Bloomer

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so specific.

Not particular. Specific.

I'm not particular. I'm quite easy going. If I ask for a Coke and you give me a Pepsi, it's no big thing. If our plans change at the last minute, or our usual restaurant table is occupied, I'm perfectly happy. I can change on the fly. I'm not particular at all.

But I am specific. I'm only ever me.

I'm always exactly the way I am. Everything has to be just so. I'm always utterly Paul and nothing but. It's frustrating.

I'd much prefer to be non-specific. I'd love to be general. Many of my favourite things are general. I don't want to be pinned down. I'd rather be a mist. You can't pin down mist.

I yearn to be vague. Defined identity is for squares.

It's not that I don't like myself. I like myself fine. I just wish my self wasn't so clearly delineated. I'd like to be wider variety of person. I want to be painted in broad strokes, but instead I'm printed in jet-black ink.

You know where you are with me. More than that, you know where I am with me. I'm right here. And I'm right him. I might as well be carved out of wood.

I wish I wasn't wood. I'd rather be spores.

***

Yeah, it's Friday. I'm bored and anxious, as usual. I might go and get a sandwich. I already had a baguette, but that was two and a half hours ago. And it was just the baguette. I didn't have any extras.

I'll go and get a sandwich.

...

I used three dots there, rather than three asterisks. It's because, though time has past since my last paragraph, the content of this section is a thematic continuation of the last.

I got a tuna and crunchy vegetable bloomer.

The shop was playing a terrible, terrible song. I don't know what it was. It was one of those modern songs. I've heard it before, but I don't know where. I don't listen to modern music. I'm thirty.

Man, it was terrible.

Maybe it's on an advert. That might explain it. Ugh. I can still hear it through my memory ears.

I think it's a man singing, and there's some other noise.

Whatever happened to proper music? Whatever happened to Emma Bunton?

These are the end times.

%%%

I used three percentage signs there, rather than three asterisks. It's because I wanted to see if the zeroes looked like tiny coffee beans. I'm happy to say that they do.

I could easily repeat this device, typing three of every single symbol on my keyboard, then saying what they look like or what they connote. But I'm not going to do that. Twice is enough.

I took a picture of a really yellow tree yesterday. I'd include the photo here, but I can't access the internet on my phone. It was really yellow, though.

***

Oh man, I thought I'd already finished this. I don't know why. Did I think the yellow tree anecdote was a good closer? It wouldn't fly in Vegas, I can tell you that. People would be asking for their money back.

"Hey buddy," they'd shout. "We didn't come all the way from Hoboken to hear some guy in a SHIRT tell us about some crummy yellow tree."

"Yeah," his wife would say. "I mean, if you had a picture, that would be somethin'. But we don't even get to see the damn thing. How do we even know if it was yellow?"

Then they'd head off to the slots, like the scum they are.

What kind of animal would voluntarily go to Las Vegas? It's the worst place in the world. If one city represents the worst of humanity, it's Las Vegas.

It has the delusion of LA without the beach; the disgusting wealth-fetishisation of Monte Carlo without the attractive women; the lasciviousness of Amsterdam without the weed; and the cultural bankruptcy of Australia without the kangaroos.

"Have you ever even been to Las Vegas, Paul?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS ENDING THE BLOG POST IN CAPS, TO ARTIFICIALLY CREATE A CLIMAX.

###

I'll see you next week.

Money for Invisible Rope

"If you don't have the answers, you're not asking the right questions."

I've been inspiring mimes since 2004.

I travel the length and breadth of the country, offering words of wisdom to the mime community. They are often branded as seminars, but I prefer to think of them as "get-to-know-you-mimes" sessions. There's nothing formal about them. I'm not there in a professional capacity (though I am paid handsomely); I'm just there as a catalyst.

I am an agent of change. But only for mimes.

I know what you're thinking. What can I - a non-mime - have to offer the mime community? What can I tell them that they don't already know?

Well, the life of a mime is not easy. It can be overwhelming. It's often lonely and thankless work. So sometimes they need an outside perspective to remind them of why they got into the business in the first place. If I can help even one mime realise his or her potential, I know that I've done my job.


We start off with some coffee and pastries and a short mingling opportunity. Many of the mimes already know each other, but, as they spend so much time on the road, it's nice for them to have the chance to catch up. There are also many new mimes who can use the time to introduce themselves to their colleagues, usually by gesturing towards their nametags.

After everyone has had a chat and a croissant, they sit down and listen to my presentation. I won't go into too much detail (I don't want to give away my secrets for free!), but I try to cover all aspects of the miming lifestyle, touching on business plans, time management, face painting techniques, and self-defence.

Just to give you a flavour of my PowerPoint presentation, one of the slides displays the slogan Marcel Marceaufar, Marcel Marceaugood, together with a picture of Marcel Marceau (the famous mime)!


Though I'm the only one on stage, I don't like to think of these sessions as just a one-way exercise. We're all part of one big conversation. Though the conversation is rather one-sided.

As a performer, I find mimes to be amongst the most supportive and cordial of audiences. There are no heckles and no unrelated chit-chat. Their phones are always on silent.

Sure, there is the occasional dismissive or belligerent hand gesture. The "shoot-myself-in-the-head" motion is the most popular one. But, by and large, the mimes are appreciative.

I don't mean to keep treating the mime community as though they're one big homogeneous mass. Each mime is an individual, with their own style, their own opinions, and their own personalities. The last thing I want to do is put them in a box. What would that accomplish?

Towards the end of the session, we engage in a role-playing exercise, which is the mime's bread and butter. A popular game is for one individual to play the part of bread, and the other to play the part of butter. It's hugely exciting to see the ways in which the mimes explore this dynamic.

After a (very) short question and answer section, we all say goodbye. The waves are wonderfully elaborate! I hope that remark doesn't come across as condescending. I genuinely love to see the reactions of the group. You should see their faces! All different paints and creeds. Old, young; male, female; black, white: all together as one (though these days black face paint is a grey area).

My heart swells as they open the door and leave, in an exaggerated fashion, battling against a strong wind.

I truly believe that these sessions have created a whole generation of happy, confident mimes. "Just because you're mute," I say, as part of my closing remarks, "doesn't mean you can't be outspoken!"

This line often leads to stifled laughter. If the mime in question fails to complete his or her stifle, and an audible noise comes out, I politely ask them to leave and never come back.

My agent keeps trying to talk me into modifying my talk to cater for the clown community, but I don't think I could handle the squeaks, the splats, the honks and the bonks.

"It would throw off my rhythm!" I say. But it falls on deaf ears, because my agent is genuinely deaf. A lovely guy, nonetheless.

If you want more details on my talks, please visit www.hilariousmimepun.com. It's a temporary URL until I come up with something good. Don't worry - I'll set up a redirect.

Perspective

INT. GYM - DAY

People are milling about in the aerobics room, waiting for the aerobics to start. They are all wearing shorts, leotards, head bands etc. LOU and REESE are limbering up. REESE is doing some advanced moves.

LOU

Where did you learn 

how to stretch?

REESE

Nowhere. 

I'm self-taut!

REESE grins.

LOU

Oh. (BEAT) Oh, I get it. Like 
"taut". Like T-A-U-T taut. 

Because of the stretching.

That's funny.

REESE

Yeah. I suppose it's not that 

obvious when I say it out loud...

THE INSTRUCTOR enters the room, and everyone quiets (quietens?) down. He strides smoothly to the front of the class. He is rock hard all over, even his tongue. His eyes are full of intensity. He never blinks.

THE INSTRUCTOR

(INTENSE) Blood. Sweat. Tears. 

I expect two of the three. 

You can choose which.

LOU raises his hand.

LOU

What about urine?

THE INSTRUCTOR

What about urine?

LOU

That's what I said.

THE INSTRUCTOR

No, I meant, what ABOUT urine? 

What about urine? The emphasis 

should have been on "about". 

It's difficult to indicate. 

Can you do italics in screenwriting? 

Is it presumptuous to tell 

the actor how to deliver a line?

LOU

All of these questions 

aren't consistent with 

your authoritative character.

THE INSTRUCTOR pulls out a gun and points it at LOU.

THE INSTRUCTOR

Is this authoritative 
enough for you?

LOU

Again: a question. 

You shouldn't even be 

engaging with me.

THE INSTRUCTOR softens, blinks, then pulls the trigger. 

REESE reacts with remarkable speed, stretching his leg over to deflect the bullet with his wrist-band (which was on his ankle - a happy accident). It pings off, Wonder Woman-style (though we don't have the rights to mention her by name). 

REESE

I guess all that 

stretching paid off!

THE INSTRUCTOR is outraged, but he's out of bullets. He had meant to stock up before the class, but he didn't. You might want to show this in a flashback/montage/anime sequence.

LOU

It certainly did! 

He's self-taut, 
Mr Instructor. 

Tee-ay-you-tee!

Something happens with the police.

CREDITS

***

I had a danish pastry earlier. You don't need to capitalise that, right? It's like a dutch camera angle, or a french kiss. It's no longer about the nationality. It's a word in its own right.

I've never been a big fan of the danish (pastry), but I don't know why. I like croissants. I like goo. What could be better?

It must have been a prejudice from earlier in my life, that I hung onto for no reason.

It's over now. I've had two this week.

On Monday, I had a massive passion fruit danish that looked like a creamy swastika. Today I had one with orange and lemon in it.

It's changed my life. 

("Shortened your life, more like!" - a wiseguy)

Nothing will ever be the same, because I've tasted two danishes.

I don't really have any strong opinions on them, to be honest. I could take them or leave them. But they've changed my life forever, by having entered it.

Everything that has entered my life has changed it. You can't help but change something if you're inside it. It's like entering Schrödinger's cat box: the box will never recover.

So, even though the danishes were mediocre, I am new. There was pre-danish Paul and post-danish Paul. I am now post-danish. It's like the television series Bewitched. Everyone divides it into two eras: genuine witchcraft and fake witchcraft. And we all have our favourite.

I think I might be too loose with my analogies. I just throw them out there, even if they don't make any sense.

Still, that's the only way to end a blog post.

It's like finding a spider in your telescope: you don't know how it got in there, but at least you no longer have to worry about that blasted meteorite.

Electric Tosser

You're thinking about it too much. Just do it quickly. It'll be over before you know it.

Welcome to October Twenty-Thirteen!

We're getting new heaters installed on Friday. We almost froze to death last winter, so we're going to grab the mammoth by the horns and deal with it.

Heaters are expensive. We need four of them. They probably won't even work. And we'll have wasted every last penny on four expensive clothes horses. We had to phone electricians, and meet electricians, and decide which electrician would be the best electrician.

I hate being an adult. I'm not interested in making decisions. If I wanted to make decisions, I wouldn't have bought an electric coin-tosser. Which reminds me: one of the electricians had a quick look at our electric coin-tosser and has thinks the wiring isn't up to code.

They quoted us fifteen thousand pounds to rewire it. We couldn't decide whether to go through with it or not, so we let the machine decide. The coin landed on tails and blew the fuse-board. In the darkness, we snuck out and haven't heard from that particular electrician since.

It's all so overwhelming. I bought a Terry's Chocolate Orange. I don't know how to handle life.

***

I'm thinking of doing NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year's event was very productive, even if I didn't produce much that I liked. Here's an extract from my last story, Neon Tiny Fires:

Tone faced Clara and jerked his thumb over at Liam, giving her a ‘get a load of this guy!’ expression. After a few seconds of no response, he literally said out loud: “Get a load of this guy!”

Very productive.

I don't have any ideas, though. That didn't stop me last year, of course. But this year I really need to write something coherent. I've got heaters to pay for, after all.

I'm thinking of doing something political. It will give me a chance to take out some of my frustration about the world. Also, if the book is a success, they might invite me on Have I Got News For You (which they still make, apparently). I like the missing word round. The trick is to guess an inappropriate or incongruous word and the audience will laugh.

I don't watch panel shows any more. I went off them all of a sudden. I hate panel shows.

You know what? I know why it happened.

It's because I hate panels. Why do I hate panels?

Because our old heaters were panel heaters. And they were rubbish heaters. We nearly froze to death last winter. I might have mentioned that before.

They look like this:

Awful. I hate them.

I hate all panels, and things that have the word 'panel' in them.

I even hate "shrapnel" now, just because it has the letters of 'panel' in it. And I used to love shrapnel.

These new heaters will change everything. We'll be warm and everything will be OK. I'll be all cosy, writing a book that will pay for the cosiness several times over.

I'm thinking of writing something about panels for NaNoWriMo. It will give me a chance to take out some of my frustration about the world. The world of panels.

Also, they might invite me on a panel show, and I can tell this story, and it'll get a big laugh from the studio audience at the record, but will be cut out of the final edit for time.

***

My new album Love Shrapnel will be streaming on Pitchfork for half an hour tomorrow, ahead of a physical release sometime next year. It's already being called a 'stunning return to form' by those in the know.

The Golden Age of Hollywood

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

Chlorine

The walls have ears, but the flume takes them by force.

Make sure you tuck in your arms and legs on the way down. There are rivets in the tube. If it's not tucked in, it's up for grabs. The rivets don't discriminate. Building the flume took all of the council's money; there wasn't enough left for sandpaper.

But if a normal swimming pool experience isn't exciting enough for you, those are the risks you have to take. The fun of plummeting down a water slide comes at a cost, and the cost is often the loss of a body part.

The flume is long and curls around. It starts inside, snakes outside, then forces its way back through the brickwork. You'll land in the pool with a satisfying sploosh. Take the time to appreciate it, before you check your appendages. You might as well have those few seconds of euphoria before you realise your hearing is now mono.

One in ten children will lose an ear on the way down. Though, to be fair, that's only one in twenty ears.

You can see them as you slide. Nobody will collect them. How would they? The ears stay where they were caught: attached to the screws and the nuts and the jagged plastic, hanging like fleshy bats That's part of the thrill of the flume. Not just the water and the danger. Not just the gravity. You get to see the ears.

All shapes and sizes and colours, dangling there like Christmas decorations. Some have earrings. Some have tape on the lobes, with the promise of earrings beneath. But you only get a sense of them. You're moving too fast. It's just an after-image of ears, flashing before your eyes alongside your life.

There were complaints. The ear loss was raised at the council meetings. "But what can we do?" they asked. "The flume has been installed. We can't take it down. It's still so popular!"

And it is popular. Despite of, or because of, the ears.

My cousin lost three ears in the same month. He must not have been frisked before entering the pool area.

It isn't just ears, of course. Some people lose fingers. Some, wigs. The mayor foolishly decided to go down with his ceremonial chain, and ended up drowned because of the weight.

Because of the wigs and ears, the flume is getting narrower every day. Soon there won't be enough room to get to the bottom. People will get lodged there; stuck like the very ears they came to see. We're all ears now, they might say.

The flume will probably be closed at that point. Someone on the swimming pool committee will suggest filling the flume with powerful acid to melt away the blockage. And the suggestion will be approved by three votes to one. The one vote will be from Lydia, who would never approve of acid because of what happened to her little boy, even though it was his fault for tripping over his goggles.

The acid won't eat through the flume, because it's made of a special plastic, suggested by someone who watched Breaking Bad.

The flume will reopen. And the ear harvest will continue. There we'll be. A town full of people with crooked glasses.

Still, it's safer than the diving boards, which are covered with swords.

Dinner Date

I Want to Save Room for the Metal Detector

a story

"Not for me, thanks. I want to save room for the metal detector." She patted her belly and licked her lips.

"You what?" asked Loz.

"I want to save room for the metal detector. So no seconds for me. It was lovely, though." She put her knife and fork together on the plate and sat back.

"What do you mean? What metal detector?" asked Loz.

"Oh. Are you getting the cheese board?"

Loz put his wine glass to his lips and held it there. He was scrutinising her expression.

"Five courses, right?" she said.

"Yeah. Five courses."

"Great." She drummed the table greedily. "I'll try to grab the waiter when he comes past."

"I don't understand," said Loz. "What does a metal detector have to do with anything?"

She gave a little patronising, quizzical head movement, which made things worse. "Five courses," she said, and counted them on her fingers and thumb. "Soup. Appetiser. Main course. Desert. Metal detector."

"Or cheese board?"

"Yes. Or cheese board."

Loz leaned in. "You know, I don't think they do a metal detector course here."

"What?" She met his lean. "Why not?"

"I don't think it's a standard thing. I've never even heard of it."

"You've never heard of a metal detector?"

"No, I've... I have heard of a metal detector. I know they exist. But I've never heard of them as a... dining... option..."

"Well, you grew up down South," she said. She shook her head dismissively. "I'm sure they must do it at a place this fancy."

"I really don't think they do."

"Well we'll see, won't we." She lifted her hand to attract the attention of the waiter. Before she could speak, Loz grabbed her hand and lowered it. It was the first time they had touched.

She laughed. "What are you doing?"

"Just... just wait a moment," said Loz. "Just wait a moment."

He tried to move even closer, but his chair was tucked in as far as it would go. 

"Just wait a moment," he said again. "Before we ask them, can I just... I was wondering..."

He was having trouble finding the words. She waited patiently for him to speak, and finished her wine.

"I was just wondering," he continued in a whisper, "what kind of metal detector it is. Normally, I mean. Is it the sort-of 'beachcomber' portable one, or is it the thing you walk through at the airport? The... gateway?" 

He mimed a gateway.

The waiter arrived thirty seconds later, by which time Loz and Antonia (the woman) were engaged to be married.

Inside

The Slide

A kid slid

No lie, he did.

Inside the slide, he hit his head and died

"He's dead!" I said, then cried

The slide was not as wide 

as he'd been lead to think

By Ed, the playground shrink

There was ample room for ego

But no leeway for the id

In days to come, Ed would confide

His focus wavered from the slide

To mood swings and the climbing mindframes and the tell me roundabout your mother

New guidelines, to which Ed complied,

Require that he be qualified

And not just a man who owns a COUCH

In accordance with the dead kid's dead dad's wishes, 

The dead kid's dead-ass ashes 

Were scattered on the low end of the see-saw

There the remains remain

All except his enormous skull, which was in a skip in the crematorium car park

***

It's difficult to be a poet when you have a short attention span. Things like metre and stanzas and rhyme scheme, and coherence, are hard to maintain. Sometimes, you try too hard to tick all of the boxes, and end up dabbing each of them with a spot of ink, invisible to the naked eye.

It's August. This is the last non-depressing month of the year, which is pretty depressing, I can tell you. I need to squeeze all of my barbecues and water fights into the next thirty-one days. You best not try any of that shit in September.

August is like your thirties. There's too much pressure to achieve things before the leaves and hair change colour.

This year, I might opt out. I bought flip-flops this year, and have used them on multiple occasions. That's my summer fun quota fulfilled. I can afford to spend the rest of the month under a blanket, with the curtains closed, can't I? Why should the calendar dictate my behaviour? Just because it knows more about holy feast days than I do? That's not right.

I just can't shake the feeling that I might be exactly the same as everyone else.

That's all I see when I'm in a crowd of people: dozens of exact replicas of myself.

They all dress the same as me, they all have the same stupid fluffy beard. And I know - I just know - that they're thinking exactly the same thing.

It's hard living in a world where everyone shares your values, tastes, fears, shoe size and postcode.

I've always been an insider. Even as a young child, I suspected that I fit in. I'd see my peers engaged in some activity, and I'd think "I'm also doing that".

There's no point in doing observational comedy anymore. I get on stage, and can immediately see that everyone has noticed the same things I have. I don't even talk. I just nod into the mic, and the audience nods back.

Everyone suspects that they are the only non-pariah in the world, and they're all correct.

What is "normal"? It's the thing that everyone is. Especially me.

Someone has definitely already written an identical blog post to this one, which is comforting. Being comforted makes me feel uneasy. Being uneasy makes me just like everyone else.

I'm not on the outside, looking in. I'm on the inside. But I'm not looking out. Who wants to look out?

I'm on the inside looking in. Like everyone, I'm perpetually aware of my place in the world. At night, I lie asleep thinking, worrying about being unable to get awake.

But you know how it is...

Cat and Mouse

I'm writing this near to a cat.

I'm writing this *this* near to a cat.

Our upstairs neighbour has gone away for two weeks, and we have to look after it. (We didn't have to -the neighbour asked us if we would, and we said yes.)

It's a she, not an it. But I can't view her that way. She's just a furry obligation.

(The cat, not the neighbour LOL!)

God, I hope she can't read this. She'd be really offended.

(Again: the cat.)

There's not much looking after to do. We have to make sure she has water, we have to fill a complicated automatic feeding bowl that won't co-operate, and we have to empty her litter tray. That's no fun.

But we're also supposed to keep her company sometimes. She likes human interaction, apparently. I haven't seen any sign of it.

I think - and this might be a sweeping statement - that all cat people have severe emotional problems.

By cat people, I don't mean people who are half-cat, like Panthro or my cousin Lianne. I mean cat people. People who describe themselves as cat people are cat people. You can tell because they call themselves that, and because they're mentally ill.

Not all cat people have to be cat owners. Likewise, there are cat owners who aren't really cat people.

But cat people have all been brainwashed by their pets. It's quite widespread. That's why so many internet memes are cat-based.

I like animals, that's the thing. I'm not anti-animal. I enjoy spending time with them. I even enjoy spending time with cats. But I don't get the fanatical devotion to them. It's a bit like Star Wars. Lightsaber battles are fun, but I wouldn't want to groom George Lucas. Comparison complete.

Cats don't seem to offer much more than most animals, and don't have the important element of being affectionate. People always talk about how intelligent cats are. But they're not as intelligent Tottenham supporters. And you don't see hilarious photos of them on Tumblr, struggling to get out of a box.

Anyway, I tend to value affection above intelligence. Cats are snooty and aloof. The bare minimum I want from a pet is slavish devotion, just as it is for a wife.

Cat people seem to spend all of their time catering to the whims of their pets. The cat dictates the schedule of the day, the places the owner can and can't be, the types of visitors allowed in the house.

I don't really get it. If I owned a lion, I'd probably let it boss me around. But I could totally beat up a cat. And I will, if the occasion requires it.

Don't get me wrong. The ideal owner/pet relationship is a reciprocal. It's an equal partnership, like Gargantua and Pantagruel. I don't know anything about Gargantua and Pantagruel, but they are two names joined by an "and". If that's not a partnership, I don't know what is.

But cats refuse to be in equal partnerships. They want to be top dog, and don't even realise how ridiculous that is.

Cat people remind me of poor downtrodden women, who are slavishly devoted to their oafish, disdainful husbands. They believe their cat can do no wrong, they buy presents for it, they post pictures of it on Facebook. They receive nothing in return, but convince themselves that they are loved.

"Oh, but my cat's lovely," I hear you say. But you would say that! That's how brainwashing works.

I think all cats should be killed.

There. I said it.

***

Here's a quick behind-the-scenes insight into that section:

Halfway through, I wasn't sure if I believed what I was writing. So I just became more and more emphatic in an attempt to power through. It worked.

Of course your cat is lovely. I was talking about those other cats.

There are some really loud and annoying children playing outside. I was loud and annoying when I was a child, so I should be sympathetic. But I'm old now, and am genetically programmed to hate children. I don't know how it helps natural selection. Perhaps the anger of the elderly releases aphrodisiac spores into the air.

I should probably go now. The cat doesn't find my keystrokes and clicking very comforting. I'd better buy it an expensive watch and let it have a few hours of "me" time.

!!~~POST #800 - GARGANTUAN WATERSHED FIESTA~~!!

The year is 1909. The place is a small European village. Bread is being baked. The baker is a man called Loïc.

Though he bakes bread, he does not think about bread. It's automatic now. Yeast never crosses his mind. He cannot spell the word "crust", either in English or his own language. He doesn't care for flour. He forgets about his oven.

He bakes, but he is not aware of it.

His mind is not on bread. It is on a dream.

This dream has visited him every night for seven weeks. It is always the same. It is as clear as day. It is so vivid that Loïc can still feel it on his skin when he awakens. The dream is more real than his waking life. The dream's smells waft through the room, eclipsing breadsmell and bunsmell alike.

Loïc lives for the dream.

He lives alone. He has never married. His parents are dead. His only brother is abroad somewhere dark and unreachable.

Loïc bakes and sells enough bread to keep himself alive. He doesn't need any more than that. All he desires is enough food to feed himself, enough water to quench himself, a roof over his head, and a comfortable bed.

He needs no luxuries.

He simply requires adequate conditions for sleep.

With the sleep comes the dream. And with the dream comes reality.

After the bread has been baked, Loïc removes it from the oven. He doesn't realise that he is doing this. It is auxiliary. Everything is auxiliary.

Time passes at a steady pace. Loïc knows not to be over-eager. He must not sleep before 8pm, or the dream will not come.

Loïc is not impatient. He is serene. He is content. He is, in his own way, enlightened. He has found a route to happiness, and a route to fulfilment. The route is under the eiderdown. The portal is a single hard pillow.

He turns out his oil lamp, and waits to be illuminated.

And it comes again. It will always come. He is not afraid. It will always come.

Even when death comes, the dream will still be there. When the mortal world is gone, the dream will be everything.

Outside his window, the people of the village laugh and drink and fret and argue and love. They are living what they assume are lives. They think about bread. They think about it every morning. And they think about the baker.

But the baker does not think about the bread. The baker does not think about the people of the village. The baker does not even think about the baker.

The baker thinks about the dream.

And the dream is this:

a small glowing window

beneath the window, a row of buttons, like those of a typewriter - one for every letter

through the window, a strange series of images

images of words, appearing as if by magic

there is colour in the window, and symbols, and sometimes pictures

sometimes the pictures are like photographs, but vivid and strange

photographs of a bearded man, adorned with colour

somehow the man and the writing are connected

the writing does not make sense

it seems like it will, and sometimes it edges close to meaning, but it falls short

the words make reference to places and people and coffee and being bored and not knowing what to write about

sometimes, there are items that have the form of jokes or humorous remarks, but they lack humour, they are not jokes

or maybe the humour is too obscure to fathom

one word recurs and seems to be important

the word is 'blog'

the dream is 'blog'

and so is the world

the world is blog

The baker wakes up from his dream at the same point every morning. He smiles. He revels in the afterglow.

A hum of contentment follows his morning routine, as he bathes and dresses.

There is bread to be made. And it will be made.

But the baker will not think of it.

He has seen through another world's window.

The dough will rise. But it will never rise as high as the baker.

***

Blog anniversary time!

This is Post #800. That's a lot of writing. It's a shame no-one reads it, but at least it means that no-one will feel short-changed when the book comes out.

On my hundredth post, I set a stupid precedent that I continue to follow. The opening picture is part of it. As is the linking to my previous milestone entries:

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
Post #700

As is a conversation with myself in the past.

In Post #700, I wrote:

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

I would say that the brown shirt is on gardening leave. It's still in the wardrobe, and still makes the occasional jaunt out (if there's a laundry emergency for example; or if I have to go to a costume party, the theme of which is "formal turds"). But it's not part of the regular rotation any more. I think it's on its last legs.

Jeremy Hunt, you'll be delighted to know, has moved away from the vital area of culture, and is now the much more trivial Health Secretary.

All we have to worry about now is the fact that he's dismantling the NHS, probably this country's greatest achievement. Hunt is killing poor people, though in a less direct way than he'd probably like.

This isn't like the halcyon days of Post #700. Things are really miserable.

But, on the bright side: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

But enough about me. Post #900 Paul! How's it going, man? Did you manage to plant some flowers in your window boxes?

Also, have you done any good tweets lately, or is that whole deal over with now?

***

In my last anniversary post, I wrote and recorded a WHOLE NEW SONG specifically for the occasion, and made a VIDEO MONTAGE. Imagine!

I haven't put as much work into this one. In fact, I haven't put any work into it. Possibly because I resented the fact that my song and video attracted no comment whatsoever. What's the point?

Ironically, the song itself was about my lack of comments, so it was probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It seems a shame to be so monomedia in this entry though. Maybe I could just do something quick.

That'll do.

I know your attention span is too short to listen to something long, like - I dunno - an AMAZING SONG.

But seriously, you're all great.

And very attractive.

I wonder who the most attractive reader of this blog is... (Excluding me, for several reasons)

If you think you're the most attractive reader of this blog, send a short description of yourself, on a stamped, addressed envelope to the following address:

Headscissors

8212 Scrupulous Drive

Waxahachie, TX

Please note: DO NOT SEND A PHOTOGRAPH. Only a verbal description will be accepted. And, even then, only if it's pretty vague.

***

There's a wrestler that I like called Daniel Bryan.

He's also a wrestler that everyone else likes. He's become really popular, even though he's quite small for a wrestler, and has a big beard, and is a vegan.

He has a strange intensity that makes him fun to watch.

We saw him live, years ago in Coventry (when he was called Bryan Danielson), and he got booed because he stopped his entrance music before everyone could sing along. His music was 'The Final Countdown'. "Only Americans get to hear The Final Countdown!" he said.

That's what you call being a heel.

Wrestling - or more accurately, WWE wrestling - is often full of bad writing and bad decisions. But sometimes, someone like Bryan will come along and take everyone by surprise. I hope he does well.

I don't know why I'm talking about this. Perhaps I just wanted to include some photos in this entry.

If you don't care about wrestling, come back! I'll talk about something everyone likes!

***

Isn't it fun when you put stuff between your toes? Yeah, it is! Like the toes of the other foot. Especially between the third and fourth toes.

It's really satisfying.

Different toes don't have different names like the fingers do. There's the big toe. And the...

Hang on.

Have I talked about this before?

Because I started this as a deliberately lame bit of universal writing. But if I've written it before, in earnest, I'll have egg all over my toes.

I'll search for toe content.

...

It's now several hours later.

I don't think I've ever covered this specific topic, but I certainly have written a lot about toes.

I need to change the subject. I should probably put some socks on.

***

This is enough. I will have lost people at every stage of this entry, and I can't imagine who might be left.

You must be really bored, Sarah. You really must.

Between you and me (and maybe the other Sarah if she's reading), I think you need to have a good hard look at yourself. If you're living a life where you have the time, the patience, or the temperament to read the whole of a post like this, there's something wrong.

You too, Dave.

It's embarrassing.

Don't come down to my level. It's horrible down here.

This has been a lot of fun.

I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments:

"I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments"

MAkes yOU think, mm?!

Nourishment

Two humans in a discussion in a room in a building.

Nicola: What makes you think I care what you think?

Olivia: That does.

Nicola: What?

Olivia: You. Asking the question. That very question makes me think you care what I think. Otherwise why would you ask it?

Nicola: No. No, no, no. I didn't ask what you were thinking though, did I? Just what makes you think it.

Olivia: Oh. I see.

Nicola: I don't care what you're thinking. I don't have the slightest interest in what you're thinking. I just want to know why you're thinking it.

Olivia: Oh.

A waiter brings over steak knives, and takes away the empty bread basket. The building seems to be a restaurant.

Nicola: Well?

Olivia: Err...

Nicola: What makes you think I care what you think?

Olivia: Ummmmmm... neurons?

Nicola: *smiles, nods* Yes. That's probably it.

Waiter: Parmesan?

Nicola: For steak?

Waiter: Oh, I'm terribly sorry. This is my first day.

***

Wasn't that fun?

I'm going to expand that scene into a slightly longer scene where one of the characters goes off to the toilet for a few minutes.

Until then: here is some writing on a topic.

I've been watching some television series that everyone else has already seen. I didn't want to be missing out on any global phenomena, so I bought the first seasons of Mad Men and Game of Thrones on Blu-ray.

I always seem to buy new TV shows in twos. I did the same thing with Girls and Enlightened. Though I like being able to alternate, it means that I end up comparing two programmes that don't really have any relation to each other. Beyond arriving in the same Amazon ethical alternative online shop parcel.

With both pairs, I've liked one and not-particularly-liked the other.

I like Mad Men and Enlightened.

I don't particularly like Girls or Game of Thrones.

I think this would happen with any two purchases. The strengths of one cast the weakness of the other in sharper relief.

The things that I like most about Mad Men are the things I find lacking in Game of Thrones. Interesting characters, for example. Or typewriters.

I won't talk too much about Enlightened and Girls. The former is moving, beautiful and complicated. The latter didn't make me laugh much, or like the characters, and I didn't find any of the stories very interesting.

Having said that, I don't think Girls is a bad show. It's clearly a work of individual vision, and has its own tone and point of view. If you're going to make good, unique television (as a lot of these HBO, and HBO-like, shows are), you're not going to appeal to everyone. Appealing to everyone is what network shows are like. Or what I imagine they're like. I don't watch them, because I don't like to associate myself with everyone. Or anyone.

The conditions that created Girls are the same as the conditions that created Enlightened. This fertile soil has nourished the modern golden age of... flowers... television... sunflowers... golden... I've lost control of another metaphor.

What I'm trying to say is: if you want the beauty of Enlightened, you have to put up with shit like Girls. Just like if you want free speech, you have to put up with Jeremy Clarkson.

Which brings us onto Mad Men and Game of Thrones.

Game of Thrones is not shit. I can see why people would like it. It looks great. It has a nice, rich fictional world to get lost in. It has lots of topless women. There are swords and stuff. People like swords. It's an impressive piece of craft. The show, not the swords. Though they are too.

But it seems to me to be one of those shows that's basically just a load of stuff happening.

The main appeal of GoT (that abbreviation will save me time) is that events will occur. And you watch to see what will happen. There isn't much time for ideas.

It's a big soap opera with wolves. And again, I can totally see why people would like it. It's fun to see exciting stuff happen. You get to know characters, and you want to know what happens to them. It's like your university friends - they mean nothing to you, but you still read their Facebook status messages.

But that's not enough for me. It might be because I didn't find any of the characters that interesting (with the obvious exception of Tyrion Lannister). They all fit into predictable roles. There are the noble ones, dealing with harsh realities. There are the villainous ones. There are the ones that are like sissy Klingons.

Maybe it's a strength of economical writing, but you know how each character is going to react to a situation. It's a bit boring, really.

The performances are fine. The dialogue is fine. It's not a bad show. It's certainly not like some other hugely popular television events (*cough*Lost*cough), that are actively terrible.

But I don't really fancy watching any more.

At the end of the season, I realised that I could well have just read the episode synopses on Wikipedia, and I wouldn't really have missed anything. With no characters to root for, there isn't much point in watching a programme that's all about events.

One other drawback to the programme is a bit similar to one in The Walking Dead (which, by the way, is much worse and more boring than GoT). In a world that's all harsh justice, torture, beheadings, despots, barbarians, war and suffering, there isn't much jeopardy. If every day is a struggle to survive, when a character dies, it just seems like a commonplace thing.

After a zombie apocalypse, the gap between death and survival is pretty small and covered in maggots. In the world of GoT, there's not going to be a super happy ending where things turn out OK. People are going to continue to suffer atrocities. And constant atrocities are pretty vanilla.

I'm not surprised that Game of Thrones is popular. But I don't have the emotional investment to keep watching a show with no depth.

Which brings us to Mad Men.

In contrast to the weak and watery gruel of Game of Thrones (presented though it is in a beautifully-carved earthenware bowl), Mad Men is a really meaty stew.

There's a lot going on there. Beyond the performances and the dialogue, which are both great, there's a lot of stuff under the surface.

It seems like a weird thing to appreciate. Nobody likes their favourite shows because of themes or subtext. But you notice when it's not there.

The characters in Mad Men are strange and unpredictable. They have intricate inner lives. They generally don't correspond to archetypes. You're not sure if they'll make the right choices. They're motivated by things that characters on television aren't usually motivated by.

Throughout the first season (and that's as far as I've got, so it might become Suddenly Susan after that for all I know), there are lots of juicy undercurrents. It's the kind of show where you sit silently through the credits, trying to digest what everything means.

It's a period drama where the period isn't the driving force. You forget when it is set after a few episodes. It just becomes a story about interesting, recognisable, yet totally unique, people.

If you just sat down and read the Wikipedia synopses of Mad Men episodes, they'd hardly tell you anything.

Game of Thrones is about, like, thrones and that.

Mad Men isn't about advertising. It's about... well... what's life about? It's about that.

I've probably been to harsh in my GoT criticisms, and too lavish with my MM (why didn't I think of this abbrev. before?!?) praise.

That's why you shouldn't buy two television series at the same time. In fact, you should have your mind wiped after consuming any piece of art. You need your palate cleansed. Find some brain sorbet, or your objectivity is compromised.

There. I've been wanting to write about that for ages. Now I have to go back and italicise all of the programme titles. I bet I'll miss some.

I can't wait until my next Amazon ethical alternative online shop order arrives. I've got the Complete Works of Shakespeare and the Complete Box-Set of Jim Davidson's Big Break arriving in the same package.

Bloody comparable, I'd imagine.

Deep Cross

At the end of the Brazil-England match yesterday, the referee crossed himself Catholic-style, and Lucy disapproved.

I asked her what the problem was. I wondered if it had something to do with him compromising his neutrality. A referee should show no signs of bias. But what is an overt, public, religious gesture if not a statement of affiliation? Referees should be on the fence. Catholics aren't on the fence.

He's being partisan in a couple of ways. Firstly, in the case of yesterday's game, he was suggesting a preference for the more Catholic of the two countries. That's Brazil. They've even got a massive Jesus. The English, on the other hand, are heathens. Or - at best - mixed. Any Catholic worth his salt would be rooting for his fellow believers. He might have given Brazil a key penalty, as a way to placate their mutual God. He didn't, but he might have.

The second way that the referee was partisan was in favouring Catholicism over all of the other religions. Neutrality doesn't just apply to the teams playing on the day. It also applies to everything else. If he wanted to make a Catholic gesture, he should also have made the gestures of the other major religions: Islam (praying towards Mecca), Judaism (shrugging), Sikhism (thumbs up), Scientology (sofa-jumping), Paganism (blood sacrifice), and Hinduism (venerating cows).

If he can't do all of those things, he should be an atheist. All referees should be atheists. Rationality and objectivity are valuable attributes in an official. You don't want a referee ruling on a tricky handball decision based on superstition. You don't want a linesman refusing to adjudicate a borderline offside because it's the sabbath.

Of course, the requirements to make only evidence-based decisions would require the introduction of video replay technology. And some might argue that the scientific assessment of truth would make the game sterile, halting and lacking in unpredictability. Much like the ruthless logic of atheism makes human existence become lacking in nuance, passion, and female circumcision.

It's an interesting parallel. I suppose there's a middle ground. Goal line technology is going to be introduced, but not - or at least not yet - video replays for everything.

Similarly, atheism can play some role in regulating the idiocy of religion, but that doesn't mean we have to burn down all synagogues to make room for supercolliders.

Yes, it's an interesting parallel. Luckily, my argument has been well thought-through, and not at all meandering and contradictory. I could adapt this for the New Humanist, or FourFourTwo magazine. For money.

Also, referees should be impartial on non-religious matters, like the Coke-Pepsi debate, or whether people should tuck in their shirts. (They are allowed to have an opinion on whether Family Guy is better than The Simpsons however - we don't want them to be IDIOTS.)

This all stems from the referee's simple gesture.

But Lucy said no, it's not that. Maybe you should have let me finish before launching into that whole thing.

And I said sorry.

And she said should we be using quotation marks?

And I said no.

And she said it's not an issue of neutrality. It's one of authority.

By making the sign of the cross, the referee has tacitly implied that there is a higher power. In this case, it's some form of Christian deity. That is something a referee should never do.

If you want to officiate a football match, the buck stops with you. If a player senses that you're not entirely in control, they'll show dissent, they won't retreat the full ten yards at free kicks, and the game will descend into anarchy.

The referee - Wilmar Roldán is his name - has, by that one single gesture, abdicated responsibility. Why should we listen to him? Why should the players obey his commands? He's simply a middle man. If God is so powerful, why doesn't he referee the game? God's been around for ages. He must have refereed before. I bet he's got all the badges.

He's omnipresent too, which would mean that goal line technology would be unnecessary. You wouldn't need linesmen either. Though if you wanted to maintain the pleasant symmetry of the flags, you could enlist the Son and the Holy Ghost (the team of officials are usually all from the same country).

Roldán isn't even a priest, as far as I know.

The reasons discussed are probably why he saved his gesture for the end of the game. If he'd done it at the start - and he might have; I didn't check - all hell would have broken lose.

You'd never see an English referee doing anything so stupid. English referees are aware that, even after the final whistle, their conduct is under the microscope. To be fair, Graham Poll did once do the pretending-to-pull-off-your-own-thumb illusion. But on that occasion, both teams were composed of wizards.

Hand gestures may seem insignificant, but look how long this blog post has been.

I hope Wilmar Roldán never referees another professional football match.

After this rant, Lucy paused and took a drink of water. She was quite worked up.

Or it might have been me. It's difficult to remember these little details. In fact, it might not have been the sign of the cross that the referee did; he might have been signalling for someone to collect the corner flags.

But the point remains