What Did You Do With That Banana?

You carve the calf, but can you fold the foal?

That's my new substitute phrase for "you can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk?", which is ableist and anti-mute.

No-one can be offended by the calf/foal one. Nothing wrong with a bit of cattle-whittlin'/equine origami, no sir.

And, while we're on the subject, why isn't the past tense of peel pelt?

What did you do with that banana?
I pelt it.

Felt, not feeled. Knelt, not kneeled. Belt, not beeled.

Why's there no pelt?

But it only works with a double-e.

E-a? That dog won't hunt.

No-one has ever used the word "congealt". Have they?

I've just googled it, and essentially the answer is no.

So if it's e-a, you can't abbreviate it with l-t. That's just the hand we've been dealt.

***

I feel like I've aged a thousand years since I began writing the word "thousand" just then. But isn't exponential aging a symptom of the degeneration of the human spirit, rather than the body? The body declines at a steady rate - only the spirit can kick it down that slippery hill towards a big wet mushy pile of leaves.

Ageing is simply travelling. We can choose to travel in a dignified manner (horse-drawn horse), or in an undignified manner (crammed in a Deliveroo hotbox, smothered in ramen). When we feel ourselves moving at uncomfortable speed, we realise that we've lost control of our spirit, and our bodies will pay the price, by using its hand to fork over banknotes.

And by "spirit", I don't mean a soul or any of that mumbo-jumbo. I just mean consciousness or a ghost or something.

No, I'm not losing track of my argument.

I think I'm really onto something.

Here's an artist's rendition of a mosquito wearing a novelty foam hand:

Maple Syrup

How about a Youtube compilation of people saying the phrase "I'd like to take this opportunity to..." in speeches or whatever?

That would be it. The rest of the sentence wouldn't be included in the compilation. It would be a montage only of people saying "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

Just picture it.

A man at a podium: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

A woman at a lectern: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

Press conference dude: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

The first man at the podium, as part of the same speech as the original clip, but at a different stage. He repeats: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

Academy Award recipient for Best Film Editing: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

Just picture it. It would go on for about eighteen minutes.

Funny, right?

It's one of those things that you never notice but, once you've seen it repeated in an eighteen-minute montage, you realise it's the kind of thing people say.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

Classic.

I don't have the time or the software to do it myself. But, if you'd like to run with the idea, be my guest.

Just remember to take the opportunity to thank me! !!!

THUMBSUP!

***

Look, it's Friday, OK?

It's February tomorrow. I'll make sense then. We'll all get down to pancakes and Andie MacDowell and forget about this silliness.

It's transfer deadline day.

I'm hoping to complete the signing of Nelson Mandela's funeral.

Is that a joke? Is it satire? Does it make sense?

I don't know, man.

I'm suffering. That reminds me of that song.



It's from one of my top ten favourite albums. I should have included sample songs to accompany the list in my last post. And some analysis of why I like them.

But I didn't do that, and now it's too late.

Yeah, Frank! I'll be suffering up around the bend too. It's awful up there.

What do I do now?

Stop?

I'd like to take this opportunity to.

Thomas Pinchin'

I went to a football match on Saturday. Southampton beat Burnley 4-3. It's the first time I've seen Saints win live for years. I didn't know how to react.

I went on my own. I mean, there were 15,000 other people there. But none of them were in my party. I was the only member of my party. There was too much cake.

I didn't mind being on my own. I didn't feel the urge to make small talk. I did make one remark to the person next to me. He misheard me, but realised what I'd said and began answering after I'd already begun repeating myself.  You know how that goes.

I'd intended to use my solitude in a writerly way. I was planning to eavesdrop on various strangers, so I could pick up on some charming conversational idiosyncrasies. But I didn't really hear too much.

The only good thing that happened was a middle-class mother and young daughter reacting with the same wide-eyed awe at Jay Rodriguez with his shirt off. I might have been wearing the same excited expression too, but I couldn't see what I looked like, and I didn't want to ask the guy next to me. Not after the first fiasco.

I bought a scarf before the game. I wanted to display the team colours. I don't own any red and/or white clothing, so I was dressed all in drab blues and greys. The scarf really brightened me up. Also, it was cold. Scarves don't just demonstrate your footballing affiliation; they also keep your neck warm. That's why they're better than tattoos.

Also before the game, I wandered around Southampton to kill time. I grew up there, so it was like walking around a memory. I felt like I was in a dream. I don't have any specific fond memories of the city centre, so I was mostly looking at shops that I used to visit. One of the shopping centres I remember from my youth was boarded up. Another was literally being demolished as I looked at it. I don't know if it was a professional demolition crew. Their main tactic seemed to be spraying rubble with a hose.

As I looked at it, I couldn't help but think that - in a way - I was looking at myself. I was boarded up. I was crumbling to pieces. I wasn't the way I remembered. I was being hit by the hose.

Actually, I was being hit by the hose. I should have stood further back, really...

To tell you the truth, I didn't think that at the time. I only just thought it, because it seemed like the kind of thing someone might write about.

What I actually thought was: "AHUHUHUHU! HOAS IS WET! AHAHUUU!"

I also had some time on the train to look at the tendons in my hand. Are they tendons? The bits that move the fingers? They were pretty good.

I don't think I'll ever make it as a travelogue presenter. If you're telling people about a journey, you need to make your tale a journey itself. A narrative should give a sense of distance, progress and continuity. My account so far has flitted backwards and forwards with no rhyme or reason. That's no way to travel.

Though, to be fair, I did get the train, walk into town, walk to the stadium, buy my scarf, walk back into town, see a hose, walk back to the stadium, watch the game, walk back into town and then walk back to the station.

So perhaps my fractured account is accurate.

Fracturate.

I'll take notes next time.

***

Our path to work is flooded, so we have to get the bus. On the surface, I'm annoyed at the inconvenience, but the lower, lazier part of my brain is enjoying the comfort and convenience. I can shake my warm, dry head and claim that the weather has ruined my usual morning walk.

I get to seem active, without actually being active. That's the dream. I want people to think I do things without ever having to do them.

I mean, I could lie, I suppose. I could lie all the time. But I'm a man of principle (or so I'd like you to believe).

That's why the flooding is ideal. It's not my fault. I have no alternative but to get the bus. And I don't have to lie.

I'm getting fatter and poorer by the day, but I'm winning.

***

Lucy and I came up with the saucy phrase "joie de beavre" recently.

We were very pleased with it, but thought we'd better google check it.

We could invent it! We could!

Thomas Pynchon's not the original thinker you think he is, Slate.com!

I mean, he did come up with it first, so technically that makes him original. But we came up with it also. Linear time shouldn't have any bearing on plagiarism.

I'm never going to click on that review. It might weaken my legal claim. Good strip club names don't grow on trees. This is my livelihood we're talking about.

What about... uh...?

Melon Degenerates?

That sounds like Ellen DeGeneres, who's a famous comedian. It's a pun.

(I don't think I'll google that one.)

Who rules the smut-roost in Queens now, Pynchon?!

The Serpent & The Sceptre

I was looking at some of my old blog posts today because I am vain. I came across this tweet from a couple of years ago, that I couldn't remember having written:

Scaly baguette fakery; a double-take at a snake in a bakery.

I was impressed with myself, but I didn't know why. It's not quite a poem, and it's not quite a joke. It's more of an extremely short story.

The main thing I like about it is that it doesn't make enough sense to justify its existence. The two parts of the sentence (or "clauses" if you're Tim Allen) have a strange relationship. They both contribute to the evocation of the scenario, but neither explains the other. I've thought about switching them around, but it doesn't make it any better.

A double-take at a snake in a bakery; scaly baguette fakery.

That's no improvement. Though it does make it sound more like a 'red sky at night'-style idiom.

The main thing I like about it is that the rhythm is all awkward. We have "at a" and "in a" in the same sentence. That's not right. It has rhyme and assonance, but not in a pleasant way.

But the main thing I like about it (I just realised that I've already posited two main things I like about it, so I might as well add a third main thing) is that it vividly conjures up the scene. Everything you need to know about the situation is in the one sentence. And the reader can extrapolate all kinds of extra details:

• a customer(?) is shocked to see a reptile in place of his bread
• the baker is complicit
• people have been fooled by the ruse in the past
• was the snake drugged, asleep, or just well trained?
• what species of snake was it (presumably a brown one)?

And what next? Legal action? RSPCA involvement? Has someone already eaten some brie with a hunk of crusty snake?

And WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THIS?

It really is a masterpiece of a tweet.

This may all seem very arrogant, but keep in mind that I didn't remember writing it. So it's basically the work of a stranger. A handsome, handsome stranger.

***

We saw Thor: The Dark World yesterday. It was pretty good. For those of you keeping track, this is the objectively correct list of the Avengers-related Marvel films, from good to bad:

1. Iron Man
2. The Avengers
3. Captain America
4. Thor
5. Thor 2
6. Iron Man 3
7. Iron Man 2
8. The Incredible Hulk

It's inarguable.

I've used bullet points and a numbered list in this blog post. That makes me King of Formatting.

...

Damn. I wanted to include a second numbered list interspersed with non-numbered items, but I couldn't work out a way to do it.

I abdicate the Crown of Formatting.

Plain text is my Wallis Simpson.

***

Here's a good comic by Sean T. Collins & M. Crow. I'm not sure what the etiquette of posting it here would be, so here's just the beginning of it. Read the whole thing here.

As you can see, it's really in tune with my way of thinking.

I'm going to purchase a mug of hot coffee now, and possibly something sweet. If I'm horribly scalded and/or my teeth fall out, I'll let you know in a future edition of Headscissors - The UK's Longest-Running Ironing Web Log.

Right to Left

OK. This is the last one, I promise. Number six. The final beginning. You can only make one first impression (as you'll see, if you keep reading).

The fifth attempt was a disaster.

I've always been better at finishing things than I have been at starting them.

When I played football at school, there was a good playground taunt for people who were unable to score goals. "He couldn't finish his dinner!" they'd say.

Because in the football terminology, "finishing" is scoring a goal. So the metaphor works by suggesting that - though the context is different - the player in question would be unable to finish something (dinner) that should in theory be quite easy to finish.

That's what the taunt meant.

But there's always an escalation in playground insults. I took it to the next level.

Whenever someone missed a good chance, I'd say "He couldn't start his dinner!"

They'd question me. "What?" they'd say.

"He couldn't start his dinner," I'd repeat. "He's so bad at football, that he... it's not that... I mean... he not only couldn't finish his dinner, he couldn't even start it! That's how bad he is! At football, I mean. He couldn't even... er... his mum couldn't even go to the shops to buy the... constituent parts... to make his dinner! The dinner wouldn't even exist in a sort-of embryonic form. In fact, the mechanic that built his mum's car couldn't even finish making the car! So she couldn't even drive to the shops to purchase the ingredients to make his dinner, which he wouldn't be able to start, let alone finish! Or his dad. You know, if his dad does the shopping instead of his mum. ... That's how bad he is at football. He's rubbish."

By that point, it was usually the end of lunch break and everyone had gone inside. Which is good, because my zinger was still electrifying the air.

Yes. This has been a proper opening to a blog post. This will go on top.

Except for a photo of Brad Guzan.

***

I just made four attempts at starting this blog post. This is number five. The first was depressing, the second sarcastic, the third derivative, and the fourth nonsensical. I'll just move them down the page and start properly here.

The internet seems to be very slow at the moment. Maybe I should have stuck with one of the original openings (as the actress said to the gored bishop).

Oh, OK. We've just had an email about it. "Internet connectivity issues." It's not just me. That's a relief.

I'd better just ride it out.

You don't need to know any of this. I need to learn to keep my thoughts to myself. Just because I'm typing, it doesn't mean that I have to channel all of my thinking through my fingers. Sometimes it's best to keep your monologue internal. Not all information is of equal value. There's nothing "authentic" about a stream of consciousness - it's just obnoxious.

Yes, this blog is a window into my inner life. But a window doesn't indiscriminately let everything through. There's a pane of glass there. You may be able to see me undressing, but you can't smell my perfume. Less is more. If the reader is partially kept in the dark, they'll be all the more astounded when I whip out a candle.

***

I just made three attempts at starting this blog post. In the third one, I explained about the first two, and also talked about Lou Reed.  But I realised it was too obvious to write about Reed. Many people have written proper things about him, and are proper experts on his life and works. My observations lack conviction, so I'll just move that blog segment down the page and write something here about cowboys.

I'd quite like to be a cowboy. You can make your own schedule. It's like being an ice cream man.

I could sleep in as late as I wanted, as long as I didn't have a showdown to attend. I'm not big on drinking or whoring or gambling or riding horses, but I do like the idea of wearing a belt. Just imagine...

I think I'd mainly like to be in the Old West if I still had knowledge of the future. I'd do much better than Marty McFly. I don't think I have any descendants with terrible accents living in cowboy town, so I'd avoid paradoxes.

It would be really fun to impress people with my knowledge of the future. I could tell them all about avocados. They'd dismiss me at first, but then I'd convince them with my specific knowledge.

"They're a fruit or vegetable!" I'd say. "They're only ripe for a day, and even then they're all bland and slimy. Future Folks refer to them as 'the avocado pear'".

Then I'd take out a photograph of an avocado to prove I was telling the truth.

"You can make a dip that we call 'guacamole', which is quite nice," I'd say. But I'd pronounce it "gwak-a-moley" because they wouldn't be able to understand Spanish.

They'd probably make me mayor, or at least give me a job at the mayor's office, where I could use my futuristic filing skills and astound anyone who came into the mayor's office.

"The avocado pear." I'd use hand gestures to paint a picture.

***

I just made two attempts at starting this blog post, but realised that the first was too depressing, and that the second (which was intended to provide a positive counterpoint to the first) just came across as really sarcastic. So I'll just move both of them down the page, and begin with something else.

Lou Reed is dead. That's a real shame. He wrote a lot of good songs. Also, it's really fun to impersonate his voice. It's basically just talking in an American accent, but a bit more tuneful.

Here's one of his songs. It's about a whale.



I wonder how many songs have "battery acid" in the lyrics. Not enough, I say.

***

I just made a start on this blog post, but realised that my observation was too depressing. So I'll just move it further down the page. Instead, my beginning will be unqualified positivity! A spoonful of sugar helps the misery go down!

What a beautiful day it is! The big storm has come and gone, and has left a clear blue sky and lots of sexy leaves everywhere! There were three "ands" in that sentence! Awesome!

***

I get older every time I look in the mirror. As long as time keeps going forward, that will continue to be true.

Not only that, but every time I look in the mirror, I'm even older than my reflection indicates. It takes the light some time to reach my eyes, so the image that's processed by my brain is of a younger me. I'm older than I look, and I'm older than I can see.

Sonny's Sodding

There are eight million stories in the Snaked City. This is one of them:

Hisssssssss.

***

That's what I went for for an opening.

For for. Two instances of the same word, next to each other in a sentence. But not a mistake. I made a similar breakthrough the last time I had had too much coffee.

Had had.

Two instances of the same word, next to each other in a sentence. But not a mistake.

An opportunity.

I'm currently going through a long spreadsheet, manually deleting some numbers and some ampersands. I'm up to the 'P's, so I think I deserve a break.

You'd think that manually deleting some numbers and some ampersands would be boring. To some extent, it is boring. But I like having something to occupy my mouse finger. Idle mouse fingers are the devil's playthings.

I can't do it automatically. I know I could Ctrl+F and then replace or delete things. But I don't know which numbers and ampersands I need to delete. I don't want to get rid of them all. I...

*splutter*

Oh god. I was telling you about the ampersands and the numbers, wasn't I? You don't need to know. I'm sorry. That's a textbook case of TMI (too many informations). Awkward, it was. Spreadsheets have no place in public discourse.

Splutter is a weird word. What's the etymology?

Apparently, it's a contraction of "exploding butter". It makes sense. If you have a mouth full of butter shrapnel (an offshoot of love shrapnel), you do tend to splutter. Nice one, Dr Johnson.

I just BLASTED through S.

I'm on a roll. I'll come back later.

***

It's later. The spreadsheet it but a distant memory, albeit one which may overlay tonight's dreams with an oppressive grid.

I've just finished reading A Tale of Two Cities.

It's pretty fantastic.

It's a shame, really. I'd always hoped that the great classics of literature were all a bit overrated and a waste of time. But it seems that their reputation is earned. Now I need to read all of them, and I really don't have the time. I watched the film Darkman last night. Ninety-six minutes. I can't claim to be making the best of my life.

You know what? Screw it. I can claim to be making the best of my life.

I am making the best of my life.

I have spent about four minutes watching dogs falling in unison. You can do the same:

I know that funny animal gifs are generally shared by shallow, damaged people. But look at them!

If you're damaged, you're not shallow. Damage is deep dish fo sho.

It's late. I'd be better off asleep. I'm going now. This post has been weird. I'm weird. This is all just...

*butter*

Golden Omelette

Every day, do something that makes you proud.

It's a simple piece of wisdom. And by thinking of it, I've fulfilled today's quota.


Do something that makes you proud every day. 

That's not the same as my first statement. I've mixed things up syntactically. If there was a comma after the word 'proud', it would be the same.

[Every day, do something that makes you proud = Do something that makes you proud, every day]

But there's no comma in my second statement.

[Every day, do something that makes you proud ≠ Do something that makes you proud every day]

In my second statement, I'm trying to say that you should do something, and that one thing should make you proud every day. Like the goose who laid the golden eggs. Daily.

Actually, that's a bad example. Each egg is a different thing. That's more like my first statement: every day the goose is proud of a distinct egg.

I suppose a more fitting analogy would be the goose that laid the golden eggs, but wasn't so much proud of each individual golden egg, as proud of its own capacity to produce golden eggs. The capacity is just one thing. And it makes the goose proud every day. Because of all the eggs.

Can a goose feel pride? It doesn't matter. Analogies don't need to be based in reality. If they were, they wouldn't be analogies. They'd just be reportage. Goose reportage.

I'm proud of almost all of the sentences in this blog post so far, especially the bit with the ≠ symbol. They should keep me stocked up for a couple of weeks. I like to get all of my pride done at once, then I can coast.

Do something that makes you proud, every day, on average. Like the goose who laid thirty-one golden eggs in one day and had the rest of March off.

***

I don't want to offend people, so whenever I see them, I tell them that they don't look tired.

"You're not looking very tired this morning!" I say, as they take off their coat and hang it on the coat rack.

"Thank you," they always say.

Or, sometimes, "why should I look tired?"

To which I reply with the following. "You don't look tired."

"Yeah, but why should I?"

"You don't look tired."

"No, I know. But..."

"You don't look tired."

"Stop! Stop saying that," they tend to say at this point. "If I don't look tired, why even bring it up?"

"There's no 'if' about it," I say. "You definitely don't look tired."

"I'm not tired."

"And you look it," I say. "Not tired, I mean."

Then Amanda (and it is always Amanda that I say it to), gets out a little make-up mirror and checks to make sure that she doesn't look tired.

In fact, I tell her she doesn't look tired even when she does look tired, just to be polite. I'm considerate.

Her self-esteem is through the roof. 

"You don't look tired. You don't."

She likes working at the desk next to mine. I can tell.

Tapped Potential

And it came to me, like a bolt from the blue:

Smuggler, Snuggler, Straggler, Struggler

Nothing occasioned it. It appeared fully-formed in my head. It seemed to arrive spontaneously, as genius often does. Something out of nothing is impossible. I realise that. But it was something out of something so obscure and unknowable that it might as well have been nothing.

It's a beautiful thing. It sounds good. It rhymes. But what is it?

My first thought was a Twitter bio. They have to be short, and all of the original ones have already been taken. But does it really define me?

I'm definitely a snuggler. I snuggle with the best of them. I'm snuggling right now.

I'm also a straggler. I'm never one to take charge. I like to lurk at the back. Snuggling.

You know I'm a struggler. This whole blog is a testament to that.

It's the first one that's a problem. I'm not a smuggler. I'd be a rubbish smuggler (almost as much as I'd be a rubbish hitman).

Admittedly, I did once fail to declare my purchases of a Ben Folds Five (remember them?) MiniDisc (remember them?), a copy of the Clerks: The Animated Series (remember that?) and a massive leather coat, when I was coming back from New York. But that's not really smuggling.

I'm not even a smuggler in a vague metaphorical sense. I don't smuggle ideas; I carry them in plain sight.

I would hate to lie on my Twitter bio (my current one includes "comedian"), so it's not an option.

What else? What can I use "Smuggler, Snuggler, Straggler, Struggler" for?

The obvious choice is a variant of "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor". It could be an alternate rhyme for determining the occupation of your future spouse. Which would you rather marry? Presumably, it would be the snuggler. No-one wants to marry a struggler.

A related option is a version of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.

Smuggler, Snuggler, Straggler and Struggler would make for some interesting character dynamics. It could be a real pot-boiler.

For either of these, I'd need to come up with some equivalent of Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, and Thief.

But I like the rhyming. And I like words that end in "ggler". I can't think of many.

There's wiggler, wriggler and waggler. (Spell check doesn't recognise "waggler", but we've all been bored at urinals, right lads?)

There's Dirk Diggler and Dolph Ziggler, but proper names don't count.

Boggler? Is that a word? One who boggles?

Haggler? (One who haggles, not Marvellous Marvin)

I don't like any of them. I like the simplicity of the original.

Smuggler, Snuggler, Straggler, Struggler.

It's perfect as it is. I don't want to dilute it.

Maybe it could be a sitcom. Or the names of my quadruplets. Cartoon animals? Rapper pseudonyms?

Or maybe there's only one good use for it: the basis of an entertaining blog post.

It's worth a try.

Tolls For Thee

Only two things in life are lofty: ambitions and lofts.

And maybe an EastEnders character, but don't quote me on that.

***

I wouldn't say I'm a particularly morbid person, but I do sometimes visualise my own death.

I don't think that's a strange thing to do. At some point, surely everyone must wonder when, where, how or if they're going to die. Will you be old or young? Will it be fast or slow? Disease? Accident? Will you be ready for the end, or will it take you by surprise?

Who can tell?

I think I've worked out my most likely cause of death.

All of the evidence points to me dashing my brains out against the wall of a toilet cubicle at work.

I've considered the variables, I've factored in my health and lifestyle, my genetic inheritance, my hobbies, my behaviour, my environment and my generation, and it definitely seems the most likely outcome. I will hurl my own skull at the tiles until I'm battered into lifelessness.

Here's my thinking: I'm generally unhappy at work, but I don't own a gun. I'm much too considerate and too shy to make a big show of it, so I would have to be somewhere private.

The main thing that makes the toilet cubicle such a likely venue is that, on every journey from my desk to the toilet, I inevitably humiliate myself.

The humiliation always relates to my interaction with any colleagues that I might see on the way. I'll usually smile in a weird way, stare for a long time, get in their way, make a little stupid laugh, do a grin, fail to make eye contact, engage in an aborted "hello", trip over my own back, accidentally grope them, or walk into a noticeboard.

By the time I reach the toilet, I've accrued enough self-loathing to make dashing my brains out seem ideal.

The only thing that makes me doubt my conclusion is that dashing your own brains out must be quite difficult. You need to do it with enough force to kill yourself, but you don't want to knock yourself unconscious before the job is completed.

I reckon I could do it, though.

The benefit of dying in the toilet is that it would probably be easier to clean than if I was in a carpeted room.

The down side is that the men's toilet only has one cubicle, so any male colleagues in need of a sealed lavatorial environment would have to go to another floor.

On the other hand, it might be chicken pox.

***

Fact: more sandcastles are built each year than actual castles.

It's not fair. The terminology has got to change.

Sandcastles should be known simply as "castles" and castles should be "masonrycastles". It's only fair.

In Britain, hockey is hockey, and ice hockey is ice hockey. That's because we have more grass than we do pucks and such.

In North America, hockey is called "field hockey" and ice hockey is hockey. In North America, this makes sense. To anyone outside of North America, it is an abomination.

But sandcastles are more numerous than masonrycastles WORLDWIDE.

I have no statistics to support this claim, but it must be true. I've built more than five sandcastles in my life, but not a single masonrycastle.

It's all about economy of phrasing.

The English language is constantly evolving. This evolution is driven by usage.

For example, the coccyx is so named because it is less common than the number "six". It's also spelled differently, to make the distinction all the more sharp.

"Knuckledusters" are less common than regular dusters, and accordingly have an appropriate prefix.

So, the next time you're building a masonrycastle, refer to it as such. Otherwise I'll have to kick it over and risk losing a flip flop.

***

Every time I think about going back on Twitter again, I read Chortle's "Tweets of the week" and get thoroughly depressed.

All Twitter jokes are terrible.You can hear their clanking mechanics a mile away.

My jokes are great of course, but you don't want to dive into a pool of sharks just because you're dressed like a dolphin.

Mission Statement

My new band is called Ear Mistake.

"We're Ear Mistake" begins the introduction in our debut album's liner notes. It's written in red.

"We're Ear Mistake. And this is our mission statement: STUFF NOTES DOWN THROATS. 

We don't believe in art. We believe in vibrations. Our songs are made to educate, flagellate and deform. These are liner notes. No-one even knows what liner notes are these days. Even releasing a physical CD is tantamount to rutting in the dirt. Well, good. Good. We do rut. We will rut. Come and rut with us. Play this loud.

Ji Ki - Vocals, Lead Mouth Organ

Chris Wade - Vocals, Clicking Noises

Chris Wade (girl version) - Drum Segments

Dorothee Justice - Bass

Navajo - Bloodsource

Produced by Ear Mistake, Vauxhall, 2012"

You may not see my name up there. That's because I'm working under a pseudonym. I'm one of those people with the funny names. I forget which one.

"We're Ear Mistake" begins our intro on stage. We've only had one gig, but this was the intro we used. We spoke it in green.

"We're Ear Mistake. This first song's called Into Question The Whole Status Quo."

Then we launched right into it.

Then we broke up and had all copies of our debut album pulped/melted/moved to Recycle Bin.

My old band was called Ear Mistake.

Under-appreciated at the time, but they've attracted a cult following since their demise.

RIP Dorothee Justice. Such a sad loss.

***

Fun fact: my spell-check doesn't recognise "Vauxhall". As an alternative, it suggests "Valhalla". Which is pretty much the same.

Suff.

That's my new quirk. I say "suff" to punctuate things I say. It can mean whatever you want it to mean. Suff.

I hope no-one's already using it. I've already had T-shirts printed.

A quick web search...

Damn.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=suff

I've really been misusing it.

Oh man, I just remembered I said it to a little girl... I wanted her to think I was cool. That explains why she returned my "suff" with such aggression and then dropped out of school.

Fun fact: "stands for shut up fuck face" is how I describe my political outlook on my new campaign flyers. I'm a shoe-in!

And that's the end of this blog post!

Twice

"Excuses, excuses..."

Repetition enhances a rebuke. Saying something once could be an aberration or a slip of the tongue.

"Excuses..." is quite good. It suggests you think someone is making excuses. It suggests it, but it doesn't guarantee it. Leave no room for doubt. "Excuses, excuses..."

They will know they are making excuses. Risible excuses. Excuses that need to be exposed for the sick, meagre, cowardly weapons they are. Twice.

And what is true of excuse rebukes, it is also true of comfort.

"There, there..."

We've all been reassured by that. Perhaps a parent has said it after we complained about being taunted on the basketball court.

"There, there..."

It's a double-dose of comfort, understanding, empathy, support and optimism for the future. And you need that double-dose. The singular is inadequate.

What mother would cheer up her bruised daughter by saying simply "There..."?

I'll tell you what mother. The worst mother.

"There..." will not dry those tears. "There..." will not provide the promise of a sunny day.

There WHAT, mother? There WHAT? What does that mean? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!

"There, there..."

Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes, it's all fine now. I'll flush all of those razor-pills down the sink and learn to knit.

Don't leave any room for doubt. Whether mocking someone for their inadequate explanation, or stroking the hair of a devastated five-year-old, always say it twice.

But this tactic doesn't work for everything. In certain contexts, repetition is more of a hindrance than a help.

Numbers, for example, should only be said once. If someone asks you what number flat you live at, saying "sixteen, sixteen..." will be misleading. Similarly, if someone asks you how many bags of seeds you want, saying "five, five..." will leave you with a confused garden centurion and way too many seeds.

***

I don't charge for my advice, but perhaps I should.

If you'd like to make a contribution to the Headscissors Wisdom Fund, please push three British ten-pence pieces into your computer. This can be done through the disk drive, or through a hole you make yourself.

If you live in a country without British ten-pence pieces (Begypt, for example), please send a selection of your local currency to the below address:

Headscissors Blog
16, 16 Mockingbird Court
North Lousy
Cegypt
(Our Waxahachie office is currently closed due to persistent toilet corpses)

All money raised will go towards the dissemination of wisdom, both domestic and elastic.

***

I'm delighted with how the day has gone so far. Splendid. Simply splendid.

Well.

No point in hanging around when the job is done. A builder doesn't stand around after completing a house, patting himself on the back and smiling at the plaster. A chef doesn't watch you eat his delicious meal through a camera mounted in the balsamic vinegar. A surgeon doesn't pat you on the abdomen five years after removing some shrapnel from your lung.

And, similarly, I, having written one Hell of a blog post, and having, some might say, used a few too many commas, will not continue writing, unbidden, and undo all of the good work I've done, by hanging around and glorying in my, not inconsiderable, achievements.

I just salute, climb into the side-car of a motorcycle being ridden by a sword, and then head off to the next job. You enjoy it. You deserve it.

I don't do this for the money. I do it for something more important than money: respect.

And your three British ten-pence pieces.

Each.

Midnight Feest

I can't sleep. So I've moved my whole body from the dark comfort of bed to the slightly brighter comfort of the living room armchair. Let's make use of this consciousness. Tossing and turning is an ill wind that blows my chances of making it as a professional golfer or something.

I don't have to be coherent. It's 2:50am. The time for sense has passed. This is the hour of the hawk and the nightworm. They care not for intelligent discourse. They only care for prey and soil and the absence of traffic.

My mind was racing back there in bed, inventing hypothetical scenarios and arguing hypothetical issues with hypothetical peers. I was going in circles. That's why I've started this: to drain all of my excess thought into the blog basin. Then I'll turn on a tap, and wash it away. Then I'll turn on a sixpence or a dime (depending on the exchange rate) and head back to the land of pillows, all vacant-like.

But now that I'm here, I don't have anything to say. In bed, in my head, I was all mouth and no trousers. In the cold light of night (I should close that fridge...) I'm mostly trousers, and only a tiny bit of mouth. And what mouth I have is agape at the sight of my enormous trousers.

You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't. The grass is always greener on the other side. One man's meat is another man's... chaff? I forget how that goes. The long and the short of it is that I have nothing to say. But if I go back to bed, I'll suddenly be brimming over with wisdom and snappy dialogue. It's probably horizontality. It must be that that causes the thoughts to tip out. I should lie down, but it might be difficult to type.

Is horizontality a word? It doesn't seem to be. But then what's the opposite of verticality? Verticality is a word. It must have an opposite: a yin to its yang, a Moriarty to its Anti-Moriarty.

I've googled it. Horizontality turns up fine. This spell check facility is a diaster. It doesn't even recognise the word 'diaster'. Ridiculous. This is why computers could never triumph over woman or man. Isaac Asimov needs to buck his ideas up.

Here's a photo of Jerry "The King" Lawler piledriving Andy Kaufman:

That's pretty good. Though the spell check doesn't recognise 'piledriving' either. It wants a hyphen.

Well, we don't always get what we want. Sometimes we want hyphens, but they don't have any left at the shop, and the shopkeeper doesn't care that it's your birthday. How was he to know that it would be your birthday when he was requesting stock? He's not psychic. He has to order a sensible number of hyphens. If demand is unusually high, then there may not be enough hyphens for everyone Paul, so stop crying, huh? I bought you a cake.

He wouldn't want surplus hyphens taking up space in the stock room, now would he buddy? That's economics. You'll learn more about that when you're older, so let's just have some cake and try to make the best of it, OK champ? There. That's a good boy.

It's later now. I don't want to give away how long it's taken me to write this, but there's now a "3" in the time. A "3" in the time is worth a certain amount in the bush. It's like that old saying.

I don't have to go to work tomorrow. That's why this is all fine. I can make up for this sleeplack with an extended bedstay. I'll be laughing. "Ha ha ha," I'll be saying in the style of a laugh. I'll have another blog post in the bank too. This blog post. It makes sense and everything. "It makes sense and everything," I'll say to a friend, referring to this blog post. "Ha ha ha," I'll repeat. "Ha ha ha." And the friend will move away as though she doesn't even know me or what I'm doing in her kitchen.

"It's all fine," I'll say.

I think I'm making some real progress here. And sense. Progressence.

It might be time to turn in (I tuned in and copped out earlier in preparation). I'm going to turn so far in that I'll be wrapped up in my own tendrils. Encased. Cocooned. Snug as a bug in a bush as the chaff of another man's snug meat. All vacant-like.

Curtain

Excuse me.

Excuse everyone, all the time. There's no need to deal with this on a case-by-case basis. There should be a culture of excusal in this country. Except for the people who have done bad things, or who watch The Big Bang Theory.

My feelings on excusal have mellowed in the past few sentences.

I'm just going to excuse myself and move on.

I have things to talk about, but nothing that I feel like talking about at any length.

I've been watching a lot of the sitcom Community, so I could talk about that. But not at any length. It's inconsistent, occasionally brilliant, but a notch below the cream of the crop.

However, it's much braver and more interesting than it needs to be. It's like a slightly above-average sitcom that has become sentient and is trying to evolve into something greater. The cast are all excellent, and it tends to avoid the obvious (or embrace the obvious in a non-obvious way).

I've also been watching the first season of The Twilight Zone on Blu-ray (HD comes into its own when displaying a close-up of a character-actor's face - as I continually point out to the people with whom I'm watching it).

I haven't seen most of these before (or at least not for a long time), so it's been very enjoyable. The Blu-ray is packed full of extra features so in-depth that even I won't be able to watch all of them.

The best part about it is it gives me a reason to do my Rod Serling impersonation. All the time. Long after everyone else has become tired of it.

It's a really fun impression to do. Just try it!

Are you trying it? Good.

***

I don't think most sneak previews deserve the name. If the preview is authorised by the studio in charge of the thing being previewed, there's nothing sneaky about it. If the sneak preview is on a major television channel, it's 0% sneak.

A true sneak preview would be a hidden camera filming from behind a curtain, taped to the head of a sneak (that's a kind of mouse probably). The microfilm would be smuggled into people's homes in a camouflaged box, concealed in the colon of the Invisible Man's wan younger brother.

That's a sneak preview. And you can only look at it for five seconds. And then you're killed.

That's sneak. Full-on sneak. So much sneak, that it's obtrusively subtle.

That's the end of my satire of sneak previews.

Join me next time, when I'll be casting my wry eye over a minefield.


***

It is now later. And later it will be later still.

I have to go and do a stand-up gig now. I'll let you know how it goes. Even if it goes really badly.

Godspeed.

Straightforward

Let's forget all about that big event that just happened with the [CENSORED] and the [CENSORED] and the mulled [CENSORED].

I'm reclaiming the period between 27 and 30 December as a time for thinking about something else. I don't know what yet. Possibly brackets.

But first, I need to do the washing up. I'll let you know how it goes.

***

Straightforward.

At one point, I put a spoon in the little cutlery... holster... thing on the draining bored and it fell out. I then jammed it hard back in there, to send a message to any other rebel utensils that might have been watching.

We call it "washing up". The Americans (I believe) call it "washing the dishes".

[I don't know what the Canadians do. You can never tell with them. They're liable to celebrate Boxing Day on the one hand, and speak French with the other. You can speak French with your hand, if you make a fist and draw a beret and some onions on it.

I seem to be in an easily distractible mood.]

I don't know which washing term I prefer. "Washing the dishes" sounds much more specific. There's no way that can get misconstrued. No-one who's seen that on their chore rota would started scrubbing satellite dishes, or some other kind of dish (such as Soapdish with Kevin Kline).

"Washing up" could be anything. "Washing up" might refer to cleaning your hands before dinner. Or something to do with the Pixar film.

But perhaps it's better to be vague. If you "wash the dishes", you might ignore other items that don't seem to be dish-like. A spatula is not a dish. A mug is not a dish. An egg hammock is not a dish.

COME ON. THIS IS GOLD.

TEN MINUTES OF STAND-UP RIGHT HERE.

Everyone likes material on chores.

It's the first thing you learn in comedy school: CHORES = GUFFAWS.

***

Mood

Erratic

(I'm going to stop using these prompts in the new year. They are inhibiting my flow. Think about how much longer that washing up bit could have gone on for!)

Listening to

I've been given some good music as a [CENSORED] present, and have bought some more today. I heard this yesterday, and enjoyed it.

Reading

More Pinker. Did you know: more people were killed in Washington DC last year than weren't?

***

In fact: FORGET IT. I'm bored of being compelled to tell you all the things I'm listening to and smelling. (I reserve the right to tell you those things in my next post)

Let's get unfettered! I could go anywhere! I could be anyone!

I could tell you about the time I went coconut shy-diving.

Everyone should do it once before (or after) they die. Here's how it works:

Instead of an aeroplane, you jump out of a big paper cake. Instead of a parachute, you're wearing nothing whatsoever. And instead of jumping into the sky, you jump into a coconut shy.

Do it suddenly. You may find that it's painful (what with the hard coconuts and the nudity and all), and that you might ruin the days of many children, but the adrenaline rush is off the scale.

Remember: this must be done at a public carnival, fair, fayre, or "amusing park". Doing it at a private coconut shy is no fun.

Whilst you're there, you might also want to play chicken with the ghost train.

You see? Anywhere!

I never wear pink in case I start bleeding and it clashes.

You see?

I just tweeted that. I don't care. I'm a wild man. I'm a wild card. Admittedly, I don't know how to drive and I've never had cocaine and I'm too afraid of people to even answer my own phone. But still!

WILD!

Like a wild rabbit!

Look how wild it is!

No-one tells that rabbit what to do. That rabbit could be in the rabbit version of Easy Rider.

(Do your own Dennis Hopper joke. I'm too wild right now.)

***

Whew.

That was tiring. All of those exclamation marks have left me feeling quite worn out.

I haven't had anything to eat yet today. No rabbit; no nothing.

I should probably have something to eat.

I'll have something to eat. I'll let you know how it goes.

***

Straightforward.

I had two toasted pieces of Tesco Finest Farmhouse Multigrain Batch, beneath Tesco Olive Spread, beneath Squeezy Marmite.

Two points of interest there:

1) I saw a stain on the floor whilst the bread was mid-toasting. I managed to scrub it and dry it before the bread popped up.

2) I just went to make sure I had the exact names of the items correct. I had to get up. I was dead-set on getting it right. Even though no-one could possibly care. Even if they did care, they'd have no way of checking I was telling the truth, unless they broke in here, today, and checked the cupboards. I'm an idiot.


If I'm honest, there was probably too much Marmite on there.

Now I'm thirsty.

I hate it when people begin sentences "If I'm honest...".

I mean, you should probably be honest. I understand if you can't be. And if you have to keep something from me (perhaps you're having an affair (or an affayre) with my biggest rival from fencing college), begin your sentence with "To be honest...".

That's fine. You're indicating your honesty.

"If I'm honest..." suggests that even you don't know whether or not you're telling the truth. In which case, why bring honesty into it? You don't know. Leave it ambiguous. Or come clean with your uncertainty.

"To be honest, I'm not sure if I'm honest. I think."

COME ON. THIS COULD BE MY SECOND ENCORE.

I should probably leave you to be alone with your thoughts now.

I'm going to get a drink.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Smoke

I've come up with a new expression for when you're asking people to keep an open mind.

You request that they "loosen the sphincter of credulity".

Pleasant, I think you'll agree. Why not try it, at a posh lunch with a judge, a priest, and a prude with a gun?

It's a beautiful winter afternoon outside. And inside, I suppose. But it's less beautiful in here due to all the objects and multiplug adapters, and the lack of pink clouds and birds.

The sun is beginning to set, and I can see a row of chimneys. The chimneys are all propped up by houses. Chimneys on their own would be a less pleasant sight - hovering like apostrophes, or suspended on wire - but as part of a house 'n' chimney package, they are very appealing. There's something very English about a row of terraced houses on a winter evening. It's cold with the prospect of warmth.

But whilst this innervating afternoon should have prompted me to take on a project of some kind, I have in fact been utterly inactive - even by my standards. Even that last full stop was an effort.

I can probably argue that I've earned a day of inactivity. I haven't, but I could probably argue it. Just because I'm good at arguing things (though terrible at arguments). If you're reasonably clever, you can justify all of your faults as being either for the greater good, or caused solely by outside forces. It's a dangerous thing. It means I don't have to take responsibility for the terrible things I do, or the much more numerous good things that I don't do.

However, I am aware that I'm doing that. Which makes everything OK.

At least, that's my argument.

***

Mood

I had a small tax rebate (rebate?), which has cheered me up considerably. Because it will make Christmas a bit less tight. And also because I'm shallow and materialistic and need a new coat.

Listening to

This is rather good, I'd say. I'm feeling quite self-conscious about my song choices. I feel pressure to have them say something about my character. I really don't want to choose things that will make me seem cool - because that would be a bald-faced, bare-faced, Paul-faced lie. Then again, I did choose the Freaky Friday theme last time, so maybe that risk is a small one.

Reading

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

That's right! I've started reading a book! Mainly so I have something to write in this section. I know I could remove it, but I'm clearly an idiot. Much like the "idiot" in the above novel. AHAHAHA! Except I've only just started it, so can't make that comparison. I'll let you know how it goes.

Watching

We've been re-watching a lot of Seinfeld recently, and reached this episode last night.

A tremendous comedy scene, where nothing and everything is said. It also confirms what a fantastic comic actor Julia Louis-Dreyfus is. Watch her own every line of dialogue here - she gets laughs where there are none on the page.

It makes me look forward to Veep all-the-more. That's the new HBO political comedy series she's doing, written by Armando Iannucci  (which will apparently be a bit like The Thick of It). I can't wait.

Ploying

I've been perpetrating a number of ploys - mostly involving buoys, toys, Roys (Kinnear, and Bryan Roy who used to play for Nottingham Forrest), saveloys and white noise.

Ha! Gotcha! I haven't been perpetrating ANY of those ploys. I've only been doing one ploy. The 'false ploys' ploy. And you fell right into my trap.

I have gained a lot of self-respect after that, I can tell you.

Eating

We had a ginger and golden syrup pudding that Lucy got from Waddesdon Christmas Fair. It was nice - proper pudding-shaped. If Britain decided on a National Shape, it would be the shape of the pudding. I can guarantee it. Or perhaps the shape of the chimney.

Or a wilted cricket bat.

Drinking

Berry smoothie. I don't care what berries it has in it. I'm a broad berry church.

***

It's a bit darker now. I can only see chimney silhouettes, which aren't quite as good. The wind is whistling through our windows like our building is one big brick Popeye.

I'm going to go and....

Actually, "going" seems difficult. Maybe I'll just sit here for a few more hours. The sun will be coming up in a while, and might be able to get another glimpse of the chimneys.

I hope you have a pleasant evening, or morning, or afternoon, or night, or all of the above.

Eat The Cake

I haven't got much time.

I'm not dying or anything. I just have a limited number of minutes before needing to do something else.

Of course, we're all dying really, when you think about it. If we've been poisoned. And we have.

Well, I say we. I didn't eat any of that cake because I knew it was poisoned because I poisoned it because I wanted everyone (except me) to die from poisoning.

So you're all dying. If you ate the poisoned cake. Which you didn't because it's imaginary because I didn't poison the cake because I don't want anyone (except me) to die from poisoning.

I just ate the poison. It saved on baking time.

I'm dying.

Where was I?

Oh yes: I haven't got much time.

I can't afford to get distracted. But then who can, in today's economic climate? No-one. People are selling off distractions. People are using distractions as activities in their own right, thanks to Greece and Enron and Obama and Tottenham and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain.

We could distract ourselves by thinking back to the halcyon days of perpetual distraction; back before the bubble burst. But nostalgia is an unnecessary luxury in today's days and ages.

So no distractions. Only actions.

No destruction. Only uction.

Uctions speak louder than words. (But not as loud as auctions, which can be deafening).

Still, here I am, trying to make the best of a bad situation. To do that, you need a bad situation. That's what this is. That's what these words comprise.

I'm writing my way into trouble, and will then escape from it at the last minute, giving everyone a boost (not the chocolate bar).

All I need is a topic (not the chocolate bar). Something that will generate a recession-reversing bounty (not the chocolate bar). A real Galaxy Caramel.

Time is running out. The sand in the hourglass is falling through faster than a deal to save the economy. (Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless.)

Still, I think I'm onto something.

Moving, I think I'm onto something.

Whether stationary or not, there's still a thing upon which I sit.

I can only imagine how painful this is for you. But I didn't like my last post, and I wanted something to replace it at the top of the heap.

This is a stream of consciousness. People don't find those kinds of streams interesting. People like streams with pebbles and kingfishers.

Me and Joyce against the world!

I'd better rescue this post with a poem. Because prose is too clumsy a weapon. I've been heaving it hither and thither like a scimitar, smacking and slicing the undergrowth and overgrowth, getting nowhere in no time flat.

Poetry is subtle (though no Stanley knife).

Here is a poem:

(And keep in mind, time is running out. The stream still flows.)

Mitch flicked a chip
It landed in a burnished bowl
The proprietress (stern) examined the potato explorer
She snorted
And Mitch
Caught in mid apology
Fell on his sword and left a generous tip

***

I should drink less coffee.

***

I wrote the above a little while ago. But I'm not going to go back and edit anything. This is a snapshot of my life an hour ago.

The truth isn't always pleasant.

Shirkers of the World, Unite!

Every time I see the little preview of my blog posts on Facebook, I look at the first few lines and they always make me sound like an annoying idiot. It's always the same stupid, annoying tone. "Ooh, I'm offbeat," it seems to say. Well, I'm not offbeat. I'm a normal human man. If I was my own friend on Facebook, I'd block myself.

I think the Facebook preview will be over by now, so I can confess: I am offbeat. I'm not a normal human man.

I take a sideways look at life.

I've built a special periscope. If I turn it on you, it will seem like you have one ear for a beard (a "bEARd" if you will) and one for a hat. Because your head would be sideways.

If you were actually wearing a bEARd and an ear-hat, and I took a sideways look at you, they would look like actual ears.

OK, I admit it. I'm not offbeat. I hate people who are offbeat. I'm onbeat, but have painted myself with an offbeat brush in an attempt to cover up my deficiencies.

But I'm not here to talk about me, I'm here to talk about shirking (and me). 

***

I'm not shirking my responsibilities. Or am I?

I don't know what my responsibilities are.

Maybe one of my responsibilities is to shirk.

If so, I can't help but shirk. But then I've shirked my way into a paradox.

All shirk and no play makes Paul a dull boy.

All work and no shirk makes Kirk... a... berk.

I don't like to spell 'berk' that way. It looks wrong, but I believe it's short for Berkshire Hunt. It's rhyming slang.

Which means we're pronouncing 'berk' wrong, and my little rhyme doesn't werk.

My berk is worse than my beight.

I was thinking about doing a tweet about shirking, but thought of too many possibilities. I got caught in shirk-infested waters, and was unable to escape.

So I'm going to put all shirk-related items here. Of course, I've already written most of them, and looking at them in the cold light of day, they're really not impressive.

The word 'shirk' in English has historically been used interchangeably with 'shark', meaning 'to avoid' and loads of other stuff to do with villainy, sharks, and parasites.

But in Islam, the word means something quite different. It's from a different root - širk, meaning 'to share' - and refers to idolatry or polytheism. 'Shirk' in Islam is a pretty serious offense, as you're not treating Allah as the one true God.

In this sense, I suppose I have committed Shirk. So I've Shirked, but not shirked.

Though I've probably shirked too.

There are loads of sub-divisions of Shirk too. I like the idea of 'secret Shirk' particularly, as it seems like something Inspector Clouseau would do.

It's funny that the two words, though separate, have similar meanings: they equate to a dereliction of duty.

But I don't think shirking is too bad. I'm happy to be a heretic and and a layabout. The only important thing is your duty to yourself.

And luckily, I have very low standards.

I'm going to keep deliberately shirking and accidentally Shirking, because we can only glean meaning by avoiding any gleanliness whatsoever.

In France, shirking is almost mandatory. In fact, they even ignore their duty to the sun. I believe they call it Shirk du Soleil.

AHAHAHA!

A JOKE! A PROPER(ish) JOKE!

It was all worth it.


Sean Connery didn't like to publicise his evasion - he didn't want it turning into a media shirkus.

MEDIA SHIRKUS!

AH AH AAAAAHHH!

IT DOESN'T QUITE WORK!

I couldn't be bothered to get a pubic wig, so I got a shirkin!

Aah. Heh. Not... AHA... no, it's just... you know... Didn't really... I mean, it's not as funny as the last two. And... a bit coarse for my tastes. Not everyone knows what a merkin is anyway, and...

I mean, still! It certainly works as a joke! Even if it's not... a... funny one.

What about another shark=shirk joke? Great White Shirk, etc?

Well, you already did 'shirk-infested waters' up there. I mean, maybe it was a mistake to use it so early. But you probably don't want to use 'shark' again. You don't want to repeat yourself.

Shirkish Delight?

That's fine. I guess. You might need a clever framework to enhance it. You can't just write that down and expect people to laugh. That's really just a punchline.

... what about-

Can I just interrupt? If you're thinking about some kind of 'shirking off' remark, I'd appreciate you keeping it to yourself. You know how I feel about vulgarity.


I wasn't going to suggest that.

Well, what were you going to say?


Uh... umm... it was...

It was 'shirking off', wasn't it?

Yes.

Shall we stop now?


I suppose so.

How did we let this get so far?


Maybe it was just a shirk of fate?

... ...


Like 'quirk of fate?'

I KNOW.

I know.

Well done. Good shirkwork.

Sick Children

I haven't posted anything here for a while, but that doesn't mean I haven't been generating ideas. I've kept notes of all the interesting things that have passed through my brain over the past week, and I will discuss them in turn.

My notes read as follows:

1. Shop polite - good day to you - trousers
2. Dead child on back of bike story
3. Race for knife
4. "8"
5. Overused joke words
6. Newton and the swan
7. TripWire
8. Therape

Actually, these are pretty self-explanatory. Maybe I'll leave it like this.

***

...



PSYCHE!

(Remember when people used to say "psyche"? As though they'd "psyched you out"? Like PJ and Duncan? Remember PJ and Duncan?)

***

Shop polite - good day to you - trousers
On Tuesday, we went to the Co-Op to buy some milk, some rolls, some frozen sweetcorn and some Weetabix Minis (which they didn't have - I got Weetos instead).

That's not the whole story.

We were waiting in the queue by the self-service check-outs when a male member of staff approached. I believe he was a member of staff because he was wearing the correct uniform and had an authoritative manner. I suppose it could just have been an unambitious Jackal-style master of disguise.

"Can I take that for you, sir?" he asked. But not in a helpful manner, more in the manner of someone who suspected me of thievery. Waiting in line to pay for your items is the oldest trick in the thief book.

I agreed, because I was in a bit of a stupor. Whenever we walk home, I space out a little bit. It's too far to walk really, but I'm a creature of habit. My laziness is pronounced, but short-sighted. I'd rather incur the pain of constant long walks than use a small bit of energy to change my behaviour.

In fact, I was in such a stupor that I would have agreed to anything at that point. He was wearing a uniform. I barely had enough composure to continue respiring.

"If you'll just follow me to the back of the shop, sir..."

"If you'll just lock that door behind you, sir..."

"If you could just slip down your trousers for me, sir..."

And I'd oblige, sure that he knew what he was doing, but with the slight, nagging doubt that any sexual assault might last so long the sweetcorn would defrost.

Luckily, he was being helpful, and not malicious in his initial request - just speaking in a very formal way. He took our basket to another checkout (one of the ones by the tobacco counter) and scanned our shopping.

He was brusque and mechanically helpful, straddling the fine line between sentient robot and utter sarcasm.

He literally said, after the transaction was complete, "I bid you good night".

Who says that in 2011? "I bid you good night"?

I think I might have accidentally stumbled into a poorly written student play about a Co-Op worker's attempts to thaw his icy exterior by coaxing people towards where they keep the cigarette lighters.


Dead child on back of bike story
This one isn't as funny as it sounds.

Lucy and I were talking about how sometimes you'll see a cyclist coming towards you, and you think they're talking to themselves. It's only when you pass that you see there's a child seat on the back of the bike and the conversation is a real one.

I thought you could write a good/harrowing story about a parent whose child was killed (probably hit by a lorry or something), but who went crazy and kept believing the child was alive.

They'd cycle through the streets, still talking to the child they thought was in the seat behind.

But the parent could never look back, or else the illusion would be broken. It would be like a modern version of Orpheus and Eurydice, except the main characters would be wearing reflective vests and unflattering helmets.

Race for knife
This led into a discussion that I can't quite remember, but doesn't seem that funny in hindsight. It was about someone trying to raise awareness of people being stabbed (the joke being that people are probably already aware of that danger). But I suppose there probably are anti-knife crime charities, so it doesn't really work.

The only real reason to right this down was the Race for Life/Race for Knife pun.

Not really worth it, but I can't edit this out now. My notes are my compass (which must be why I keep drawing wonky circles).


"8"
This one came about from a couple of tweets I wrote:


Deleted scene in Disney's Snow White: an 8th dwarf - known only as '8' - is revealed in the basement: a giant floating telekinetic baby.


Deleted scene in Disney's Robin Hood: after Marian & Robin's wedding, "8" appears in the sky and razes Nottingham to the ground (eye lazers)


I don't know where this idea came from, but I like the idea of a really sinister character being put into cartoons. Cartoon characters are often quite sinister anyway, but it would be good to have something really disturbing.

I think "8" would look a bit like The Watcher from Marvel Comics:

I also like the idea that the character was put into the first cut of every Disney film, but each time they chickened out from leaving him in the film.

"We just don't think the audience is gonna like this weird baby guy slaughtering all the main characters at the end of the movie. Kids don't like that! No-one wants to see Piglet disintegrated!"

That's why Hollywood's in the toilet. No-one takes chances anymore.


Overused joke words
There are certain words and references that are overused in jokes. These aren't always the same - they go in and out of fashion - but there's a weird synergy where particular objects or concepts become de rigueur.

(I've never written 'de rigueur' before. There's something about the sound of that phrase that's repellent; like the term itself wants to make people sound disgusted at having the temerity to use it.)

This is particularly common in surreal comedy, where people need 'weird' references to sound unconventional. (For reference, see every single post of this blog)

There's nothing intrinsically funny or unfunny about these words, it's just about what's expected and what's unexpected. If words are used too frequently as surreal reference points, they become commonplace and so are not funny. Then a whole new school of words take their place.

Historically overused 'surreal' references are to badgers and voles. (Bill Bailey - who I love - uses these, but so do lots of others) I don't know why woodland creatures are seen as emblems of oddity, but it seems they are. Now, whenever I see a comedian joke about a badger, it seems awfully cynical and unimaginative.

In fact any reference to badgers in writing, stand-up, or even internet usernames, is a clear sign of a lack of imagination.

The word that has recently come into fashion is 'tears'. Including 'tears' in your analogy or flight of fancy is all the rage.

If I had done my research, I'd have a good example here. But I don't. Probably because my screen is obscured by salty eye-discharge.

(Just search this blog for 'tears'. I do it all the time.)

People should stop using 'tears' for a while, just until it gets weird again.

Not quite the same is terms used in one-liners, particularly on Twitter, but also in live sets. Everyone seems to have an easy joke about OCD and dyslexia now. It's all a bit formulaic:

"My dyslexic friend invited me round for lunch - turned out we were hanging a black man with the Ku Klux Klan!"

"My friend's an Obsessive Compulsive pyromaniac. He sets fire to thing, but always in the right order!"

(I just came up with them - you can see how easy and rubbish it is)

So maybe people should see the proliferation of these subjects in jokes and lay off a bit. Then again, anything can be funny of you put enough thought into it. My friend Tom Greeves has an excellent bit about OCD, so I should probably abandon this rant.

I'm probably too obsessed with jokes being original, but sometimes the pool of comedy references seems so shallow. I want people to spread their wings.

Speaking of which, I once knew this dyslexic badger with OCD. He kept insisting on being called a Abdegr!

Ah!

Ahaha!

See what I mean?

Newton and the swan

My mum was staying at St Hugh's College recently, and we met her there. On arriving, we noticed a swan motif above the doorway. We speculated about whether there was some quirky Oxford anecdote about the swan, like the one surrounding the Boar's Head Feast.

Lucy suggested that there might have been a Newtonesque moment of scientific discovery, when a swan landed on someone's head.

We wondered what Newtonian physics would be like if they were mostly swan-related, eg: "A swan remains a swan, unless acted upon by an external force", "Each swan has an equal, but opposite, goose" etc.

Oh how we laughed.

It turns out the swan comes from St Hugh himself:


Hugh's primary emblem is a white swan, in reference to the story of the swan of Stowe which had a deep and lasting friendship for the saint, even guarding him while he slept.

The swan would follow him about, and was his constant companion whilst he was at Lincoln.

Now, I don't want to be sceptical here, but I question how deep a friendship can be between a Saint and a swan. I'm not saying there was no affection there, but I'm not sure if the swan would have been capable of connecting with Hugh on a spiritual and intellectual level.

Unless Hugh mainly honked.

The above information also implies that the feelings of friendship predominantly belonged to the swan, and that Hugh was perhaps ambivalent. I think it was at least 50/50.

Apparently, Hugh is the patron saint of sick children, sick people, shoemakers, and (of course) swans.

Sick children and sick people. It's good to be both, just in case personhood doesn't kick in until 18.

I wonder if a shoemaker has ever made shoes from swans. That would really test Hugh's loyalties. I reckon swan slippers would be really comfortable.

Unfortunately, only the Queen is allowed to wear them by law.


TripWire
I think it would be good to watch alternate episodes of The Trip and The Wire, and imagine they're taking place in the same universe.

Both are close to reality, but not quite real.

Of course, each takes place in a different country so there would be no crossover between the two. But still. Imagine it.

The TripWire.


Therape
I'm writing a thing with a friend about relationship counsellors. We've only just started, but I'm sure it will win awards, kudos, plaudits, pludos and awudos.

I've been saving my documents related to this project in a folder on my desktop. Because I'm an annoying idiot, I like to name my computer folders stupid things. They're not even jokes - just pointless wordplay. I get annoyed by other people that indulge in such things, but can't help myself.

So this folder is about therapy. I thought I'd name the folder after this, but amusingly spell it with an 'e;' at the end, in the Greek style (a la Penelope or Calliope).

So I named it Therape.

It was only a while later that I realised that this could be misconstrued. Any other person (be they friend or policeman) wouldn't have the knowledge of my mindset, and would think I had a desktop folder called The rape.

It could get me into trouble.

It would be a strange thing to have a folder like that. For only rape-related files. And not rape in general, but a specific one. THE rape.

You'd probably at least hide that folder somewhere on your hard drive. Don't put it on the desktop.

I'd almost admire someone with that level of organisation.

"Hmm. Well, I've got lots of stuff related to The rape - rope receipts, sketches, mp4 files... Should probably create a folder.

Now should this go in 'The rape' or 'Pictures'? Hmm. Best make a copy and put one in each."


I'm sure you're all aware of my distaste for rape jokes, but remember: this one is about accidental wordplay. The noblest of all humours (except maybe yellow bile).

So this is all fine.


***

Right! That's what making notes gets me! Possibly too many words.

I should do this gradually in the future. Or just forget things, and make up content on the spot. It's worked so well in the past.

Now all I need is a blog title.

Normally I like to choose an oblique phrase, which somehow links the disparate content. But this content has been so disparate, I couldn't gather it together with an infinite dustpan and overarching brush.

I'd better just pick something.

***

LATE NOTE:

I just did the spell-check, and it suggested I correct 'Weetabix' to 'Wetbacks'. That can't be politically correct, can it?

I guess Blogger hates Mexicans.

Union

You know what annoys me? People who start blogs with rhetorical questions.

And simple self-referential irony.

And people that misuse the word 'irony'.

And people that alternate between 'people who' and 'people that'.

And people that use single inverted commas instead of proper "quotation marks".

And jokes that go on to long.

What else annoys me is linguistic pedants, who think they are defending language, but completely fail to understand its nature.

My former MP Evan Harris mockingly retweeted someone saying 'Its not the Union Jack, its the Union Flag Mr Campbell... '. (The tweeter was directing his comment at Menzies Campbell on Question Time. It wasn't soup related.)

'Its not the Union Jack, its the Union Flag'

Bullshit. It is the Union Jack. Most people think of it as the Union Jack - it is most commonly referred to by that name. That is what those words now mean, whatever its origins. Language is determined by usage. It's always changing. Most of the words you use probably meant something slightly different in the past. But they changed.

Anyone who insists on calling it 'the Union Flag' is a blinkered pedant, keen to show of their 'knowledge' in the face of the facts.

Of course, language can be used in a counter intuitive or misleading way. There needs to be some consensus. But there is a consensus on the Union Jack. That consensus is that petty word-conservatives know absolutely flag shit about language.

***

I don't like angry blog posts. They can be a bit lazy, and are often preaching to the converted. A bit like 10 O'Clock Live, Channel 4's worthy and increasingly good political satire show. I understand that it needs to be be in front of a live audience to justify its live-ness, but I can't help but cringe at the righteous spectator applause.

They should be banned from clapping and just be given signs saying things like 'I UNDERSTOOD THAT INTELLECTUAL REFERENCE'; 'I THINK THAT CRUDE INSULT WAS JUSTIFIED ON MORAL GROUNDS'; or 'ATTENDING THIS RECORDING CONSTITUTES POLITICAL ACTION'.

I'm sure they're all right and good, and applauding for the right reasons. But don't they just know it.

Hmm. That started as a critique of anger. Then got angry.

Anyway, the programme is flawed but ultimately important, and caters for (what is hopefully) a growing appetite for overt politicism (yes that can be a word, flagman) and the desire for real change.

It's either a cynical exploitation of twitter activism and social discontent, which manages to have its PC cake and eat it, or a brave, prominent experiment with talented individuals helping inform the young, and giving an arena for debate.

This week, Charlie Brooker gave a quick slap on the racist wrist of Richard Hammond before throwing over to Jimmy "gypsies smell" Carr, that latter of whom has toned down his overt cruelty and in non-prepared sections expresses an intelligent and sensitive point of view sadly lacking from his stand-up persona.

All in all, I'm very glad to have it on television, and feel quite protective of it, especially when reading the parade of misogyny and ditchwater sarcasm that permeates the #10oclocklive hashtag on Twitter. Though I do like reading the stupidity of people who feel compelled to watch a television programme (which is ostensibly an optional activity). It's a bit depressing, but makes me feel better about my whiny, vapid, incoherent tweets, by making me feel like Peter Cook in comparison.

One of the drawbacks of watching the show, as well as Charlie Brooker's BBC2 programme How TV Ruined Your Life (an enjoyable feast of archive footage and depressing portents of a cultural apocalypse), is that you start to absorb his style of writing: long sentences, glib similes, and punctured insights. Which makes your blog (if you have a blog - this is purely hypothetical) into a second rate Screenwipe.

And I don't even get to go home to Konnie Huq.

***

It's easier to get angry about things than to get excited about them, so it's probably best to combine anger and positivity into a screwed-up ball called 'passion', and let others be the judge of your bile, your hope and your improper use of semi-colons.

The world is a wonderful, terrible place.

Now don't you forget it, you filthy miracle.