Homework

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

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

Answering those questions about fiction can be your homework.

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

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

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

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

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

No friction, only fiction.

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's such a shame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is your moisturiser:

I'm going to make myself a Lemsip.

Eureka

Settle down, class.

I could never be a teacher. (Stop talking) I don't have the patience or the tolerance for people younger than me. I'm afraid of metre sticks. Bells make be violent. I can't read. I encourage fights. I have no teaching qualifications and no desire to get them. I have a beard.

But some people can do it. They must be driven by selfless ambition. (It's your own time you're wasting) They want to mould young minds and prepare the generation of tomorrow for the rigours of... tomorrow. And Saturday.

They probably like children. That's what they've got going for them. And I'm pleased. We need teachers. I couldn't be one of them, but that's not to say that all teachers are control freaks, pedants, show-offs, failed stand-up comedians or chalk addicts.

Yes, chalk. I'm aware that chalk makes me sound like an old man. I'm sure your touch-screen blackboards don't need chalk. Or, if they do, it's a special kind of invisible wi-fi chalk that's also an atlas.

When I'm older, my experience of chalk will be totally alien to young people. It will be our equivalent of racism or disco.

"How did you live like that?" they'll say.

And I'll say: "We lived with a permanent undercurrent of melancholy that would only dissipate with the coming of Nicki Minaj."

They'll say: "Nicki Minaj? Is that your current cultural reference. She's older than you. Also, given that this is the future, she's probably dead by now."

I'll say: "Not only that, but I don't really know who she is. I just heard it once. I didn't even know how to spell her name. I thought it might be "Menage". It was all chalk and menages back in my day."

Then they'll turn off their consciousness-circuits out of boredom.

In the future, young people will be robots.

Where was I?

Ah yes: teaching.

I'd like to congratulate all of the people brave enough to stand in front of a pack of savage infants and try to get them to do long division. You're the real heroes. You don't even get to kill people, like soldiers or inept fire-fighters. Your only perks are really long holidays and the pride of a job well done and Apple Tango from the vending machine.

(No smoking, boys and girls. Shut up and drink ink.)

Teaching.

***

I didn't want to talk about teaching. I just started typing. I have no say in this process.

Lor.

See? No thinking man would type "Lor".

We nearly saw a squirrel get run over this morning.

Well, not nearly. But nearly nearly nearly.

The driver saw it and hit the brakes. But for a few seconds, we were frozen in terror. Imagine seeing a squirrel being run over! It doesn't bear thinking/writing about.

The driver saw our shock and smiled. I hope he was just happy to have saved the life of a cute mammal. I hope he wasn't laughing at our concern. He might have thought we were overreacting, just because Lucy screamed "HITLER!" and I dropped a tropical fish tank.

But I'm sure it was the first thing that made him smile. The kindness.

No doubt the squirrel is laughing about it with his friends right now. Its whole life probably flashed before its eyes. Acorns of many hues, branch leaping... some other things. Squirrels lead very full lives.

Lor.

Pluh. I'm sick of this "this afternoon" business this afternoon. I'm impatient. Another reason I couldn't teach. I just want to go somewhere else. The evening, maybe. I'm on my way there, but the commute is a long one.

Let's play a game. I'm thinking of an animal.

...

...

...

...

...

No, it was a French pig.

Your go.

...

...

...

...

...

Is it a fish?

Oh. That was easy.

...

No, I'm bored now.

***

I was raised by wolves.

My parents just kept throwing them into the well, until the water level was high enough for them to pluck me out.

You might think I would have been mauled by the drowning wolves. But no - they were already dead. My parents have always been extremely thoughtful.

They could have thrown any object into the well to displace the water. That's basic Archimediary thinking. But wolves were all they had to hand. Dozens of dead wolves.

They also could have lowered a rope. But I was already clutching two wolves (I'd been holding them when I fell), and to let go now would have set back the taming process.

So they did the right thing. I was safe and sound. They told me not to play too close to the well any more, especially whilst enwolfened. I agreed. And from that point on, we've been firm friends.

They can no longer use the well (or the wolves) for water. The area has been cordoned off as a warning to people who might think that any of the things I've discussed today are worth doing.

They are not. None of them.

Analysing Analysing Shadows

I've recently been looking through some old stuff.

No, I'm not Tony Robinson. It would be weird if I was. But also quite brilliant.

Imagine if you'd been reading this blog for nearly three years (remind me to forget that anniversary), without knowing that I was Tony Robinson. I might have carefully hidden that fact by posting photos of a stranger, and avoiding telling Blackadder anecdotes. It would be pretty clever.

Also, most people who read this know me. Well, they know Paul Fung. But what if I, Tony Robinson (I'm not Tony Robinson), had hired this Paul Fung to pretend to be the author of the blog. Just so I could have my fun.

But to what end? To fool the many (many) readers of Headscissors. To show them that my creativity didn't end with Maid Marian and her Merry Men, but that I'd been working on a small-scale, but beautifully crafted, writing project: disguising myself; creating a fictional writer persona called Paul; seeming to run out of ideas quite often; feigning boredom at a non-existent job; going nowhere.

It would be quite something. Banksyesque.

I might win some kind of prize. What about that Turner Prize? Could this count? Could I, Tony (not Tony), be rewarded for this brainwave?

I should be.

Or, I could be.

But of course, I'm not Tony Robinson.

I'm Paul Fung. A real person, really writing this, who has never even met Ben Elton, and never excavated an old wall.

I'm not Tony Robinson.

RUNAWAY TRAIN (remember that?)

I've recently been looking through some old stuff.

I'm not Moroccan historian Mohammed Akensus. It would be weird if I was.

But also quite brilliant.

Imagine if I, faking my death in 1877, had survived to the modern day and started to write a mundane English blog about nothing.

It would be an excellent ruse. You can consider the genius of the details yourself.

The old stuff I'm referring to is some items from my own past.

I have a couple of folders of assorted important documents, letters, certificates, photographs, other letters, knuckledusters and used wicks with sentimental value.

I might write about some of these in the days to come. (I can already hear you panting with anticipation - and thirst. Drink some water.)

There's a red plastic concertina-file full of the stuff. Most of it boring. Some of it erotic. All of it Paul (and certainly nothing to do with a certain Mr Robinson).

To start with this goldmine, I'm going to transcribe a story I wrote in Year 11 - GCSE English.

This is pretty much the only bit of my schoolwork that seems to have survived, so is a valuable resource.

I would have been about 15 or 16 when I wrote this. There are lost of amusing things about it, including a terrible title, and the fact that I'm writing about adult things in what I imagined to be a grown-up style, even though I'd read no books, and had no life experience whatsoever.

It's always embarrassing to look at the creative work of your youth (I just re-read the beginning of this very blog post, and it's cast-iron tosh), so bear with me. I was young, remember?

Here it is, transcribed verbatim:

***

Paul Fung 11GC

Personal writing

Analysing Shadows

A solitary torch flickered in the darkness, casting contorted shadows on the moist stone walls. If you looked carefully, you could see the steam rising off the still warm bodies as they lay, submerged in the murky depths of the sewer floor. The flies buzzed overhead, competing with the rats for some sort of nourishment. Thankful that the stench of sewage overcame the smell of blood and rotting flesh, he sat in the darkness, crouched, his head in his hands. He mumbled to himself as the saliva dribbled down his chin. You could tell that somewhere through the yellow pigment of his semi-shut eyes, he was staring at the blood on his hands, some his, some not. As he stood up, you could see him more clearly by the light of the flaming torch. A mop of dark, greasy hair covered his forehead and what remained of his only ear, the other lost in some forgotten conflict. The pale complexion and icy stare were emphasised by the sickly smile on his thin lips. He waded through the dank water as his ragged shirt clung to his wet body, a tattered tie hanging loosely around his neck. Worn trousers - and a soiled suede Armani shoe on his left foot. He looked up through the manhole cover, at the three circular streams of daylight coming through, and started to climb.

David woke up with a shuddering jolt, a cold sweat covered his body. His eyes managed to focus and he could see the dark curtain flapping in the breeze, which came from the wide open window. The sky was a deep blue and he could see the skeletal trees swaying. He walked to his bedroom door, inadvertently kicking the bedpost as he did every night. The annoyingly bright glow of his digital alarm clock heralded the midnight hour. He walked down the corridor to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. Six nights in a row. Six nights in a row he had been woken at the same point in the same dream at exactly ten seconds before twelve. The first night he assumed it was something he ate; his girlfriend's Cajun cooking was not what you would call bowel-friendly; but now it was six nights. His blurred image stared back at him from the smeared mirror. Not wanting the fuss of his contact lenses, he went back to bed, knowing sleep was out of bounds for the rest of the night. Six nights.

He arrived at work as he always did, nodding hello to Julie the receptionist. Striding towards the lift he pressed number fourteen. The top floor. And pondering the dream as he had done for the last six mornings, he rubbed his eyes. The bell sounded; the door opened. He walked towards his office.
"Any messages?" he asked his secretary unnecessarily, as he had done every day of working in the building. He did not break his stride, as he knew the answer.
"No, sir."
Big surprise. The rest of the day went as normal, nine hours of isolation; he took an hour's break so he could be alone, of course. It was during this break that he realised that his girlfriend, Katherine(with a K), hadn't called for three days. Three days ago was Valentine's day. She wasn't upset because he forgot to buy her anything was she? Ridiculous! So at the end of the day he went home, he went to sleep.

Seven nights now. Seven. The same shadowy figure, the same sewer. This time, after he stubbed his toe on the bedpost going into the bathroom, he decided to put his contacts in. He forgot about sleep for the rest of the night and concentrated on how to analyse his dream. Maybe something he saw on T.V.? No, he didn't watch anything like that. A conversation he overheard? Between whom? The two people he didn't share his office with?

The next day, on the lift ride, he decided to see a psychiatrist. Nothing wrong with that. These days it's like seeing a doctor. In America, they do it all the time. Of course he had heard that most Americans were insane anyway. Still, unshaken, on his undisturbed walk to his office, he asked his secretary:
"D'you think you could find the number of a psychiatrist for me?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was not as surprised at this request as he thought she would be. Still, what can you tell from someone who was wearing a pink plastic bag for a jacket? He looked on defiantly and walked into his office. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the day. Especially when Katherine (with a K) called to ask when he was going to return her things. What was that about? Anyway, he got the number: Dr Andrews, and made an appointment for the next day.

Eight nights now. This would be something to talk about.

He took a day off to see Dr Andrews; he hadn't had one for five years, so it was due. The psychiatrist's waiting room was like a leather prison. It must have taken six cows just to make the chair he was sitting on. The brown floral wallpaper was a bit much. If you weren't crazy before you went in... Anyway, he felt a bit worried when he saw the other patients. One mother sat idly by as her son head-butted the oak bookshelf, and one man was chewing the mittens he had, pinned to his jacket. The young attractive nurse came over to him.
"Dr Andrews is ready to see you now, sir."
He walked into the large room.
"You're a woman," he stated, as though he was the first one to notice.
"That's right," she said, applauding him in a sarcastic tone. "Dr Catherine Andrews."
With a C. He explained his problem and through various avenues of discussion, he left feeling as though he'd spent £40 to find out he was afraid of his father and had "issues" with commitment. Feeling thoroughly depressed and even more confused, he went to bed.

Nine nights now. But something different this time. The shadowy figure looked up through the manhole cover, at the three streams of daylight coming through, and started to climb. He reached the metal covering and slid it aside, allowing the sunlight to fill the sewer like water down a plug hole, and climbed out.

He slept for the rest of the night until he was rudely awakened by the bleeping alarm clock. He seemed wary, as though this was the dream, and on his way to the bathroom he was careful to avoid the bedpost. His room was bathed in sunlight as he went to put his contacts in. He arrived at work, nodding hello to Julie, the receptionist. He was about to enter the lift when he decided to take the stairs. He reached his floor and, for no apparent reason, he started a conversation with his secretary, who asked how his session with Dr Andrews was. He didn't really know how to answer. The dream seemed to have gone; maybe it was £40 well spent. He wasn't afraid of his father though. And "issues" with commitment, ha! Ha. Maybe he should give Katherine (with a K) a call.


***

Before transcribing that, I hadn't read it for years.

I think it's brilliant.

I particularly like the 15 year old me writing about relationships, office work and psychiatrists despite knowing nothing about any of them (do they have nurses in psychiatrists'? Young attractive ones?).

The depressing thing is that my writing hasn't really improved that much. Except perhaps in overcoming my adolescent obsession with semi-colons. But then, all teenage boys go through that phase.

Here are my favourite bits:

The first paragraph is basically just a physical description of professional wrestler Mankind. I could at least have changed some of the details!

"he was staring at the blood on his hands, some his, some not"

God, that's good. I wonder what my teachers thought of this (actually, I have their comments - I'll post them afterwards). I sound pretty screwed up. I think as a rule of thumb: if you include in-depth discussion of psychiatrists in a piece of schoolwork, YOU NEED A PSYCHIATRIST.

"The annoyingly bright glow of his digital alarm clock heralded the midnight hour."
This is probably the best sentence I have ever written. There's nothing about it I don't like. It's florid, specific and doesn't make any sense. A real WRITER's sentence.

"his girlfriend's Cajun cooking was not what you would call bowel-friendly"
Where did that come from?! This is a good example of the interesting tone of the piece. Ostensibly a serious look into the human psyche but with lots of odd non-sequiturs.

"It was during this break that he realised that his girlfriend, Katherine(with a K), hadn't called for three days. Three days ago was Valentine's day. She wasn't upset because he forgot to buy her anything was she? Ridiculous! So at the end of the day he went home, he went to sleep."

I like that he only just realised. Oh yeah. I knew there was something I'd forgotten.... My girlfriend! This was how I imagined relationships worked. I was pretty much right.

"He forgot about sleep for the rest of the night and concentrated on how to analyse his dream."

At this point, I seem to have avoided the "Show, Don't Tell' approach with a new 'Fuck Subtext' method.

Then there's a couple of bits that were so ridiculous they made me laugh, but my teenage self seemed to be aware of it.

On the potential source of his dream: "A conversation he overheard?"

Oh yeah. That conversation.

"Hey, Gus. Did I ever tell you about the time I was trapped in a sewer with bodies and rats and stuff?"

"You sure did! What a story!"

But 15-year-old Paul is all like "Screw you, old-Paul I know what I'm doing."

"Between whom? The two people he didn't share his office with?"

Bam! He drops the whom-bomb, than adds a surreal bit or sarcasm. In my face.

Similarly:

Still, unshaken, on his undisturbed walk to his office, he asked his secretary:
"D'you think you could find the number of a psychiatrist for me?"
That's a tremendous opening conversational gambit. But Paul 15 is all like:

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was not as surprised at this request as he thought she would be.
Bam! Comedy! Then:
Still, what can you tell from someone who was wearing a pink plastic bag for a jacket?

Bam! That came out of left-field! It's not even mentioned again! What was I thinking? Oh yeah: I'm a WRITER.

What was that about?
Yeah! Even then I spoke like a bad Jerry Seinfeld! NOTHING HAS CHANGED!

One mother sat idly by as her son head-butted the oak bookshelf, and one man was chewing the mittens he had, pinned to his jacket.

This is the worldview of a person who has learned about society through the Beano.

The psychiatrist is a woman! Take that, men! Even back then I was a feminist!

Then, the climax of the story just doesn't take place. The therapy session cures his problem. But we don't know what was said, because I was too bored to write it. WE MISS THE WHOLE POINT OF THE STORY!

I can't believe I was ever that lazy...

Yeah...

Like all my stories, then and now, I started with a single image, but had no idea where it would go. So it went nowhere.

Here are my teacher's comments:

A well crafted story Paul, using a wide range of vocabulary and style to achieve a sophisticated effect.

51

51! That's right! 51!

I'm sure that's a good mark, right? It was probably out of 52 or something.

This has been long. Sorry about that.

As far as self-indulgent posts go, this must be up there.

A long ramble, a transcription of my own story, and an interminable analysis of that story (and associated shadows).

Well, I enjoyed it. It was like reading something written by someone else.

I am slightly annoyed that I haven't got much better at writing, but at least I've loosened my grip on the semi-colon; to a certain extent, anyway.

That was me as a teenager.

And by me, I mean Paul Fung.

Mohammed Akensus had neither the word processor, nor the cultural references, to produce a piece of work like that.

Unless that's what he wants you to think.

Unless that's what I want you to think.

PODCAST: Knowledge Enema - Episode 3

New podcast be here! This one is shorter, but still packed full of people talking, pauses between words, my annoying laugh and other elements.

In Podcast 3 - Assembly we discuss embarrassing childhood incidents and contrast our schooldays with those of Tom Brown. To emphasise the raw, anything-can-happen (but probably won't) atmosphere, we also interact with the outside world in an amusing way.

As usual, listen at one of these places:

Listen at the podcast site here: http://diamondbadger.podbean.com/

Subscribe directly via iTunes here: http://tinyurl.com/yl5t5ly

Or listen in the player below:

Powered by Podbean.com

Once again, thanks to those that have been kind enough to listen. We'd appreciate any comments you might have. If you'd like to join in with the pod fun, please do so.

What do you like about it? What do you hate about it? What do you wear whilst listening? Were you scared by Alex's scream at the end of Podcast 2?

We'd be interested in hearing your embarrassing childhood stories, and would like to know if we're alone in our neuroses.

Please feel free to comment below, on the podcast website, or even on iTunes itself! We could be the next Ricky Gervaises - Kings of Podland.

You have exactly three hours. You may begin.

I thought this would be my 250th post, which might have merited some kind of celebration. But it's not. I've only published 248 before this one. The 249th was never published because I didn't think it was that funny and never finished it.

But I'll post it now to get it out of the way. I thought the idea had more legs than it ended up having. I don't know why more legs are seen as a sign of longevity. Even though she only has two legs, I'd back Paula Radcliffe in a marathon against a millipede.

Anyway, here is the great lost blog post, The Owl:

My name is Chris Fott and I'm a professional invigilator.

In my twenty-one years in the profession I've overseen examinations for everything from GCSE Spanish to Medical School Finals. Some of the most powerful people in the local area have climbed significant rungs of the social ladder under my watchful eye. I survey the room, ensuring everything is as it should be.

I'm like an owl.

Some people call me 'The Owl'.

I'm one of the best invigilators in the country, and certainly the best in the Thames Valley area. That's not arrogance, it is actually true. You can ask any of my colleagues. Helen Charleston (the head of the region's AQA Examinations Board) literally shook my hand after one particularly tricky Marketing examination (there were two epileptics in the room - and a disco ball).

I've managed to reach the pinnacle of my profession not just because of my years of dogged experience, but because of a natural aptitude for invigilation. Even as a child, I was able to sit quietly for hours on end. As early as five I was able to shepherd house guests to the toilets, wait outside until they finished, and then guide them back to the dinner party. I even made myself a badge. I still have it. I don't wear it any more of course! It's purely sentimental... 

It's not the kindest of professions. People have a lot of misconceptions about the role on an invigilator. "It's just sitting down for a few hours," they say. Ha! But you get used to the ignorance. People take invigilators for granted. Just as they take electricity for granted. And water-skiing.

Some of my fellow invigilators claim that you know when you've done a good job, because no-one notices you.

I agree. But when you do a great job, people should think: "Wow, I didn't notice the invigilator at all - he is phenomenal".

Invigilation is an art. An obscure art, but an art nonetheless. We don't dismiss origami, just because most of us don't like the Japanese.

You have to be on your guard for up to four hours, ready for anything. If Johnny Maths Student needs a pencil, it's your responsibility. If he needs the toilet, it's your responsibility. If a frightened young child has an 'accident', it's up to you to set things right.

***

I ran out of steam at that point. And legs. And oomph. I'm always running out of oomph. It's one of those things you forget about when doing a big shop. Like bin-liners.

When I worked as a temp in Exeter, I invigilated an exam. It was quite a good temp job - mostly hovering about and giving out pencils. They were police exams, and the Bolshevik side of me wanted to sabotage their authoritarian ambition.

But I didn't in the end.

I should have pretended I had a gun, and afterwards claimed it was a surprise practical element to the test.

But I didn't in the end.

Everything went pretty smoothly. The only slight hitch was that no-one had remembered to bring a clock, so we had to keep time by watching the shifting shadows.

This gave all the exam responses a sense of wistful melancholy that, whilst interesting in discussions of philosophy, was a bit of a hindrance to the technical explanation of law enforcement techniques.

On the way home, I saw a group of police officers brutally beating an unarmed Hasidic Jew. With great power comes great responsibility, I thought (a bit like Spider-Man).

And slowly, my pockets bulging with stolen pencils, I made my way through the chill November night; the insects of conscience buzzing in my ears.

Jan! Jan! He's our man!

It has been nice walking to work this week (except for the occasional apocalyptic downpour), because it has been half term. This means that we don't have to do the usual complicated business of avoiding manic kids and stressed out parents on our way.

Children get everywhere. They flicker like old film stock. They're like insects with stupid hats. And in the mornings I'm even slower than usual. I lumber along, half asleep, with all the gracefullness of that rock giant in The Neverending Story. The contrast makes me nauseus.

I'm glad I don't have to go to school anymore, I don't think I'd be able to following the flahing colours and words and sounds.

The strange thing about modern children is they're all on those little scooters. I don't know when this fad began, but they're everywhere now. It's like some terrible contagious disease. The scooters make kids even faster - mosquitoes on wheels.

With all this scootering (scooting?), in twenty years time we're going to have a whole generation of society whose legs have been warped. They'll have one massive, muscly leg (the scootering leg) that looks like one of those meat carousels in a kebab shop. It will be hugely powerful. The other, standing, leg will be long and thin from lack of use, but will be strong and supple like bamboo. The foot will have evolved into a suction-cup that can adhere itself to any surface.

These flamingo-elephant people will lumber around, and with no scooters to ride (I will have burned them all) the human race will collapse.

***

There's a new Southampton manager. His name is Jan Poortvliet.

As well as having a name that I can't even consider pronouncing, no-one seems to know who he is. This could be another Ali Dia. No-one who's name contains the word 'poor' can instill too much confidence.

On the other hand, maybe we can create a Dutch microcosm in St Mary's. The players can play in clogs. We can convert one stand into a giant windmill that will adjust the flight of the ball at crucial moments.

And there can be free pot for every spectator. I think it would make for a more pleasant atmosphere.

I like that there are several clear-cut Dutch stereotypes. There's no messing about with nuance. They're just there: windmills, clogs, drugs, porn, tulips.

And euthanasia. But who'd want to die if you lived in a place with all that?

Harping On

I've just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird. It was really enjoyable; one of those GCSE-type books that you drain all the fun from through over-analysis. Luckily I didn't study it, so was able to enjoy it on its own merits.

I can't remember enjoying any of the books I studied at school, and I'm sure it's not because I didn't like reading (if only we could have done some Roald Dahl or the Hobbit, or one of those Point Horror books). It's just that you're introduced to reading in such a systematic way, pouring over the nuts and bolts, that emotional connection has nothing to do with it. Teachers would be better off trying to help kids find a book they love, something they can be passionate about, then after that they can demolish the magic with talk about literary techniques and shit.

That's probably a naive thought. The idea of loving a book would be enough to have you beaten to death at my school. They'd be better off doing classes on onomatopoeia in Guitar Hero.

*** INTERRUPTION***

Whilst searching for how to spell 'onomatopoeia' my Intenet Explorer window froze up. I might as well say this now (and I'm sure it's been said quite a lot): Windows Vista is shit.

I don't usually care about people's problems with computers, as the faults are usually unnoticable by anyone other than nerdy losers, but Vista is all kinds of bollocks. It's ok until you try and do anything, after which it can't cope.

Luckily this blog site has the useful function of auto-saving your post, so I didn't lose anything. So I decided to try Firefox, but had to install some plug-ins, so fuck 'em.

Vista is shit. But all (I hate generalisations), ALL Mac users are cunts. What am I to do?

*** END INTERRUPTION***

I suppose To Kill A Mockingbird is one of those attempts to write 'the Great American Novel'. These attempts tend to have a similar feel to them, even if it's something intangible. There certainly seems to be a common thread through Mockingbird, Rye (Catcher), and Road (On The).

I don't know what the Great American Novel is supposed to be. It's like there's some Platonic Form out there that everyone is trying to emulate. American novel-writing is just attempted mimesis, which is stupid because the idea of Platonic Forms is a load of old wank.

It seems that there can only be one Great American Novel. And we obviously haven't found it yet. I wonder if we will one day. Some editor will read a manuscript over his cornflakes, yawn, and say: "Oh good. We've found it", after which everyone will strive to write the Second Greatest American Novel.

I might be wrong, and the GAN (I'm not above using acronyms) is just a genre of book, one that exeplifies American ideals of equality and individualism, of childlike bravery and integrity, of independence and the outsider; highlighting the hypocrisy of the American dream. And the only place to really find these qualities is in the pages of certain books, which get burned by the people they're about.

The Great American Novel is probably the one that's the most flammable.

The American Dream (not Dusty Rhodes) is weird that way. The country's built on principles that are almost entirely ignored (see waterboarding for a good example). But they do have the freedom to sometimes, for a little bit, before the flames have charred everything, whisper some truths. To the people holding the matches. Who are celebrating their freedom.

Oh well, I can't complain. It's given me the opportunity to be quite pretentious for a while.

Also, it's given me the idea for another genius character: Bill Bockingbird. He'll probably be a lawyer or something. I don't know. But he's got a good name.

Diamon D. Badger

My profile (on the left) is going to be really annoying. Diamon D. Badger. It makes me sound like a South American cartoon character.

I don't think they have badgers in South America, but I may be wrong.

***

Last week, my dad asked Lucy and me to build a lego castle for some talk he was giving. It turned out to be quite the stressful enterprise.

We unearthed a big box of loose lego that I had as a kid, and tried to make a spectacular piece of architecture. Unfortunately, my lego skills were a bit rusty, and I ended up making a number of rookie mistakes (miscounting foundation blocks, overestimating wall thickness, trying to hammer blocks together using my face, etc). The end result was ok, but no better than I could have produced 15 years ago.

My intelligence has really been going downhill since primary school. I have noticed this, and it is slightly perturbing.

In primary school I was clearly the cleverest kid there (if anyone reading this went to my primary school: shush!). Leagues above everyone, helping the teachers, a real prodigy.

In secondary school I was still really clever. One of the best students in several subjects, I did well in exams and showed real promise.

In sixth form I was pretty good. Above average definately, but not quite part of the upper-echelon. I performed reasonably well, but didn't stand out.

In Uni, I was pretty far down the evolutionary chain. Not quite at the bottom (though close enough to see it), I was generally a disappointment. Often failing to achieve expectations. Dull and unspectacular, with moments of startling ineptitude.

If this trend continues, by the time I'm sixty I'll be slumped on a street corner, dribbling whiskey, reciting obscure Big Brother trivia to passing strangers.

So, if this blog is going downhill, I have an excuse. I'm already dribbling as I write this. Not whiskey, though.

***

Thomas F. Wilson seems like a fun guy:



***

I'm starting a new job this week, which will either make me so miserable I don't write anything here, or will give me some interesting stories to write about. Either way, you all win!

Ouroboros

Lucy and I took a depressingly farcical bus journey today, getting on the wrong bus and having to go to Honiton and back instead of our desired destination of Exeter.

When we were in Honiton, the bus was swamped with loads of school chlidren on their way home. After what I said last time, I'm probably not allowed to call them vermin, am I? But they certainly seemed like shrill, sticky, convulsing, oblivious little maggots. I suppose that's what happens when your parents are brother and sister (Westcountry stereotype joke #12)*.

*The first 11 in the list concern deviant acts in custard.

Anyway, it reminded me how much I appreciate not having to go to school anymore. Few things fill me with more pleasure than seeing the shop windows displaying 'back to school' sales at the end of August, and realising that I don't have to go through the ordeal of trying on scratchy school uniform and pretending to be excited by novelty pencil cases (well, ok, those fruit pastille ones were pretty cool).

"Your schooldays are the best time of your life" is something said by sadists and amnesiacs. When I have kids, I'm going to level with them and say "school is the worst time of your life", and give them credit for overcoming the ordeal.

Apart from the obvious horrors like pointless lessons, and power-mad teachers, it should not be forgotten that ninety percent of school children are cunts (if you went to my school, I'm sure you were one of the good ten percent). Relentlessly cruel, they're more concerned with conformity than an anally-retentive Marxist computer. You can't do or say anything unless your sure most of your classmates feel the same. When I innocently asked "does anyone else dress up as Marie Antionette and sing Cole Porter songs?", suddenly I was labelled "the weird one". Unbelievable.

That last thing isn't true.

It was Gilbert and Sullivan.

Anyway, the point is: it's great to be above school age. The best time in your life is University. You have the lack of responsiblity of childhood combined with the coke and whores of adulthood. Brilliant.

***

Seagull update:

They're gone! I don't know where, but it seems they're out on their own. I did see a young seagull out the front of our house. I said hello, but he blanked me. He probably couldn't hear me because he was listening to his iPod. I promised myself I wouldn't cry...

***

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