Caspar David Friedrichie Rich

I was going to do a photoshop of the Caspar David Friedrich painting Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, with a young ghost looking out at the mountains.

It would have the following caption:

'Caspar David Friedrichie Rich'.

It would be a play on Caspar David Freidrich and the cartoon character Richie Rich.

But then I realised that Richie Rich wasn't a ghost, no matter what the Simpsons might say:

Somehow, probably because of this Simpsons joke, I'd conflated the ghost and the rich boy.

I must have been further confused that the painter's name contained both Caspar and Rich. My brain had mixed it all up.

It's confusing.

I think the whole thing is muddied beyond repair. Of course, I could do a couple of things.

I could Photoshop the ghost onto the painting and put something like 'Caspar David Friedrich the Friendly Ghost' (or just 'Caspar the Friendly Ghost' for the intelligentsia).

Or I could Photoshop the wealthy child onto the painting and do the original 'Caspar David Friedrichie Rich'. But is Richie Rich recognizable enough from behind to make that obvious?

I really don't want to google "Richie Rich from behind" to check. Especially not at work.

It's a shame, because it seemed like such a perfect comedy idea at the time.

Oh well.

Also, I don't have Photoshop.

The Worst Joke Ever Written

I think I've come up with the worst joke ever written.

I know people often use that kind of introduction when they have a joke they actually quite like, but are embarrassed about.

Lord knows I've done this in the past. I've come up with some terrible pun that I want to share, so I present it in some protective buffer by making it into media satire, or putting it into the mouth of a character with lower standards than mine.

But this isn't one of those. This is genuinely a terrible joke. It just about reaches the minimum requirements for a joke, but doesn't work for so many reasons.

Even with all this preamble, you're probably thinking that it will raise a smile anyway, perhaps in spite of my warning. It won't.

Every time I even think this joke, my only reaction is a furrowed brow. And that's what I'm expecting from you.

Why would I even think of this, let alone remember it, let alone write it down?

I don't know why or how I came up with it. I think I was tired. But I couldn't get it out of my head, like a jingle or those voices telling me to hurt people.

Here it is:

What do you call a comedian who cuts wood?

Lathe Martin

You see? Furrowed.

The punchline refers to Steve Martin. I can see why you might not have made that leap.

Let's look at the reasons why this is a terrible joke.

1

We'll start with the obvious: this "joke" is predicated on the fact that the word 'lathe' sounds like the word 'Steve'. It doesn't.

It's not just that it doesn't rhyme - it doesn't even come close to rhyming. No part of 'Steve' is like 'lathe'. The only thing it has in common is that it ends in an 'e'.

If his name was Stethe Martin, it still wouldn't work, but at least it would be one step closer.

But his name isn't Stethe Martin. It's Steve Martin.

Even a comedian called Dave would be better. Dave doesn't rhyme with lather either, but it sounds like it. This would be a better joke if it was a Dave comedian. But who's a good Dave comedian? Attell? Allen? Not well known enough.

I think the best I could do is "Lathid Baddiel". But then I'd need to spell it "Lathe-id" for it to register.

And - to emphasise my point - the "Lathe-id Baddiel" variant is much, much better than the original version.

2

The joke is a one-level pun.

By this I mean that the only connection between the two separate ideas (woodwork and comedy) is those two words sounding similar. Which, I've already established, they do not.

You get a lot of one-level puns on Twitter. It's not good enough. For a joke to be worthwhile, you need to have something else: either another 'joining' element which relates the two subjects again, or an interesting turn of phrase, or some wider context.

One word sounding similar to another is not enough to justify making a joke.

And, again, the words do not sound similar.

3

No-one knows what lathes do. Even professional lathers.

The joke says "cuts wood", but do lathes really do that? A lathe is not a jigsaw. It's a lathe. They probably don't work exclusively with wood, either. Lathes perform a huge range of functions. Reducing it to 'cutting wood' is an oversimplification, and a grave insult to the inventor of the lathe: Professor Maxwell Lathe.

It's a bad object to include in a joke.

I could have been more accurate if the set-up was:

What do you call a comedian who performs a huge range of functions?

Though it may have steered the listener even further away from the lathe, it at least would have been interesting.

4

The word 'lathe' is not a good word for a punchline. It's not... punchy enough. 'Lathe' sounds like a wet wafer sliding down someone's tongue. You're not getting a laugh with 'lathe'.

5

Steve Martin is not a contemporary figure. I'm sorry, Steve, but it's true. But if he is thought of, it's mostly as an actor. His heyday as a stand-up has long since passed.

That may be why you didn't "get" the joke when you first read it. Even if you were running your mind through comedians who might fit the punchline, he was probably quite far down the list.

I'm not too learned about the modern comedy scene to be able to suggest an up-to-date replacement. When I was part of "the scene", choosing an apposite Steve would have been child's play.

Let's check Chortle.

Are any of these in the zeitgeist? They all look pretty old.

Steve Coogan's been in the news a lot lately. would have been an improvement, and even he's more often thought of as a comedy actor than a comedian. He is twenty years younger than Steve Martin. I checked.

6.

This is closely related to 5. 'Martin' is too common a name. If 'Steve' doesn't sound like 'lathe' and (I think I mentioned it before) it doesn't, you'll be looking for clues to work out the punchline by looking at the surname.

But there are a million people with the surname Martin. It could have been a Dean Martin joke. Or a Chris Martin joke. Neither of those forenames sound like 'lathe', but neither does 'Steve'.

That's another reason why Lathe Coogan would be an improvement. There aren't too many Coogans about. So you could work backwards, and solve the mystery of the joke.

"Ah," you'd say. "Lathe Coogan. Like Steve Coogan. He must think that 'lathe' sounds like 'Steve'. It doesn't, though."

YES I KNOW.

7.

The set-up is clumsily worded. The "what do you call a [blank]?" joke format is pretty hackneyed these days. And why not tighten it up? "What do you call a carpenter comedian?" is much snappier, and takes you into the right territory. Or it would if I knew what the hell a lathe was used for. Do carpenters use lathes?

8.

No-one was asking for a joke about:
a) cutting wood and
b) Steve Martin

When coming up with this joke, even if I was wedded to the format, I could have chosen literally any combination of occupation and comedian. And any of those combinations would have been closer than 'lathe' and 'Steve.

I was working within parameters so narrow that the worst thing I could have thought of was, necessarily, also the best thing I could have thought of.

It's good to work within a framework, but not if that framework is scaffolding snug around an atom.

***

Just to conclude my argument, and to demonstrate its soundness, I will use each of these eight faults to suggest alternative versions of the Lathe Martin joke. All of these alternatives are terrible. And all of them are improvements on the original.

1.
What do you call a comedian who cuts wood?
Lathe-id Baddiel

2.
What do you call a comedian who cuts wood?
Lathe Martin. He was the best I ever SAW.

3.
What do you call a comedian who performs a huge range of functions?
Lathe Martin

4.
What do you call a comedian who cuts wood?
Michael HackIntyre

5.
What do you call a comedian who cuts wood?
Lathe Coogan

6.
What do you call a comedian who cuts wood?
Lathe Bugeja

7.

What do you call a carpenter comedian?

Lathe Martin

8.

What do you call a comedian who extracts coal from the ground?

Jerry Minefeld

***

My original joke is worse than ALL OF THOSE.

I hope Lathe Martin is in your head now, buzzing there like a insect that just won't die.

A problem shared is a problem halved. Like so much wood. Halved on a lathe. By a carpenter.

What do you call a comedian in two equal segments?

Halve Martin

I'm fine.

Good to be writing again.

From Adam

"Cooking is so gay. Remember: God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Stove."

That's a fine-tuned version of an old tweet. The trouble is, I can't really tweet it like that. Even with the quotation marks, the irony might not come across.

The old version was:

"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Stove" - my friend Adam suggesting we get a takeaway.
— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) April 15, 2014

It's clunkier, but less homophobic. Maybe clunky is funnier. I haven't decided yet.

Thinking about this has taken up most of my morning.

I suppose I could tweet the first thing, but include a link to this blog post. That way, I get credit for unclunkiness, but also credit for thoughtfulness. A pejorative use of 'gay', yes. But in quotation marks, accompanied by a URL to an essay on how problematic it is.

My only worry here, is that this post is already pretty clunky. Any goodwill I may have had for my unclunky tweet will immediately dissipate. Or will at least dissipate by the time they read the word "dissipate", which is as clunky as word as you might hope to see.

I could have said that the goodwill I had for my unclunky tweet will "immediately go". 'Go' is much less clunky than 'dissipate.' It's such a clean word: small and round. You could inhale it without even noticing.

Hey, here's a great new joke I came up with.

Hey, my meat paste has just disappeared! I must have accidentally bough dissipâté.

You see?! Jokes.

...

Uh oh.

Uh oh.

A serious spanner has been thrown in the works.

I just tried to search for my original 'Adam and Stove' tweet, and I've found that it's been done before. Three times.

And two of them were done before my original one.

This is heartbreaking. I thought I was so original, but no. I am not original.

Luckily, none of them are as good as either of mine. Let's take a look.

I gays got mad at people marrying kitchen appliances they'd be all "It's Adam and Steve not Adam and Stove!"
— Nicholas Gazin (@NicholasGazin) June 20, 2013

"It's Adam & STEVE, not Adam and Stove!" - gay guy complaining about having to do all the housework
— Brennan (@VerifiedBIB) October 30, 2013

Hey anyone who fucks kitchen appliances: it's Adam And Eve, Not Adam And Stove.
— Matt Koff (@mattkoff) November 19, 2014

The first one has a typo right off the bat, so that's out. Pretty clunky. And not good-clunky, like mine.

The second one gets points for taking an extra leap (leaving out 'Eve' entirely), but it's too ambiguous. Either:
a) The gay guy speaking is Adam, and he's complaining because he'd rather be spending time with Steve than doing the housework
b) The gay guy speaking is Steve, and he's saying that by doing said housework, he has abdicated his own identity and has essentially become the stove.

Who can say? Still, tweet two is my favourite.

Tweet three was only posted a couple of days ago. That's weird. Is there some confluence of creative energies in the ether?

I think tweet three is just too crude. Sometimes the delicate touch is needed. It's also reducing human-appliance relationships (and, by analogy, gay relationships) to a purely sexual thing. It's not all about "fucking". It's about forming a meaningful connection with another person (or blender or whatever).

So, to sum up.

Tweet 1: ✮✮ (deducted one star for the typo)
Tweet 2: ✮✮✮✮
Tweet 3: ✮✮✮

My clunky original tweet (with the takeaway suggestion): ✮✮✮✮

My fine-tuned tweet (with pejorative 'gay'): ✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

Reminder: I rate tweets on a hundred-star scale.

This experience has been humbling, but I'm sure I'll learn from my mistakes.

And yes, I did try to see if anyone else had done dissipâté. But I don't think Twitter searches are sensitive to accents.

Thank God.

***

(Update - just realised I was only looking at the 'Top Tweets' for 'Adam and Stove'. There are loads of others. None better than mine, though. None better than mine.)

Eggshell

I haven't dreamt a good joke for a while. And that pattern continued with this effort from a couple of nights ago:

Why do penguins huddle together?

Because there's safety in numb birds!

It technically makes sense, which is something. Dreams can be totally incoherent, but not here. Penguins might well be numb. It's cold in Antarctica.

But the punchline depends on "numb birds" sounding like "numbers". I don't think it's close enough.

Better luck next time, brain.

***

I think this month will break my record for the fewest blog posts in a calendar month. It's nice to know that, after all these years, I can still push boundaries. Even if the boundaries in question are the boundaries of inactivity. And it's not so much of a "push" as a "slump-against".

I've been slumping against boundaries for years. Sometimes I'll completely lose my footing and slide down the boundaries, scraping up my back something rotten.

Sometimes my head will loll against the boundaries at the end of a long day. Sometimes I'll smack my face against the boundaries whilst trying to take off my socks.

You have to test your limits. Otherwise, what's the point?

Fresh Hell

I'm making my way through the Werner Herzog boxset and enjoying it quite a lot. The last film I watched was his Nosferatu the Vampyre, which was pretty great - eerie, beautiful, occasionally (intentionally?) funny. A bit too much rat cruelty for my tastes, but things were different back in 1979.

I don't find vampires particularly scary. Or zombies for that matter. I think I've worked out the reason.

Most people have a primal fear not just of death, but of becoming a dead thing. They don't like corpses, which remind them that the human body is just a machine of bone and flesh. Vampires and zombies and mummies are scary because they're a corruption of the human form. It's a violation of the sanctity of humanity.

I don't find them scary because I don't hold the human body in such high regard in the first place. For me, becoming a member of the living dead isn't corruption or perversion or degradation of a sacred person, but more of a sideways step.

Admittedly, I've lived my whole life as a conscious being, with all the hope and dreams and communication and stuff. But that's not to say that becoming a mindless, shambling, flesh-eating monstrosity isn't just as valid a lifestyle choice.

If I saw a zombie that used to be a loved one, I wouldn't think "oh dear god, look at how that familiar form has been twisted and degraded". I'd think "huh - that's a fresh take".

I wouldn't choose to use my limbs, body and teeth in that way, but it's a reasonable tack to take.

In zombie films, a person gets bitten and the protagonists make an agonising choice. If, let's say, Bill gets bitten and begins to transform, they realise that he will soon be just a monster. Bill isn't really Bill any more.

In the films, it's presented as a terrible thing. But I'd just nod at Bill's transformation, as though he was showing off an experimental new hairdo. "Interesting new direction, Bill," I'd say, as I was torn to pieces.

Why should we limit Bill to a life of empathy and eating things other than brains? It's narrow-minded to expect everyone to conform to our notions of "normality" or "the proper".

J.J. Abrams took the much loved Star Trek franchise, gave it a twist and a new look, and presented it as something familiar but fresh. It's the same with zombies.

The comparison doesn't hold completely, or course. One is an unpleasant, soulless, inescapable eyesore...

AND THE OTHER ONE IS THE ZOMBIE HAHAHAHA NO-ONE SAW THAT PUNCHLINE COMING!!!!

Anyway, that's why I don't get scared by mummies and vampires and what-have-you. It's difficult for me to be terrified when I'm well aware that a zombie would make better use of my body than I do.

Pronged

Maybe I'll try to squeeze another one in, under the wire.

Here's a bit of hilarious stand-up that will really make you think.

You know when you're watching a nature programme, right, and they describe the animal's sense of smell? Or sight? 

It's always either really good or really bad. It's never just... average.

You never get them saying: "The leopard's most useful predatory tool is its eyesight. A leopard's vision is around... 1.1 times as good as a human's. So pretty much the same as ours, give or take. It's not even, like, always the case. It's an average. Some leopards have worse vision than some humans. It's really very, very similar.

Anyway..."

I suppose mediocre qualities get omitted from the final voice-over. They go without saying, really. They don't start each section by telling you the animal is composed of atoms. 

You see?

Pretty solid stuff.

It's funnier if you imagine me doing an impression of Richard Attenborough. Or David or whoever. As long as it's an Attenborough, the laughs will be there.

How about this for the first line of a novel?

I've never had people gang up on me. But once, last Christmas, I had some people gang down on me. I didn't even realised what had happened until afterwards.

I'm asking to have it printed in blue.

That's two good ideas so far: the stand-up material and the novel first line. One more and I can get back to my Neptune jigsaw. It's pretty tough going. I still can't even tell whether it's supposed to be the planet or the god.

Is this piece a trident or Triton?

AAHAHA! That's a proper Neptune's moon/god confusion joke.

"But Paul, don't both terms come from the same classical root? Obviously the planet and moon's names are an intentional parallel to the Greek myths?"

Yes, fine. Still. I thought it was clever.

Here's my third idea:

Bring back sacks. Sacks have fallen by the wayside. In the old days, everything was in sacks: potatoes, coal, kittens. But the box and the bag took over so quickly that we didn't even register it.

Bring back sacks.

Remember what made Britain great.

Sacks. 

Sacks did.

Smoke Without Fire

There's a new smoking area at work. It's on a veranda/balcony/parapet near our office.

I don't know what I think about this. Introducing a smoking area in 2014 seems quite retrograde. They might as well have a designated Sega Saturn lounge.

Before this, smokers would have to go out of the main entrance and smoke in the street. It's opposite a school. Maybe they thought young children would be transfixed by the glamour and mystique of wheezing in the rain.

So now the wheezers are elevated, and behind green plants. And due to their various lung complaints, if they happen to topple over the edge, they'll be dead before they hit the ground.

The whole idea seems like something someone suggested on a whim, and everyone was too polite to point out the numerous drawbacks. Is it a good idea to make smoking easier? I suppose the children are no longer in the firing/lighting line. That's the main thing.

I'm not 100% against it. I believe that every employer has a responsibility to support those who wish to kill themselves. Each desk now its own noose, which is a step in the right direction.

How about this? As a compromise, we'll keep the smoking balcony, but all non-smokers are allowed - even encouraged - to hose down the smokers at random intervals. That way, the smokers will think twice about pursuing their habit, and everyone else will have some entertainment.

Or something about smoked meats.

***

Retrograde is my favourite soft drink. But only if it's made with fresh, organic retrogrs.

Proper joke, there. You can have that one.

***

Remember the 90s? It was all Due South and LANs.

***

Segmentation will save us.

***

I have to post this now. I was hoping to do more, but there just isn't time. I'm going to have that as my epitaph. The retrograde joke, I mean. 

Then in brackets: FUCK SPIKE MILLIGAN.

Red

I don't think I'm easily annoyed.

Easily depressed, yes. Easily discouraged. Easily cowed. Easily deflated. Easily defeated. Yes, yes. All of those. But not easily annoyed. Not by most people's standards.

But today I am annoyed.

I've been thinking about getting back on Twitter. I changed my profile pic and everything. But today has reminded me of one of the reasons I left in the first place: endless tedious jokes on the same subject.

Today is Valentine's Day, so there has been a landslide of 'roses are red, violets are blue' variations.

I don't understand why people are doing them. They're all terrible, and they've all been done before.

Perhaps a joke is like a jazz standard, and people are just putting their own spin on it. Perhaps we can learn about the comedic thinking of a person by how they choose to deal with a certain framework. Perhaps originality comes not from form, but from...

No.

No, no, no.

They're terrible.

The 'roses are red' variation is the most basic, entry-level joke format in the world. It's something children do. All you need to do is find a word that rhymes with 'blue' and you've got a hilarious joke.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum poo

Depressing.

People realise this on Twitter, so they go for a postmodern version that doesn't rhyme, or is dark. It's a deconstruction of the trope.

Except for the fact that these clever meta versions account for NINETY-FIVE PERCENT of the tweets.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I got thrown out of the florist
For stating the obvious

Ahahahaha.

Ninety-five percent.

Are these people not seeing the same flood of jokes as I am? Are they not following the same people? Do they think they're being original? If not, why are they doing it? Do they just want to be part of something, like the people who watched Nelson Mandela's funeral?

And if that wasn't bad enough, you get a further billion tweets that are self-consciously mocking their own lack of originality.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Everyone else tweeted this
So I thought I might too

That's an extra step of self-awareness. Except that there are thousands of people doing that too.

EVERYONE HAS DONE YOUR JOKE, YOU IDIOT.

THEY DID IT FIRST, AND THEY DID IT BETTER.

BE ORIGINAL, YOU FUCK.

Then again, I also got annoyed when ordering clothes from Next online, so maybe I'm the one with the problem.

My obsession with originality is probably stifling my development as a writer.

Also, I don't really do any writing. That's stifling my development as a writer.

Jesus, Twitter.

It's like watching a group of animals eating, defecating, eating, regurgitating and lionising the same carcass. Let it fertilise the soil and move on to something else.

I don't know what that means.

I'm easily annoyed today.

Oh, also stop thinking you're funny by combining two current news stories into one joke. It's not as clever as you think it is. It's not even as clever as I think it is, and I think it's pretty fucking unclever.

That's right. Two fucks in the same blog post. 

"But Paul, you don't like to swear in your posts. I don't remember the last time you swore on the blog."

I don't like to swear. You're right. But I'm a terrible human being, and I'm being riled by all of the other human beings who don't realise how terrible they are.

Breathe.

***

I'm breathing.

***

OK.

I feel a bit more calm now. God bless Twitter. There are a lot of funny, informative and generous people on there.

I'm glad it exists.

Breathe.

I'm breathing.

I'm breathing.

Just so you know, I checked to make sure I hadn't done any 'roses are red' tweets. I was worried that I'd done loads of them. I probably started the whole derivative ball rolling, I thought.

How am I going to live this down?

But no. I'm valid. I'm really valid. I'm a valid man.

I did do some jokes about roses, though.

***

I got my girlfriend a baker's dozen red roses. He's furious.

***

There's no more romantic gesture than bundling your loved one into a hot air balloon whilst dressed as a dozen roses.

***

There. The first one's probably been done before, but not the second. Not the second.

I really am a terrible person.

A terrible, valid person.

If I was a clay pigeon, I wouldn't even take the trouble to shoot myself. I'd just leave me to fly into the woods and die of exposure.

No, I don't know.

I'm the problem, not you. Your rose joke is fine.

I'm breathing.

***

Looking forward to the weekend, everyone? I am!

Saints are on the telly, and I've got some sherbet lemons on the way.

I used to like them when I was a child, but then I went off sweets.

But a few weeks ago, I bought some on a whim, and I'm right back on the sherbet lemon train. I like to bite the end off and suck the sherbet out. Nothing wrong with that.

They do make me worry about my teeth, though. They must be ninety-five percent (NINETY-FIVE PERCENT) sugar. I think eating three sherbet lemons is equivalent to smashing out all your teeth with a hammer.

I'll just make sure that I cover my teeth in protective foil before eating them, like my dentist suggested.

Of course, it's not just football and sweets. I'm also going out on the town for a large drink or several with tha lads, perhaps! Wrecking up the town centre - rowdy as heck. Don't wait up, Baroness! I may be some time!

What am I talking about?

You see, this - THIS - is what happens when you put originality on a pedestal. Meaningless bullshit. That paragraph was better than a 'roses are red' joke, was it? No. Of course not.

I've just remembered a dream I had last night. I was on some television programme with Penn Jillette that was a nice, friendly, comedic conversation. But at the end, I just shouted "FUCK LIBERTARIANISM". It caused him some distress.

I think I apologised. We made up, maybe.

I also remember using the phrase: "I get the credit for the joke, you get the blame for the punchline!"

That's where I am now. I'm telling you about dreams I've had.

Nothing annoys me more than myself.

It's good to write these things down, though. It's good to publish them online. It's healthy.

I'll feel a lot calmer afterwards.

I need to relax. I'm all hopped-up on sherbet and righteous indignation. I like to bite the end off and suck the righteous indignation out. Nothing wrong with that.

I'm still breathing.

Oh God, it's Pancake Day in a few weeks. I dread to think of all of the terrible pancake puns people will write. If I have to read through them all, I think I might just...

flip.

...


...



***

And that was the end of the blog post.

You can stop breathing now.

Spoon-fed

I joined Google+ in August of 2011. It would be fair to say that it hasn't really taken off. Not as far as I'm concerned. I almost never go on there, and I'm... "friends"(? - I don't even know the terminology) with about three people and Robert Llewellyn.

But I do pay the occasional visit. I don't read anything, but I make sporadic posts. The content of these posts derives from my very first "status message"(?), and I've been keeping it up as a running joke.

Except that nobody can see it.

I'm friends with a few people, but I don't think any of them use Google+ regularly. They have almost certainly never seen the things I've written. Nobody has seen it. It's a running joke for my benefit only.

There's no point in having a running joke for my benefit only. Running jokes require an audience. Otherwise, it's just me remembering things.

So, in an attempt to validate by endeavours, here's a complete record of my Google+ activity.

 

 

 

Two and a half years I've been doing this. I'll never forget.

Highlights include writing about slotted spoons in some foreign language and the sentence "children these days are too complacent these days", which might be the best thing I've ever written.

If you think this is impressive, you should see what I've been doing on Bebo. That shit be crazy.

In The Right

The other day, I remembered a couple of childhood arguments I'd had with my friend Chris. I haven't spoken to Chris for a number of years, so I haven't been able to verify these. But I'm pretty sure they're correct. Traumatic events imprint themselves on the memory. If you were ever chained to a post box, I bet you'd remember what colour it was.

The arguments are impressively petty, but the main thing about them is that, at the time, I found both of them genuinely upsetting. They weren't just pointless wind-up-your-friends devil's-advocate debate-as-sport arguments. They were completely serious. In both cases, Chris was being unreasonable. (This might be libellous, so I should probably change his name.)

Edgar was being unreasonable. I'm perfectly sure of this, even though I can't remember who was on what side for the first one. I think these arguments might have contributed to my many psychological problems. If I had a therapist, she'd probably lay the blame exclusively at Chris's door. Or Edgar's door. In fact, they live together. It's his fault that I'm thirty-one and still have a panic attack whenever someone asks me for a lighter.

Argument One

I insightfully claimed that if you're both hungry and thirsty, you should eat an apple. Apples are food, but also contain enough juice to unparch even the driest of throats.

He said that was stupid. You should have both something to eat and something to drink separately. He thought that was the better solution.

Do you see how unreasonable he was?

Though, again, I'm not 100% sure which side of the argument I was on. I'm fairly sure I was pro-apple.

Argument Two

This argument came about because of a joke I made. Yes, even back then, I was churning out material. I was precocious as a boy. Precocious and covered in pips.

My joke was a companion piece to something I read in a joke book. The original joke book joke was as follows:

What goes ha-ha PLOP?
A man laughing his head off.

It's a joke. This was the marble from which my own joke was... carved? Do you carve marble?

I took the existing structure, but added a clever twist. It's a bit like the stuff I do now, but more carefully honed.

My version was:

What goes boo-hoo PLINK PLINK?
A man crying his eyes out.

Pretty excellent. It's obviously a great joke.

But bloody Edgar didn't see it that way. Not only did he not find it funny, but he said that it didn't work because eyeballs wouldn't make that sound. Eyeballs wouldn't go "PLINK".

I claimed that they would make that sound (or something similar). Especially if they were falling into water (the aforementioned tears). He argued against this with too much force, with the result that I was close to tears. But not so close that I was able to prove my point.

What does it matter, anyway?! Plink, plonk, plop, plip... The noise isn't important. It's not about content! It's about form!

Edgar. If you're reading this, I expect a written apology within the next month. If you're not reading this, I won't expect that.

I think the lesson to be learned here is that children don't have a very good sense of proportion. The most innocuous of conversations can burn with the heat of a thousand guns.

The other lesson to be learned is that I've always been really funny and knowledgeable about fruit.

I might have an apple right now.

Because I'm thirsty.

***

I was going to end there, but realised that my previous blog post also ended with a proclamation of my thirst.

I don't want my family thinking I've got dropsy. Especially with Christmas coming up.

Honestly, I'm fine.

NaNoPicNiCo

I saw a woman in a bear costume in work just now. She was walking from reception towards the canteen.

I could tell she was a woman because she wasn't wearing the head at first. It was a woman's head on top of a bear body. To be honest, I didn't even notice the bear body. I only put the whole bear together when the head went on.

She was talking to a couple of people. None of them were talking about the fact that she was a bear. Maybe they hadn't noticed either.

I went to the toilet, and when I got out, the bear was gone. I don't know where she went.

Why was there a bear in the office? Is it Children In Need?

I didn't get a look at the front of the bear, so I couldn't tell if it was Pudsey. I would have needed to see her from the front. Some people might be able to recognise Pudsey from behind, but they probably wouldn't admit it.

I did a tweet about Pudsey once. In fact, it's a two-parter.

Pudsey Bear's whereabouts are on a Children in Need-to-know basis.

If I die before I finish this tweet - and I easily could - that Pudsey thing could be my goodbye. Tragic. I should have said 'bearabouts'.

I'd like to dress as a bear. It would be comfortable. You could probably just lie down and go to sleep anywhere, even on some stone steps or a thorn-bush. I'd love to be able to just drop and sleep. It would be my super power.

My NaNoWriMo writing isn't going well. If I continue writing at my current rate, I won't finish until March 2014. That's five months. It's no good. It's supposed to be NaNoWriMo, not NaNoWriFiMo.

But it's not about the word count. Not this year. It's just about writing. Slow and steady wins the Man Booker Prize for Tortoise Fiction.

***

I bet, somewhere in the world, there's a stripper called Crystal Maze.

***

It's quiet in the office today. I did hear what sounded like mauling just now, but that was probably the radiators.

I think a group of people in my office were watching the new Christmas adverts online. I could only hear a bit of the audio. I can't believe it's that time of year again: me not being invited to something.

I'm not going to watch the new Christmas adverts online. I want see them on television, muted, whilst I listen to an answerphone message from somebody else's lawyer, just as they were intended.

I assume there's going to be one with a winsome cover of popular song, one with Ant and Dec driving a hovercraft, and one that tries to subvert the whole thing by raping a snowman.

***

Interesting. After writing about rape jokes ages ago, I haven't done any. I haven't even felt the need to. I'm proud of myself.

But I thought of that snowman one, and then couldn't think of a good alternative. The word "snowman" seemed to be a funny one to finish the list. So I needed a verb. And I think it needed to be a harsh verb. "Killing a snowman" isn't funny. "Stabbing a snowman" would have no effect.

I just think that they rhythm of the joke, and the concept of subverting Christmas advert conventions, demanded the use of that word.

I might be wrong. I'm willing to admit that. I just want you to know that whilst I did write a "rape joke", I thought about it carefully, and feel that it is artistically justified.

***

Here are some bonus bear tweets that aren't just here to pad out this entry:

Stroking your beard makes you look thoughtful. Stroking your bear makes you look less thoughtful. And don't try stroking Bea.

I tried to follow my own advice, but it lead me up an alley and now I'm in some sort of bear trap.

Sometimes it's just not scarf-weather, Rupert. I mean, you're a bear. You have FUR. Maybe it's a circulation problem?

It would be terrible if you were going on a hot air balloon trip, and got mauled by Yogi Bear as soon as you got in the basket. Terrible.

It takes a lot of courage to admit you're wrong, especially if you're trapped on a falling bear.

You know when it feels like your head is full of cotton wool? You're probably a stuffed animal of some kind (eg bear).

"Should I start locking my Canadian golf supplies shop?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" "Um..." #conversationsthatmighthappen

I'd never eat a bear's porridge. Think of all the hairs! Goldilocks was a madman.

Beware of Greeks gifting bears.

It's the saddest thing. My friend, the cardiophobic bear, went to a counsellor and pawed his heart out.

I'd love to attend a Teddy Bears' picnic, but they always give such short notice.

What kind of bear parents name their son Bungle? I mean, with that name he's only ever going to be a total disaster.

The thing I like best about Valentine's Day is that I get to wear my giant pink fluffy bear costume without anyone looking at me askance.

I really wish I could hibernate. I could, physically. It's just social convention that stops me. Bears get all the breaks.

The Care Bears really dropped off the face of the earth, didn't they?

Looking back, I'm sure even Disney would admit it that was a mistake to reinvent 'The Gummi Bears' as 'The False Teeth Bears' for Season 7.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed! Good! That is its purpose!" #practicalbears

Teddy bears don't go round and round MY garden.

Remember that horrible episode of Yogi Bear where he finds Boo Boo's corpse in a pic-a-nic basket? Terrifying. I think it inspired Se7en.

"Put your hands in the bear like you just don't care... about the bear's welfare!" - Me, in that sort of club.

People think I'm a bear for 3 reasons: 1) I had porridge this morning, 2) I look like a bear, 3) I keep forgetting to lock my front door.

The play's the thing - Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. Or maybe a kind of modified bear trap.. No. No, I'll go with the play.

I've got a cold nose which, according to the vet, means I'm a healthy polar bear. My cubs will be relieved.

Never make eye contact with a self-conscious bear.

I covered my bathroom walls in bearskin and now I'm infertile. INFERTILE. IN FUR TILE. TILES LIKE A BATHROOM TILE. AND FUR. #goodjokes


***

Huh.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five tweets about bears.

Do most people have that many? That's not even including the Pudsey ones, or the ones that didn't make any sense.

Twenty-five bear tweets.

My ancestors would be baffled if they could see how I spend my days.

The Golden Age of Hollywood

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

Being and Not Being

Let's get this ball rolling. I don't want to find myself wondering what might have been.

Each blog post is utterly unique. If I were to start this post one day earlier or one day later, it would be completely different. If I choose not to write a blog post, I'm banishing a potential gem to the chasm of non-existence. How could I be so cruel?

Every blog post has a right to exist. What if this blog becomes an Einstein or a Michael Jordan? By not writing it, I'm diminishing the glory of the world. It would be selfish and arrogant.

And...

*sigh*

You know, I could continue this train of thought. I could go down the inevitable path of the abortion debate metaphor. It could be slightly tasteless, but ultimately humanistic.

It doesn't matter now. The post has been born. I don't need to worry about it. It exists. Either it's going to be a Jordanstein or it isn't. Why should I waste my time on it? I simply had to focus my attention on giving it safe passage into the world, at which point I should refuse to care for it in any way.

A potential blog post is the most precious thing imaginable, and must be safeguarded at all costs.

Once the blog post exists, it's on its own. I resent it being bailed out by my tax money. 

AAAAAhhhhaha! Abortion debate metaphors are impossible to avoid. I tried to meta my way out of it, and it came back to bite me on the placenta.

Metaphors follow me around like a... oh. They've gone.

I've bitten the skin on my thumb, and now it has started bleeding.

How did that happen?

I'd like Darwin to explain that. What's the evolutionary benefit of biting your thumb until it bleeds? Tooth practice? Building up a resistance to pain? Are female humans attracted to bleeding males? That might be why Ric Flair has been married so many times.

Maybe I'm trying to pass on my genes. Yeah, that's it. Get those genes out of yourself through the thumb. There's no time to procreate. You need to squirt your genetic material at as many people as possible.

Bleed, don't breed.

[Hey guys. Quick interjection here. Is this post... sort of, I don't know... disgusting? 

Yeah. I thought so.]

Bracket-Me is so practical. He's the kind of square that would wear a bicycle helmet. He's so straight-laced. And straight-bracketed. He should be / bloody straight-jacketed.

I prefer Curly-Bracket-Me. He's a bit pompous, but at least he has a certain charming insouciance.

{You don't know me}

Oh man, I've come up with an amazing joke, everyone! Someone sound the joke alarm!

I'll assume that someone has done so. I can't hear anything at the moment because I'm weak and my ears are full of thumb blood.

Here's the joke. It's really good.

Last night, I had a really nonchalant chat with a dead person.

It was an insouséance! 

You see! Really, really good.

(Also the dead person was called Sue)

Turn off the joke alarm. The neighbours are starting to wonder what it is.

Tolls For Thee

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

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

***

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

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

Who can tell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I reckon I could do it, though.

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

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

On the other hand, it might be chicken pox.

***

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

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

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

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

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

But sandcastles are more numerous than masonrycastles WORLDWIDE.

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

It's all about economy of phrasing.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Holiday 2013 – Days Six, Seven and Eight

We continued our pattern of two days doing nothing, followed by one day of doing too much. Today (day eight), we went on another trip. This one was really nice – we went to good places that were warm and interesting. I didn’t spot any “funny” billboards though, so I’m LIVID. What does a guy gots to do to get blog fuel around heres, huh? (That’s how I talk for the duration of that sentence.)

Luckily, I’ve finished the Stewart Lee book, so my writing style will no longer be so derivative. Or if it is, it will be derivative of something completely different. I’ve just finished Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, which is an unsettling horror story. I don’t think I can write like him though.

The other thing I’ve been reading is a volume of Jamie Hernandez’s Love and Rockets comic. (His brother Gilbert also does them, but I haven’t got anything by him yet.)

Man, it is a classy comic book. It’s full of strong, complex, predominantly female, characters, beautiful artwork, wrestling, punk rock, Latino slang, sex, dinosaurs, gang violence - all combined to make incredibly funny and often moving stories. Love and Rockets began in the early eighties, and is still going (or at least was until recently). Classy, classy stuff.

I’ve started to use ‘classy’ as a compliment more and more recently. I think the word fell out of fashion when it became associated with monocles and hot tub chandeliers. But it’s time it was reclaimed for things refined, sophisticated, and of high quality. They don’t have to be posh or stuffy.

Love and Rockets is classy.

The three things I’ve recently been describing as classy are:

1)      Love and Rockets

2)      Former AWA wrestling champion Nick Bockwinkel. To be fair, he probably fits the original definition too. He was a star in the seventies and eighties. In character, he was a superior heel. Out of character, he seems like a real gentleman. Classy.

3)      Rickie Lambert, striker for Southampton FC. He's a classy footballer. People who don’t watch him regularly may think he’s just a big, strong lower-league brute. But he has a vision and touch that’s a joy to behold. He can knock the ball down, or hold it up and bring others into play. His passing is incredible. He’s a bit like Dimitar “the Scimitar” Berbatov in that he moves slowly, but everything he does is crafted beautifully. He may not have pace, but he has vision. And he scores goals. And he’s good in the air. And he’s excellent with set-pieces. And he’s never missed a penalty. And Andy Carroll is in the England squad ahead of him.

That was weird. My three things there relate to comics, wrestling and football. These are three of my main interests, but I don’t talk about them much. I suppose I worry that people won’t be interested. But how would that explain the rest of my content? I can’t be writing my usual meaningless waffle because I think people are actually reading.

My other main interest is comedy.

Hey here’s a joke that I sort-of thought about, but gave up before finishing!

My cousin wrote to the police repeatedly, claiming she was being “storked”. They didn’t seem to take her seriously. Which just goes to show – spelling matters. Ironically, she ended up pregnant.

The good thing about the storked/stalked confusion is that it’s a joke which doesn’t work either out loud or written down. The mistake might make sense in some third medium – i.e. telepathy.

Also, why would she write to the police? Also, why wouldn’t she offer any further details? Also, is this a "rape joke"?

As I said, I never finished it. There are a few kinks to work out.

4)      Comedy. Classy.

***

Isn’t it weird that “worship” and “warship” are only one letter different, but are completely different things? And, to a lesser extent, “workshop”.

I think the Turkish air is doing wonders for my ponders. When I’m back in Blighty (which is what I call my kilt), I’m going to grind to a halt. That’s why this blog is such a valuable resource. It’s like a humour reservoir. A reservoir-ha-ha, you might say. In the barren months ahead, I can revisit these blog posts and think “Storked. Yes. There’s something in that.”

On Liquids

I went to sixth-form college in Eastleigh.

Yesterday's by-election has made me think about the time I spent there, and the people I encountered.

Ha! Not really!

I did go to college in Eastleigh, but know nothing about the place, and only went outside to buy McDonald's coffee and terrible albums on the day of release.

Also, I haven't really been following the by-election news, even though I might well have caught a glimpse of my old stamping grounds on the television. (I didn't have stamping grounds. I barely had feet at the time.)

My only significant memory of being in Eastleigh was a constant feeling of hatred towards immigrants. But that subsided whenever the bus carried me back into the tolerant arms of caring, reasonable, socialist Southampton. My friends and I would show our disdain for the bourgeoisie by going to Sega World and dropping £18 on a session of Time Crisis.

***

Imagine a mirror world, where males are female, words are backwards, and sheep are threatened by menstruation.

Go on. Imagine it.

Now, have you imagined the punchline? All of the ingredients are there.

It's not really a punchline, so much as a thing that I thought of which made no sense without that build-up.

Are you there yet?

That's right.

The Girl Who Cried Flow

"Flow" is "wolf" backwards. And the word "flow" probably has something to do with periods or whatever. I can't google it, because I'm worried about what I'll find.

There might be a cleverer or more succinct way to do that "joke". Feel free to write your own version. I'll gather together all of the entries, and will compile them into a big ball of screwed up paper.

I'll have to print them out first.

***

The good thing about writing a blog post in segments is I can use clever sequencing to make up for a deficit in quality. Always start with your strongest segment, then continue with something of real substance. Make sure you end on a high note. You can bury all kinds of shit in the middle.

I haven't sequenced this blog post yet. This section is in third place as I write it, but I might decide to put it first. It seems pretty strong.

Of course, my putting this first might be confusing, given that I'm about to mention the wolf joke and McDonald's coffee. Perhaps I should just leave things as they are.

It would be a shame, though, as the following segment is going to be AMAZING, and would make for a good opening.

***

Hello. This is the beginning of the blog post.

***

I came up with an obscene rap in the shower the other day. I won't transcribe it, because it doesn't really work unless it's accompanied by some heavy beats and/or the sound of running water.

I think the time I spend in the shower is the most creative of my day. I don't know what it is about rubbing things into my body and hair that makes me so susceptible to inspiration. It's like a meditative state, I suppose. You don't need to concentrate on lathering yourself, so your brain isn't encumbered by the usual roaring mind traffic.

Thinking and clothes are the biggest impediments to the creation of art.

Our new shower is terrible, though. The brilliant ideas I have - and to give you a sense of scope, my rap rhymed "retention" with "pension" - can't come as thick and fast as I would like (shampoo viscosity). We're hopefully getting our bathroom done at some point. When we have a fully-functional shower, I'll be churning out ideas faster than you can say "Paul - you've been in the shower for nine years. Do you still want this tea?"

***

They sell sanguinello juice at Waitrose. It's expensive, but it's there. I don't know anywhere else that sells it. But I can't stock up, can I? Even if the juice lasts for a long time. I can't. What would people say if I had a trolley full of sanguinello juice (in bottles)? They'd laugh for sure. They might make a cutting remark.

It would be expensive, not just financially, but in terms of self-esteem. What would people say?

Maybe I could anticipate the remarks by muttering "blood orange, blood orange, blood orange" over and over again. And each time I said "blood", it would be accompanied by my electric LED baseball cap displaying the word "BLOOD".

That might make it better. I would not be mocked. I would be respected.

I really like sanguinello juice. It's much better than water.

***

I'm dusting my hands to signal that it's all over. I've gone back and carefully sequenced this whole thing. If I could use one word to describe my writing, it would be "honed".

I'm really disgusted with myself.

This whole thing is a disgrace.

I'm angry.

I'm sleepy.

I expected better.

Beating a Dead Horse

I hate watching someone struggle with a printer.

It's harder for me than it is for them. At least they're doing something. The thing they're doing is futile, but at least it is a thing. I am forced to sit and watch. If I could help, I would. But no-one can help. Not even Field Marshal Printer (inventor of the printer) can help.

Something is caught in the gears. The gears are inaccessible. The something is paper. Paper can break apart and stuff itself in small areas.

But if it's your printing, it's your problem. You have to press buttons, and open trays, and fiddle around in an inky undercarriage. You know that you can't solve the problem. But it's your printing. You are paying the price for not copying something down by hand. You could have transcribed it with a pen, but you were too lazy. Now you are being punished.

It's horrific. I don't want to watch, but I can't look away.

***

That's not a good start to a blog post. And it wasn't even the first one I thought of.

The first blog opening was something about a song called Don't Get Me Wrong (for Christmas).

You see? "Don't get me wrong" is a phrase, and you also "get" things for Christmas. You see?

That's why I went with the printer thing. But that yielded nothing.

My third idea for a blog opening was to start with the second idea, then write about it from the perspective of a disappointed blogger (incorporating the first idea), followed by a meta-comment on the third idea.

My fourth idea was to come up with a hilarious, surreal fourth idea.

That didn't work either.

Now I have to write something genuine. About my feelings or something.

That's a real drag.

When you get tired of "concepts" and "angles", you get stuck with honesty. Honesty is like a packet of crackers: impossible to swallow without water.

My main problem is that I lack 'the three cons': confidence, concentration and oh, this is a good song:



You might not have liked it, of course. I'll tell you what. I've just got some coffee. When it's cold enough to drink it, I'll drink it. Then I'll come back and we'll see what is what and what isn't.

Deal?

***

OK. I am drinking coffee, but it is now a day later. I wrote all of the above yesterday. I can't even remember what I said.

I'd better re-read it, or I might come across as ill-informed.

Oh dear. There's not much of merit up there. Also, I mistook the word 'write' for the word 'right', though I have since corrected it.

I watched the first episode of The Walking Dead last night, and found it quite boring. Zombies are boring.

I wouldn't like to dismiss a whole genre - I'm sure there are lots of interesting interpretations out there - but zombie films tend to be a bit repetitive. Also, having a mindless, relentless threat doesn't interest me. They might as well be fighting ageing. It's just a slow fight for a worthless survival, with bad make-up.

It might be because I don't find zombies scary. I think I need my killers to have some kind of free will. Or at least the power of speech.

How many times can you watch a groaning mannequin get shot in the head? Only a few dozen. I used to play Resident Evil, and at least with that you got to do the shooting yourself. The trouble with using a zombie apocalypse as your status quo is that there's not really anywhere to go from there. Hope is limited to a long, dangerous search for beans.

But The Walking Dead might well improve. You can't judge anything on its first episode.

I also watched the first episode of the new Black Mirror series. I thought it was the best one yet - it was a bit more emotional and less overtly shocking than the previous ones, which made it all the more unsettling. And the lighting was great. That's right: the lighting. I'm not normally someone who comments on lighting (unless someone is shining a torch on my cress experiment), but there was a weird, flat, naturalistic light that made it seem real and cold, and not like a TV programme.

Hey, this has turned into an actual blog post! I don't know what I was thinking yesterday. I should delete everything above the second set of asterisks, but (as you know) I like to give people some insight into my process.

***

I haven't been on Twitter much lately, because I've been joked to death. There have been a series of news stories that have been tailor-made for terrible and repetitive jokes.

(Before I go on, I should say that I also do terrible jokes. I'm not criticising them for that - I am one of them. I was just overwhelmed by the sheer volume. Also, some of them were probably good jokes. Yours was probably one of the good ones.)

This happens every now and then - an event will cause everyone to joke on the same subject. But lately, it has been relentless.

There was the whole horse meat thing. Then there was the Richard III thing. Somewhere in there were Chris Huhne's driving lies. And now the Pope has gone and resigned too.

Everyone is feverishly plundering their back catalogue of horse jokes, king jokes, speeding jokes and Pope jokes. That's a lot of jokes.

The only thing worse would have been if there was some fish or cheese-based story. People would have been able to tweet funny haddock/headache remarks and things about Edam.

It wasn't that the jokes were awful, it was just that EVERYONE seems to be doing them, and they all seem to think that their version is original. Twitter has fostered an environment where funny people don't just say funny remarks that occur to them, but sit at their computer actively trying to produce comedy. That's what I used to do anyway.

Then there are professional writers and comedians, who are doing the same thing.

And people still think their Pope joke has never been done before. THEY HAVE ALL BEEN DONE BEFORE.

This breeds a secondary twitter joke movement: the combination joke. Everyone has joked about Richard III and horse meat, so why don't we combine the two! Brilliant! What about adding Huhne to the mix! And the Pope!

If you mix enough derivative remarks in a blender, you might end up with an original cocktail!

Then emerged the tertiary approach (of which this blog might be an example), where people make jokes about the proliferation of jokes. They show themselves to be aware of the phenomenon by making a meta-remark.

It's thoroughly exhausting. I really hope there's some terrible tragedy today, so that people stop trying to be wry. (I don't really hope that)

Having spent all this time complaining, I should say that this is entirely my problem. It's not too much of a chore to avoid Twitter for a bit. People should tweet whatever they like, and I'm sure they're amusing lots of people. I don't want to end all Twitter jokes, I just can't cope with such a concentrated stream being blasted into my face.

The solution is to turn away. Turn away and then gripe about having to do so, even though the human neck is built to accommodate such a burden.

***

I'm like a professional writer. My confidence, concentration and [THIRD WORD BEGINNING WITH 'CON'] have gone through the roof!

All because it isn't yesterday anymore. Unless you're reading this tomorrow, in which case it is.

I should probably finish on a horse/Huhne/Richard III/Pope joke.

Hmm.

Exhume... ExHuhne... Ex... Benedict... something "at a Vaticanter"...?

It's not as easy as it looks, is it?

Ortance

That last post was a bit gloomy, wasn't it?!

What am I like?

Life is brilliant now. This isn't sarcasm. I know it seems like it is, but it isn't.

Let's wash the taste of despair out of our mouths and hair with a refreshing sorbet. What kind of sorbet? A sorbet of proportion.

Things are fine here, and things are fine with me.

No need to worry about us. We're through the worst of it. It's practically summer now.

I haven't had much time for coming up with "funny" ideas, so I need to climb back on that pony and force it to wear a technicolour wig.

I did spend a lot of time working on a tweet about imps yesterday. You don't see many references to imps nowadays, so I thought it might be a fresh area to explore.

I remember having an audio cassette as a child (remember "children"?), on which was a story about an imp. I don't remember enough specifics to track it down. All I remember was that the imp wreaked (wrought?) havoc in a kitchen. I can't even remember who was in the right. Was it the chef or the imp? Both are known for their unpredictability and stupid hats.

That's all I know about imps.

I now know slightly more about imps, as I've read their Wikipedia page.

Here's an imp:

She looks uncomfortable.

That's right: she. I'm not an imp sexist.

Judging by the description, the Superman antagonist Mr Mxyzptlk (one of the greatest names in comics) seems to be a kind of imp.

He's a mischievous, magical being, who Superman is too noble to punch. He's a bit like the basically-exactly-the-same Fantastic Four antagonist, The Impossible Man:

Sadly, this panel isn't followed by The Thing beating him to death.

That's all I know about imps. For realsies this time.

So I was working on an imp-based tweet.

Twitter jokesmiths have covered almost every word, object, or concept, so you need to stay one step ahead of the game. Originality is a rare beast. You need to type something that no-one has typed before. That's why I went for imps. No-one will have done a joke about imps.

But I found that there's a reason for that.

There aren't any good jokes about imps.

Wordplay is the obvious starting point. My first thought was doing an impulse/"imp pulse" joke.

E.g. "I hadn't planned to check the mischievous fairy's heartbeat, but in the end I did it on imp pulse."

Not good.

Not. Good.

Then I wondered about some kind of pimp reference. But how would that work? Some variation on "that really puts the 'imp' in 'pimp'"? What would be the set-up?

Some kind of "imp rest"/impressed joke?

After several hours of thinking, and several tree's worth of paper screwed up on the floor (nothing was written on the paper, I just needed to vent my frustration), I began to lose confidence in the imp tweet idea. Are imps really that original? Shouldn't I be tweeting something political or topical or edgy?

Imps aren't political or topical. They're quite edgy, but only in a whimsical middle-ages kind of way. Back then, anyone who didn't wear a bonnet was considered edgy. Wreaking havoc in a kitchen was their Johnny Rotten.

So I abandoned the idea. I went in search of a different word; one that was rare and hilarious and full of potential.

Then it hit me.

Nickel.

Pretty good, right?

Nobody tweets about nickel.

The possibilities are numerous with nickel.

It's important to note, however, that I'm only talking about nickel the metal. I am emphatically NOT talking about the American coins. Nickel is funny. "A nickel" or "nickels" are not.

I'm worried that this distinction will limit my ability to appeal to a US audience. They might see some of my hilarious nickel tweets, and miss the point entirely.

"Nickels aren't funny," they might say.

"You're absolutely right," I'd say. "Nickels aren't funny. But nickel is funny."

They'd be able to discern the bolding and italicising in my voice, and would be forced to agree.

Nickel will be such a fruitful comedy area, that I'll devote a whole new Twitter account to it. To avoid the above confusion, I couldn't use the Twitter name @nickel (which in any case is probably already taken). I'd have to use @nickelthemetal

Nickel!

Nobody tweets about nickel.

Nickel makes imp seem positively mainstream in comparison. They'll be doing jokes about imps (and the difference between men and women, and Facebook, and Anne Widdecome) on Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow. But no-one will be doing nickel material.

I'll have cornered the market.

Good old nickel (the metal)! You're going to be my ticket to fame.

I'll just do a bit of research.

There. I now know slightly more about nickel.

Hey, check this out:

In medieval Germany, a red mineral was found in the Erzgebirge (Ore Mountains) that resembled copper ore. However, when miners were unable to extract any copper from it, they blamed a mischievous sprite of German mythology, Nickel (similar to Old Nick), for besetting the copper. They called this ore Kupfernickel from the German Kupfer for copper.

A... mischievous sprite of German mythology...?

But doesn't that sound similar to an... imp?

What do imps and nickel have in common? Why, out of all the random words I might have thought of, do these two share a bond?

IS GOD TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING?

SOMETHING ABOUT IMPS AND NICKEL?

This is why comedy is so difficult. You try to be original, but you end up being embroiled in a chemical-mythological conspiracy that drives you insane.

John Bishop has the right idea. He wouldn't touch nickel with a ten-foot pole.