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:
"In the land of the blind, the idiot with the laser-pen has to do something else to get attention. He probably starts kicking people or whatever idk."
***
Welcome! Welcome, friend!
Please - let me take your coat and scarf. You must be weary. I've saved you a space by the fire. And to drink? Hot chocolate? Could I tempt you with some brandy? There will be time to discuss business later.
...
I've always been interested in people who live in the margins.
No. Sorry.
That's a typo.
I've always been interested in people who live in the margarine.
How to they breathe? What do they wear? What are their dreams, their hopes, their fears?
Someone should make a documentary about them.
Where do they go when their home is spread on toast? I've never seen even one of these people. How are they able to hide to thoroughly?
I've never even heard anyone reference them before. The people who live in the margarine must have connections in the political and media spheres, suppressing any mention of them in public discourse.
They must be flying under the radar.
You would think that there would be a whole range of 'margarine people' merchandise available. There's certainly a market for it. And yet, a cursory search for "T-shirt slogan - Living Large and In Marge" only brings up dozens of pornographic Simpsons cartoons.
We need someone to get under the lid, if you will, and find out what makes these people tick. Perhaps Jon Ronson would like to look into it.
Yes.
Yes.
Ah, the hot chocolate is ready. Also, some cocaine, if you'd like to...
No. How silly of me. Of course not.
Hmm. I'm still holding your scarf and coat. They're surprisingly heavy.
This July is on course to beat my all time lowest number of blog posts in a month. It's good to know that, even at my age, I can still break new ground.
I'm feeling low. It's not new. I've been low for a while. On the plus side, it's good to be close to the ground if there's a fire. Smoke travels up. That's why happy people are always the first to die. And that's why each generation is sadder than the last. Simple Darwinism.
But let's not dwell in the dark like some common cave painting. Life is full of about five good things.
Here is one of them.
Andy Daly is a very funny comedian, of whom I first became aware through the excellent Comedy Bang Bang podcast, where he plays multiple characters, sometimes simultaneously.
His TV show Review is really funny. It's a great premise (apparently taken from an Australian series - huh), and Daly's performance is fantastic. Each episode involves him reviewing an aspect of life. Here he is reviewing addiction:
You see? Life's not so black and dour as it sometimes always is.
A moth just landed on my computer screen. It didn't seem interested. Probably because moths prefer fonts specifically designed for moths. Like Wingdings (moths have wings). Or Arial (moths are aerial - spelled differently, but...).
I finished Anna Karenina. It was very good. I particularly liked the bit where Levin cut grass. But that's everyone's favourite bit.
I also read Jon Ronson's The Psychopath Test, which was thoroughly readable. I'm not sure if I learned anything, though. I don't think I'm a psychopath because I'm paralysed with empathy for the entire human race. I think they're all idiots, but I'm deeply sad about their idiocy. For their sake, not mine.
At some point last season, I questioned my decision to base my mental well-being on the fortunes of Southampton Football Club. But I did base them on it. And it paid off. We had our best season ever.
Now, we're selling all of our players, and as each one goes, I feel like another piece of my SANITY IS SLIPPING AWAY! HA! How about that? My face is red now! Silly boy! Watching it all crumble! The sand that I built my house upon has been auctioned off to fill a dozen Scouse egg-timers and now there's nothing to keep the rain off! Ha! Funny, funny, funny.
You have to laugh.
Maybe I'm hungry. That might be it. I could have some Weetabix. That'll make up for everything that's happened.
Oh.
We didn't have any Weetabix. So I was forced to eat Waiterbix.
Two dessicated waiter husks, in milk. At one point, a bow-tie caught in my throat and I nearly passed out.
I don't want to go to work tomorrow. Please don't make me go.
You may well not be reading this on the day I'm writing it. Luckily, that plea is applicable all year round.
My main facial expression these days is "disgusted". I don't know what I'm disgusted with. Electrons? Electrons make me retch. And make me wretch.
Me wretch. You Jane. Electrons bad.
It's late at night, OK? This is fine. I used to do this in the old days: stay up late, hopped up on waiter cereal, rambling into the abyss.
I haven't felt like this since the night Buddy Holly died.
Hey, Monday is nearly over! You know what that means!
I'm going to breathe into a paper bag until sun-up.
Seckeratary: Hello, Lord's phone. No I'm sorry he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message? OK, great. Just let me get a pen.
*gets pen*
Seckeratary:Right, I'm ready. Yes. Yes. Mm-hm. Yes. OK. Yes, no problem. (*is writing message on paper whilst*) Bye!
*puts phone down* *Lord enters room* Seckeratary: Ah, there you are. Someone was just on the phone. Lord: Sorry, I was in the toilet. Anything important?
Seckeratary: No problem. I wrote it down. *finds paper* *reads paper* Seckeratary: He says he's... (*scrutinises own handwriting*) tired. He's tired. Lord: Oh. Is there a name? Seckeratary: No, he didn't say. Lord: Oh. Never mind. At least I know now. *LORD THINKS HE'S TIRED.* *LORD DOESN'T KNOW HE'S TRIED* < crucial SCNE 2 Louise: Why can't you find a job? Neil: I've tried! Lord knows I've tried! LORD DOESN'T KNOW THAT THAT IS THE CRUX
Just a quick how are you and a brief what's happening.
It's not a work of art. No, sir.
Just an update to let you know that, hey, I'm still here, still living day to day, still riding the snake, still keeping my end up, still representing, still sticking two fingers up at The Man, still hitting them corners in them low lows girl, out there, driving hard, doing it for the little guy.
It's a tip of the hat is what it is.
No long conversation, just the hat tip. A nod in your direction. Just in case you were concerned. I'm fine. I'm doing fine.
Ow.
I just collapsed and smashed my face on the edge of the desk. It hit me right in the teeth. Not actually on the teeth, but above them. Above the teeth, but below the nose. The moustache area.
Ow.
Not really. I don't know why I lie.
Anyway, this has been fun. Sorry it's been such a rush. Next time, we'll have a proper catch up. I'll block out a couple of hours in my calendar. We can go to that place you like. I'll buy you an ashtray. Then we'll go somewhere for ice cream, like we did that time.
Remember?
Where does the time go?
Anyway, seriously, I'd better be off. No rest for the wicked, right?
Oh, before I forget - here's a good prank:
Go to a friend's house and swap their umbrella stand for their fruit bowl. They'll start thinking their umbrellas are incredibly long and thin, and that their fruit is all squat and in the hall now!
I'm reorganising my web browser bookmarks. Merry Christmas.
I'm officially on holiday until twenty-fourteen. We have mince pies and barbecue sauce in the house. There are lights and slippers. The whole set-up screams "festive" and "why am I sentient?!", so we've had to start wearing earplugs.
Tuesday - 12:03am:
Days have passed. Things don't seem to happen at Christmas.
It's very windy. I can hear it outside. It's Christmas Eve.
There are too many lights on in this room.
I've turned some of them off.
I feel like my senses have been dulled. Writing is difficult. Thinking is difficult. It must be something about Christmas. I ate a mince pie not long ago. Now I can't think. Why?
Whose interests does it serve, this listlessness? (I had to google "sluggish synonym" to find that word.)
A whole nation of people, drowsy, dull, clumsy, lethargic. A nation of half people. The end of December every year, the nation becomes blunt.
Normally, I'd suggest that it's the machinations of consumerism. It's easier to sell products to dullards. But that doesn't really explain it. It's Christmas Eve. The shops will be closed soon. Most people have already completed their disproportionate Xmas spend-a-thon by now. But the main Christmas period (eve; day; day [boxing]) are when we are at the nadir of our torpor.
Or, would the nadir of our torpor be when we are energetic? Perhaps the zenith of our torpor? I don't know. I'm... struggling.
Google is of little help.
We've all been brainwashed. But brainwashing usually serves a purpose. People are brainwashed into betraying their country, giving up smoking, or agreeing with Ayn Rand.
But this brainwashing seems to be so empty. The iconography and ideology behind Christmas is so muddled, that I'm not sure what we're supposed to think. We're not suppose to think anything. We're just supposed to eat chocolate.
Writing this has been like swimming through a viscous trough. Each word is a mountain to be scaled. Each sentence is a tour of duty in some godforsaken war. I'm trying to reach the truth, but the festive pastry is making me forget myself; the mincemeat is making itself of me.
It's not a conspiracy, I don't think. It can't be. No-one benefits from a world of slugs. It's probably more of a natural phenomenon. Perhaps the world needs a few days of non-interference to complete some vital maintenance. Maybe the planet's axle is being greased.
But what about those who don't celebrate Christmas? Or don't celebrate it by watching terrible television in paper hats?
I can't even begin to work out their role in this disgusting equation.
Just look at how disgusting the equation is. The equals sign is two dead snakes, decaying slowly.
Tomorrow, I'll have forgotten all of this. This hasn't been a revelation. I've revealed nothing. But I have, out of the corner of my eye, seen the obfuscating curtain.
Tomorrow, I won't see the curtain. I'll just see the solid wall, covered with photographs of robins.
And it won't matter. Not all revelations are worthwhile. Not all truths are important. Who cares if I eat another mince pie, and my brain gets slower and slower and porridge and stopping?
Who cares if I decide to watch The Big Bang Theory?
It's nearly 2014. And nothing sharpens the wits like a pre-recorded Jools Holland gesturing towards a venerable Hispanic gentleman knocking the shit out of a marimba.
People are milling about in the aerobics room, waiting for the aerobics to start. They are all wearing shorts, leotards, head bands etc. LOU and REESE are limbering up. REESE is doing some advanced moves.
LOU
Where did you learn
how to stretch?
REESE
Nowhere.
I'm self-taut!
REESE grins.
LOU
Oh. (BEAT) Oh, I get it. Like "taut". Like T-A-U-T taut.
Because of the stretching.
That's funny.
REESE
Yeah. I suppose it's not that
obvious when I say it out loud...
THE INSTRUCTOR enters the room, and everyone quiets (quietens?) down. He strides smoothly to the front of the class. He is rock hard all over, even his tongue. His eyes are full of intensity. He never blinks.
THE INSTRUCTOR
(INTENSE) Blood. Sweat. Tears.
I expect two of the three.
You can choose which.
LOU raises his hand.
LOU
What about urine?
THE INSTRUCTOR
What about urine?
LOU
That's what I said.
THE INSTRUCTOR
No, I meant, what ABOUT urine?
What about urine? The emphasis
should have been on "about".
It's difficult to indicate.
Can you do italics in screenwriting?
Is it presumptuous to tell
the actor how to deliver a line?
LOU
All of these questions
aren't consistent with
your authoritative character.
THE INSTRUCTOR pulls out a gun and points it at LOU.
THE INSTRUCTOR
Is this authoritative enough for you?
LOU
Again: a question.
You shouldn't even be
engaging with me.
THE INSTRUCTOR softens, blinks, then pulls the trigger.
REESE reacts with remarkable speed, stretching his leg over to deflect the bullet with his wrist-band (which was on his ankle - a happy accident). It pings off, Wonder Woman-style (though we don't have the rights to mention her by name).
REESE
I guess all that
stretching paid off!
THE INSTRUCTOR is outraged, but he's out of bullets. He had meant to stock up before the class, but he didn't. You might want to show this in a flashback/montage/anime sequence.
LOU
It certainly did!
He's self-taut, Mr Instructor.
Tee-ay-you-tee!
Something happens with the police.
CREDITS
***
I had a danish pastry earlier. You don't need to capitalise that, right? It's like a dutch camera angle, or a french kiss. It's no longer about the nationality. It's a word in its own right.
I've never been a big fan of the danish (pastry), but I don't know why. I like croissants. I like goo. What could be better?
It must have been a prejudice from earlier in my life, that I hung onto for no reason.
It's over now. I've had two this week.
On Monday, I had a massive passion fruit danish that looked like a creamy swastika. Today I had one with orange and lemon in it.
It's changed my life.
("Shortened your life, more like!" - a wiseguy)
Nothing will ever be the same, because I've tasted two danishes.
I don't really have any strong opinions on them, to be honest. I could take them or leave them. But they've changed my life forever, by having entered it.
Everything that has entered my life has changed it. You can't help but change something if you're inside it. It's like entering Schrödinger's cat box: the box will never recover.
So, even though the danishes were mediocre, I am new. There was pre-danish Paul and post-danish Paul. I am now post-danish. It's like the television series Bewitched. Everyone divides it into two eras: genuine witchcraft and fake witchcraft. And we all have our favourite.
I think I might be too loose with my analogies. I just throw them out there, even if they don't make any sense.
Still, that's the only way to end a blog post.
It's like finding a spider in your telescope: you don't know how it got in there, but at least you no longer have to worry about that blasted meteorite.
To mood swings and the climbing mindframes and the tell me roundabout your mother
New guidelines, to which Ed complied,
Require that he be qualified
And not just a man who owns a COUCH
In accordance with the dead kid's dead dad's wishes,
The dead kid's dead-ass ashes
Were scattered on the low end of the see-saw
There the remains remain
All except his enormous skull, which was in a skip in the crematorium car park
***
It's difficult to be a poet when you have a short attention span. Things like metre and stanzas and rhyme scheme, and coherence, are hard to maintain. Sometimes, you try too hard to tick all of the boxes, and end up dabbing each of them with a spot of ink, invisible to the naked eye.
It's August. This is the last non-depressing month of the year, which is pretty depressing, I can tell you. I need to squeeze all of my barbecues and water fights into the next thirty-one days. You best not try any of that shit in September.
August is like your thirties. There's too much pressure to achieve things before the leaves and hair change colour.
This year, I might opt out. I bought flip-flops this year, and have used them on multiple occasions. That's my summer fun quota fulfilled. I can afford to spend the rest of the month under a blanket, with the curtains closed, can't I? Why should the calendar dictate my behaviour? Just because it knows more about holy feast days than I do? That's not right.
I just can't shake the feeling that I might be exactly the same as everyone else.
That's all I see when I'm in a crowd of people: dozens of exact replicas of myself.
They all dress the same as me, they all have the same stupid fluffy beard. And I know - I just know - that they're thinking exactly the same thing.
It's hard living in a world where everyone shares your values, tastes, fears, shoe size and postcode.
I've always been an insider. Even as a young child, I suspected that I fit in. I'd see my peers engaged in some activity, and I'd think "I'm also doing that".
There's no point in doing observational comedy anymore. I get on stage, and can immediately see that everyone has noticed the same things I have. I don't even talk. I just nod into the mic, and the audience nods back.
Everyone suspects that they are the only non-pariah in the world, and they're all correct.
What is "normal"? It's the thing that everyone is. Especially me.
Someone has definitely already written an identical blog post to this one, which is comforting. Being comforted makes me feel uneasy. Being uneasy makes me just like everyone else.
I'm not on the outside, looking in. I'm on the inside. But I'm not looking out. Who wants to look out?
I'm on the inside looking in. Like everyone, I'm perpetually aware of my place in the world. At night, I lie asleep thinking, worrying about being unable to get awake.
A straw man takes off his straw hat, and conducts a straw pole vault. You can't argue with that. You can't argue with him. He broke the world record and the camel's back.
We could spend another two hours editing and honing that little vignette, but there are more important issues to consider.
More important than the straw hat, and whether he might take off the hat, and then "take off" in a jumping sense. More important than whether the camel was being used in place of a crash mat. More important than whether conducting a straw pole vault would require a straw pole or a straw baton.
There are bigger fish to fry. Don't get bogged down in the minutiae. It will only keep you from what's truly important. The poll has been conducted. The minutiaes are out of luck. The minutiNAYs have it.
Right. Those paragraphs should have weeded out a few readers. To have made it this far, you must have an iron constitution. Sometimes I'll begin a blog post with my most oblique writing, just as a test. I don't want anyone reading this who might be afraid of imaginative and linguistic experimentation.
Some people will come here thinking "I like blogs; I like reading about events and opinions". If that's what you like, you've come to the wrong place. Events don't interest me and I don't have any opinions. Events are like shredded carrot at the bottom of a pre-packed supermarket pasta salad snack. They fill up a lot of space, but nobody wants them.
Opinions are like the little collapsible compact black plastic fork you get in a pre-packed supermarket pasta salad snack. Everyone feels obliged to use them, but you'd be much better off just sticking your face in there and snuffling around like a pig.
This blog has no events and no opinions. It's 100% snuffle. And if you're too precious or too cowardly to stick your face in something, there's no place for you here.
My writing is a journey to the unknown. You have to be willing to take risks. You have to wander not just off the beaten track, but into an alternative dimension where nothing is beaten and tracks are extinct.
You need to be willing to follow me, even when I'm making no sense. For AGES.
Each blog post I write is a training exercise. They are training you to think in different ways, and to commit to things that no-one could possibly find useful. I'm pushing you in mental directions that don't show up on any compass.
I'm literally changing the shape of your brain.
That's why you're feeling so nauseous right now.
***
I'm back from lunch. I had proper salad bar salad. I didn't have any shredded carrot (though it was available) and I ate it with a full-sized metal fork.
Pretty standard, all in all. Pretty standard.
Beauty isn't always dewy tulips and Tea Leoni. Sometimes it can be found in the banal. The beauty of repetition, the beauty of the drudge, the beauty of the default, the plain, the nothing.
The beauty of slowly getting older, like a leaf unfurling, almost imperceptibly, into a urinal.
The beauty of a blog post, sagging further and further down the screen like
an
old
man's
eye
bags.
You just need to know where to look. It's everywhere.
The thing is, gentle reader, when I came back from lunch, I re-read that stuff at the beginning and resolved to be a bit more normal. I thought I'd counterbalance the opening nonsense with something that made sense. I thought I'd write like a normal person writes.
But it didn't pan out that way. I still seem to be the same person I was before lunch. I thought I might have had my madness pickled out of me by thousand island dressing, but apparently not.
I want to be coherent. I do. I want to be a member of society. I want to deal in events and opinions. I want to eat with a little plastic fork. But desire cannot change my course.
All of this is genetic. It's the fault of my DNA.
The same DNA is going to force me to publish this, even though there aren't any good bits in it. Even the straw man thing at the beginning doesn't work. I wouldn't even tweet it - that's how bad it is.
But I've spent so much time writing that I can't afford to delete it all.
We've been here before. I'm covering old ground. That's what I do.
Who am I kidding? This isn't an anomaly. I should stop apologising for what I am.
I'm a person who writes whatever my brain tells me to. I always have done.
For me to claim that this is all "weird" or "unexpected" or "incoherent" is missing the point. It is me.
I can't disown this. It would be like Eagle-Eye Cherry disowning 'Save Tonight'. You can't throw your essence on the fire without getting charred.
I need to accept that this blog - the blog called Headscissors - is its own animal.
Cut its chains. Let it roam free. Put down a dish of water in case it gets thirsty.
I like the thought of being in tune with nature. And what better way to commune with Mother Nature than having the paste of you battered into the soil? Your brains will feed the wild mushrooms, your blood will quench the parched forest floor, little bits of what was once your wallet will prompt seedlings to grow, proud and strong, inching towards the sun.
It doesn't even make sense to talk about us and the earth and the mushrooms and the sun as separate things. We are all one big cloud of stuff, churning and bubbling. We spend most of our lives pretending that this isn't true. We build concrete offices and metal cars and denim overalls to partition the unpartitionable. It's as futile as placing a wine rack in the sea.
For a moment, the lumberjack will be scared. He'll instinctively shout "look out!" (if he's as Canadian as I assume he is), but there will be no time. In two seconds flat, my skeleton will have become a memory. It will be death and burial at a single stroke.
The lumberjack will soon realise that no tragedy has taken place. This is just a communion between atoms. We do not mourn the flour kneaded into the dough. We realise that the flour is a part of the dough, and that the resultant bun depends upon the flour, the milk, the yeast(?), the rolling pin. Weep not for the ingredients, for they have always been bun, and forever shall be bun.
At the lumberjack's inquest, held in a shack of corrugated iron, a company official will check that the proper safety procedures were followed. They will have been followed. The proper safety procedures don't allow for a camouflaged man, emboldened by an unusually close relationship to Gaea.
The lumberjack will be cleared of any wrongdoing, as of course he should be. He should not be punished, he should be praised. He is the catalyst for holy reabsorption.
A small stone will mark the spot of my departure, though departure it is not. It is an arrival. I will return into open arms.
And in thousands of years, I will have become the soil, I will have become the tree, I will have become the stone. I will mark the future departure/arrival of another brave soul, who has stood under the shadow a falling trunk and known what it means to be part of the universe.
I need to write this. If you don't mix concrete, it sets. If you don't poke your brain into the occasional consciousness-spasm, it becomes one of the lesser organs (such as the kidney or back), and will never be conscious again.
It's hard going, though. I don't think I've been aware for much of the day, let alone alert. I certainly haven't been astute, or abuzz. People around me seem to be better at dealing with Mondays. There are wares, lerts, stutes and buzzes all over the office. They are the dragonflies to my swamp, the real gnomes to my plaster gnome, the sparkling water to my still. The Earth is teeming with life. But not on this chair.
I'm not thinking about anything. I'm not mulling. I'm not - and this is key - looking forward to anything. I can't even remember what it was like to do that. I'm not even looking forward to going home, because our new home isn't home yet. So I'm just killing time until... what? Until I'm arrested on suspicion of timeslaughter, I suppose.
Not timemurder. Timemurder requires some kind of planning or intent, and as I've already said, I'm not able to look forward to anything.
Yes, this opening has been a little bit downbeat. Luckily, I've been joined by a wisecracking Brooklynite hand-puppet!
She can't type of course. And won't have any bearing on my writing. But she's here. Not on my hand; that would hinder my typing. But she's lying there on the desk, for all you know. Think of the things she might be saying, or might be potentially saying. Think of the edgy dances she might be able to do when animated by a hand. It would really liven us up, wouldn't it? Her light - her neon backwards baseball cap - will shine a light on my darkness.
If she's real - and she is real - she can turn this whole thing around. It'll be wonderful. It won't matter how little consciousness I have, because I'll be using a hand-puppet. She'll say something, and I'll act surprised, even though our voices will have come from the same brain, which is no longer setting like concrete because of all the complaining and the puppet (which I think I mentioned earlier).
We know she's from Brooklyn. We know she's female, and we know she's a puppet. But what kind of being is she? An animal? Many hand-puppets are animals, from Kermit the Green Frog, to Sky TV's DJ Kat the cat.
Or is she a puppetised human form, like Judy? Or an abstract or "unexisting" organism, like Zig?
As she definitely exists and is on the desk, I can just look at her and tell you.
...
She's a witch.
What's her name? All puppets have name(s), except for... you know... that one with the matchbox hair? Him.
Does my puppet have a name? She must. But I can't discern her name just by looking at her. I need to ask her.
But she can't answer unless she's being hand-moved and surrogately voiced.
Unless she's wearing a name tag.
Oh, she is. She exists and is wearing a name tag. Her name is Lawrence.
Lawrence the Witch.
She's brightened up my mood and no mistake.
Good old Lawrence the Witch.
Discussing you was certainly an improvement on what I'd written before.
***
I COULD HAVE DONE A JOKE ABOUT RICHARD III. ISN'T THIS BETTER?
Pancake Day.
There. That's something to look forward to. I haven't tossed a pancake for a long time. It will be fun to do that. It's all about confidence. The only impediment to a successful pancake is fear. If you will it to spin, spin it it shall.
I'm going to mark Pancake Day on our calendar with a circle. Then I'll do a big red 'X' over each passing day leading up to it.
We don't have a calendar, though. We genuinely don't. And now it seems too late to buy one. It's not the wasted money that I have a problem with. A twelfth of the cost isn't that much really. It's just that they don't seem to be available anywhere. People don't tend to buy calendars in February, so shops don't tend to stock them.
eBay. That's the answer. I bet they have calendars from all of the previous human years. If I wanted a 1998 calendar, they'd have one.
The 2013 one is only, like, half the price of the 1998 one. Probably to compete with the internet. You can find all of the 2013 days online, for free. The calendar makers have had to cut costs and lower standards.
Back in 1998, the internet was at an embryonic stage. Most day information was only available as hard copy.
I'll purchase a calendar (not necessarily the Tranmere one - that was just an example to support my eBay-has-calendars argument), and circle Pancake Day, and do all of the things that I mentioned before.
It's a plan. I'm looking forward to something, and my brain is working well. That's what writing a blog can do for you.
You can be just like me if you write a blog. Start your own. Take a page out of my book, and you'll be happy and healthy and all zesty and nice.
This is going to be an excellent week for all of us.
It's not that there's a glamour to butlering, exactly. It's something more elemental than that. It's a job that is so obviously necessary, it almost seems like a genetic imperative. Food must be found. Shelter must be built. Doors need answering. Water is wet. Fire is hot.
I don't remember a point where I "decided" to become a butler. It seemed like the impulse had always been there. It was second nature.
It all seems very sexist when I write it like that. I'm sure there are women who wanted be butlers too. If my daughter told me that she wanted to become a butler, I'd support her wholeheartedly. The primacy of male butlers isn't something we have to go along with. As a society, we can choose a different path.
But, as a child, I didn't know any girls who wanted to be butlers. Whereas all the boys wanted to be butlers. We used to play butler-based games in the playground. The girls would watch us as though we were insane. And maybe we were.
All of the boys want to be butlers at that age. Maybe from around seven to twelve, butlering is one of those default ambitions. These ambitions are encoded in us, to provide an aspirational safety net for those with no imagination. If you haven't got the drive to become something interesting and original, you'll still have that as-standard urge to be a butler. Or a footballer. Or an explorer.
But mainly a butler.
After twelve, this tends to dissipate. Children become more individual. They're all taking in a wide variety of influences and experiences, and engaging in the complex emotional-chemical reaction that will eventually produce a person; each as unique as a snowflake.
The boys who only months previously had all been miming ironing or tidying away a broadsheet, might now be miming karate or optometry or abseiling into a volcano. When puberty begins, butlering loses some of its appeal for a lot of us. We become interested in girls (or boys), and start thinking about driving and electric guitars. It's not that we dislike the idea of being a butler. It's not even that being a butler has become uncool. It's just that it falls down our list of priorities. We don't even notice it. It might be our parents who are the ones to finally realise that we haven't polished the silverware for weeks.
Most boys don't become butlers.
But some do.
There are butlers. They exist. There's a butler in most households of a certain stature.
And when we see these butlers, we can tell that, somehow, they've won. They don't gloat or anything. There's no sneer or smug raised eyebrow. But there's an energy to them. There's a vitality. There's a sense - and it's unspoken; possibly subconscious - that they've been able to hold onto something. Something most of us lost long ago.
Two of my classmates from school are butlers. I wasn't close friends with them, and I still only see them occasionally. When I do, they're perfectly civil. They don't even bring up their work unless I do it first (of course, I always do).
My job involves working in an office, with computers and spreadsheets. I didn't dream of this when I was a boy. I didn't spend hours in the garden fantasising about database maintenance. Nobody does.
I was a child. I wasn't interested in admin. There was no part of me that strived for it. I didn't strive for anything really. Children don't have the foresight to strive. All they want is to reach tentatively into a world of magic. And I, like the majority of boys my age, did this by strolling around the garden, chastising imaginary kitchen staff for their tatty aprons.
I dreamed of being a butler. I was a butler at ten. In my own head, I was. It was important, it was right, and it was essential. But somewhere along the way, it began to disappear. And like all dreams, I began to forget it.
I don't want to be a butler. I know I don't. It's a silly, impractical idea. But when I see my butler friends, it... makes me sad.
I'm sad for what I've lost. They've managed to bottle some of that childhood magic. They're still able to see their imaginary friends. They still know that their toys are real and alive. They are able to see past the artifice of the adult world. They realise that - despite the notion contradicting everything we're told as adults - children are the ones who have the right priorities.
What's important isn't having a family and buying a house and making money and buying a car and a satellite dish and holidaying in Kephalonia. It's not. of course it's not.
What's important is to wear a smart suit, and to perform vital personal assistance to a rich person who doesn't know your first name.
They're butlers, dammit!
And I'm not a butler.
I said I don't want to be a butler. I stand by that. I don't. When I look at my successful butler friends, what I feel isn't envy. I don't wish to be in their place. I wouldn't enjoy butlering as a profession. I'd find it boring and stressful. I don't have the discipline for it. I wouldn't like the dress code, or the pay, or the hours.
I don't want to be a butler.
It's just that when I see the people they've become - the people they've always been - there's a kind of emptiness. It's not a yearning. It's a gap.
No, it's OK. I thought it was a maniac with an axe. But it was just a bookcase.
Close one.
Whilst you're here (while your hear), we might as well have a little chat. I have nothing to say, but I'm going to type words in very specific sentence-lengths that might (for all you know) make up a clue for a scavenger hunt I'm (for all you know) putting together.
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.
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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.
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.
Ahaha! You should have seen the look on your face! I can't believe we got away with it. I thought Fran had given it all away by being indiscreet on the bus.
So, you had no idea?
Classic.
Classic.
...
Classic.
Anyway... blog post.
You can't mistake it. If you're reading this, it is one.
***
RICK: One.
NICK: ...
RICK: Two
NICK: ...
RICK: Three
NICK: ...
RICK: Four
NICK: Rick?
RICK: Five
NICK: Rick?
RICK: Sick.
NICK: ...
RICK: Sssss! Six!
NICK: ....
...
That was an extract from the play I've been writing just then.
It's about loss. And people with similar names. I'm hoping to perform it at this year's Failed Experiment Festival, which I'm finally going to get up and running this year probably.
I'm going to play Rick. Or Nick.
How have you all been?
That's not true. Really? That's not true.
If you're not going to be honest, there's no point in us even doing this.
I haven't achieved much lately, but that doesn't mean I'm all washed up. It's only natural for people of my age to experience a period of stagnation. It's only natural for me to suddenly hate writing and comedy and anybody showing any enthusiasm whatsoever. It's all part of growing up.
I think I need a sabbatical. Not just from my job, but from the human race. I'd like to live as an animal for a while. It will be like a humanity detox. I want to flush all higher brain functions out of my skull, and replace them with a pure nothingness.
For three months.
Then I'll be able to tackle my thirties with aplomb. I can own a suit.
But enough about me.
What about my clone?
He's going from strength to strength. Afterwards, he intends to tackle strungth. I think he may be a bit too ambitious, but he's always been like that. We're like chalk and cheese (except for the whole clone thing). Chalk and cheese in a pod. Thick as thieves.
I'll ask him to send through a photo some time. I'm sure you're all interested to see what he looks like.
The only thing I resent about my clone is that he never mentions me in his blog. What am I, chopped liver? (He only eats whole liver)
I'm enjoying this. I really am. I can only assume you are all enjoying this too, and that you don't think there's anything wrong with me. Or Paul 2 (that's what we call my clone's penis).
***
Whenever I'm using a pelican crossing, I always walk slightly faster than I would normally, as a courteous gesture to the waiting drivers. I know they have to wait for the flashing amber lights anyway, but I just want them to know that I'm thinking of them. There's nothing worse than a pedestrian who dawdles and lollygags, as though they're the only person in the world.
I walk slightly faster. Not too fast. That would be disconcerting. The drivers might think I was late or had a Crank-style heart condition. I walk slightly faster.
And I'm always annoyed that they don't notice.
Which is silly, because:
a) how would they know what my usual walking speed was?
b) I have no way of knowing whether or not they've noticed anyway
I just want them to appreciate my thoughtfulness, that's all.
Is that too much to ask?
Is asking "is that too much to ask?" too much to ask?
I don't know. But I resent it. I give and I give and I give, but Jenny Car-Owner just sucks it all up and leaves me a dried-out husk. I hope her parents (Ollie Car and Layla Owner) are thoroughly ashamed of her oblivious motoring.
I deserve better. Drivers should be 50% telepathic and 40% grateful. The other 10% can cover hair colour and miscellaneous characteristics (facial ticks and so forth).
I'm the best pedestrian.
My destiny is pedestriany. My dad said that, when he saw me struggling to understand a bike (aged 10 - which is a pretty old bike).
My chin was disqualified because of a false start.
7,000 laps to go.
(My tongue is also racing)
***
Don't think that I'm living in some kind of hole. I haven't been blogging or tweeting much because my attention has been diverted elsewhere. I'm building a wicker caber.
That's untrue, but it could be false. That's what makes it all so exciting.
I've been trying to write the beginnings of a sitcom. I've also been thinking up material for a stand-up gig on Friday.
I'm doing all new stuff for no particular reason. I've decided that my gigs are so infrequent that there's no point in honing old stuff. It would be like shaving a tunnelling dog: by the time it comes back, it will be shaggy and covered in big clods of earth.
So I might as well just do something different each time. That can be my thing. I can demonstrate how prolific I am for a short period every few months.
I haven't had a bad gig for a while, so I'm probably due one. To protect against that, I've come up with some clever ways of turning the gig around:
1) Whitney Houston jokes
2) Breakdancing
3) Put down a heckler who resembles an empty stool
4) Pretend to drop the microphone, and then pick it up (pretend)
5) Say "Is this thing on?" about every object in the room. Even ones that can't be off or on, like a poster.
6) My legendary impersonation of Alistair McGowan
7) Simon Says
8) Pretend I'm playing basketball and then have myself ejected for "gluttonous travelling"
9) Worship some kind of holy tree.
I've only got nine. Ten would be excessive.
***
I haven't got much time. I want to finish this blog post before I reach a particular clock time. It has imbued my writing with a sense of purpose that I will never is for something I perfect semsme klu
I've also had coffee.
You'd think I would have realised that when:
a) I noticed myself drinking some coffee
and
b) various parts of my body were racing
But it was only a few seconds ago that I realised how jumpy I was. A colleague's phone rang and I jumped so high that I've been declared clinically airborne. It's lucky I was holding onto my keyboard.
I need to learn how to marshal my own chemical intake. One minute I'm hopped up on caffeine, the next I'm necking liquid palladium just so I don't lose face with an gang of "ghost peers" who wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for those three paracetamol I had for brunch.
Time's nearly up. This must be what it's like when you're making an Oscar acceptance speech. Too little time, too many neurotic producers to conspicuously omit.
This will be my Oscar acceptance speech.
I couldn't have done this without Nancy, Brad, Brod, Lynne, Squedrick, Phil, Danielle, Brynn and Leroy Rosenior.
Let me rephrase that. Repeatedly. Until every last drop of ambiguity is drained from an already bitter lemon.
I haven't started exhaling funny. I've been doing that for years. I eat, drink and breathe funny. Everyone knows that. It's on my business card. I was just using charmingly incorrect grammar. What I meant to say was:
I've started exhaling funnily.
There's no comma there. I haven't started exhaling, funnily. If I had only just started exhaling, it would be no laughing matter.
I've started exhaling funnily, funnily enough.
I don't know if this is something that happens to everyone as they get older, but over the past couple of months I've noticed that I've started doing strange, pointless little exhalations. They serve no purpose.
There are a few acceptable forms of exhalation:
the normal, everyday breathing out (to expel carbon dioxide and other useless gasses)
the exhalation after some kind of exertion - perhaps one that requires the holding of breath
the sigh (emotionally generated; an expression of relief)
a percussive release of air, to fill a silence, convey thought, or just mediate loneliness (this one is a bit like drumming your fingers on a desk, or cracking your knuckles)
But my exhalations don't fit into any of these categories.
They're certainly not normal, they aren't a response to physical or emotional stimuli, and they're not an absent-minded tick. I'm not filling a silence. Sometimes I'm in the middle of a conversation. I don't think there's any need to release that air, and it doesn't seem to be premeditated.
It's difficult to describe a breath in text, but it's something like: "PFFUSHHH".
The only thing I can think is that I'm steam-powered. But I'd be aware of that, wouldn't I? I'd be able to feel the cogs and pistons beneath my skin. There don't seem to be any. I've checked.
It could be evil spirits, I suppose. They need some time away from their host every now and then. Just to get some perspective on the world, and remind them why they're evil in the first place.
It doesn't bother me. Exhaling is, if not the least of my problems, certainly not the most. (I imagine that sentence is grammatically incorrect. Just like my placement of this bracket(.
It's just strange to have acquired a new... foible? Is it a foible? Or a quirk, perhaps?
Just something new. I thought I was set in my ways. Deeply set. Like a concrete mousse. I thought I'd settled on all my physical defects and twitches. It's refreshing, in a way. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, but a new dog might spontaneously develop a strange new habit, like savaging canoes.
My funny exhalations can become a boon. I can inflate things.
***
I've started inhaling funny.
Let me rephrase that.
Go on.
Please.
Just once. I promise.
No.
No, it won't be like last time.
I'll just rephrase it once, and then I'll be finished. It won't take long. No skin off your nose, right? Sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that. It looks totally healed now anyway. Did you use some kind of ointment? Sorry. Yes, you're right, it's none of my business. Anyway, about this rephrasing...
Really? Great! Seriously, I appreciate it.
You won't regret this. I'll just rephrase it once, and then - BAM - I'm outta here! Ha ha!
I will get on with it. I was just, y'know, saying thanks, that's all.
OK. Here it is. Time for a rephrasing. This is going to knock your socks off, I guarantee it.
I've... you know, the funny thing is, I don't even know how I'm going to rephrase it! I didn't even think about it. I'm not even that sure why I was so insistent!
What? No, I...
I wouldn't say I've wasted your time. That's harsh. I think that's harsh. I'm still... let me finish - I'm still going to rephrase it, and for all you know, it might be really good. It might have been well worth it.
I've rephrased things before, and had some really positive feedback.
No.
No, I don't think I should have been more prepared. I mean, yes, that's one way to handle it. But I revel in spontaneity. Some of my best rephrasing work has come totally out of left-field.
There are people who like to plan their rephrasings, and I'm not having a go at them. They might prefer to have something ready before making any promises.
But for me - let me finish - but for me, having that self-imposed pressure is what spurs me on to create something special. There's no right or wrong in the creative process. Everyone works in their own way. I remember when I was in a rephrasal improv group in the late 90s - Rephaserhead, we were called - I...
Hang on! No, don't go! I'll just do it now. Bish, bash, bosh. Here we go. I'm going to rephrase it right now.
...
Should I repeat the original phrase? Because it was quite a while ago, and... OK, great. What I said was:
Euphoria isn't a strong enough word. EuFIVEia. That's where I am right now.
The above isn't strictly true, but I thought I'd begin with some unbridled positivity. Of course, I had to throw that last sentence in there, which is a bridle if ever I saw one.
But bridles can be useful too. Without them, the horse(?) would gallop(?) into a ravine(?). I'm not much of an expert on horses (or ravines). For me, equestrianism is a prejudice against... uh... electronic... questrians.
I've never been on a horse. Not that I can remember. I think I was on a camel once, but I didn't ride it around. It was in a zoo, or a camel paddock.
I've been on a bike. They're like metal horses. You can't feed them oats, though.
I feel like I might be less of a man for not being a horse person. If a knight or a cowboy saw me now they'd be all like "My word! What manner of witchcraft is this? This fellow is wears neither jerkin nor dignity" and "Golly! Ah think ah've been suppin' on too much sarsaparilla, I reckin!" respectively.
A true man knows the feeling of a beast between his legs. He also never baulks at the spelling of 'sarsaparilla'. If that's the case, a true man I am not.
That's probably a sexist generalisation. Women are just as comfortable upon a horse. Riding another animal is a decidedly strange thing to do, no matter how your genitals are configured.
I'm going to stop talking about horses now.
***
I'm going to start talking about gloves now.
The best thing about wearing gloves is that they cover up all your racist hand tattoos.
The second best thing about wearing gloves is that you don't need to worry about fingerprints. You can commit all manner of thefts and murders, and you know no-one will be able to track you down. Glove fibres are a problem, I suppose. But they could belong to anyone. Fingerprints are notoriously unique. Glove fibres are all pretty similar, unless they're made of snowflakes or DNA. And mine aren't. Wool. Just wool.
If I ran the world, I'd outlaw glove finger tips. I'd require that the fingerprint area was exposed at all times. Why risk it? If people have nothing to hide, they won't mind leaving their finger ends exposed, will they? On a cold day, it would be slightly uncomfortable, but that's a small price to pay for getting all these gloved criminals behind bars.
The third best thing about wearing gloves is that they keep your hands warm.
The fourth best thing about wearing gloves is that you can pretend you're not wearing gloves and just have strangely wool-like hands. You can pretend that you were an outcast as a child (perhaps rejected by your parents like The Penguin in Batman Returns). You can claim that you were called a freak by the other children; that they shouted "woolly", "sheep mitts" and "The Fortune Tellers' Nightmare". And that you vowed revenge on all the smooth-palmed, dexterous-fingered ingrates, who haven't known a day's hardship in their lives.
You could hatch an elaborate scheme to kidnap all the first-born children of whatever city you live in, and have various fibres sewn into their perfect hands. See how they like it! Some people can have awful scratchy wool. Some can have Velcro glued to their hands, so that whenever they applaud, it takes them precious seconds to separate them. Ahahaha! Now who's the freak?! You'll rue the day you messed with Colonel Wool Hands! (You might have to join the armed forces to achieve the rank of colonel, or you could just lie, I suppose.)
The fifth best thing about wearing gloves is plumping them up, pretending there's a hand in there. Then hitting them with a hammer.
The sixth best thing about wearing gloves is rubbing your brow with a soft finger, and pretending that you're being comforted by Big Bird.
I'm going to stop talking about gloves now.
***
I'm going to start talkin' 'bout my generation now.
I think, by and large, we're probably the best-looking generation in human history. Though to be fair, I am bringing the average up.
There. That's a picture of me making a face. Like Ricky Gervais would do. And everybody likes him.
In solidarity with those taking strike action today, I didn't go to work. Technically, I have every Wednesday off, but this time I was holding a placard.
Not a literal placard, but a placard in my heart. It has severely reduced my blood flow. For the people.
The heart may not seem like the ideal place to express industrial disquiet, but keep in mind that it has better circulation than most newspapers.
Circulation! A pun! And a satire of the dying print medium! I don't know why I don't have a job writing for Private Eye. It might be because I'm Ian Hislop's illegitimate son, and he doesn't like me bothering him at work.
I don't work in the public sector, but still felt guilty this morning, sitting in Starbucks, drinking coffee. Starbucks seems to be the modern emblem of unfettered capitalism: stores everywhere, friendly production-line individuality, everything a candidate for more merchandising and more sugar.
But I don't really know anything about their business practises. My politics leads me to have a non-specific suspicion of big corporations, even though I find a lot of them very useful. Can I justify shopping in Tesco, with their aggressive expansion? Do I have to shop in an independent retailer instead, even if it's more expensive and doesn't sell anything I like?
I don't know. The important thing is to just make sure I feel guilty all the time. Cover the bases. Assume that you're constantly sinning, and just hope that your self-awareness makes you better than everyone else. The nobility of the neurotic is a fantastic flag to wave, even if you're worried about whether the flag pole is Fairtrade, and it's planted directly into your left ventricle.
***
Mood
Cosy. Is cosy a mood? Cosy might be a state of mind, but that doesn't account for slippers.
I'm not wearing slippers, but am cosy nonetheless. Socks'll do me fine. Socks are nature's slippers, after all.
Listening to
I'm making my weekly playlist, based on a specific theme. We do this every week. It's what I live for.
You can get a sneak preview of mine here. The theme is 'abstract concepts'. I was struggling a bit, but luckily was able to steal some ideas from my friend Sarah and googled "list of abstract nouns".
That may not be in the spirit of the playlist, but never mind.
One of the songs on my list if from an album called The Miners' Hymns by Jóhann Jóhannsson. I bought it a while ago (and may have mentioned it here before). It's the soundtrack to a film about a Northern mining town, and is all sombre atmospheric brass. Listening to this again shows my support for the strikers. Just playing to this song is better than helping out in a physical, literal way.
(I don't know why I'm talking so much about this strike, when it doesn't have much to do with me. It's useful to have a running theme going through a blog post, though. Otherwise it would just seem like INCOHERENT RAMBLING.)
Reading
I've read nothing since my last post. Not a book, not a comic, not a pamphlet, not a full-sized pamph: nothing. I read some best-before dates on products in the supermarket. They were pretty good. The endings were quite unexpected.
Watching
Disney's The Princess and The Frog
We saw this last night, and it was very enjoyable. It was refreshingly Disney-like in tone (which is slightly different to Pixar, I think). It's also done in traditional animation.
The story was perhaps a little thin, but there were lots of great bits, spectacular set pieces (which looked great on Blu-Ray), an original dynamic, and a couple of things that made me laugh for far too long.
Playing
Whilst I haven't been playing anything, I was reminded of a 'playing'-related thing yesterday. So I'll write about it here.
I've got an old FIFA game on the Wii, which I still play. It's pretty good, and is a good way to keep my hands and eyes busy. I need to do several things at once, or I get restless. So it's either FIFA or depithifying clementines, which I definitely don't do all the time.
Anyway, the game is only from last year I think, but the players and squads are out of date. I've changed these manually, but there are still problems.
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain is a young footballer who used to play for Southampton (my team), but was sold to Arsenal. He had a good game against Man City yesterday. My version of FIFA still had him playing for Southampton, so I manually changed him to be an Arsenal player. So far, so good.
But because he played for us (at the time a League One team), the makers of the game didn't bother making him very good. They probably assumed any Saints player must be awful. Or maybe they just rank all lower-league players the same.
What this means is that Chamberlain, now in the Arsenal team, is awful. He's slow, has no shooting ability, is unable to perform skills, and is driving a rubbish car (this isn't mentioned in the game, but I've made this assumption).
He doesn't fit in with the world class players at Arsenal. Well, maybe not world class. Hemisphere class, perhaps.
I could just not play him, but it's the principle of the thing. He's an ex-Saint after all. So I purposely include him in the side and try to make sure he plays well. I put him in the centre-forward position so he has more chances; I pass to him, even if the player in possession is in a much better situation; I try really hard when he has the ball.
I want to convince the game that Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain deserves his place in the side.
The question is this:
WHY AM I DOING THIS?
The game is not capable of learning from its understandable errors. No-one else knows what I'm doing. I'm just making the game more difficult for myself, for NO REWARD WHATSOEVER.
If a tree falls in the woods with no-one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Maybe.
But if a man - a grown man, mind you - tries to prove to an inanimate piece of software that a player is better than his in-game ranking would suggest, and there's no-one there to see it, does he make a sound?
Yes. The sound is a roar of pathetic futility.
Then again, it has provided some blog content. So I'm all smiles.
Eating
I just had a duck wrap. It was tasty, but I feel guilty. I like ducks. I don't like ducks to be killed, no matter how delicious they are. Poor duck. Poor, poor duck.
I don't feel guilty about the hoisin. Unless they make it from squirrels or something.
Drinking
Nothing. I'm thirsty.
***
Today's blog post has come to a close. All it needs is a callback to something I said earlier.
I'd better go now, because my dad (Ian Hislop) needs me to help him out of his own arse.
