Tell Him Something Pretty

I just finished a rewatch of Deadwood. 'Tell Him Something Pretty' is the title of the final episode.

I like that title, so I thought I'd write a blog post called 'Tell Him Something Pretty' even though I don't want to write about anyone telling anyone else something pretty, and I don't want to write about Deadwood.

I may have figured out why writing this blog is so difficult. It's because I'm writing not for its own sake, but because I want to go back in time. I want to go back to the time in my life when I did write blog posts, and I can't. It's like fighting against the current. That's why I keep writing these and not posting them (see a lack of hyperlink here for examples of previous unpublished posts). As I type, I have a momentary sense of treading water, but I can't go backwards.

Trying to write has the futility of those anxiety dreams I have all the time. I had one recently where I was trying to fill the dishwasher, but every time I thought I was close, more dirty crockery would appear, and I'd have to reorganise things. Even with my superior dishwasher organising skills, it was impossible to finish.

I haven't yet dreamt about writing a blog post that I'm unable to post. Maybe it will happen tonight.

Of course, I could just post this. I could just post the other ones. I could post a story I've already written: just a basic copy and paste job.

I could... but I can't.

Because of the reason up there. The one about not being able to go back in time.

I need to convince myself to travel forward in time, not backwards. I may not be able to go back to blog-writing times in the past, but I could travel into a future where I write. That's a journey I can make. I can get carried along by the current instead of fighting it, I can relax and I can float, I can catch my sleeve on a fountain pen, I can dash my head on the rocks of stream metaphors somewhere round the bend in two-thousand-and-god-damned-nineteen-or-some-shit.

But I don't want to hurl myself into the future. Donald Trump is President there. I can barely even bring myself to write it. Donald Trump is President there. And Brexit. And... everything else. Things genuinely are much worse now, right? It's not just a subjective thing, is it? You know I hate it when people imbue their own times with MAJOR SIGNIFICANCE just because they're alive. I don't think I'm doing that. It just is that bad.

It's no wonder I want to go back in time. Even treading water is better than going forward. Even trying to tread water is better than going forward.

***

OK - I just went to get lunch, and I was mulling it over. Maybe the world isn't that much worse. I put my pessimism down to two things: Twitter and Southampton Football Club.

Twitter

I don't have any friends. You might think that would be the headline of this issue, but I'm going with Twitter. I don't have any friends, so my only real view of the outside world comes from Twitter. And maybe it's just the people I follow, but Twitter mainly gives me the despair of current events, and the negativity of reactions to said events, and the further negativity of reactions to said reactions.

***

[Contemporary Edit: I never finished this. What a shame. It was so interesting and original. If only we could hear more about why Twitter is bad. Alas...]

One Toe

I've started this blog post fifty times in the past - Jesus - two years.

Sometimes just in my head. Sometimes on screen. One time in the condensation on a perspex riot shield.

What can I say? How do I explain?

I could sum everything up in a glib manner. I could just start afresh, and pretend I'd never been away. I could give a long explanation of everything I've been through, with photos and a YouTube montage.

But instead, I'm doing this. Which is none of those things.

How have you been?

If you've been reloading this blog page daily for the past two years, hoping for an update: it's your fucking birthday.

Here's your cake.

***

A couple of months ago, I tested the waters.

I was trying to ease my way back into online life. But I'd forgotten how. It seemed so alien. It was like using... a... simile. I couldn't believe this used to be my bread and butter. I didn't even remember what shape a loaf was, or what instrument that Lurpak dude used to play.

So I went for the basics. First, I posted a photo of a sunset on Facebook:

Posted by Paul Fung on Sunday, December 18, 2016

Then I took part in a popular meme on Twitter:

Me at the start of 2016 vs me at the end of 2016. pic.twitter.com/wujCY00flJ

— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) December 10, 2016

Neither of these things generated much response. But they weren't meant to.

I was just learning to walk again after years in a non-perambulatory coma. Or gingerly attempting a post-stroke symmetrical gurn.

It's hard. You can feel the rust. You know you're forcing it. Your metaphors are strained and cumbersome. When you were writing every day, your metaphors had snap and bite. They always made sense, and never went on for too long. You never used unusual vocabulary as a substitute for good writing. You never shifted suddenly from the past to the present tense, and then back again.

But then I didn't post anything for two months. It didn't take. It never takes. And it still might not take. This might be my last post until 2019.

I might not even post this at all.

So after dipping a toe into Facebook and a toe into Twitter (and continuing to dip my slotted spoon into Google+), I've decided to launch myself back into bloggy waters, right up to the calf.

(And I know those are Old Man Social Networks. Instagram or Snapchat are still too much of a novelty for me. Maybe I'll get there one day.)

It might not take - I'm aware of that. And then what? I might post a link to this post on the aforementioned social networks and then retreat into my shell. It will be a false dawn. And the dozens of people who have waited for me to re-emerge will be crushed, like when Harper Lee came out of retirement to write that David Brent movie.

Isn't it be better to be thought of fondly as an artist who vanished at the peak of his powers? I'm sure that's how I'm thought of.

I'm sure I'm thought of.

Belated, curtailed resurrections are most annoying kind.

But I can't let that stop me. This isn't about my public image. It's about my mental state. I need to get back on the internet to stay sane.

Read that again.

I need to get back on the internet to stay sane.

That's the terrifying situation in which we find ourselves, friends.

And what a time to do it!

World events are.. well, you know. Everything's falling apart. And everyone is, justifiably, spending all of their time talking about it.

If I raise my voice now, do I have to talk about it too? I don't think I can. I don't think I can even continue this train of thought now.

So I won't.

***

I've already got further than I have in the last two years. I'm proud of myself.

Hey, I know. I can do a tweet compendium. I used to do those all the time. I used to be crazily prolific. I don't think that's going to happen again. But how many good tweets have I done in the past two years? I haven't checked, but I'm going to guess: maybe double figures.

Let's find out together in another instalment of:

Remember How This Used To Work? (Except I'll Embed Them Now)

Just thought of a good tweet for when Liam Gallagher dies. If I post it now and just RT it when the news breaks, I won't seem so callous.

— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) June 22, 2016

MAUSOLEUM GALLAGHER

— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) June 22, 2016

(Could work for any famous dead Liam, I suppose)

— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) June 22, 2016

Three.

And they're all basically part of the same thing.

That's less than I was expecting.

So I haven't been tweeting.

I also used to write about jokes or ideas that I'd dreamt about. Do I still dream about things?

Yes. I emailed two of them to Lucy.

1)

It’s a bit too fully formed for a dream joke, so maybe it’s an old tweet of mine or someone else’s:

Person 1: A big-billed bird was talking to me about a John Grisham novel the other day.

Person 2: The Pelican Brief?

Person 1: No, actually it was quite loquacious.

2)

Last night I dreamt the expression “that’s about as much use as a chocolate wife”. 

Three tweets, two dreams.

***

My confidence in this post is wavering.

But I have to post it now, don't I?

Searching for Twitter embed codes ain't free. Ain't trouble free anyway.

Oh, man. I can tell I'm not going to post another one of these for ages. And then the pressure will build, and I'll just feel bad about it.

Maybe I'll just do a quick one tomorrow. I'll just post a photo of a rusk or something.

Anyway, it's been nice to speak to you again.

This has been weird.

a conversation I dreamed a few weeks ago

Two people are having a conversation.

***

Person 1: My name is Charles Donnelly Player. So my friends call me 'CD Player'. Get it?

Person 2: Seedy Player?

Person 1: No, C. D. Player. Like a CD Player.

Person 2: Oh. Yeah, I get it.

...(pause)...

Person 2: Or, what about, instead of that, you call yourself C Deep Layer? That's even better.

Person 1: What does that mean?

Person 2: You know: Deep Layer. Like... you have a deep layer. Like underneath the surface, there's a hidden deep layer to you. One of your layers is deep. And the 'C' is your first initial. Get it?

Person 1: Ohhhh, right. Yeah, I get it. I think 'CD Player' is better, though.

Person 2: But why would you want to be named after an obsolete technology? You might as well call yourself 'Windows XP'. 

...(pause)...

Person 2: If your middle name was Xavier. 

...(pause)...

Person 2: And your first name was Windows.

Person 1: ...

Eggshell

I haven't dreamt a good joke for a while. And that pattern continued with this effort from a couple of nights ago:

Why do penguins huddle together?

Because there's safety in numb birds!

It technically makes sense, which is something. Dreams can be totally incoherent, but not here. Penguins might well be numb. It's cold in Antarctica.

But the punchline depends on "numb birds" sounding like "numbers". I don't think it's close enough.

Better luck next time, brain.

***

I think this month will break my record for the fewest blog posts in a calendar month. It's nice to know that, after all these years, I can still push boundaries. Even if the boundaries in question are the boundaries of inactivity. And it's not so much of a "push" as a "slump-against".

I've been slumping against boundaries for years. Sometimes I'll completely lose my footing and slide down the boundaries, scraping up my back something rotten.

Sometimes my head will loll against the boundaries at the end of a long day. Sometimes I'll smack my face against the boundaries whilst trying to take off my socks.

You have to test your limits. Otherwise, what's the point?

Cave of Forgotten Dreams

I had another dream recently. Even though this is my second dream-related blog post this month, it doesn't mean that nothing interesting is happening in my waking life. It's just that my waking life isn't as interesting as the stupid thoughts I have when I'm asleep.

In the dream, I'd come up with a new business venture: a series of caves, each with its own distinctive smell. People would pay money to go underground and sniff. I dubbed the activity 'Olfactory Spelunking'.

The dream didn't go into much detail, but I think we can extrapolate. The caves would be dark, and no-one would be allowed to use torches. There would probably be an instructor in each cave with night-vision goggles, for safety. I don't know whether the smells would be piped-in artificially, or if the source of each smell would be right there in the cave.

Some possible cave smells include: manure, bacon, rat-bacon and Lynx Atlantis (which I believe has been discontinued).

I'm quite the entrepreneur when unconscious.

***

I've been watching a lot of films lately. I haven't got much to say about them, so here they are in order of best to worst:

The Conformist
The Raid 2
Wonderwall
Guardians of the Galaxy
The Fisher King
To Catch a Thief
The Seven Year Itch
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Drag Me To Hell

There. That's all the information I'm willing to impart.

Come... at... me... bro...?

***

I wonder if I'll ever hold a press conference. Or even just be a part of one.

Press conferences are usually of two main types: the big announcement and the missing kid.

Neither sounds ideal. I don't like conferences, and I hate the press.

But still, it would be nice to sit behind a long table and answer questions into a dozen microphones. I'd particularly like to mishear a question from the back row and ask them to repeat it.

I obviously wouldn't like to be appealing for information about a missing child. That would be terrible. But I have always wanted to make a direct plea to a kidnapper, and have never had a good reason to do it.

I could announce a series of reunion concerts. That would be much nicer. I'd have to do an initial unioning, though. And wait a few years.

I don't think I'll bother.

That reminds me of this Limmy sketch, which I may well have posted before. Still...



***

I bought a roll with lunch. They do good, fresh rolls at the canteen now. They're good and fresh and soft and round. This one has poppy seeds on it.

But my plate of salad was pretty big, so I saved the roll. I saved it for later. It is now later.

The roll is sitting in a white paper bag on my desk. Next to the bag is a plastic knife and a small sachet of Flora. But not a sachet. Sachets are for sauce.

It's not a packet either. It's one of those little, like, mini-tub things. A solid plastic basin, with a peelable lid. What would you call that? A little individually packaged serving of Flora. You know what I'm talking about.

Not this:

That's wrong. I knew sachet was wrong.

More like this:

10 grams of yellow chemical paste.

And a plastic knife.

I might eat the roll in a bit, with some Flora, spread with a knife.

Anyway, that's all my news.

***

I suppose I could call a press conference to announce my Olfactory Spelunking project.

And I could use the same press conference to appeal for information about the dozens of children lost in the caves during the test phase. They were lured deep into the bowels of the mountain by the child-friendly odours of plastic and Flora.

If only the night-vision goggles had arrived! We asked our safety monitors to squint, but that can only do so much in the pitch blackness.

Please. There's a large reward for any information that may lead to the majority of the children. If you live in the mountain (perhaps you are a troll, or a "subterraniac" of some sort), I implore you to get in touch with my agent. We can meet backstage at one of my reunion shows, preferably Bath on the 19th of next month.

Are there any other questions?

...

I'm sorry, can you repeat that?

Ah, I see. That was just the echo of my initial question.

It was probably a mistake to hold this press conference in a cave.

Does anyone else feel in the mood for bacon?

Scars

I had a dream the other night.

In the dream, I was in a room with a group of people. Two boisterous boys came in, and were messing around. One of them was Daniel Radcliffe.

They were play-fighting, and Radcliffe slipped, smacking his head against the floor. I went over to check that he was OK. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, but he assured me that he was fine.

Then an idea hit me.

"I have an idea," I said to the crowd. "I'm by no means suggesting that we definitely should do this, but I thought I'd better raise it as an option. It seems like this is the ideal opportunity to make some minor extensions to his head wound, to make it into the shape of a lightning bolt."

The crowd cheered and expressed their approval. All except one woman, who said "No, don't do that! Harry Potter isn't even my favourite of his roles!".

I said, "Ooohhhh, you hipster".

And that was the end of the dream.

My subconscious is an interesting fellow.

Other things that have happened to me this month include a visit to Blenheim Palace, and completing a video game called The Last of Us, set in a (pseudo-)zombie-ridden dystopia.

When I was at Blenheim, I was still in the mindset of the game. It meant that whilst we were wandering through the house, with its crockery and robes, and photos of Winston Churchill, I was imagining how I'd deal with a zombie attack. I could jump over velvet ropes and hide behind pillars, perhaps sneaking up to a Clicker to shiv it with an ornamental silver sugar spoon, or throwing a nail bomb at a pipe organ.

Unfortunately, we weren't attacked at any point, so my strategising was all for nought.

Other things that have happened to me this month include no other things.

***

I've never been skiing, and I hope I never do.

Not because I wouldn't enjoy it (though I probably wouldn't), but because it means that in the upcoming class wars, I can justifiably claim to be on the side of the proletariat.

If you've ever been skiing, you're automatically on the side of the bourgeoisie. You are rich, complacent, domineering, self-absorbed, racist, capitalist, fascist, misogynist, humourless, pampered and in love with coal.

If you've never been skiing, you are a good person, and are the opposite of all of those things.

Snowboarding is a grey area.

So by never skiing, I'll be on the right side of history, even if, admittedly, I have just been to Blenheim Palace. I was cocking a snook the whole time though, so I'm still, essentially, the true heir to Arthur Scargill.

Full/Empty

I think I might struggle now that the football season is over.

For months, I've been using football to mark the passage of time. Midweek games, previews of the weekend's action on Thursday and Friday, the glorious ball-glut of Saturday and Sunday, the post-weekend analysis and match reports on the Monday and Tuesday. And throughout, there's a healthy sprinkling of opinion pieces, meaningless statistics and hilarious jokes about the managers' faces.

The last Saints game was only on Sunday (I was there! The crazy pitch design! Rickie Lambert! The emotional lap of appreciation!), but I'm already feeling withdrawal symptoms.

I burned through the hundreds of 'season in review' articles, and now I'm frantically searching for football journalism. The content is drying up. I feel like a polar bear desperately struggling to maintain my footing on the rapidly melting sea ice.

Soon, I'll be reading about the Tunisian second division, or proposals to make the goal posts more matte.

And what will I do on my weekends now? The ball-glut is over.

This weekend, I'll have to make do with the FA Cup Final, the dramatic deciding game in La Liga, the German Cup Final and probably loads of other stuff. Slim, slim pickings.

I'll have to start doing things and making plans. It will be an ordeal. A vast desert of no football, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Or until the World Cup starts in less than a month. The eye can probably see that.

The World Cup may fill up my time, especially when there's three fixtures per day.

I'll be brave and will make do.

***

I came up with something hilarious in my sleep the other day. I do that a lot, as you might remember. As usual, the thing I came up with was only hilarious when I was in my sleep-state.

Half-awake, I thought: make sure to remember this. It's funny.

I did remember it.

It was this:

Good new band name: Sorbonne Monoxide.

See? That's terrible.

What does it mean? It's not close enough to 'carbon monoxide' and - even if it was - it makes no sense.

A band would have to be pretty low on ideas to agree to that.

A blogger would have to be pretty low on ideas to write about that.

***

The submarine was getting full.

"No more breeding," said the captain, in the mess one day.

"Yes, captain," said the men.

"Yes, captain," said the women.

But nothing changed. Three more babies were born that afternoon. When a senior officer questioned the triple influx, the mother claimed that two of them were "experimental torpedoes" and the other was the chaperone.

The captain, who had risen to that rank despite a strong aversion to confrontation, had notices printed and posted in every section. They read: "SERIOUSLY, NO MORE BREEDING. THE SUBMARINE IS GETTING FULL."

The message took a while to sink in. But eventually, the culture of constant breeding began to change, just as the submarine itself, slowly, gradually, altered its course.

Soon the submarine became less full. No more babies were produced, and a large number of corpses were jettisoned. 

Things were now pretty ruddy roomy. The badminton court was expanded to regulation size.

By the time the submarine surfaced, the crew were so used to wide-open spaces that they struggled with the confinement of life on dry land. Even the ones from Wyoming - which is technically even bigger than the submarine.

And that's how we won the war.

***

I had a muffin just now, baked by the fair hand of Lucy. She always bakes with the fair one. Her unfair hand is muffled in a dozen oven-gloves.

This blog post has been quite formless, unlike the muffin. I should have written it in a paper case.

Red

I don't think I'm easily annoyed.

Easily depressed, yes. Easily discouraged. Easily cowed. Easily deflated. Easily defeated. Yes, yes. All of those. But not easily annoyed. Not by most people's standards.

But today I am annoyed.

I've been thinking about getting back on Twitter. I changed my profile pic and everything. But today has reminded me of one of the reasons I left in the first place: endless tedious jokes on the same subject.

Today is Valentine's Day, so there has been a landslide of 'roses are red, violets are blue' variations.

I don't understand why people are doing them. They're all terrible, and they've all been done before.

Perhaps a joke is like a jazz standard, and people are just putting their own spin on it. Perhaps we can learn about the comedic thinking of a person by how they choose to deal with a certain framework. Perhaps originality comes not from form, but from...

No.

No, no, no.

They're terrible.

The 'roses are red' variation is the most basic, entry-level joke format in the world. It's something children do. All you need to do is find a word that rhymes with 'blue' and you've got a hilarious joke.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum poo

Depressing.

People realise this on Twitter, so they go for a postmodern version that doesn't rhyme, or is dark. It's a deconstruction of the trope.

Except for the fact that these clever meta versions account for NINETY-FIVE PERCENT of the tweets.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I got thrown out of the florist
For stating the obvious

Ahahahaha.

Ninety-five percent.

Are these people not seeing the same flood of jokes as I am? Are they not following the same people? Do they think they're being original? If not, why are they doing it? Do they just want to be part of something, like the people who watched Nelson Mandela's funeral?

And if that wasn't bad enough, you get a further billion tweets that are self-consciously mocking their own lack of originality.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Everyone else tweeted this
So I thought I might too

That's an extra step of self-awareness. Except that there are thousands of people doing that too.

EVERYONE HAS DONE YOUR JOKE, YOU IDIOT.

THEY DID IT FIRST, AND THEY DID IT BETTER.

BE ORIGINAL, YOU FUCK.

Then again, I also got annoyed when ordering clothes from Next online, so maybe I'm the one with the problem.

My obsession with originality is probably stifling my development as a writer.

Also, I don't really do any writing. That's stifling my development as a writer.

Jesus, Twitter.

It's like watching a group of animals eating, defecating, eating, regurgitating and lionising the same carcass. Let it fertilise the soil and move on to something else.

I don't know what that means.

I'm easily annoyed today.

Oh, also stop thinking you're funny by combining two current news stories into one joke. It's not as clever as you think it is. It's not even as clever as I think it is, and I think it's pretty fucking unclever.

That's right. Two fucks in the same blog post. 

"But Paul, you don't like to swear in your posts. I don't remember the last time you swore on the blog."

I don't like to swear. You're right. But I'm a terrible human being, and I'm being riled by all of the other human beings who don't realise how terrible they are.

Breathe.

***

I'm breathing.

***

OK.

I feel a bit more calm now. God bless Twitter. There are a lot of funny, informative and generous people on there.

I'm glad it exists.

Breathe.

I'm breathing.

I'm breathing.

Just so you know, I checked to make sure I hadn't done any 'roses are red' tweets. I was worried that I'd done loads of them. I probably started the whole derivative ball rolling, I thought.

How am I going to live this down?

But no. I'm valid. I'm really valid. I'm a valid man.

I did do some jokes about roses, though.

***

I got my girlfriend a baker's dozen red roses. He's furious.

***

There's no more romantic gesture than bundling your loved one into a hot air balloon whilst dressed as a dozen roses.

***

There. The first one's probably been done before, but not the second. Not the second.

I really am a terrible person.

A terrible, valid person.

If I was a clay pigeon, I wouldn't even take the trouble to shoot myself. I'd just leave me to fly into the woods and die of exposure.

No, I don't know.

I'm the problem, not you. Your rose joke is fine.

I'm breathing.

***

Looking forward to the weekend, everyone? I am!

Saints are on the telly, and I've got some sherbet lemons on the way.

I used to like them when I was a child, but then I went off sweets.

But a few weeks ago, I bought some on a whim, and I'm right back on the sherbet lemon train. I like to bite the end off and suck the sherbet out. Nothing wrong with that.

They do make me worry about my teeth, though. They must be ninety-five percent (NINETY-FIVE PERCENT) sugar. I think eating three sherbet lemons is equivalent to smashing out all your teeth with a hammer.

I'll just make sure that I cover my teeth in protective foil before eating them, like my dentist suggested.

Of course, it's not just football and sweets. I'm also going out on the town for a large drink or several with tha lads, perhaps! Wrecking up the town centre - rowdy as heck. Don't wait up, Baroness! I may be some time!

What am I talking about?

You see, this - THIS - is what happens when you put originality on a pedestal. Meaningless bullshit. That paragraph was better than a 'roses are red' joke, was it? No. Of course not.

I've just remembered a dream I had last night. I was on some television programme with Penn Jillette that was a nice, friendly, comedic conversation. But at the end, I just shouted "FUCK LIBERTARIANISM". It caused him some distress.

I think I apologised. We made up, maybe.

I also remember using the phrase: "I get the credit for the joke, you get the blame for the punchline!"

That's where I am now. I'm telling you about dreams I've had.

Nothing annoys me more than myself.

It's good to write these things down, though. It's good to publish them online. It's healthy.

I'll feel a lot calmer afterwards.

I need to relax. I'm all hopped-up on sherbet and righteous indignation. I like to bite the end off and suck the righteous indignation out. Nothing wrong with that.

I'm still breathing.

Oh God, it's Pancake Day in a few weeks. I dread to think of all of the terrible pancake puns people will write. If I have to read through them all, I think I might just...

flip.

...


...



***

And that was the end of the blog post.

You can stop breathing now.

The Golden Age of Hollywood

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Head Games

I just nearly signed off an email with an exclamation mark after my name.

Thanks,
Paul!

That would have been embarrassing.

I also nearly added a stick-man drawing of myself triumphantly shouting my own name.

Luckily, I check all emails seventy times before hitting the "sned" button. I've very thorough.

It's Red Nose Day today. In honour of this, I wrote the preceding sentence, and will put some change in a collection box, provided I pass one on the way home.

Oh great. Now that I've made the content of this post current (or "up-to-and-including-the-minute"), I have to finish this today. I can't just leave it for a few days and then just finish it when I have nothing else to do. If there's a power cut, for example.

I just read what I had so far. Fun fact: typing "sned" was an intentional error; writing "I've very thorough" was not. Sometimes I inhabit my comedy so much that I'm not sure where I end, and the big fake plastic nose, glasses and moustache begin.

Funfact: the fifth German act.

Ha! I might have tweeted that before. Or maybe I intended to, but thought that it needed more work. And an umlaut.

I have very high standards.

I dreamt a funny thing the other night. I thought it would be hilarious if I was a boxer, and my nickname was "The Most Sane Man in the World".

The humour comes from the fact that anyone with that nickname would seem insane. Anyone so insane as to have that nickname would be feared as a fighter.

It was a bit snappier in my dream, though. In my dream, I invented an adjective. It was something like "The World's Sanest Man".

Oh. Hang on.

Hang on just a minute.

"Sanest" is a real word?! Spell check says that it is!

That's really put the cat amongst the pigeons. It means that my unconscious mind has a better vocabulary than I do.

What about "saney"? No. That one's not real. "Sanest" it is.

I really can't believe it. Sanest.

Anyway, I think people would find it an intimidating name. Paul "The World's Sanest Man" Fung.

It would mean I was either insane (according to my initial inverted interpretation), or I actually am more sane than my opponent.

It raises interesting questions about the nature of sanity. The nickname suggests that there are degrees of sanity. All people lie somewhere on a sanity spectrum, ranging from Jack Nicholson's Shining character (John, I think his name was) at one end, to me at the other.

I'd be saner than people who considered themselves quite sane. I'd be on the top of the sanity tree. It's not a tree, it's a spectrum. It's just an analogy.

Would people's sanity fluctuate between more and less sanity, or would it be genetically predetermined? I'm not a doctor.

The alternative is that sane and insane are absolute values. One is either sane or insane. Linguistically, this seems to be the case. Insane is the opposite of sane. Just as invisible is the opposite of visible. Or intellectual is the opposite of tellectual.

It could be black and white. But not in a racist way. It could be the whites who are insane, Mr Presumption. Who's racist now? Or the Chinese. Let's not have any preconceptions.

Or maybe it's a combination of the spectrum and the absolute. After all, there are degrees of visibility. If one is invisible, she cannot be seen. But she might also be more or less visible, depending on whether or not her bathroom has frosted glass for example.

(I initially congratulated myself on using a female pronoun there, but those suggestions of voyeurism have made political correctness come back and bite me on my penis, which - and I can't stress this enough - is flaccid, confirming the nobility of my intentions.)

So some people might be more sane than others. But the insane people may be lacking in sanity altogether.

In any event, I'd be a great boxer.

I'd need to train and buy gloves, but success is 90% nickname.

***

I was asleep just now. It's later in the day. I just thought I'd relay a bit of dialogue I dreamed. My sleep-self's creativity isn't all nicknames.

Here it is. I think the first person is on holiday somewhere.

"This country is weird. Did you know that towels are at both number one and number two in the charts? Towels."

"What charts?"

*pause*
"I don't know. But they really seem to like towels here."

THAT COULD BE IN A PLAY.

Red Fog

Last night, I dreamt that I was supporting Mel Tormé in concert.

I was doing a few minutes of comedy to warm up the crowd before he came on.

I try not to talk about my dreams too much, but I thought I'd mention this one as it demonstrates the credulity of the unconscious person.

Because, whatever talent I may have for comedy, I think everyone would agree that this arrangement is indicative of an incredibly poorly-booked evening of entertainment.

There are several reasons for this.

1) The combination of comedy and music is not necessarily a bad one. Alternative comedy acts supported punk bands in the 80s, for example. But these acts at least had an overlap of demographics; perhaps even a philosophical similarity in the pursuit of their art. But I would imagine that the stark contrast between my hilarious sideways look at life and Tormé's melodious crooning would be quite jarring. Especially for the elderly.

2) Mel Tormé has been dead for thirteen years, hampering his range.

***

I wrote the above on Saturday.

I'd forgotten about both the dream and the blog post. I was probably going to go into more depth there. Two reasons are not "several reasons". I'm sure you can spot the other flaws in the booking for yourself. You don't need me to spell them out. Not all of them.

Ah, well.

My flies were undone earlier.

If I was in America, my fly would have been undone.

I don't know why we pluralise it and they don't. It's probably the same principle as the great math/maths divide. And trouser.

I'd been out doing glamorous things, like picking up a prescription and heading to the pharmacy (not necessarily in that order). I'd had friendly chats with people. I thought I was being quite the charming devil, making witty remarks, high-fiving a cycling policemen, helping a group of children crack a smuggling ring, buying a flower for a veteran.

But then I realised that I hadn't zipped up this morning. And my smug world collapsed like a house of cards that had seen a ghost.

The embarrassment wasn't the worst part. The worst part was having to re-evaluate my whole morning. What had seemed to be a pleasant jaunt became, in crystal clear retrospect, a farce. I wasn't charming, I wasn't witty, I wasn't suave. I was an oblivious oaf.

Everything I knew was wrong. It was like the end of The Usual Suspects.

My balls were Keyser Söze.

***

Another thing that happened to me today (if you're counting, that's two), is that I had to scan my passport for a boring legal purpose.

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like the uncle who Osama bin Laden was reluctant to invite to Christmas dinner, in case something nasty kicked off.

[Let's quickly break down the problems with that sentence. This time there actually will be several.

1. It's too long.
2. It's an obvious joke.
3. I could have said "I look like a terrorist" and it would have worked just as well.
4. It's clumsily expressed.
5. I should have made a more specific terrorist example, rather than "something nasty".
6. Muslims don't celebrate Christmas.
7. It's probably racist.

There are loads more. Mel Tormé will be turning in his grave.]

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like a terrorist.

[That's better.]

But the scanner wasn't great. Maybe I didn't push down the photocopier... lid... flap... thing far enough (no-one's ever accused me of working for Canon).

There wasn't enough light, so I went from "terrorist" to "mystery demon":

I hope the people at the Early Learning Centre don't object. I can't wait to harm some children.

Sorry, that should be help some children. I have a typing impediment.

***

To conclude this delightful blog trip to Planet Paul, I should tell you that I've signed up to do NaNoWriMo. I said I'd do it, and I have done it.

(National Novel Writing Month is where you attempt to write 50,000 words of fiction in one month. It will be a struggle.)

They say you should tell people about it, so that you'll be a public failure if you give up. Though they word it a little more positively than that.

But I don't want to tell people. I don't like talking to people for any reason.

I'm not going to tell people. Instead, I'm going to tell you.

So now you know.

If this subject never comes up again, it's because I gave up. Or have been killed in a paragliding/carbon monoxide conspiracy.

Here's my NaNoWriMo page:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/diamondbadger

For all I know, you may need to be a member to see it. I haven't provided details of my novel yet, because I still have NO IDEA what it will be about.

Ah, well.

Well.

Goodbye.

Attention to Detail

I dreamt up a clever joke yesterday. I dreamt it right up.

I was asleep in the evening, as part of my revolutionary approach to sleep scheduling, and I came up with what I thought would be a nice tweet. I only had the opening idea. It was something like:

A murmurer is only one letter away from a murderer. 

I thought of following it up with something like:

A prison pen pal programme would be beneficial to them both.

You see? The word "murmurer" is only one letter away from the word "murderer", but also the murmuring person could write a letter (the other kind of letter) to a murder in prison. There's a double meaning there.

I woke up, glad to have had a profitable period of unconsciousness. I tried to work out a snappy way of saying it. Perhaps the murmurer would prefer written communication because his verbal inarticulacy wouldn't be an issue. What would the murderer get out of it? Just some kind of companionship?

I thought about it for some time: honing, crafting, editing. I got close to posting it, and then I realised something.

A murmurer isn't only one letter away from a murderer.

A murmurer is only one letter away from a murdurer.

A murmurer is two letters away from a murderer.

I'd spent so much time patting myself on the back about transposing the 'm' into 'd', I had forgotten that the second 'u' would need to become an 'e'.

The whole thing fell apart, like a house of sand cards.

For a while, I tried to salvage it.

A murmurer is only two letters away from a murderer. If... perhaps one was sent to the warden to enquire about any lonely prisoners? And then the second letter could go to the murderer herself or something?

(People tend to assume murderers are men, but this is only true in a vast majority of cases. End sexism now. Accuse a female friend of murder.)

That's not really snappy enough, is it? It's a lost cause of a joke.

I should start being a bit more rigorous when looking at dream jokes. Dreams are often even less coherent than the waking me.

***

I bought a coat yesterday, before my evening nap (I find it difficult to shop in my sleep, because I keep forgetting my wallet).

It was the most brutally efficient shopping trip ever. It was a surgical strike of a purchase.

I went into a well-known high street clothing store, saw a coat I quite liked, tried it on quickly, and bought it. I didn't look around, I didn't go to any other shops, I didn't have to wait in line for ages.

[At this point in the anecdote, Paul realises that him buying a coat without difficulty is not impressive or even interesting to anyone. There has been a paucity of incident thus far. Some embellishment is required.]

But as I was leaving the shop, the alarm went off. A bored looking security guard came up to me and asked what was in my bag. I was polite. Too polite. I must have looked like I had something to hide.

I showed him the coat, and the receipt, and he (clearly uninterested) was about to let me go. But then he spotted something else in my bag. It was a gaudy picture frame, with disgusting fake diamonds round the edge. It had come from the 'Home' section of that very store. It wasn't listed on my receipt.

"Have you paid for this, sir?" he asked, reluctantly switching from comatose to Columbo.

I hadn't paid for it. I had never seen it before.

"I've never seen that before," I said. "I wasn't even in that section of the shop. I just wanted a coat."

"If you'd like to come with me sir," he said. He put his hand in the small of my back, guiding me back into the store.

At this point, instinct took over. I grabbed his wrist with my right hand and spun around, twisting his arm. I kicked him twice in the face, and then brought my foot above his head and sent an axe kick crashing down on the back of his neck.

He collapsed, motionless. A member of staff shouted "Oh my God!" and ran towards a phone. I didn't have time to consider my options. In one quick motion, I removed a key card from the unconscious guard's belt and threw it at the other staff member. It struck her and embedded itself right below the chin. A fountain of blood sprayed all over the reduced children's wear.

An elderly couple on the escalator looked on in horror. I considered pushing them down. You know - for fun.

But instead, I took my new coat out of my bag and put it on, picked up my lovely new picture frame, and ran off into the cold of the evening.

I couldn't feel the cold. It was a very warm coat. I vowed then and there to take a photo of myself wearing the coat, and to display it in the frame. As a memento.

I hopped on the bus and headed home, destined to dream of a murmurer. And things similar to that.

***

[Paul's embellishment was like something out of a bad novel. He considers deleting it. But... the coat anecdote definitely needed something. He's sure of THAT. A couple of interjections in the third-person would make everything OK. He thinks.]

Bill Bailey's Dream

Some quick optical illusions:

a pig at a distance

.

a tree in the shape of a question mark

?

many pies stacked behind a big 1

1

a white bracket (viewed from the inside)

Great. Now we're all relaxed, I can get cooking and cracking.

But I can't get crooking, or a judge might send me to an all-male prison.

I've been angry for most of today, and with no good reason. I'm generally not an angry person. I have quite a long temper. I try to avoid potentially angering situations. I don't watch the X-Factor. I don't have any children. I don't drink Rageade.

But sometimes the anger will find a way out. I can't express it easily. We don't have a punching bag in the office, and I don't like calling attention to myself with grunts or under-the-breath rants. I sometimes swear in a tweet, which is a clear sign of my mood. But I usually apologise, or brush it under the carpet with all the other profane dust.

I saw on the television programme QI that it might not be good to release your anger after all, as you come to associate it with feeling good.

So I'm blogging my way out of the mire. This is me letting off steam (amongst other things).

Here are some things that I HATE:

1) Air Jugglers - anyone can do that, you idiot
2) Those bins that have no bottoms - rubbish EVERYWHERE
3) Any television programme with an exclamation mark in the title
4) My "evil" finger
5) Cars with no compassion lights, or with broken compassion lights
6) An insulting statue of me on a friend's desk
7) Poison
8) This list
9) The fact that I've done similar lists before
10) The fact that in those lists, I've done similar meta-comments on how much I hate the lists before
11) Liszt

This blog post is like a parody of my own back: of interest to no-one but me, and annoying to everyone (including me). A back isn't even a worthy target for parody. Even mine, which can certainly be pompous at times. You're supposed to parody public figures, well known events or objects, ridiculous ideas.

You can't parody a back.

There isn't enough material to work with.

I mean, my back is big, but it doesn't have any elements that can be skewered (though of course literally it could and will be).

The front of the torso is much better. You could parody my front. I've got nipples and a belly button and some hair. My back is BORING.

Even if you did want to parody my back - what would it achieve?

It's not like my back plays a prominent role in public life. There aren't a bunch of po-faced back enthusiasts that need taking down a peg or two. No-one cares about my back.

A parody of my back is FUCKING POINTLESS. Even John Culshaw wouldn't go near it.

Anyway, that's what this blog post is like. It's also discussing what it's like, which is terrible.

This blog post - this one right here - is why the world is the way it is. This blog post is the ruin of civilisation. The fact that valuable time and valuable bandwidth is being taken up by this is an insult to everyone who has ever died in a war or branch of PC World.

I mean, what was that whole 'back' thing about? Even I don't know. And I'm the one writing this. If I don't understand it, why would ANYONE find this interesting. Why?

I hate what's happening. I hate it, but I can't stop it. Because I'm angry. And I'm a masochist. And this is my punching bag.

And I'm going to post this. Even though it's embarrassing. I don't have to. I could just delete it. But I'm not going to. Why? I wouldn't invite you to watch me work out, would I? I wouldn't invite you to peer at me whilst I'm pounding the heavy bag.

But you're looking at this. Are you happy? You make me sick.

I've made you sick, and now you're sick, which is making me sick. I'm sick of both of us, but especially you.

But especially me.

***

It's later now. I'm more tired, but less angry.

I am going to post this. I am. But maybe I'll try to add some value to it before doing so. I don't like the idea of wasting your time in this way. I like to waste it in new and different ways.

I wonder how long I'll be writing this blog for. Will I be doing similar lists/list complaints in twenty years? That would either be good or sad or both.

I'll come back later. Things will be different then. My hair will be slightly longer.

***

It's much later now. We walked home and I bought some chicken kievs because of indecision.

The spell-check wants me to capitalise "kievs", but I won't.

I went to sleep for an hour and a half and now I feel... not better necessarily. But not worse. And it probably takes a while to get normal after being asleep.

I had strange dreams.

Actually, that's not true. They were standard for dreams.

Today, the comedian Bill Bailey tweeted:

Had strange dream about sleeping in a field that was inside a house..i only had a bit of cheese last night.

That's not that strange, is it Bill? By the standard of dreams, I mean.

Most of Bill Bailey's real-life experiences are stranger than that.

People always tell you their dreams are strange, but that's just what dreams are. It's not notable if they're strange. It's like someone excitedly telling you that they had a round orange.

So when I was asleep just now, I had dreams. Which were strange, as you'd expect, being dreams.

I was asleep just now and had a series of tautologies.

But some of them actually made sense. Occasionally, my unconscious self comes up with some good material. And if you go back and read the early part of this blog - something I am NOT going to do - you might think my creative faculties are only impeded by me being awake.

I dreamt a comic strip of a pair of Hardy Boys-style child detectives called The Nazi Twins. At one stage, they got tied up, but were able to escape because their arms were so strong from all the Heiling.

I doubt that could happen in real life. But it was a fictional comic strip, in a dream, so isn't confined by natural laws or arm physics.

I'm cold now. I might have a shower. Wash the day off myself. And scrub the more pernicious minutes off with some kind of time brush, or hour scourer.

***

It's later now.

It would be weird if it was suddenly earlier. I suppose I could have written this at lunchtime, and just put all that other stuff about dreams and Nazis in later.

Though me mentioning it now screws up the chronology.

Maybe I wrote all of this in 2008. Is there anything that would make that impossible?

The Bill Bailey tweet, I suppose. Of course, he could be in on it.

And that thing I saw on QI. But Bill Bailey's on that too. It would certainly be a long term strategy, and would yield insignificant fruit.

I probably am writing this now. It is later. And is even later than when I first said it was.

I feel better now. I've got some kiev inside me. (I've eaten it - there's no funny business)

I should probably draw this to a close.

Ha. I drew those words. There was a double meaning.

Anyway, sorry about all this. I hope you've found something in here to have made it worthwhile.

Quick Wordstack

This is going to be a short one, but I need to do something to push that image of me looking naked and crazed a little further down the page.

How is everyone? Good, good.

I've been unable to relax for sometime, due to external pressures and internal neuroses, and yet it's Monday morning. (Do the days of the week start with capital letters? Frankly, there's no time to look it up).

(I don't care about bracket and punctuation positioning. I have to write how I feel it should go.):^!

You know what's a good video? This one:



It's half past one in the morning, but my body clock is all out of whack. I think it may have been over-wound.

That's wound as in winding.

Not wound as in wounded.

My body clock is not wounded. It's wound. Over-wound.

But enough of this weird stuff. I've been doing too many odd posts lately, so let's bring it back to the land of normal speech.

Miners, eh? They certainly did be in a hole for a time.

Last night I dreamt that Gok Wan was a big fan of ECW.

That's Extreme Championship Wrestling, the violent and rebellious Philadelphia-based independent wrestling company of the mid-90s.

I don't know if Gok Wan is a fan of them. He might be. But I would imagine not.

In my dream, he said that seeing ECW, a small family-run business, succeed was what inspired him to create his own business.

Which is weird for two reasons:
1) Gok Wan doesn't have a business
2) ECW was legendarily badly-run. As I wittily said to someone in my dream: "Watching ECW and being inspired to run a business is like watching the JFK assassination and being inspired to be President"

My quip doesn't make a lot of sense, but keep in mind I was in my own dream when I said it, and the whole exchange is surprisingly cogent for an unconscious man.

When I was not asleep (or "awake"), I came up with a similarly not-quite-right bit of dialogue.

It's between me and an American. The American is probably my boss.

American: Oh I get it! Trying to play hardball, huh?

Me: No. God, no. I'm not trying to play hardball. I would never try to play hardball. I don't even know what hardball is. I'm British. We don't have hardball over here.

We play rounders.

All I need now is to surround that exchange with some plot and characters and I might as well start building my own Oscar-nook (which isn't a euphemism).

My anti-virus software keeps popping up to tell me of some kind of threat. I don't want my computer to be infected. It's already so slow and loud that an infection might finish it off for good.

You know what's a good Hula Hoops advert? This one:



The past was weird.

The future will be weird.

The only thing sane is this sentence, and even that will be weird by the time I've finished itttTTTTT.

Linear time gives me a headache and makes my body clock unfurl like a Cheestring towed by a motorboat.

The Comedy Snore (oh, I can't use that, can I?)

Oh yeah, I've remembered something I was going to write about. I could just edit the previous entry, but this way I can bump up my post total for June. I enjoy bending the rules, even if they're entirely arbitrary ones that I've invented, and no-one else cares about.

I may have written before about coming up with jokes or ideas in my dreams that seem really funny at the time, but turn out to be... not.

Some of them make sense, but aren't funny. And some are completely nonsensical.

A couple of weeks ago, I dreamt an amusing quip! It was well received in the dream-world. All the other people in the room (in my dream) thought it was funny. Consciousness proved that to be false. The quip was as follows:

A friend of mine asked me: "Who's your favourite person in The Lord of the Rings?"

And I, with a Wildean flourish, replied: "The projectionist, when he turned off the film at the end!"

This is an example of a joke that makes sense, but isn't funny. It presents a few problems:

1) I would have had to stay until the end of the credits for the film to be turned off
2) The same projectionist would have started the film - thus being my enemy
3) I don't even know if they have projectionists nowadays. It might be done by computers.

It might have worked if the projectionist had turned off the film in the middle. That way he would have cut my punishment short. But that would just be a lie.

"My favourite person? The projectionist when he turned off the film in the middle!"
"He turned it off in the middle? Why? Was there a problem? Did he get fired?"
"He... I.... *sob* It didn't happen, alright! I just don't like the film!"

And that is no quip.

That was one example of a dream-joke that was not wake-funny.

Last night, I came up with another one. This was a bit different. I woke up from the dream, and thought it was funny. Even in that state, I was consciously thinking: "I know most of my dream-jokes are rubbish, but this one is legitimately good. I'll have to remember it."

I even wished I had a pad of paper on my bedside table; so worried was I that this nugget of genius would be lost on its way down the wooden hill from Bedfordshire (even though we don't have stairs).

This was a real joke. A rare diamond. And here it is:

If you're ever about to get a blowjob from a horse, remember to hold your penis flat on your palm, so your fingers don't get bitten off.

Hilarious, I think you'll agree.

I like this joke for various reasons.

Firstly, it doesn't really make any sense. It's based on a piece of advice I heard as a child (which obviously stuck with me), that when feeding a horse, you need to keep the food on your upturned palm, rather than holding it in your fingers. I suppose the image of having your fingers bitten off by a horse was a vivid one for a young child.

Secondly, it implies that the penis would need to be held in that situation. Why would you need to hold it? It's already attached to the body.

Thirdly, I just like the opening to the joke: "If you're ever about to get a blowjob from a horse..." I like that my dreaming brain assumed this was a perfectly ordinary premise, that needed no further explanation. It just leaps right in there. Any joke that starts with that gambit is bound to be successful.

Finally, I like that, for the punchline to work, you need to navigate your way through all the above nonsensical elements, to the very small window of humour: ie. it's funny to worry about your fingers when you're about to put your cock in the horse's mouth. That's the only way it can be considered a joke.

It's funny that I believed this to be a legitimate joke in the middle of the night. But I suppose there are no rules at that time. The God of Appropriate, Coherent Comedy is all tucked up in his bed (made of banana peels and a big whoopee cushion).

I'll continue to report on my dream-jokes. At this rate, I'll have a whole dream-routine, ready for this summer's dream-Edinburgh Fringe.

I might win the If.Comedy award for best nocturnal performance (as long as those blasted owls don't come back this year).

Paul & Co

I turned everything off at the wall, and only afterwards realised I'd have to re-set the video clock. It serves me right for still sticking with VHS. It's pointless nostalgia. I don't keep a mangle in the house, for Christ's sake.

I'd allotted too much preparation time, and so had to sit on the sofa in my suit-jacket and uncomfortable shoes for five pointless minutes, watching the clock. When the time came, I realised I needed to go to the toilet, so was late leaving the flat anyway.

On my way to the bus stop, I stubbed my toe on a loose paving slab. There wasn't anyone around, at least not that I could see, so I didn't bother pantomiming amusement at my clumsiness and just looked pissed off and annoyed.

The song I was listening to on my iPod had loads of sound effects in it: sirens, rain, wind; I kept thinking it was happening in real life. Even the screaming.

It was only when I got to the bus stop that I realised that none of the above had actually happened. I looked at the electronic bus timetable board, and it was all gibberish. I heard once that you can tell if you're in a dream, because you won't be able to read anything. I'm not sure if that's true, as I'm sure I have read things in dreams, but nevertheless I couldn't read the bus timetable.

And indeed the events of the day were entirely fictional. I hadn't left the house or put on a suit, or thought about these things until just now when I wrote them. I came to the conclusion (in the future - hence the past tense) that I'd wasted my time on something that won't be interesting and profound tomorrow, but will just be nonsensical and annoying.

Another sign that you're dreaming is an inability to vary light-levels. I found that out in a Richard Linklater film called Waking Life. You're supposed to go to a light switch, and if pressing it makes no difference, you're in a dream.

The film was pretty interesting. When I saw it, I was under the influence of certain intoxicants, which may have aided my enjoyment. What it captured particularly well was those dreams where you keep thinking you've woken up, but are actually still asleep. For a moment, you think the dream is over, but then you realise everything is weird.

The film uses cool cartoon/live action effects like the later A Scanner Darkly, and it is a success. I don't know if it would work as entertainment if I was sober, but I'd like to see it again.

Lucid dreaming is pretty enjoyable. I'd like to do it more often. Lucy says she can never have lucid dreams (or more accurately, she never does have them - my original statement made it sound like she was constrained by a court order or something). It seems that an ideal scenario would be total control of your dreams. You could live in paradise.

Even if your 'real' life was shit, you could just treat the dream world as your most important life. All you'd need to do would be make sure the 'real' you has a bed to sleep in, so you're not interrupted.

I've always liked the idea of sharing dreams with people, so you can talk to them when awake or asleeep. I suppose I'm thinking of the cartoon Potsworth & Co (which incredibly doesn't seem to have a wikipedia entry). But at least Youtube hasn't let me down:



What a world it would be...

I'm not crazy about the nightmare guy, but it would be worth it if I could talk to my dog.

Walk The Plank

I had a job interview on Tuesday at the English Faculty at Oxford University. I'm no good with interviews, and have had little practice, being a flaky temp for most of my working life.

The night before I kept dreaming about it. I'd dream that I'd got up and was heading to the interview, then wake up and realise I was still in bed. I don't know why I was so nervous. I didn't think I was. Perhaps my subconscious was making up for my superficial malaise.

The interview was fine in the end, even though I felt over-dressed in my (not really a) suit and tie. But they said they'd try and contact me that afternoon.

And I still haven't heard anything. That can't be a good sign, can it?

I hope it isn't, because this is like every other job prospect in my life. I've never applied for a job hoping I would get it. Just like George Costanza, I've never had a meeting where I wanted the other guy to show up.

I hope I never hear from them. At the moment I'm in a pleasant limbo where I've done all I can, but don't have to move on to the next bit of torture yet.

***

We went to see Juno today, so it's time for another film review!

It was good. Very good. But not amazing.

It's not the film's fault, but when you hear five-star reviews and Oscar-buzz, it builds up your expectations unfairly.

It was a charming film, full of good performances. I'm glad I went. But I wasn't blown away. I still recommend it though.

Before the film, we were bombarded by the usual anti-piracy ads. They're getting more and more forceful. We can't buy pirate videos, we aren't allowed to record the film, we can't download films.

The film companies are like cornered animals: spitting, growling, desperate.

I think in the not too distant future, we won't even be able to retain any memories of the film. After all, it's a kind-of recording, isn't it? Recording into our memory banks?

They'll have to play some brainwashing message at the end of the film, wiping our memories clean, so we can't go around telling people what happened (verbal piracy) or reminiscing about the plot (nostalgic piracy). We won't know we've been brainwashed, we just can't call any of the details of the film to mind.

Of course, it would mean mandatory searches on the way out of the cinema, to check people haven't written anything down about the plot. Otherwise the audience could write notes to their future selves, on post-its or scratched into their skin with razorblades. No knowledge of the film can escape the theatre.

(Except one brave patron might succeed in smuggling some paper in under their tongues, make notes during the film, then secrete it in a plastic bag up their own arse. Then, desperate and blank-minded, retrieve it at a later time and marvel at the plot points of Miss Congenialty 2: Armed and Fabulous. And the totalitarian obelisk would fall. Knowledge is power. And knowing the cool bits in films is... probably something comparable)

It could save the movie studios loads of money in the long run. They could just play the same film each time, and we wouldn't know. They wouldn't even need to play a film; just two hours of blank screen. And we'd leave, not remembering the details, but thinking the movie was alright, ok, pretty good I guess.

But that would rely on the audience staying for the full two hours. Which probably wouldn't happen, unless the cinema was full of pretentious art-film lovers who would laugh and nudge their companions knowingly after every ten minutes of fuck all.

For the masses, you'd need something to keep their attention. How about, just as they're tiring and starting to leave, you just flash an image of a tiger onto the screen. Just briefly. Then they'd sit down, thinking you were building to something.

But the only thing you're building to is a slave state, where mind-control saves millions of film-making money, and necessitates only a couple of stock tiger-shots to satisfy the desires of the public.

Pretty shocking, isn't it?

Well, what if I was to tell you that it's already happening. In cinemas all over the world, this practice is in effect. Do you remember what happened in Cloverfield? Do you? Any of the details? No.

"Something... I remember something... I see... orange and black stripes... and a proud, feline visage... and a voice telling me it's all okay, nothing important happening here... the film was alright, ok, pretty good I guess... and then... nothing."

Nothing.

Mark my words, we're losing the fight.

I will be taking razorblades on my next cinema visit. Will you?

No Man's Land

Oh dear. This is only my second post of the year. At this rate, I'll struggle to match the high standards of 2007 (in terms of quantity rather than quality). I'll do my best to be more frequent, even if it's only to write about tedious dreams I've had.

Last night, for example, I had a dream that George W Bush came to our house and was very friendly and charming. Pretty interesting, I think you'll agree.

The trouble is, I feel like my life is on hold until we graduate and then move back to Oxford on the same weekend. So I find myself not doing very much. Except watching Japanese wrestling and eating scotch eggs, which, no matter how you look at it, isn't the most productive way to spend my time.

However, this will hopefully change soon, as I've just had some software delivered that will allow me to make my own podcasts. It's a pretty simple programme, but it comes with a cool free microphone! I've managed to record some shitty guitar and some shitty vocals, and soon I'll be able to put together a fully formed audio turd!

If I ever produce anything worth listening to, I'll link to it here. I might have to invent a myspace alter-ego. I just need to think of a good name. Anyway, I'm sure when I've produced something, I'll get my own TV show pretty quickly. Everyone who's posted something of the internet has made loads of money, right?

I might invent autobiography extracts to read out, or put together adventures featuring some of my old favourites like Ging Gu, the Khaki Dynamo and Freddy Lee Accessible.

Of course, I won't do any of things. I'll just watch some more Hustle and eat another scotch egg.

Maybe I can just record that? If toothless, badass, kick-your-head-in, veteran wrestler Toshiaki Kawada is singing, it might be worth a listen:

He came unto me

I had a very powerful dream last night.

Generally, I find hearing about other people's dreams really tedious. Mark Lamarr did a good stand-up bit about the kind of people that think the thoughts in their heads are of any interest to anyone else. ("And they always say the same thing: 'But this one's a really good one!'")

But, as writing a blog is essentially an exercise in self-indulgent masturbation (as opposed to heroic masturbation for the greater good), I thought I'd write about it.

I think it came as a result of reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and bombarding myself with religious ideas. I've spoken about religion quite a bit here recently.

Anyway, the dream was long and convoluted and distressing, and at the end of various meaningless bullshit, I found myself in a church.

I'd accidentally wondered in there, away from a talk on wrestling in another room: indy wrestler Chris Hero giving a talk about blading (cutting yourself open to draw blood). If you know Chris Hero (and I'm 100% sure you don't) the idea of him giving a presentation, perhaps with accompanying PowerPoint slides, is a good one.

So, I was in the church, and it seemed to be a Catholic ceremony (lots of Latin) and loads of people from my school were there. I was getting distressed by the service, and they were all bored by it and started giving the priest the 'slow clap' of contempt. I felt, even though I didn't want to be there, that we should be a bit more polite.

Anyway, the crux of the dream was that after all my nightmare tribulations, I tried to leave the church, but was overcome by a fit of despair and began to weep. I was right at the front of the church, overcome by sobbing.

Although I was weeping because of the situation (or because it was a stupid dream) I became terrified that the priest (who was Dax from Deep Space Nine, but that's not important) would think that I was having some kind of spiritual epiphany or revelation. Not only that, but I was afraid I WAS having something like that. I looked into the face of the statue of Jesus and was really afraid. Luckily he didn't wink or spit or anything.

So then I woke up.

Possible interpretations:

- a simultaneous respect and disdain for organised religion
- a fear of the existence of God
- a determination to hold fast in my atheism
- Terry Farrell is really God

If I was religious, I'd probably think the vividness (vividity?) of the dream meant it was a message from God. He sometimes speaks to people in dreams, apparently. Of course Chris Hero also spoke to me in a dream, so I don't know what to believe.

I've been having loads of long and densely symbolic dreams lately (dont worry, I won't write about them anymore). I don't know why. Maybe I should stop swallowing an Edam whole before going to bed.

And a whole Eagle at lunch.

***

To appease the Almighty, I'll engage in some Christmas activity.

Paul's Christmas Wish List:

A Nintendo Wii (I know you can't find them anywhere, but I'm dying to play Super Mario Galaxy. Maybe I'll steal one...)
World Peace
An end to famine
Socks
Pyramint
A secret underground cave full of cushions and high-end electronic equipment
A tiger cub
For Santa to NOT fulfil this list (Paradox! Paradox!)
A really tall hat with a snake inside

I'm rubbing my hands with anticipation.

Well, I say hands...

Pimposition

Sometimes in a dream, or in the state of half-awakeness, I come up with a joke or an idea that seems really profound and interesting, but when I think about it in the sober light of day, it doesn't make much sense. Take last night's example:

"If they were Generation X, and they were Generation Y, are we Generation ZZZZZZZZZZZ?

No wonder I'm so fucking tired."

I don't really know what it means. All I know is even the idea had that italicisation, which probably means I'm controlled by the age of computers or something.

***

I'm a big fan of hip-hop music. In addition to liking the kind of backpack, Guardian-reader, right-on stuff (A Tribe Called Quest, Jurassic 5, De La Soul, etc), I also like the other stuff. I used to listen to a lot of Gangsta Rap and stuff too.

It raises the question of whether you can appreciate art if it seems morally or politically abhorent to you. A lot of rap music is disgustingly homophobic and misogynistic (and violent, but I don't really care about that). Does this mean I shouldn't enjoy it? Should I likewise reject the works of Wagner?

To be honest, I can't be bothered to go into it now. I probably believe good art is good art regardless of its ethical implications, but whatever.

What I really want to talk about is a particular aspect of Hip-Hop culture: the glorification of the pimp.

Now I know the word has altered its meaning. To pimp is now to promote. In common usage, it has spawned the Pimp That Snack and can be used in new and interesting ways. As a wrestling fan, it is now commonplace to hear someone asking for a site to 'pimp some 70s Dory Funk' which sounds like another language.

But pimp as occupation still seems to be revered. People like Snoop Dogg and 50 Cent (the least charasmatic, most overrated piece of shit in the world) dress like pimps, talk about their ho's (I don't know, is that right? maybe hoes), and wear big furry hats and canes which Kramer should have made uncool fifteen years ago.

Well done, lads. There's nothing better than selling women into sexual slavery. Let's have a party to celebrate! Those pimps, they're the model for a good lifestyle. They have money! They're good businessmen! Did I mention the hats?

Being proud of a horrific profession is one thing, but there is an extra layer of hypocrisy on top of the furry cake:

Hip-Hop comes from a long tradition of black music stemming from blues songs as an attempt to rebel against prejudice and slavery. This kind of music is a voice of protest and passion, letting the world know that freedom is attainable.

So it seems to be a fucking shame that these rappers who would (I'm sure) extoll the virtues of the heroic struggle against slavery, advocate a modern slavery. They have no idea, and they're so fucking proud of themselves!

But you don't really notice it. It's just accepted. Everyone just hates 50 Cent for other reasons. Anyway, I thought I should mention it. Maybe I'll release a joint of my own, criticising pimps and praising the humble librarian. Word.

[The preceeding comments make me sound really uncool. In reality, I'm slightly less uncool than they suggest.]

I'm probably a hypocrite because I'm in favour of legalising and regulating prostitution anyway, so don't listen to me.

***

I sometimes save good emails and conversations I've had online, and might reproduce some of them here to make up for my lack of ideas. Correspondence from when Lucy and I were both working at OUP has lots of fun, work-avoiding nuggets, which I'll hand pick. For now, here is a very short story I must have written when bored one morning. This makes about as much sense as my Generation Z comment above, but I'll post it anyway. I have a feeling Philip Hensher would hate it. Which makes me feel a little fuzzy inside:

At the party, the milling of several dozen semi-sensible professionals ensured that Arnold would remain in his self imposed exile in the far corner, lest some insensitive, blundering middle-manager mark Arnold out as a kindred spirit, having (as was perfectly possible) a similar mobile phone ringtone.
Arnold’s worry (well, not worry exactly, as his brow resolutely refused to kowtow to the social convention and physical oppression of a frown) was unjustified, however, as the attention of the room was captured by a small child, bouncing on the lap of a particularly pliable house-guest. The child resembled (so Arnold thought) a slightly disabled baby bear, with ideas above its station. The glowing smiles and pointedly jovial laughter of the surrounding Punch-and-Judy family friends caused a slight downturn of Arnold’s lip. He remembered when he had been the centre of idiotic attention as a baby bear; searching for honey, or fish… or whatever it is baby bears search for. On reflection though, Arnold reasoned that the adult faculties of intelligent conversation and self gratification more than outweighed the benefits of having someone change your nappy and bounce you on their bony, khaki-covered neo-liberal knee.
Looking for an out, Arnold turned to the woman nearest him (to whom he had been introduced by his narcoleptic, manic-depressive accountant Andy some three months previous). He was no good at instigating conversations, so asked her if she thought the scar on his forehead looked like a question mark. Nonplussed at her response that it looked to her more like “a duck doing a shit”, Arnold turned and ran head-first through a plate-glass window.

That was written nearly two years ago, which is freaking me out a bit. I'd better go and lie down (have a wank).