I'm making my way through the Werner Herzog boxset and enjoying it quite a lot. The last film I watched was his Nosferatu the Vampyre, which was pretty great - eerie, beautiful, occasionally (intentionally?) funny. A bit too much rat cruelty for my tastes, but things were different back in 1979.
I don't find vampires particularly scary. Or zombies for that matter. I think I've worked out the reason.
Most people have a primal fear not just of death, but of becoming a dead thing. They don't like corpses, which remind them that the human body is just a machine of bone and flesh. Vampires and zombies and mummies are scary because they're a corruption of the human form. It's a violation of the sanctity of humanity.
I don't find them scary because I don't hold the human body in such high regard in the first place. For me, becoming a member of the living dead isn't corruption or perversion or degradation of a sacred person, but more of a sideways step.
Admittedly, I've lived my whole life as a conscious being, with all the hope and dreams and communication and stuff. But that's not to say that becoming a mindless, shambling, flesh-eating monstrosity isn't just as valid a lifestyle choice.
If I saw a zombie that used to be a loved one, I wouldn't think "oh dear god, look at how that familiar form has been twisted and degraded". I'd think "huh - that's a fresh take".
I wouldn't choose to use my limbs, body and teeth in that way, but it's a reasonable tack to take.
In zombie films, a person gets bitten and the protagonists make an agonising choice. If, let's say, Bill gets bitten and begins to transform, they realise that he will soon be just a monster. Bill isn't really Bill any more.
In the films, it's presented as a terrible thing. But I'd just nod at Bill's transformation, as though he was showing off an experimental new hairdo. "Interesting new direction, Bill," I'd say, as I was torn to pieces.
Why should we limit Bill to a life of empathy and eating things other than brains? It's narrow-minded to expect everyone to conform to our notions of "normality" or "the proper".
J.J. Abrams took the much loved Star Trek franchise, gave it a twist and a new look, and presented it as something familiar but fresh. It's the same with zombies.
The comparison doesn't hold completely, or course. One is an unpleasant, soulless, inescapable eyesore...
AND THE OTHER ONE IS THE ZOMBIE HAHAHAHA NO-ONE SAW THAT PUNCHLINE COMING!!!!
Anyway, that's why I don't get scared by mummies and vampires and what-have-you. It's difficult for me to be terrified when I'm well aware that a zombie would make better use of my body than I do.
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Friday, 3 October 2014
Monday, 30 June 2014
Xylophone
Here's the beginning of a blog post that didn't make it past draft stage.
***
Behind every fence was a dog.
We never knew their names, but we knew the pitches and volumes of the respective barks. And the timbre or whatever. We knew the speed of their response. We speculated that, if we could teleport, we could warp up and down the street, and play the dogs like a xylophone.
But none of us ever learned how to teleport. Not as far as I know, anyway. I don't keep in touch with most of them. I never see anything about teleportation on Facebook.
***
And that is why.
But I can't stand to throw anything away. I'm a hoarder of terrible ideas. I keep them all in a crepe paper safe of my own design.
***
Sometimes, I think: "I know a lot about soap".
But then, I'm like: "No, Paul. You've just seen Fight Club."
I like to put myself in my place.
***
I've been reading Anna Karenina lately, which makes up for my complete lack of intelligent thought.
I haven't written anything interesting for ages. Nor have I engaged with any serious topics of conversation. I haven't been paying attention to politics. My academic glands have shrivelled and dropped off. I can no longer count, write, solve problems, or make arguments. I've done nothing with my brain. My most strenuous mental exercise is retaining knowledge of World Cup scores for the entire gap between the final whistle and walking over to my wall chart.
Except for reading Anna Karenina. I've been doing that, so I'm still an intellectual.
I went to Oxford University. I'm supposed to be clever.
And a stranger might look at my life, strewn with comics and wrestling message boards and FIFA mini-games and think that I've regressed.
But I've been reading Anna Karenina. That's something a grown-up would do. No-one has been forcing me to read it, and I've been reading it.
I know almost all of the characters' names.
I don't need to worry about improving myself or taking an evening course. I don't need to find out what's happening in Iraq (I started reading an idiot's guide article to the conflict, but lost interest). I don't need to have informed conversations with knowledgeable peers.
Because I'm reading a Russian novel. Admittedly, it's fairly well-known. And it's a bit too much fun to be pure scholarship. But it makes me feel better.
It's a bit like when I waste an entire weekend, but then play my guitar for half an hour. It feels worthy. (Playing a stringed instrument is a higher pleasure than playing an electronic pinball machine simulator. I don't know why, but it is.)
Or like eating a huge pile of disgusting unhealthy food, and then having an apple. It makes it all OK.
Anna Karenina is just like that. It's halting my decline: like the jagged rocks on which my self-esteem parachute is caught. Sure, it won't hold indefinitely. But I'm still alive for now.
APPLES. PARACHUTES. GLANDS.
MIXED METAPHORS ARE FOR THE STRONG.
Good grief. It wasn't like this when I was in my twenties.
*reads old blog posts from when he was in his twenties*
*sees that it was exactly like this then*
*realises that the only major change has been the use of asterisks to indicate actions*
***
I'm surprised that so many people hang themselves. Not that the initial impulse is a strange one - we're all human - but because, once you've gone to the trouble of hanging a noose, you might as well turn it into a tyre-swing.
And then you have a tyre-swing, which is the only thing better than suicide.
Or a lantern.
Most methods of suicide remind you of something that makes life worth living.
Jumping off a cliff? Live for geology.
Shooting yourself? Live for marksmanship.
Head in oven? Cinnamon buns.
Overdose of pills? Pick 'n' mix.
Slit wrists? Godfather II.
That's why the human race has flourished. We are conditioned to see the positive in the face of despair.
We're all so sad and then happy that we'll live forever.
***
Behind every fence was a dog.
We never knew their names, but we knew the pitches and volumes of the respective barks. And the timbre or whatever. We knew the speed of their response. We speculated that, if we could teleport, we could warp up and down the street, and play the dogs like a xylophone.
But none of us ever learned how to teleport. Not as far as I know, anyway. I don't keep in touch with most of them. I never see anything about teleportation on Facebook.
***
And that is why.
But I can't stand to throw anything away. I'm a hoarder of terrible ideas. I keep them all in a crepe paper safe of my own design.
***
Sometimes, I think: "I know a lot about soap".
But then, I'm like: "No, Paul. You've just seen Fight Club."
I like to put myself in my place.
***
I've been reading Anna Karenina lately, which makes up for my complete lack of intelligent thought.
I haven't written anything interesting for ages. Nor have I engaged with any serious topics of conversation. I haven't been paying attention to politics. My academic glands have shrivelled and dropped off. I can no longer count, write, solve problems, or make arguments. I've done nothing with my brain. My most strenuous mental exercise is retaining knowledge of World Cup scores for the entire gap between the final whistle and walking over to my wall chart.
Except for reading Anna Karenina. I've been doing that, so I'm still an intellectual.
I went to Oxford University. I'm supposed to be clever.
And a stranger might look at my life, strewn with comics and wrestling message boards and FIFA mini-games and think that I've regressed.
But I've been reading Anna Karenina. That's something a grown-up would do. No-one has been forcing me to read it, and I've been reading it.
I know almost all of the characters' names.
I don't need to worry about improving myself or taking an evening course. I don't need to find out what's happening in Iraq (I started reading an idiot's guide article to the conflict, but lost interest). I don't need to have informed conversations with knowledgeable peers.
Because I'm reading a Russian novel. Admittedly, it's fairly well-known. And it's a bit too much fun to be pure scholarship. But it makes me feel better.
It's a bit like when I waste an entire weekend, but then play my guitar for half an hour. It feels worthy. (Playing a stringed instrument is a higher pleasure than playing an electronic pinball machine simulator. I don't know why, but it is.)
Or like eating a huge pile of disgusting unhealthy food, and then having an apple. It makes it all OK.
Anna Karenina is just like that. It's halting my decline: like the jagged rocks on which my self-esteem parachute is caught. Sure, it won't hold indefinitely. But I'm still alive for now.
APPLES. PARACHUTES. GLANDS.
MIXED METAPHORS ARE FOR THE STRONG.
Good grief. It wasn't like this when I was in my twenties.
*reads old blog posts from when he was in his twenties*
*sees that it was exactly like this then*
*realises that the only major change has been the use of asterisks to indicate actions*
***
I'm surprised that so many people hang themselves. Not that the initial impulse is a strange one - we're all human - but because, once you've gone to the trouble of hanging a noose, you might as well turn it into a tyre-swing.
And then you have a tyre-swing, which is the only thing better than suicide.
Or a lantern.
Most methods of suicide remind you of something that makes life worth living.
Jumping off a cliff? Live for geology.
Shooting yourself? Live for marksmanship.
Head in oven? Cinnamon buns.
Overdose of pills? Pick 'n' mix.
Slit wrists? Godfather II.
That's why the human race has flourished. We are conditioned to see the positive in the face of despair.
We're all so sad and then happy that we'll live forever.
Friday, 27 June 2014
Death From Above
I'm taking a break from my fascinating story. The break may or may not not be permanent.
What a disgusting world this is. The sooner we're all killed by an asteroid, the better. Or by many asteroids. Perhaps we could each be killed by our own asteroid. That would be pretty neat. Seven billion little asteroids finding seven billion targets, flush.
Of course, some people are in bunkers right now (nuclear fallout, golf). The asteroids assigned to the bunker folk would have to be very precise. They'd have to get through thick reinforced walls, mine shafts and electronically locked doors. They might need security keycards. But in this scenario, they can do all that. Asteroids with credentials.
This all happened before with the dinosaurs. It's high time it happened again.
I'm not a misanthrope. I also hate plants.
I got my hair cut recently. Immediately after I sat in the chair, the barber woman (barbress?) started giving me lots of information about her personal life. I know this is de rigueur in scissor circles, but she launched into it so quickly that I barely had time to tell her about my fatal gel allergy.
I like chatty people, as long as they don't need much input from me. If they want to shoulder the burden of the conversation, I'm more than happy to let them.
At some point, the conversation turned to her boyfriend/husband, and got really interesting. I'd bought a suit that day, and she began talking about how he finds it difficult to find well-fitting clothes because he has the body shape of a monkey.
"He has a really big upper-body, but really skinny legs. And long arms. He's technically overweight, but that's just because of the top of his body. Doctors say that his legs are actually malnourished. If he buys skinny jeans, they're baggy on him."
That's the trouble with traditional weight categories. They're an average of the whole body. You could have morbidly obese calves and no head, and still be considered healthy.
I was curious. I thought about asking to see a photo of him, and I'm sure she would have obliged, but I decided against it in the end.
I wonder if she was mistaken. Maybe she's only ever seen him from above, and so the disparity is merely an illusion of perspective.
She didn't seem that interested in the cutting of my hair, and neither was I. Still, it seems to be gone now.
I didn't have any change for a tip, so she probably felt offended that her interesting banter had gone unrewarded. I am full of remorse.
I bought a suit. I mentioned that in the middle of the last section. I've never bought a suit before. I feel like a proper grown-up. I bought it with the same speed and lack of thought as I do all my clothes. It fit, so I got it. Now I'm thinking about getting a job that requires you to wear a suit, like a gangster or a playing card.
But seriously, we're all more than ready for the asteroids. What more are we going to achieve? Let's quit whilst we're ahead. We're probably not going to top the metronome. That was the peak of human invention. Everything we do now (the tram, the computer, 2Pac's California Love) are just variations on a theme.
We may already be disgusting, but we could get even more disgusting. We don't want to get ourselves into a latter-day Simpsons situation. Cut our losses. Get the astronomers to beckon the asteroids with their powerful telemagnets; we've had a good run.
What a disgusting world this is. The sooner we're all killed by an asteroid, the better. Or by many asteroids. Perhaps we could each be killed by our own asteroid. That would be pretty neat. Seven billion little asteroids finding seven billion targets, flush.
Of course, some people are in bunkers right now (nuclear fallout, golf). The asteroids assigned to the bunker folk would have to be very precise. They'd have to get through thick reinforced walls, mine shafts and electronically locked doors. They might need security keycards. But in this scenario, they can do all that. Asteroids with credentials.
This all happened before with the dinosaurs. It's high time it happened again.
I'm not a misanthrope. I also hate plants.
I got my hair cut recently. Immediately after I sat in the chair, the barber woman (barbress?) started giving me lots of information about her personal life. I know this is de rigueur in scissor circles, but she launched into it so quickly that I barely had time to tell her about my fatal gel allergy.
I like chatty people, as long as they don't need much input from me. If they want to shoulder the burden of the conversation, I'm more than happy to let them.
At some point, the conversation turned to her boyfriend/husband, and got really interesting. I'd bought a suit that day, and she began talking about how he finds it difficult to find well-fitting clothes because he has the body shape of a monkey.
"He has a really big upper-body, but really skinny legs. And long arms. He's technically overweight, but that's just because of the top of his body. Doctors say that his legs are actually malnourished. If he buys skinny jeans, they're baggy on him."
That's the trouble with traditional weight categories. They're an average of the whole body. You could have morbidly obese calves and no head, and still be considered healthy.
I was curious. I thought about asking to see a photo of him, and I'm sure she would have obliged, but I decided against it in the end.
I wonder if she was mistaken. Maybe she's only ever seen him from above, and so the disparity is merely an illusion of perspective.
She didn't seem that interested in the cutting of my hair, and neither was I. Still, it seems to be gone now.
I didn't have any change for a tip, so she probably felt offended that her interesting banter had gone unrewarded. I am full of remorse.
I bought a suit. I mentioned that in the middle of the last section. I've never bought a suit before. I feel like a proper grown-up. I bought it with the same speed and lack of thought as I do all my clothes. It fit, so I got it. Now I'm thinking about getting a job that requires you to wear a suit, like a gangster or a playing card.
But seriously, we're all more than ready for the asteroids. What more are we going to achieve? Let's quit whilst we're ahead. We're probably not going to top the metronome. That was the peak of human invention. Everything we do now (the tram, the computer, 2Pac's California Love) are just variations on a theme.
We may already be disgusting, but we could get even more disgusting. We don't want to get ourselves into a latter-day Simpsons situation. Cut our losses. Get the astronomers to beckon the asteroids with their powerful telemagnets; we've had a good run.
Thursday, 10 April 2014
Scope
This post might seem a bit downbeat. The trouble is, I don't have many thoughts, so my options for blog content are limited. If I had something more upbeat to offer, I would. But my hands are tied by my brain.
It's not that downbeat, anyway. I'm sure you've heard worse. I just want you all to know that I'm not being gleefully, intentionally depressing. I'm just giving you some insight into how I think. I feel that great art - and this blog certainly is art - should say something about the human condition, even if the human in question is a bit of an idiot.
Integrity is the watchword. Integrity and truth. And if we have a few laughs along the way... well, that's just a happy bonus!
Enough with the preamble - onto the main bulk of the amble.
I often fantasise about being killed by a sniper.
It's usually when I'm walking somewhere - often to or from a meeting at work. It happens when my mind is at rest. Or not at rest. I just imagine that I'm shot through the head, and that's the end of the story.
I used the word 'fantasise' on purpose. I don't worry that it will happen. It's not just an idle thought experiment. It's a fantasy. I yearn for it. I fantasise about being killed by a sniper in the same way as another person might fantasise about winning the lottery. It's just a nice place to be for a while, in that warm, comfortable, imaginary world. It won't happen, but it's satisfying to imagine that it will.
It's not a suicidal thought, though. It's specific to being shot by a sniper. It must belong to the same family of thoughts as when I wanted to drill a hole in my head.
I should say that I don't think about who would be shooting me. That's not important. I think that's why it needs to be a sniper, rather than a face-to-face assassin. The sniper is quick, clean and anonymous.
Equally, I don't consider the consequences of the act; how people would react, who would have to clean the carpet, etc.
The shot is the end.
No, hang on - I also imagine myself crumpling to the floor. That's it. It ends with the crumpling.
We have a big glass roof in the middle portion of the building, so it would be quite easy for someone to get the shot. We also have big windows on the side of our open-plan section, which would also enable a clear sight-line.
I said it was comforting to imagine being shot by a sniper, but it's not something that fills me with happiness. My overwhelming emotion when considering this scenario is one of relief.
Just imagine how relieved I'd be! (I wouldn't actually have time to be relieved, but this is just a fantasy.)
It's a bit like being really thirsty and imagining a tall glass of water. Imaginary quenching isn't as good as real-life quenching, but it's still pretty great.
Being shot by a sniper would be such a relief.
It's like if you've been asked to look after a cat, but just before the owner sets off on holiday, the cat dies. Phew! I really dodged that bullet.
With a sniper, you dodge a bullet by failing to dodge a bullet.
You get hit by that little metal one, but it means you avoid the massive, overwhelming life-shaped bullets that are fired at you all day, every day.
This is quite downbeat, isn't it? I haven't really lightened the tone as much as I'd have liked to.
Look! Here's a bear having a nice sit down:
That will cheer everyone up!
I wonder how many people get killed by snipers' bullets each year? Probably not a huge amount. Especially in British publishing houses.
It's probably about the same odds as a lottery win.
I think if I genuinely did get shot by a sniper, it wouldn't be as freeing as I imagine. Someone really would have to clean the carpet. There would be an investigation.
If it does happen, after I've posted this, my blog readers will surely become the main suspects. You all have the motive, which is making my fantasy a reality and therefore making me happy. Just as my blog has made you happy these many years. And you own a sniper rifle, don't you?
I don't envy the police detective tasked with interviewing EVERY SINGLE reader of this blog! It will take weeks to go through them all! Weeks!
But there's no harm in fantasising, is there? I not hurting anyone (except for that stupid cat, but he had it coming).
My only real concern is whether to spell 'fantasise' with an 's' or a 'z'. Somehow, the 'z' spelling seems a lot dirtier. Fantasize. It's probably because Americans are so depraved.
***
Just a few things to clear up:
1) This talk of sniping doesn't mean that I want to be a hitman. I definitely don't, as I've made clear in the past.
2) I'm probably not as miserable as this makes me sound.
3) I have a massive head. So if you're an amateur looking for an entry-level opportunity, this might be something to consider.
4) I won the lottery this morning. I will use the prize money to purchase ZERO HELMETS.
It's not that downbeat, anyway. I'm sure you've heard worse. I just want you all to know that I'm not being gleefully, intentionally depressing. I'm just giving you some insight into how I think. I feel that great art - and this blog certainly is art - should say something about the human condition, even if the human in question is a bit of an idiot.
Integrity is the watchword. Integrity and truth. And if we have a few laughs along the way... well, that's just a happy bonus!
Enough with the preamble - onto the main bulk of the amble.
I often fantasise about being killed by a sniper.
It's usually when I'm walking somewhere - often to or from a meeting at work. It happens when my mind is at rest. Or not at rest. I just imagine that I'm shot through the head, and that's the end of the story.
I used the word 'fantasise' on purpose. I don't worry that it will happen. It's not just an idle thought experiment. It's a fantasy. I yearn for it. I fantasise about being killed by a sniper in the same way as another person might fantasise about winning the lottery. It's just a nice place to be for a while, in that warm, comfortable, imaginary world. It won't happen, but it's satisfying to imagine that it will.
It's not a suicidal thought, though. It's specific to being shot by a sniper. It must belong to the same family of thoughts as when I wanted to drill a hole in my head.
I should say that I don't think about who would be shooting me. That's not important. I think that's why it needs to be a sniper, rather than a face-to-face assassin. The sniper is quick, clean and anonymous.
Equally, I don't consider the consequences of the act; how people would react, who would have to clean the carpet, etc.
The shot is the end.
No, hang on - I also imagine myself crumpling to the floor. That's it. It ends with the crumpling.
We have a big glass roof in the middle portion of the building, so it would be quite easy for someone to get the shot. We also have big windows on the side of our open-plan section, which would also enable a clear sight-line.
I said it was comforting to imagine being shot by a sniper, but it's not something that fills me with happiness. My overwhelming emotion when considering this scenario is one of relief.
Just imagine how relieved I'd be! (I wouldn't actually have time to be relieved, but this is just a fantasy.)
It's a bit like being really thirsty and imagining a tall glass of water. Imaginary quenching isn't as good as real-life quenching, but it's still pretty great.
Being shot by a sniper would be such a relief.
It's like if you've been asked to look after a cat, but just before the owner sets off on holiday, the cat dies. Phew! I really dodged that bullet.
With a sniper, you dodge a bullet by failing to dodge a bullet.
You get hit by that little metal one, but it means you avoid the massive, overwhelming life-shaped bullets that are fired at you all day, every day.
This is quite downbeat, isn't it? I haven't really lightened the tone as much as I'd have liked to.
Look! Here's a bear having a nice sit down:
That will cheer everyone up!
I wonder how many people get killed by snipers' bullets each year? Probably not a huge amount. Especially in British publishing houses.
It's probably about the same odds as a lottery win.
I think if I genuinely did get shot by a sniper, it wouldn't be as freeing as I imagine. Someone really would have to clean the carpet. There would be an investigation.
If it does happen, after I've posted this, my blog readers will surely become the main suspects. You all have the motive, which is making my fantasy a reality and therefore making me happy. Just as my blog has made you happy these many years. And you own a sniper rifle, don't you?
I don't envy the police detective tasked with interviewing EVERY SINGLE reader of this blog! It will take weeks to go through them all! Weeks!
But there's no harm in fantasising, is there? I not hurting anyone (except for that stupid cat, but he had it coming).
My only real concern is whether to spell 'fantasise' with an 's' or a 'z'. Somehow, the 'z' spelling seems a lot dirtier. Fantasize. It's probably because Americans are so depraved.
***
Just a few things to clear up:
1) This talk of sniping doesn't mean that I want to be a hitman. I definitely don't, as I've made clear in the past.
2) I'm probably not as miserable as this makes me sound.
3) I have a massive head. So if you're an amateur looking for an entry-level opportunity, this might be something to consider.
4) I won the lottery this morning. I will use the prize money to purchase ZERO HELMETS.
Monday, 10 February 2014
Bare Bones
I need to write a blog post.
This blog post will have the following theme.
Today, the theme of the blog post is the theme of skeletons.
What are they?
Why have they?
Remember that children's book about them, and they had a dog?
Why do they remind us of death? Is it because we only ever see them when their owners are dead? Obviously, yes.
Is there still a skeleton taboo? There certainly seems to be one in this crèche.
People are furious with me. I should have told the taxi to wait outside the building, just in case.
Have I done any tweets about skeletons?
Let's see.
Preliminary investigation reveals: many.
***
#favouriteplaygroundobject Big metal skeleton.
***
I just want you all to know that there's a skeleton in your bathroom.
***
Our stockings have skeletal legs in them. Santa was in a weird mood last year.
***
I only like organs, skin and skeletons when combined in a very specific way.
***
Naked skeletons are scary.
***
It's funny to think that inside everyone's skeleton there's an infinite number of smaller skeletons, all different colours. So think it.
***
WRITING TIP: Structure is like a platinum exoskeleton - it may protect your organs, but you'll struggle to climb through a kitchen window.
***
"I'm not saying I don't LIKE my skeleton, it's just... I dunno... he gets under my skin, that's all". My doctor is a good listener.
***
I like to stand my apple-cores up, so they retain some semblance of regal, skeletal dignity.
***
What a day! Emails have been coming at me like stop-motion skeletons.
***
And some bonus "skull" ones. Skull is a subset of skeleton.
***
My brain activity has disappeared, leaving a vacuum inside my head. My skull is imploding. At least I'll be able to find a hat that fits.
***
The most common form of RSI at the RSC comes from prolonged skull-holding.
***
I'm going to go and brush any accessible enamel fixtures that there might be in my skull.
***
I'm drilling a hole in my skull to let the angst out. Trepannicking, I think it's called.
***
And the late night may be starting to show its hand, as my brain suddenly wants to leave my skull through the eyes and nose.
***
I mean, during puberty EVERYONE thinks of skulls when they masturbate, right?
***
Captain America's bookish arch-enemy The Well-Read Skull was justifiably modified to appeal to wartime concerns.
***
I've really got nothing on my mind. No skull, no hat; NOTHING.
***
I don't think having a numb skull would really be much of a issue. I don't often use it for sensitive operations. It mainly houses my brain.
***
I own a bobble hat with the bobble on the inside. It's OK - I have a bobble-shaped hole in the top of my skull due to a bobble accident.
***
I've got a life-sized skull tattooed on my skull.
***
When cycling at night, always make sure your skull is on fire.
***
I wouldn't say I've unearthed too many diamonds there.
The bobble one's decent, I suppose.
But they all fit the theme, which - as I'm sure you'll all remember - is the theme of skeletons theme.
To continue the theme, here's an old folk ballad about skeletons. I believe its origins date back to the plague days.
Pretty moving stuff.
That's what James Richardson who presents The European Football Show would say. He often deftly transitions between segments by saying "super stuff".
It's a good technique.
But he doesn't fit into today's theme (skeletons), so I should move on.
Though I suppose he does look a bit like a skeleton...
Skeletons don't have eyebrows, but they can speak Italian. Italian skeletons can, anyway. Depending on how decomposed the voice box is.
The theme of skeletons has proved to be quite the fruitful theme.
Here's a bit of skeleton-themed stand-up I'm working on:
Why is it fibula and tibia? It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Fibia and tibia is fine! Fibula and tibula is fine! But fibula and tibia? What were they thinking? I bet the bloke who named the bones was kicking himself - extending his fibula to do it!
I bet he named one of them last thing on a Friday, and then first thing Monday he had to do the other one.
Same with the elbow and the knee.
It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Elbow and knelblow is fine! Lee and knee is fine! But elbow and knee? What were they thinking? I bet someone elbowed the bloke who named the bones in the ribs, which should all also have similar sounding names!
Bones.
[to audience member] I bet you've got bones, mate!
It's easier than it looks.
I could also do a short story on the theme of skeletons, but I won't today because I'm busy.
To recap: today's theme was the skeleton theme theme.
Join me next time, when our theme will be - let's say - mats.
This blog post will have the following theme.
Today, the theme of the blog post is the theme of skeletons.
What are they?
Why have they?
Remember that children's book about them, and they had a dog?
Why do they remind us of death? Is it because we only ever see them when their owners are dead? Obviously, yes.
Is there still a skeleton taboo? There certainly seems to be one in this crèche.
People are furious with me. I should have told the taxi to wait outside the building, just in case.
Have I done any tweets about skeletons?
Let's see.
Preliminary investigation reveals: many.
***
#favouriteplaygroundobject Big metal skeleton.
***
I just want you all to know that there's a skeleton in your bathroom.
***
Our stockings have skeletal legs in them. Santa was in a weird mood last year.
***
I only like organs, skin and skeletons when combined in a very specific way.
***
Naked skeletons are scary.
***
It's funny to think that inside everyone's skeleton there's an infinite number of smaller skeletons, all different colours. So think it.
***
WRITING TIP: Structure is like a platinum exoskeleton - it may protect your organs, but you'll struggle to climb through a kitchen window.
***
"I'm not saying I don't LIKE my skeleton, it's just... I dunno... he gets under my skin, that's all". My doctor is a good listener.
***
I like to stand my apple-cores up, so they retain some semblance of regal, skeletal dignity.
***
What a day! Emails have been coming at me like stop-motion skeletons.
***
And some bonus "skull" ones. Skull is a subset of skeleton.
***
My brain activity has disappeared, leaving a vacuum inside my head. My skull is imploding. At least I'll be able to find a hat that fits.
***
The most common form of RSI at the RSC comes from prolonged skull-holding.
***
I'm going to go and brush any accessible enamel fixtures that there might be in my skull.
***
I'm drilling a hole in my skull to let the angst out. Trepannicking, I think it's called.
***
And the late night may be starting to show its hand, as my brain suddenly wants to leave my skull through the eyes and nose.
***
I mean, during puberty EVERYONE thinks of skulls when they masturbate, right?
***
Captain America's bookish arch-enemy The Well-Read Skull was justifiably modified to appeal to wartime concerns.
***
I've really got nothing on my mind. No skull, no hat; NOTHING.
***
I don't think having a numb skull would really be much of a issue. I don't often use it for sensitive operations. It mainly houses my brain.
***
I own a bobble hat with the bobble on the inside. It's OK - I have a bobble-shaped hole in the top of my skull due to a bobble accident.
***
I've got a life-sized skull tattooed on my skull.
***
When cycling at night, always make sure your skull is on fire.
***
I wouldn't say I've unearthed too many diamonds there.
The bobble one's decent, I suppose.
But they all fit the theme, which - as I'm sure you'll all remember - is the theme of skeletons theme.
To continue the theme, here's an old folk ballad about skeletons. I believe its origins date back to the plague days.
♫Where has my fella gone?
He left me his skeleton
Where has my babbie gone?
To the cold arms of Abbadon
Where has my papa gone?
Sold to buy me a cabochon
Where has sweet Jenny gone?
The United Colors of Benetton ♫
Pretty moving stuff.
That's what James Richardson who presents The European Football Show would say. He often deftly transitions between segments by saying "super stuff".
It's a good technique.
But he doesn't fit into today's theme (skeletons), so I should move on.
Though I suppose he does look a bit like a skeleton...
Skeletons don't have eyebrows, but they can speak Italian. Italian skeletons can, anyway. Depending on how decomposed the voice box is.
The theme of skeletons has proved to be quite the fruitful theme.
Here's a bit of skeleton-themed stand-up I'm working on:
Why is it fibula and tibia? It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Fibia and tibia is fine! Fibula and tibula is fine! But fibula and tibia? What were they thinking? I bet the bloke who named the bones was kicking himself - extending his fibula to do it!
I bet he named one of them last thing on a Friday, and then first thing Monday he had to do the other one.
Same with the elbow and the knee.
It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Elbow and knelblow is fine! Lee and knee is fine! But elbow and knee? What were they thinking? I bet someone elbowed the bloke who named the bones in the ribs, which should all also have similar sounding names!
Bones.
[to audience member] I bet you've got bones, mate!
It's easier than it looks.
I could also do a short story on the theme of skeletons, but I won't today because I'm busy.
To recap: today's theme was the skeleton theme theme.
Join me next time, when our theme will be - let's say - mats.
Friday, 19 July 2013
Tolls For Thee
Only two things in life are lofty: ambitions and lofts.
And maybe an EastEnders character, but don't quote me on that.
***
I wouldn't say I'm a particularly morbid person, but I do sometimes visualise my own death.
I don't think that's a strange thing to do. At some point, surely everyone must wonder when, where, how or if they're going to die. Will you be old or young? Will it be fast or slow? Disease? Accident? Will you be ready for the end, or will it take you by surprise?
Who can tell?
I think I've worked out my most likely cause of death.
All of the evidence points to me dashing my brains out against the wall of a toilet cubicle at work.
I've considered the variables, I've factored in my health and lifestyle, my genetic inheritance, my hobbies, my behaviour, my environment and my generation, and it definitely seems the most likely outcome. I will hurl my own skull at the tiles until I'm battered into lifelessness.
Here's my thinking: I'm generally unhappy at work, but I don't own a gun. I'm much too considerate and too shy to make a big show of it, so I would have to be somewhere private.
The main thing that makes the toilet cubicle such a likely venue is that, on every journey from my desk to the toilet, I inevitably humiliate myself.
The humiliation always relates to my interaction with any colleagues that I might see on the way. I'll usually smile in a weird way, stare for a long time, get in their way, make a little stupid laugh, do a grin, fail to make eye contact, engage in an aborted "hello", trip over my own back, accidentally grope them, or walk into a noticeboard.
By the time I reach the toilet, I've accrued enough self-loathing to make dashing my brains out seem ideal.
The only thing that makes me doubt my conclusion is that dashing your own brains out must be quite difficult. You need to do it with enough force to kill yourself, but you don't want to knock yourself unconscious before the job is completed.
I reckon I could do it, though.
The benefit of dying in the toilet is that it would probably be easier to clean than if I was in a carpeted room.
The down side is that the men's toilet only has one cubicle, so any male colleagues in need of a sealed lavatorial environment would have to go to another floor.
On the other hand, it might be chicken pox.
***
Fact: more sandcastles are built each year than actual castles.
It's not fair. The terminology has got to change.
Sandcastles should be known simply as "castles" and castles should be "masonrycastles". It's only fair.
In Britain, hockey is hockey, and ice hockey is ice hockey. That's because we have more grass than we do pucks and such.
In North America, hockey is called "field hockey" and ice hockey is hockey. In North America, this makes sense. To anyone outside of North America, it is an abomination.
But sandcastles are more numerous than masonrycastles WORLDWIDE.
I have no statistics to support this claim, but it must be true. I've built more than five sandcastles in my life, but not a single masonrycastle.
It's all about economy of phrasing.
The English language is constantly evolving. This evolution is driven by usage.
For example, the coccyx is so named because it is less common than the number "six". It's also spelled differently, to make the distinction all the more sharp.
"Knuckledusters" are less common than regular dusters, and accordingly have an appropriate prefix.
So, the next time you're building a masonrycastle, refer to it as such. Otherwise I'll have to kick it over and risk losing a flip flop.
***
Every time I think about going back on Twitter again, I read Chortle's "Tweets of the week" and get thoroughly depressed.
All Twitter jokes are terrible.You can hear their clanking mechanics a mile away.
My jokes are great of course, but you don't want to dive into a pool of sharks just because you're dressed like a dolphin.
Thursday, 30 May 2013
Holiday 2013 – Days Nine, Ten, Eleven & Twelve & a bit of Thirteen
I'm back in England now. Why would I want to write about my holiday? I was wearing shorts, for Pete's sake! I packed eight pairs of socks and didn't wear any of them. It was a different world.
And now I need to cast my mind back to day NINE?! The number is meaningless. I'm sure I was still alive on day nine, but I wasn't the same person I am now. I'm wearing socks today. To not wear socks is unthinkable.
But I can't abide a tale half-told. I can't stop my holiday account at day eight. It would be improper. And would confuse future-me. He'd wonder where the time went.
So here it is. Day nine was, what, Saturday? I was probably wearing shorts and wishing I could trim my moustache. But you can't take scissors on a plane or buy them once you arrive. Bin Laden deserved to die, if only for that.
Here are some things.
We went to a place called Göcek. It's one of those yacht places. You know, with, like, a wet bit where the boats go, and then a dryer bit where there are shops and cafes and mooring posts and people staring at yachts? A yacht place.
(Do you know what the sad thing about this story is? It happened on Day Eight. But I'm so confused, I'm writing about it here.)
Apparently, the rich and famous go there. Our tour guide said that sometime in the late 90s, Sting and Dustin Hoffman visited there. In the same yacht.
I don't get yachts.
I'm not totally immune to the allure of a millionaire's lifestyle. I can see why people would like luxury cars and mansions, and why they'd like to have a diamond-encrusted George Foreman Grill.
But yachts are stupid. How can a tiny boat be luxurious? It's just a bobbing caravan. Get over yourself, Hoffman.
If you chose to get on a boat, you have abdicated all authority anyway. You can drown at a moment's notice. Every seaman is nothing but Neptune's bitch. A rich movie star on a boat is just shark food in an expensive suit.
If I was a millionaire, I wouldn't want to be robbed of my dignity. I'd stay on land at all times. People can look up to you if you're on land. Nobody looks up to boat people.
Stick with what brung you to the dance. If you're rich, you made your fortune on land. Stay there.
Unless you're Daryl Hannah. She has one fin in each camp, and a stupidly-spelled name.
When we were in Göcek we had tall frozen lemonades, with lots of fruit. They were the most refreshing drinks. Mmm. I'd like one right now.
Also, earlier on the same day (EIGHT - NOT EVEN NINE), we went to a treetop cafe in the mountains. We had Turkish tea and saw dragonflies and horses. But that's not what I'm going to write about, because I'm not a square.
We'd walked down some rocky stairs to photograph a waterfall or a unicorn or something, when our tour group started moving on. We went to join them, but an old woman was coming down the stairs, blocking our way. She was having difficulty making the descent. Her family was helping her. She had a walking stick. She was taking ages.
If this was a more interesting story, we might have found ourselves cut adrift from the rest of our group, forced to climb through the mountains and find our own way home. But that didn't happen. We just waited.
When we got to the top of the stairs, one of the Turkish cafe staff (who had been watching our predicament) said to me in perfect English, "one day, we will all be old."
He was right. It was a nice thing to say. He obviously understood the situation and didn't want us to feel angry or annoyed at the woman. He recognised that she was only human, and our having to wait a few extra seconds wouldn't make much difference. There but for the grace of God, go us.
We agreed with him. One day, we will all be old. He was right. We shared a moment of human empathy that crossed national boundaries. At that moment, we were united by our appreciation of the fragility of life.
Then he said, "one day, we will all be dead".
Now, I thought this was one sentence too far. It's true of course. We will all be dead. And it seems like a continuation of his previous thought. It's an understanding and wise statement. But it didn't really apply.
The slow woman was old, but she wasn't dead. Empathising about her age was warm and humanistic. Empathising about her death seemed premature.
"One day, we will all be old" is a beautiful and melancholy piece of language.
"One day, we will all be dead" sounds like a threat.
Of course, I agreed, and hurried off. I'd gone from moved to unsettled in about five seconds.
But the cafe worker was right. Because, as we looked back over the beautiful scenery and watched the river flow down the rocks, much as the the river of time does flow, we saw, through the dappled sunlight and the vivid forest flowers, that the old woman had fallen down the stairs and died.
One day, we will all die. He was right. It was an appropriate thing to say. As I looked at her corpse and her broken walking stick, I thought: "that will be me one day".
He winked.
Some of that story isn't true. You can decide for yourself.
Anyway, where was I...?
Oh yes. Day nine.
Nothing.
Day ten. Nothing. Some swimming, I guess.
Day eleven. We came home.
The journey was long. Our bus to the airport left at 10pm. Our flight was at 2am. Our bus on the way back was at 5:05am GMT, which would be 7:05 TMT (Turkish Man Time). We got home at about 6:30am GMT, then had to go out again.
It was not unexhausting.
The flight was strange. People were sleeping, but I was not. I couldn't get comfortable, even though there were lots of spare seats, as it wasn't a full plane.
My arm kept... being there. Humans should evolve retractable limbs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again.
Humans should evolve retractable limbs.
There was an eerie light everywhere. My fatigued brain started playing tricks on me. The clouds looked like the sea. There was a thin blue line of dawn on the horizon that never grew, because we were flying away from it. It couldn't catch us, but was shaking its fist.
The soundtrack of my delirium was this short song by Adam Buxton (of Adam and Joe fame). It's about nettles:
This song played in my head about five thousand hundred million times.
Nettles - also like the band The Police...
There was a child sleeping across the seats in front of us. I was worried that my stupid non-retractable arms and knees would be disturbing her, so I was semi-frozen in shaky discomfort like a shit statue.
Lucy got some sleep, lying across the seats next to me. She had a shawl draped across her, which took on an odd luminescence in the artificial night light. The shawl rose and fell, and seemed to me to be undulating like a wedding-white jellyfish.
Nettles! Nettles!
Eventually, we landed in that land of my forefathers: Gatwick.
I slept on the coach on the way home, leaning against nothing, my slumbering head flopping around like a melon on a weak spring. I retained verticality by biting the inside of my mouth at regular intervals. It was relaxing.
By this point it was technically day thirteen, but who's counting?
This holiday journal has never been a systematic catalogue of events. It's more of a series of impressions, bound together by hyphens. If you want to give a sense of an experience, there's no point in trying to replicate it. You have to just say things like "you know how sometimes it's all a bit fleeeuuurrrgg?".
AND PEOPLE SAY YES I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.
Oh - also we had a big bread that was like a steam-whale. That was day twelve, but who's counting?
I can't believe it's all over. It was so interminable and so brief, like a mayfly opera.
Time to put away the shorts.
Time to put on all the socks.
Time to post photos to Facebook to tell the people - who, unlike you, dear reader, are not my real friends - that we had a well good time and look at my muddy torso and don't you wish you were here? Don't you wish you were there? Don't you wish you were me?
And the Facebook people will be all like "yes, I do wish I was here/there/you. *like*".
But you, dear reader, are my real friends. And you know in your heart of hearts, that whether you're there or here is nether here nor there. The only thing you're sure of - from reading this very blog - is that you'll never wish you were me.
Would that you were.
Would that you would.
And now I need to cast my mind back to day NINE?! The number is meaningless. I'm sure I was still alive on day nine, but I wasn't the same person I am now. I'm wearing socks today. To not wear socks is unthinkable.
But I can't abide a tale half-told. I can't stop my holiday account at day eight. It would be improper. And would confuse future-me. He'd wonder where the time went.
So here it is. Day nine was, what, Saturday? I was probably wearing shorts and wishing I could trim my moustache. But you can't take scissors on a plane or buy them once you arrive. Bin Laden deserved to die, if only for that.
Here are some things.
We went to a place called Göcek. It's one of those yacht places. You know, with, like, a wet bit where the boats go, and then a dryer bit where there are shops and cafes and mooring posts and people staring at yachts? A yacht place.
(Do you know what the sad thing about this story is? It happened on Day Eight. But I'm so confused, I'm writing about it here.)
Apparently, the rich and famous go there. Our tour guide said that sometime in the late 90s, Sting and Dustin Hoffman visited there. In the same yacht.
I don't get yachts.
I'm not totally immune to the allure of a millionaire's lifestyle. I can see why people would like luxury cars and mansions, and why they'd like to have a diamond-encrusted George Foreman Grill.
But yachts are stupid. How can a tiny boat be luxurious? It's just a bobbing caravan. Get over yourself, Hoffman.
If you chose to get on a boat, you have abdicated all authority anyway. You can drown at a moment's notice. Every seaman is nothing but Neptune's bitch. A rich movie star on a boat is just shark food in an expensive suit.
If I was a millionaire, I wouldn't want to be robbed of my dignity. I'd stay on land at all times. People can look up to you if you're on land. Nobody looks up to boat people.
Stick with what brung you to the dance. If you're rich, you made your fortune on land. Stay there.
Unless you're Daryl Hannah. She has one fin in each camp, and a stupidly-spelled name.
When we were in Göcek we had tall frozen lemonades, with lots of fruit. They were the most refreshing drinks. Mmm. I'd like one right now.
Also, earlier on the same day (EIGHT - NOT EVEN NINE), we went to a treetop cafe in the mountains. We had Turkish tea and saw dragonflies and horses. But that's not what I'm going to write about, because I'm not a square.
We'd walked down some rocky stairs to photograph a waterfall or a unicorn or something, when our tour group started moving on. We went to join them, but an old woman was coming down the stairs, blocking our way. She was having difficulty making the descent. Her family was helping her. She had a walking stick. She was taking ages.
If this was a more interesting story, we might have found ourselves cut adrift from the rest of our group, forced to climb through the mountains and find our own way home. But that didn't happen. We just waited.
When we got to the top of the stairs, one of the Turkish cafe staff (who had been watching our predicament) said to me in perfect English, "one day, we will all be old."
He was right. It was a nice thing to say. He obviously understood the situation and didn't want us to feel angry or annoyed at the woman. He recognised that she was only human, and our having to wait a few extra seconds wouldn't make much difference. There but for the grace of God, go us.
We agreed with him. One day, we will all be old. He was right. We shared a moment of human empathy that crossed national boundaries. At that moment, we were united by our appreciation of the fragility of life.
Then he said, "one day, we will all be dead".
Now, I thought this was one sentence too far. It's true of course. We will all be dead. And it seems like a continuation of his previous thought. It's an understanding and wise statement. But it didn't really apply.
The slow woman was old, but she wasn't dead. Empathising about her age was warm and humanistic. Empathising about her death seemed premature.
"One day, we will all be old" is a beautiful and melancholy piece of language.
"One day, we will all be dead" sounds like a threat.
Of course, I agreed, and hurried off. I'd gone from moved to unsettled in about five seconds.
But the cafe worker was right. Because, as we looked back over the beautiful scenery and watched the river flow down the rocks, much as the the river of time does flow, we saw, through the dappled sunlight and the vivid forest flowers, that the old woman had fallen down the stairs and died.
One day, we will all die. He was right. It was an appropriate thing to say. As I looked at her corpse and her broken walking stick, I thought: "that will be me one day".
He winked.
Some of that story isn't true. You can decide for yourself.
Anyway, where was I...?
Oh yes. Day nine.
Nothing.
Day ten. Nothing. Some swimming, I guess.
Day eleven. We came home.
The journey was long. Our bus to the airport left at 10pm. Our flight was at 2am. Our bus on the way back was at 5:05am GMT, which would be 7:05 TMT (Turkish Man Time). We got home at about 6:30am GMT, then had to go out again.
It was not unexhausting.
The flight was strange. People were sleeping, but I was not. I couldn't get comfortable, even though there were lots of spare seats, as it wasn't a full plane.
My arm kept... being there. Humans should evolve retractable limbs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again.
Humans should evolve retractable limbs.
There was an eerie light everywhere. My fatigued brain started playing tricks on me. The clouds looked like the sea. There was a thin blue line of dawn on the horizon that never grew, because we were flying away from it. It couldn't catch us, but was shaking its fist.
The soundtrack of my delirium was this short song by Adam Buxton (of Adam and Joe fame). It's about nettles:
This song played in my head about five thousand hundred million times.
Nettles - also like the band The Police...
There was a child sleeping across the seats in front of us. I was worried that my stupid non-retractable arms and knees would be disturbing her, so I was semi-frozen in shaky discomfort like a shit statue.
Lucy got some sleep, lying across the seats next to me. She had a shawl draped across her, which took on an odd luminescence in the artificial night light. The shawl rose and fell, and seemed to me to be undulating like a wedding-white jellyfish.
Nettles! Nettles!
Eventually, we landed in that land of my forefathers: Gatwick.
I slept on the coach on the way home, leaning against nothing, my slumbering head flopping around like a melon on a weak spring. I retained verticality by biting the inside of my mouth at regular intervals. It was relaxing.
By this point it was technically day thirteen, but who's counting?
This holiday journal has never been a systematic catalogue of events. It's more of a series of impressions, bound together by hyphens. If you want to give a sense of an experience, there's no point in trying to replicate it. You have to just say things like "you know how sometimes it's all a bit fleeeuuurrrgg?".
AND PEOPLE SAY YES I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.
Oh - also we had a big bread that was like a steam-whale. That was day twelve, but who's counting?
I can't believe it's all over. It was so interminable and so brief, like a mayfly opera.
Time to put away the shorts.
Time to put on all the socks.
Time to post photos to Facebook to tell the people - who, unlike you, dear reader, are not my real friends - that we had a well good time and look at my muddy torso and don't you wish you were here? Don't you wish you were there? Don't you wish you were me?
And the Facebook people will be all like "yes, I do wish I was here/there/you. *like*".
But you, dear reader, are my real friends. And you know in your heart of hearts, that whether you're there or here is nether here nor there. The only thing you're sure of - from reading this very blog - is that you'll never wish you were me.
Would that you were.
Would that you would.
Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Jump Forward
It was a great day when humans finally erected a building tall enough to guarantee a successful suicide.
For a long time after we first began construction work, the depressed potential jumpers didn't have that option. We started with shacks and huts. Jumping from the roof of one of these would not guarantee death. It would probably just be fun.
But gradually, as technology and design improved, our buildings began to inch upwards. Nowadays, with our Shards and our Burj Khalifas, it's difficult to remember a time when we struggled to dwarf a sunflower with our architectural prowess.
We slowly moved from single-story sheds to two-story deluxe sheds. People standing on the roofs of these new giants would look down at the ground. It would have looked very far away. But not far enough away to guarantee death if you jumped. It might cause an injury, but that wasn't good enough. When it comes to suicide, there are no half-measures. Unless you're a conjoined twin.
People forget how difficult it was for the suicidal in those days. No tall buildings, no guns, no gas ovens, no exhaust pipes, no sleeping pills. It's really difficult to kill yourself with a spear. Being suicidal back then must have been very depressing.
Eventually, news would have spread that we'd cracked it. A new form of structural engineering perhaps, a stronger mortar, or a sturdier girder, would finally have enabled us to reach the desired height. From this new building, a jumper would guarantee a swift departure. They could shuffle of the roof and mortal coil simultaneously, though obviously they wouldn't yet be aware of this expression.
News would spread. People would gather to watch as construction neared completion. The suicidal from miles around would gather, waiting for the building to achieve its optimum height; waiting for the doors to open.
Of course, the architects would have known this was a possibility. I'm sure that building height was restricted to sub-suicide height by the powers of the day. But human ingenuity is not easily restricted. And one brave visionary must have decided to ignore this edict.
We can't limit the scope of human achievement, just because it will cost a few lives. It's not an easy decision to make, but we have to keep pushing forward. If we were always bound by safety and fear, we would stagnate as a species. Evolution requires risk. If you want to make an omelette, you can't be worried about how certain eggs might react to the proposal.
Some people would be too impatient, of course. Days before the building's full height had been realised, some would have snuck up to the roof, carrying a step ladder. Their eagerness would have given them a head start.
As soon as the building was high enough, the suicides would begin. The queues would have been long, snaking up the stairs and onto the highest point (where the thoughtful construction team would have erected a special diving plinth). Dozens would plummet every minute.
As the pile of bodies built up, the distance for the prospective fallers would decrease, so a good samaritan would have had to keep throwing the corpses to one side, where they'd be carried off by primitive hospital carts. The organs, bones and clothes would be used to further the cause of medical research.
Whilst queueing to jump, some of the suicidal people might have struck up conversations. Realising that they had similar interests (self-destruction, jumping from things), some of them would have formed profound relationships. Some would even forego the suicide entirely. Faced with companionship and understanding for the first time, they would leave the queue and get married, or go into business with each other.
After the first couple of days, the crowds would die down (no pun intended). Soon other buildings of a jumpable height would appear all over the country. Suicides would continue at a steady rate, but would not happen with the same feverishness and excitement.
The idea that you could kill yourself by jumping off a building was taken for granted. The suicidal had, in a way, been emancipated. Society as a whole became more accommodating of those who no longer wished to live. (The first tall building emerged at roughly the same time as the noose.)
Today, people have an incredible range of suicide options, from train fighting to toaster/bath electrocution. In fact, it might be the case that there is too much choice, as counter-intuitive as it sounds. Some suicidal people have so many possible avenues for achieving their goal that they become paralysed with indecision, and will sometimes give up on killing themselves altogether. It is not easy to opt out of modern life
We must remember, however, that romanticising of the past is something to be resisted. It's true that today's suicide doesn't have the intensity or the novelty of that initial movement. The enthusiasm of those first, excited roof jumpers isn't something we can replicate.
But modern suicide isn't worse than it used to be. It's just different. New technology (the internet, smartphones etc) allows for a greater level of communication between the suicidal. People are able to devise their own methods of self-slaughter, and share them instantly with like-minded people all over the world.
It's always a mistake to think there was a golden age. Suicide has existed in different forms for thousands of years. Who's to say what form it will take in the next twenty, thirty, one hundred years?
Buildings are now so tall that a cat could jump from the roof and lose all nine of its lives before it reached the mezzanine. But let's not forget those poor people in the distant past, looking longingly up at the sky, yearning for a platform.
Look how far we've come. Look how far we've fallen.
Friday, 25 January 2013
Boxes
We moved.
I'll probably write about the whole process at some point, but for now... it almost seems that writing about it would somehow taint the purity of the agony. It was so bad that the suffering has travelled in time. Everything that has ever happened and everything that will ever happen is worse than it was a week ago.
So I need some mulling time. Maybe a little perspective. Maybe I'll realise what a privileged position I'm actually in.
But it won't be today, and it won't be tomorrow.
Instead, here's a big green asterisk:
I'll probably write about the whole process at some point, but for now... it almost seems that writing about it would somehow taint the purity of the agony. It was so bad that the suffering has travelled in time. Everything that has ever happened and everything that will ever happen is worse than it was a week ago.
So I need some mulling time. Maybe a little perspective. Maybe I'll realise what a privileged position I'm actually in.
But it won't be today, and it won't be tomorrow.
Instead, here's a big green asterisk:
*
Thursday, 18 October 2012
National Service
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.
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
Used humour as a defence mechanism
Whilst serving in Iraq
His commanding officer noted,
In a wise and heartfelt eulogy,
That Nick's hilarious "slags on a lifeboat" bit
Was not an adequate substitute
For a helmet
I have no interest in metre.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
!!~~POST #700 - ELEPHANTINE JUBILEE SOIRÉE~~!!
My, my, my.
Seven of these. Seven.
Seven posts that include a picture of myself made odder in Paint, a sprinkling of asterisks, an ambitious failure or two, and a conversation with my past and future selves.
It's anniversary time.
Bring out your bunting, I'm stealing the monarch's thunder. But my colours aren't red, white and blue. They're brown, black and chrome. God Save The Blog.
If you'd like to chart my development as a writer and as an adult, you can view my previous celebrations here:
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
I've read all of them. I certainly seem to hate the Catholic Church in the first two. Of course, I still hate the Catholic Church. But I'm less outspoken about it. I seem to have mellowed. Seven hundred posts' worth of mellowing. I'm barely conscious.
Seven hundred. That's quite a lot. You couldn't fit them all in an envelope. Unless they were on a USB stick. And even then, you'd need one with a large GENIUS capacity.
I'm patting myself on the back. And I'm backing myself to pat myself on the back. And Pat is backing... oh, you know.
You know.
You can open your champagne now.
***
In Post #600, I wrote:
Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy
way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote
this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be
famous.)
Well, Post #600 Paul, it's funny you should ask. And sleazy. I'm currently wearing an outfit that you may well also have been wearing. Grey boxer shorts (old), two grey socks (superficially the same grey, but they actually belong to two different sock families), my jeans (my only pair of jeans; my only pair of trousers), my brown shirt, and some trainers.
And eleven ruffs. I'm struggling to breathe, but every now and then make up for it by rolling on my desk and claiming to be a car wash.
Who's the most famous person to have died? I don't know. You were writing your question in September 2011. Donna Summer and Robin Gibb have died recently. Are they famous? Have I missed out anyone obvious?
I've looked it up on Wikipedia. Whitney Houston and Davy Jones are both pretty famous. Oh hang on. I've gone further back and there are loads of famous people: Gaddafi, Jobs, Smokin' Joe, Christopher Hitchens.
Let's say Gaddafi. He deserves it. Congratulations.
So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?
***
I've been meaning to do this for a while, so have taken advantage of the occasion to put together a little tribute video. To myself. You may think that's crass, but I've never claimed to be Not Crass. Have I? No.
The images in this video all come from previous blog posts. I keep them all in one folder and forget what I used them for. See if you can remember any of them! It'll be fun! Quite a lot of them are of me. I really do seem to be interested in my own face.
The song is also a new one, written specially for use here. Listening to it has finally made me realise that I'm not as good a singer as I seem in my head. In my head, I'm a good singer. Outside my head, I'm the opposite of that. You all knew that before of course, but I've finally caught up.
Enough preamble! Let's reminisce!
*sniff* I think there's... something in my eye...
Any gloominess or complaining in that video was ironic, I assure you. I'm very happy to be alive.
On the not-receiving-many-comments front, I assume it's just because all of my (many?) readers are too busy. But I'd like to give a shout-out to e.f. bartlam, whose comments are always much appreciated. You should visit his blog, which is always interesting.
It's strange to give a shout-out. I wasn't sure if it was a shout out, a shout-out or a shoutout. You shouldn't give too many away, though. Not in this recession. Hoard your shout-outs. You can use them as firewood after the apocalypse.
***
Yesterday, I did the washing up. That's not interesting in and of itself. It's not even interesting... uh... out and... unrelated to... yourself... But I'm still going to tell you about it, because my psychotherapist asks me to discuss my traumas. She has no existence outside of the previous sentence, but still - you can't argue with a diploma.
The reason the washing up was traumatic was that it took AGES. Far longer than any washing up has ever taken before. I don't know why. There didn't seem to be that much stuff to do. There wasn't anything baked-on. There was no need for prolonged scrubbing.
It just seemed to last forever. There was always another plate, another mug, another spoon. We only have about two spoons, I don't know where they were coming from. It was like some kind of Escher chore: every time I put a mug on the draining board, it would fall through its own handle and back into the mug factory. Filthy.
I had to stop at one point to recharge my batteries. I lit a fire (with bundled shout-outs as kindling), and had to forage for food. Luckily, I was in the kitchen. Food was abundant. That didn't stop me from eating a sponge, of course. I wasn't passing up THAT opportunity.
The clock ticked ever onwards, and there were still more things to wash. I kept generating suds. I kept rinsing. Evening turned to night, night to morning, morning to lunchtime, ashes to ashes, person to person, Heavens to Betsy.
My arms ached, my soul ached, my water consumption caused a perennial hosepipe ban. Everything was piled, teetering on the draining board, heaped as high as the precarious tower of metaphors and exaggerations I've built in this blog post.
And then it was over.
I wept.
I slept.
I was inept.
Upon waking, I looked at my hard work.
One colander and a few egg cups.
Had I imagined my struggle? Was it all a delusion caused by drinking Fairy liquid? I'll never know.
But I'll never forget it.
Or I might, I don't know. It's probably not important.
***
There's too much text up there. These celebrations are supposed to showcase my diversity. Sure, the video did that. Even if I keep listening to it and dislike it more each time.
But I can do more. I will do more.
In Post #600 I did a script extract that was bad, even by my standards. So let's remedy that with something AMAZING.
I haven't written it yet, but can only assume it will be.
WILLIAM: Susan? Susan!
SUSAN: What?
WILLIAM: Come over here.
SUSAN: I can't.
WILLIAM: What? Why?
SUSAN: This is a phone call. You are eighteen thousand miles away. And I'm a paraplegic.
WILLIAM: But there's a spider.
SUSAN: Be that as it may...
WILLIAM: Oh... Hang on. It's not a spider. It's just a shadow.
SUSAN: Good. Listen, I'd better go. I'm giving a lecture on emotivism, and I...
WILLIAM: Susan!
SUSAN: What?
WILLIAM: I was wrong. Well, I was right. It is a shadow.
SUSAN: Mmm-hmm?
WILLIAM: But it's the shadow of a spider. So there is a spider.
SUSAN: Why don't you just ignore it?
WILLIAM: Ignore it?
SUSAN: Yes. It won't bother you if you don't bother it.
WILLIAM: You said that about my samurai sword.
SUSAN: Yes. It's the same thing.
WILLIAM: But it cut my arm off.
SUSAN: Only after you provoked it. What did you call it? "A glorified butter knife"?
WILLIAM: *pause* Yeah...
SUSAN: So just don't insult the spider.
WILLIAM: Ah.
SUSAN: Ah what?
WILLIAM: I already called it a glorified daddy longlegs.
SUSAN: Run into the garage and lock the door. I'll phone the sheriff.
You see? I can really deliver when I put my mind to it.
***
Short jokes!
Horse? Face.
Chicken? Side.
Spade? Doug.
Brown? Stick.
Leon? "Prince of Lemons"
Octopus? Noctopus.
Wire wool.
Misunderstanding.
***
And to round things off, here's a creepy Jeff Hardy:
***
We've all been through a lot. Let's take a moment to reflect. Polish yourselves.
***
I suppose that'll do it. I bet the Queen hasn't got a picture of herself looking this stupid. If she did, it would have to be made into a stamp. And if it was, I'd start sending a heck of a lot more letters.
I'll see you again shortly.
800 will be a nice round number.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Facet
I'm too flippant. Too frivolous. Too facetious.
I need to take things more seriously. The world is a serious place. People are dying. Nineteen people have died since I typed that 'g'.
I'm going to turn over a new leaf. On one side of the leaf will be something serious, like a graph or a passport application form. On the other side will be something even more serious, like a ring binder containing the suicide notes of orphans - they have no sentimental value to anyone, but are kept for legal reasons.
I'm going to turn over that leaf.
Even turning over leaves seems like a heartless thing to do. Think of all the good I could be doing with that energy. Turning over leaves (even a single leave) requires wrist movements that would be better employed turning the pages of sheet music for an armless flautist.
I should do that instead.
I've wasted so many words. This is my 677th blog post. If I had spent that time building a home for broken cats, it would have been finished long ago. I should be ashamed of myself. Think of all of those homeless broken cats. Think of them. They could be reclining in specially-made cat platforms (or "catplats"), instead of wandering the streets. In their heads. Because they can't wander. Because they're broken.
Poor broken cats.
On the other hand, the world needs laughter. And whilst I technically haven't ever made anyone laugh, I'm probably adding to the general pool of smiles. You might be smiling as you read this sentence.
Are you? Are you smiling right now?
If not, why not?
Just smile. Go on. If you're on your own, what does it matter?
I don't even care if it's an obviously fake smile. Do it anyway.
I bet some of you haven't smiled. Even though I asked you to smile, and a smile takes so little effort (unlike those arduous frowns, which I wouldn't foist upon my worst enemy).
So if you haven't smiled yet, please do so now.
OK.
Aren't we all feeling better now?
Perhaps being flippant, frivolous and facetious is what the world needs right now. If we tackle the world's problems with one raised eyebrow and a grin as wide as your aunt, we might realise that everything is just fine.
Though that orphan suicide note thing is pretty rough. I wonder what does happen in those situations. Where does the note go?
There's no family to pass it on to. There's no centralised Institute for Miscellaneous Grief, is there? That would be a difficult place to work: jars of ambiguous wailing, unaddressed letter bombs, unreadable weathered tombstones.
It's enough to make you appreciate how lucky we are. Except for those of use who are objectively unlucky. But they all died a couple of minutes ago, when their attempts at a blog-prompted smile ended in a fatal acid explosion.
Poor them.
***
Let's cheer things up a bit!
Q: What did one firefighter say to the other firefighter?
A: "AsphyxiNINED, more like!"
You can work out the rest.
Life's great.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Post
It's been a while, so let's dip into the Headscissors mailbag!
Talkin' Scissors
Hey P-Dawg
I've never written to a blog before, but after reading your latest post ("The End", dated 5 March 2010), I felt compelled to put pen to paper and let you know how ambivalent I felt about it.
I didn't hate it, but I can't really understand why you bothered writing it. The whole "twins" beginning didn't really make sense, though I suppose there was the germ of something interesting there.
The rest of it wasn't very well explored. It really was exceptionally average.
Keep up the work.
Nico Fronz
Portland, ME
Hey Nico! Thanks for your letter! I can totally understand your feelings about that entry. It certainly did seem like filler. Maybe I'll follow up on the "twins" idea some other time. Hopefully the average entries are counterbalanced by the excellent and terrible entries!
Dear Paul
Long time reader, first time writer. Seriously. This is the first thing I've ever written. I'm only three.
Just wanted to drop you a line to say how much I'm enjoying 'Headscissors'. I've read several blogs, but this one doesn't make me want to kill myself. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.
1) In Post #502 ("Willpower"), you claim that watching Alan Shearer on television made you ill. Given that germs cannot be transmitted via television, how do you explain your accusation?
2) You've often spoken out in praise of The Armando Iannucci Shows. Does it ever bother you that the vowel-consonant pattern of his surname goes vvccvccv?
3) What's your favourite bread magazine?
4) Do you accept unsolicited blog articles? I have an idea for a short dialogue between two unlikely objects that I think is tailor made for 'Headscissors'.
PS. It's my tiny uncle's birthday next Wednesday.
Lerter Kilvers
Stockholm, Sweden
Such kind words! And so well written for a three-year-old! Thanks Lerter! I'll do my best to answer your questions.
1) I am aware that such a contagion is impossible, I suggested Shearer was to blame as a form of surreal humour. I respect him as a man and am sure he would never knowingly infect a MOTD viewer.
2) It does now!
3) I like The Daily Seeded Batch, but do most of my bread reading online nowadays.
4) I'm afraid I cannot accept unsolicited writing. This is due to the fact that I'm lazy, and other people make me all sad down my trousers.
Oh, and Happy Birthday to your minute uncle!
Dear Headscissors Head Office
This is the third time I have written to you with no response. PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THIS LETTER. I have been trapped in your disabled toilet for three months. No, I'm not disabled. Yes, I know I shouldn't be using it. I'm sorry. I feel terrible about it. But the handle broke off he door and fell into the sink, which in turn was accidentally flushed down the toilet whilst I WASN'T masturbating.
I've tried phoning for an ambulance, but they're not interested.
PLEASE LET ME OUT. I'VE HAD TO EAT URINAL CAKES. AND THERE ISN'T EVEN A URINAL IN HERE.
Karla Judd
Headscissors Office Disabled Toilet,
Waxahachie, TX
Thanks for your letter, Karla! Unfortunately, by the time we got around to opening your letter, you were already dead. Apologies.
Dear Headscissors
My friends have been telling me about your blog for years. "It's great," they said. I disagreed. But due to their persistence, I've begun to... well, not LIKE your blog exactly, but respect it somewhat. Not many people would start a blog post with no ideas, but you seem to do it constantly.
One suggestion: I was wondering if you had a fax number to send these messages to. Or even an electronic-mail address. Writing this letter has cost me my job as the manager of a quill factory.
Yours
Sean Penn
Hollywood, CA
Thanks Sean! We've always been willing to experiment with new technologies. It is possible to leave electronic comments (or "electro-thoughts") at the bottom of each blog post. Writing here will reduce the delay in publishing your feedback. We are still wading through letters that were sent before this blog even began. One is from a triceratops (judging by the handwriting).
Send your letters to:
Talkin' Scissors
8212 Scrupulous Drive
Waxahachie, TX
Remember, if you want your letter to be published, mark "OK TO PRINT" on your correspondence. TIP: Letters written in the bath may become unreadable.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Bread and Scrape
In my day, the government gave us all a day.
Everyone had one. On your sixteenth birthday, you were allocated one twenty-four hour period, and it was yours with which to do whatever you wanted.
My day was Friday 11th January 1900.
But there was a miscalculation in The Ministry of Day Apportionment. They'd miscalculated.
In 1998, the year I turned sixteen, there were around 58,649,000 people in the UK. And whilst there had technically been more than that number of days up to that point, the government was hindered by several flaws in the system:
1) They only included days after 0AD, as BC days were deemed 'stodgy' and 'Old Labour'.
2) The landed gentry, the royals, and all former England football captains were granted special privileges. Instead of a day, they were given entire weeks, and in some cases, years. Bryan Robson's week was from 1853, and included both the Battle of Oltenitza and the founding of the Republic of Lower California. Princess Margaret had 1771. With the privileged receiving so many extra days, there were fewer for the middle and lower classes.
3) Jack Straw refused to allow days in the future to be included, because he claimed that "the concept really freaks me out".
I was very lucky to be given a day. I put some patio chairs there, and occasionally went there for some 'alone time'.
In my day, there was a slight problem with damp.
Soon, people were forced to share days. Then the policy was abandoned altogether. But by then it was 1999 and we were all busy hunting for Prince (who had stolen the year from Richard Branson, claiming "Issssss MIIIIIIIINNNE!").
***
I lost confidence in that comedy concept. There might be something there, but it is not ripe for picking at the current time. In the current climate.
Hey! How about, right...?
How about:
I don't feel comfortable making jokes about raisin hurricanes. Not in the currant climate.
How about that?!
That's a joke. An actual joke.
Sure, it doesn't really make sense. But the important thing is that it's HONEST.
***
Break your blog into sections
Break your blog into sections
Point your readers in several directions
Break your blog into sections
Avoid detection! Avoid detection!
STRUCTURAL, STRUCTURAL INSURRECTION!
Break your blog into sections
Break your blog into sections
Vote for a dog in your local elections
Break your blog into sections
I love that song.
***
Also, you could fold this entry into a paper plane. Use these bits as wing-flaps:
\\\\ ////
This woman can be the pilot:
__-----___
}~~~~~{
'''' ''''
@ @
^
=
ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL?
If you're reading this on a laptop, desktop or tablet computer, you probably shouldn't cut anything out. You might need those sections of the screen later, for the odd drag-and-drop, article perusal or full-screen movie experience.
***
INT. MEXICO - DAY
A man sits at his computer. A man looks at his computer. A man seethes at his computer. The man is PAUL. A womanly beast sits a short distance away, flossing. She is HAAT.
PAUL
When should this blog post end?
HAAT
You'll know when.
PAUL
Are you sure?
HAAT
I don't know.
PAUL
I think it might be time to end it now.
I think I might have 'jumped the shark'
with the name 'Haat'.
HAAT
He who seeks answers may only find
lots of question marks piled into
the shapes of letters. The letters may
spell out the word 'ANSWERS'.
PAUL
Yeah, I'm pretty sure this should be the end.
In the distance, a cloud of dust signals the approach of a horse-drawn cart. Three figures are visible on the cart.
PAUL (cont'd)
Who are they?
HAAT
You'll know when.
PAUL
When?
HAAT
When you see them.
The cart draws closer. The figures emerge from the dust. It becomes clear that these figures are all the actor William Sadler, in his three most famous roles: DEATH from Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey, dumb hick prisoner HEYWOOD from The Shawshank Redemption, and the villain COLONEL STUART from Die Hard 2: Die Harder (remember, he's in the nude near the beginning).
PAUL
Is that...? That guy. That actor.
You know. The one with the square jaw.
HAAT
William Sadler?
PAUL
I don't know. I don't know what his name is.
HAAT
It is. It's William Sadler.
In his three most famous roles.
PAUL
Huh. Hey, wasn't he in Deep Space Nine too?
HAAT
I don't know.
DEATH
Hey guys. Do you know if this
is the right road to get to Juárez?
PAUL
I don't know.
HAAT
Me neither.
HEYWOOD
Dang.
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