Right In The Beak

I just googled "Ancillary Rodham Clinton". Nothing. What are people doing with their time? Not coming up with names for politician clones, that's for sure.

This has been a shipwreck of a day. Apologies to those who have lost loved ones or luggage in actual shipwrecks.

I wonder how many tweets I've done about shipwrecks...

Oh jesus there are four.

Four different tweets about shipwrecks.

"I don't remember many details about the shipwreck. It all happened so fast..." - Idiots in the old days.

Lighthouses aren't always successful at preventing shipwrecks. But they're better than heavyhouses.

Out on the lash tonight. And by "out" I mean "in". And by "lash" I mean "shipwreck of an armchair".

There's a small area of your back that's impossible to scratch during a shipwreck.

The second one doesn't make any sense.

I just bought and ate an expensive sausage roll. How can it only be Thursday? How can I only be thirty? It feels like Friday afternoon and old age.

I'm not going to apologise for anything today. Except for the shipwreck analogy. But apart from that, I stand by everything I'm writing.

It's depressing? Good. It should be.

It's similar to previous posts? Good. That's the way I like it.

I'm being an attention-whore? Good. I want attention. I want you all to see how terrible everything is, especially that heavyhouses tweet. I want you to see that and pity me.

Belligerent? Fine. I will be. I shall do. Nothing you can do about it.

Coffee? Yes, I am drinking some. Why do you ask? Is it the aggression? I can see how you put two and two together. I'm applauding sarcastically.

I'm sick of you and your kind telling me what I can and can't say. I'm sick of filters and censors and propriety. I'm my own man. I'm out there in the world, living day to day, trying to take care of business. And if a few people get hurt, or confused, or offended, that's just their too bad (except, as I mentioned, those who have lost loved ones in shipwrecks, to whom I offer my profound sympathy).

Life's to short. To short to type a double 'o' after the 't'. One 'o' will have to do, you squares. I'm not Johnny Rulebook. I march too the beat of my own drum.

And yes, maybe I have done two tweets that include the phrase "I march to the beat of my own drum" followed my an amusing follow-up. But I'm not going to copy them here. They're not funny enough. Also, up yours. How about that?

You can tell I'm serious because I'm not using any exclamation marks. This is serious f'ing business. I don't even need to swear. Look into my eyes. Are these the eyes of a considerate man? No they f'ing well are not.

I'm going to punch something on the way home. And if that thing just happens to be a goose, I'm not going to bat an eyelid. Not a single lid. I'm tired of being dictated to. I'm ploughing my own furrow, and my furrow will be fierce.

Here's another gif I saw. Yeah, that's right: a gif.

I'm not sorry. Except about the lost luggage.

It's All Good

This Onion story reminded me of me:

http://www.theonion.com/articles/man-on-cusp-of-having-fun-remembers-every-single-o,32632/

Yeah. That's pretty much how it goes.

We went to see Daniel Kitson last night. I don't really have anything to say about it. We laughed. We got a Chinese takeaway on the way back. We ate it. We went to sleep. We slept it. We woke up. We wept it. We floored. We swept it. We found. We kept it. We discovered the truth, but would never accept it.

It's a strange time to be alive. 13:40. What is that - lunchtime? Mid-afternoon? It doesn't make sense. Nothing does.

I thought I had a stockpile of interesting blog topics. But I can't remember what any of them were. The Onion article was one thing. And the Game of Thrones/Mad Men discussion, but I've already done that below. Was there something else?

Have I been thinking about anything? Surely I have. Surely.

I'll get some coffee. That will remind me. It will be like an interrogation. Whenever a suspect is threatened with a pot of scalding coffee, they always remember where they hid the diamonds.

Caffeine is a beautiful black aide-mémoire. It clears away the cobwebs and dilates the pupils. The blind shall see. The forgetful will remember. The tired will walk. The lame will flinch.

Coffee.

I should work in advertising. I wish I didn't have to keep telling people that, but I still don't work in advertising. What's a guy got to do?

***

There. Coffee. No more tears. And a Twix. 

Eugh. Some tears now. I had "stuff" to do, and let a third of my coffee go cold. I drank it anyway, because I spent my soft-earned money on it. Eugh. Cold coffee isn't as nice as cold other things. Eugh.

Speaking of eugh, we saw The Hobbit on Blu-ray at the weekend. It is a bad film. Eugh. Bad. It made me realise how good the LOTR films were. Bad film. Bad Peter Jackson! Bad! Eugh.

But enough of my cutting-edge cultural analysis. I'm not a film critic. I don't have any stars or thumbs to offer.

What I really want to talk about is...

No. That didn't work. I thought if I took myself by surprise, something might happen.

What I really want to talk about is oars.

Yep. Oars.

Lion rowers often have good roarsmanship.

!!

SHUT UP. SHUT UP. I'M JUST TRYING SOMETHING NEW.

Of course, this isn't new. I've been doing it for years. Literally years.

I've got this song in my head, and have done for a while.



It's about a girl who's good.

Though it sounds like the singer (Jermaine?) is trying to convince himself.

She's good, she's good, she's good to me. 

Nice one, Jermaine. There's nothing women like more than qualifying statements. The subtitle of this song should be 'Your Mileage May Very'.

She's good, she's good. I mean, she's... good. Yeah. Good. 

Not amazing or anything. 

But good. Really, definitely, totally, pretty good.

Decent.

She's fine.

As far as I'm concerned.

She's... well... I mean what does 'good' mean anyway? It's all subjective.

She's not bad, anyway. I can say that with confidence.

She's definitely not bad.

To me, at least.

She might be bad to you. I'm not your keeper. Who knows how you'll react to her?

But, as far as I'm concerned, she's definitely largely good.

Oh, I'm talkin' about that girl. Just in case there was any confusion.

Let's just agree to disagree. You say tomatoes are bad. I say they're good.

They're good.

They're good.

They're good, if ripe.

***

That was an adventure. If you didn't listen to the song, you won't have got the most out of that. If you didn't listen to the song, maybe you should go back and listen to it now. It's fairly short.

Of course, you might not have any speakers or headphones. Or you might be reading this on a mobile device in the silent carriage of a library train. That's OK. You probably got 40% of what I was talking about. That's a decent percentage. You don't have to beat yourself up about it.

Tune in next time for a celebration. Bring your party hats and your party scarves, because it's going to be off the hook and chain. Did someone say EIGHT HUNDRED?

Someone did.

Dash

My heart is racing.

My mind is racing.

My pulse is racing.

My chin was disqualified because of a false start.

7,000 laps to go.

(My tongue is also racing)

***

Don't think that I'm living in some kind of hole. I haven't been blogging or tweeting much because my attention has been diverted elsewhere. I'm building a wicker caber.

That's untrue, but it could be false. That's what makes it all so exciting.

I've been trying to write the beginnings of a sitcom. I've also been thinking up material for a stand-up gig on Friday.

I'm doing all new stuff for no particular reason. I've decided that my gigs are so infrequent that there's no point in honing old stuff. It would be like shaving a tunnelling dog: by the time it comes back, it will be shaggy and covered in big clods of earth.

So I might as well just do something different each time. That can be my thing. I can demonstrate how prolific I am for a short period every few months.

I haven't had a bad gig for a while, so I'm probably due one. To protect against that, I've come up with some clever ways of turning the gig around:

1) Whitney Houston jokes
2) Breakdancing
3) Put down a heckler who resembles an empty stool
4) Pretend to drop the microphone, and then pick it up (pretend)
5) Say "Is this thing on?" about every object in the room. Even ones that can't be off or on, like a poster.
6) My legendary impersonation of Alistair McGowan
7) Simon Says
8) Pretend I'm playing basketball and then have myself ejected for "gluttonous travelling"
9) Worship some kind of holy tree.

I've only got nine. Ten would be excessive.

***

I haven't got much time. I want to finish this blog post before I reach a particular clock time. It has imbued my writing with a sense of purpose that I will never is for something I perfect semsme klu

I've also had coffee.

You'd think I would have realised that when:
a) I noticed myself drinking some coffee
and
b) various parts of my body were racing

But it was only a few seconds ago that I realised how jumpy I was. A colleague's phone rang and I jumped so high that I've been declared clinically airborne. It's lucky I was holding onto my keyboard.

I need to learn how to marshal my own chemical intake. One minute I'm hopped up on caffeine, the next I'm necking liquid palladium just so I don't lose face with an gang of "ghost peers" who wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for those three paracetamol I had for brunch.

Time's nearly up. This must be what it's like when you're making an Oscar acceptance speech. Too little time, too many neurotic producers to conspicuously omit.

This will be my Oscar acceptance speech.

I couldn't have done this without Nancy, Brad, Brod, Lynne, Squedrick, Phil, Danielle, Brynn and Leroy Rosenior.

THAT IS ALL

A Hint of Mustard

SNOW PIG!

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].

(The third cliché is too offensive to joke about)

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.

Absent Father

I forgot my blog's birthday this year. It was on July 2nd. That was ages ago.

Never mind. It's not like a child. It won't resent me for my forgetfulness. I hope.

It was four. Four years. It seems older. It seems longer.

I wonder how many words I've written in that time. I wonder if I could have employed those words on a more worthy project.

I don't really wonder that. What could be more worthy than this? I can't think of anything.

***

I can't think of anything.

My brain is empty. I'm not angry at anything. I'm not excited about anything. I'm not amused by anything.

I can't think of anything.

I'd better get some coffee and we'll see where we are after that.

***

I'm back, but my coffee's too hot to drink.

Where was I?

Oh yes: inside a vacuum, inside a beige dome, in the middle of the Gobi desert, inside another beige dome, in the middle of the emptiest section of deep space.

Actually, that sounds quite fun.

What shall we discuss whilst my coffee cools?

Dum-de-dum-de-dum. (I'm twiddling my thumbs etc)

Keep in mind, I can't think of anything.

Oh! Hey!

Do you ever do that thing, right, where you're all like "I'd better answer the phone", right, because the phone is ringing, yeah? And you go and pick up the phone and press the green phone key or 'accept call' or whatever, and you're all "Hello?" and then the person on the other end of the phone is like "Is this Roxy?" and you're all "Umm, does this sound like Roxy?", and they're all "Is this Roxy?" and you have to go "No, mate. I'm a man." and they're all like "Oh, sorry", and then you're all Roxy?

Do you ever do that thing?

My coffee is now so cold, I could eat my dinner off it.

***

A lot of people would say: "If your head is empty - if you have NOTHING to say - then why write a blog post?"

A lot of people would say that if a lot of people read this.

Well, having nothing to say is the cornerstone of all good blogs. That's what a blog is. It houses nothing. It stretches nothing all flat like pizza dough and covers it in sparkly .gifs and headers and links to other bits of nothing elsewhere.

Where would be without nothing? Nowhere. There's something to be said for not saying anything. And a blog allows you to say it in bold.

***

Three reasons why I'd never throttle a dog:

1) I like dogs, and dislike cruelty to animals
2) If I was going to kill a dog - and I'm not (see reason 1 above) - I'd use a more foolproof method, i.e. luring it into the path of a tram or drowning
3) There's something inaccessible about the neck of a quadruped. Do they even have necks?

***

I haven't been to a child's birthday party at Wimpy since I was myself a child.

***

Sometimes, writing a blog (and forgive me if I, with my meagre four years of blogging experience, am patronising the many blog veterans that comb my writing for gold dust) is a case of typing. Not writing, but typing. You're not looking for meaning. You want meaning to come to you.

Type. Type, by God! Don't think. Don't write. TYPE.

If an infinite number of monkeys sat at an infinite number of typewriters, ink demand would be high. You'd need to ship in an infinite number of octopuses. Then there'd be tentacle/typewriter jamming situations. The catering would be a logistical nightmare.

But you'd get the Complete Woks of Shokespeare.

So some experiments yield diamonds.

The end justifies the self-indulgent means. (And we all know what self-indulgent means! I know I - Paul - certainly do(es).)

***

You see?

This whole thing began with me typing. But look at the fruit it has... yielded? Is that right? It can't be "yeld", can it?

The octopus thing, the evocation of Roxy, the un-proofread rawness and intimacy of the whole thing.

Always leap before you look at yourself in the mirror. Pride doesn't come from accomplishment, it comes from taking risks and dragging unwilling companions into a cave for no reason. Because that glint - the glint that could easily be a hungry crocodile's eager eye - could just as easily be a diamond.

A crocodile's diamond.

Eat The Cake

I haven't got much time.

I'm not dying or anything. I just have a limited number of minutes before needing to do something else.

Of course, we're all dying really, when you think about it. If we've been poisoned. And we have.

Well, I say we. I didn't eat any of that cake because I knew it was poisoned because I poisoned it because I wanted everyone (except me) to die from poisoning.

So you're all dying. If you ate the poisoned cake. Which you didn't because it's imaginary because I didn't poison the cake because I don't want anyone (except me) to die from poisoning.

I just ate the poison. It saved on baking time.

I'm dying.

Where was I?

Oh yes: I haven't got much time.

I can't afford to get distracted. But then who can, in today's economic climate? No-one. People are selling off distractions. People are using distractions as activities in their own right, thanks to Greece and Enron and Obama and Tottenham and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.

We could distract ourselves by thinking back to the halcyon days of perpetual distraction; back before the bubble burst. But nostalgia is an unnecessary luxury in today's days and ages.

So no distractions. Only actions.

No destruction. Only uction.

Uctions speak louder than words. (But not as loud as auctions, which can be deafening).

Still, here I am, trying to make the best of a bad situation. To do that, you need a bad situation. That's what this is. That's what these words comprise.

I'm writing my way into trouble, and will then escape from it at the last minute, giving everyone a boost (not the chocolate bar).

All I need is a topic (not the chocolate bar). Something that will generate a recession-reversing bounty (not the chocolate bar). A real Galaxy Caramel.

Time is running out. The sand in the hourglass is falling through faster than a deal to save the economy. (Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless.)

Still, I think I'm onto something.

Moving, I think I'm onto something.

Whether stationary or not, there's still a thing upon which I sit.

I can only imagine how painful this is for you. But I didn't like my last post, and I wanted something to replace it at the top of the heap.

This is a stream of consciousness. People don't find those kinds of streams interesting. People like streams with pebbles and kingfishers.

Me and Joyce against the world!

I'd better rescue this post with a poem. Because prose is too clumsy a weapon. I've been heaving it hither and thither like a scimitar, smacking and slicing the undergrowth and overgrowth, getting nowhere in no time flat.

Poetry is subtle (though no Stanley knife).

Here is a poem:

(And keep in mind, time is running out. The stream still flows.)

Mitch flicked a chip
It landed in a burnished bowl
The proprietress (stern) examined the potato explorer
She snorted
And Mitch
Caught in mid apology
Fell on his sword and left a generous tip

***

I should drink less coffee.

***

I wrote the above a little while ago. But I'm not going to go back and edit anything. This is a snapshot of my life an hour ago.

The truth isn't always pleasant.

Templates

You know how mobile phones have template text messages?

No? Oh.

Well, forget it.





***


Actually, I'll continue.


You know how mobile phones have template text messages?

Yes? Good.

They're time-saving tools, for when you're too busy to make words with buttons.

Here are the templates on my phone, with some suggested uses:

1) I am late. I will be there at

This one is useful. It can double up as a suspected pregnancy text. And we all need those in a hurry.

2) I'm in a meeting, call me later at

Another basic one. You can add your own suffix to make it into a threat: "call me later at your own risk".

3) I'm busy right now. I'll call you later.

This is nice and noncommittal. You might as well write: "the answer you seek is buffeted on the winds of time".

4) I will be arriving at

speed? high speed? an alarming speed?

5) Meeting is cancelled.

It doesn't specify a particular meeting. This text must be for when all meetings and, in fact, the very concept of meeting is no longer allowed. People are no longer allowed to meet.

(That would be big news - there wouldn't be time to type out your own unique message. Well done, Mr Nokia.)

6) See you at

This is a great all-purpose one. Possibilities:

See you attack!

See you ate the whole cake!

See you athos (frm 3 mskteers LOL!)

7) See you in

...a dusty sombrero

8) Please call

...your first born son 'Darren't'

9) I love you too.

What's this one about? What kind of emotionally bereft loser replies to a declaration of love with a template text? "I don't have time to manually express my love. Oh look. Nokia knows my own heart better than I do."

At least it wasn't 'I love U2'. Anyone who agreed with that sentiment would be the ultimate emotionally bereft loser.

Having said that, you could modify it slightly, and send it to the band Tool. They are pretty good.

10) Happy Birthday

This is even worse than number 9. It takes birthday greetings to a whole new level of laziness.

Now that I know it's here, I'll use it all the time.

I can't believe I've been wasting my time by going to all the effort of writing on someone's Facebook wall "Happy Birthday! We should catch up soon, Dad!"

11) Thank you

This one is... actually quite useful. My mockery has fallen at the last hurdle. And the preceding 10.


I wonder if anyone actually uses this function. If I owned a phone company (and one day I very well might, Dad), I'd put some more esoteric templates on there. Sure, they'd rarely be used.

But what if you're the one person that needs them and uses them? You'd thank your lucky stars and taunt your unlucky ones.

Here are some suggestions for text templates:

1) What's that, Barnabas?

2) Probably about twelve.

3) By hook or by crook.

4) JUST THE TICKET! JUST THE TICKET! JUST THE TICKET!

5) &

6) That awful frog scene in Teen Wolf Too

7) It's questions like that which make you the ideal candidate to run this company. INTO THE GROUND.

8) I'm attending a crucifixion right now. Meet me at

9) Every fibre of my soul aches to hold you, to be held by you. I want to become one with you. I want our atoms to mingle. We can become one holy miracle: the miracle of the universe itself.

10) No.

11) Yes.

12) No. No, no, no.

I could do this all day.

And so I will!

No, I won't.

***

I've just had coffee and come back exceedingly hyper.

I don't know why. I haven't had any more than usual. But I'm feeling like I could levitate.

I won't. It would arouse suspicion (amongst other things).

Is it a good idea to write a blog entry whilst high on caffeine? In a way, yes. It means I'll write a lot. And lots of content is good. I believe quantity is more important than quality. But even better than either is quantility.

If you have quantility, you're all set for success. Especially if there's a lot of it.

The more the merrier. (Not to be confused with Merrier the Moor, the jolliest Muslim conqueror of the 8th century).

That seems to be my cue to depart with this gem of a clip. Good day.

Something Innocuous

I'm in one of those moods.

No, not one of those moods. One of those moods.

I'm experiencing a combination of depression, boredom, jitteriness, absent-mindedness, anxiety, tiredness, apathy and intense philosophical self-analysis.

It's not the most winning of combinations. In fact, it wouldn't win against the vast majority of combinations that exist. It would lose to a combination of bad breath, belligerence and casual racism.

So I'll try not to dwell. No one likes a dweller. Dwelling is associated with trolls. And I'm no troll.

I should try to tackle something innocuous. Like inoculation. Or couscous.

But it's difficult to focus on just one thing. My head is buzzing with words and thoughts that are incredibly shallow, but capable of holding a lot of liquid. Thoughts like that one just then, which conform to the minimum requirements of sentences, but don't actually mean anything.

One day, inspiration will strike, and all these pointless ideas will align, becoming beautiful and truthful and divine. I'm sure that will happen. But for now, I'm essentially writing this to keep my fingertips warm.

I should go back to the trolls and the couscous. They're still waiting for the salad bar to be replenished with goat carcasses. So are the trolls.

What's salient? The eyeballs?

I can't seem to focus. My brain is going fast and nowhere. I feel like Biff Tannen: over-revving my car for so long that by the time I actually do anything, my goal will have grabbed a long string of flags and been carried off by a DeLorean, whilst I crash into the manure of failure.

Yes, that was a tortured metaphor. But when my mind is humming with futility, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is Back to the Future II.

In every case it's Back to the Future II.

I'm trying to type with enough speed that my thoughts can escape my brain without my mental sphincter closing up to stop the flow.

Yes, that was an unpleasant metaphor. But when my mind is raging impotently, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is disgusting imagery.

In every case it's disgusting imagery.

And Back to the Future II.

On my gravestone, there will be an etching of Old Marty eating eyeballs without any pants. (Those pants-less eyeballs are the most disgusting of all)

Yes, this entry is nonsensical. But when my thoughts are pulsing like a dying radioactive nun, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is a dying radioactive nun.

Hmm.

I seem to have confused myself.

I think there are a few conclusions to be drawn from this:

1) Avoid references to Back to the Future II. Most people don't remember it well enough to make them worthwhile.
2) In the above conclusion, "them" refers to the people, not the references
3) Disgusting images will only attract psychopaths, and repel the pure and just. Find a way to reach the pure psychopaths, for they shall inherit the Earth (I've left them some earth in my will).
4) We must find out who killed the radioactive nun. Perhaps some kind of Ice Monster? Or a Lead Skellington?
5) Much. Less. COFFEE.

Pilgrimage to Java

I thought I'd better write something today, or else this month will have the lowest number of entries since... last July.

I don't know what it is about July that leads to such a dearth in content (it might be the same factor that causes me to use words like 'dearth'). But I'm not going to let it defeat me this month. Or maybe I will if I can't think of anything to write.

***

I wrote that a couple of hours ago. I have since had some coffee. It's amazing what a simple chemical can do to the brain. And legs.

When I was at university, some of my friends and I took coffee to extremes. (If I've written about this before, please forgive me). One night, we downed shots of raw ground coffee. It was both disgusting and ineffectual.

The other coffee experiment involved individual filter coffees. You may have seen them - little plastic tubs that rest on top of your mug. You pour hot water through the coffee-filled filter at the bottom, and you have a delicious (exorbitantly expensive) cup o' Joe.

The chosen brand was Rombouts. I've just had a look on their website, and they have an interesting history section.

Here are some extracts:

A story that blends love with tradition...

Blends! Like a coffee blend! Genius... I didn't know it was possible to blend love with tradition. I though it might be an oil and water situation. They must be real experts to blend such disparate concepts. Love (an abstract mental construction) with Tradition (an observable chain of precedent).

It's like blending embarrassment with cheese prices. Or flamboyance with artichoke hearts. They can blend anything.

1896

It all started in Antwerp, when Frans Rombouts decided to rent a roasting cylinder and started roasting coffee himself, much to the delight of in-the-know coffee lovers. Thus began a remarkable success story. Its “sweet and savoury” tale today is appreciated more than ever by passionate coffee lovers.

I know I've heard a greater amount of discussion of Rombouts recently. Mostly in the last ten minutes. Helpful use of quotation marks there. The tale isn't literally sweet and savoury. That's a metaphor.

Having said that, there are no quotation marks in the first quote. I can only conclude that Rombouts does actually, scientifically, blend love with tradition. I wonder how they mix it...

Wow, the individual coffee filter was invented in 1958! Think of the things that happened in that year!

...

Hmm. Nothing springs to mind. My mum was born, I suppose. Yeah.

Crazy times...

They claim the individual coffee filter made it 'impossible to get it wrong'. I'll come back to that later.

1966
Rombouts was awarded the title of Certified Royal Warrant Holder of Belgium. This distinction brings a sense of pride at having been recognized in the most prestigious way possible, but also imposes a sense of obligation to uphold the highest standards of quality, resulting in the utmost in consumer satisfaction.

I don't want to belittle that title. I'm sure being a Certified Royal Warrant Holder of Belgium is a great honour.

But is it being recognized in the most prestigious way possible? Surely there are others. What if Rombouts was made the official sponsor of the 1966 World Cup? What if the Beatles had released Revolver with a special revolving coffee filter? What if Rombouts had been sanctioned as the only legal coffee company in the world?

But no. Certified Royal Warrant Holder of Belgium is probably more prestigious.

1980

was a challenging year. The price of coffee rose sharply, and Rombouts didn't want to raise its prices.

Yeah. 1980 was tough for everyone. I blame Thatcher.

2009

Rombouts remains a family company, and today has more than 580 employees worldwide. Rombouts worldwide development is ongoing, thanks to its innovations and the quality of its coffees.

More than 580? That's not that many. If you're not going to be specific, why chose 580 as a round number.

"Could we say more than 550? Or around 600?"

"No. That would be misleading. If Rombouts stands for one thing, it's... well, coffee. But if it stands for two things, the second thing is honesty."

That's all on the history page. I hope the good people at Rombouts don't take this as an insult. I'm just a big fan of their products.

In fact, if anyone from Rombouts is reading (and I assume the more references to the brand name - Rombouts - the more likely it will be seen by them), I'd be interested in a sponsorship deal.

If you send me regular individual filter coffees, I'm happy to make sure every blog entry involves a long description of how coffee (rich, tasty Rombouts coffee) has improved my life, solved all my problems, and has given me the jittery confidence needed to succeed in the world of business.

Oh my God. I was going to leave the website there, but I've just seen the 'In Home' section. It is beautiful.

A beautifully animated page full of happy coffee lovers - loving coffee and loving life. Put the sound on too - there's some cool music playing. Go and have a look. Here's part of the front page:


Look at these people. Full of vim and vigour (and coffee - rich, tasty Rombouts coffee).

The guy on the left looks a bit like Mark Gatiss from The League of Gentlemen. What's he reading? The financial section, perhaps? He certainly seems to be hip and wealthy. Or the arts section. After all, he's a new man. Drinking coffee, expressing himself, sitting next to a fake plant like the claws of Satan...

And his expression... Could be disgust. But it isn't. Not with that tasty beverage. He's thinking how great it is to be alive!

What about the two women? Friends, clearly. Attractive, animated professionals. I think this is how their conversation is going.

Angelique (woman on left): So, how do you hold a samurai sword?

Mauuuude (woman on right): Like this!

Angelique: I hope our wealthy husbands don't interrupt this chat. I'm enjoying myself!

Mauuuude: Me too! This coffee is delicious!

Angelique: Yes! It's almost enough to forget that both of our sons died in Afghanistan yesterday! They shot each other!

Mauuuude: I'm going to buy some crack!



And then on the right of the screen:

A man smoking hashish in the background; a girl-next-door type trying to seduce me into her mug, a tired, jaded barista, and the alcoholic mum from Arrested Development.

The girl is saying: "Coffee makes me happy. The only thing that could make me happier is if you were here too. We could share our coffee together. I've got quite a tight grip on this. Maybe you can try and pry it open... The grip, I mean! Hahahahaha!"

(I'm reading between the lines)

There are other good sections: sudoku, a nicely animated explanation of the different types of filter, an option to join 'The Rombouts Community'.

I tell ya, if I don't qualify for the community after all that, I'll be really annoyed.

I'm hoping this entry will start a new trend for incredibly positive (almost aggressive) blogs, where vitriol becomes high praise. I probably wouldn't feel this way if I wasn't all hopped up on coffee. My only reservation is that it is not Rombouts coffee. I will rectify that mistake.

***

Anyway, before I got sidetracked I was going to share an anecdote. That was one hell of a sidetrack. That's a significant sidetrack. That's a Christopher Columbus on his way to India-sized sidetrack.

I was going to say that as a student, we'd drink these filter coffees. They said it was impossible to get wrong. But we wanted more, and we tried. So we started to use more than one filter. We'd stack them up. Coffee would filter through coffee. Two was good. Three was great.

As the liquid made its way through the filters, it would gradually get thicker and stronger. It became concentrated. Pure liquid energy.


By the time the water had traversed 10 filters, it emerged into the mug as a single viscous ebony drop, like the blood of Jeremy Kyle. So powerful, so dense, even light could not escape it. It was so strong that its influence radiated through time. It spread into the future. it spread into the past. We suddenly realised why we had been insomniacs our entire lives.

Immense, reality-altering, psyche-bending, pulse-rocketing, eye-opening, rich, tasty Rombouts coffee.

They don't list that as an option on the website. It's probably not recommended. But if you're bored and tired, give it a try.

The logo on the above website displays the Rombouts logo, and the slogan 'My Coffee Moment'. My coffee moment has expanded into infinity (and a really long blog entry). Momentous, epic, eternal.

Rombouts coffee.

Now where's my sponsorship deal?

Mainly about cylinders

I'm not firing on all cylinders today. None, in fact.

I think the cylinders deserve a break.

Also, it's hypocritical to shoot cylinders, when the barrel of my gun is also a cylinder. It's like the pot calling the kettle a black cylinder.

I'm thinking of calling my first born daughter Cylinder. My son can be called Cuboid (we can call him Cuboi for short).

Yep. That's all my cylinder material.

***

Found a wallet in the street today.

(I didn't find a wallet in the street today.)

Looked inside and saw there was a MI6 identification card inside.

(There was no card. There was no wallet.)

There was also some change, and a receipt for a Tesco pasta salad snack.

(No. No.)

As I looked at the wallet, my fingers started to burn.

(My fingers are fine.)

The wallet grew legs and ran away.

(Implausible.)

Then I bought some crayons.

(Untrue.)

I had a busy day.

(Yeah.)

I had a busy day.

***

Paul thought it was a good idea to mix things up by writing in the third person.

I disagreed.

In the end, they both agreed to disagree, and I was very happy about the outcome.

Sure you were.

***

Yes, I am in an odd mood today. I think it's the lack of coffee. My brain should be able to function well enough without it, but I think I've become dependent. It's funny how regular intake of a foreign chemical can destroy all of my mental faculties in such a short time.

Really funny.

I always used to hate the taste of coffee when I was younger. I still don't like milky coffee, or coffee chocolates, or coffee cake. But black coffee is so pure. It's like cough syrup. And who amongst us doesn't like drinking cough syrup? Bottle after bottle?

Not I.

Not me.

I should probably get some coffee.

***

Maybe if I write this entry in these short vignettes, it will suggest that I am being very considered. I'm imparting important chunks of knowledge with purpose and precision. Like Wittgenstein's Tractatus.

I think he spoke about cylinders and coffee cake in there somewhere.


***

Things are things. Some things are not things. Other things are also things/not things.


***

I should stop doing this now. I suppose.

*sigh*

That doesn't really convey my mood.

*SIGH*

That's better.

***

I'm not firing on all cylinders today. Sausages, for example. Poor little guys.

I might just go for lethal injection.

***

YEP. THAT'S THE END OF THIS ONE.

Cages

I'm sorry about the maudlin, indulgent entry I did yesterday. Sometimes this blog is a good way to let off some steam (even if it's really whiny steam - like Bob Dylan stuck in a kettle).

I'm feeling a bit more upbeat today, thanks in no small part to watching Con Air last night. It's an utterly ridiculous film, full of explosions and terrible teenage dialogue. It's excellent.

Lucy and I have been rewatching loads of cheesy action films lately, and this was a good one. The secret to a good Die Hard-esque action film is a few cool set-pieces, a bit of humour and an assortment of mismatched caricatures played by talented character actors. If your film has Colm Meaney playing an asshole authority figure with an implausible accent, and Steve Buscemi playing a psychopath, you can't go wrong.

Other important elements to an action thriller:

- people getting impaled
- exasperated officials
- jumping away from explosions
- puns, puns, more puns
- gratuitous nudity (sadly lacking in Con Air)
- people struggling to decipher simple clues, or easily deciphering really difficult ones
- phone calls being interrupted before important information is gleaned ("I've figured it out! The bad guy is... *BZZT*" "Johnson? Johnson!")
- and finally, if they fit into the narrative framework: time travel, head explosions, and a talking raccoon

***

I've also been belatedly thinking about Mothers' Day.

Apparently, Mothers' Day is an American invention, which was transferred onto the much older British tradition of Mothering Sunday. Traditionally, Mothering Sunday was more about families getting together than specific praise of the matriarch.

Also, Mothering Sunday was one of the few secular holidays that wasn't criticised or banned by religious orthodoxy. I suppose you'd have to be a cold-hearted puritan to ban a day devoted to family values.

Who could hate Mothers' Day? They deserve it, those mothers. One day a year. They deserve it.

I don't mean to get all feminist here, but Mothers' Day is essentially a tool of male oppression.

One day a year.

It was probably invented to keep women quiet. They don't have a reason to complain now, do they? Because one day a year they get breakfast in bed. I mean, sure: they have been kept from voting and thinking and participating. And they have been marginalised and discriminated against. And they have been patronised and enslaved and raped.

But look: toast!

One day a year, you get hot buttered toast! So stop your whining!

"But we're still paid less for doing the same job as men."

Alright, fine. Here are some tulips. Happy now, darlin'?

The funny thing is, we also have Fathers' Day. I'm sure it's partly a greeting card conspiracy, but it's also a testimony to the sheer selfishness of the privileged.

We had 364 days of preferential treatment and control. We gave them a token day. But then men thought: hang on a minute - where's my toast? Why does she get all the toast? Women do nothing all day, and their whole life if toast and tulips. Where's our day? It's unfair. It's sexist - that's what it is. We need our own day. Just one day - in praise of men. Is that too much to ask?

So we got our day too. Just to make things fair.

We don't really want tulips, but it's our prerogative. We can throw them in the bin. Or pass them onto our wives. We spoil them rotten, we really do!

It's the same lack of perspective that idiots use when they claim that it's the hard-working white British people that are the most oppressed minority. People do actually claim that.

But it's not exactly true. Thirty years of being encouraged to be nice to people probably isn't really the same level of oppression as hundreds of years of slavery. Close, but not quite.

Selfish people - and people who believe that selfishness is inevitable, so there's no point in trying - suffer from a lack of perspective. They think that any small injustice they suffer is more important than a great injustice inflicted on others.

And I suppose it is natural. If I stub my toe, it's more painful than someone in Africa being attacked with a machete. But that's because I'm me. And they're them. It can't really be a basis for decision making, or public policy.

Luckily, some people have this thing called empathy, that enables you to construct a broad picture of the world.

But empathy is often considered a sign of weakness. Complexity if for the non-committal, I suppose. It's better to make a decision and stick to it, even if it's wrong, or if it hurts people.

***

Wow, I was all over the place with that argument! It's probably the coffee.

I can't really be bothered to go back and make it make sense. Would you mind just editing it in your head into something coherent?

If you like, you can just rearrange all the words in this entry into something better. Like a piece about Jade Goody, or a horoscope.

That's the good thing about the written language. You can break it up and start again.

Like a Lego castle. Sometimes you don't want a castle, so you smash it to pieces, and build a Lego washing machine.

And wash little plastic clothes.

...

Sometimes, metaphors don't really do what I want them to do.

Space

Astronomy is a load of old rubbish.

I mean sure, it's quite interesting to know about the secrets of the universe, the immensity of stars, the almost unimaginable vastness of space, black holes four million times heavier than the sun. Yeah, that's quite interesting.

If true.

But it's recently become apparent to me that they're probably making this stuff up. And I have empirical evidence:


I took this picture myself. With my camera phone.
It's not even a good camera phone - it's really old.
And just look at the celestial beauty of the thing. It's awe inspiring. It's better than any picture taken by a so-called telescope. You could send a thousand probes in a thousand directions for a billion years, and you'd never get anything as moving and astonishing as this picture.
"But Paul," I hear you say (if you know my name).
"But Gary," I hear you say (if you thought you knew my name but actually don't).
"But Dickhead," I hear you say (correctly).
"What is this heavenly body? What celestial object is shown in the above picture? What planet is this? From what galaxy?"
Well, my friends, the answer may astound you, and throw the whole astonomical world into turmoil!
The picture is:
the inside of my coffee mug.
It needs a clean.
Pretty, though.

Again, to the well

Honoré de Balzac once said: "When we drink coffee, ideas march in like the army".

I've just had some coffee. But my ideas are marching like the French army (ie backwards).

***

#Some people call me the Space Cowboy!
Some people call me the gangster of love!#

No-one calls you the gangster of love.

What? Yes they do!

Who? Who calls you the gangster of love?

Loads of people!

Name one.

Uh...

Go on.

Stan. Stan called me the gangster of love. The other day.

Stan did not call you the gangster of love.

Well, somebody did.

No-one has ever called you the gangster of love. Even after you had that stupid t-shirt printed. You can't make up your own nickname. Who do you think you are? Paul Ince?

It's... it's a cool name

It's not a cool name. It's a fucking stupid name. The gangster of love is a rubbish name. You should have stuck with Space Cowboy. No-one called you that either, but at least it's not as bad as 'the gangster of love'.

But gangsters are cool. What about the Godfather?

What about the Godfather? It's a good film. In part due to the fact that no-one referred to themselves as the gangster of love. No-one would like the film if they shot Sonny on the causeway with rose petals and Barry Fucking Manilow playing in the background.

Well, some people call me the gangster of love...

(LONG PAUSE - THE CAR JOURNEY HAS BECOME SOMEWHAT TENSE)



Some people call me Maurice.

I know some people call you Maurice! Maurice is your FUCKING name!

Alright! Jesus...


(THE CAR SPEEDS ON. THE TREES ARE LOOKING BARE. WINTER IS COMING)



#I am the egg man! They are the egg men! I am the walrus!#

Right, that's it! Stop the fucking car.

But... but you're driving...

***

All my ideas end with someone getting really angry. It probably suggests a certain amount of pent-up rage. Hmm. I've never written 'pent-up' before. It looks wrong.

Francis Bacon said: 'Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor'.

I don't come off well there.

The true test of comedy is to write a sketch where everyone is pleasant and cordial, and there's no conflict, and yet it's hilarious.

Let's give it a try!

MARGOT: Oh Donald, isn't it lovely for us to (GUNSHOT)

(SCREAMS)

(MORE SHOTS)

EDGAR: Donald! Why? Why?

(SLICING SOUND)

(EXPLOSION)

(SILENCE)

...

(VOMIT)


Oh dear. That wasn't very easy. I started off ok, but everything started to go wrong quite quickly. I suppose I'm stuck with being angry and repetitive.

REPETITIVE?! ANGRY?

Yes! Angry!

And repetitive!

Repetitive and angry!

And... alone.


***

Well, that was fun! Join me next time for a milestone event - a celebration of Biblical proportions. It won't be as long as the Bible. But it will exceed it in scope.