hand, I am extremely handsome, vibrant and aesthetically rich in facial construction. Most people see my face and are given a real boost to their day. People probably check for updates every 45 minutes to get a new snatch of my proud countenance.
On the other hand, no they don't.
On the other hand, they might.
That's four hands (or half an octopus [with hands]).
I'm really enjoying this. I think I'm being funny and interesting. This is probably the best blog post I've ever written.
Though to be honest, the transparency of that falsehood may be enough to permanently alienate any of my obtuse perceptive ugly beautiful readers, so I'd do well to both delete this without publishing it, and also post it several hundred times, on different websites, and print out versions of it to stick on walls and noticeboards and lampposts and then graffiti insults over the grotesque and brilliant text therein.
I should also post some more pictures of my face, and the back of my head for balance.
***
We put up our Christmas decorations recently. I'm currently listening to White Christmas, Bing Crosby's Aryan Festive Classic.
I don't want all my Christmases to be white. I'd like a puce Christmas every so often. Like a leap year.
We've got lots of lights, which is very pleasant. It feels like we're living in a neon brain, and rejoicing at the colourful synapses. We're like brain elves.
Nat King Cole has just barged his way into proceedings. Santa Claus may well be coming to town, but I don't appreciate a song composed mainly of threats.
Except for I'm Going to Punch Your Wife by UB40 or You've Got 'Til the Count of Three - One... Two... Three... *CLICK* *BLAM* by Ladysmith Black Mambazo.
I'd continue writing hilarious commentary on all the songs that come up, but doing that would expose how slow I am at writing.
For example, in the time it took to write the last sentence, I've gone through all of our Christmas music, all of our New Years music, all of our Shrove Tuesday music, and am now listening to Frank Sinatra sing a touching ballad about the Easter Bunny.
Yes, I do sort my iTunes by festive season. I find it to be appropriate.
I'm going to go and pour myself a large glass of water now.
Sorry for the long gap since my last post. I have been enjoying the festive season by looking forward to its end. And now it's over. Ha! Hahahahaha!
You were all looking forward to Christmas, weren't you? You were looking forward to the presents and the socialising and the family. You posted Facebook statuses about how Christmassy you were, and how much snow there was, and how filled to the brim with molten joy you were, didn't you?
And all the while I was stewing. Stewing and hating every last one of you. Hating Christmas. Hating giving. Hating 'good will to all men'. Hating 'all women'. Brooding in a frosty shroud of misery and loneliness. It was cold there, and dark, away from all your twinkly lights.
You had the time of your life. But guess what? IT'S OVER. Hahahahaha!
It's all over. You're all sorry to be going back to work. To be leaving the comfort of home. To be taking down the decorations.
But I'm happy! Every sad thought you have about the end of Christmas makes me that much more aroused! I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad you're miserable. Now you know how I felt!
Who's having the last laugh now? It's me! Well, I'm not actually laughing. But I am typing various different combinations of Hs and As, to indicate a maniacal chuckle.
HHHHHHAAAAAAAH!
Ha.
Ahem.
Of course, that was all a joke.
All a joke.
Ha.
But what better way to ring in the new year, and wring the neck of the old one, than with a:
Review of 2009
This is my third one of these, so it's becoming as beloved an annual tradition as The Execution of Jools Holland, or drinking the mulled blood of Alan Shearer. You can enjoy the previous ones here: 2007 2008
Why not laugh at my archaic mode of speech, or mock me for my lack of foresight (or my lack of foreskin).
What a year it has been! Celebrities have died, normal people have died, normal people have been born.
But no celebrities have been born. That's weird. At the current rate, this deficit may entail the extinction of celebrities.
So there's something to look forward to.
As is traditional, I'll use the same categories as last year, and add a few new ones, as I'm SUCH A FUN GUY.
Life-Changing Event of 2009
Stabbings aside, I suppose the biggest life-changing event this year was starting to do stand-up (semi-)regularly. It seems like longer than a year, to be honest. I'm glad I've managed to keep it up. It hasn't really changed my life, though, except by adding short periods of stress to my otherwise stress-free existence.
Film of 2009
As usual, I can't remember what films I've seen this year.
It's odd, but although I have many traits of a film buff (I know a bit of film history, name-check Kurosawa and Fellini to make myself sound clever, obsess over aspect ratios, am a pretentious loser etc), I don't actually see that many films. It's like being a teetotal wine critic.
I remember seeing Watchmen, which was quite good, and Synecdoche, New York which was quite good. I also saw Up, which was excellent. But I think I have to go with my Coen-bias and pick A Serious Man as my film of 2009. It were good.
TV Programme of 2009 I'm struggling to think of any television I've watched this year. Though I watch a lot of DVDs, I don't watch much TV.
I did enjoy Peep Show this year, which seemed to return to its past glory. But I suppose the best thing of 2009 was Life. Attenborough, you old swine! Often amazing, sometimes disturbing, but always able to demonstrate the many alien wonders of our little planet.
Music of 2009
I've been a bit lax in my music listeningship this year. There's not much that jumps out at me. Sometimes a robot kangaroo will jump out at me. But only if I haven't turned it off.
I think the winner for 2009 is The Twilight Sad, who have released yet another excellent album, Forget The Night Ahead:
Song of the year goes to Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. I don't know if a song from over 30 years ago is eligible. But still.
Adam and Joe played this a few weeks ago, and I've become quite obsessed:
Stuffed Animal of 2009 (new category!)
At Lucy's house, we found a Beanie Baby buffalo. We called him Mark Buffalo (after this guy). He's great.
Tendon of 2009 (new category!)
The Achilles tendon. That's the only one I know by name.
Stand-up of 2009
I haven't seen as much comedy this year. And I hate to be repetitive, but I think Daniel Kitson has retained his crown (unlike Jack from Jack & Jill).
Podcast of 2009
Another winner that isn't from this year. Lucy and I have been listening to old Russell Brand podcasts, and they are hilarious. I know Brand is a divisive figure, but these are superb. So imaginative, so spontaneous, so disgusting, so appalling, so puerile, so pretentious, and very very funny.
You can download them here. I advise you to do so.
Number of 2009
2008
Celebrity Sighting of 2009
I saw Simon Amstell in London, dressed a bit like a hobo. It might have just been a hobo.
Odd Celebrity Crush of 2009
Emma Fryer is a comedian an actress, who I know almost nothing about. She stars in the really good BBC2 comedy-drama Home Time and was in Comedy Showcase pilot PhoneShop. She's quite odd looking, but has a presence and intensity that is simply captivating.
Language of 2009 (new category!)
Navajo
Clothing Item of 2009 (new category!)
Left sock.
Best Bit from My Review of 2009
"adding short periods"
Prediction for 2010
Long, purple, linen shorts.
***
That's it. If you got all the way through that: congratulations!
2009 has been another good year for me! I'm patting myself on the back as we speak. But I'm not using my hands.
(I don't know what that means)
Here's to another good year, and a period of financial recovery, world peace, love and respect for all living things. Until Christmas, when Mr Spite makes his spiky return.
Left base of operations at 1300 hours, rough action plan scrawled on notepaper, coded and disguised to be inscrutable to the enemy.
Warm. Middle of winter, but warm. My heavy coat became hotter and thicker - stench like animal carcass. Remote reconnaissance produced no results; had to get into fray.
Arrived at the borders around 1315 hours. Jesus, it's changed.
Debris piled like shameful ruins - insulting and frightening panicky conquistadors. No order, no staff, everything devalued, Dresden fire sale.
Flicked through objects, taking none of it in - heavy coat breathing, a creeping shroud, laughing symbiote, children everywhere screaming, laughing, crying, wide-eyed parents scrabbling, loading armfuls of loot, contents unimportant, 30% off.
Didn't stop. Down into the bowels of the building, plastic dull blinding shine, nothing of worth, nothing of substance.
Ran into comrade, initially blocking his voice with the music siphoned into ears from happier past.
Made small talk - harrowed looks, mutual pity, mutual suspicion. Arranged a meeting that would never come. As far as I know, he's already dead.
Made it out with a couple of trinkets. 30% off. I was the only thing cheapened by the experience.
Staggered through streets past the mourning and the jubilant dead.
Dragged unbidden towards looming warehouse, confused civilians pawing at laminated inventory books. Numbers, words, cryptic codes, Enigma oblivion, machines in the place of men, everyone united in their degradation. Another shipment.
Off to usual place. Used to be comfort, now mocking. No funds left, labels presenting figures beyond my comprehension.
Finally, deal is done. I leave. My head held just high enough to breath the hanging fumes of cumulative tradition and decomposing flesh.
And the bells... the bells.
Last transport out of town, jostled, sweat trickling over shoulders, shrill arguments behind me, blocked out by the sweet music, hypodermic salvation piercing eardrums.
The jacket, the bags, the sweat, the bells, the memories, the golden promise of forgetfulness.
But no. A missing artefact. Checked pockets three times over. Nowhere. Nowhere.
Where did I see it last?
The rotting gutters? The shanty town at the borders? The mechanical ghost-house?
No. The usual place. Failure grasped from the jaws of victory.
A communication confirms the missing man. He's waiting for me. Must give identification. Can't be giving him up to any Tom or Harry.
I must return tomorrow. My coat lies on the floor, charcoal, syrup, piled rotting vegetation, laughing. I will wear it again, stagger into swarms, weep into glittering open arms, low ceilings festooned with oozing joy.
Christmas is coming; the goose is getting ideas above its station.
Please pour pennies in the old man's hat, gaffer-tape it to his head, then throw him into a canal.
If you haven't got a penny, a farthing will do. Or bricks, or anything heavy.
If you haven't got anything heavy, just steal the old man's hat, sit back, and watch him slowly freeze to death.
Then eat a goose.
Ah, December! The last of all months.
If you were ever going to confuse a month with a cucumber, it would be December.
I was born in December. This is my 24th December.
(I'm going to be 27 this year, but I missed a few due to time travel, etc.)
December is French for 'of cember'.
FACTS.
***
Sometimes there are moods that can only be communicated through stabbing. That's what the anti-knifecrime brigade don't seem to realise.
If we ban knives, we might as well cut of our ears and sellotape them to our knees. We might as well.
I think I might buy a stabbing-dummy. I'll call it A POLICEMAN.
***
(I don't know what that last bit was about. I'm sorry. I got overwhelmed. I really hope I don't get accused of stabbing a policeman now. It would be difficult to explain this post.
Also a policeman would be dead.
Though, in many ways, by being a policeman and not a police officer, he will be representing the innate misogynistic agenda of society, and so deserves to die.)
***
'Twas the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before Christmas and all through the house, things stirred in much the same way as they did throughout the year.
Though a tinselly spectre was looming on the horizon.
And a mouse stirred. Tossed and turned. Couldn't sleep.
I saw The Fall live for the first time last night.
The guitarist looked like Nicolas Cage, the bassist was a funky skinhead, the keyboardist resembled a pixie on the Enterprise, the drummer was an android on speed, Mark E Smith prowled around like a drunk uncle splitting the atom.
It was very good.
***
I was going to write about how I get annoyed by people complaining about the early onset of Christmas. They think it gets earlier every year.
It doesn't.
I remember thinking Christmas adverts/displays/promotions were arriving too early. That was fifteen years ago. If they were getting earlier every year, the adverts would now be appearing before the previous Christmas.
But I got bored by that. I get worried about expressing my opinions. The trouble is, I'm always right. Always.
Which means that other correct people have already said what I want to say.
If only I was wrong: I'd have the opportunity to be revolutionary.
But I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong.
That's my gift. It's also my curse.
[The preceding section was mainly wrong]
***
When I'm in a bad mood, the whole world frowns with me. I see evidence everywhere of shallowness and cruelty. If I'm feeling down, scrolling through the TV channels becomes a showcase of society's many cancers.
People on the bus become emblems of disgusting inhumanity, all adverts become painfully cynical, all tasks become pointless.
That's the trouble with the human brain. You use it as a filter to interpret the arbitrary world. So you can view everything through rose-tinted spectacles or a visor of shit.
I'm wearing the shit-visor now, and it's unpleasant. I can't see much, and it's reluctant to stay on my head.
We should be able to master our subjective viewpoints by now. I suppose that's what meditation is about, and religion, and psychology, and philosophy, and Jeremy Kyle (with his black, black blood).
But we wouldn't want to have complete control. It would be boring. So much of human activity is based on avoiding complacency. We need the impetus to grow, which means we'll never be totally satisfied. We'll never know the meaning of life.
Except that growing and evolving is the meaning of life. But we can't relax with that knowledge. Because we have to keep up with all the other evolving things in the world. It's the whole Red Queen thing.
I should probably talk about it in more detail, but I'm really just trying to distract myself from a bad day.
That's my coping strategy: misery, whining, philosophising, one glorious moment of epiphany, a less-glorious epiphany realising I've wasted my time, a conclusion listing all the stages of the process, a self-reflexive parting remark.
I should probably change things up a bit, but it's difficult to see the keyboard with all this excrement over my eyes.
There's nothing like the exquisite cold joy of returning home after a holiday. The place is empty, and lacking in colour, but it's still comforting and familiar. It's a shell at the moment, but it will just take a few hours to breathe some colour back into the room.
In case I haven't mentioned it, I've been in Sidmouth for the Christmas period, but am now back in frosty Oxford. (I might invent some kind of character called Frosty Oxford. He could be a University Don dressed in tweed, who is also a snowman - but that might be a bit obvious).
We left some milk in the fridge whilst we were away, but it didn't smell too bad. I thought about using it, but some kind of superstitious propriety made me pour it down the sink. That milk is of the past. It's time to let it go. You can never go home again, my creamy friend. (That last line might be Frosty Oxford's debut single - but that might be a bit obvious).
I'm surrounded by unpacked bags. Well, four. And I'm not literally surrounded by them. I think you need a little bit of time with the bags to ease you into your new life. Things will be different now.
Before Christmas, things were just so. And now they're not so. Now they're like so. So, it's just a matter of adapting to the new so without forgetting the lessons of the old so.
So there.
The period between Christmas and the New Year always seems like a bit of a limbo time. I think you should be able to commit any crime in that period, and have it ignored. People go a bit crazy in the late-December limbo. We drove through Exeter this morning, and the clothes shop Next had been opened since 5am.
That is too early. I've never woken up in a cold sweat at 5am thinking: "Cardigan! And a flat cap! Quickly".
I have on occasion woken up screaming the name of The Cardigans, but that's probably a result of the time I spent in prison with Baz Luhrmann.
His new film, Australia, is out now (or soon). It's advertised everywhere. I've seen massive billboards for the film, and cross promotions with travel agents and wine companies. I wonder if they regret getting involved with such a terrible film. Maybe they should have looked at his track record of producing terrible films and extrapolated. But they didn't. That's why Jacob's Creek will never prosper.
Oh, what a day! For the first time, I am starting to understand what my parents meant when they said Oxford was no place for a snowman.
Every time I try to accentuate my point during a tutorial by puffing on my pipe, my lips start to melt, and some of my jaw falls to the flaw, rendering the whole scene ridiculous. No-one can respect an academic for whom melting is an everyday occurrence.
At one point, a pair of cheeky undergraduates stole my clementine nose, and started a game of catch right there in my office! I struggled to retrieve my citric appendage but, forgetting momentarily that I had no legs, tumbled to the floor in a white heap. I tried to reclaim some dignity by cheekily asking them if they got the drift, but the joke seemed to fly over their heads (like so much me in a snowball fight).
In the end, I had to call the Dean, who returned my nose, and stoned the boys to death. I suppose that's the only way to teach them, but I was peeved at having to postpone my analysis of John Locke's work on identity until some new students could be found.
All flustered, I made myself a cup of milky coffee, which only exacerbated the melting problem. I had a nice digestive biscuit as well.
The warning of my parents may well have been correct, but I still believe I can make a difference here amongst the dreaming spires. If I can get through one tutorial without a student fatality, I'll consider my residency here a success.
That's right, no festive break from me! This blog observes no holidays, festivals, or opening hours. This is the blog that never sleeps (which is odd, as this blogger sleeps more than any other human).
I don't really want to talk about Christmas, but nothing else has been happening. Tinsel has invaded my brain like a parasite. Everything I think about is pine-needles this and egg nog that; wise men this and Kirsty MacColl that.
I'm trying to think of non-Christmassy things. Perhaps I can arrange a Non-Christmas. We can do it in mid-summer. What's the opposite of a Christmas tree? A palm tree? No, no, no. The opposite would be something completely un-treelike.
Oh, I know! A puddle of Dr Pepper. With a little army-man floating in it. Dressed as a clown.
Yes, that's a good start.
Instead of presents, we can all make facial expressions suggesting we've remembered something important, but then realised that it doesn't really matter. Non-stop. For four hours.
Yes, Non-Christmas is taking shape.
Non-Christmas dinner will merely consist of inhaling all of the noble gases (except neon, perhaps), followed by a round of Ian Dury impressions until the Queen's speech (spoken through a kazoo).
Yes, those certainly are some unusual things. Well done, Paul. Everyone likes it when you make lists of things that are out of place. It's much better than actually coming up with something interesting to say.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The full-stop is the best punctuation for sarcasm. Some people think the exclamation mark is better, but they are wrong.
***
I tried in vain to think of something interesting to pad out this entry. Oh well. I suppose it's better to dish out small things often than large things rarely.
There's a sexual innuendo there somewhere, but I'm tired.
I went Christmas shopping yesterday, and it was Hell on Earth.
In the last few festive shopping days, the city centre becomes a totalitarian nightmare. Everyone must buy certain things, wear certain colours, listen to certain music. Santa Claus stares at you from every shop-front and tacky display box like a jolly Stalin.
There's a real sense of desperation about the whole thing. I went into Argos, and stood next to an old woman leafing through the toy section, obviously looking for a gift for a young relative. She might as well have been reading hieroglyphics. It's all exclamation marks and pink plastic. She'd have been better off just giving her relative money in a card (it would be preferable for both parties), but a sense of Xmas propriety requires something that can be boxed and wrapped.
I always go through the same shopping experience. I see some things that might be OK gifts. Then I wonder round for hours looking for something better, by the end of which I'm so tired and hot, and have deep carrier-bag impressions carved into my hands like a tacky Ozymandias. Look at my fingers, ye mighty, and despair.
I never have any better ideas, so I hurry to get the things I thought of to begin with, except some of them are gone and some aren't as good as I thought they were. But I don't care at that point. I just start throwing money around and get out of there as soon as possible.
The whole thing is like a complicated game and no-one knows the rules. And we have to play. We have an idea of Christmas - a proper Christmas. But we don't quite know how to get there, so we just cling on to familiar things - chocolate, tinsel, fancy soaps. I like seeing men buying things for their wives and girlfriends. They have no idea what to do. If Stalin Claus was any kind of dictator, he'd give us budgets and a limited amount of options.
But he enjoys the chaos, I suppose.
So, as the painfully shallow music swells, and the queues get longer, and my legs get more tired, I begin to consider converting to Judaism. I think I'd miss the pork, though.
Of course the truth of the matter is: a lot of people really like Christmas shopping. I'm just a whiner. I don't like any kind of shopping. In fact, the good thing about Christmas is that we get all this stressful stuff done early, so that we can spend the period in relative peace. At least that's the idea.
But I'm going to try to not do this next year. Online shopping all the way! (Of course I said that last year, and it didn't really pan out)
I wouldn't mind people having slightly more unique Christmases, though. I like the tradition of the thing - and the continuity (especially for children). But I wouldn't mind leading a rebellion against Stalin Claus and deciding that I'm going to give vegetables as gifts, wear black spandex and instead of carols I'd just sing the entire back catalogue of En Vogue.
Just to mix things up a little, you know?
***
That was a pretty banal bit of observation, wasn't it? I mean it wasn't exactly groundbreaking.
I don't need everything I write to be revolutionary. But, the annoyance of Christmas shopping? Come on...
The trouble is, when you're a... I don't want to say 'genius', but... a genius, you have to hold yourself up to higher standards. It's a rod I've made for my own back, I suppose.
But it happens to all gifted people. If Da Vinci was a great juggler for example, it wouldn't be that impressive given all the other things he did. "Well, Leonardo," they'd say. "That's some mighty fine club-work, but it's hardly the Last Supper, is it?"
I'm not saying I'm Da Vinci.
I'm just A LOT like him.
It might be the case that the 19/12/08 entry on Christmas shopping is my equivalent of Da Vinci's juggling, compared to the Mona Lisa that is Mug World.
It's the Frog Chorus to my earlier Hey Jude. It's the Cassandra's Dream to my earlier Annie Hall. It's the child rape to my earlier I'm the Leader of the Gang (I am).
I have a feeling Mug World may be an albatross around my neck for years to come.
"It's good," they'll say. "But it's not a patch on the adventures of Jack Thunderpunch and Candy Tuft".
And they'd be right. I should have started off slowly, in retrospect. But what's done is done.
If, when I'm old and grey, the only thing people remember about me is Mug World, I'm ok with that. It's better to burn out than fade away.
In any event, the initial concept for Mug World II: Under the Rim, is percolating in my brain as we speak. And the 19/12/08 entry on Christmas shopping will be forgotten like Da Vinci's treatise on how men always leave the toilet seat up.
