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.

Iron Will

Tomorrow will be the sixth anniversary of Headscissors. That's my iron anniversary, according to Wikipedia. Next year is wool, which seems like a backwards step.

I'm feeling anxious this afternoon. I put it down to the chocolate and orange sponge pudding I had at lunchtime. It was warm, and came with chocolate custard.

I don't normally do warm desserts. I don't know what compelled me to have one today. Probably an external malevolent force, like a witch or some kind of pang.

All I know is I ate a warm sponge pudding, and now I feel anxious. I've been a fool. I'm going to reform. I believe I can be a better man. I believe a better man is a spongeless man.

Let me tell you a story about a spongeless man. I'm sure you'll find it...

absorbing.

;-)))))))))))))))))))))

The Ballad of a Spongeless Man

***

This isn't a ballad. This isn't even a hilarious meta-ballad where I claim not to be writing one. I wrote the above section yesterday. I fully intended to write a ballad then, for all I know. But I don't feel like it today.

Today, the chocolate and orange sponge pudding is but a memory. Also, I don't really know what the a "ballad" is. I think it's a type of duck.

It's not a palindrome, but it's better than a palindrome. It's almost symmetrical.

ballad

It's a lovely word to look at.

***

I wrote the above section on Tuesday. I wrote the section above that on Monday. Today is Thursday.

I refuse to abandon this post. I've put too much effort into it already.

It means that my iron anniversary was actually two days ago. My rosette is obsolete already. And rusty.

I didn't have a sponge today, and I still don't feel comfortable writing a ballad.

It's useful to be able to document my sponge consumption in increments. It's useful.

I used my new power drill yesterday (Wednesday). It was only for putting up a bathroom cabinet, but I already feel like more of a man than I did on Tuesday (ballad) or Monday (sponge).

I can't drive or fight or drink lots of alcohol, but I can drill holes in walls. I'm a real man.

It might seem sexist to suggest that there's something innately masculine about drilling, phallic symbolism notwithstanding. And it is. Women are allowed to drill. And, for all I know, it might make them feel like more of a woman. I think it's what that Shania Twain song is about.

But I felt more like a man, because I was already going down that path. I'm on the man track, so ended up further down the masculine continuum.

Not that you can't switch tracks. I would hate for anyone to think I was being transphobic. It's possible that drilling might make a girl feel more like a man, and a boy more like a woman. Drilling affects different people in different ways. We should be prescriptive when it comes to power tools, unless we're prescribing a certain drill-bit for a specific type of wall.

*sigh*

It's really hard trying to follow a thought through to its conclusion when I'm constantly concerned with political correctness.

Let's just say that drilling made me feel like less of a failure in life. There. Failure is gender-neutral.

I drilled holes and it made me feel better about my comic collection. That's it. I'm not trying to oppress anyone here.

Except for walls. I'm oppressing them. If you're a wall, my drilling adventure was a fucking bloodbath.

I'm not wallist, but I am willing to dismember them in order to mount cabinets. If that makes me a fascist, then you'd better lock me up and throw away the chuck key.

Six years...

Six years is a long time to have been doing this.

Has anyone done a joke about a palindrome being where people race Michael Palins?

Yes, they probably have.

I'm old.

That's the lesson here. It's the common thread.

Sponge puddings, ballads, drills, iron.

Only old people like these things.

Young people like Frubes, diss tracks, lasers, plastic.

It wasn't like this in 2007. What's happened to me?

I look down at my hands and they're all lined and withered there are four of them.

Hang on, that's a zebra carcass... I wondered why my hands had a mane.

I'd better post this, or I'll have to come back in a few days and judge past self. I'm young compared to that guy. He will be ancient.

Youth is wasted on the young. And oldness is wasted on the old. It falls on deaf ears.

Everything is wasted on everything else. It's a fundamental force, like gravity.

The only thing you can do is ignore it. Make something of yourself. Turn a safari exhumation into a profitable hoof depot.

Don't do what I did (or did not) do.

You don't want to wake up in six years' time, wondering "when was the last time I had a sponge pudding", and not even bothering with a question mark.

Missing Lynx

I quite like Lynx adverts.

Now, if you know me (and I don't imagine why you wouldn't), you might be surprised by that.

I've documented before how I've become more politically correct as I've got older. In my teenage years, I'd happily listen to horrendous misogyny and homophobia. And that was just from my parents! (Ahahaha. Ha.).

I can't listen to certain music (mainly hip-hop) anymore, because I'm unable to block out the unpleasant views contained therein. I'm always sensitive to language used on television, and feel uncomfortable hearing things that seem cheap or cruel in mainstream media.

This is particularly true with adverts, which demonstrate the most base, capitalist pigeonholing and an utter contempt for the audience. I hate those jokey, matey, casually-homophobic Fosters ads. I even hate hearing about mum going to Iceland. Dad should be able to go to Iceland. As should the infertile.

I mentioned in a tweet how I feel about that WKD advert where a group of men are at a pub (there are no women - they hate pubs), doing blokey things like playing pool and watching sport, and then one of these men gets a call from 'the missus'. The barman rings an alarm and everyone goes quiet, so as to fool the woman (who hates the idea of men having fun, as all women do) into thinking he's having 'a quiet one'.

Stupid women. She's probably trying to get him to stop drinking or visit his terminally ill six-year-old daughter in the hospital. Bitch.

Actually, she's probably phoning to ask why, if you're going to be a terrible super male stereotype, you'd even consider drinking WKD - a drink made for twats who don't have the courage to be cunts.

(I just offended myself by using those vagina synonyms as terms of abuse. I feel like quite the cock.)

So, why am I not offended by Lynx adverts?

These are surely the most blatantly sexist and shallow things on television. I'm sure you've seen them. A man uses a Lynx product and is instantly surrounded by sexy women. They are driven crazy by the smell. They're basically robots - Pavlov's bitches - salivating at the ringing of a deodorised bellend.

(This has been cruder than my usual posts. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, this isn't being written my Paul - someone has stolen my laptop).

You never see unattractive women in these adverts. Presumably the magic power of Lynx would still work on them. I imagine it's something to do with pheromones. Unless the scientists at the Lynx laboratories have managed to block the uglier brains from processing the lust-causing signals.

Presumably, gay men can't use Lynx. Being surrounded by women would be an inconvenience.

So how can I like these terrible things?

I think I like them because they're so blatant. There's not even any pretence that they're aiming at something more. It's basically unabashed, undiluted advertising.

And I admire them for that.

Loads of adverts use sex to sell their products. But there's usually a whole procedure of unconvincing sleight-of-hand. The relationship between the product and sexual attractiveness is slightly more complex.

It goes something like this:

This product is used by attractive men. Women are attracted to attractive men. If you use this product, you will be an attractive man. Therefore, if you use this product, women will be attracted to you.

But Lynx has stripped things down.

Women are attracted to the product. Use the product.

The man doesn't even come into the equation. You could spray Lynx on a chestnut tree and women would still be swarming around, fingering the branches.

It's accepting that the people using Lynx are unattractive. That's never going to change. But at least you can deceive women into liking you with this implausible love potion.

Advertising is depressing because it creates a huge lie about self-realisation and self-confidence and self-improvement and BEING SOMEBODY.

It's a depressing capitalist myth, which creates the illusion of power in the powerless, and makes poor people spend money they don't have so they can become SOMEBODY. But that SOMEBODY is an awful philandering racist who talks loudly about how much money they make and will never read a book.

So Lynx avoids this. It lies to us, sure. But at least it's a nice simple lie.

I'd rather have someone sell me some magic beans than convince me I can one day have my own magic bean farm if I drive the right car.

I wasn't really intending to make any kind of point there. Which is lucky, because I didn't.

In conclusion, the Lynx adverts aren't offensive because they revel in their own shallowness instead of tricking people into believing in depth.

That's not reasonable. They still are offensive, I know that really. I was just playing devil's pointless advocate.

***

Also, I buy Lynx products. So I have to defend myself. I know they're for teenage boys, and I don't use the deodorant, but I do like the shower gels. They smell good.

But they trouble me. The packaging troubles me. Much more than the television campaign.

I see the backs of the bottles when I'm showering and I get confused. A clever marketing person has written a catchy little blurb about the product. I work in marketing (sort of). So I can imagine someone sitting there, coming up with something vaguely descriptive and descriptively vague.

But, these are really quite strange.

I'm not good at throwing away bottles, and the shower gel is on 'buy one get one free' at the moment, so I have four of these bottles.

Let's have a look at the blurbs.

LYNX FEVER

LYNX Fever, gets you into the Samba spirit with Brazilian Hot Mud and Red Dragonfruit extract. 
LYNX Fever, get warmed up for action!

(Then there's a helpful diagram of a man using the gel and then encountering some sexy feminine silhouettes)

Let's ignore the strange comma usage. This is probably the most normal caption on any of these bottles. It refers to 'the Samba spirit', which sounds like some kind of witchcraft.

Does this really have Brazilian Hot Mud in it? It certainly smells muddish. Did they import that Brazilian mud hot? Or did they just bring it in cold, and then reheat it in Britain? I don't know. I'm not an expert.

LYNX JET

(This pic is blurry, so you'll have to trust my transcript.)

Imagine a level of comfort and luxury never experienced before. With its mix of soothing aloe vera and energizing lime, LYNX Jet propels its passengers into an Exclusive First Class Club.


- Dermatologically tested.

First thing's first - I really don't think you should put 'Dermatologically tested' on the bottle as though it's a selling point. Call me crazy, but I assume all shower gels and soaps are tested on human skin. That seems important. You wouldn't want to get a whole batch packaged up only to find it eats through flesh like alien blood.

I really like that the first sentence is completely unrelated to the rest of the pitch. "Imagine this... OK? Good. Now let's talk about the product." The Exclusive First Class Club is capitalised to add an authority to the claim. But I didn't find any membership information anywhere.

Also: energizing lime. I don't know if all limes are energizing, or if this is from a particularly upbeat batch.

LYNX RECOVER


LYNX Recover with Mg+O₂ brings you back to life - no matter how big the night was...

I'm convinced by the chemical symbols. Clearly, experts have been involved in this. I don't know what it means (I assume it's something to do with Magneto), but if it's good enough for the eggheads, it's good enough for me.

They really should have called it LYNX Lazarus. I'm surprised that they haven't marketed this resurrection remedy to a wider audience. Maybe they're just saving this for the Exclusive First Class Club?

What's the biggest night you've ever had? I've never been close to the Arctic circle, so my nights tend to stay at pretty regular lengths. Imagine a night the size of an oil tanker! IMAGINE IT!

LYNX RISE


Want to make your morning monumental? The stuff of legends? LYNX Rise with uplifting lime extract and Himalayan minerals stimulates your senses to jump start your mind and body; 
LYNX Rise: Conquer the Day!

This one's my favourite. Why not try new LYNX Delusions of Grandeur?

In answer to their first two questions, 1) Not really, 2) Not really.

Uplifting lime this time. Don't know if they brought it in the same crate as the energizing stuff.

Himalayan minerals? Really? Because I would think you could get comparable minerals without going to all that trouble. Maybe it's not actually Himalayan. Just Himalayan-style. Like a Spanish omelette.

I'm really not sure about the whole conquest thing. Alexander wept when there were no more worlds to conquer, but I bet he'd be fuming if he got lime extract in his eye.

I don't like the thought of a civilization emerging based on the tenets of Lynx. But if it did happen - and, again, I don't want it to - who better to run the whole thing than a brave scholar, who has dedicated his Sunday evening to exploring the pros and cons of Lynx?

No-one better.

Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and try the Red Dragonfruit extract! I hear the chicks dig it.

Flamenco Sketches

 You don't make friends by being a violent mist.

That's right! That's how I'm going to start this. And later, when it automatically gets posted to Facebook, I'm going to read it and hate myself. And you.

(Not you. I'm talking to the myself that's reading this on Facebook. Though the little preview probably won't be this long)

Merry Christmas.

A funny thing happened to me the other day. I was in a room in building, and someone (let's call them a person) came up to me and said some words. I said some words. This exchange continued for some time, and then I went home and went to sleep and went.

I resent myself for writing this. I don't have to write it. But I am.

I'm putting together a portfolio of comedy sketches. Apparently. I wasn't before I wrote that sentence, but you can't argue with grammar and vocabulary.

Well, you can argue with them. Using them as tools. But you can't argue against them. With the possible exception of all arguments ever had.

I'm a brilliant sketch writer. Apparently. I didn't think I'd be so arrogant, but look back there at the beginning of this paragraph. It's as clear as words on a computer screen.

We all remember some of my greatest sketches. No we don't. Even I don't believe that.

Remember the 'The World's Tallest Man' sketch?

Remember that thing about hares?

Remember that other sketch that didn't quite work?

Remember the 'man links to his previous sketches' sketch? From 2 August 2011? Classic stuff.

Remember this one (I had forgotten it before I searched for 'sketch' in my blog archive)?

You're not even going to click on those links, are you?

I don't blame you, of course. You're busy people. Reading one of these posts is bad enough, let alone four other, older, posts of limited appeal.

But I'm putting together my portfolio, you see. Apparently I haven't forgotten about that.

Looking at those candidates, only the Tallest Man sketch could possibly be turned into something, and it would need an extensive rewrite. So I'd better come up with some new ones.

Luckily, dialogue is my mistress and structure is my misteress. I can knock out sketches faster than Mike Tyson knocks out sentences. I'm going to send these to Mitchell and Webb when I've finished. Or one of those other sketch duos, like Arm & Hammer, or Baddiel or No Diel.

***

Hebb: You know 2?

Hitchell: What?

Hebb: You know 2? The number 2.

Hitchell: Yes, Robert. I am aware of the number 2.

Hebb: Well... I was just thinking about 2...

Hitchell: Were you?

Hebb: Yeah. I was thinking about 2. 

Hitchell: Well, that's marvelous.

Hebb: No, there's more.

Hitchell: Thank God. I was just thinking "I hope Robert has some insight on the number 2 that he wishes to impart".

Hebb: If you took 2, right, and added another 2, I think you'd get 5.

Hitchell: No you wouldn't.

Hebb: Yes you would! 2 + 2 = 5. It's obvious!

Hitchell: 2 + 2 = 5? No, Robert. That's not obvious. That's the exact opposite of obvious. If someone wanted to illustrate in a book the concept of something not being obvious, 2 + 2 =5 is the example they would use.

Hebb: Look, it's 5, OK? I read about it in a book.

Hitchell: Was this a book of incorrect mathematical equations?

Hebb: You think you're so big and clever. Have you ever considered you might be wrong?

Hitchell: Yes I have. About some things, I might be wrong. I admit it. But in stating that 2 + 2 is not 5, I am categorically not wrong.

Hebb: Well, what is it?

Hitchell: What is what?

Hebb: 2 + 2.

Hitchell: It's 4.

Hebb: Ah-ha! You've made a cardinal mistake! There is no number 4!

Hitchell: There is no number 4? Are you trying to tell me that 4 is a figment of my imagination? I've imagined a number?

Hebb: Yes! You stupid idiot!

Hitchell: What time is it?

Hebb: What?

Hitchell: What time is it?

Hebb: Half past four. (BEAT) Shit.

***

No-one asked for it, but this is pretty much the best parody of Mitchell and Webb anyone has ever done.

There's one for the portfolio.

Arm & Hammer aren't a real comedy duo, so I can't do a parody of them. It's a shame, because I'm evidently brilliant at parodies.

I think the gender balance in my sketches is skewed towards the male. This is because I am a man and have an inherently misogynistic bias. To remedy this fault, the following sketch will contain only female characters.

***

Woman 1: Woman 2?

Woman 3: She's not here.

Woman 1: Why not?

Woman 3: She left in a huff.

Woman 1: Typical. That's absolutely typical. Woman 2 all over.

Woman 3: She said it was your fault.

Woman 1: My fault? What for?

Woman 3: She said you demean her.

Woman 1: What? She doesn't even know what 'demean'  means.

Woman 3: Demean means? Has this got something to do with Heinz?

Woman 1: I "demean" her! That's ridiculous. How do I demean her?

Woman 3: Well, you call her 'Woman 2'. 

Woman 1: That's her name!

Woman 3: No it isn't. She's called Kirsty.

Woman 1: What? I've been calling her Woman 2 for years!

Woman 3: I know. She knows. That's why she left.

Woman 1: What's wrong with her being Woman 2? We're three women. I'm Woman 1, and it suits me fine. You're Woman 3 and likewise.

Woman 3: Actually...

Woman 1: What?!

Woman 3: I'm not... overly keen on being called Woman 3.

Woman 1: What? Why?

Woman 3: It makes be feel a bit... uh, what's the right word...? Auxiliary?

Woman 1: You're not auxiliary! We're a team! Like the Three Musketeers! Or Cagney and Lacey and their next best friend.

Woman 3: Still, I'd rather not be Woman 3. If it's all the same to you.

Woman 1: Fine. Fine. What shall I call you?

Woman 3: How about my real name?

Woman 1: What's your real name?

Woman 3: Woman 2.

Woman 1: Well, that's just confusing.

Woman 3: No. No, it's not. You can be Woman 1, I can be Woman 2 and Kirsty can be... Kirsty.

Woman 1: Woman 1, Woman 2 and Kirsty.

Woman 3: Yes.

Woman 1: Hmm. Yes. I suppose that would work.

Woman 3: Great! I'll text Kirsty and tell her the good news.

Woman 1: Who's Kirsty?

Woman 3: Woman 2.

Woman 1: Oh yes. Yes, yes. Sorry Woman 2.

Woman 3: That's OK. We'll have to get new T-shirts printed.

Woman 1: Just one. We'll get a Kirsty T-shirt printed, and she can give you her Woman 2 one.

Woman 3: But we're not the same size.

Kirsty: Has anyone seen my keys?

***

The sign of a great sketch is that it doesn't seem to go on too long. And, indeed, that one did NOT go on too long. In fact, it was probably too short.

Anyway, this is a great foundation of my portfolio.

I should probably stop now.

("No! No! Don't stop!" - the readers)

I'm afraid I have to. But remember, you can read this post as many times as you like. For free.

Of course, if you want to buy me a present, I have an Amazon wishlist.

!!~~POST #500 - UNWIELDY QUINCENTENNIAL BROUHAHA~~!!

If I'd released an album in 1989, this would be the cover.

Once again it's time to put on your nostalgia goggles, and celebrate the meaningless triumph of another post with two zeroes in it.

This is the 500th post of Headscissors (or as all the kids are calling it: I Don't Know What You're Talking About; Please Leave Me Alone).

I have a tradition of marking these events in a special way. My face is special. Lots of my faces are lots of special.

Special.

You can see my previous milestones below.




Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400

I've just re-read them all. There are some significant events contained therein. An account of my interview for my current job, the origins of my (now legendary) stand-up routine about selfish genes, a haiku, and a picture of me naked.

(Actually there is no picture of me naked. I just thought it might encourage you to look at the links. Because that's what you all want to see.

Of course, I've given the game away now. So I'll have to include an actual picture of me naked in this post, just to live up to my promise. Stay tuned.)

Indulgence is the watchword.

I have the word "indulgence" engraved on my watch, alongside a picture of me, my initials, and a picture of the watch itself, stretching into infinity.

H Samuel didn't sell many of that model.

So strap yourselves in for an exciting thrill-ride of words, punctuation marks, line-breaks and remarks so meaningless, you assume they must be references to something obscure, but are actually just pointless whimsy.

***

Ooh, I just caught this from Post #400:


Ooh, I just caught this from Post #300:

It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

Yes. Yes it is.

Post #500 Paul - are you wearing a hat?


No, I'm not. But I do have a woolly hat in my coat pocket. I might put it on later.

Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?

(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)

***

Mood: Monday.

Listening to: Jack Jones - Wives and Lovers

This is the most incredibly sexist song I've ever heard, which includes a lot of mainstream hip-hop and all those Motown songs in the 70s that seemed to essentially advocate domestic abuse.



Here are the lyrics (it's written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, so they deserve most of the blame/credit):

Hey! Little Girl
Comb your hair, fix your makeup
Soon he will open the door
Don't think because there's a ring on your finger
You needn't try anymore


[I like that even the first line is incredible patronising. I also like picturing the scenario of an exasperated 60s businessman coming home to a slob wife and being exasperated.]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
I'm warning you...

["I'm warning you"? Thanks for that. I'm sure it's friendly advice. Rather than a threat.

Remember to run to his arms the MOMENT he comes home. Even if he's carrying lots of bags and a cake. Don't give him time to put them down. Run to his arms. RUN TO THEM.

DON'T PAUSE, OR HE'LL LEAVE YOU.

DON'T EVEN TALK TO HIM. DO YOUR MAKE-UP AND RUN FLAT-OUT INTO HIS FACE BEFORE HE CAN EVEN GET HIS KEY OUT OF THE LOCK.]

Day after day
There are girls at the office
And men will always be men
Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers
You may not see him again

[Remember there are other girls in the office. This is your fault. Especially if you've let yourself go. The other girls don't have any say in the matter. They can't help but be drawn to your husband because of his power and testicles.

Men will always be men. So if you complain about his infidelities and various sexually transmitted infections, you're going AGAINST NATURE.

MEN WILL BE MEN.

CUNTS WILL BE CUNTS.

IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU AND THOSE CURLERS OF YOURS, YOU SOW!]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
He's almost here...


[If you're in a wheelchair, you might as well kill yourself.]

[I hope that last sentence isn't taken out of context. Remember, this is SATIRE.]

Hey! Little girl
Better wear something pretty
Something you'd wear to go to the city and
Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music
Time to get ready for love
Time to get ready
Time to get ready for love

[PREPARE FOR COPULATION. YOU ARE FEMALE. YOU MUST WORK HARDER TO JUSTIFY OUR MAGNANIMOUS TOLERANCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.

DIM THE LIGHTS TO HIDE YOUR WITHERED FACE. POUR THE WINE SO THAT THE ALCOHOL MAY DULL YOUR POOR HUSBAND'S PERCEPTIONS. SHIELD HIM FROM YOUR HIDEOUSNESS.

PLAY LOUD MUSIC TO DROWN OUT YOUR INFANTILE PRATTLE. PLAY A BURT BACHARACH SONG. THEN YOU CAN LEARN AS YOU'RE JUSTLY PENETRATED BY YOUR BENEFACTOR.

ALL WOMEN MAKE ME SICK.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.]

by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Reading: the instructions on the back of this bottle of bleach. It doesn't provide a serving suggestion, but as it's lemon scented I assume it's one of your five a day.

I won't get my hopes up, though. Last week I had some Toilet Duck in a Hoisin wrap and it tasted disgusting.

Watching: my previous post, where I forgot to say what I was watching. I just missed it out.

It wasn't intentional.

I haven't been watching people die, and subsequently trying to hide the fact.

I just forgot.

I wouldn't watch people die. I'd call an ambulance.

Unless my phone was broken. That couldn't be helped.

In addition to not watching people die, we also watched quite a lot of a TV show called Pretty Little Liars.

I can't tell you if it's any good, or indeed what it's about, because we watched it on mute.

That's what we do.

We decided there were too many attractive people in it. There was no-one below an 8. That's too attractive for me to relate to.

So I imagine it's terrible.

Playing: Bubble tennis.

It's so good, I almost don't want to tell people about it. But I suppose this is a special occasion.

Lucy and I discovered this a while ago.

You'll need two bottles of bubble-mixture (that's what it's called, right?) and two bubble-hoops (that's what they're called, right?)

The premise is simple: whilst bubbles burst in contact with hard objects (floor, table leg, Michelangelo's David etc), they don't burst in contact with other bubbles.

So you need a bubble stuck to the end of each bubble-hoop, and then to blow some bubbles. (Actually, blow the bubbles first. Find whichever method suits you best.)

Then, use your bubble-hoop bubbles to bat a third, loose, bubble back and forth. Like tennis.

You can even create your own net.

This probably hasn't been well explained. Perhaps some video proof is necessary.

[I tried to video bubble tennis, but it was a disaster. I don't think it can be filmed. Like ghosts. Or The Invisible Pete Sampras.]

It is amazing.

Eating: Salad bar salad again. I don't mean to be repetitive. Maybe I should start eating some more exotic things. Like cocktail bar salad, salad bar napkins, or salad glorious salad.

Drinking: Certainly no cleaning products. I don't know who has started that rumour mill. Probably Mr Muscle, that four-eyed little square. Screw him.

***

There's not going to be a picture of me naked.

Sorry.

(Or is there?)

No.

***

Hilarious Tweets:@diamondbadger
I haven't done any good tweets lately. This isn't a tweet. Honestly. This isn't some clever postmodern tweet. If it was, I'd write more conc

***

I'm starting a hobby. It's called zeal clubbing. It's like seal clubbing, but involves beating enthusiastic people to death.

Especially if they're enthusiastic about seals.

Then you club some seals.

We're meeting on Weds afternoons in the Town Hall. Anyone who shows up early will become a training dummy.

***

This is a trailer for the new film by Duncan Jones, the guy who directed Moon. It looks good. Like Groundhog Day meets Inception.

Though the only way I'd like to see that meeting happen is with Bill Murray beating the tedious cast of tedious Inception to a bloody tedious pulp. And then Andie McDowell.



***

ACORN BREAK:


(breakorn)

***

I think that's probably all.

I could write another haiku, I suppose.

Forty-love Nadal!
The spectral voice of Sampras
Calls for unseen balls

I'm going to pour myself a glass of celebratory Cif and get back to my night job as a regretmonger.

I'm pretty intense.

Idea Grater

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 5

I haven't forgotten! Honest!

Intro

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

I've been busy at work and at play and at Jack's-a-Dull-Boy, so haven't had as much time for reading.

Well, that's not strictly true. I've had enough time to read old Avengers comics, and to re-read Kurt Busiek's beautiful, epic ode to superheroes Astro City. I might write more about it sometime, but you should check it out. Even f you find the idea of superheroes ridiculous. In fact, especially if you find them ridiculous. Start here.

But I haven't been reading too many non-picture books. Still, I've persevered, and this is a four-for-one bumper edition.

***

Penguin Books - Great Ideas



This is a series of shortish books containing famous essays and treatises (is that the plural?). Some famous, some less so. We have four of them. I think they were purchased by Lucy - I'm not sure why she chose these ones. But they were very interesting.

Here are some short thoughts on each.

John Ruskin - On Art and Life

I don't know much about Ruskin. This was pretty cool. The first part of the book is an essay on Gothic architecture. I know nothing about architecture, so it was nice to be given a little grounding. What I liked most was his categorising the Gothic as distinctly North European, and describing it as emerging from our temperament and climate. His descriptions of noble Northern artists creating beauty in freezing conditions in treacherous landscapes made me proud of my culture (even though I've never carved a church in a snowstorm).

There's lots to cover there, including his slightly odd politics - at times seeming proto-Communist; criticising workers being alienated from the means of production, and at others claiming that you're more free if you're under someone else's control.

The second essay is about the use of iron in society. It's quite interesting, though he really seems to have a problem with iron railings.

I like iron railings. In fact whenever I contemplate what I'd miss if I lived abroad, the first thing that comes to mind is a rainy Victorian terrace, with black iron railings at the front. I don't know why.

Other things what I liked:

His preference for striving for greatness rather than mediocrity, even if the outcome is failure:

"[we are] not to esteem smooth minuteness above shattered majesty" p13

"the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art" p26
That's why this blog is so ambitious, and yet is produced by a sloppy bungler.


William Hazlitt - On the Pleasure of Hating

There are a few essays here. Hazlitt is a very amusing fellow, and writes about the society of his day. His account of a boxing match is superb, as this clearly educated man gets caught up in the savage beauty of it all.

Things what I like:

His amazement at Indian Jugglers, and his rant about how nothing he does is that impressive. I once heard Jerry Seinfeld make an almost identical remark: wondering why we're not more impressed by incredible acts of human skill.

His anti-monarchy rants, which must have been quite shocking at the time.


George Orwell - Why I Write

Orwell is pretty cool. He's also a superb writer, in terms of clarity of expression. The main essay of the collection, The Lion and the Unicorn was written during the second world war, and is an interesting take on the future of Britain. Some of his predictions turn out to be close to the truth, some less to.

Thing what I didn't like:

He loses points from me by going on a bit of a rant about the state of the English language. It's a debate that's still going on, which either means language is progressively getting worse or that people are just stupid pedants who don't know their history. I favour the latter explanation. David Mitchell has the right take.


Mary Wollstonecraft - A Vindication of the Rights of Women

A seminal feminist text. Important, revolutionary and...

I didn't finish it.

I'm sorry Mary! I really am!

I believe in your cause, and I admire you, but I just couldn't get through it. And so instead of letting it derail the whole odyssey, I'm going to move on.

This was the first book on the shelf to be written by a woman, and I'm dismissing her. There must be a deep vein of chauvinism running beneath my PC surface.

I did say non-fiction was optional! And I read some of it!

Oh dear.

The next book is also by a woman!

Look, I promise to make up for this by not hollering at attractive women in the street and cancelling my subscription to Loaded.

***

So there it is. 4 in one (well, 3 and a half)!

Next time, back to fiction.

Keep watching the skies!

Especially if you're an air traffic controller, WHICH YOU ARE.

Enough Rape To Hang Myself

Let's talk about rape!

That's right. A hilarious sideways look at rape!

(It occurs to me that the beginnings of this blog now appear on Facebook, so just to confirm: this will be thoughtful, well-researched an interminably dull).

The first thing I want to talk about is rape in comedy. Rape jokes are everywhere in stand-up. It's a kind of shorthand for 'edginess'. It's a taboo subject that is guaranteed to get a reaction out of the audience.

I don't think it's impossible to have a funny rape joke. In fact, describing them as 'rape jokes' is a bit misleading, as it immediately suggests that rape itself is being found funny, when in reality it's usually some aspect of language that's being mocked, or a juxtaposition of disparate ideas. I can't imagine a joke being funny if its overall message was "Ha! Rape!". (I'm running a gauntlet of potentially disastrous misquotings here, but I think we all trust each other, right?)

But the rape joke is a staple. As is the paedophile joke. I'm certainly not innocent of doing these myself, but I'm trying not to. I'm trying to cut out the unnecessary crudity. But of course it's difficult when your floundering on stage, and you know you can save yourself with one cry of the word 'cunt', grab onto the lifeline of outraged laughter and pull yourself back on deck.

Aside from the cheap laugh, there are a couple of reasons that I think rape jokes are commonplace:

The first is that for a long time, the subject wasn't allowed in comedy. I mean, I'm sure it was still there in private conversation and taboo-breaking late night rowdy rendezvous.

(What's the plural of rendezvous? I'd check now, but I'm on an pretentious roll - eg. a fennel, pomegranate seed and prosciutto ciabatta)

Most joke topics have been done to death, so most comic terrain has been covered. So when a previously restricted topic becomes available, there's a whole fresh, virgin field of possible gags, quips, puns and rants that suddenly opens up.

I haven't really researched this, so I'm probably wrong, but let's say comedians started talking about rape in the 80s. It's one of the most untouched topics. Then paedophilia came onto the market.

Of course, it's still offensive to some, but it's a whole new subject area to explore with a comedy eye.

The second reason I think jokes about rape in particular are popular is due to some inherent property of the word itself.

Rape.

It's sharp and clear. It ends abruptly. It's like a little linguistic flourish - a filthy cherry on top of the sentence.

I believe that about other words too. We go along with ideas of political correctness, but only if it doesn't rob us of a good sounding comedy word.

No-one uses the word 'nigger' on stage. No-one would use 'cripple' to describe a disabled person. (Well, almost no-one) But the word 'retard' is commonly used. Again, I think it's partly due to the nature of the word: those two syllables, the comedy whoopee-cushion noise of the '-ard'.

It's like comedians everywhere thought about the word 'retard', acknowledged that is was a derogatory word used to describe people with mental disabilities, accepted that this word is used to bully and humiliate people, but decided that they had to keep using it for the sake of comedy. It's a funny word.

I hope it doesn't seem like I'm trying to defend the use of these words, but I'm just interested in the language and rhythm of comedy.

As I said, I'm trying not to mention rape or paedophilia on stage, or use any un-PC words. But sometimes it's difficult. And sometimes you want to tell a joke about paedophilia without being seen as someone who tells 'paedophile jokes'. I quite want to do a routine about it from an old blog post, but I'll have to think carefully about how I do it.

***

Right, so that's rape in comedy. It's casually thrown around, but I don't think people really consider it. Which is a shame, because this country seems to have a ridiculously distorted view of the subject.

[I say 'this country'. I'm sure it's not just this country. And I'm sure it's not all of this country. I hope it's just the despicable tabloid element, but national statistics are still worrying].

I was looking up statistics on rape convictions, and discovered that there's a whole rape section of the Guardian website. Obviously this is a good thing - and important issue that needs coverage, a place to go for people that have questions etc.

I just hope they never make it into a pull-out section for the print edition. I don't want people to see me sitting on the tube, perusing the Guardian Rape supplement. It might create the wrong impression.

Anyway, I've always been angered at the fact that the tabloids have such a hysterical, idiotic, disproportionate reaction to paedophilia, and yet are so dismissive of rape.

Whilst anyone remotely suspected of abusing children is an inhuman monster who should be flayed, rolled in salt, then thrown into a vat of boiling knives; rape is generally seen as slutty temptresses getting what they deserve.

I'm exaggerating, of course, but I think the general belief is true. Conviction rates for reported rapes are stupidly low (the exact figures are debated, but it's claimed that only 6% of reported rape incidents result in prosecution). What's more, women are often seen as partly responsible. One survey has a majority of women putting some of the blame on the heads of the rape victims.

Women are blamed for wearing short skirts. For flirting. For having vaginas.

FACT (not a real fact): 40% of the British people believe rape victims are to blame if they've failed to erect a plexiglass shell around their pelvises to keep out the men.

FACT (not a real fact): 95% of Daily Mail readers claim that raped women are 'asking for it' if they fail to present a card at the beginning of any meeting with a man, which reads: "NO SEX TODAY PLEASE".

FACT (not a real fact): Two thirds of adult humans believe a woman stating "I like grapes" equates to consent, as the word 'rape' is contained therein.

People are idiots.

Apparently, 40% of surveyed Londoners believe that the woman is partly responsible if she's committed a sex act. That is an ACTUAL FACT.

What kind of logic is that?

"Yes, Your Honour. She lent me fifty pence, so I felt entitled to her handbag."

"Well, she cried on my shoulder, so I assume she was consenting to me taking all the liquid from her body."

"She gave me a sip of coffee, so I feel entitled to the deeds for her family's Brazilian plantations."

It's like they're trying to excuse the rapist. There's no grey area there. I'm reasonably confident that I wouldn't rape someone based on semantics or inferences. Because I think rape is wrong. It's never in my itinerary of possible activities. If it is, it's probably me that is to blame.

But paedophilia is different. That's unmitigated evil.

It's like as a child, a girl is wrapped in cotton-wool, surrounded by armed paedo-spotters. Then, at midnight on her sixteenth birthday, she becomes a sex-crazed harpy tempting every male acquaintance into her evil claws.

I hate the tabloids.

And not in the way that everyone does: "What idiots! Hey, they blame everything on immigrants! These stories are ridiculous! Funny, even! What jokers..."

I get really depressed by them. They make me so angry. They're pamphlets spreading intolerance, ignorance and fear. But they're everywhere.

I get annoyed that the company I work for gets a copy of The Daily Mail for it's coffee shop. We're supposed to be an intelligent company. We should be thoughtful. We're even a charity! But we still spend money on what amounts to homophobic, misogynistic, anti-intellectual, racist propaganda.

I do believe in freedom of speech, so I wouldn't really want it banned or anything. I'm more depressed that there are enough people reading it at work to justify its presence there.

I have stupid fantasies about bringing down the tabloids. Becoming a big star, and turning against them. Fighting their influence over government policy, pointing out their hypocrisies, their awful anti-BBC bias, their fear-mongering.

But I can't really see how I'd get in that position. Maybe if I was King. But I think I'm pretty far down the line of succession. This country ("this country...") would be in trouble if the Monarchy needed me. They'd probably be better off with some sort of beetle or a Witch Doctor trapped in a photocopier.

Maybe if I was a huge star...

In fact, I get annoyed at big, intelligent celebrities (like, I don't know, Ricky Gervais or David Attenborough or someone) not being more critical of the tabloids. I want them to wage war.

But I suppose the tabloids are too powerful.

There's an awful self-sustaining conglomeration of idiocy, tabloid thinking, and cowardly politics that makes it difficult to break through.

But maybe, when I'm the most famousest man in the world, I'll smite them like an Old Testament God. I might lose the moral high-ground, but blowing stuff up with lightning bolts is fun.

***

I'm sorry for that indulgent, long-winded rant. I'll try and revert to (attempting) comedy next time.

To sum up:

1) Rape is bad
2) Tabloids are bad
3) Smiting can be good, depending on the target
4) I should reduce my earnestness to a low, furious hum

Off

I remember, when I was four, thinking to myself: "I must invent a fictional childhood anecdote to include in my blog in 2010. Whatever a blog may be."

And so I did.

***

I'm feeling a bit off-kilter today. I'm nowhere near kilter, in fact. I don't even know what it means.

Is it a person who makes kilts? Like a Scottish blacksmith? Well, I'm off him anyway. Or her. I don't think kilter is gender specific.

Kiltress is a bit old-fashioned nowadays. There's no need to engender a noun like that. So kilter will do for all.

(Just too clear up any confusion: I'm also off-kiltress)

The feminine equivalent of matter is mattress.

Which just goes to show the endemic misogyny of the English language. The male is equated with matter: import, reality, the substance of life itself. The female is equated with something soft to lie on.

But on the other hand butter is soft and yielding, whereas buttress is strong and fundamental. Language is confusing.

Distress is bad, dister isn't even a word.

Where was I?

In 1997? Dublin.

No, now.

You're here. Well, not here. There.

Where? Here?

Whatever.

Oh yes: off-kilter.

I'm off-kilter.

I'm also out of whack.

I'm completely out of whack. There's no whack left. The cupboards are bare.

The whack cupboards.

I think it's because whack can be used to melt ice, as an alternative to salt.

You may have seen the whack-trucks sprinkling it hither and thither.

And whither.

So I'm off-kilter and out of whack.

And I'm askew.

Like my father and his father before him. I come from a long line of skews.

We changed the course of history.

There aren't as many of us around nowadays. We've been hounded out.

"No skews is good skews," they say, incorrectly.

I'm off-kilter, out of whack and askew.

I'm also unhinged, but then so are most non-doors.

Random Wiki Nuggets

It's difficult to get started with these. I'm OK once the ball has started rolling, but occasionally the ball is a cube, bolted to the floor. So I'll use a bit of outside help for this one.

I will now write a short comedy sketch or idea based on some randomly generated Wikipedia entries. I won't pick and choose, I'll write a sketch for each. No cheating.

Let's roll the cyberdice...

Our first entry is:

Georgia State Route 247

Hmm...

Wizened Hick: Ah was drahvin' dahwn Rowte Twenny-Foh Siven, d'otha dai.

Son of Hick: Why are talking like that, Pa?

Wizened Hick: Yew knowe ah hayd a streoke, boi!

Son of Hick: I know, I know. Pa?

Wizened Hick: Wooaht ees it, suhn?

Son of Hick: Does it strike you as a touch ironic that Route 247, rather than being open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, is in fact only open for 1 hour a day, 1 day a week?

Wizened Hick: Eet shuore doo, boi.

Son of Hick: Obviously, the expression "24/7" is relatively new, and it doesn't hold sway over all things numbered two-forty-seven. But it's weird that this is the only route in the state, and one of the only roads in the world, that has such fixed opening hours.

Wizened Hick: Git bahk ta cawledje, Pwoindextah!

Son of Hick: I'll be back to visit again tomorrow, Pa. Just try and get some rest, OK?

[HE LEAVES]

Wizened Hick: Good heavens! This façade is quite the draining enterprise! And I must keep it up until Michaelmas...

***

Well, that was interesting.

Once again, let's spin the Wheel of Mild Disappointment!

Our second entry is:

Part 91 operator

*facepalm* The gods are not being kind today...

Pilot: The Goddamn FAA had better get outta my ass before I stick my finger up there and poke 'em in the eye!

Mechanic: Uh...

Pilot: Here I am, trying to fly a small non-commercial aircraft, and they're throwing all this Part 91 operator bullshit right in my lap, and expecting me to swallow it hook, line and caboodle!

Mechanic: Oh. What's a Part... 91... Oper..

Pilot: I don't know! I looked it up on Wikipedia, and the article is unclear, and almost completely devoid of information! That Goddamn Headscissors Blog is more deserving of a Wikipedia entry than this stupid legislation!

Mechanic: Sam, I...

Pilot: I ought to tear those sumbitches a new you-know-what-hole! Ass!

Mechanic: Sam, please!

Pilot: Goddamn it, what is it?!

Mechanic: Sam. I'm pregnant.

Pilot: ...

Mechanic: The baby's yours, Sam.

Pilot: Oh. But...

Mechanic: But what?

Pilot: But we're both women!

Mechanic: Oh. Yeah.

[I just blew your gender assumptions right out the window! Not so sexist now, am I ladies?!]

***

I've been unlucky so far - let's see if we get something a little more interesting. Let's play the Lottery of Pain!

Our third entry is:

Brønnøysund Bridge

I remember '79. A crazy year. The British got Thatcher. We got Brønnøysund Bridge.

Me and the guys would drive over it every Saturday. We weren't going for the nightlife! We sure as heck weren't going for the Torget Island food!

We were going for Torghatten.

You can see it from far away, of course. It looks like something from an Wile E Coyote cartoon! But only up close can you see the magic. A huge, natural tunnel runs right through the mountain. It's something to see.

We were always told the story of Torghatten. Everyone thought it was cool! And stupid. Stupid and cool. Hestmannen the troll, chasing a girl, trying to shoot her with an arrow, until the troll-king of Sømna stepped in. He threw his hat on the arrow. The hat became a mountain. The arrow hole became the tunnel.

No one believes, it of course. Not exactly.

The girl... the girl who was being chased was called Lekamøya.

I loved her.

It was also the name of a girl in my class. I chased her all through my childhood. But she never let me get close enough. And I was too scared to shoot an arrow. No mountains were created for me!

But I liked to go to Torghatten anyway. It's a testament to the power of love. The power of lost love.

Years later, Lekamøya (the real Lekamøya) was living in Namsos. On May 6th, 1988, her husband died in a plane crash. You may have read about it in the news. The plane crashed in fog. It crashed right into Torghatten.

The troll-king of Sømna couldn't step in this time. And the tunnel - the hole - wasn't big enough to let everyone through.

A year later, Lekamøya and I were married.

It had taken centuries, but the arrow reached its target.

I don't go to Torghatten anymore. But sometimes, in the fog, I imagine I can see a tunnel, letting the sunlight through.


***

Right, that's probably it. That one wasn't so funny...

I think this experiment was a success! Maybe I'll do it again sometime, when I'm trying to shake the iron inspiration-cube from its moorings.

Jailbreak Reported by Islington Gazette

You may remember from some time ago that I like to look at newspaper advertising boards.

Sometimes it's good to have a little boost of extra fear-mongering on the way into work. The beauty of a sunny morning stroll can often be too sweet - it leads to optimism and kindness. You need to temper it with some badly-written hatespeech.

Occasionally there is a headline that really captures my imagination. Last time it was:

BOFFINS 'WON'T DESTROY WORLD'

This one is perhaps even better. It wasn't the Oxford Mail this time, but the Islington Gazette. I don't know anything about the paper, as I was just travelling through, but I imagine it is a publication of some esteem. They are at the forefront of modern journalism. And they seem to have something of a scoop.

Because nowhere else - not on the BBC, nor CNN, nor the Daily Sport - did I read about this story:

PERVERT

TEACHER

SPEARED

PRISON

I was taken aback.

Usually, I'm repulsed by the manipulative and emotive language used in these headlines. Moral condemnation screams out from every word. I mean, what is a 'pervert'? Surely, perversion is a constantly shifting thing. It's entirely relative to the prevailing moral norms of the day.

But if anything could be objectively perverted, having intercourse with a prison is surely it.

It's difficult to imagine a society in which having sex with large correctional facilities is considered the norm. It's just so different from the current standard notion of a relationship.

But then again, they probably said that about homosexuality in the old days. Perhaps in fifty or sixty years' time, the teacher-prison relationship will be treated with dignity and respect. Even legalised civil partnerships are a possibility.

Of course, I'm assuming 'speared' is a sexual euphemism. I've made many assumptions already. I think an in-depth (perhaps tediously long) analysis of this four-word headline is in order.

PERVERT

I think I've covered this one. It's newspaper slang to add negative connotations to difference. It's in their interests to make us suspicious of the other, so we remain wary and cautious, and buy quality newspapers to let us know how the world really is.

Also, in the same way as the term 'boffin' was used in the previous headline, it adds a layer of dickish playground slang to the equation. Most people stopped using 'pervert' when they were about twelve. But the modern journalist can utilise a wide range of vocabulary to take us all back to that glorious time when you could get teased for having a name with an 'q' in it, or be beaten up for having a hearing aid. Good times...

PERVERT
TEACHER

I wonder what the perversion was in this case. Paedophilia is the implication, but why not come out and say it? PAEDO TEACHER SPEARED PRISON is a much snappier headline. So it must be something else. In which case, why is 'teacher' relevant? Was he licking the whiteboard? Was he teaching fractions in a salacious way? Was he putting a sleazy emphasis on long division (with his pants down)?

[One assumption I'll continue to make is that the teacher was a man. I think if it was a woman, they would have made it clear. Because a perverted woman is about 80% more perverted than a perverted man. Just as an ugly woman is 80% uglier than an ugly man. It's the combination of low pay, derisive treatement and high expectations that makes gender politics so fun (right, ladies?)]

Maybe I've made a syntactical error. Maybe it wasn't a teacher who was a pervert, but rather a teacher of perverts. It could be some kind of evening class. He could give tips on how to grow a patchy beard, wear a long mac, and continually lick your lips.

I know, I know. I'm stuck in the past. I'm falling back on the old pervert clichés. I'm sure there's a rich and nuanced world of perversion out there. Maybe this Perversion 101 class is something we should all try - it might add some spice to the jaded, listless perversions in our own lives.

PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED

I might be wrong about the use of 'speared'. Maybe he actually speared a prison. It could have been an attempt to free some of his captured pervert brothers (or sisters). A spear seems like a bit of an odd choice of escape method, though. The hole made by a spear wouldn't be big enough to allow anyone to climb out. Unless they were three-inches tall (as some perverts are).

Maybe it was the romance of the spear - the connotations of primal craftsmanship and anti-industrialism - that appealed to the perverted freedom-fighter.

It could even be that the spearing of the prison was unconnected to the perversion, which was in turn unconnected to the profession of the teacher. It might have just been a coincidence.

PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED
PRISON

It's an excellent headline, regardless. Simple, but multifaceted.

Unless it was simply some kind of typo! Imagine that! It would make this whole blog entry seem facetious and irritating! It would be as if I was engaging in a sub-Jay Leno, pedantic analysis of a simple mistake! Lucky that's not true.

Because if it was a typo, it would be evidence of exceptionally poor proof-reading skills.

It's FOUR WORDS.

I know proof-reading requires a great deal of concentration. I know that there are probably typos in this very entry. But four words?

Someone would have to have got bored between 'teacher' and 'speared'. 'Pervert' would have captured the imagination, but I suppose lots of people are put off by the word 'teacher'.

It reminds them of the dullness of school, where people tried to tell them about spelling and shit. And where the only consolation came from the fun of teasing people with 'q' in their names, or beating kids up for having a hearing aid. Good times...

I'm glad I never bought a copy of the paper. It might have killed some of the magic. But I'll be keen to look out for any future headlines. Anything is possible, especially if they keep the same proof-reader on staff.

MULSIM

FANATIC

PEACHES
VIOLETS

Cages

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

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

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

Other important elements to an action thriller:

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

One day a year.

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

But look: toast!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

And wash little plastic clothes.

...

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

Hint: white and creamy

Getting up today was like prying caramel out of a waffle iron. Not easy.

And now it's the afternoon, and I'm all caffeined-up. Things are different now. The me of now doesn't understand the weariness of morning-Paul. My whole day sees me being wrenched from one itineration of myself to another.

(I don't know whether itineration is the right word, but I like how it sounds good written down).

Asleep-Paul is yanked into conscious-Paul, who then gets squeezed into clean-Paul, who is mashed into dressed-Paul. The constant changes are disorienting. I'm in a constant state of trans-dimensional jetlag.

So, coffee-addled-Paul is writing this now.

The trouble with the burst of mental spriteliness that comes with a cup of java is it makes me interested in things. Everything. I suddenly want to talk about Guantanamo Bay and the moon landing and the nature of milk.

But at work, being interested in things is actually a hindrance. Because it makes mundane things seem like a waste of time. I want to do something, argue with someone, run somewhere, but I can't. It would be a bit weird to run to the other end of the office. I'd get funny looks.

Writing is ok though, because typing is a satisfying activity. The staccato rhythm and fun clicking sounds reflect my own thought processes. Handwriting is smooth and fluid and continuous. That's what I'm like usually.

But on caffeine my thoughts are jumping around like some nutcase frog. A nutcase frog could type pretty well, and would enjoy the jumping. It might not have much to say, though. But then neither do I.

So I'm thinking too much, typing too much, and I'm curious about everything.

Curiosity killed the cat. But I don't think he was curious enough. If he was really curious, he would have pondered what abstract concepts were likely to kill him. He would have run several experiments. His curiosity would have led him to purchase sophisticated measuring equipment.

Then he would have gone though several possibilities:
1) Would jealousy kill the cat?
2) Would fastidiousness kill the cat?
3) Would a sense of superiority over mice, with a corresponding, deep-seated insecurity over its own relationship to dogs kill the cat?

Then, if he was curious enough, he would eventually find that curiosity can kill the cat. Then he'd be left with a conundrum: keep being curious (a quality which has defined him) and risk death, or cease being curious and live a long (albeit complacent) life. Faced with this possibility, he would be left with no option but to take his own life.

Lacking opposable thumbs, he might, in a last curious-hurrah, devise a method of operating a revolver using a complex pulley-mechanism. Or he might just jump out in front of a van.

I know what you're thinking, or at least what you're thinking if you're as curious as I am (I'd be interested to know): why did I assume the curious cat to be of the male gender?

That's an interesting question.

I think one answer is that in creating and manipulating the thoughts and actions of a being, I feel more comfortable using a male, as it doesn't carry the same connotations of exploitation that playing with a female character would do. I might, in a liberal, Guardian-reader way, feel subconsciously compelled to avoid exerting power over the opposite sex. This is of course undesirable, as I it emphasises the distance between, and otherness of, women (and female cats).

I think the real reason I chose the male gender is one much more disturbing. I think, perhaps bred by the traditional patriarchy of the English language, I begin to see the male as the 'default'. The male is assumed, unless stated otherwise. In the same way as 'waiter' and 'actor' are the default, unless specifically negated with 'waitress' or 'actress'.

Now, the use of the term 'actress' is now discouraged, which is a good thing. But it just goes to show that there is a long way to go in terms of challenging long-held gender assumptions. These assumptions are not necessarily explicit, and not deliberately exploitative, but are still very problematic. They are both a reflection and and a foundation of gender inequality.

It highlights the fact that deliberate 'reclaiming' of words (like actor), whilst seen by some as pedantic or counter-intuitive (or even as 'political correctness gone mad'), are important attempts to redress ancient injustice.

But, in the same way as affirmative action, this raises loads of problems about intensifying group distinctions. I could talk more about that, but I think I've been curious enough for one day. Maybe later I'll go hog-wild with a few expressos (expressoes?) and write a treatise about the nature of milk.