Idiot

I like The Idiot.

But enough about [YOUR NAME HERE]!

No, but seriously, folks..

I like the book The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Maybe you've heard of it?

For Christmas, I got a DVD of Akira Kurosawa's film adaptation from 1951.

It's pretty faithful, but apparently there was loads of stuff cut out of it, so it's a bit choppy. This version is 165 minutes long, but the original version was 265 minutes. That's pretty long. A minute for every day of a madman's year.

The original version is lost in a warehouse somewhere.

I liked this version, though. He seemed to 'get' the characters, which is the main thing.

Toshiro Mifune is in it. You might remember him from a billion other Kurosawa films. He's great.

Anyway, there's a scene in the film where Mifune looks incredible. I think the film is set in contemporary Japan, but I can't work out what he's wearing.

I have a theory that Kurosawa, or Mifune, or the wardrobe department, had a weird premonition of all male pop culture icons of second half of the twentieth century and amalgamated them into one bloke.

He's wearing a dressing gown - I'm not sure if it's a normal kimono - and his hair is all quiffed-up.

He looks like ALL of the following:
Elvis Presley
Clint Eastwood (who ended up pretty much playing Mifune in A Fistful of Dollars - a remake of Yojimbo)
Arnold Schwarzenegger
Wolverine (who's pretty entrenched in Japanese culture)
Harrison Ford
Bruce Lee
Al Pacino
John Travolta
James Bond (who loves dressing gowns)
Tom Selleck
Sylvester Stallone

And this is 1951, remember.

I think Mifune was an early choice to play Obi-Wan Kenobi (George Lucas loved him), so he has that going for him too.

Pretty impressive.

Anyway, here's a picture:

Yes, maybe I oversold it. It's possible. But it seemed like an interesting insight.

I have too much insight. And there's no hope insight. I think that's the saying.

There's no hope in sight.

There's no hope in insight.

There's no hope in insight in sight.

There's no hope in sight of insight inside.

***

The word "insight" looks weird to me now.

(in)sigh(t)

Under The Hood

I bought a waterproof coat yesterday.

The process wasn't quite as efficient and violent as the last time I bought a coat.

I've just re-read that post, and was very pleased with this line:

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

I don't buy coats very often, but I was compelled by the warm, rainy weather to make the purchase.

My main coat is an excellent garment, but it is very thick and heavy. Much like myself. In the winter, this is a positive boon. But in summer, the girth of the item becomes a burden. I get hot very quickly, and so have to carry the coat around. It weighs approximately the same as a massive snake, and it just as cumbersome to hold.

I wanted something thin and waterproof. I found it in one of those shops that sells waterproof everything, tents, hiking boots and hats with flaps.

I tried it on right there in the shop. It felt indecent somehow. Changing clothes is usually an intimate operation. Of course, I was only taking off one jacket and putting on another, but it still felt illicit. My resultant erection compounded things.

Ahahaha. Jokes. We all like them, even those of us whose families were murdered by Bob Monkhouse.

Anyway, I bought the coat. Now I look even more like a middle-aged man. Only the middle-aged are concerned about being wet. Waterproofing is no concern of the young. Young people welcome the rain. It nourishes their firm skin, and lubricates them for going down slides.

Old people fear the water. They know that aged skin absorbs water like a wrinkly sponge, and we're at risk of drowning, or - at best - drowning slightly faster.

Over the next ten years, I'm going to completely waterproof my entire body. Even my tear ducts. Death comes in on a boat. Parch yourself. Become an island. A slippery, slippery island; dry as a bone; safe from invasion.

Millets will save us.

***

I had to touch my eyeball the other day. I could see an eyelash in there. It wasn't causing me any discomfort, and I probably wouldn't have even noticed it if I hadn't been staring into my own beautiful eyes.

But I couldn't just leave it there. Once you know there's an eyelash in your eye, you can't unknow it. The genie is out of the bottle. The ship has sailed. The bridge is burned. You have to get it out of there.

The trouble is that eyeballs are moist, and so the lash gets stuck. I tried to just brush or rub it out of there, but no dice.

I thought about using a tool of some kind (tweezers, cotton bud, etc), but that seemed dangerous. So I decided to use my finger.

I've never worn contact lenses, so it was something of a novelty for me. It's actually quite easy to touch your own eyeball, as long as you avoid the pupil. I finally managed to get the lash, but not without a lot of prodding. My eyeball felt weird, but the problem was solved.

Except a new problem presented itself. The lash was now stuck to my finger. It wasn't causing me any discomfort, and I probably wouldn't have even noticed it if I hadn't been staring at my own beautiful finger.

But I couldn't just leave it there. Once you know there's an eyelash on your finger you can't unknow it. The die is cast. The cheque has been written. The prophesy has been made, and stored in a snow globe. You have to get it off there.

The trouble is that eyeballs are moist, and so my finger (which had touched the eyeball) was also moist. So the lash got stuck. I tried to just brush or rub it off there, but no dice.

I thought about using a tool of some kind (chopstick, bookmark, etc), but that seemed dangerous. So I decided to use my eyeball.

I've never used my eyeball as an tool, so it was something of a novelty. It's actually quite easy to touch your own finger with your eyeball, as long as you avoid the jagged nail. I finally managed to get the lash, but not without a lot of crying. My finger felt weird, but the problem was solved.

Except a new problem presented itself. I am now legally blind.

***

I'm trying to get the word 'anecdotalist' added to my business cards, but the printer has run out of vowels.

Better The Drivel You Know

I'm a vain man, so I've been going over old reviews of my stand-up. It's not just because I want to pat myself on the trumpet; this is a marketing exercise. Now, when I do future gigs, I can point to this page.

I won't link to this page. I'll point to it.

I think this is the best I can come up with.

"gruffly brilliant" - The Londonist

"cuttingly comic observations" - Oxford Theatre Review

"confident and polished material" - Oxford Theatre Review

"confident and cool, he's the type of comic you want to befriend, whilst simultaneously making you hate yourself" - Cherwell.org

I think I'll get rid of the third one. You don't want two reviews from the same source, unless they're both from the Guardian or Terry Jones. Also, they both begin with "confident" which is repetitive and inaccurate.

The last one is clearly the best, even if it might not be totally grammatically accurate.

***

I'm wearing slippers. Slippers are the future, my friends. They're warmer than socks, but not as constrictive. You can answer the door in slippers. Admittedly, you'll lose a lot of respect from the postman.

"What are you doing here?" he'll say. "And how did you open my front door? It was locked!"

"I made a key!" you'll say, in your slippers. "How about a taste of your own medicine?"

Then you'll give him his mail.

***

In an attempt to keep my momentum going, I'm not going to dwell in any one area for too long.

Here are some words that you see a lot on message boards and comment sections. They tell you a lot about the person writing them.

Dross

If someone describes something as "dross", they invariably have terrible taste.

Drivel

Ditto.

Asinine

People use this term to make themselves sound intelligent, but the only people who use it are desperately insecure about their ability to understand things.

Naff

Using the word 'naff'' is naff, and it was so even back in the early nineties.

Puerile

Nobody with even an ounce of imagination or joy has ever criticised something by saying it is "puerile". It's a term that ten-year-olds use to show their superiority to nine-year-olds.

There are probably more that I'm forgetting. This is important work.

***

FOOTBALL'S ON TONIGHT!

COME ON YOU REDS!

SOUTHAMPTON FOOTBALL CLUB!

COME ON THE GOAL KICKERS!

LET'S BE UP IN DEM DROP-BALLS, YO!

One of Southampton's (many) bright young stars is James Ward-Prowse. He's good at taking free-kicks.

His name is good for chanting. I'd particularly like to hear his name sung to Our House by Madness ("in the middle of our team" perhaps?). This tune was previously used for defender Claus Lundekvam back in the day, so it's a definite possibility.

An outside choice would be the Mighty Mouse theme song (immortalised by Andy Kaufman). It would be a bit complicated. But if he ever won us a game, he genuinely would have saved the day.

But the one I always get stuck in my head is the Simon & Garfunkel song So Long Frank Lloyd Wright.

"So long, James Ward-Prowse..."

It's not ideally suited to a football chant. Chants aren't normally so... wistful. If the Northam stand started singing that, I think the whole team would just feel a bit melancholy. It's not a good motivator.

Also, there's a flute in it. You'd need to have a section of the crowd with flutes, which could be hazards if thrown on to the pitch.

Even if the words were changed to "come on, James Ward-Prowse", I can't see it catching on anywhere beyond my flat.

***

My legs are cold. The slippers can only do so much. I'm going to have to take off some of these ice packs.

It's difficult to know when to finish a blog post. If I force myself to keep writing, I might come up with something amazing. On the other hand, it is my day off. I should be winding down. Genius is exhausting. If I come up with something amazing, I'll be feeling it tomorrow.

It's best to go now. Keep your powder dry, as the coke dealer said to the captain of The Titanic.

Though we all know how that turned out...

Free Verse

When it is my time to go

I'd like

To be shot by a blind sniper

The odds are not in my favour

But

It would be some consolation

For my widow

To be able to say I was

Literally

One in a million

When it is my time to go

I'd like

To be shot by a blind sniper

To be the exception

That greases the wheels of probability

And makes the sniper smile

When he hears about it

Later

On the news

To be shot by a blind sniper

To be needed

To square the circle

And to never know

***

Pretty moving stuff. Things are always moving if you align them properly.

I'm wearing my new shoes. They seem a bit tight.

My last ones were falling apart. The right shoe had an open toe. It was the kind of shoe you might find on the caricature of a mid-twentieth century hobo. My right foot kept getting wet and cold, so I took tentative steps and then serious steps to avoid having to take them.

They seem a bit tight. But they're preferable. On the way into work yesterday, I had to keep picking dead leaves out of the toe-end. My shoe was trying to swallow them. It was like Hungry Hungry Hippos, but less frantic and more mulchy.

It's better to have sealed toes. I'm terribly ashamed of them.

Scored

No. Stay awake. Keep talking.

Don't close your eyes. Hey!

You'll be OK, do you understand me?

Talk to me.

Who's your favourite Beatle Boy?

Yeah, I like him too.

The hair, I think.

***

I had the song Silver Bells in my head the other day. It came up on shuffle. I don't mind the song, but it wasn't very appropriate, because of the weather and inaccurate metallurgy. My bells are tin.

Did people get songs stuck in their heads in the old days? It seems like a new phenomenon, but that might just be because I'm around more these days than I was back then.

From our consumption of television, radio and film, we're used to having our experiences accompanied by continual noise. The modern mind cannot abide dead air.

That's why we get songs stuck in our heads. If our brain has no soundtrack, we think that something is wrong.

Or is song-in-head a problem that has plagued us forever? Perhaps since the dawn of our species?

We might have had that propensity even before songs were invented. We might have known we were missing something, but not known exactly what.

And then one day a cavewoman would have gone "do-dee-do-ruh" (in a tuneful way), and everyone else in the cave would have nodded, and pointed at her, and nodded again, and said "Yeah. She's got something."

And then when they were out gathering mammoths or whatever, they would have heard "do-dee-do-ruh" in their heads. Like a memory, but louder.

It's probably a universal thing. There are remote tribes in the wilderness, cut off from civilisation, who still find themselves singing a theme tune or orchid jingle.

I think song-in-head is what makes us human. It's certainly not our capacity for legs. Loads of animals have as many legs as us. Some have even more.

"Doo-dee-do-ruh" is my ringtone. Silver Bells is my alarm tone. I like to wake up early on Christmas morning.

***

I've been watching Mr Show with Bob and David lately. It's a sketch show from the nineties. I hadn't seen it before because I'm British.

It's a bit hit and miss. You know, like all sketch shows.

Here's a very funny hit:



***

I've also been doing some other things. Loads of them.

I've been designing my own T-shirts:

I've been doing a bit of DIM (that's DIY from your perspective).

I've dreamt about pushing Michael Stipe down the stairs.

I've got fingers in a lot of pies.

***

The Blogger spellcheck wants me to change "cavewoman" to "caveman".

Of course you do. Misogynists.

Women can't even be words in this disgusting cavepatriarchy.

Two Weeks

Two weeks since I've gone and I feel like the tramp, picking dustbins in the alley.

"I want... uh... I want... that one! The shiny one, with the lid."

"Excellent choice, sir."

Two weeks is too long a gap between blog posts. But I've been getting my affairs in order. I've tried to be serious for the whole time, but have slipped occasionally. I did a funny dance a few days ago. I felt bad about it. It was really funny.

Since my last post, Lucy and I have painted a door and a ceiling, seen a heron, stopped watching two films because they were rubbish, and purchased three packets of gnocchi on a buy-two-get-the-third-bag-of-gnocchi-free deal at a popular orange supermarket.

I've also finished Catch-22, which I somehow managed to avoid reading until now. I don't really know what I think about it. It was initially quite funny, then quite wearying for a few hundred pages, but eventually worked its way back into my brain. I liked the serious bits best, because horrific war injuries are better than a relentless barrage of Abbot and Costello-style banter. All in all, it was pretty good. But maybe too long or something.

Speaking of maybe too long or something, I also finished watching season four of Arrested Development. I loved it. In the end.

It was a lot like Catch-22, structurewise, with a lot of repetition and revisiting events from various perspectives. It started off slow, but became really impressive. It's unusual for a programme's "reboot" to be so different and ambitious. It is to be commended, even if it's not always 100% successful. I'm going to watch it again to see all the stuff I missed.

But you're not interested in that. You want to know my opinion on the issue of the day.

And the issue of the day is Tomato & Basil.

It's a complicated debate. Both sides have their merits and... oh. "Soup." "Of the day."

I get it. Very funny.

Not as funny as the dance, but dot dot dot fullstop line break

***

Next season's Southampton Football Club kit was announced this morning. There has been a lot of talk on social networking and building sites about the new shirt.

In a break from tradition, we are no longer wearing stripes. Just like the many times in the past we have also broken with tradition. Breaking with tradition is something of a tradition at Southampton Football Club. Can we afford to forego our heritage by failing to break with tradition next season?

And what about the shorts?

I'm fairly indifferent about the kit. But I can see why it has caused some controversy:

As you can see, in addition to the stripe issue, the shirt (left) has abandoned the customary "sleeves and trunk" element, and has instead adopted some kind of new "holster" design. Sports scientists have claimed that this will increase mobility and will allow the children of the players to breathe.

The shorts (right), have been tweaked slightly, so that the previous - and quite popular - double leg-hole has been amalgamated into a single sealed sheath.

The club's crest has also been altered.

I think making a fuss about these changes is both futile and misguided. A football club's kit goes through many changes. We used to wear blue shorts, after all. Just because something is seen as "traditional", it doesn't mean that it can't be changed. New traditions are created every day. And broken with twice as often.

If we are to move forward as a successful club, to attract top players and pursue a European place in the next few years, we need to modernise. Also, green is a much more marketable colour in the lucrative Leprechaun community.

Stick of Rock

It's been a while.

Please excuse the large gap between the past and the present. I've been on holiday, so have not been able to type words into this box. Luckily for you, I have loads of hilarious holiday-based material to mine. I've made some pretty stunning observations about air travel that could well be revolutionary, and have also taken a sideways look at the Italians.

With nowhere to record the many one-liners that have popped into my head, I've had to store them up, stuff them in my hand luggage, and hope that some of the more Allah-centric of them don't cause a ruckus at immigration.

And so here it is. My comedy holiday review:

I saw several lizards.

Thus concludes my comedy holiday review. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm the new Bill "The Bison" Bryson/Michael Palin/that guy who wrote A Room With a View. Robert Forster, I think it was.

Interesting. In 1998, Robert Forster was in both the remakes of Psycho (with Vince "There's Something About Him I Just Don't Like" Vaughn) and Rear Window (with Christopher "I Don't Actually Have An 'S' In My Surname" Reeves). He obviously chooses his roles based on the futility of the project.

I hope I haven't missed anything important while I've been away. Everyone in Oxford seems to be speaking Space-Russian and wearing explosive obedience collars, but I assume that's just a new fashion trend. I'm glad to see people mixing things up a bit.

I'm going to brush my teeth now. For me, it will seem like a few minutes before this blog continues, but for you it will be almost instantaneous.

***

I'm back. I got distracted after brushing my teeth, so about fifteen minutes have passed for me. For you, no time has passed. That means you're now fifteen minutes younger than me. Or fifteen minutes less old, depending on your starting age.

I can't believe that a simple distraction has increased my relative age. If I'd taken much longer, I'd almost be ready for relative retirement, which actually sounds quite nice.

I'm wearing a T-shirt which isn't quite dry. It's mostly dry; it's not too wet to take off. But it is noticeably damp. Why don't I put on another, drier, T-shirt? Because I don't have one. I only have four items of clothing, and three of them are cummerbunds. I have to be creative with design and shadow when going outside, so as to arouse no suspicion/people. The skill in minimising visible exposure is a lot like the skill of the magician: lots of misdirection and one jaded rabbit.

Have you missed this? I've missed it.

***

There was a dull photo of a sink at the top of my last post. I'm worried it might have put people off. So I've gone for something more exciting this time. The three blasts above seem to be re-enacting the famous Cleese/Barker/Corbett class sketch from The Frost Report (I can't seem to find a good version of it on Youtube, but you know the one I mean).

The explosion on the left is upper-class, the one in the middle is middle-class, and the one on the right is a furious Ronnie Corbett. I think it says a lot about social hierarchies and flammable stuff.

Have you missed this? I have.

Still, I don't want to over-extend myself on my first time back. You have to walk before you can run. You have to crawl before you can use the expression "you have to walk before you can run". The process is slow, but I should be firing on all cylinders by the middle of next week. By which time I hope to have made up those errant fifteen minutes of youth by being briefly encased in amber.

From The Waste Down

Dear Universe

What's the deal?

Love
Steve

***

Dear Steve

Thank you for your letter. May I ask from where or from whom you acquired my address? I try to keep my everywhereabouts under wraps.

I'm afraid I don't understand your question. Human slang can be perplexing. In the time it has taken me to consider your query, a thousand galaxies have been extinguished. This is negligible.

I enclose a signed photo, which will change your planet forever.

All the best,

Universe Nixon

***

I'm experimenting with new intro techniques. There isn't a person alive who would deny my success.

I've been tired this week. I'm always tired, but this week has shown a noticeable decrease in my energy levels. The standard levels are so low, that a noticeable decrease is quite significant indeed.

Yesterday in particular was difficult. I spent the afternoon at work listening to soothing and depressing music, trying to strategically open my eyes so as to convince my colleagues of my sanity.

Maybe I'm ill.

I don't have any other symptoms, but I might be ill. That would be much better. I don't want to be ill, but at least it would provide some explanation for my inadequacies.

It's funny that illness is understandable and a valid excuse for pathetic behaviour, whereas simple laziness or sleepiness is pathetic in itself. A doctor's note means your body is to blame, no doctor's note means you are to blame.

But it's the same body. We've convinced ourselves that our bodies and ourselves are different things.

Sometimes our body will let us down. That's the bodies fault. It's not pulling its own weight.

Sometimes we let ourselves down. That's our fault. Our bodies are blameless. We have no-one to blame but ourselves.

I suppose the difference is consciousness. If we've made conscious decisions that have led to our tiredness, it's possible to recognise a failing in your self.

If it's illness, there's no decision-making process at which to point your finger (unless you decide to point your finger into an infected wound).

I don't think I've been doing anything different this week, as far as consciousness is concerned. I'm pretty sure I've made the same bad decisions as I usually do.

So I'm going to blame my body. My stupid body. Or germs or something.

It's not my fault. It's his.

If I don't feel better next week I'll have to take the drastic action of writing another blog post about it.

***

Film review time!

I've seen quite a few films recently, so I'll offer some pithy analysis. Everyone loves pithy analysis.

My psychiatrist is a satsuma.

...

I tried to do some serious reviews, but found myself dull and lacking in credibility. So let's do this quickly.

---

Attack The Block

Very good.

Submarine

Quite good

Fantastic Mr Fox

Quite good.

The Happening

Baffling.

Inglourious Basterds

Not that good, but not that bad.

---

There we go. That was worthwhile for everyone.

I've recently joined a site called This Is My Jam. It's a social networky type thing where you post the song you're currently digging. You can follow other people and listen to their jams too. (I'm on there as diamondbadger)

Aside from the terminology (for me "jam" will always be an abbreviation for James), it's lots of fun, and I've listened to some interesting things. This was posted by someone and I've become moderately obsessed by it. I've played it a few times. That probably isn't obsession, but I like to lay claim to some of the more glamorous mental disorders.

***

I'm wearing a white shirt. It makes me feel like I'm grown-up and professional. I can be as lazy and disgusting as I like - the shirt provides me with credibility (though obviously not enough to review films).

Only organised people wear white shirts. White-collar workers are the best workers. They're dull and soulless and live a life of tedium and regret, they destroy passion and economies, they are cold to their children and spouses, but at least they don't sleep-in until noon.

I did sleep-in until noon. But this shirt acts as slobs' camouflage.

I can eat a pie full of cigarettes out of a belching wrestler's gun, and it doesn't matter because of the shirt. I'll still be respected because of the shirt. Even if I'm nude from the waist down. (The "if" in that last sentence was unnecessary)

The only risk in the white shirt technique is the stain. If you spill a stain on a white shirt, you've committed a cardinal sin. Do not eat anything tomatoey. A spaghetti bolognese and a white shirt go together like oil and water and a white shirt.

If you wear a stained white shirt, it's worse than wearing no shirt at all. You lose your credibility IMMEDIATELY.

The people who used to respect you now see you as a charlatan, and seek to have you removed from the neighbourhood. Your parents will stop mentioning your name in their newsletters. Your pets will shun you with snobbish resolve. You'll have to put on trousers again, just to swing the approbation pendulum a fraction in the right direction.

But I'm going to take that risk. The respect earned by the white shirt is worth it. I'll just have to make sure I don't eat or drink anything red. Except for blood, which (when combined with the shirt) adds to a classy vampire aesthetic that was very fashionable as recently as 2009.

***

Dear Universe

I'm afraid your photo never arrived. It was held by British customs because of a supposed "violation of physical laws". Would it be possible to remove the concept of "customs" from yourself?

I've enclosed a signed picture of myself, which you may want to show off to your cosmic chums, such as Eternity and Imagination.

Keep up the good work.

Love 
Steve

P.S. I found out what the deal was by reading an inflammatory pamphlet.

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.]

Twilight

I just started writing a blog post about my top seven favourite sitcoms, but got overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. So I'll do it some other time. And I'm writing about it here, which should give me an incentive to follow through on my promise. It will be quite the list, and will contain almost no surprises, which is in itself a surprise.

But I can't do it now. The pressure is too great. So I'll have to think of something to write about.

That will be easy. This planet is positively heaving with blog topics. You can't move without tripping over some kind of premise. There's protests and inquiries and debates and popular culture. I'm spoilt for choice.

The only limit is my imagination.

...

...

***

It's a couple of hours later. I originally wrote that as a hilarious bit or irony, but then I genuinely did have no ideas. I was like The Boy Who Cried Writer's Block.

I don't know if that's an appropriate apostrophe. Does the block just belong to one writer (in this case, a lying boy), or is it a universal phenomenon which affects all writers? Should it be writers' block?

I just tweeted 'I've got wronger's block'. Let's see how that goes. I'm starting to get desperate on Twitter. I want more followers, but probably wouldn't follow me if I was someone else. I'm not a part of my own demographic.

Anyway, I did think of something to write about. Lucy and I went to see The Twilight Sad at the Jericho Tavern on Tuesday night. They were very good. I've written about them before, but the main things about The Twilight Sad are that they're a) very loud and b) very Scottish.

That's unfair. They're probably just ordinarily Scottish - it's just thrown into sharper relief by the predominantly un-Scottish inhabitants of Oxford.

They are very loud though.

Here's their latest single:

The image on that video isn't very pleasant, so feel free to look at these baby badgers whilst listening to it instead:

This song doesn't really capture the loudness. I suppose it could if you turned your volume way up.

At the gig, I realised that I need a new coat. I like the dufflecoat aesthetic of a winter indie crowd, and I only have a shabby BHS suit jacket, which I wear in all weathers and social situations.

It's either the suit jacket, or my massive leather coat. The latter was not made for a mild winter. The former was not made to be worn in public.

But that leather coat was the last coat I bought, and that was in New York in 2001, somewhere near the World Trade Centre. It was spring, though. Just because I have a beard and a terrorist coat doesn't mean I can travel through time to commit atrocities.

Also, I didn't have a beard then. I was young and fresh-faced, like a rookie cherub.

So I haven't bought a coat for ten years. It's a big step to take, because I'm probably going to wear nothing else for the rest of my life. I mean, I'll wear clothes underneath it. If I didn't, it would be obscene. My fraying suit jacket wouldn't come close to covering my shame/pride if that was my general attitude to coats.

But I'll probably never buy another coat. Unless fashions change, and I need to buy something made of plastic or hydrogen.

I'll do some coat browsing and let you know how it goes. I'm sure you're on tenterhooks.

It was misty on the way home from the gig, and the streetlights were producing strange effects as they shone through the trees. They cast rays of light and darkness through the skeletal branches; the air was thick like soup. It was eerie. I took a photo on my phone, but I don't know how good it is.

I've been trying to email it to myself. That's my only way of getting my phone photos onto a computer. My phone didn't come with the right cable, so whenever I take an interesting snap, I have to go through a long process of sending it to myself. Like posting myself an anticlimactic birthday card, with the wrong number of candles taped to the envelope.

OK, here it is. It doesn't quite capture the magic of the evening. But it was taken with a rubbish phone, so you can't fault the photographer, who, despite wearing a stupid jacket, is a pretty amazing, and definitely non-terrorist, bearded cherub.

Yeah, I know there were too many commas in that sentence. But I don't care. I can use commas however I like. They're like children: the more you abuse them, the longer your sentence.

AH! An actual joke! It makes sense. ACTUAL SENSE!

You're witnessing a blogger in the prime of his life!

Anyway, take a look at this soupy-skied streetlight pic:

 

It's OK. It's fine. We're all fine.

Happy New Year, everybody.

You know - for later.

***

I hope the title of this blog post gets me loads of hits from vampire-crazed teens. Even though Edward is a boring cock, Jacob is King of the Chumps and Bella has all the vitality of a runny fart.

***

I can't end a blog post on the word 'fart'. I don't like that word. Let's finish on a word I do like.

Cluster

Clippers

Yesterday, a colleague of mine - let's call her 'S' - said that my head shape was unusual. I got my hair cut today.

These two things are not connected.

They genuinely weren't. In fact, I hesitated before having my hair cut because I thought just such a causal relationship would be assumed.

I was happy with my head shape. I'm not always happy with it - but I was yesterday.

When my hair is long, it goes through a cycle. When it's washed, it becomes fluffy and puffy and horrible. I look like an inflatable Lego man.

Then, it gradually gets greasier and greasier, and starts to look much better. The puff and the fluff is replaced by a ramshackle style. I look like I'm one of those sexy young people (bear with me), too busy to groom yourself properly, but too vain to stop worrying about it. That's where I was yesterday - all tousled and glamorous.

I don't know what affect this had on my head shape. I can only imagine it made it look pointer, flatter, 3Der, hairier or 8% Byzantine.

But this can't last forever. I'm not one of those people who can never wash their hair. You know which people I'm talking about: free-thinkers, free-lovers, children of the soil, Pagans, Carl Sagans, or students. I'm not one of those. So I had to wash it, and the brown cloud returned.

My hair was too long, and I had to destroy it. My head now looks considerably smaller.

But whilst 'S' and her cruel observations didn't force me into an unwanted haircut, people have done so in the past.

(I'm writing in a weird way today. It can't be helped. I have to be me.)

I remember when I was a young human (let's say I was 13), washing my hair. I don't think that was unusual, but the consequences were. I'm not sure if it was the length, the drying technique or the hair-care product in use, but my hair puffed out like a mushroom cloud. My puffy-fluffy 'fro had emerged.

It's not an Afro, or a Jewfro, as I'm not a member of either of those ethnic groups. And onequarterTrinidadChinesethreequarterscaucasianfro is a mouthful. But there it was.

I looked stupid and knew it.

It might have looked something like this:

This stupidness was confirmed at school the next day. An older boy laughed at my puffy hair-hat. There may even have been insults thrown. I don't remember the specifics. I've probably blocked them out.

Humiliated, I insisted that my mum take me to have my hair cut that night. I didn't want to face such a barrage again. She kindly took me, and I had my hair cut very short.

It might have looked something like this:

The following day at lunch, in the same seat, the same older boy laughed at my radically different, but equally stupid hair.

I'd learned an important lesson.

Don't kowtow to bullies - they will always find something to laugh at. Also, push them into traffic.

And so I did. That boy was laughing out the other side of his face. And peeing out the other side of his pelvis. I had the last laugh. He had his last solid meal.

Some of that isn't true. I think I lost the moral somewhere. It was probably about hair or the Manhattan Project.

Anyway, I now have short hair. My short hair doesn't go through a [Lego man > glamorous > filthbag > Lego man] loop. It will stay the same for some weeks. And my head shape will presumably stay quite consistent.

The life-cycle of my hair is fascinating. But no matter how much of it I send to David Attenborough, he's always to busy to cover it.

The story, not the hair.

My body hair is also hugely interesting, but the illustrative photos of that cycle have been confiscated by Thames Valley Police, along with the baseball bat I had earmarked for Sir Attenborough. It has a picture of his face on it, and is covered with my hair (and some of his I found in a scalp once).

I call it my Baseball Battenborough.

***

Stop writing...

NOW.

Taxi

I know I should be doing something else, but I'm doing this.

***

I wrote that twenty minutes ago.

Since then, I've been doing something else. I haven't been doing this. Though from my perspective then, that was this, and this was that. But now that is that and this is this.

This is always this. And that is always that.

Unless you cast your mind back.

Don't cast your mind back too far, or your brain bait will fly off the hook. <--an fisherman="fisherman" old="old" saying="saying">

The trouble was, even though I was doing something else, the something else wasn't the thing I should have been doing, so was just as useless as me doing this (that).

So I've come back, like the prodigal son, to ask for preferential treatment and irritate my prudent brother.

I'm wearing my intimidating hoodie, but am sitting too close to the heater. I'm going to open the window and sit near it.

Occupy yourself for twenty seconds or so.

...

Right. I'm back. Did I miss anything?

Mmm, fresh air! Windows are great.

Do you think a public toilet cubicle has ever occupied itself?

What is the sound of one hand clapping in a toilet cubicle?

Mm? That's not the sound of one hand clapping? What is it then?

Oh.

Oh dear.

Here I am in my intimidating hoodie:



Nice and warm - which is lucky: there's a lot of cold air coming in through the window. Windows are great. If used responsibly.

I bet I include more pictures of myself in my blog than anyone else in the world.

After all, why would they include pictures of me?

Aha. Jokes. Jokes are my forté.

Or my thirté at least.

I look like a homeless Muslim wizard.

I've just this second received an email from LoveFilm telling me that Kramer vs Kramer is on the way. That's how homeless Muslim wizards roll: 70s domestic dramas, cheap cider, religious texts disapproving of the aforementioned cider, and a big magic horse.

My feet are getting cold now.

My legs are fine. Trousered all the way up to the waist, and all the way down to the ankle.

My hoodie is warming my torso and head.

But my feet are sockless, and as such are struggling to deal with the drop in the temperature.

We need to invent a kind of foot hoodie. Well, I don't. You do.

And you need to bring it to me.

What do you think Neneh Cherry is doing now?

She's not on Twitter, but from her website, it seems she's still gigging.

Remember Neneh Cherry?

I can hear a car's engine running. Presumably from inside a car.

That's another drawback of the open window. Sounds travel more easily through the naked sky than through a transparent shield of glass.

It could be a taxi.

It has started to drive. Presumably at the behest of a driver.

I wonder if Neneh Cherry is inside.

I wonder if this blog is of any use to anyone. I mean, what is it?

If I wanted to simply record my inner-monologue, I could have just pressed a Dictaphone into my brain.

What is this?

As we've established, this is this.

And tomorrow, when I look back at this, it will be that.

And when I'm at a further level of disconnect, it may be the other.

I don't want to spell check this post. I don't really want to re-read it. Not right now.

So I might not proof read it.

If any of this has seemed to be incoherent, it's probably because I haven't proofread it.

I might have done typos. Or repeated words in a sentence.

I might have mentioned Neneh Cherry by accident.

I don't know, because by the time I move onto a new sentence, I have forgotten the last one.

Apparently Neneh Cherry's middle name is Neh-Neh Neh.

That's funny.

I could do that joke at stand-up gigs. If people remember Neneh Cherry. Which they won't, because they are young and I am old.

I think I'll end this now. Even by my standards this has been ungainly. I'll end with a pleasant picture. Not of Neneh Cherry. Or of a scary wolf.

But of something that we can all take comfort in:

a gravy boat in the shape of a turkey

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 6

My days are getting less and less eventful. And I like that a great deal. Thursday was, despite its spelling, pretty relaxed. (Stupid Wōden)

I got up late, and only left the flat when I realised that humans need food to live. I briefly looked into some shops, but realised that my time could be better spent sitting in bed, weeping (listening to podcasts). I picked up a delicious African wrap and a bottle of vitamin water.

I didn't want vitamin water. I don't like it. I'd rather just have water. But it was the closest thing to fruit juice they had. Apparently it will improve my skin. But there's no evidence so far.

Also, it's called V Water, which could mean anything. It says V Water: The Vitamin Water. But that seems a bit redundant. Unless the V stands for something else. Like Victory. Or Venereal.

The afternoon was pretty empty until I went out for our gig. I got soaked on the way. My jeans (which were probably a bit long) have gone from being tatty at the bottom, to ripped, to ripped into a ragged loop, to having the loop ripped in two. Now I have two dangling denim flaps at the bottom of my trouser leg, whipping at the air, a rain-sodden trip hazard, like the long ears of a Levi beagle.

On the way to the venue, I saw a man advertising his show with a big placard. People do that here. They have a sign with the show details on it, so that people can follow them down the street, like some Pied Piper of Ambitious and Ultimately Disappointing Dramatic Theatre.

This guy's sign just said "I LOVE ENGLAND". Which was brave. I think the show was about England, but still... If it wasn't festival time, that sign would probably get you killed in Edinburgh. I wondered if it might be part of a Die Hard With a Vengeance-style forfeit, to avoid a bombing elsewhere.

Our gig was totally full! In fact, there were more people that wanted to come in, but we didn't have the seats. I'm not sure why. I suppose word of our brilliance might have spread. Or maybe people just wanted a nice sit down.

Despite the big crowd, I didn't think the show was as good as some of the previous ones. I couldn't quite put my finger on it - things just seemed a bit more flat. I did the Headscissors stuff again, and it went OK.

Afterwards, we went for a drink or two (the normal people had alcohol, I had orange juice). I was goaded into five seconds of dancing before I left.

I'm a brilliant dancer. It was good to have that reminder. Now I don't have to ever do it again.

I was almost home when I realised again about the whole food-for-survival thing. The only place that was open was a kebab shop, and I got chips and cheese. It was my first really unhealthy thing since I got here, and made me feel a bit ill.

Or maybe it was after-effects of the dancing.

Edinburgh 2010 - Day 3

I'm writing this on Day 4 (aka Edinburgh Day 5, aka yesterday, aka Tuesday), so I'll have to remember what happened on Day 3 (aka Edinburgh Day 4, aka St Gibrideon's day, aka the Festival of the Lamplighters, aka Rick).

I stayed in for the beginning part of the day, waiting for our flyers to arrive. It was nice and relaxing, and I was able to read quite a lot of Stewart Lee's new book, How I Escaped My Certain Fate, which is excellent. Though I question my wisdom in reading a book about stand-up, when comedy is already bombarding me in every thought, poster, leaflet, and shrill maniacal whoop.

After the flyers arrived, I put a bundle in a carrier bag, and walked through the pouring rain. Realising the bag was on its last legs - it didn't really have legs; it isn't that kind of bag - I went into a shop and bought a cheap man-bag. I've never owned a man-bag before and can't help but think, despite its many uses, that I've slightly compromised my masculinity. Which is probably a misogynistic and homophobic thing to say, but hey: if you can't stand the heat of my prejudice, get out of the poorly conceived kitchen.

I eventually arrived at my destination: a live panel show where two of my fellow comedians, Jon and the almost too funny Matt Richardson, were guests. It was a bit of a train wreck, with Jon's misanthropy and Matt's energy turning what I imagine is usually a pleasant, whimsical, unexceptional show into a tense and morbidly entertaining experience. I think there was genuine ill-will towards the end, which was great.

After that, we went flyering.

I've never flyered (flyered?) before, and found it a bit uncomfortable. I'm too apologetic to promote myself, and have the awkward air of a sex offender who's been forced to go door-to-door, notifying his neighbours of his hideous crimes.

Also, I try to make judgements about who I should give the flyer too (which is clearly stupid, as everyone is welcome, and anyone can be a good audience member). I didn't want to give a flyer to anyone too tough, to old or too Scottish. I think I overcame this prejudice eventually.

When the show rolled around, I thought the audience might be a bit quiet, but they were really great. It was a lot of fun in the end, and it did a good job in cheering me up after the previous night's disappointment.

After the show, we had no time to waste, as Matt and Alex were both in the So You Think You're Funny? semi-final at the Gilded Balloon. It's one of the biggest stand-up competitions in the world, and so the gig was quite a big deal: in a swanky venue with a large crowd.

There were eight acts, and only one was guaranteed to get through. Both of them were great, and Alex won the thing! It was a great feeling afterwards (we cheekily flyered the crowd, advertising the man of the hour's appearance in our show).

We topped off the night by going to Late 'n' Live, the legendary late-night comedy show, which may not be quite what it used to, but I still really enjoyed. There was a raucous atmosphere (it seemed a fight was brewing at one stage), but the acts were good, especially Terry Alderton who was insane.

I fell into bed at about 4am, too tired to think about anything. I think it was a good day.

Take Your Pictorial

I have a day off, so I'm going to try to fill this blog post with things that can only be reasonably done at home. Here's a picture of me, taken about 30 seconds ago (or longer, depending on when you read this):

Don't let the expression fool you; I'm in a good mood. I just don't like to smile in photos, as I look like a split conker.

I seem to have a small tuft of hair sticking up. Or perhaps it is the silhouette of a tiny gopher.

In case you're interested (and I'm sure you are), the picture hanging on the wall is a print of Van Gogh's The Church at Auvers:

Also, in case you're interested, the door behind me is the door to our living room:
It is a white door, open, with a green towel hanging on it to dry.

In case you're interested, my shirt is a grey shirt. I think it came from Next:


It has buttons on the front, and a sleeve for each arm.

In case you're wondering what that bright light is in the background of the shirt picture, it's the sun:
The sun is the a big hot ball that also generates light. Although it is quite far away (over 800 miles), the light is strong enough to come through our living room window and illuminate my shirt etc.

It has taken me several hours to complete this post. This is what I look like now:


Good day.

...one of those hats...

Lucy bought me a hat for my birthday. It's one of those hats. You know: those hats.

A woolly hat. One of those woolly hats. But not a bobble hat. Not one of those hats.

A beanie hat, I think it might be called. A hat. A woolly beanie hat. You know.

It was a very thoughtful present, as all my hats have disappeared and my ears were getting bitten raw by winter winds.

I have a giant head. Luckily this one is big enough to cover it. I wear it all the time.

I'm wearing it now.

I don't just wear it outside. I wear it inside. It makes me feel safe and protected. I've retreated, only partially, into a synthetic fabric womb.

It's one of those hats.

I like it. It's like a tiny comfort blanket for my scalp.

My scalp has been through some traumas, so needs relief.

I don't know how it looks.

I do know how it looks.

It makes me look like a thug; a textbook robber.

Not a textbook robber. A textbook robber. I don't rob textbooks. But, if the opportunity comes up, I could be shown in a textbook as an illustration of what a robber might look like.

I wear it really low. Yeah, you know. One of those hats - all low.

It makes my brow seem very pronounced. I feel de-evolved. And devolved (like Wales and Scotland). I feel secure. It reminds me of the warm snuggly Hobbesian state of nature. Remember the glow of all those fires? And the energy boost from all that fighting? Comforting. Now I know how Linus felt.

I also look like a Latino rapper. Like Big Punisher. Except thinner. And alive.

Having said that, he died a few years ago, so might be thinner than me by now.

I like wearing this hat. You know? Hats. One of those hats. Nice and low.

It makes me feel all cosy, even when I'm wearing nothing else.

I can go outside in the snow, naked. Not naked. Hat naked. Wearing a hat.

I'm sure I'd be warm enough.

I'd be naked like a de-evolved savage.

I'd be naked like Big Punisher.

I'd be naked, except for the hat.

I keep my dreams in my hat.

Well, in my head.

But I keep my head in my hat.

Head in my hat.

Brain in my head.

Dreams in my brain.

Hat in my dreams.

(I have dreams about the hat, did I mention that?)

The hat might be adversely affecting my mental state, I can't be sure.

You know, one of those hats.

But I'm not a madman. I'm a hat man.

And if running through the snow wearing only a hat (a dream hat, mind you) is crazy, then just call me Paul.

Because that's my name. That's me. You can recognise me. I'll be the one wearing the hat. Nice and low.

Understand?

Mr Suit Goes To Town

In the interests of increasing my blog post count for this month (as part of an ongoing and futile battle with my past self's productivity), I'll stick a little something here.

Luckily, I have something to talk about. I did some stand-up last night.

It was useful. Which is as soulless an assessment as one can make. Luckily, my soul infuses every other sentence in this entry. Even that one. You can tell that I'm soulful from my use of the words 'one', 'stick' and 'assessment'.

The crowd was a bit smaller than usual, but even so, they were very generous. I did almost a whole new set, mostly made up of stuff from these ideas. It involved printing out and holding the headline pictures as props. I felt a bit awkward holding them, and I hadn't really polished the ideas enough. I could have used a few more jokes. But it went OK.

I also found out that I'm performing on Thursday at Oxford Brookes (short notice because of a misunderstanding). It will be cool and slightly scary to perform in a new venue with a new crowd. I'll be using tried and tested material for that one.

I wore a suit again last night, but didn't really do my suit persona. It's a shame. I had dreams of creating a whole new alter-ego. Suit Man, perhaps. Or Mr Suit.

Or I could go for something that doesn't explicitly reference the suit. It's a tricky balance.

But on the evidence of last night, I'll have to come up with something else to get me into character.

Tomorrow night, perhaps I'll play Dressing Gown Man, or Mr Topless (with scars).

Who can say? Life is a rollercoaster. Frankly this metal support bar is becoming an irritant. As are the screaming kids all around me.

Precision

I have the focus of a laser beam.

Not a functional laser beam; a laser beam that has seen the horrors of war and decided to embrace pacifism.

Not all lasers are used in wars, of course. In fact, I don't think they are commonly used as offensive weapons. I should stop learning about war from the film Short Circuit (he didn't have the laser in Short Circuit 2).

Anyway, now I'm as focussed as a jaded, alcoholic Vietnam Vet-laser. I'm generally dissatisfied, angry at no-one in particular, and spectacularly ineffective.

---

The above is an extract from my CV. It's good to sound disturbed, pedantic and dismissive of the armed forces.

***

My mind is like a trap.

Not a functional trap; a trap that is battered and past its best.

In its heyday it captured cougars and barracudas and Lex Luger. But now the springs have gone, the casing has cracked. It couldn't hold an inanimate fog or the memory of a dandelion.

My mind should be put out of its misery. And, ironically, it's incapable of grasping the gravity of the the situation.

---

The above is an extract from the second volume of my memoirs.

People like to read stuff about traps. That's why Russell Brand's Booky Wook did so well. I think most of it was baffling trap content.

***

Ah, Autumn! The King of Seasons!

Golden leaves, shiny conkers, loudmouthed children gobbing their way to school, tricky wardrobe decisions, the Pope, shatter-proof rulers, frogs, Leuven in Belgium, antagonism, frosty mornings, paint, North African peasants weeping over lasagne, Bonfire Night, chess, Flight of the Navigator...

Sorry, I just started listing things there. What was I talking about?

Oh yes - Autumn! The King of Seasons!

Destined to mate with Summer (the Queen of Seasons) to produce Winter (the Prince of Seasons).

And to perhaps also mate with Wednesday, producing a curious day/season hybrid that will one day/season hold dominion over all temporal realms.

Spring was adopted.

I like Autumn. I get to bring out my big leather coat.

I haven't worn it for a couple of years, as it's been stored at my parents house (too big to bring on the train).

I bought it in New York (I'm thoroughly Neapolitan). I thought it would make me look like a trendy Matrix-y non-conformist. Instead, I look like a bulky, overly-pocketed Soviet Agent gone to seed.

It's well warm, though. It has a furry lining you can take out.

I'm looking forward to the cold weather. I can come into work wearing my big coat. People will think I've gone mad! But I'll show them!

I will wear clothes underneath.

I will.

I will.

I will.

I will.

I will.

I will.

I will.I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will.

I almost certainly will.

He that hath no beard is less than a man

I shaved this morning. Not my usual futile pruning, but something altogether more significant.

I've been rocking the full beard for about two years now. I like it. People say I look like Jon Favreau (the actor/director rather than the Obama speechwriter). They're wrong; I don't. But I can live with the comparison.

(In fact, this blog has been written entirely when I've been bearded. I wonder if it will make any difference...)

Recently however, I've been feeling like I wanted to return to my babyface days. I don't know why. Maybe I was worried about what was happening under the beard. All kinds of transformations could have been taking place.

There could be satanic messages under there. My skin might have turned green. There might have been a long lost Malteser, living in a makeshift beard-hut, bald and venerable, telling tales of what it was like before the dense, black forest engulfed the pink and doughy land.

I didn't find any of those things. But I did take the opportunity to try out a variety of looks. My only regret is that I didn't think of trying the Lemmy-esque long moustache/sideburns combo. Maybe next time.

So, for the sake of comparison, here I am before any shaving took place:


I think I'm making some kind of point here. And I'm very happy about it.

"But of course, Schopenhauer would have agreed with you - if reluctantly!"

Moments after this: a round of applause and enchanted sighs from all and sundry.

Anyway, this morning's shave proved to be quite difficult. The hair was tenacious and reluctant to move. The venerable Malteser had organised a protest, and the local paper had been called in to cover the event. As with most protests, it was ineffective, and I finally managed to complete the work.

Stage One was the traditional moustache. It was never intended to be permanent - which was lucky. I looked like a corrupt policeman from 1909. My attempt to modernise the look with a suit jacket brought me all the way up to Miami in 1982. The sleaze is palpable:


I don't think I'll be trying that one out again.

As anyone who has shaved of their facial hair will tell you, Stage Two is obvious:



This is always a tricky one. This idea was entirely stolen from Richard Herring, whose Edinburgh show this year will be called 'Hitler Moustache'.

His attempt at replicating the Führer was much more successful than mine. He has a better intense evil stare. Also, my moustache was slightly lopsided.

I tried to suave up the whole Hitler look with a bit of levity, but the evil shone through:


Genocide has never been so cool.

I think I'll leave the discussion of moustache politics to Mr Herring. This look doesn't really suit someone with my shape of head. I look like a poorly-painted egg at a BNP bake sale.

So in the end, I got rid of it all. It was fun to remove the last of it, and let my upper lip take its first tentative steps, blinking into the sunlight:


The good thing about shaving off your beard is you immediately look younger. And less like a terrorist. Which is good and bad. I think people found the fanatical Islamist look to be a bit of a turn-on (women love dangerous men). Maybe I'll just start wearing a ticking rucksack.

It was an interesting experiment. But I think I'll start regrowing my beard immediately. I miss the comfort of my face-fur.

Also, I don't want to have to go through my motives for shaving with everyone I know. As you can tell from this long-winded explanation, it's complicated.

If I try to abbreviate the story to: "Malteser - Policeman - Sleazeball - Hitler -Terrorist", I'll get some funny looks.

So, the growth begins.

I used to say to people: "to shave would be an awfully big adventure!"

But I was wrong.

It's the beard.

To beard would be an awfully big adventure!

(Although admittedly one that makes little grammatical sense).

Holiday Journal - Day 4

Holiday Journal - Day 4 - 26/08/08

For a change of pace, we went into Exeter to do some clothes shopping.

It was awful.

Exeter was hot and crowded and full of idiots. Idiots like shopping because they are in constant need of stimuli. Their brains are too shallow to process anything with depth, so they have to cram as many objects into their lives as possible, swiping them across their consciousness like a supermarket check-out. Idiots.

Also, idiots can't walk properly, so they're always in the way. And they can't regulate the volume of their voices, so they yell and whoop like a Spaniard in an abattoir.

I bought lots of new clothes, which should tide me over for a couple of years. I bought lots of socks - a huge assault in The War To Own Socks, which I had been losing up until today. All my socks are odd and full of holes. But I'll never give up.

On the way home, the bus was filled with loud idiots. It was rubbish.

Coming back to Sidmouth was quite nice, though. Although the shopping trip wound me a few notches tighter, I loosened up somewhat in the evening.

This is the first day where I would have been working if I was back in Oxford. It's good to not have to be there, but I can't shake the feeling that I'll be missing lots of fun at work. If I find out that all my colleagues had an impromptu orgy at Alton Towers, I'll feel left out to say the least.

I realised today that my ideal holiday would be staying at home and using unspent trail/plane fare on Domino's Pizza and videos. Holidays are far too stressful. Any period of time where I'm required to wear trousers cannot be considered a true holiday.

It provides a handy key: the fewer clothes I wear, the more relaxed I am. Some day I'll shave off all my body hair and achieve something close to nirvana.