The Prestige

I thought it would be funny to just copy and paste the screenplay to Christopher Nolan's 2006 film The Prestige here. It would be really long. People might think I was going to satirise it, or put in some jokes, but I wouldn't do that.

It would just be the screenplay. The whole screenplay. The whole disappointing screenplay. As a blog post.

But then I thought: no, I won't do that. I'll just write about thinking about doing it.

Also, it might violate copyright. I'd hate to get sued. The publicity might bring in a few more hits, but I don't want to have to go to court. It's a long walk.

I recently changed my shampoo schedule. I've realised that my hair looks much better when it hasn't been washed for a while, so I now only shampoo in the 'four letter' months (June and four fifths of March).

I've heard that one's natural oils are better than any artificial cosmetic anyway. And blood is better than paint.

You have everything you need conveniently located in your own body. Thirsty? Weep. Hungry? Bite nails. Swami? Cultivate turban-like quiff.

Even though I'm only shampooing twice a year, I've increased the regularity of my using conditioner by 800%. There's some in my hair right now. If there are any typos in this entry, it's because I have conditioner-lather in my eyes.

I specifically bought 'loads more tears' conditioner. I'm really thirsty.

My aim is to have hair that is in fantastic condition, but not very clean.

Like Russell Brand! J/K!

I am still shampooing my body hair, though. I'm not so vain that I care how my body hair looks. If someone sees a tuft of something sticking out of a sleeve, buttonhole or stonewashed-denim ripzone, then so be it.

I will be conditioning half of my body hair at an increase of 800%, much like my head hair. My entire western hemisphere is covered in conditioner right now. If there are any typos in this entry, it's because my hairy fingertips keep slipping off the keys.

So, the western hemisphere is shampooed at a normal rate, but highly conditioned.

The eastern hemisphere is also shampooed at a normal rate, but instead of conditioner, I've chosen to... I dunno... weave it into a tapestry or some shit.

***

This isn't one of my best entries, but don't be put off. Even a jockey needs to run the occasional practice lap before he mounts his horse for the first time. It's all part of a cycle.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just finish with a clever callback to something I wrote earlier, in a weak post-hoc attempt at structuring my writing.

...


L'Oréal Paris.

Apposite Appetite

Here's an idea for a horror film.

A man at a restaurant gets turned into stale bread. He stands up and brushes the crumbs off his front. But because he is bread, the crumbs just keep coming until he's brushed himself off to death.

It could be a fable. Maybe he's rude to the waiter, and this is his punishment.

The whole restaurant can be a moralistic trap.

Another customer can be turned into crème fraîche (because she kicked a homeless person's dog's hat or something). She wipes some cream from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. But because she is crème fraîche, she ends up wiping her entire face off. She'd probably need more than one napkin, unless they were unusually absorbent.

Other possibilities:

• man (burglar) turned to gristle, uses toothpick to pick himself out of himself
• woman (gun smuggler) turned into loose change, leaves herself as a tip
• couple (sperm bank fraudsters) turned to laminated menus, suffocate

Admittedly, it would be better if the indiscretions of the victims had some relation to their punishment. It would be neater that way. But I've never claimed to be the perfect writer.

I bought an unnecessary sandwich today. I got a baguette (which I have eaten), and another, auxiliary sandwich. I got it because it has pastrami and Emmental inside, and I've always wanted to be Jewish. I don't have the fortitude for religious piety or circumcision, so I'm all about the sandwiches.

But, as it turns out, I don't even have the fortitude for the sandwich. Not today.

I bought it when I was hungry, under the assumption that I would always be so. But one baguette later, and I'm starting to question my lack of foresight. All foreskin, no foresight: that's me.

Further investigation (on jewishrecipes.org) has yet to shed light on a unique Jewish/Emmental connection, whereas the Jewish origin of pastrami is more clearly outlined. I might just read about Jewish cuisine until I'm hungry again.

No, but seriously, I'm fine.

Being close to tears is being close to nature. We were born in the sea, so when we cry, it's like going back home!

Sobbing is the real DeLorean!

***



I'm willing to bet that they are not.

1. Most forms of transport are non-smoking these days
2. In zero-gravity, a pipe will not retain its contents (it has - in effect - an "open door")
3. Fire should be kept to a minimum in space
4. Astronauts need to have strong lungs in case they forget their helmets
5. NASA (and other space programs) are intent on shaking off their "fuddy-duddy" image, and a pipe would send the wrong message
6. Pipes are mainly used by the elderly and by hipsters, neither of which are permitted to orbit the Earth

***

I have spent my afternoon well. By using humour and internet research, I have gone from a period of low mood to a period of not thinking about things so much.

We are capable of change. Remember that.

Bare Bones

I need to write a blog post.

This blog post will have the following theme.

Today, the theme of the blog post is the theme of skeletons.

What are they?

Why have they?

Remember that children's book about them, and they had a dog?

Why do they remind us of death? Is it because we only ever see them when their owners are dead? Obviously, yes.

Is there still a skeleton taboo? There certainly seems to be one in this crèche.

People are furious with me. I should have told the taxi to wait outside the building, just in case.

Have I done any tweets about skeletons?

Let's see.

Preliminary investigation reveals: many.

***

#favouriteplaygroundobject Big metal skeleton.

***

I just want you all to know that there's a skeleton in your bathroom. 

***

Our stockings have skeletal legs in them. Santa was in a weird mood last year.

***

I only like organs, skin and skeletons when combined in a very specific way.

***

Naked skeletons are scary.

***

It's funny to think that inside everyone's skeleton there's an infinite number of smaller skeletons, all different colours. So think it.

***

WRITING TIP: Structure is like a platinum exoskeleton - it may protect your organs, but you'll struggle to climb through a kitchen window.

***

"I'm not saying I don't LIKE my skeleton, it's just... I dunno... he gets under my skin, that's all". My doctor is a good listener.

***

I like to stand my apple-cores up, so they retain some semblance of regal, skeletal dignity.

***

What a day! Emails have been coming at me like stop-motion skeletons.

*** 


And some bonus "skull" ones. Skull is a subset of skeleton.

***

My brain activity has disappeared, leaving a vacuum inside my head. My skull is imploding. At least I'll be able to find a hat that fits.

***

The most common form of RSI at the RSC comes from prolonged skull-holding.

***

I'm going to go and brush any accessible enamel fixtures that there might be in my skull.

***

I'm drilling a hole in my skull to let the angst out. Trepannicking, I think it's called.

***

And the late night may be starting to show its hand, as my brain suddenly wants to leave my skull through the eyes and nose.

***

I mean, during puberty EVERYONE thinks of skulls when they masturbate, right?

***

Captain America's bookish arch-enemy The Well-Read Skull was justifiably modified to appeal to wartime concerns.

***

I've really got nothing on my mind. No skull, no hat; NOTHING.

***

I don't think having a numb skull would really be much of a issue. I don't often use it for sensitive operations. It mainly houses my brain.

***

I own a bobble hat with the bobble on the inside. It's OK  - I have a bobble-shaped hole in the top of my skull due to a bobble accident.

***

I've got a life-sized skull tattooed on my skull.

***

When cycling at night, always make sure your skull is on fire.

***

I wouldn't say I've unearthed too many diamonds there.

The bobble one's decent, I suppose.

But they all fit the theme, which - as I'm sure you'll all remember - is the theme of skeletons theme.

To continue the theme, here's an old folk ballad about skeletons. I believe its origins date back to the plague days.

♫Where has my fella gone?

He left me his skeleton

Where has my babbie gone?

To the cold arms of Abbadon

Where has my papa gone?

Sold to buy me a cabochon

Where has sweet Jenny gone?

The United Colors of Benetton ♫

Pretty moving stuff.

That's what James Richardson who presents The European Football Show would say. He often deftly transitions between segments by saying "super stuff".

It's a good technique.

But he doesn't fit into today's theme (skeletons), so I should move on.

Though I suppose he does look a bit like a skeleton...

Skeletons don't have eyebrows, but they can speak Italian. Italian skeletons can, anyway. Depending on how decomposed the voice box is.

The theme of skeletons has proved to be quite the fruitful theme.

Here's a bit of skeleton-themed stand-up I'm working on:

Why is it fibula and tibia? It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Fibia and tibia is fine! Fibula and tibula is fine! But fibula and tibia? What were they thinking? I bet the bloke who named the bones was kicking himself  - extending his fibula to do it!

I bet he named one of them last thing on a Friday, and then first thing Monday he had to do the other one. 

Same with the elbow and the knee. 

It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Elbow and knelblow is fine! Lee and knee is fine! But elbow and knee? What were they thinking? I bet someone elbowed the bloke who named the bones in the ribs, which should all also have similar sounding names!

Bones. 

[to audience member] I bet you've got bones, mate!

It's easier than it looks.

I could also do a short story on the theme of skeletons, but I won't today because I'm busy.

To recap: today's theme was the skeleton theme theme.

Join me next time, when our theme will be - let's say - mats.

Drawn

I had an all-day meeting this week, and I'm still alive! It's probably my greatest triumph. You never know what you can do if you put your mind to something. If you put your mind to paper, you can cover it in brain smears! Yeah!

The most important thing to come out of the meeting was a whole page of doodles. As you might remember from previous entries, I'm quite the artist when bored and confined. Mostly, I've just done a few isolated pieces, but this week's meeting generated this:

It's my Guernica.

It's tough to complete art of this scale in what's supposed to be a work event. So how did I do it without anyone noticing?

I didn't. Everyone noticed. They just didn't care, and neither did I.

Let's have a look at some of the individual elements.

Not much up here. Spider-Man's head (I can't do his body), a man with a moustache, a weird squiggle that might be a face, a strange lantern-like shape.

This is a very interesting section. You'll notice a lot of mixed iconography: constellations, religious symbols, a witch's hat/traffic cone, and even a couple of extra faces. The lines and circles suggest a birthday party. They do.

The piece is dominated by this creature. It has the tail of a lion, the head of a... lizard(?) and appears to have shaved its legs some time ago. This really speaks to our primordial past, saying "Hey! Primordial Past! What's with the spikes and that?".

An odd sideways geometric face, a trident and some kind of cannister. Then there's a coat of arms, displaying these words:

OPINION
OBLIVION

That's my family motto. But, similarly, might it also perhaps not be maybe?

Two not disturbing faces that are crying!

This is probably my favourite section. This woman is wearing culottes with stripes on them, and has whips for hands. I think they are crackling with electricity. But look at her face! With so few lines, at such a small scale, I've really captured her personality. She's cheeky, but with an underlying sadness. Possibly because of her terrible haircut.

 

Not much of interest here. A ballroom dancer with a weird crossed-out face, an angry, ugly man, and a shining machete. The white boxes are where I've censored my only actual work-related notes. I wouldn't want to give away any of our company secrets.

Oh, I forgot to censor that one. Never mind, it doesn't make any sense.

This one's hard to see, but I think it's a stylised castle on a hill (in the bottom right-hand corner), and a sun with large rays. One of the rays goes up to meet the ballroom dancer's dress with pleasing symmetry.

Finally, there's this guy. He's wearing some kind of robe, and has a halo. He's probably a monk. Also, he has a weird lip/moustache thing going on, like a holy catfish.

So.

What have we learned?

The world is a place of complexity and wonder. Nature, spirituality, violence, electric whips and geometry form the soup we call reality. The line between emotion and mathematics is blurred; anger and grief are everywhere.

The monk looks at the ballroom dancer. What does he see? A secular, unknowable beauty? A demon in sheep's clothing? Is oblivion the only valid opinion? Does Poseidon rule the oceans, or are they filled with dinosaurs?

Why didn't I include that weird devil/fox face on the right-hand side in my analysis? Do I have something to hide?

I'm not here to offer answers. That is not the duty of the artist. Our job is to merely show people the universe and say THIS IS ME. THIS IS YOU. WE ARE A TRILLION SPIDER-MEN SPINNING A SINGLE WEB. DARE YOU GAZE INTO YOUR OWN SOUL?

Then nod and leave the room. The canvas will soak up the fluids we have brought forth.

It's a good thing scanners exist, or this work might have been confined to the page. Now it will live forever.

...

My God. It really will.

Overflow

You see that little hole in the sink? The overflow hole?

Our brains have evolved them. No human can survive without one.

They're not there for draining water. They're there for draining wonder.

A overflow of wonder doesn't just ruin the floor, it bursts the sink.

A big part of what makes humans so successful as a species is the large brain. We can use it to solve problems and communicate. Our thoughts are much better and more complicated than anything a worm can do.

We have the capacity for abstract thought. We can understand ourselves and our environment. We can think conceptually about things. We realise we're alive, and we realise we're going to die.

The latter could have been crippling to our species. By all rights, it should be. The notion that we are temporary and our point of view is subjective, and that the world will carry on without us, should crack our brain porcelain in two.

The disadvantage of an imagination is that you can imagine some pretty messed up stuff.

But we have an overflow hole. When the enormity, the profundity, the bleak, vast, endless, hopeless truth of existence reaches a dangerous level, it all drains away. And we turn on the television. Or worry about the football results. Or think about alphabetising our DVD collection.

The brain has a fail safe that prevents us from being overwhelmed by eternity and infinity. It's how we survive. If we didn't have the overflow hole, we'd just freak out and kill ourselves, or die of a hundred different aneurysms.

Evolution has built us a freak-out airbag. We don't let the universe overwhelm us - not fatally at least. We forget about it long enough to breed and pass on our valuable genes.

Nature is a real lifesaver.

Of course, lots of people are overwhelmed by the universe. Lots of people do kill themselves. Their overflow holes must be blocked up or covered by a flannel.

But for the most part, humans tend to keep on being alive for as long as possible. Even though time and space are incomprehensible, and we're insignificant and significant and everything and nothing and I'd better stop thinking about this.

But the overflow hole doesn't just stop bad things from overwhelming us. The wonder isn't all bad.

The hole also stops us from being overwhelmed by art and beauty and history and science. It stops us being overwhelmed by both the bleak truth and the bright shining glory of truth itself.

Sometimes, I'll be watching an inspirational documentary about a great artist and their amazing works. Or about physics: the amazing depth of our understanding, and the incredible amount we still have left to learn. Or I'll see something mind blowing about the age of the Earth. Or I'll listen to a breathtaking piece of music.

By all rights, I should be permanently screwed up by it. I should flip out and close my eyes and go to bed forever. But I don't.

I just get up the next day and go to work.

The overflow hole keeps everything ticking.

Evolution is a capricious master. It gives with one hand, and takes with the other. And gives us hands in the first place, except for snakes and birds.

We're given the capacity for wonder, but we don't let that wonder interfere with the whole breeding thing.

It's like watching an eclipse through a pin-hole - we get the joy of appreciating celestial poetry, but we're protected from retinal burns.

We've really lucked out as a species.

Unless the overflow hole is just "Nanny Nature" at work, telling us what we can and can't think, infringing our rights to take in as much wonder as we like thank you very much. Those clowns in (the metaphysical equivalent of) Brussels are telling you how to live your life. So what if I want to fill my wonder basin to the top? So what if I want it to overflow? So what if I want to have an aneurysm?

I'm British and I'll die on my own terms!

Oops.

I seem to have fallen into a pit of incongruous satire. My philosophy got hijacked by a blurry metaphor.

Sorry about that. It was all going so well.

Hmm.

I suppose I'd better just go.

***

(But seriously: FUCK libertarians)

Roots

I hope I get crushed to death by a falling tree.

I like the thought of being in tune with nature. And what better way to commune with Mother Nature than having the paste of you battered into the soil? Your brains will feed the wild mushrooms, your blood will quench the parched forest floor, little bits of what was once your wallet will prompt seedlings to grow, proud and strong, inching towards the sun.

It doesn't even make sense to talk about us and the earth and the mushrooms and the sun as separate things. We are all one big cloud of stuff, churning and bubbling. We spend most of our lives pretending that this isn't true. We build concrete offices and metal cars and denim overalls to partition the unpartitionable. It's as futile as placing a wine rack in the sea.

That's why I yearn for the careless lumberjack. I'll cover myself in greenery, camouflaged against the bush, and wait for the chainsaw (or, preferably, the noble axe) to eat into the trunk of the barkéd beast. Judging its descent trajectory using my brain, which was itself a tree-like thing, some way back down the evolutionary road, I will hurl my sturdy frame under the plummeting wood.

For a moment, the lumberjack will be scared. He'll instinctively shout "look out!" (if he's as Canadian as I assume he is), but there will be no time. In two seconds flat, my skeleton will have become a memory. It will be death and burial at a single stroke.

The lumberjack will soon realise that no tragedy has taken place. This is just a communion between atoms. We do not mourn the flour kneaded into the dough. We realise that the flour is a part of the dough, and that the resultant bun depends upon the flour, the milk, the yeast(?), the rolling pin. Weep not for the ingredients, for they have always been bun, and forever shall be bun.

At the lumberjack's inquest, held in a shack of corrugated iron, a company official will check that the proper safety procedures were followed. They will have been followed. The proper safety procedures don't allow for a camouflaged man, emboldened by an unusually close relationship to Gaea.

The lumberjack will be cleared of any wrongdoing, as of course he should be. He should not be punished, he should be praised. He is the catalyst for holy reabsorption.

A small stone will mark the spot of my departure, though departure it is not. It is an arrival. I will return into open arms.

And in thousands of years, I will have become the soil, I will have become the tree, I will have become the stone. I will mark the future departure/arrival of another brave soul, who has stood under the shadow a falling trunk and known what it means to be part of the universe.

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. 

Tom!

I'm not incredibly bored. At least there's that. Some comfort there. Boredom would be an inconvenience. Worse: a burden. But I'm not bored. Boredom is so far away I can barely see it. I've forgotten what boredom is. I'm on a raft adrift on a sea of interest, with no shore and no radio and no provisions. Boredom? I don't even know the meaning of the word.

I might go and get something to eat. Not out of boredom, but out of desire to support the economy. We're all Greece now.

***

I bought a sandwich. It's 3.35pm and I bought a sandwich. This is unprecendented (that's an unprecedented spelling of 'unprecedented' - though, thinking about it, it's probably been spelt that way before, am I right?).

The bread's not fresh. Of course it's not. Homey don't play dat! ("Homey" is another term for bread.) But it's still an sandwich. I'm eating a sandwich while y'all are just eating an air sandwich (an oxygen atom surrounded by two thick-cut granary hydrogen atoms).

I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M TALKING LIKE THIS.

I've probably been poisoned again. That's what I get for sticking my neck out and injecting it with poison.

Luckily, I also bought some coffee. Coffee is nature's antidote. No poison can stand up to it. If you can die from it, coffee can... stop that from happening.

I've been timing myself since I was nine years old. My stopwatch is long-gone. I was an idiot back then.

Oooh! I have a text! Who's it from! Probably Tom Hanks with another pitch. And I'm all like "Tom!". That's what I'm like. Entirely like that.

Oh. It's from Vodafone. They want my help in finding their missing "ph". The f is doing OK, but it's not long for this world.

They don't have any information on the "ph"'s last known whereabouts, but they do have a photograph.

Oh. There it is. I'll text them back to let them know. "Photograph" doesn't need that second "ph". "Photo" is already an accepted abbreviation. The "ph" can go back to Vodafone, and the "gra" can go to... I don't know... Viagra. They can always use another one. Viagragra.

I'd buy that.

(I wouldn't buy that)

Brackets are funny.

***

It's literally taken me three proofreadings to realise that H₂O is water and not air. Why would that be air? Air's got loads of stuff in it, like Nitrogen (N) and Apartheid (A). Why did I think it was H₂O? I'm an idiot. My sandwich joke has fallen on deaf ears, and the ears of science.


It's raining. That explains it. I'm not an idiot. Also, I'm struggling to cope with the death of my neighbour. He loved water.

Uh-oh. Why is that sentence running off the edge of the page? What did I do? Is it something to do with that little '2'? You know, the science one. I'm not going to type it again, in case...

Gah! That's illegible!

What, am I going to have to keep pressing return now?

Like some kind of chump?

I just got another text.

It's from Dominos.

They want my help in finding their missing apostrophe. 

I have no time for that. Maybe they can make do with the "gra".

They can become Iron Dogmas.

I'd love to have an Iron Dogmas pizza. It sounds delicious.

As long as toppings didn't include:
a) iron
b) dogs
c) pineapple

Hey, you know what would be funny? 

If the whole glitch where my text is extending too far doesn't show up when I publish it!

None of the above will make sense!

None of it!

I haven't even finished my coffee. I'd better get back to it. You've distracted me. I'M TRYING TO CHANGE THE WORLD!!!!

Stuck

Oh let's just start this. No-one reads the first sentence of a blog anyway. No-one reads the first paragraph. Or the last paragraph. They just sweep their eyes over a chunk in the middle to get a sense of things. If they don't spot certain key words of interest ("naked" for example, or "Bieber"), they move on. Life's too short to dwell on vacant text.

Today I'd like to talk to you about Israel.

But I won't. I'll just embolden that word to draw you in. And then lose you immediately.

Half asleep last night, I was trying to come up with a tweet. These sleep tweets (or "sleep-tweets") are sometimes... brilliant? Why not. No-one will check. But this one has proved top be a dead end.

It was based around the title of the Stealer's Wheel song 'Stuck in the Middle With You'.

My initial thought was to suggest that the title was dialogue spoken by one of the 'd's in the word 'middle' to the other. But that proved difficult to explain, as you can probably imagine.

Then I thought I was missing a trick by not using the letter 'u' somewhere. I thought maybe I could say that the 't' and the 'c' in 'stuck' were stuck in the middle with 'u'. But that's just nonsensical.

Realising that my dreamy brain hadn't given me much to work with, I thought about resorting to The Tweeter's Folly of invoking the female sheep:

"I was trying to make mutton stew last night. Stock in the middle with ewe."

Then I cried for half an hour, and wrote a cheque to a dozen charities. After realising that you can't include twelve recipients on a single cheque, I tore it up and just ate an apple.

I lead an interesting life.

***

What about:

The t and the c in 'stuck' in 'Stuck in the Middle With You' are stuck in the middle with u.

?

What about that? Does that make sense?

I don't know.

I'll tell you what, I'll tweet it now. But you and I know that it's not a genuine tweet. It's an experiment.

A naked Bieber experiment.

***

There it's done. The experiment has begun. I feel like one of those scientists. You know, like Boyle or the other one.

I'm wearing a wig and carving a star chart into an Aborigine's back. Just like in the old days. If it wasn't for the scientists, we wouldn't have any of the things we take for granted today (like some moss).

No retweets or favs yet.

Oh. Oh dear. I've just thought of something that might compromise the experiment. What if someone retweets the whole "stuck" thing only because they've read this? What then?! It could happen. I'm going to publicise this blog post on Twitter as always. There's overlap there.

If my terrible tweet gets twetten only because of my writing about it, the results will be null and void.

If you are reading this, please DO NOT retweet the "stuck" tweet. It would jeopardise all the good work I've done so far. We need to keep this clean and sterile and objective. Our conclusions must be based on fact, not happenstance or the opposite (sadden... sitting down...).

***

I'm bored of this experiment now. How do scientists overcome apathy? Is it with some kind of exciting beaker?

I'm still searching for my calling.

***

I just found my calling. It's asterisks.

And taking exception to everything (with no exceptions).

***

I've run out of money this month. It's all my fault. I bought some things (comics, cinema tickets, apples). It's annoying because I'm not in a very good mood, and money can buy happiness. I might spend the money I don't have anyway and hope no-one will notice. Banks can't be everywhere.

I get paid on Monday. I can survive until then. Maybe I'll hijack a liquor store and ask for a little bit of ransom. Just enough to tide me over. Then you get your liquor store back, safe and sound.

We don't even have liquor stores in this country. I'd have to buy a plane ticket to America. We have off-licences. They sound much tougher. A liquor store is like a magical world of manna and secret kegs.

An off-licence is a bureaucrat barking obscenities into your face. I wouldn't want to kidnap one of those.

***

Still no retweets. I'm going to shut up and sort my life out.

Here's the final paragraph. As we've established, no-one will read this. Which is a shame because I'm giving away all of the manna kegs which I've smuggled over from the US. They are at 77 Banbury Road, Oxford, England. First come, first served. But you won't come. Because you're not even reading this. You tuned out after the Bieber/Zion tease and have never looked back. Well that's just too bad. More for me.

Genre: A Haphazard Analysis

Let's talk about genre.

Or type about it.

And you don't have to. That was the royal "let's".

I woke up early this morning with the intention of going to a coffee house for a beverage and some reading. But it's raining, so I've talked myself out of it. Therefore, I feel compelled to write a blog post to make up for it. I'm determined to make this early rising worthwhile. The murdering of Comfy Bed Paul needs some serious justification.

I've been thinking about genre recently. I don't know why. Possibly because of my French friend Jean Ruh, who keeps plaguing me with questions. About genre.

It's interesting that certain genres lack credibility in the mainstream. They're seen as silly and childish and frivolous. There is still a stigma attached so science fiction and fantasy, particularly. It seems to be that when people dismiss an entire genre, they're misunderstanding how genre works.

Some genre fiction does have the status of high art, but this relates to how long they've been around. Classical mythology is fantasy fiction. It's ridiculous: full of melodrama and insane characters behaving in incomprehensible ways. It's also brilliant. But Homer is treated with a reverence that, let's say, Farscape is not.

I've never really seen Farscape. My instinct is that it's probably not as good as the Iliad, but I don't know. The point is that there's nothing more inherently infantile about funny looking aliens than crazy gods turning people into trees.

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is taught in schools. Twilight is not. (I'm probably not helping my argument with these examples)

The Western is a respectable genre. People fighting with guns is more valid than people fighting with wands. Heroes wearing capes are childish. Heroes wearing spurs speak to some kind of deeper human understanding.

Superhero fiction is for children because the characters wear tights. Fantasy fiction is for losers because it has elves in it. Science fiction is for nerds because all of the characters have names beginning with 'Z'.

People are able to understand the function of some genres, but dismiss that same function in others.

I'm guilty of it sometimes. I tend to avoid fantasy stories, with orcs and goblins and mythical realms. I find some of those conventions off-putting. But if I think that, I'm missing the point. Fantasy fiction is not about orcs and elves and amulets that can turn you into a wolf god. It's about... more than that.

The dismissing of genre fiction is nothing more than a selective refusal to understand subtext.

Subtext works in all fiction. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man isn't just about how annoying school is. The Brothers Karamazov isn't about family dynamics. Batman isn't about a man dressed as a bat punching people.

I mean, those things are part of it. But you can deal with ideas in a number of ways. Genre is just a tool with which to do this.

Genre is a starting point, not an end point.

(I've started to embolden certain sentences to make it seem like this whole thing is well thought-out, rather than a stream-of-consciousness ramble. Has it worked?) 

We realise that with respected genres. A Western isn't just about people with guns and hats shooting each other. It's about man versus nature, or the individual versus society, or the new world versus the old, or gender politics, or racism, or technology, or morality, or religion.

But Star Trek is just stupid men in silly costumes firing lasers at models.

I'm sure this is becoming less true. Lots of people are perfectly comfortable with genre fiction. But there still are some dismissive people out there. You'll be able to recognise them because they're idiots.

That's not to say that there isn't bad genre fiction. But there's bad non-genre fiction too.

As I said, I'm sometimes guilty of dismissing fantasy fiction. But I'm trying not to. I tend to find fantasy writing a bit humourless and stiff. But I like Harry Potter, and that's full of wizards and elves and potions. If it's good, it's good. The genre is just scenery.

There are fantastic characters in genre fiction, and those characters can be interestingly defined and illustrated by using the tools of genre.

If you understand how, say, detective fiction works, you can do a lot with it. It's not just about a detective solving a crime. You can use, undercut, contradict and satirise the conventions of a detective story. And by using that lens, there are an almost infinite number of approaches you can take.

Genre frees you up to deal with issues in a manner beyond the obvious.

Science fiction allows you to literalise abstract ideas. You can spell them out in interesting ways. You can invert reality. You can tackle sensitive subjects by proxy.

The most annoying criticism of fantasy and science fiction is that it's somehow frivolous; that it doesn't deal with the real world. This is, once again, the selective subtext-blindness coming into play. Either that or a chronic lack of imagination.

If you think any story that deals with politics must be set in the 'real' world, with politicians discussing political issues, your world is an incredibly limited one.

Stories about elves and broomsticks that can dance can be far more effective comments on real issues and real people than any 'realistic' drama. I can't think of any right now, but there probably are some.

Sometimes, you can only see the truth by looking at it through a kaleidoscope. That's not technically true, but you can see what I mean.

I've probably been going on about this for too long, fighting straw men. What I'm really trying to get at is: be careful when judging things based on genre. There's more than meets the eye, even if the eye is all fiery and looking at Frodo.

Oh yeah, I remember how I was going to finish this: superhero comics.

I like superhero comics, and they aren't well respected in the mainstream media. It was probably that insensitivity that started me down this road.

What I wanted say was that superhero comics are the best genre.

You might think that's a ridiculous sweeping statement that invalidates my entire argument and haircut. But it's true.

(It might not be true)

The reason for this is that the superhero genre is made up of every other genre in fiction.

You get to have all of your genre-eggs in one basket and eat them too.

Superhero fiction came about as a composite of various other genres. There were originally elements of pulp heroes, detectives, science fiction and fantasy heroes. As times progressed, and the superhero fell in and out of fashion in the late-40s, other forms became popular: horror comics, monster comics, romance comics, war comics.

Some of the best writers and artists plied their trade in these areas, so that when the superheroes re-emerged in the late-50s, a whole glorious genre hodgepodge emerged. Marvel comics like Spider-Man and the Hulk were basically weird 50s monsters converted into heroes.

The fact that most Marvel characters exist in the same fictional universe means that you have traditional superheroes, science fiction characters, aliens, monsters, vampires, characters from (a huge range of) classical mythology, spies, secret agents, wizards, politicians, private detectives, cowboys, newspaper reporters, vigilantes, knights, terrorists, corrupt officials, talking animals, cavemen, corporations, serial killers, bureaucrats, robots, and planets with moustaches, all in the same world.

This means that not only do you have the tools and the scenery of all of those different genres to play with, but that all of those characters can actually interact with each other! You can have a group meeting with a demon, a cowboy, an alien, an FBI agent and a Greek god, all just hanging around drinking coffee.

The superhero genre is the omni-genre.

If you have all of this to play with, and if you take off your subtext-visor, you'll see that there is nothing that can't be tackled with these tools. The entire spectrum of human experience can be explored in an incredible number of different ways.

It's not always like that. I accept it. Sometimes the stories are simplistic. Sometimes a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud is just a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud.

But they don't have to be. Fantasy fiction can be Twilight, but it can also be Shakespeare. Naturalistic fiction can The Wire, but it can also be Neighbours.

Superhero stories aren't just for children.

Sometimes they are. But they don't have to be.

I wish some people would stop pretending to misunderstand genre. Citizen Kane would still be a masterpiece if Rosebud was a Klingon.

Possibly. Perhaps.

I'm not good with conclusions.

Unless I

Frank55 Spreads His Wings

I'm not a professional cartoonist. I can't draw, don't have any pens, and have never been paid for anything even remotely worthwhile. But I am a passionate amateur. Is it possible to be a cartoonist if you lack any of the essential skills and equipment?

Yes it is.

Frank55 is a character I created. He's the flagship (and only) character of my creative... boatyard. I've shown you his adventures before: here, here, and a little cameo appearance here.

I've realised that I can't hide these genius needles in the huge haystack of my archive, so have created a place for Frank55 to call his own:

http://frank55is.tumblr.com/

It's on Tumblr. I don't really know how Tumblr works yet. I spent a long time messing around with the settings and background. I'm sure you can tell. It seems pretty fun. I need a new place to waste time - Twitter, Facebook and this blog aren't enough. I find that I'm only distracted for 90% of my waking life. I'm trying to nudge it up to 95%.

I joined Google+ a while ago, but I haven't really spent enough time there. Also, I don't know anyone else who uses it. I've just used it to write a sporadic analysis of the slotted spoon. If anyone would like to add me to their circle, please do. (I think that's the right terminology. I'm not making a inappropriate proposition.) My stage name is 'Paul Fung', which is a letter-for-letter copy of my actual name.

But Tumblr is my chosen platform for Frank55. If you visit the above link, you'll see all of the existing cartoons, plus quotes from experts, plus an unpublished third cartoon (that I apparently didn't post here because I thought it was rubbish). If you'd like to "follow" me on there, please feel "free" to do so.

You can also see the most recent instalment, which I include below, to give you a flavour of my artistry.

Pretty moving, right?

I'm hoping to get some kind of publishing deal. Webcomics are big business now. They're a way for people to show off their talents and reach a wide audience.

I could bring out a book. I might need to be more productive, though. Five cartoons in nearly four years isn't enough. I'll try to step things up.

I might also start a Tumblr page for myself. I can't be cluttering up the Frank55 page with interesting links and photos and videos. It needs to be pure, unadulterated ART.

I hope I'm not spreading myself too thin. This blog, my tweets, and now a "regular" cartoon... I just hope I can maintain my current high standards.

***

Now that's out the way, here is some entertaining content. I give with one hand, and give with the other. And if someone wants to hand me an ice-cream, I have to hold it in the crook of my elbow. I then give that away.

I'm worried that this much generosity will lead to me giving everyone the same clothes off my back, which could lead to infighting and spine pneumonia.

In other news, I was in my work canteen today, and overheard a physics expert at another table describing Stephen Hawking as "fundamentally second-rate". He said it with such conviction, that I've started to believe it. Stupid Hawking.

I suppose Hawking's celebrity must annoy other physicists. He gets all the plaudits, all the glory, all the women, and they have to do the hard graft. It's the same with Prof Brian Cox. That pretty boy is basking in the limelight (analysing the limelight's wavelength and eloquently describing the behaviour of limephotons), when the REAL scientists are wrist deep in gluons and sweating into a beaker.

But I suppose that's the way of the world. It happens in all walks of life. The Queen makes all the headlines, but its the unsung royals that are putting the blue-blood, blue-sweat and crystalline tears into making this nation one of the greatest in Western Europe.

It's just the way it is. Let the Coxes and the Queens and the Hawkingses be the glamour-magnets. There's work to be done. And you can't smash protons together if a paparazzo is staring up your lab skirt.

***

I seem to have mislaid my entertaining content. I'll rummage around and see what I can wrangle for next time.

I hope you enjoy the wedding you might be attending this weekend.

Aqueduct

It's an emotional day.

All over the world, people have experienced emotions. It's a broad spectrum, from the despair at seeing a loved-one convicted of fraud, to the minor joy at seeing a loud child thrown into a cement mixer.

Emotion is everywhere, but you can't see it from space. It's strange that something so negligible - in a small enough quantity to fit inside seven billion skull-sized containers - has such a huge impact on the planet.

Forests are cut down because logging companies are too proud to ask beavers for help. Oceans are poisoned because large corporations are jealous of the krill. We put a man on the moon because we were giddy. We put a flag on the moon because we were hungry.

Emotion is something unquantifiable (unless you use the much-discredited Chucklometer). It doesn't exist anywhere but between our ears, or between our bindi and bald-patch, depending of cranial orientation.

It's a wild beast - untameable, untenable, ineffable, intransigent - but we wouldn't have it any other way. Without the cheers and the tears, the yearning and the churning, the guffaw and the shifty-eyed second guess, what would we be? Robots. Just robots.

And as cool as that might initially sound, a laser gun arm is no substitute for the warm feeling of happiness that comes whenever you see a nice big kitchen.

***

The front of my right thigh is wet. I'm not particularly emotional about it, but it's slightly uncomfortable.

It might be because I've done the washing up. I might have leaned against a wet sink-edge with my right thigh. I'm wearing jeans. That doesn't have any bearing on the situation, I just wanted to reassure you.

I'd prefer my discomfort to be symmetrical.

Up to a point.

I'd rather lose one leg than half of both. I'd rather be stung by a scorpion on one buttock rather than both.

But I'd like to have both thighs moist simultaneously. At least I'd know where I stood. (By the sink)

I could artificially moisten the front of my left thigh, but I'd have to be very careful. Heraclitus famously said: "You could not step twice into the same river; for other waters are ever flowing on to you".

By the same token, I'm sure he would say: "You cannot moisten your left thigh in exactly the same way as your right thigh has been moistened; for other waters are ever trickling all crazy and shit".

I might over-moisten the left. Then I'd have to even it out with the right.

Then, before I knew it, I'd be standing waist-deep in an inlet of some sort.

I think I'm just going to have to live with a moist right thigh.

Having said that, I think it might have already dried itself as I've been writing this.

My fears have been all for nought.

But I think we've all learned something important about my legs.

***

Whenever I get asked if I want to update some software, I click 'Remind me later'. Then, when I'm reminded, I click 'Remind me in the past'.

It's a procrastination loop. I think it might revolutionise the way people don't do things.

I'd put together a detailed proposal, but all my software is woefully obsolete.

***

I think I'd live a more interesting life if I looked like this:

My hair might look this white when I'm older, but to complete the look I'd need contact lenses and some kind of skin dye.

The end of my nose looks strangely dark. I think it might be negative schnozz-shine.

I'm going to use this as my passport photo.

***

I was wondering if I should finish this post and watch the football.

Lucy asked "Does it feel like it's finished?"

I said "Maybe".

She said "Well, you've got to trust your instincts".

My instincts were to transcribe that exchange.

My instincts are idiots.

Instidiots.

***

Let's draw a line under this.

And over it. And on either side.

Then draw a roof on it.

Congratulations!

YOU ARE NOW AN ARCHITECT.

Take Your Pictorial

I have a day off, so I'm going to try to fill this blog post with things that can only be reasonably done at home. Here's a picture of me, taken about 30 seconds ago (or longer, depending on when you read this):

Don't let the expression fool you; I'm in a good mood. I just don't like to smile in photos, as I look like a split conker.

I seem to have a small tuft of hair sticking up. Or perhaps it is the silhouette of a tiny gopher.

In case you're interested (and I'm sure you are), the picture hanging on the wall is a print of Van Gogh's The Church at Auvers:

Also, in case you're interested, the door behind me is the door to our living room:
It is a white door, open, with a green towel hanging on it to dry.

In case you're interested, my shirt is a grey shirt. I think it came from Next:


It has buttons on the front, and a sleeve for each arm.

In case you're wondering what that bright light is in the background of the shirt picture, it's the sun:
The sun is the a big hot ball that also generates light. Although it is quite far away (over 800 miles), the light is strong enough to come through our living room window and illuminate my shirt etc.

It has taken me several hours to complete this post. This is what I look like now:


Good day.

Hafnium Aspirations

The weekend at the end of a week's holiday becomes one giant Sunday. I feel like I want to hang on to my free time for as long as possible. The best way to do it is to do very little. Time passes more slowly when it's devoid of activity. If a watched pot never boils, I can just make sure I watch it continually - that way Monday will never come.

It would be a waste of electricity to keep boiling water. Although I'm not sure how energy consumption works if time stands still. Do I still get charged for units used? Do I still have to pay rent for the extra time? Or is everything frozen and free?

Time is a tricky beast. It's really the one area of existence that human knowledge can't control. The progress of science allows us to gain a greater understanding of genetics and physics. We can devise experiments that test these things, we can alter the fabric of objects and living creatures. But we are totally impotent when it comes to time.

The only way to impact upon time is to create art. Because time flies when you're having fun.

Being entertained is the temporal equivalent of scientific research. So, in many ways, listening to Ben Kweller and playing Minesweeper is as important as looking for a cancer cure.

I'm a pioneer. But where's my Nobel Prize? The Nobel Prize for Fun?

In truth, I probably wouldn't be a contender. There are loads of people who have more fun than me. Mostly bubbly blonde girls, who communicate in ultrasonic screams. They're always drinking and laughing and dancing.

That's too much fun, if you ask me.

It's the fun equivalent of candy-floss - it hurts my teeth.

I do like fun, but not too much. Too much fun begins to grate. I don't want to live in a perpetual club night. It's more pleasant to be in the dark sometimes.

Also, Mark E Smith could never be described as 'fun'.

I'm cursed in that regard, because my surname is 'Fung'. You can't spell Fung without Fun. I've tried, believe me.

"Hey I bet he's a Fung guy!" they say, sometimes, in dreams.

You can't spell my name without 'un' either, which has given me an innate sense of self-contradiction.

And you can't spell my name without 'ng'. Which is the chemical symbol for Norwegium. Not even a real element - a Scandinavian scam. A ScanScam.

But I'm probably over-analysing it. What's in a name, after all? A Fung by any other name would smell as sweet (ie not that sweet).

Well, this blog entry has been very interesting. Just writing it has made my remaining time seem all the more interminable.

Also, I now have a freshly boiled pot of water for doing some potatoes.

Poetry Corona

A poem:

Twinkle twinkle, little star
You smug bastard
Just go ahead
And fucking twinkle

You are a massive ball of flaming plasma
Not little at all
And yet
Look at the sympathy you get

Twinkle. Twinkle. Little star

You're not that little
You're just far away
You're not even our star

You're not the sun

The gall
The sheer gall to twinkle

How I wonder what you are
Playing at

People build temples to the stars
People construct vast mythologies
People spend millions on telescopes and cameras

I don't even own a car
Let alone a fucking temple

This Christmas I'll be alone
Drinking the syrup from tinned pineapple rings

And you'll be sitting, twinkling, on top of a tree
In a richer person's house

Twinkle, twinkle, little star
It's always you
When will it be my time to shine?

Twinkle twinkle, little scar

***

Poetry is pretty easy. I might bring out a volume of poems whenever I need some spare cash.

Space

Astronomy is a load of old rubbish.

I mean sure, it's quite interesting to know about the secrets of the universe, the immensity of stars, the almost unimaginable vastness of space, black holes four million times heavier than the sun. Yeah, that's quite interesting.

If true.

But it's recently become apparent to me that they're probably making this stuff up. And I have empirical evidence:


I took this picture myself. With my camera phone.
It's not even a good camera phone - it's really old.
And just look at the celestial beauty of the thing. It's awe inspiring. It's better than any picture taken by a so-called telescope. You could send a thousand probes in a thousand directions for a billion years, and you'd never get anything as moving and astonishing as this picture.
"But Paul," I hear you say (if you know my name).
"But Gary," I hear you say (if you thought you knew my name but actually don't).
"But Dickhead," I hear you say (correctly).
"What is this heavenly body? What celestial object is shown in the above picture? What planet is this? From what galaxy?"
Well, my friends, the answer may astound you, and throw the whole astonomical world into turmoil!
The picture is:
the inside of my coffee mug.
It needs a clean.
Pretty, though.

Putting the 'you' in colour

After a purple patch of posting, my propensity to produce periodic prose has perhaps peaked - possibly permanently.

But I hope I can get back on the writin' wagon with a little bit of artless alliteration, and some sub-standard observations (eg. Is a purple patch what happens when Barney the Dinosaur wets his pants?).

Colours seem to represent a lot of different emotions. I suppose we're all slightly synaesthetic.

Feeling blue is bad, probably because being in the sea or the sky was also bad, before the invention of boats/parachutes.

People are green with jealousy because people yearn to be like broccoli.

Being 'in the pink' is a good thing - possibly because of the sexual connotations (although being 'in the brown' hasn't taken off as a phrase, reflecting a lingering linguistic homophobia).

Cowards are yellow, which is odd. You would think yellow's association with the sun would raise its credibility. I always thought people liked the sun, but I suppose some interpret each sunset as our life-giving orb backing down from a rumble with the moon.

Orange is orange. If you assign a fruit to a colour, you're not allowed to use it as a metaphor.

It's weird to think that colours are essentially arbitrary. It's all one big continuum of light waves. We just break the spectrum up in to easy-to-digest-chunks (not literally - except for the orange).

Everything in the world is made up of pretty much the same stuff, we're just using different highlighters and post-its and dividers like some revising nerd, hoping we'll be able to understand things better. A good idea in theory, but things still seem pretty messy to me.

So, those are my thoughts on colour. Here's a sneak preview of next week's analysis of shape:

Scalene triangle? You're having a laugh!

Signs

There's a stench of armageddon in the air. Can you smell it?

It might not be armageddon, I suppose. But it's something.

The whole CERN hoo-ha (is that how you spell hoo-ha?) is in full effect. It's really quite exciting. I like that scientific discovery is getting so much coverage.

But people are uneasy. Something about the enormity of the whole thing is scaring people. What will happen? Are we safe?

It was with this sense of foreboding that I began my walk today, and saw two emblematic billboards. They really captured the mood of the nation.

The first was outside a newsagent, displaying the headline of the Oxford Mail. It's probably the best headline I've ever seen:








BOFFINS 'WON'T DESTROY WORLD'


I know what you're thinking: 'whew!'


Indeed, I am now reassured.


There is so much you can say about this, I'm not sure where to start.


The use of the word 'boffins', for example. I like the fact that even though this story is apparently concerning the fate of reality, we should still dismiss scientists as 'boffins'. That's good. Even in the face of the apocalypse, we're still able to channel our 13-year-old selves.


"Those crazy egg-heads! What are they up to now? Destroying the world? Dicks. I don't want the world to end. I'd miss WKD and Soccer AM and gobbing in the street!"


'Boffin' is a distancing word. We don't know what they're doing, and we don't want to know. Let's just hope their crazy hair-brained schemes don't mess with the TV schedules. It's also quite a jovial word. This story is presented as a bit of a joke (and concerns about the end of the world are quite funny). But they must still be expecting a few people to look at that and feel compelled to buy the paper, just to make sure.


Another brilliant part of this sign is the inverted commas around the quote. Boffins 'won't destroy world'. The Oxford Mail isn't ready to commit to this. They've obviously quoted someone. They can't print it as gospel, because - well - if the boffins do destroy the world, the paper will have egg on its face! It might even face legal action.


"You said they wouldn't destroy the world, but they have! LIES!" - someone might say, if they erect a courthouse in a quantum singularity in space.


The Mail want to cover their arses. I admire that. You must prepare for every eventuality (even the eradication of our entire planet).


But at least it's an upbeat story. You don't normally get positive headlines. So I continued my walk with a spring in my step. But I came upon another sign - not a hundred feet from the first - which made me think again:





SAVING THE WORLD FROM MEDIOCRE COFFEE

I'm not going to speculate about the quality of Costa's coffee, or their messianic self-belief.
But I am going to ask: is this a coincidence?
Is a billboard that talks about saving the world just an off-beat idea, or do they sense the mood of the nation?
Do they know that we're recreating the conditions of the big bang? Do they know we're heading for a recession, and the credit crunch is crippling everyone? Do they know that we're approaching an new Cold War, and that terrorism is on the rise? And that immigrants are taking our jobs? And that Gary Glitter has x-ray eyes and prowls around the city on stilts looking for our children's bedrooms?
Of course they do. Costa knows. And they're here to reassure us.
Like the Oxford Mail, they've thought carefully about it. And they accept that nine out of ten people won't make the connection. They won't recoginise the faint, familiar glow of the rapture streaming through a coffee-shop window.
But some people will see that sign. They'll see that sign, and with an ache in their hearts and a void in their wallets, they''ll seek refuge from judgement day in a half-caff Mocha with an extra shot of expresso and whipped cream.

It reminds of that Bill Hicks routine about marketing people, who are unable to view events as anything but a marketing opportunity. That's what Costa have done.
"That armageddon dollar is a huge market! The whole 'end is nigh' demographic is really big right now. Let's hope those nerds at CERN do rip a hole in space-time. If we experience some kind of quantum catastrophe, we can get all Heisenberg on their asses. When people are uncertain, they spend more money!"
And faced with this, I fell to my knees in the street. I couldn't take it - the dismissal of science, the frivolity, the vacany of the news industry, the perniciousness of the marketing cockroaches, the desire from every despicable, corrupt, selfish, greedy individual to spread their demonic virus even into the next life - after reality, after planet Earth, after death, the papers won't be liable for misunderstandings, and frappuccino proclamations will ring out into the void of space.
And as my tears streamed onto the concrete pavement, a man looked down at me with compassion.
"Cheer up mate, it's not the end of the world!" he said.
Well quite.

Oh, just make up your own title. No. That one's stupid.

I'm suspicious of the human brain, because it doesn't seem to make any noise. If it did, I think I'd notice because I keep my brain rather close to my ears. I'm also in a good position to determine if it smells or not, my nose being similarly well located.

But I'm used to powerful things making noise. Engines chug a lot. And whirr. Computers buzz and hum. But the brain - a spectacularly good thinking machine, seems to be silent. I don't even think it vibrates. It doesn't have any moving parts that I can see (or feel). It seems like it can't really be doing the thinking. It's a spongy decoy.

Through the pursuit of science, we're constantly finding out that what we think is wrong. Knowledge and facts are always being superseded as we get cleverer and older and more streamlined.

I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that our brains weren't the things doing the thinking. The brain seems like a place-holder. It's just something soft that can plug the gap in our skulls.

But what is doing the thinking, then? I don't think it's my heart. That has enough stuff to worry about already.

Bones don't think (I think).

Maybe we're all just hooked up to some central thinking centre in Dubai or somewhere, and out brains are just receivers. And every time we forget where we put our keys, it's because the wi-fi has cut out.

Even though I have no neural pistons, I'm running out of steam.

I can't remember what it's like not to be tired. I'm sure there have been times in the past when I haven't been tired. I've been awake and sharp and vibrant. Well OK, I've never been vibrant. But I have been alert. But that seems like a world away.

Even caffeine seems to have failed me. I think I might have offended the Caffeine Gods by drinking about ten cups of coffee a few nights ago, even though it had been left out for ages and was tepid at best.

I'm always offending gods. The idiots.

Once, I offended the gods of full-fat mayonnaise. I bought a bottle of light mayo. Luckily the gods of light mayo were there to even the odds. But the whole thing angered the gods of peaceful mayo co-existence. And that angered the gods of realism.

And this whole idea is angering the gods of Having Something Interesting To Say.

Maybe if gods weren't so quick to anger, the world would be a better place.

I've just angered the Gods of Atheism with this concept, which has thrown the whole thing out of wack.

I've never been in wack. I've never used it in a positive sense.

"How's the project going, Johnson?"
"Excellent sir! Everything is 100% In Wack."
"Good work, Johnson. Now how about that blowjob?"

Calligraphy

(The first portion of this was written this morning)

And after, two hours and seven minutes of Friday morning…

I'm done.

My brain has officially given up.

It did well, though. I'm not knocking the brain. It felt like Friday on Wednesday, so today is the equivalent of Sunday. Tomorrow is Monday, but as there's no work, all bets are off. Everything probably resets at the weekend, and Monday is Monday again, until its day status alters based on circumstances. Are you following this?

Five days is too long for a working week. I wonder what would happen if we had a four day week (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday would be best)… I'll tell you what would happen:

Binge Drinking = down
Violence = down
Work Satisfaction = up
Courtesy = up
Abortions = unchanged
Haircuts = more avant-garde
Chickens = fluffier
Ricicles = more prevalent

In short:

Four day week = ideal society. Maybe I should send this to old Tony Blairs and see if he takes any notice.

And as for a THREE day week…

forgetaboutit.

***

I think I'd like to try my hand at calligraphy.

I've got rubbish handwriting, but I'd probably be better if I studied it as an art.

Calligraphy is a bit like quantum physics: it focusses on the small constituent parts of the things we take for granted every day. It's the art of the building blocks. It must be fun to look at things at that level. You can examine physical attributes of an object, by reducing your study to the attributes of those tiny bits that make up an object.

I'm sure there's some kind of meditative function to caligraphy, as it detaches you from your ideas of the world, and makes you look at things in a different way. Like Buddhism. And magic mushrooms.

I like thinking of letters as individual works of art, where each line and curve is part of some grand inky narrative. Each story is composed of millions of words; each word has a complicated and beautiful evolutionary history. And each word is made up of constituent letters; each one having gone through a similar process.

Of course, each letter is made up of millions of tiny particles that are themselves mindblowingly interesting. Physics is at the root of everything I suppose, even calligraphy.

Our letters aren't as pretty as Chinese characters, I suppose. Maybe I'd need to learn Chinese. Or maybe the simplicity of our alphabet is a sign of true advancement.

I can never work out if evolution is a process of simplification or complexification (yes, that is a word; a word whose definition is its own creation). I suppose evolution does both. It's a crazy multi-layered, multi-directional process of simplicity and intricacy and beauty and functionality.

Imagine how good this all would have been if it had been written on parchment with fancy ink and a fine brush. I could perform flourishes and take an age to finish each sentence, and complain about the pace of the modern world whilst drinking bitter green tea.

I'd be a good calligapher (or is it calligraphist?)

A FUCKING good one.