Homework

Fiction. It's all around us. There is fiction in our books and on our televisions. There is fiction in our speech and our thoughts. Why, even my own children are fictional. Where does it come from? What can we do about it?

Those questions are not for me to answer. I ask them merely to conclude my opening paragraph. Intentionality is an island to which there is no ferry.

Answering those questions about fiction can be your homework.

I don't remember doing much homework when I was a schoolchild. Perhaps I was so brilliant that I got everything done in class, or perhaps I just refused to do any work at home because we had no flat surfaces on which to write. It was all 'spherical this' and 'convex that' at our house. I'm sure we thought it was all very modern at the time, but it seems rather tacky in retrospect.

That's the good thing about (some) jobs, I suppose. No homework. You don't need to take any baggage with you. Your evenings and weekends are yours to play 2D side-scrolling shoot-em-ups and eat bagel after bagel after bagel.

At university, it was pretty much all homework. It had its benefits. One could sleep until noon and go to see films in the middle of the day. But the work pressure was always there. There were no designated relaxation periods, which meant constant worry and constant sloth.

I'm happy to no longer have homework. Though some may consider writing this blog to be homework. It's certainly an obligation, and is eating into my bagel time. Often I write these posts at work, so everyone's a winner (except for my employer - the Chevron Corporation). But it's Bank Holiday Monday today, so this is all on me.

I am at home, but can something this fun seriously be thought of as 'work'? I don't think so. It's such a pleasure. It glides out of my brain and into your eyes as smooth as you like.

No friction, only fiction.

Fiction. Ah yes, back to where we began. Let's make some fiction.

***

A dog that could fly was friends with a gnome that could swim. Together, they won the Olympics.

***

There. Fiction. It's as easy as that.

I'm a bit ill at the moment. That's why it was so short. You know me - on a normal day, that story would have gone on for ages. Too long, really.

It's a shame. But I really am ill.

Can you imagine the kinds of things I'd have put in the story, if I was 100%? Crazy, crazy stuff.

I would have named the dog and the gnome, and the names would have been ridiculous. Like, they would have been weird. Not conventionally weird, but genuinely like "wow, where did that come from?" kind-of weird.

They'd have families and would have some pretty amazing conversations. Imagine the field day I could have with a gnome and a dog talking to each other and going to the Olympics? Damn these germs.

But it wouldn't just have been loads of surreal stuff happening. I probably would have made it unexpectedly moving, and it would have a political element that would make you think. I reckon, if I didn't have this cold, I probably would have included a reference to Jesse Owens that would have been clever.

It's such a shame.

And the Olympics could have just been the beginning. Imagine a dog that could fly and a gnome that could swim being employed as secret agents, going on covert ops and rescuing kidnap victims or what have you. There would be quips and probably some dog puns - even gnome puns would be in the offing - if only it wasn't for this blasted runny nose.

And the cough. The cough is probably the main reason you've been robbed of the entertainment.

Never mind, though. I'll probably feel better tomorrow.

I won't come back to the dog and gnome thing, though. Never look back. Only look forward. My eye hurts a bit, but I don't know if that's because of the cold or an unrelated thing, such as when I poked a lash out of there.

I should be in bed. Even having written this much is heroic. I never complain usually - you know me. But I am suffering.

Let's put an amusing photograph here. It's your reward for getting through this. Like at the finish line of the Race For Life, where they hand out bags of moisturiser and hair-straighteners.

Here is your moisturiser:

I'm going to make myself a Lemsip.

Glass

I have a day off today. Writing a blog seems like the kind of thing I should be doing with my time. Productivity is the watchword. 

I've had quite the week, with a stressful appointment yesterday, a personal milestone today, and a cold. We also bought a heavy mirror on Wednesday, but it seems to be missing its fittings. So for now, it's leaning against the wall, showing me how dirty my shins are.

I'm tired. I woke up too early. I took some glass to a glass recycling bank place thing. I used my hand to dust a furniture-top.

And I have a cold. I mentioned it earlier, but it was part of a list of things, and most people don't read to the end of lists. The symptoms aren't too bad, but it has made me quite foggy-headed. I can't remember where I left my good man!

Friday? It seems to be that. Things are swirling round in my head. I should probably get off this rocking horse.

Productivity is the watchword.

I'm thirsty.

Close To Death

We live near the John Radcliffe Hospital now. Our flat is only five minutes' walk away, which is a real comfort. It means that if we ever get seriously injured, help isn't far away.

We probably wouldn't even need to phone for an ambulance. And I'm very grateful about that. I'd hate to have to call an ambulance - it would be really embarrassing. I don't even like phoning for a taxi. There's something emasculating about asking someone to take you somewhere. It's an admission of impotence. That's why I never take taxis, trams, or aeroplanes. I don't want to admit to BA that I'm incapable of traversing the Atlantic under my own steam.

An ambulance is even worse than normal transport. Not only are you in someone else's vehicle, dependent on their skills, but you are - most likely - disgusting. No-one gets in an ambulance when they're neat and tidy. Maybe a coma would be OK, but there would probably still be things leaking and dribbling. Retention of body contents becomes secondary to the retention of life. There might be blood, tears, entrails; even filthy bullets falling out of you. It would be mortifying. Literally.

I don't even like spilling milkshake in someone else's car. I've never actually done that, but I worry about it all the time.

So I'm hugely comforted by the closeness of the hospital. Even if our injuries are severe, we should be able to drag ourselves along to A&E in only a few hours.

It does have a downside, though. Sometimes, we get the bus home. (You'll notice that I didn't include buses in my list of never-taken transport. That's because I didn't want to contradict myself. I changed it to "trams", and you were none-the-wiser.)

The stop at which we get off is one of the last on the route. The bus's final stop is at the hospital. I always hope that people will get off before us, or at our stop AT THE LATEST. If they don't, I can be reasonably sure that they're going to the hospital and probably have a terminal disease.

I saw someone I know on the bus last week. I know her, but I don't know know her. I know her name and face. As the bus journey neared its end, I began to get worried. I'd never seen her on the bus before, and our stop was getting closer. She didn't move. When we finally disembarked (or "alighted", for fans of digraphs), she was still there, sitting in her seat, staring straight ahead, her handbag clutched to her chest, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide and watery, her hands trembling, her mobile phone on silent.

She rode on.

On to the hospital. Or one of the other stops before it.

She's probably already dead, I thought, later that evening.

But she wasn't dead. And still isn't. I saw her on the bus after that. She must live round there. Also, I made up the stuff about the handbag and the breathing and the eyes and trembling and phone. But still, for a minute, I was quite concerned that she might be heading straight to the morgue. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200. It's useless. Coroners don't accept tips.

I have too much empathy - that's my problem. I can't be on a bus without thinking everyone else is at death's door. That's empathy, right? Or is it that other thing?

Sometimes we hear sirens. They're not a nuisance; they're a joyous reminder. They remind us that we're not in an ambulance.

There but for the grace of God go we: making small-talk to the paramedics, trying to retain our dignity amidst all the coughed-up tongues.

Sleighn

It's Christmas.

Here's a quick summary of Lucy and Paul's jolly holiday so far:

1) We both started feeling ill on the evening of Dec 20th
2) Had to decide whether or not to get our train to Devon to stay with my family the following morning
3) Decided to get the train
4) Regretted number 3
5) Struggled on a busy train, and eventually made it to our destination
6) Spent an ill evening being generally pathetic, unentertaining and uncomfortable
7) Spent a hellish night of illness and leaking roof
8) Asked if we could go home the following day
9) Forced my poor mother to spend seven hours of her day driving us back to Oxford (which she did very graciously and cheerfully)
10) Continued to feel ill
11) Ate some soup
12) Began this list

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

Well, the weather outside is frightful...

We're not too bad, really. It's much better to have a bit more room and to be in familiar surroundings. I hope we're not making too big a deal of this. But it hasn't been the most pleasant of Christmases.

I should point out that Lucy has dealt with it much better than me. She's been strong and brave. I've totally caved in. I'm sure I have some strengths that counterbalance this weakness, but none spring to mind. I'm quite good at singing songs about sweet 'n' sour chicken balls, I suppose... That makes up for it.

We struggled to the supermarket yesterday to stock our empty cupboards. We bought plenty of supplies which we one day hope to be able to eat.

No point in dwelling on this. I just thought it should be recorded for prosperity, so that 2013 Paul can look back on this and be grateful for any remaining functional limbs.

***

Everybody's talking about Christmas at the moment. It's all over the newspapers and the social networks. You can't swing a dead cat without someone sewing tinsel into its tail and offering you a Ferrero Rocher.

It's getting a bit much. You can only read so many people's hilarious snowman jokes before you're compelled to desecrate the grave of Raymond Briggs. (His being alive is another sprout in that particular stuffing ball).

So to mix things up, here are eight hilarious jokes about other holidays. These can go in your Easter crackers for next year, or even your Ash Wednesday Humour Log.

***

4th of July/Bonfire Night/Bastille Day:

Q: What did one firework say to the other firework?
A: "I've hidden my fuse! They'll never find it! Shhhhhh!"


Q: What do you call a firework with a French accent?
A: Marie the Firework.

--

Easter:

Two eggs walk into a prosthetic leg rental outlet.
"Same again next weekend?" asks the proprietor, grinning.
"You bet!" says the eggs.
They roll out, giggling.


Q: What happened when the Easter Bunny had a mental breakdown?
A: He was HOPPING MAD and sadly took his own life!

--

St Rhinoceros's Day:

Q: What do you call a man with a horn on his head, and kindness in his heart?
A: St Rhinoceros.

--

Thanksgiving:

Q: What kind of PIE does a bicycle PUMP serve to his family (or KIN) at Thanksgiving?
A: Bicycle pumps don't eat pies.

--

Summer Solstice:

Q: What do druids have for afternoon tea at the summer solstice?
A: Scone Henge.

or (if you pronounce "scone" the other - correct - way):

Q: What do druids have for afternoon tea at the summer solstice?
A: Some scones at Stone Henge, or a big handful of earth or something. Stupid druids...

That counts as the same joke. So you're owed one more.

--

Pentecost:

Q: How much does pente cost?
A: Don't be flippant.

***

That took much longer than you might imagine.

I'd better get back to the merriment. I've been wearing my paper hat since last year.

Ho.

Capsules

I found this photograph between the pages of an old black and white 70s Marvel UK reprint comic. I was pleased by this, because I like an excuse to use lots of adjectives.

It's always fun to find something personal in a second hand item. It's usually a boring dedication/finger in a book, but sometimes it's something more impressive, like an autographed ring.

This photograph is interesting. Let's take a closer look.

I don't have a scanner, so this is a photo of a photo. The real thing is much clearer and crisper. On the real thing, you can clearly see the sneer. The sneer is the most noticeable thing about it. People don't sneer like that nowadays. This is a vintage sneer.

Who is this person?

Do you know him? Is he you?

He's wearing white trousers and a white shirt/blouse thing. Is he a cricketer? A morris dancer? But what about the black jacket? And what's he holding? A scarf? A long truncheon?

Why is his hair like that? Did everyone have hair like that back then?

When was back then? The fashion doesn't really help us identify the era. Was it taken around the same time as the comic was released? Or was it taken later, and placed inside the comic for safe-keeping?

Was it a bookmark?

What's that wall in the background? Some kind of wall?

Is this Neil Gaiman? It looks a bit like Neil Gaiman. Could it be Neil Gaiman?

Is this man still alive? Is he old? Or was this only taken a few years ago?

Is it me? Did I take a photo of myself and look different? Did I hide it, knowing that I'd find it in the future?

Have I had some kind of memory-removal/plastic-surgery foisted upon me? Is this a clue to discovering who I really am?

Am I asking too many questions?

Yes, I am?

Great?

Yeah.

***

I'm not looking forward to the next month or so. This period will begin with a birthday, and end with a house-move. In between will be Christmas. I don't really want any of these things.

I'm looking forward to having moved. I'm looking forward to living in a new place. But I'm not looking forward to all of the moving and signing forms and boxing and organising and forgetting and worrying. I have been dreaming about it.

I really am incapable of dealing with even the most minor events which constitute life.

I can't even deal with that fact, so I'm going to change the subject.

Peas!

I didn't use to like them, but now I do. Delicious green spheres. And mushy peas? I'm a convert! I never had them, then I had them, and now I CAN'T STOP HAVING THEM!

Good old peas!

Good old life!

***

I've been unwell. Because I've been coughing a lot during the night, I've been sleeping on the sofa. I don't like to disturb Lucy, so I selflessly leave her to sleep in peace. I really am the most considerate man alive.

To be fair, she's also ill, and is ill because she caught my cold. Also, I've been generally useless and whiny, and keep hiding her Lemsip. Also, I keep leaving guns in her socks as a funny joke. So, all-in-all, I'm not the best of cohabitees. But still: the sofa. That's got to count for something, right?

The sofa is quite comfortable, but I kept waking up due to thoughts and germs dancing a tango in my brain. In the middle of one of these deliria, I "wrote" a "poem".

I even noted it down on my phone, in case I forgot it come daybreak.

I didn't forget it. I remembered it and tweeted it, but had no response. I don't want to waste valuable things-I-have-thought, so here it is:

Heather gazed thither

so I tethered her hither

I can't live without her

and I can't not live with 'er

It's a poem about possessive love. And words that sound similar.

I'm prolific.

It reminds me that I haven't done a tweet compendium for ages. How long? Since before September 11 (this year)!

I have been fairly inactive in that time tweetwise, but there's probably some Marmite to be scraped from the bottom of the jar.

That can be something to look forward to.

Let's look forward to it.

Shh.

Shh-shh-shh!

In silence.

Let's all just be quiet and look forward to it.

There.

***

Here's a song I heard today. I think I like it:



I've allocated the next hour and a half for fear. But there will be no inquest if I overrun.

From The Waste Down

Dear Universe

What's the deal?

Love
Steve

***

Dear Steve

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

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

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

All the best,

Universe Nixon

***

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

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

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

Maybe I'm ill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Film review time!

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

My psychiatrist is a satsuma.

...

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

---

Attack The Block

Very good.

Submarine

Quite good

Fantastic Mr Fox

Quite good.

The Happening

Baffling.

Inglourious Basterds

Not that good, but not that bad.

---

There we go. That was worthwhile for everyone.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Dear Universe

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

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

Keep up the good work.

Love 
Steve

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

Jaundice

I went to the doctor's today.

I don't know about the apostrophe placement there. Is it the place of the doctor? Or the place of several doctors? Or is it just a plural? Maybe you go to the doctors in the same way you go to the wolves.

Wolf Health Care is of a poor standard, though they've successfully combated child obesity by removing chunks of flesh. This may seem excessive, but it is in keeping with their lycanthropic oath.

Anyway, I went to the doctors's's's.

I wasn't too happy to be there. But I did keep thinking: there could be a blog post in this.

I think in italics.

Things I have thought are of greater significance than things of which I have not thought. I need to indicate this in text formatting.

But my thoughts aren't bold.

I don't have that kind of conviction.

People who went to public school think in bold. Just like their fathers did.

Another inky string to their nepotistic bow.

You can't become Chief Executive of a major corporation if you think in italics. It's the natural order of things.

I did keep thinking: there could be a blog post in this.

In the doctorz, I mean.

But nothing particularly interesting happened. I thought I might get involved in a Curb Your Enthusiasm-style argument with someone in the waiting room.

"Excuse me! I was reading that magazine."

"Whaddaya mean you were reading that?"

"I was reading it! You want me to draw you a picture?!"

"But you put it down!"

"Only for a second. I was gonna pick it back up!"

"If you put it down, you put it down. It's up for grabs!"

"I ONLY PUT IT DOWN FOR A SECOND!"

"OH, SO, WHAT -  I SHOULD NEVER PICK UP A MAGAZINE, IN CASE SOMEONE MIGHT BE READING IT?"

"IT'S MY MAGAZINE!!"

"IT'S COMMUNAL!"

"THERE'S A WHOLE PILE OF MAGAZINES THERE!"

"IT'S NOT ABOUT THE MAGAZINES! I DON'T EVEN WANT TO READ A MAGAZINE! IT'S THE PRINCIPLE!"

"OH, FUCK YOU!"

"NO, FUCK YOU AND YOUR GODDAMN MAGAZINE, YOU SELFISH PRICK!"


But that didn't happen.

There was a mother and her young daughter in the waiting room. We didn't get into an argument.

I really enjoy listening to parents talk to their children - especially if they're nice and thoughtful (the parents, I mean - children are amoral at best). It's really interesting hearing how people chose to explain the complexities of the world to their offspring. Their choice of words, the level of detail they go into, the comparisons they use - all demonstrate something about the person's character.

I enjoyed listening to this mother talk to her child. At one point, they started reading a story book which turned out to be about the Nativity.

The mother said something like: "Do you remember hearing this story before? About the special baby?"

SPOILER:
The special baby was Jesus.

I love the idea of referring to Jesus as 'the special baby'. Because it's entirely accurate, and conveys a lot about the story, but doesn't quite commit to him being the son of God.

I liked that mother.

The only other interesting thing that happened in the doktuhss was when I was waiting in the... doctor room? There must be a more specific name for that.

I was looking at the shelves and saw, right at the top, a yellow ring-binder, which was labelled 'Yellow Fever'.

How devilishly apropos, I thought. And then tweeted, amused by my own turn of phrase.

Also, yellow fever seems like a really old-fashioned disease. I don't even really know what it is. I always thought it was when a white man lusted after a Chinese girl.

AHAHA. RACISM! PURE, UNADULTERATED RACISM!

I'm Chinese. So, who's racist now?

Me?

Well yes.

But what about now?

Still me?

Oh.

Damn. I just looked it up, and that racist expression isn't even original. It's even on Wikipedia.

I can abide racism only if it's entirely new.

I looked up the disease on Wikipedia too, hoping to get some funny material out of it. But it's just a horrible disease.

I need to start choosing my battles more carefully.

I choose The Battle of Edgehill!

(This is like an episode of Pokémon)

So, my DOCKtourSS trip didn't yield too much fruit.

I then bought a light bulb that was the wrong size and came home.

I don't like buying light bulbs. I think it sends the supermarket staff a subliminal message that I'm out of ideas.

I'm not out of ideas.

I may run out of energy, patience or good will, but I'm never out of ideas.

Look, I'll show you:

IDEA #1

A "Really Crazy Golf Course" that has black circles painted on the ground instead of holes. When you complain to the staff, they insist that there are holes. You get angry, they call the authorities, everything gets out of hand (especially your putter, which is made of ketamine).

IDEA #2

A new tax system based on the number of DVDs you have of the series Scrubs. (If you have any Scrubs DVDs, you pay 98% tax. I call it the Fraudulent Imagination Tax.)

IDEA #3

A cross between a lake and a rake (sabotage your neighbour's bonfire).

See? I have ideas. And a light bulb that doesn't fit. But still, who needs a light in their bathroom? Everything in there is better done by touch.

That was my day.

If this was Curb Your Enthusiasm, I'd have contracted yellow fever on the way home. And would perhaps have got into some kind of misunderstanding about a 'special baby'. But luckily, this is real life.

Interesting stuff, you might be thinking.

Or interesting stuff, if you went to Harrow.

Limpy's Got Cancer

This post may contain some petty complaints.

I'm fully aware that in a world of earthquakes, tsunamis and civil wars my problems are quite insignificant. But remember: this is the internet.

And on the internet, there's no such thing as proportion.

On message boards and comments pages throughout the world wide web (or 'WWweb'), there will be people whose hearts have been broken by a continuity error in a zombie film, whose ires have been raised by a grammatical mistake, whose life is over because someone has forgotten to correctly rotate a Facebook photo.

If I'm not part of the solution (and I'm not), I'm part of the problem. But in a world (or 'worldWW') without proportion, the problem is negligible. And all-encompassing.

So, whilst the horrible images of waves sweeping through civilisation are everywhere, fires are consuming cities, and the threat of nuclear disaster is hanging overhead like a Soviet ghost, I feel justified in telling you all:

my feet hurt

and my back hurts.

I think the two may be connected.

This past week, I began to find scraps of shoe all over the living room floor. I don't buy shoes very often (I believe it had been a few years since my last purchase), so I forget that they're not supposed to last forever. I like to ride my shoes until they drop like a shattered horse. So my current, faithful, brown walking boots have been worked to death.

But soon they will evaporate into a kind of shoe mist - and as such will not provide much comfort or traction on the long walk to work.

They've served me well. I think I might give them a full funeral. I can give a touching eulogy ("Of course, the shoes will never truly be gone, as long as we remember them and leave them decomposing in the corner of the room") Then I can play a shoe-based ballad to send them off to the next life.

So I decided to buy some new shoes.

I don't like shopping. I instantly get flustered and start making bad choices. I wish we lived in a Communist utopia, where everyone gets the same state-issued grey smock and sandals.

I searched vaguely throughout Oxford city centre for shoes. What I wanted was shoes that were almost exactly the same as the ones I used to have. Except they would be made of a solid material, rather than an ethereal suede powder.

I didn't find any of those, so had to settle on some big black boots that I thought looked cool. They are big. They are black. They make me about an inch taller - which is always good.

But sadly, they turned out to be evil.

I should have guessed, given their Darth Vaderish appearance.

On Thursday I walked to and from work. By the end of this experience, I was beginning to wish I had been born a snake, so as to have been spared the concept of foot pain.

The back of my right heel had a piece of skin the size of a fifty-pence piece hanging off it. My left heel seemed to have taken on some of the properties of the black leather.

I foolishly thought another day (with thicker socks and the odd plaster) would wear them in. This proved to be false.

I spent the day limping and shuffling around the office. It's quite embarrassing to be experiencing such discomfort because of a wardrobe choice. It's another example of me failing as a human (I can add that to my ever-growing list).

I don't think the pain was that bad, but my legs started tensing up, which made walking difficult. And whenever I concentrated on walking normally, I started making very strange leg configurations.

It's like that proverb about the bird who's asked which foot it takes off from. And because it's thinking about it, the bird can no longer fly.

I'm the bird. And I can't fly. Or walk.

I wanted to limp in a cool, war-hero way, but ended up jerking and jittering through the office like a puppet undergoing electrolysis.

And I complained to everyone, which made me feel even more of a wimp. And the complaints made me feel guilty, as there are people who have permanent disabilities that suffer more than me, but with dignity.

I made it home, but haven't put on the shoes since. I don't think I can take them back, and now I don't know what to do.

Today my back started hurting too. I think it might be related - the pain is just under my right shoulder; the right side is the same one as my skinless heel. So today I've been lying on the floor and wincing at various intervals. Once again laid low by the most minor of complaints.

I've never really had back pain before, and it makes me feel old (even though loads of people suffer from similar complaints).

I've made matters worse by complaining about my complaints. Does two lots of complaints cancel each other out? I hope so.

I feel a bit better now.

I can't imagine why anyone would find this interesting but me. But hopefully I've bought myself some leeway with a worthwhile simile here or there.

It all makes me appreciate that I'm generally in good health. I haven't been to the doctors for about five years (and don't even have one in Oxford). So I'd like to thank God and Darwin and my parents for my good health.

CLONK.

(That was the sound of me TOUCHING A LARGE PIECE OF WOOD)

Anyway, my limping made me think of this great Peter Serafinowicz sketch, which I find disproportionately amusing.

But as we've established, there's no room for proportion on the WwideW.



***

I hope Mr Serafinowicz has saved this from the title of Worst Blog Post Ever.

I'd be interested to work out who might win that title. I mean the worst post in my blog. Not in all blogs. I'm sure there are some blogs that are worse than mine. Some aren't even in English! Just imagine!

Willpower

I'm sick.

In every possible sense.

I'm ill, I'm morally depraved, and I'm composed entirely of vomit.

Actually, only two of those are true.

I have a cold. A bad cold. But I'll stop short of calling it "flu". I don't want to be accused of having "man flu" for reasons given a while ago.

Whatever it is, it has kept me mostly bedridden for a few days, and has generally made life confusing, hot, cold, sore and restless. I've been off work, but it isn't even the kind of illness where you get to appreciate it. There's no enjoyment to be had in a state like this.

(I should have offered a disclaimer at the beginning of this: the following blog post will involve a lot of self-pitying grumbling and disproportionate griping)

I don't remember when I was last this ill. Which probably means I'm quite lucky. At least I'm not in hospital, or trapped in a burning library staircase getting eaten by ants.

(I should have followed up my initial disclaimer: the following blog post is written by an ill man, therefore the quality and coherence of the writing may suffer as a result)

The worst part about being this ill is the dreams. I don't know if everyone has this, but when I'm trying to sleep, my subconscious does funny things. Not 'ha ha' funny. More 'oh God, please make it stop' funny.

I get caught in swirling circular thoughts - weird abstract loops of meaningless that torment me all night. There's no way to explain them properly. But it's horrible. The other night I decided I'd be better off just waking up (even though I was very tired), just to escape the madness.

It made me think about torture.

(I should have included a third disclaimer: the sick man does not count a correct sense of proportion among his allies)

I think part of me - an entirely wrong part - thinks that I'd probably be able to stand up to torture. I mean, it's just willpower, isn't it? Other people might have a problem, but I could just get into a certain mindset and it wouldn't be too bad.

It's the same childish logic as thinking that I could probably be the fastest man in the world, if I could just focus properly. If I could unleash my full mental capacity, I could probably knock Usain Bolt into a cocked hat at speed.

But the flu dreams make me realise that this is ridiculous. When I'm dreaming sick dreams (not those kind) I don't know who I am, where I am, what physical laws exist. If this can happen as a result of a slight temperature, imagine how bad it would be if an evil torturer was pulling the strings (or tendons).

I'm going to try to not be tortured. If I have my way, I'll go through life without being tortured even once. I might make that a New Year's resolution.

So sleep is a problem. But so is being awake. I want to be lying down. I'm stuck between awake and a soft place.

The only other way to get through my day is to distract myself. That's what this blog is. If I have to concentrate on typing letters, forming words, constructing sentences etc, I'll probably cough a little less.

Yesterday I distracted myself by watching Singin' in the Rain, which I'd never seen before. It was good, though I think my capacity to appreciate it properly was hindered my mental state. It was impressive and bewildering.

Today, I've watched a lot of The Trip, which I've mentioned before.

I've decided that it is a fantastic piece of television - probably my favourite programme of the last few years. It's understated, beautifully shot, really funny. I could watch it all day. And I probably will.

The worst thing about my illness is that I've infected Lucy.

I feel guilty.

I suppose it was inevitable, given our close proximity. But I probably shouldn't have smeared my mucous onto her pillow and injected some of my blood into her liver. Still, it was inevitable really.

I don't know where this illness came from. It seemed to spring up on Saturday night. I blame Alan Shearer. I was watching him on TV and then: BOOM. Germ City.

Stupid Shearer.

I should have seen the signs when Alan Hansen gave his usual analysis from beneath a biohazard suit. It was muffled.

This can't have been an interesting read for anyone. But at least it distracted me for a little while.

***

(DISCLAIMER: The preceding post was an ironic comment on people who complain about being ill. I would never indulge in anything as pathetic as that.)

'A' Fever

Nothing interesting has happened to me today. Which in itself is quite interesting. Most people would have had something interesting happen to them - even if it was only mildly interesting, like seeing a coin, or using a napkin to mop the brow of a friend who'd accidentally dipped their brow in acid.

So to have had NOTHING interesting happen is quite a rarity. So quite interesting. Which is a paradox. But not an interesting one.

Of course, I've set quite the standard for uninteresting days. For me, nothing happening is actually the norm. No not that interesting at all.

I have a cold.

I suppose that's interesting. I spend the majority of my time with my head not full of fluid. So this is like a holiday. Except I'm not wearing a hula skirt, just an expression of mild discomfort.

And a hula skirt.

Which reminds me of something that's been happening at work. This is an extremely interesting thing. Pretty spectacular. You might want to sit down or stand up, depending on your current perpendicularity (<-- a="a" br="br" can="can" chaise="chaise" if="if" judgement.="judgement." longue="longue" on="on" own="own" re="re" slumped="slumped" use="use" word="word" you="you" your="your">
 
Which reminds me (I'll get to the interesting thing at work in a bit - it's pretty amazing, and no I'm not building this up too much) my computer at home is being slow, even by its own standards. As I'm typing this, it's struggling to keep up. I keep finishing a sentence, and then having to wait for the letters to appear on screen, one at a time.

It's disconcerting. I can see my delayed ideas trickling into the world. As though my computer is saying "This is what you wrote- and it's stupid. You thought it would be good, but just look at it. Look at this word. Look at the next one. You're an embarrassment. But you can't change it. You've already pressed the keys."

Then I delete them, proving my slow computer wrong. Everything I've written here is carefully edited an chosen for maximum impact. I'm abdominally precis.

I need a new computer. The fan is still making loud noises. I can't abide a computer that's slower than I am. I might as well start using pencil and paper, and cry onto both.

Back to the interesting thing at work - brace yourself - ...

I've started capitalising the A in my name by accident.

PAul.

Interesting, right?

I do it all the time, and I don't know why. It's only just started happening. But I can't stop. PAul. PAul. PAul.

I can't imagine that my name (a word I've typed many times before) could all of a sudden be giving me problems. I blame my work keyboard. The shift button must be sticking.

I HAVE AN INTERESTING LIFE.

I have a cold. I think I mentioned that before.

It might be "man-flu".

I hate that expression. Man-flu.

(I just accidentally typed "man-glu" which is something else.)

Man-flu is one of those ideas that has become accepted as fact by society at large. Men complain more about colds! Women have colds all the time and don't complain! Ahahaha!

I think this idea is stupid. In my experience, the rate of complaints isn't dependent on gender, but on the individual. I know both men and women who complain a lot about illness, and both men and women who take it stoically. Man-flu is a myth. Everyone gets ill and deals with it differently.

I think it's a conspiracy to balance out the stupid gender generalisations that men have always maintained, like women being bad drivers or rubbish at Subbuteo.

I suppose it's only fair for them to have one of their own. They'd need a lot more to even get close to being even. But two wrongs don't make a right. And two stupidities don't make a clever.

(In a similar vein to "man-glu", my slow computer almost got me to write "like women being bad rivers".

That isn't a gender generalisation. I don't think it's a controversial idea. Women really are rubbish at performing the function of a river - housing fish, being composed entirely of water, eroding earth etc.)

So I hate the idea of "man-flu". I don't want to be seen as part of some ridiculous synchronicity of male whining.

The trouble is, I do tend to complain a lot. Which weakens my position. I'm groaning and whinging and snuffling all day long. But it's not because I have "man-flu". It's not because of the configuration of my genitals. It's just because I'm an idiot.

And idiocy is gender neutral.

Writing this has been the most interesting part of my day so far. Thanks for enjoying it with me. Now I'm going to snort some Lemsip powder and fantasise about buying a computer I can't afford.

Yours snufflingly,
PAul

SuperCrazyRocketshipFunTime!

Here's my attempt at a dirty limerick:

There once was a girl named Regina
Who was born with a liquorice vagina
Coping well with the stress
She became a success
And didn't let her condition define her

It's a feminist parable. I'm like Germaine Greer in lots of ways...

***

I tried to write an entry yesterday, but I was bored.

Utterly, profoundly bored. I was bored on a fundamental level. It was a deep, physical boredom that penetrated my very being. Even my organs were bored, doing the same old job. My heart wanted to breathe. My lungs wanted to hear. My kidneys wanted to yodel - so bored was I.

It wasn't a trivial boredom. It was a heavy, depressing shroud. I could easily imagine someone committing suicide because of boredom. It would have to be something quick. None of this tedious sitting in a garage full of fumes. Slit wrists? Forget about it. I'd lose patience halfway through and turn on the telly. Hanging? Boring.

Of course death would be the ultimate in boredom. Imagine killing youself out of boredom, and then realising that you were still conscious after death, but stuck in your body. Same old coffin, same old view. Now that's boring.

So, yesterday, I was bored. Did I mention that?

I was bored on a quantum level. Even the minute fundamental particles, particles that behave in crazy unpredictable ways, were chugging along in a uniform line. They were bored.

You wouldn't think that I'd have such a short attention span, given that I'm pretty laid-back and let's face it: lazy. But I get bored so quickly. It's not a good quality. Also, it seems to be getting worse as I get older.

It reminds me of that Armando Iannucci sketch where someone is literally dying of boredom. Brilliant, it's on youtube!



So the entry I was going to write yesterday was about my annoyance at having a cold. The reason is: it makes me look stupid. With my nose blocked up, I have to walk around with my mouth open like a special-needs fish. People who breathe through their mouths are supposedly stupid. 'Mouth-breather' is an insult.

I don't know why. Why is one breathing channel more sophisticated and intellectual than the other? I suppose the nose looks more streamlined and futuristic than the mouth.

Don't get me wrong - it's no eye. The eye is by far the most advanced bit of face aparatus. But the nose is pretty good. The mouth is just a hole.

I got bored writing that yesterday. Can you see why?

So this whole entry is about boredom. It makes me think of when people say: "the only people who get bored are boring people".

Am I bored or am I boring? The answer is clearly 'both'.

That's a stupid expression anyway. That's like saying "the only people who get raped are rapists" or "the only people who get pissed off are urinating".

Yes, those are exactly the same. Directly comparable.

***

I've decided to open up a gym called Futility (in truth, that seems like hard work, but I might sell off the name).

That way, their slogan could be 'Exercise in Futility!'.

Lucy has suggested that all the exercises are pointless, like in the underworld. There could be the Sisyphus machine where you push a boulder up a hill over and over.

I'm going to make one million pounds.

***

I'll bid you good day with one of my many excellent TV ideas that I've honed in emails to Lucy:

I'm going to write a TV programme called 'Don't Forget Smelly!'.

My first idea was a kids' cartoon about a gang of friends who always go on adventures. But as they're setting out, their parents say 'Don't Forget Smelly!'. And they begrudgingly take him along. Then it turns out that Smelly always saves the day with a piece of quick thinking or bravery.

My second idea is a kind of anti-war polemic. An aging world leader faces difficult decisions/pressure from oil compaines and corporations to go to war. Each episodes has a flashback to Vietnam, where he discusses the meaning of life with his army friend Smelly. These morals remind him to keep true to his beliefs and pursue a course of peace. 'Don't Forget Smelly', he'll say to himself, looking at a sepia photo of them both. "I never will".

The flashbacks will form a continuing narrative, where we're led to believe Smelly was eventually killed. The world leader will remember scenes with sad music, and say things like: 'this is for you, buddy'. But in the end, it's revealed that Smelly didn't die at all. He just turns up in the Oval office at the end of the series, and they go bowling together.

I should write TV.

I've NEVER NOTICED THAT BEFORE.

It's been about six months since I was last ill. It was a pretty good run, but I've got a cold now.

It's not even a bad cold. Just a cold. But I still feel compelled to complain about it. I think complaining is an unspoken symptom of the virus.

The trouble is, I now have a dilemma when people ask me how I am. I have to say: "yeah, I'm fine - I have a bit of a cold though".

People hate that. They think I'm looking for sympathy. They think I want them to say 'oh dear' and touch me consolingly on the shoulder. When in truth, I want them to touch me somewhere else (although that might prove contagious).

Even if I wasn't ill, nobody actually wants to know how you are. You just ask out of instinct and convention. And you reply in the same vein (fine, thanks). It's the height of rudeness to give out your actual state of being. It's vulgar to divulge anything about yourself. In a perfect world, people would wonder around in Japanese Noh masks, interacting via regimented head movements, and weird call-and-answer yelps. No more sharing, thank you very much.

It's like saying Bless You after someone sneezes. I say it, and I'm not really that bothered about the blessing. As Lucy pointed out, as an atheist I should be opposed to saying it. But I still do it. That one's even weirder than the 'how are you'. What are we trying to say with that? It just draws attention to the sneezer. That's what we're really saying: "I heard you sneeze!". It's less about a blessing, and more bragging about our hearing.

Sneezes are pretty disgusting. We shouldn't be drawing attention to them. If you say bless you, we might as well yell 'Snot release! Snot release!'.

But if you don't say bless you, it's somehow inconsiderate. I might start a convention where when someone farts, you have to say "good health to friends and family!", and whenever someone whistles you salute.

These are cutting edge observations, right here. I've got other ones about how there's never a bus when you need one, and the differences between men and women.

I've also got some stuff about the differences between women and buses:

"One is loud, smelly, and reluctant to give you a ride - and the other one's a woman!"

I also have some insights into what it was like to grow up in the seventies. And I wasn't even born then! Hey, who remembers that Twix advert with the dancing monkey and the sentient cleaver?

I'm so fucking original it makes me want to vomit in an ironic way!

I've lost the plot, and am spiralling into a cul-de-sac of meta-observation.

I may not make any sense, but I have an excuse: I'm ill.

***

And if there's one thing I hate, it's a wry, knowing last line of a blog entry, used to tie everything up. It's so smug. I do it all the time. They enrage me...

Hmm... Although I was expecting to be annoyed, the last lines of my earlier entries are actually alright. I might just compile them. They're better than the actual blog entries. Here are some closing lines from last July:

***

Yes, you're right, I couldn't think of anything to say today. But if you don't use your computer every day, the keyboard gets all gummed up with dust and tears.

***

The seagull saga may continue. If you see me flying through the night sky with a gull strapped to each foot, it's probably me.

Probably.

***

Come back next time for my excellent idea for a series of children's books (and no, it's not just pictures of my genitals, you sicko!)

***

So I'll stick to safer, more politically-correct topics.

Tune in next time for "The Jews: Global Plague"!

***

See you in the funny pages!

Or the OBITUARIES.


***

I could make a living auctioning off closing remarks to other blog writers.

And slowly - slowly enough to bore God Herself - Angelina cocked her hat, cocked her gun, and slipped into the opticians.

Sick

I'm ill.

The kind of illness that isn't really that bad, but has the symptom of making me complain about it to everyone. It's only a cold, but could be considered flu by a more pessimistic person than me.

It's rubbish. I feel like my whole head is filled up with fluid. If I wore a toupee, I could just tear it off and pour the excess contents into the bath or something.

The only good thing about it is it means I can abdicate all responsibility and not worry about the upcoming upheavel in my life for a little while. Instead of being concerned with graduation and moving houses, I can retreat to feeble victimism (I've invented a word) and be absorbed in strange dreams about the game Inkball on Vista and groups of attacking squirrels.

Admittedly, I can't do my usual cross-country skiing or charity fun-baking, and will have to stay in and watch TV for a change.

My inactivity is nothing to be proud of, but it does make me feel better about getting old. When I'm a pensioner, I'll still be able to sit around smoking pot and watching wrestling, so I don't have to worry about a slow decline.

***

I hate Man Utd. I'm watching them demolish Newcastle at the moment. If Alex Ferguson died today, I would probably smile. There aren't many people I'd say that about. Another one is also a Red Cunt, and has just got a hat-trick.

We need another Munich air disaster.

That's not true, I don't really have such stupid opinions. It's just because I'm ill with flu and squirrels and the onset of dementia.