Tell Him Something Pretty

I just finished a rewatch of Deadwood. 'Tell Him Something Pretty' is the title of the final episode.

I like that title, so I thought I'd write a blog post called 'Tell Him Something Pretty' even though I don't want to write about anyone telling anyone else something pretty, and I don't want to write about Deadwood.

I may have figured out why writing this blog is so difficult. It's because I'm writing not for its own sake, but because I want to go back in time. I want to go back to the time in my life when I did write blog posts, and I can't. It's like fighting against the current. That's why I keep writing these and not posting them (see a lack of hyperlink here for examples of previous unpublished posts). As I type, I have a momentary sense of treading water, but I can't go backwards.

Trying to write has the futility of those anxiety dreams I have all the time. I had one recently where I was trying to fill the dishwasher, but every time I thought I was close, more dirty crockery would appear, and I'd have to reorganise things. Even with my superior dishwasher organising skills, it was impossible to finish.

I haven't yet dreamt about writing a blog post that I'm unable to post. Maybe it will happen tonight.

Of course, I could just post this. I could just post the other ones. I could post a story I've already written: just a basic copy and paste job.

I could... but I can't.

Because of the reason up there. The one about not being able to go back in time.

I need to convince myself to travel forward in time, not backwards. I may not be able to go back to blog-writing times in the past, but I could travel into a future where I write. That's a journey I can make. I can get carried along by the current instead of fighting it, I can relax and I can float, I can catch my sleeve on a fountain pen, I can dash my head on the rocks of stream metaphors somewhere round the bend in two-thousand-and-god-damned-nineteen-or-some-shit.

But I don't want to hurl myself into the future. Donald Trump is President there. I can barely even bring myself to write it. Donald Trump is President there. And Brexit. And... everything else. Things genuinely are much worse now, right? It's not just a subjective thing, is it? You know I hate it when people imbue their own times with MAJOR SIGNIFICANCE just because they're alive. I don't think I'm doing that. It just is that bad.

It's no wonder I want to go back in time. Even treading water is better than going forward. Even trying to tread water is better than going forward.

***

OK - I just went to get lunch, and I was mulling it over. Maybe the world isn't that much worse. I put my pessimism down to two things: Twitter and Southampton Football Club.

Twitter

I don't have any friends. You might think that would be the headline of this issue, but I'm going with Twitter. I don't have any friends, so my only real view of the outside world comes from Twitter. And maybe it's just the people I follow, but Twitter mainly gives me the despair of current events, and the negativity of reactions to said events, and the further negativity of reactions to said reactions.

***

[Contemporary Edit: I never finished this. What a shame. It was so interesting and original. If only we could hear more about why Twitter is bad. Alas...]

Snap

I've had the same crappy old pre-smartphone Nokia mobile for a hundred years, and finally took the plunge. I bought a 94p USB cable for it, so I could transfer all of the photos onto my computer.

Up until now they've just been sitting there: a rich mine of pre-selfie selfies, extreme thumbshots and increasingly unimpressive sunsets.

I couldn't really tell how good any of the photos were because my screen is the size of a Shreddie.

Shreddy?

Shreddie.

So I transferred them all and browsed.

It was quite moving seeing myself age, one jpeg at a time. I was a more prolific photographer in the early years, but things have tailed off... There are only about six photos from the past couple of years, and four of them are of the dog I kidnapped. Still waiting for that ransom.

There are several decent ones buried in there. I posted this one on Facebook:



I like it because I'm captivated by pepper.

It's from several years ago. I can't remember if I planned it to look like this, with the camera hidden. Also, Lucy's face is obscured by flowers, so you'd think I would have done better. But it's a real trompe l'oeil. As long as l'oiel is suffering from l'astigmatism.

Then there's this one. It is a generic sunset, but also includes raindrops:

Most of the ones I kept were photos of Lucy. I should probably just post them all to Facebook and embarrass her. She's not reading this, so she'll never know until she's tagged. And by then it will be too late.

Anyway, the upshot of this is: I should be an eventual photographer.

The reasons for this are many. One is that I use photographic idioms in my daily life. Like "upshot".

It's difficult to be an eventual photographer in this day and age.

It's too easy to take photos and immediately see, edit and share them.

In the past, everyone was an eventual photographer.

You'd have to take the photos, travel to a "dark room shop", leave the film, return home, worry impotently about framing, return to the "dark room shop", fumble for change (contactless card payment - or even chip and pin - was a long way off), pay the "dark room technician", and leaf through the results.

They were almost all terrible. People would look at the shoddy snaps over your shoulder and would laugh. Old-fashioned analogue laughs.

If you want to develop photos (as the old Jessop saying goes), you must first develop a thick skin.

But we liked it that way.

Eventual photography was a noble profession. Waiting and disappointment was part of the thrill. Just like a job at Bella Italia.

In today's world of Instagram filters and that thing where you swap your face with a dog's face or whatever, everyone is an immediate photographer.

Where's the fun in that?

Creativity should be slow, inefficient and impossible to share with others. Also it should mostly not end up happening.

It's taken me years to get these photos. I could easily have bought this USB cable at any time. But I didn't.

I'm clearly cut out to be an eventual photographer.

Slow and steady wins the race. The tortoise has still got a Minidisc player.

I'm glad to have discovered my vocation. I'm sure I'll get around to following up on said discovery in a couple of weeks/months.

This build-up of inaction has increased my self-confidence and made me realise that I can accomplish anything as long as I put my mind to it in 2010.

In the years to come, I'm sure I'll be equally proud to be an eventual sculptor, an eventual viewer of Channel 4's Misfits and an eventual toenail-trimmer.

Thomas Pinchin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So perhaps my fractured account is accurate.

Fracturate.

I'll take notes next time.

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

We could invent it! We could!

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

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

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

What about... uh...?

Melon Degenerates?

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

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

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

2013: The Year in Saltine Hubris

We are.

We won't always be. But for now we are.

Each tick of the clock is a death for thousands. But not yet for us.

Tick, tock, there goes a village.

We must be thankful. Take each day as it comes. Take each month as it comes. And, at the end of the year, write an article summing up the things that have happened. Plato would have done exactly that, if he'd been born in the spacebar era.

DiamondBadger's Headscissors Review of 2013

I do this every year. It's a light-hearted look back at the thrills and spills of my soup kitchen rollercoaster. I also talk about the year in question.

This year, the year in question is "2013".

The question is "What happened in 2013?".

The answer is "the following".

Here are previous entries:

2007
2008
2009

2010

2011

2012

If I contradict myself and repeat myself exactly the same number of times, I can consider this a wash.

Life-Changing Event of 2013

I put "buying a flat" in this slot last year. This year we actually moved. The whole year has been life-changing, and not in a good way. I don't even feel I'm the same person I was in 2012. Someone must have forged my name tag.

But I can't go into too much depth about it. Let's just say that my fundamental essence has been forever altered by moving ten minutes' drive down the road.

I own a power drill now. This is serious business.

TV Programme of 2013

I've watched a lot of TV this year. So much so that I've had to embolden part of that sentence. Most if it has been in box-set form. I now feel more engaged with television as an art form. I've been taking part in the national conversation. It's not the conversation of my nation, but still... This was a real breakout year for Malta's Got Talent.

I watched lots of series for the first time, some of which I wasn't too fond of (Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, Girls), and some of which I was rather taken by/with.

For me, the year boils down to three big ones: Mad Men, Breaking Bad and Enlightened.

I'd barely seen any Mad Men episodes before this year, so I decided to take the plunge. I ended up watching all six seasons in just a few months. It really changed the way I saw the world. 'Peggy' is short for Margaret?! WTF? How does that work? Right? Am I right? Am I?

I'm still not sure what I think of it. At it's best, it's mesmerising, and some of the characters are as complicated and fun as you could wish for. But sometimes, its greatest strength (huge scope; slow pace; meandering, deep exploration of the human condition) becomes a bit of a burden. It can move slowly, or be too obvious. Or it can spend too much time with beautifully-developed characters that aren't that interesting. It finds beauty in truth, but truth is often boring.

It has peaks and troughs in quality, but overall is very satisfying. My opinions on certain characters (hello, Pete) have gone from loathing to understanding and then back again. Elisabeth Moss's Peggy is one of my favourite television characters of all time: showing real (fictional) growth, and handling heartbreaking drama and hilarious comedy with aplomb, often in the same episode.

But I don't know if I feel a great affection for the series as a whole. I don't know why. It might be because showrunner Matt Weiner slightly rubs me up the wrong way in interviews. I like Mad Men, but I don't think it's quite managed to crawl into my soul. Perhaps that's a good thing. There's not much room up there.

Breaking Bad ended this year in a hail of publicity. Lots of people have compared Mad Men to Breaking Bad, so I might as well have a quick stab at it.

The two shows are sort of opposites in a way. Mad Men sprawls all over the place and gives us a taste of everything. Plot isn't as important as themes or character.

Breaking Bad is an almost miraculously tightly-focussed story, with a clear beginning, middle and end. It has a narrower cast of characters.

Mad Men is about the American Dream. Or gender politics. Or social change.

Breaking Bad is about Walter White and what happens to him.

That's a terrible simplification. Mad Men is about loads of stuff. And maybe Walter White's story is the story of America. It isn't though. It's the story of Walter White.

Anyway, whilst I generally prefer big vague ambiguous philosophical pretentious profound meaning-of-life fare to tightly-written morality plays, I think I like Breaking Bad better.

Doing a single story over a number of seasons, whilst still making it seem satisfying, and not treading water at any point, is a huge achievement. I'm not its biggest fan (there are many other shows I prefer, and I question to what extent it will be as fun on second viewing), but it certainly is exhilarating viewing. The final season had some fantastic moments - though I didn't think it was as perfect as some seemed to - and it was a fun ride.

That was all a bit long. Especially, as I prefer Enlightened to both of those.

I've written about it before, so I don't want to cover old ground, but it really is a great show. I watched both seasons this year (the second one began in January, but I was behind). It's touching, great-looking, different, and is about something. It's definitely more Mad Men than it is Breaking Bad, and maybe if it hadn't been cancelled, it might have suffered some of the former's problems, but it stands as a really beautiful chunk of television.

Do chunks stand? Probably, if you lean them against a wall.

Amy Jellicoe (played by Laura Dern) is a fantastic character, who is somehow both self-obsessed and a complete hero. How can a character be completely deluded and yet fundamentally right? Ask Mike White.

This trailer doesn't really convey the tone of the show, but I should probably embed something, right?



Yeah. Gotta embed. It's like the rhyme says:

If you don't embed, your readers will... do something else. Instead.

Shoe of 2013

I bought new shoes this year. But I think the winner has to be that sandal that broke the whole NSA story.

Film of 2013

I don't know about films. What came out when? Who am I, Paul Ross?

I saw Before Midnight and Upstream Color. Those are films that people seemed to like. If I say it was them, will you let me go?

Moment of 2013

In Turkey, we went to a hidden island (hidden from all but the regular tour groups that go there). We sat on a peaceful sandy beach, looking at the river.

That was nice. I didn't see it mentioned on The Big Fat Quiz of 2013, though.

So the moment was probably that time a celebrity accidentally tweeted a picture of themselves wearing odd socks. Peter Sissons, let's say.

Music of 2013

I've done a list! But I couldn't find a lot of the songs on Grooveshark, so it's only on my iTunes. If you want to come round and have a look, you can.

I liked good new albums by Fuck Buttons, Death Grips, Janelle Monae and Mountains.

I very much enjoyed the Run The Jewels album. I spent a lot of time this year channelling its aggressiveness into energy, helping me climb Headington Hill.

Here are a few choice morsels.

Run The Jewels - Sea Legs



Grouper - Living Room

Trust Punks - Prone Hold



Sonny Smith - Some Women Artists All Around Town

(this is the only version I can find)



My favourite song of the year wasn't released in 2013. I'm forty-two years late with this one, but it's still as fresh as a daisy.

Caetano Veloso - Maria Bethania



Misunderstanding of 2013

I kept winking and people in Turkey and asking where the beak was. It turns out that people in Turkey don't know what winks mean. The local equivalent is looking bored and irritated.

Knock-Knock Joke of 2013 (category retired - it was a stupid one)

New Habit of 2013 (new category!)

I kick our small football around the flat all the time. It's a good way to get some exercise whilst listening to sermons on the radio.

Stuffed Animal of 2013

Me - after Christmas dinner!

Because I'd eaten so much!

I'm an animal!

I was sewn shut!

Tendon of 2013 (category retired - it was a stupid one)

Ordeal of 2013

The flat has been one big ordeal, though most of that stuff has subsided for now. I suppose the big ones were not having any useful heating last winter (sobbing and shivering, working as a team!) and our bathroom leaking into the downstairs flat. That was quite traumatic. We had to talk to a plumber.

But both of those problems have been solved. We have a nice new bathroom and nice new heaters. No money, but money doesn't keep you warm and dry.

Albert of 2013

(Some of the image URLs on my old entries were broken, so apologies if I've used this Albert before.)

Stand-up of 2013

I didn't see much stand-up this year. I'll probably use this slot to talk about my own stand-up. I only did one gig, but it was very nice indeed. I remember telling a football joke, and saying to a man in the front row "you look like you're a bigger fan of football than you are of comedy". That doesn't even mean anything! Those are the best things to say. People like those things.

Oh, and Louis CK and Maria Bamford are still hilarious.

Podcast of 2013 (category retired - I've stopped listening to podcasts)

Number of 2013

0.4

Celebrity Sighting of 2013

As I mentioned on here before, we saw John Sessions in a Gatwick Pret a Manger. I sobbed into his shoulder "It's you! It's really you!". Whilst he was distracted, Lucy stole his wallet.

Picture of a Vegetable Made in MS Paint of 2013

Odd Celebrity Crush of 2013

(Man, there are a lot of these categories - I'll thin them out next year)

Who's odd? Anna Chlumsky? Jon Hamm? The woman from Limmy's Show? An anthropomorphised mosquito that I dreamt about?

Stop thinking in such narrow terms. We're all humans.

Language of 2013

Bill Fralic

Tool of 2013

David Cameron! #satire

Annoyance of 2013

Michael Owen's football commentary. He has almost every bad quality that a commentator might have, all wrapped up in a symmetrical little package. Not many people are nasal, ill-informed, banal, closed-minded, biased, and tedious. But he manages it.

Disclaimer of 2013

I'm writing this under duress. Though, that's how I do most things. Duress is my life coach.

Oh - also, I'm probably not going to proofread this. You might have noticed.

Clothing Item of 2013

I bought some pyjamas, and the top was one of those t-shirts that has buttons. It was black. I wear it all the time. It's a t-shirt, so I look casual. But it has buttons, so I look like an executive. I also ordered a red t-shirt online that arrived yesterday. It's much too big. I feel like a Sesame Street character.

Hero of 2013 (new category!)

Most years, this will be Spider-Man. This year, it is Lucy.

She has really stepped up. When faced with the difficulties of owning a house and speaking to builders and being alive, I've buckled like a belt and crumbled like a soft biscuit. Lucy has held everything together (including me), which is impressive as she hates all those things as much as I do. Especially soft biscuits.

A strong woman, that one. Hopefully I'll be able to woman-up in the new year and start handling my shit.

Catchphrase of 2013

"By the same token..."

Fact of 2013

The wingspan of an albatross is much smaller when the bird in question is hiding from the police.

Best Bit from My Review of 2013

"themes"

Prediction for 2014

Oh man, I don't know.

Maybe England will win the World Cup. Stranger things have happened.

Maybe I'll put up the mirror we bought a couple of weeks ago. It was missing its wall fixings, and the ones I bought were too big. But there's a whole world of wall fixings out there. All I need to do is go out there and grab them and pay for them and put them in my pocket.

The only limit to your number of mirrors is how many mirrors you have.

***

I'm glad that it's January tomorrow. This intravenous tinsel isn't as festive as that doctor suggested.

I think he was a doctor... He had a bag with, like, a hundred scalpels in it.

Holiday 2013 - Day Two

I usually start my blog post with a relevant photo. With these holiday entries, it would make sense to use actual holiday pictures. We have taken some, but don’t have the facility to get them onto my computer. So for now, I’ll just have to use text to paint a picture.

UUUUUUUU

IIIIIIIIIII

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Look. That’s an accurate depiction of wine glass parts, before assembly.

It’s hot. How hot? So hot that you could fry an egg topless.

Our first day was a mixed bag. I'm not really interested in giving a full description of the resort and town, but it has nice food, music that’s too loud, a nice pool where the music isn't so loud, other people (none of whom we've spoken to, but they all seem fine), some birds, some insects, a spectacular mountain, lots of paragliders, a shingle beach, lots of touristy shops and bars, and a mysterious cat.

I don’t really like the idea of doing a serious holiday journal. It’s not just because of the reasons I listed on day one’s entry, but just because I get bored relaying things. I've lived them once, I don’t want to relive them in pithy sentence form.

It will probably make this whole thing unreadable. Then again, my blog has always been about nothing in particular, so this will just be a continuation of that. But slightly more Turkey.

I don’t really have enough clothes for this trip. I'm going to have to make some new ones out of local materials (kebab meat, fezzes and... oh I can’t even be bothered to be racist. It’s too warm, really. And now I'm stuck in brackets. How embarrassing.)

My problem is that I'm writing this on Day Four, so I can’t just share my current thoughts. I have to remember what my thoughts were two days ago. I can’t even remember what my eye colour was two days ago.

I’ll just skim over the past and get to the present.

CAN I BE THE NEW MICHAEL PALIN NOW PLEASE?

Jump Forward

It was a great day when humans finally erected a building tall enough to guarantee a successful suicide.

For a long time after we first began construction work, the depressed potential jumpers didn't have that option. We started with shacks and huts. Jumping from the roof of one of these would not guarantee death. It would probably just be fun.

But gradually, as technology and design improved, our buildings began to inch upwards. Nowadays, with our Shards and our Burj Khalifas, it's difficult to remember a time when we struggled to dwarf a sunflower with our architectural prowess.

We slowly moved from single-story sheds to two-story deluxe sheds. People standing on the roofs of these new giants would look down at the ground. It would have looked very far away. But not far enough away to guarantee death if you jumped. It might cause an injury, but that wasn't good enough. When it comes to suicide, there are no half-measures. Unless you're a conjoined twin.

People forget how difficult it was for the suicidal in those days. No tall buildings, no guns, no gas ovens, no exhaust pipes, no sleeping pills. It's really difficult to kill yourself with a spear. Being suicidal back then must have been very depressing.

Eventually, news would have spread that we'd cracked it. A new form of structural engineering perhaps, a stronger mortar, or a sturdier girder, would finally have enabled us to reach the desired height. From this new building, a jumper would guarantee a swift departure. They could shuffle of the roof and mortal coil simultaneously, though obviously they wouldn't yet be aware of this expression.

News would spread. People would gather to watch as construction neared completion. The suicidal from miles around would gather, waiting for the building to achieve its optimum height; waiting for the doors to open.

Of course, the architects would have known this was a possibility. I'm sure that building height was restricted to sub-suicide height by the powers of the day. But human ingenuity is not easily restricted. And one brave visionary must have decided to ignore this edict.

We can't limit the scope of human achievement, just because it will cost a few lives. It's not an easy decision to make, but we have to keep pushing forward. If we were always bound by safety and fear, we would stagnate as a species. Evolution requires risk. If you want to make an omelette, you can't be worried about how certain eggs might react to the proposal.

Some people would be too impatient, of course. Days before the building's full height had been realised, some would have snuck up to the roof, carrying a step ladder. Their eagerness would have given them a head start.

As soon as the building was high enough, the suicides would begin. The queues would have been long, snaking up the stairs and onto the highest point (where the thoughtful construction team would have erected a special diving plinth). Dozens would plummet every minute.

As the pile of bodies built up, the distance for the prospective fallers would decrease, so a good samaritan would have had to keep throwing the corpses to one side, where they'd be carried off by primitive hospital carts. The organs, bones and clothes would be used to further the cause of medical research.

Whilst queueing to jump, some of the suicidal people might have struck up conversations. Realising that they had similar interests (self-destruction, jumping from things), some of them would have formed profound relationships. Some would even forego the suicide entirely. Faced with companionship and understanding for the first time, they would leave the queue and get married, or go into business with each other.

After the first couple of days, the crowds would die down (no pun intended). Soon other buildings of a jumpable height would appear all over the country. Suicides would continue at a steady rate, but would not happen with the same feverishness and excitement.

The idea that you could kill yourself by jumping off a building was taken for granted. The suicidal had, in a way, been emancipated. Society as a whole became more accommodating of those who no longer wished to live. (The first tall building emerged at roughly the same time as the noose.)

Today, people have an incredible range of suicide options, from train fighting to toaster/bath electrocution. In fact, it might be the case that there is too much choice, as counter-intuitive as it sounds. Some suicidal people have so many possible avenues for achieving their goal that they become paralysed with indecision, and will sometimes give up on killing themselves altogether. It is not easy to opt out of modern life

We must remember, however, that romanticising of the past is something to be resisted. It's true that today's suicide doesn't have the intensity or the novelty of that initial movement. The enthusiasm of those first, excited roof jumpers isn't something we can replicate.

But modern suicide isn't worse than it used to be. It's just different. New technology (the internet, smartphones etc) allows for a greater level of communication between the suicidal. People are able to devise their own methods of self-slaughter, and share them instantly with like-minded people all over the world.

It's always a mistake to think there was a golden age. Suicide has existed in different forms for thousands of years. Who's to say what form it will take in the next twenty, thirty, one hundred years?

Buildings are now so tall that a cat could jump from the roof and lose all nine of its lives before it reached the mezzanine. But let's not forget those poor people in the distant past, looking longingly up at the sky, yearning for a platform.

Look how far we've come. Look how far we've fallen.

Off and On

My thirties have been awful so far.

To be fair, it has only been a couple of months. But those two months have contained more misery than the whole of my twenties. My twenties were great.

But, thinking about it, that seems to be the pattern of my life. I seem to be on a bad decade/good decade cycle. It's a convenient way of apportioning joy and despair. It makes for few surprises. It's the only sensible way to sort things out. It's like racial segregation: simple, sensible, and beneficial to everyone.

My first decade, from ages 0-10, was great. What's that decade called? My noughties? I never liked that. Let's call it my zeroes.

My zeroes were fantastic. There were a few years that I can't remember, but I assume they were fine. I spent most of the decade eating jam sandwiches cut into triangles, watching Puddle Lane, and wearing colourful pyjamas. It was a golden age. I think I even liked school at first.

All my laundry and shopping and sock purchases were taken care of by my parents. I lived like a prince.

In my teens, everything changed. Ages 10 to 20 were a dark time. My body began to develop into something strange and unwieldy. My neurosis developed along with it. School became painful. My peers were all cooler and swearier and more confident than me. My sandwiches were cut into authoritarian rectangles. My pyjamas became drab.  

My parents still took care of my laundry etc, but I was now of an age to feel guilty about it (and yet too lazy to take on any extra responsibility). Bleak, bleak times.

After the dark ages of my teens, my twenties were a renaissance. I'd survived my first year of university, and had developed many key skills (such as drinking and downloading mp3s). I had some friends. I even managed to ensnare a wonderful woman with my charms and actual snares.

The decade was a non-stop rollercoaster of fun, parties, satisfying creative endeavours and personal growth. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might think that I complained all the time during my twenties. But that wasn't real complaining. I was just experimenting with gripery, just as some people experiment with ecstasy or making your own sandals. I was happy all the time, throughout my twenties.

Even the parade of dull jobs, the lack of money, and the weary, bleary, feary, teary, smeary film of fatigue, were all exciting and fresh.

I was now able to cut my sandwiches into any shape I wanted! I could go back to the triangles! (I never did, but I theoretically could. That was the important thing.)

My twenties were certainly roaring. And that's not just because I lived in a lion sanctuary for the whole of 2005.

Almost instantly after turning thirty, things became bleak once again. I was ill, then I moved house, then... well, that's it. But there are a million micropain (that's French for small bread) crumbs in the cracks.

Once again, my pyjamas are drab. In fact, I don't even have pyjamas. Before bed, I just cover myself in grey paint. The brush tickles, and my sheets need changing constantly.

It's a difficult time. But hope is around the corner. If this good decade/bad decade pattern continues, my forties are going to be fantastic!

Life begins at forty, they say. And ends at fifty. Then it begins again at sixty. Then, if you're still alive, you'll have an eighties to remember (dementia notwithstanding).

The natural world has a way of making everything predictably fantastic and awful. God bless science. Without it, our lives would just be a meaningless soup of triumphs, tragedies and Terry Joneses.

But now, thanks to whoever discovered it, we can live in clearly delineated troughs: one of saltwater, one of fresh. The only things mixed are our metaphors.

I'm optimistic about the future. And pessimistic.

I can't wait until I'm 100. 

Exhaust Pipe

I've had a blank draft post called Exhaust Pipe sitting here for a couple of days. I don't know what I was going to write about. I am exhausted, but I don't own a car or a pipe. It was probably going to be something hilariously left-field.

We're moving house tomorrow.

We had our last walk into work this morning. Not the last walk into work ever, but the last walk into work from our current flat. We've been doing the walk for five years, so it was quite emotional.

When we first started the walk, this blog was only a few months old. Imagine that. Now the blog is as bearded and jaded and jade-bearded as I am.

Because it was our last walk (using that particular route), we had to say goodbye to those old familiar sights.

Goodbye, Murray's postbox.

Goodbye, woman-who-used-to-be-pregnant-and-now-has-a-son.

Goodbye McCoy, the crinkle-faced dog in the window of North Oxford Property Services.

Goodbye, some bush.

Goodbye, house-on-Winchester-Road-that-we-want-to-live-in-some-day.

Goodbye, car with the 'GNU' numberplate.

Goodbye, corpse. We'll miss you most of all. Even if you're not much of a corpse anymore. You're more of a lumpy puddle studded with jewellery.

This kind of sentimentality is a handicap. You can't assign gravitas to everything. If everything has gravitas, nothing does. I believe Einstein said something to that effect.

And this is just the walk!

When we have to say goodbye to our flat, we'll be in real trouble. We have a real emotional connection to those walls and chairs and stains. It reminds of that Jeffrey Lewis song that I'm not going to listen to, in case I start blubbing at my desk.



Time adds significance to the most banal of interactions. If you use the same Game Boy for thirteen years, it becomes a profound bond, even though it's just a machine. Time really does make fools of us all - not by proving us wrong, but by making us care about inanimate objects.

We have second thoughts about binning a colander that got us through some tough times, even though all of its holes are clogged up by other colanders.

We lovingly finger a door handle, because we've been touching it every day since Diana died.

We hesitate before cutting into a stuffed pig toy that may not have even been ours in the first place.

Sentimentality is the fetishisation of loss. There's a cheap, empty profundity to things existing and then not existing. It's a fundamental human impulse to feel emotionally close to a meaningless past. That's why Forrest Gump was so popular.

I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make here. I seem to be attacking my own sentimentality for no particular reason. I like sentimentality.

Sometimes I just start writing things, and get dragged into a strange direction by my fingers.

It's probably what makes this blog such an honest and interesting work of art. You have a real insight into my thinking, because I have no control over my typing.

Any psychiatrist would have a field day, as long as they could stop themselves dozing off.

Anyway, the move promises to be a harrowing experience. There will be snow and heavy lifting. There will probably be disappointment and rats. There will be a week without internet access. But, by the end of it all, I'll be living in a place with a dishwasher.

We can all take comfort in that, even if we've dislocated both of our shoulders whilst trying to lift a bath.

Summons

We all hate it when our friends become successful as butlers.

Behind the pats on the back and the congratulationses and the happy-for-you smiles, the resentment is clear.

We say: "Well done!"

We mean: "It could have been me."

It's a cliché that all young boys aspire to be butlers. It's just one of those jobs that boys are aware of. It's simple and it's exciting. Fireman, policeman, builder, butler. They're just jobs that men do. It's ingrained in us with every butler book we read and every plastic Fisher Price champagne bucket we pretend to fill with ice.

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.

I don't want to be a butler.

What I want is to want to be a butler.

The Enemy Within

I spent the morning thinking about the Tories.

Because of this, I accidentally scowled at a smiling colleague. I know nothing about her politics, but imagine that she'd done nothing to deserve the scowl. And that's how they win. The Conservatives have taught us to hate each other. Even a hatred of hatred is twisted to their ends.

The colleague will probably find herself mistrustful of me from now on. And the poor. And all ethnic minorities.

The Trojan Scowl wins again. The unwitting liberal host spreads it like toxic disease butter.

We can only defeat the Tories with love. But you can't love the Tories, because they're all awful, awful people. Without exception.

That's how they win. I'm still scowling. And heaven help anyone caught in my eye-line.

***

Since turning thirty, I've found myself thinking more and more about drilling a hole in my head.

I don't just mean that I've been unhappy. I don't mean that my age has equipped me with a vague suicidal impulse. I don't mean that I want to end it all somehow.

It's specifically drilling a hole in my head. I don't want to die, but I do want to use an electric drill to bore a tunnel through my skull. I reckon it would feel satisfying to get through the bone and enter the soft interior. You know how satisfying it is to drill through something? It would be like that.

Does this impulse happen to everyone at my age? Is it just a phase that we go through? Is the head drill-desire a kind of secondary puberty - a bewildering change that nobody talks about due to modesty?

I've been thinking about it a lot.

I did think about it occasionally in my twenties, I admit. But with nothing like the current frequency. It's now at the stage where I think about visiting the B&Q website.

I haven't visited the B&Q website. But I've been thinking about it. I'm thinking about it now.

I've started to really get trepanning now. Before, I thought of it as a crazy medical anomaly; a technique borne of idiocy and superstition.

But now, it seems to make perfect sense. My head is clearly too full. There must be a build-up of some harmful fluid or gas. I need a valve to release all the angst. It would puff away like a steam train, reassuring and parochial, as long as I remembered to take off my hat.

It has to be an electric drill, though. I have no urge to use an old-fashioned manual one. Equally, I don't have any inclination to hammer a nail into my head. That would be stupid. It's the drilling I like.

I don't want to drill into any other part of my body, of course. A leg-drilling has nothing to offer. I think I just like the thought of the skull penetration. It would be like drilling into a coconut.

I don't want to drill into a coconut. I want to drill into my head. Let's make that clear.

For those of you over thirty, this is probably old news. You probably remember the drill-desire phase with a mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment. I'll probably be over this in a year or two, and will look back on this blog post with a smile on my face and an absorbent sponge finger lodged in my scalpwell.

It's all part of growing up.

XXX Candles

I'm much thirtier than I was yesterday.

Yesterday, I listened to aggressive experimental dubcorepunkhop music. Today, I listen to a mid-tempo guitar ballad from an MFI ad.

Yesterday, I snorted a line of ketamine off a skateboard. Today, I collapsed halfway through a ploughman's.

Yesterday, I listened to Radio 1Xtra. Today, I write to complain about the station's lack of 'e'.

Yesterday, I wore skinny jeans and an ironic T-shirt. Today, I wear chinos and the same T-shirt in earnest.

Yesterday, Michael Gove. Today, Michael Give. 

Yesterday, I tattooed a Frank Ocean gif Tumblr URL onto a holographic coin. Today, I scratch my neck and agree with a racist.

Yesterday, I resented the police. Today, I carve my mashed potato into the shape of a truncheon.

Things are different now.

This is what it's like.

This is what it's like.

This is what it's like.

(It's my birthday. I'm not sure if that was clear.)

***

Seriously though, things are super!

I love this time of year. I love this time of day. I love this time of blog.

("The sarcastic time?")

That's the one!

Seriously though, things are serious.

***

Is this really the end of the blog post? I couldn't think of anything else to write?

Maybe I should end on a joke.

What do you call a reindeer with an STD?

Blitzen.

It's seasonal - that's what I like about it. If it doesn't seem to make any sense, then... well... You obviously don't know Blitzen.

Happy Hanukkah, everybody.

Capsules

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

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

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

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

Who is this person?

Do you know him? Is he you?

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

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

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

Was it a bookmark?

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

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

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

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

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

Am I asking too many questions?

Yes, I am?

Great?

Yeah.

***

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

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

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

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

Peas!

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

Good old peas!

Good old life!

***

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

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

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

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

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

Heather gazed thither

so I tethered her hither

I can't live without her

and I can't not live with 'er

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

I'm prolific.

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

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

That can be something to look forward to.

Let's look forward to it.

Shh.

Shh-shh-shh!

In silence.

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

There.

***

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



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

Labels

I've finally pulled my finger out of its bejewelled scabbard and done what I should have done a long time ago: re-read and labelled some of my old blog posts.

I've been wanting to do it for a while, because I love the sound of my own typed voice. Also, I've forgotten everything I've written, and I was hoping to rediscover some kind of lost gem that I can repackage as a film pitch or pub chat bon mot.

I was worried that I'd go back and realise that I used to be eloquent and considered. This worry was baseless.

I'm only up to May 2008, but I've already started to grow tired of my own syntax. Now I know how you feel.

Things are starting to improve, but the 2007 Me was quite the douchebag. The three main problems with him are as follows:

Swearing

I used to swear all the time. I like swearing, and will still use it when appropriate, but back then I had no quality control process. I dislike artless swearing. Back in the day, I was throwing expletives around like they were going out of f*****n. I wanted to be Charlie Brooker, I think. I wanted to be angry and close to the knuckle. In retrospect, I sound grumpy and adolescent. Which makes a change from the present day, where I'm defeated and adolescent.

Rape Jokes

I've written before on this topic, so I won't go into it too much. I don't think that describing something as a "rape joke" tells us anything about it. But looking back over these early entries, there a quite a few times where I've used rape as reference point. These are usually part of a hilarious (and not at all hacky and contrived) scenario which illustrates my anger about something innocuous.

Looking back, these make me feel uncomfortable. I don't think any of these references were particularly offensive, but they certainly were unnecessary. I'm offended by these on a comedic, rather than a feminist, level.

Atheism

Man, I used to talk about this a lot. I still have the same beliefs, but I don't seem to go on about it as much. I was a bit crude and heartless (though broadly correct), and could certainly see how some people might think I was an idiot. I think that.

The trouble is, I wrote these entries when I was 24.

It's not like I can write it off as the ramblings of a raging teen. I was a fully-grown man, with his own beard and TV licence. It makes me worry that, in five years' time, I'll find 2012 Me just as annoying.

Maybe it's just part of the evolution of the writer. (And, yes, I am calling myself a "writer" for some reason)

I was probably just so crass because I hadn't figured out how to write yet. I was leaning on crutches whilst my typing legs developed. I wasn't to know that I'd soon be a completely different person: making the same tired observations, but using a synonym for "twat".

Labelling the posts has been quite enlightening. You can label every entry with key words to allow you to search for them. You can see the fruits of my labour at the bottom of the right-hand panel of this page. There's a long list of the various topics I've discussed.

I think the "solipsism" tag may be the most used by the end of this process. It's a redundant one, really. "Boredom" is under-represented at the moment, but I'm sure those statistics will shoot up soon.

"Cannibalism" is another label I'm hoping to add to. As I said, I can remember very little of what I write, so we'll see what turns up. It will be a fun adventure. An adventure in learning about our fellow man by snacking upon his flesh.

I've also modestly labelled some of the posts as "good". These are the ones that might be worth reading, and will possibly be revisited in the Retroscissors feature that I came up with once but didn't follow up.

I'm performing an important task here. These labels will allow people to digest my canon without having to swallow the whole deli counter. If you've always wondered what I thought of seagulls, your prayers have been answered.

I'm going to continue doing this until every last post is labelled or until I stop doing it (whichever comes first).

Hey, I should probably label this post too... How self-reflexive.

Frankfurt.

Spineless

You may think it's been over a week since my last post, but it has actually only been about ten minutes. Time is getting ever faster. I feel like my life is flashing before my eyes, but I don't even get the blessed consolation of an imminent death. [/upbeat paragraph]

I was going to write something about how I don't read modern fiction, but that seems like it might require some thought. I fear thought. I'd rather avoid it, if it's at all possible.

Oh. I don't think it is possible. The moment I thought about thought, it was all over. It's a fait accompli. There's no getting around it: I thought it. I fought it, but I couldn't abort it.

Why don't I read modern fiction?

Because it's all rubbish!

Ha ha ha! Oh Paul, you are a card.

It's not all rubbish. I don't believe that any more than I think all modern film, music or pancakes is/are rubbish. I've gone on record as hating the veneration of a golden past.

The main reason I don't read modern fiction (and I'm probably talking about anything written since, let's say, 1973), is that I have limited time. I'm obsessed with making the most of my free hours. So how can I justify spending my days reading an unknown prospect, when there are so many established classics for me to read? I can't justify it.

I'm already wasting so much time watching DVD extras and chortling at .gifs on Tumblr. I don't want to spend time on the latest Booker Prize winner, when (for all I know), it might be terrible. I haven't read A Tale of Two Cities. That has to take precedence. If I'm going to spend time looking at words and ideas on a printed page, I'm better off wading through the literary canon. Non-canon works are too much of a gamble.

That's not to say that I'll like everything in the canon. But at least it's worthy. The book might have a historical significance. It's probably referenced in all manner of articles, late night discussion programmes and tweets by Stephen Fry. Even if I don't enjoy it, it's equipping me with some useful tools for the long climb towards pretension.

My prejudices tend to be confirmed on the rare occasions that I do read something from the last forty years. I pretty much always find what I'm reading to be underwhelming. "Is that it?" I might say to whoever's sitting next to me. "It was OK, but... man. It took me eighteen hours to read this. I could have built a ship in a bottle in another ship in that time."

I might be similarly nonplussed by a Joseph Conrad novel, but at least it will be a nonplussing of some pedigree. I can attend lecturers on the nonplussing, and see how it has influenced later works of mild dissatisfaction.

But there must be some great modern fiction out there. There must be something that I'd love. I'm probably just looking at the wrong things.

Or perhaps my bias means that I'm predisposed to hate any work that might use The Bee Gees as a reference point. I'm looking at current fiction with shit-tinted spectacles, just as I accuse other people of doing with music! What a fool I've been! I've been hoist with my own petard. I shouldn't have bought one really. Who needs a petard? But I was conned by a clever marketing campaign.

I think the real reason that I don't read modern fiction is nothing more than confusion. I find the whole thing completely baffling. Who are the good modern authors? Are they respected? Are they critically acclaimed? Is this book seen as trashy fiction? Is that book something of substance?

I look at a rack of bestsellers and the covers might as well be pictures of question marks (though to be fair, The Riddler's autobiography is a smash hit). Perhaps I fear that my critical faculties (which for film, TV and music have been carefully honed by years of reading snobbish hipster edicts) will let me down when it comes to the printed word. What if I really love Dan Brown? What if I love Twilight? I'd never be able to show my face again. My reputation as a person who only likes good things will be in tatters. Which would be terrible, even though I'm the only person aware of that reputation, and I seem to believe that it was tattered in the first place.

Can I get on the modern fiction horse? I could. But would I be able to look at things objectively? I don't know. I just don't know.

That's why I find it safe to stick with known quantities. Venturing into the unknown is a scary prospect. You might find that you're a rubbish hiker and are afraid of campfires.

Knowing nothing about modern fiction makes me less of a well-rounded person. Then again, who's to say that a knowledge of professional wrestling is any less roundening? I don't have to be an expert in every field. There are people out there who are devoted experts on modern fiction, but who don't know where I put my keys. Swings and roundabouts. What's good for the goose is greener on the scratched back of my hand as it washes my other foot.

In conclusion, I don't need to bother reading modern fiction.

Most of my conclusions are ones which validate my own inadequacies and postpone self-improvement. My conclusions are really holding me back. But you can't argue with them. They are the final word.

All Hail Conclusions.

***

That's the end of this week's thought. Join me again next time for more letters in the same font.

I might write about a Nominal Inanimate Enamel Animal.

New Personal Best (Or: I Hate That You Love)

I just scrapped an opening poem, which began:

O 'lympics!

And ended:

You currently top the meddle table

And had nothing of worth in between.

So, the Olympics!

Everybody's talking about them! Every newspaper has a pull-out, every pole has a flag, every tweet has an agenda.

So let's break it down:

I hate people who love the Olympics.

I hate people who hate the Olympics.

I love people who hate that I hate those people, because they're right to hate me. I hate me for it too.

In conclusion: hating someone for being excited and happy about something (unless there's some moral issue involved) probably makes you a bit of a dick.

It's human nature, but nevertheless: dick.

***

I wrote that on Saturday. It's an Olympics blog post in note form.

I intended to flesh it out with a coherent argument. It probably would have been very comprehensive, and would have involved a high-minded, long-winded exploration of the function of sport. I would have compared sport to art, I would have talked about evolution, I would have complained about people who complain. I would have brought up my own hypocrisy and then got sucked into a vortex of self-analysis.

It probably would have included three jokes. One of them would have been about badminton, and we all would have had a big laugh.

But the time has passed. I've moved on to bigger and better things.

Just to sum up: stop whining. Being miserable doesn't always give you the moral high ground (except sometimes it does). And something about a shuttlecock.

Let's move on. I'm positively engorged with ideas. I can barely fit under the desk. My bulging idea sack has raised it several feet off the ground, and I'm worried it might explode, covering people in imagination.

Idea #1

A Smaller Pencil

I've peaked too early.

***

It's later now.

I'm worried that my blog-writing style is devolving. Or at least stagnating. I've been at this for... how long...

Oh dear. I've missed my five year anniversary! It was five years in July.

I should have done some kind of cavalcade. People like cavalcades.

Over five years, and I'm still doing this. Surely I should have matured by now.

Five years, man!! FIVE! FIVE years.

(Please read the above in the style of Jeremy Piven:



Oh great. Now where does the closing bracket go? Oh just take it and get out of my sight - )

Am I standing still? I don't feel like I'm moving forwards. Or maybe that's just an illusion created by moving forwards less quickly than I used to.

Let's track my progress. What have I historically had to say at this time of year?

On August 7 2007, I wrote an eloquent book review:

It's actually a book about astrology. The title page alone is fantastic entertainment: The Principles of Astrological Geomancy; The Art of Divining by Punctuation, according to Cornelius Agrippa and others. I obviously took this to mean reading the future through the examination of apostrophes and the semi-colon. I am already proficient at this. I can predict just by seeing that someone has used the symbols ;-) that this person is a cunt.

I swore more back then, but at least I had a TOPIC.  I was engaging with culture and meaning. And I was only 24. (It just took me much too long to work that out.)

On August 4 2008, I had nothing to say. Almost exactly like today.

WRITING IN CAPITALS MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A BIG MAN! LIKE MURDER WOULD! 

I also may have accidentally used an apostrophe for a plural, but that's a matter of interpretation. Have I moved on from here? No. I am now as I was then. But older and more into chocolate croissants.

On August 7 2009, I had even LESS to say. The downhill slope continued. Or, if not downhill, the level slope.

The biggest surprise for people is that I'm not actually a human. Even though I walk on two legs and own a Travis album. I'm actually a tiny planet. I have several moons.

I was lying! I've never had moons.

On August 8 2010, I was in Edinburgh. Imagine! I was far afield, pursuing my dream (and getting close enough to realise my quarry might not be worth the chase).

"The.. Morning Magician?"

"The what?!"

Fantastic stuff. Clearly, I'd improved. The 2008-2009 lull was over, new horizons were on the cusp, and all kinds of cusps were there for the taking. And take cusps I did. Dozens of delicious cusps, all the way from Scotland.

On 13 August 2011, I did a tweet compilation (which doesn't count). But on 16 August 2011, I wrote a masterpiece. It really is quite special. Especially if you like William Sadler.

__-----___
}~~~~~{
    ''''    ''''
  @   @
     ^
     =

ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL?

And on this day (whenever I get around to posting it) 2012, I've done this.

Worthless.

Maybe I should change my training camp. I could work at altitude, do some punishing pun-work, hit the heavy bag and get some coaching from a Guardian journalist.

On the other hand, maybe everything's fine and I don't need to do anything.

What this historical study has shown is that August is often a bit of a lull. Except when I was in Edinburgh, or had something interesting to say.

It's probably the weather and the school holidays.

I'm fine.

Five years is a long time, but I'm still swinging (punches and baseball bats, not sexually or on swings).

Let's end this section with a hip hip hooray and a jolt.

***

It's earlier now. I literally wrote this before the above piece, and put it down here. I'm messing with time. I don't even know what I've just written. I could look quite the fool. Future Paul may want to punish me for playing Time God. My fate is in his (or her) hands.

***

It's later now. Later than the first later, and later than earlier.

As it turns out, I did unintentionally sabotage my earlier words by rambling for so long that everyone would have forgotten the whole "it's later now" section opening, diluting the impact of the "it's earlier now" follow-up (or preceding-up, as the case may, and did, be).

It just goes to show.

It's been an interesting start to the month's blog posts. We'll play the cards that August deals us, and will be ready to start the new school year with a bang, a thump, and a muffled yelp.

To end, please stand for your own national anthem and then file out.

Hindshortsighted

Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to look like complete idiots.

Or something like that. I briefly checked the proper quote, but lost interest. There was something about repetition in there. I've misused the expression before, but definitely won't make that mistake again.

I think all of human discourse could be improved by a greater knowledge of the past. History is a key discipline. And I say that knowing almost nothing about it. I don't even know in what year the French Revolution took place. I can only name two Queens, and one of those is from Star Wars (also misremembered).

But do as I say, not as I do. If you do do as I do, you'll just be repeating the mistakes of my past. Do as you do. As long as what you do is do what I say.

And what I say is this:

Every time you make a statement about politics or culture or some grand, overarching, sweeping statement that defines humanity, think about who has said similar things in the past. And think about what idiots they were.

All over the country, there are people repeating things that have been proven to be false. 

I'm not talking about the obvious ones, like "evolution is just a theory", "climate change is a myth" or "England have a good chance of winning the next World Cup".

I'm talking about things like: "this country is going to the dogs".

This country is going to the dogs.

Think about how many people have said that before. Think about how many newspaper columns have been written saying the same thing. Think about your idiot friends in the pub that have been saying the same thing for as long as you've been alive.

According to you, this country has been going to the dogs forever. This country was going to the dogs before there even were dogs. In a thousand years' time, your descendants will be similarly claiming that this country is going to the dogs whilst wearing a futuristic space-tunic.

Here's the truth: if you're right - if you've all been right - and the country is, has, and will be, going to the dogs, it would already be at the dogs.

It has arrived. This country is at the dogs. The country must smell like dogs. Your idiot grandfather thought the country was going to the dogs sixty years ago. It must be there by now.

No dogs are that far away.

If you read the tabloids, and are convinced that the country is going to wrack (or rack) and ruin (and dogs), think about the people who have said exactly the same thing before. Think about how long they've been saying it. Think about the fact that the same publications have been saying it for a hundred years.

There was no golden age when the dogs were distant and everyone was happy. Your stupid caveman ancestor was tutting and yearning for the golden age when you could leave your cave unlocked, whilst whittling some kind of dog-spear.

Think about the people that have said it before and how wrong they were. Think about how wrong people are going to think you are in fifty years' time.

And shut up.

Or kill yourself. Because if we're constantly, eternally, sliding towards the slavering jaws of disaster, you'd be better off in a hole.

No dogs can reach you there. Unless they can dig. And can dogs dig? Yes. Yes.

Dogs can dig.

But you're at rock bottom, which gets lower every year.

Here's another thing you might want to consider from a historical perspective: "modern pop music is rubbish".

Modern pop music is rubbish.

Think about how many people have said that before.

I mean, yes, I think modern pop music is rubbish. But that's because I'm old. It's not for me any more.

Do you remember middle-aged people in the 50s complaining that the new "rock and roll" music is too loud, too raw and obscene? Do you remember middle-aged people in the 60s complaining that the Beatles were "not proper music"?

Do you remember middle-aged people in the 70s complaining that punk rock was just a load of people with no talent who couldn't play their instruments? Do you remember middle-aged people in the 80s and 90s complaining that nothing could compare to the thrill of the punk movement?

Do you remember middle-aged people, now, complaining that today's artists can't hold a candle to the fantastic music of the 90s?

Do you remember everyone, in every era, cherry-picking the best of their era's music and pitting it against the worst of the current era's music?

Well, that's you that is. (Remember Newman and Baddiel? Brilliant. Not like today's rubbish modern comedy)

Do you think this is somehow different? That this era is suddenly the one where music actually did get bad? Isn't it weird that the music that came out when you were young turned out to be the last good music ever made. Lucky you. Lucky us.

Think about the people who have said similar things to you in the past. And remember that they were tools.

REMEMBER THE PAST.

PEOPLE WERE IDIOTS AND DIDN'T REALISE IT.

YOU ARE AN IDIOT. REALISE IT.

If you don't recognise your own idiocy now, people in the future will think our generation was a bunch of chumps. And they're right.

On the plus-side, they'll be chumps too, making the same mistakes, and patting their past selves on the back, when they should be punching us in the back with jagged metal gloves.

Learn from history, my friends. Use the wisdom gleaned from our predecessors' lack of wisdom, or this country will be going to the dogs.

As I always suspected.

***

Here's a bit of fun background to the above blog post:

I've always wanted to use colons poorly.

Also, I've written very similar things to this before, am unnecessarily angry, have chosen poor examples, arrogantly sound like I have all the answers, and have probably been quite predictable.

I should have been more explicitly political too - but you can extrapolate on your own time. Just remember to put down a tarp.

(I've probably said that before too)

I suppose I simply wanted to write something, so just powered through. My train of thought was going to stop for no-one, even if I ended up plummeting into a canyon.

Anger is an efficient fuel. It makes the internet go round: chasing, biting, swallowing, and defecating its own tail.

I blame Easter. And immigrants.