!!~~POST #900 - GALACTIC RETROSPECTIVE FREAK-OUT~~!!

Keeping it simple this year.

Happy Nine Hundredth Blog Post.

I wonder if there's anyone - other than me - who has read all of these. I can't imagine that there is. Such a person would surely be known.

What was once an ironic "anniversary" special has become a regular fixture of the cultural calendar. It's impossible to remember a time before I posted a photo of myself doctored in MS Paint and rambled on and on and on.

Let's take a trip back in time. But we don't need a special portal or an 80s "Martycar". We can just click on links. HG Wells would be astonished that it's so easy.

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
Post #700
Post #800

I've been conducting a long conversation with my future selves. In Post #800, I wrote:

But enough about me. Post #900 Paul! How's it going, man? Did you manage to plant some flowers in your window boxes?

Also, have you done any good tweets lately, or is that whole deal over with now?

It's.. going, Post #800 Paul. Still going. We didn't manage to plant any flowers, I'm afraid. We did let the weeds grow, though. And a wild flower grew somehow. It was purple. Nature always finds a way. Jeff Goldblum was right.

And the tweets seem to have dried up. I did do a cutting @reply the other day, but that's about it.

@MattRichardson3 A menu is not a book.
— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) September 9, 2014

I've never embedded a tweet before. I like it. It's much better than my usual copy-and-paste marathons. I don't know if it's enough to get me tweeting again, but stranger things have happened.

So, Post #1000 Paul. You must feel pretty pleased with yourself. 1000 Posts is nothing to sneeze at.

How did you like the last half-season of Mad Men? Did Don Draper die? Did Pete Campbell go to Woodstock?

Also, what's your mobile phone situation? At the moment, my current one seems to be on its last legs. I hope you've got an iWatch.

Seen any good gifs lately?

***

On my desktop, there's a text file called 'shoe song':

If you were to double-click on this text file, this is what you would find:

The question is: why?

What kind of a person would:
a) "write" a "song" about shoes
b) think it was of a sufficient quality to transcribe
c) save said transcript on his or her desktop
?

This kind of person.

It's not even like I have loads of stuff on my desktop. If I saved everything there, it would at least be understandable. I wrote a stupid thing and just saved it, unthinkingly.

But my desktop is very tidy. I have very high standards for the items that will appear there. If I don't use a program for several months, the shortcut is removed. If two folders can be combined, I will do so.

I like my desktop to be as clean and clear as possible.

And yet, there seems to be room for the lyrics to a terrible-sounding song.

It doesn't make sense.

Of course, the song is supposed to be terrible. It should be sung in a feeble, tuneless manner. That's the genius of the song.

listen to ‘shoe song’ on Audioboo

You see?

I'm rather interesting.

***

In these anniversary blog posts, I like to mix things up. I play with form, with medium, with tone.

So here's a poem about belts.

Through loops, a snaking binding brace

Metallic grip of ancient craft

Support contorts with serpent grace

Pan-equatory, fore and aft 

No shame, no fear of fallen cloth

With pride, the trouser keeps its height

No exposed undies, by my troth

The belt makes braces look like shite

Oh dear. My opinion of myself just plummeted.

If you're American (and I can't imagine why you would be), you can replace 'braces' with 'suspenders'. It will screw up the metre, but that's the least of our problems.

***

I don't particularly care for chocolate, and I don't particularly care for croissants. But I love chocolate croissants.

It just goes to show that things can be more than the sum of their parts.

Equally: I don't particularly like oxygen. I don't particularly like hydrogen. But I love water croissants.

Everyone hates protons. But there are protons in everything they love.

Value is a matter of scale.

Wisdom.

My opinion of myself just plummeted upwards.

***

Ooh, it's suddenly got dark outside. I think a storm is coming.

I'd better go get the washing in. I haven't done any washing, but I'll get some in anyway. Hurriedly stuffing clothes into a basket tends to ward off evil winds, even if you're in T.K. Maxx.

Or maybe it's not a storm. The darkness could mean that the world is ending. The apocalypse is probably upon us.

If so, this blog will be an important historical artefact. Future civilisations can study this as a missive from a moribund society. Which is exactly what it is.

I saw this video/song on that site that has people telling you what their jams are. It's pretty good.



Not quite as good as my sock and shoe song, but still worth your time.

***

We've been watching the 80s television series The Jewel in the Crown, which is about the British occupation of India and set during the Second World War.

It's really good so far, and is full of shiny-faced oblivious posh people and slightly heavy-handed metaphors. I'm glad we don't have an empire any more. I've already got enough things to feel guilty about (personal cowardice, unwatched films in Netflix queue, that motorbike I stole).

The British mindset is now a winning combination of inferiority and arrogance, which is the ideal cocktail. I can't imagine why the Scottish would want to leave.

I'm going to stop writing this now.

It may seem a bit abrupt, but I can't be sitting here all day. In my screengrab of the shoe song icon, you can just about see that it was taken at 13:47.

It's considerably later than that now.

I hope you've enjoyed this extra-large celebration edition of "The Headscissors Comedy/Thought Experiment".

I value your custom. And your customs. (Shaking hands and whathaveyou)


***

Genial

I have a keen interest in researching the history of people researching my family history.

I don't care about the family history itself. I can't imagine anything less interesting. If you show me a family tree, I will yawn - I promise you that.

But finding out about the people who have found out about my family history is utterly fascinating.

Who were they? What resources did they use? How successful was their search?

Once we get to their actual findings, I start to tune out.

It's humbling to investigate just who the people interested in my ancestors were, and what lessons they have to teach us in the modern day. It really gives you a sense of perspective to think about our forefathers' passion for genealogy, even though we may find genealogy dull as ditch-water and we couldn't give two hoots whether or not they are our biological forefathers.

Admittedly, those people investigating my family history are often members of my family. But that's just an unfortunate coincidence.

I first fostered my interest in researching people researching my family history whilst watching the television programme Who Do You Think The People Who Wonder Who You Are Are? There was a celebrity on there - I think it was Paul McGann - and he went on an amazing journey of discovery. He found out about someone who had been on Ancestry.com to track down other McGanns a few years previously. Also, his grandfather (or someone - I wasn't paying attention to that bit) had looked at a census in 1970 to discover some familial connection to philosopher David Hume. The programme wisely didn't go into any details about that connection. It would be outside its remit.

I was so inspired after watching this, that I started to conduct my own, limited, investigation into whether people had investigated my family history in the past. It turned out that there had been several such investigations. Unfortunately, they all seemed to have been undertaken by my own family, about whom - as I've stated many times - I have zero interest.

I don't care about my family tree. I never want to know what objects hang on the branches. But I'm fervently intoxicated by the people who have looked at those objects in the past. Don't tell me what they are, for God's sake. But tell me that you know what they are. That's all I need.

Do you get it?

It's just a weird thing that would be funny because it doesn't make any sense.

I was going to write something stupid about fencing instead, but the accents on 'épée' are too confusing.

Smogs of Time

Five years ago today, I wrote a blog post about the "impending disaster" of Southampton Football Club. At the time, I wondered if the club would even continue to exist.

Just look at us now! We do exist (and how)!

Five years is a long time.

***

Four years ago today, I wrote a blog post about a problem with our "washing machine". It was really quite good. I used to have talent.

It includes this sentence:

Time passes slowly when you're staring down the spinning barrel of a gun, especially if it's got pants in it.

Just look at us now! We live in a whole new flat, with a whole new washing machine! And the washing machine is pretty much the only thing about the new place that hasn't gone wrong!

Shoelaces? That was the past. The past was all shoelaces and standard definition television. How did we live like that?

Four years is a long time.

***

One year ago today, I wrote a sketch about the inventor of the "world's softest barbecue".

One year isn't much, really.

***

Zero years ago today, I wrote this. It was identical to the blog post I will write zero years hence.

It's one on top of the other. That's why the lettering is so thick.

The third of April.

Phew. That's better. I just set my blog text to temporal mono. It makes it easier to read.

There's something in the air, and it has irritated my eyes.

The news wasn't lying. Neither was the weather. Pollution is very real.

I walked into work this morning. I'd forgotten about the poisoned sky, so I thought nothing of it. Forty-five minutes exposed to the filthy elements.

I didn't feel too bad until I got into work and read an article suggesting that I did feel too bad. My eyes immediately began to water.

I don't know if it was psychosomatic, or if it was a sudden awareness of my genuinely sore sight organs.

Oh, also I hadn't blinked at any point prior to 10am. That might have been a contributing factor. I forget to blink sometimes, if I'm wrapped up in my thoughts.

I might get the bus home, just in case.

To help with the eye pain, I've set a blink reminder on my phone. It goes off every two seconds. I think my colleagues applaud my commitment to freshness.

I've also been looking at pictures of moisturiser online, which should help. They're on a web page specifically designed for relieving ocular irritation.

I cant find the URL at the moment, but it's a site for sore eyes.


...




...

1+1=2

Imagine a world where the steps you've taken matter less than the steps you've forsaken and stop...

No.

It's no good.

Two days ago I started a draft blog post that began like this:

The process by which I intend to find my calling is as follows.

Fail to endure, enjoy, tolerate or deal with almost everything in the universe. Hitch your wagon to whichever star remains.

That's not a good start to a blog post, but don't want to go back to the blank page. I've already jumped into the freezing ocean, there's no point in climbing back out now.

The die is cast. The ship has sailed. The bridge is burned. The writing is on the wall. The jelly has set.

No turning back.

There's a strange dichotomy in being a progressive recluse. 

And it's just been sitting there, so I thought I'd begin afresh with something new. Something strange. But I lost confidence before the end of the first sentence.

I'm struggling here. I have been for a while.

But perhaps there's mileage in those first four words. Perhaps I can produce several bite-sized ideas in quick succession and fill up the page.

***

Imagine a world where children are at war with the elderly. The children would win. They would be cruel, vicious, energetic, ruthless, annoying. The wiser elderly would kill some children in traps (Lego beneath a dangling bomb), but the children would win in the end. 

They'd be happy. They'd grow up happy. They'd know they were winners. They'd know they were stronger.

But they would age. And the stronger would grow weaker. And soon they would find themselves on the other side of the great divide. The war would not have ended. The war would never end.

The new younger generation would be crueller, viciouser, energeticer, ruthlesser, annoyinger. The new elderly would try the same Lego-based traps (though the Lego would be licensed, branded, tied into the latest pop culture craze), but they would no longer work because the new children can hack into bombs now and stop them dangling.

The elderly would die. The young would laugh in triumph. And the cycle would begin again.

Everyone from the ages of eighteen to sixty-nine would just sit there and watch the whole disaster, knowing that they were once evil. And that they could do nothing to stop themselves becoming evil again.

***

Imagine a world where no-one was interested in dinosaurs. We'd know about them, but we just wouldn't care. We'd find bones and shrug. Jurassic Park would never have been written or adapted. Museums would have to rearrange things.

People would still be quite interested in Godzilla. He's not exactly a dinosaur. But people would be less interested in him.

The Flintstones would still be on, but the fictional world would be a bit less rich.

***

Imagine a world where the Heimlich maneuver was a famous battle strategy from a poor later-season episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

The episode would even be called 'The Heimlich Maneuver'. It would be pretty terrible. It would feature Worf or Kira finding out about an ancient gambit that could help an outnumbered ship destroy all its opponents by shimmying back and forth in a little dance. Seriously, it would be total dogshit.

And they'd say that it was because they were rushed for time because of production issues and the writers' strike, but even so... There would be a bit at the end where Odo and Sisko play basketball and a bowl of punch falls on Morn's head. Like, it would sound good, but the execution would be totally off.

A series low.

Imagine a world where despite this seeming like a reference to a specific real-life thing, it actually wasn't. You don't have to imagine.

***

Imagine a world where there was a dynamic, progressive politician called Adrian. Far-fucking-fetched.

***

Imagine a world where the afterlife only lasted for an hour.

You'd have time to realise you were dead, and to say hello to all of your loved ones. You would be pressed for time. It would be a bit of a scrum, to be honest. 

Everyone who has ever died would arrive there at the same time, and there would only be an hour for people to accept their fate and settle their affairs. Some people would probably freak out, so someone has to deal with them. 

I don't know if it would be everyone together, or if there would be sections. 

Imagine an afterlife where there are two sections: one for people with surnames beginning A-M, and one for those with surnames beginning N-Z.

If you wanted to say goodbye to someone whose surname was in the other section, you could arrange it, but it would involve a lot of forms. It probably wouldn't be worth it.

When the hour was nearly up, there would be a countdown, just like New Year's Eve. People would count in their own languages. Some of the dead people would have come from a time before language developed (or surnames, for that matter), so the countdown would confuse them.

Then everything would go blank, and that would be it.

Imagine a world where that, smart guy.

***

It worked. Those four words have given me an entire raft of ideas. And they have hopefully entertained you, dear reader.

I might eat a cereal bar now.

Right to Left

OK. This is the last one, I promise. Number six. The final beginning. You can only make one first impression (as you'll see, if you keep reading).

The fifth attempt was a disaster.

I've always been better at finishing things than I have been at starting them.

When I played football at school, there was a good playground taunt for people who were unable to score goals. "He couldn't finish his dinner!" they'd say.

Because in the football terminology, "finishing" is scoring a goal. So the metaphor works by suggesting that - though the context is different - the player in question would be unable to finish something (dinner) that should in theory be quite easy to finish.

That's what the taunt meant.

But there's always an escalation in playground insults. I took it to the next level.

Whenever someone missed a good chance, I'd say "He couldn't start his dinner!"

They'd question me. "What?" they'd say.

"He couldn't start his dinner," I'd repeat. "He's so bad at football, that he... it's not that... I mean... he not only couldn't finish his dinner, he couldn't even start it! That's how bad he is! At football, I mean. He couldn't even... er... his mum couldn't even go to the shops to buy the... constituent parts... to make his dinner! The dinner wouldn't even exist in a sort-of embryonic form. In fact, the mechanic that built his mum's car couldn't even finish making the car! So she couldn't even drive to the shops to purchase the ingredients to make his dinner, which he wouldn't be able to start, let alone finish! Or his dad. You know, if his dad does the shopping instead of his mum. ... That's how bad he is at football. He's rubbish."

By that point, it was usually the end of lunch break and everyone had gone inside. Which is good, because my zinger was still electrifying the air.

Yes. This has been a proper opening to a blog post. This will go on top.

Except for a photo of Brad Guzan.

***

I just made four attempts at starting this blog post. This is number five. The first was depressing, the second sarcastic, the third derivative, and the fourth nonsensical. I'll just move them down the page and start properly here.

The internet seems to be very slow at the moment. Maybe I should have stuck with one of the original openings (as the actress said to the gored bishop).

Oh, OK. We've just had an email about it. "Internet connectivity issues." It's not just me. That's a relief.

I'd better just ride it out.

You don't need to know any of this. I need to learn to keep my thoughts to myself. Just because I'm typing, it doesn't mean that I have to channel all of my thinking through my fingers. Sometimes it's best to keep your monologue internal. Not all information is of equal value. There's nothing "authentic" about a stream of consciousness - it's just obnoxious.

Yes, this blog is a window into my inner life. But a window doesn't indiscriminately let everything through. There's a pane of glass there. You may be able to see me undressing, but you can't smell my perfume. Less is more. If the reader is partially kept in the dark, they'll be all the more astounded when I whip out a candle.

***

I just made three attempts at starting this blog post. In the third one, I explained about the first two, and also talked about Lou Reed.  But I realised it was too obvious to write about Reed. Many people have written proper things about him, and are proper experts on his life and works. My observations lack conviction, so I'll just move that blog segment down the page and write something here about cowboys.

I'd quite like to be a cowboy. You can make your own schedule. It's like being an ice cream man.

I could sleep in as late as I wanted, as long as I didn't have a showdown to attend. I'm not big on drinking or whoring or gambling or riding horses, but I do like the idea of wearing a belt. Just imagine...

I think I'd mainly like to be in the Old West if I still had knowledge of the future. I'd do much better than Marty McFly. I don't think I have any descendants with terrible accents living in cowboy town, so I'd avoid paradoxes.

It would be really fun to impress people with my knowledge of the future. I could tell them all about avocados. They'd dismiss me at first, but then I'd convince them with my specific knowledge.

"They're a fruit or vegetable!" I'd say. "They're only ripe for a day, and even then they're all bland and slimy. Future Folks refer to them as 'the avocado pear'".

Then I'd take out a photograph of an avocado to prove I was telling the truth.

"You can make a dip that we call 'guacamole', which is quite nice," I'd say. But I'd pronounce it "gwak-a-moley" because they wouldn't be able to understand Spanish.

They'd probably make me mayor, or at least give me a job at the mayor's office, where I could use my futuristic filing skills and astound anyone who came into the mayor's office.

"The avocado pear." I'd use hand gestures to paint a picture.

***

I just made two attempts at starting this blog post, but realised that the first was too depressing, and that the second (which was intended to provide a positive counterpoint to the first) just came across as really sarcastic. So I'll just move both of them down the page, and begin with something else.

Lou Reed is dead. That's a real shame. He wrote a lot of good songs. Also, it's really fun to impersonate his voice. It's basically just talking in an American accent, but a bit more tuneful.

Here's one of his songs. It's about a whale.



I wonder how many songs have "battery acid" in the lyrics. Not enough, I say.

***

I just made a start on this blog post, but realised that my observation was too depressing. So I'll just move it further down the page. Instead, my beginning will be unqualified positivity! A spoonful of sugar helps the misery go down!

What a beautiful day it is! The big storm has come and gone, and has left a clear blue sky and lots of sexy leaves everywhere! There were three "ands" in that sentence! Awesome!

***

I get older every time I look in the mirror. As long as time keeps going forward, that will continue to be true.

Not only that, but every time I look in the mirror, I'm even older than my reflection indicates. It takes the light some time to reach my eyes, so the image that's processed by my brain is of a younger me. I'm older than I look, and I'm older than I can see.

Iron Will

Tomorrow will be the sixth anniversary of Headscissors. That's my iron anniversary, according to Wikipedia. Next year is wool, which seems like a backwards step.

I'm feeling anxious this afternoon. I put it down to the chocolate and orange sponge pudding I had at lunchtime. It was warm, and came with chocolate custard.

I don't normally do warm desserts. I don't know what compelled me to have one today. Probably an external malevolent force, like a witch or some kind of pang.

All I know is I ate a warm sponge pudding, and now I feel anxious. I've been a fool. I'm going to reform. I believe I can be a better man. I believe a better man is a spongeless man.

Let me tell you a story about a spongeless man. I'm sure you'll find it...

absorbing.

;-)))))))))))))))))))))

The Ballad of a Spongeless Man

***

This isn't a ballad. This isn't even a hilarious meta-ballad where I claim not to be writing one. I wrote the above section yesterday. I fully intended to write a ballad then, for all I know. But I don't feel like it today.

Today, the chocolate and orange sponge pudding is but a memory. Also, I don't really know what the a "ballad" is. I think it's a type of duck.

It's not a palindrome, but it's better than a palindrome. It's almost symmetrical.

ballad

It's a lovely word to look at.

***

I wrote the above section on Tuesday. I wrote the section above that on Monday. Today is Thursday.

I refuse to abandon this post. I've put too much effort into it already.

It means that my iron anniversary was actually two days ago. My rosette is obsolete already. And rusty.

I didn't have a sponge today, and I still don't feel comfortable writing a ballad.

It's useful to be able to document my sponge consumption in increments. It's useful.

I used my new power drill yesterday (Wednesday). It was only for putting up a bathroom cabinet, but I already feel like more of a man than I did on Tuesday (ballad) or Monday (sponge).

I can't drive or fight or drink lots of alcohol, but I can drill holes in walls. I'm a real man.

It might seem sexist to suggest that there's something innately masculine about drilling, phallic symbolism notwithstanding. And it is. Women are allowed to drill. And, for all I know, it might make them feel like more of a woman. I think it's what that Shania Twain song is about.

But I felt more like a man, because I was already going down that path. I'm on the man track, so ended up further down the masculine continuum.

Not that you can't switch tracks. I would hate for anyone to think I was being transphobic. It's possible that drilling might make a girl feel more like a man, and a boy more like a woman. Drilling affects different people in different ways. We should be prescriptive when it comes to power tools, unless we're prescribing a certain drill-bit for a specific type of wall.

*sigh*

It's really hard trying to follow a thought through to its conclusion when I'm constantly concerned with political correctness.

Let's just say that drilling made me feel like less of a failure in life. There. Failure is gender-neutral.

I drilled holes and it made me feel better about my comic collection. That's it. I'm not trying to oppress anyone here.

Except for walls. I'm oppressing them. If you're a wall, my drilling adventure was a fucking bloodbath.

I'm not wallist, but I am willing to dismember them in order to mount cabinets. If that makes me a fascist, then you'd better lock me up and throw away the chuck key.

Six years...

Six years is a long time to have been doing this.

Has anyone done a joke about a palindrome being where people race Michael Palins?

Yes, they probably have.

I'm old.

That's the lesson here. It's the common thread.

Sponge puddings, ballads, drills, iron.

Only old people like these things.

Young people like Frubes, diss tracks, lasers, plastic.

It wasn't like this in 2007. What's happened to me?

I look down at my hands and they're all lined and withered there are four of them.

Hang on, that's a zebra carcass... I wondered why my hands had a mane.

I'd better post this, or I'll have to come back in a few days and judge past self. I'm young compared to that guy. He will be ancient.

Youth is wasted on the young. And oldness is wasted on the old. It falls on deaf ears.

Everything is wasted on everything else. It's a fundamental force, like gravity.

The only thing you can do is ignore it. Make something of yourself. Turn a safari exhumation into a profitable hoof depot.

Don't do what I did (or did not) do.

You don't want to wake up in six years' time, wondering "when was the last time I had a sponge pudding", and not even bothering with a question mark.

!!~~POST #800 - GARGANTUAN WATERSHED FIESTA~~!!

The year is 1909. The place is a small European village. Bread is being baked. The baker is a man called Loïc.

Though he bakes bread, he does not think about bread. It's automatic now. Yeast never crosses his mind. He cannot spell the word "crust", either in English or his own language. He doesn't care for flour. He forgets about his oven.

He bakes, but he is not aware of it.

His mind is not on bread. It is on a dream.

This dream has visited him every night for seven weeks. It is always the same. It is as clear as day. It is so vivid that Loïc can still feel it on his skin when he awakens. The dream is more real than his waking life. The dream's smells waft through the room, eclipsing breadsmell and bunsmell alike.

Loïc lives for the dream.

He lives alone. He has never married. His parents are dead. His only brother is abroad somewhere dark and unreachable.

Loïc bakes and sells enough bread to keep himself alive. He doesn't need any more than that. All he desires is enough food to feed himself, enough water to quench himself, a roof over his head, and a comfortable bed.

He needs no luxuries.

He simply requires adequate conditions for sleep.

With the sleep comes the dream. And with the dream comes reality.

After the bread has been baked, Loïc removes it from the oven. He doesn't realise that he is doing this. It is auxiliary. Everything is auxiliary.

Time passes at a steady pace. Loïc knows not to be over-eager. He must not sleep before 8pm, or the dream will not come.

Loïc is not impatient. He is serene. He is content. He is, in his own way, enlightened. He has found a route to happiness, and a route to fulfilment. The route is under the eiderdown. The portal is a single hard pillow.

He turns out his oil lamp, and waits to be illuminated.

And it comes again. It will always come. He is not afraid. It will always come.

Even when death comes, the dream will still be there. When the mortal world is gone, the dream will be everything.

Outside his window, the people of the village laugh and drink and fret and argue and love. They are living what they assume are lives. They think about bread. They think about it every morning. And they think about the baker.

But the baker does not think about the bread. The baker does not think about the people of the village. The baker does not even think about the baker.

The baker thinks about the dream.

And the dream is this:

a small glowing window

beneath the window, a row of buttons, like those of a typewriter - one for every letter

through the window, a strange series of images

images of words, appearing as if by magic

there is colour in the window, and symbols, and sometimes pictures

sometimes the pictures are like photographs, but vivid and strange

photographs of a bearded man, adorned with colour

somehow the man and the writing are connected

the writing does not make sense

it seems like it will, and sometimes it edges close to meaning, but it falls short

the words make reference to places and people and coffee and being bored and not knowing what to write about

sometimes, there are items that have the form of jokes or humorous remarks, but they lack humour, they are not jokes

or maybe the humour is too obscure to fathom

one word recurs and seems to be important

the word is 'blog'

the dream is 'blog'

and so is the world

the world is blog

The baker wakes up from his dream at the same point every morning. He smiles. He revels in the afterglow.

A hum of contentment follows his morning routine, as he bathes and dresses.

There is bread to be made. And it will be made.

But the baker will not think of it.

He has seen through another world's window.

The dough will rise. But it will never rise as high as the baker.

***

Blog anniversary time!

This is Post #800. That's a lot of writing. It's a shame no-one reads it, but at least it means that no-one will feel short-changed when the book comes out.

On my hundredth post, I set a stupid precedent that I continue to follow. The opening picture is part of it. As is the linking to my previous milestone entries:

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
Post #700

As is a conversation with myself in the past.

In Post #700, I wrote:

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

I would say that the brown shirt is on gardening leave. It's still in the wardrobe, and still makes the occasional jaunt out (if there's a laundry emergency for example; or if I have to go to a costume party, the theme of which is "formal turds"). But it's not part of the regular rotation any more. I think it's on its last legs.

Jeremy Hunt, you'll be delighted to know, has moved away from the vital area of culture, and is now the much more trivial Health Secretary.

All we have to worry about now is the fact that he's dismantling the NHS, probably this country's greatest achievement. Hunt is killing poor people, though in a less direct way than he'd probably like.

This isn't like the halcyon days of Post #700. Things are really miserable.

But, on the bright side: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

But enough about me. Post #900 Paul! How's it going, man? Did you manage to plant some flowers in your window boxes?

Also, have you done any good tweets lately, or is that whole deal over with now?

***

In my last anniversary post, I wrote and recorded a WHOLE NEW SONG specifically for the occasion, and made a VIDEO MONTAGE. Imagine!

I haven't put as much work into this one. In fact, I haven't put any work into it. Possibly because I resented the fact that my song and video attracted no comment whatsoever. What's the point?

Ironically, the song itself was about my lack of comments, so it was probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It seems a shame to be so monomedia in this entry though. Maybe I could just do something quick.

That'll do.

I know your attention span is too short to listen to something long, like - I dunno - an AMAZING SONG.

But seriously, you're all great.

And very attractive.

I wonder who the most attractive reader of this blog is... (Excluding me, for several reasons)

If you think you're the most attractive reader of this blog, send a short description of yourself, on a stamped, addressed envelope to the following address:

Headscissors

8212 Scrupulous Drive

Waxahachie, TX

Please note: DO NOT SEND A PHOTOGRAPH. Only a verbal description will be accepted. And, even then, only if it's pretty vague.

***

There's a wrestler that I like called Daniel Bryan.

He's also a wrestler that everyone else likes. He's become really popular, even though he's quite small for a wrestler, and has a big beard, and is a vegan.

He has a strange intensity that makes him fun to watch.

We saw him live, years ago in Coventry (when he was called Bryan Danielson), and he got booed because he stopped his entrance music before everyone could sing along. His music was 'The Final Countdown'. "Only Americans get to hear The Final Countdown!" he said.

That's what you call being a heel.

Wrestling - or more accurately, WWE wrestling - is often full of bad writing and bad decisions. But sometimes, someone like Bryan will come along and take everyone by surprise. I hope he does well.

I don't know why I'm talking about this. Perhaps I just wanted to include some photos in this entry.

If you don't care about wrestling, come back! I'll talk about something everyone likes!

***

Isn't it fun when you put stuff between your toes? Yeah, it is! Like the toes of the other foot. Especially between the third and fourth toes.

It's really satisfying.

Different toes don't have different names like the fingers do. There's the big toe. And the...

Hang on.

Have I talked about this before?

Because I started this as a deliberately lame bit of universal writing. But if I've written it before, in earnest, I'll have egg all over my toes.

I'll search for toe content.

...

It's now several hours later.

I don't think I've ever covered this specific topic, but I certainly have written a lot about toes.

I need to change the subject. I should probably put some socks on.

***

This is enough. I will have lost people at every stage of this entry, and I can't imagine who might be left.

You must be really bored, Sarah. You really must.

Between you and me (and maybe the other Sarah if she's reading), I think you need to have a good hard look at yourself. If you're living a life where you have the time, the patience, or the temperament to read the whole of a post like this, there's something wrong.

You too, Dave.

It's embarrassing.

Don't come down to my level. It's horrible down here.

This has been a lot of fun.

I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments:

"I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments"

MAkes yOU think, mm?!

RED MIST³

The great labelling experiment is over. I have read through all 733 Headscissors blog posts, and have assigned each of them categories.

As activities go, this must rank among the most self-indulgent ever attempted by a human. I've been reading my own words, which often refer to my own words (and in some cases refer to themselves referring to themselves). And now I'm writing about it.

It has taken about a month, and I'm now at the stage where I want myself to be punished for wasting my own time. I deserve a punch for every time I've hit the space bar over the past five years.

The idea was to label the posts, to make them easier to find. I was also hoping to rediscover some entries that would otherwise be forgotten.

I didn't do this for me, dear reader. I did it for you. Navigating the choppy waters of a long-running, little-read blog can be daunting for a new reader. I have provided you with a map. Or a compass. Or a parrot who seems to know what it's doing.

On the right-hand panel of this page, you'll find a long list of labels, demonstrating the scope of my writing. It's pretty exhaustive, except for all of the ones I've missed. As I went on, I wished I'd had certain labels from the beginning. "Time travel" never made it onto the list, but would probably apply to 20% of what I've written.

So, what conclusions can we draw from this study? I'm self-obsessed. That's the main one.

Another is that, despite my initial fears, the quality of my posts has remained reasonably constant. I have good spells and bad spells, but there was never a "golden age" of amazing writing.

What about the labels themselves? What can they teach us about the blog's author?

Let's have a look at the top twenty labels. The number in parentheses refers to the number of blog posts which have that label.

Good (196)
Solipsism (115)
Music (99)
Over-Analysis (77)
Stand-Up (73)
Writing (68)
Video (62)
Picture (58)
Social Skills (56)
Story (53)
Film (52)
Idioms (52)
Tweets (52)
Insanity (49)
Sketch (43)
Jokes (42)
Self-Reflexivity (41)
Books (40)
TV (38)
Internet (36)
Politics (36)
Serious (36)

(There's actually 22 here, but the last few are tied)

The number one label is "Good". This makes me seem arrogant. But keep in mind that I didn't bother with a "Bad" label, because I didn't want to crush my spirits in such concrete terms.

These aren't all actually good. I just wanted to mark out the better posts. These are the ones that require further study, possibly by a team of eager PhD students who committed horrible acts in a past life.

I might go through these, and upgrade some to "Actually Quite Good" when I get the chance. If you click on this label, you're viewing the cream of the crop. Admittedly, the crop is a disgusting barley, and the cream has turned, but still...

196 "Good" posts out of 733 in total. That's 26.74%.

So just over a quarter of what I write is worthwhile. I think we can consider that a triumph.

But "Good" isn't a real label. We can discount that. What's the topic which I deal with most?

In a healthy second place with 115 posts is "Solipsism". I don't think anyone (least of all me) will be surprised to see it high on the list. However, we might wonder why there aren't more posts with this label. This whole blog is basically an exercise in self-obsession. There's an undercurrent (or in some cases: an overcurrent) of solipsism in EVERY post. I suppose I just noted the ones where it was most pronounced. ("Self-Reflexivity" features with 41 entries, hammering this point home. [Isn't that right, Paul?"] And I've brilliantly written 11 posts containing significant "Arrogance")

"Music" is surprisingly high, mainly because of the various Youtube videos I've posted. I don't think I've written too much about it.

"Over-Analysis" is another strong, and expected, part of my arsenal.

You'll notice there are 49 posts that I've labelled as "Insanity". These aren't times where I've discussed insanity, but when what I've written could reasonably have been thought of as insane.

But for really extreme cases of this, there's the "Actual Insanity" label, which only has 3 posts. Click on these at your own risk.

The rest of the leaders are generally to be expected.

The real fun comes further down the list. Some of the most interesting include:

• Liquid (8)
• Salad Bar (8)
• Cereal (4)
• Smaste (4)
• Penny Crayon (2)
• Snikeblomming (2)
• Corn on the Cobs (1)
• Fetus Hummus (1)
• Neneh Cherry (1)

I don't know how I judged what did and didn't deserve a label, but I imagine it was fairly arbitrary.

Anyway, those are the labels. Fun labels. Everyone loves labels, right?

Having done the hard work, I might... you know.. do something with this, or whatever.

There were a couple of entries that really made me think I was a genius. And many more that made me think I was an idiot for thinking the first thing.

Oh well, doing this has wasted a large proportion of my life. That's some comfort.

***

To counterbalance all of these dry statistics, here's something wet and innumerate:

Fresh Content

"The house prices are dirt cheap here," said Lydia, over the sound of the guns. "Some people - picky people - don't like the idea of living right near a firing squad."

Through a chain-link fence, Kat saw a corpse being dragged by its feet.

"I don't see what the big deal is," continued Lydia. "I don't even notice it. We've got a lovely, cheap house with no drawbacks, as far as I'm concerned."

A priest was smoking a fag and looking over at them.

"So how often do they, you know..." Kat struggled to find the right words. "Do it. The firing squad."

"Depends on the time of year. It's not too busy round now. Maybe sixteen or seventeen a day?"

"Oh. Well, that's not too bad."

A loud wail came from the compound. The priest sighed irritably and stubbed out his cigarette. 

Another wail. 

"ALL RIGHT! I'M COMING!" He checked his phone twice and walked slowly back inside.

"I didn't even know they did firing squads anymore," said Kat, nursing a cup of low-calorie hot chocolate that that Lydia had made her without asking.

"It's the only sensible way really." Lydia checked her watch. "There'll be another one in a minute. If you wanna watch."

"Oh," said Kat. "Nah. I'm all right."

They were sitting on Lydia's brand new patio furniture. It was cold, and Kat wondered why they weren't inside.

"Sometimes you can see stuff. Afterwards, I mean. It's like a cloud of red mist."

"Cool. Cool."

There was a commotion from the compound. They could hear the sound of a scuffle, but then everything went quiet.

"Dirt cheap," repeated Lydia.

Kat had just got to the brown silt at the bottom of her mug when a man appeared at the fence. He wasn't the priest. He looked dirty and his hands were bound.

"Hi," said Kat.

Lydia looked over at him and scowled. "Are you supposed to be here?"

The man looked at Lydia. "No," he said. "I'm not supposed to be here. That's the point."

He waited for a few seconds, as though waiting to be invited in, and then started to scale the fence.

"What are you doing?!" asked Lydia, outraged. "You can't come in here!"

He clumsily negotiated his way over the top of the fence and dropped down onto the patio. He was barefoot.

"My name's Malcolm," he said. 

"I'm Kat," said Kat.

"Don't talk to him, for Christ's sake!" Lydia had stood up from her recliner, put her own (full fat) hot chocolate on the white plastic table, and stood poised. "Get out! This is my house!"

"I'm sorry to bother you," said Malcolm, ignoring Lydia and directing his attention to Kat. "Would you mind if I borrowed your phone?"

"Um... no. I suppose not." Kat got her phone out of her pocket, but Lydia slapped it to the ground.

"What are you doing?! He's a maniac!"

"I'm really not," said Malcolm, again only to Kat. "Honestly. I'd tell you if I was."

"Where are the guards?!" Lydia ran over to the chain-link fence and peered through.

"Listen, Kat. I know we've only just met. And I know you don't have any reason to trust me. And that's... totally understandable. It is. But I'm in a bit of a pickle here, and I was wondering if you could help me."

As he was saying this, Lydia had run over to the shed and picked up a rake. She returned, brandishing it.

"What do you need?" asked Kat, who was secretly quite pleased to be talking to someone other than Lydia.

"Have you got a car?" asked Malcolm. "Would you mind giving me a lift?"

An alarm klaxon blared from the compound, along with distant indignance and distant dogs.

"Um..." she looked over at Lydia, who looked back with a furious, incredulous look (also, her arms were getting tired from holding the rake). "Sure, why not?"

"Great!" said Malcolm. "We can get to know each other on the way."

Kat picked up her phone from the floor and got her car keys out of her pocket. Lydia was frozen in rake-laden horror. She couldn't speak.

The dogs got louder.

"Do you like millionaires' shortbread?" asked Malcolm, on the way to the car. "I found some in one of the kitchens."

Kat paused, open-mouthed. Eventually, she said "I love millionaires' shortbread".

Malcolm smiled. Kat smiled.

Over their shoulders, Lydia dropped the rake. A priest, holding his head, was frantically questioning her, as the dogs sniffed around for the source of the chocolate.

Labels

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

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

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

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

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

Swearing

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

Rape Jokes

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

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

Atheism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankfurt.

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

I just scrapped an opening poem, which began:

O 'lympics!

And ended:

You currently top the meddle table

And had nothing of worth in between.

So, the Olympics!

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

So let's break it down:

I hate people who love the Olympics.

I hate people who hate the Olympics.

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

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

It's human nature, but nevertheless: dick.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Idea #1

A Smaller Pencil

I've peaked too early.

***

It's later now.

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

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

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

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

Five years, man!! FIVE! FIVE years.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was lying! I've never had moons.

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

"The.. Morning Magician?"

"The what?!"

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

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

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

ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL?

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

Worthless.

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

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

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

It's probably the weather and the school holidays.

I'm fine.

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

It just goes to show.

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

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

Pupa

I was about to launch into a story, but lost confidence in it. Yesterday's anecdote may have set the bar too high.

In short: late last night, I knocked some cereal down the back of the fridge and had to clean the whole area.

That summary is fine. I probably would have just inserted some unnecessary metaphors to pad it out.

It certainly seemed dramatic at the time.

Let's put it all behind us.

***

I wrote the above last week. The fridge incident is ancient history. I'd forgotten I even owned an area.

It's a different world now. And a different week. A different month, even. Everything is different.

We're over half way through the year, which seems ridiculous. The older you get, the faster you get (older). I've been writing in short sentences again. I thought I had slain that structural beast. I'll try to make this one quite long and, if it can possibly be arranged, a constituent of a lengthy paragraph which will convince me, you, and any people poking their heads over your shoulder, eyes forward, frantically scanning your screen, that I can write an epic novel set against the background of me not actually doing that.

Paragraphs can be a strain. Man was not meant to build so mighty a word-hut. It's like the Tower of Babel. I can't really remember what the moral of that story was, but I think it's something to do with words and tall things. I'm going to stay brusque.

Let''s get on board the dialogue train. As you may remember, I'm a master when it comes to putting words in the mouths of characters or inanimate objects that have mouths (e.g. plastic rivers etc).

Traffic Warden: Excuse me, madam.

Gloweria: Yes?

Traffic Warden: Are you aware that your child has expired?

Gloweria: What?

Traffic Warden: Your child, madam. It expired [*CHECKS WATCH*] eight minutes ago.

She checks the back seat and sees the warden is correct.

Gloweria: Oh. Yes, I'm sorry about that. I was just going to get some change.

Traffic Warden: Be that as it may...

Gloweria: Come on. Please. It was only eight minutes.

Traffic Warden: It doesn't matter how long it's been. It's expired.

Gloweria: But, eight minutes? He's still warm, for goodness sake!

Traffic Warden: There's no grey area here, madam. More of a pale blue. I'll have to write you a ticket.

Gloweria: You don't have to.

Traffic Warden: The law is the law.

Gloweria: [*FRUSTRATED SIGH*] The problem... with people like you... is that you have no compassion.

Traffic Warden: I'm not paid to have compassion, madam. I'm paid to ensure that any children who may be inside a vehicle are still within their allotted lifespan.

Gloweria: THIS IDEA IS GOING NOWHERE.

Traffic Warden: I agree. [*FRANCE*]

***

How do you know when you're jaded? I'm certainly jader than I was, but I'm curious to know when the process will be complete. It is always a gradual change? Or is it like a chipper caterpillar climbing into a chrysalis and emerging an entirely jaden butterfly?

Perhaps jadening is just part of life. It goes hand in hand with knowledge and experience. The jaded man (or woman) is a learned man (or likewise).

It should not be seen as cynicism, but as ripening. Each person is a reverse-banana, getting greener and harder as we get older. The facts have presented themselves; we are adapting.

Those people who do not become jaded remain yellow and soft. They bruise easily.

Jadening is strengthening. To be jaded is to be protected.

I think I was born partially jaded. In childhood photos, I look both suspicious and bored. I'm yawning in some of them. But the older you get, the easier it is to put on the green jacket.

Not the jealousy jacket. That's a different shade of green.

Nor is it the hemp-woven environmentalist jacket.

It is the jade jacket. It is comfortable and has many pockets. No-one can ever touch you if you wear the jade jacket. Even if you'd like them to. The zip sticks.

***

That's an extract from the blog post I'm writing at the moment. I'm not sure where it's going to go from there. I think I might follow it with three asterisks and a sentence explaining what it is.

July is already shaping up to be the best month ever. Two days in, and still no drunken sword-sharpening accidents. Not for me, anyway. I evade the blade as a matter of course. And avoid the bloid if things get hairy.

Yes. Yes. I will stop writing. Thank you. It seems so obvious now.

!!~~POST #700 - ELEPHANTINE JUBILEE SOIRÉE~~!!

My, my, my.

Seven of these. Seven.

Seven posts that include a picture of myself made odder in Paint, a sprinkling of asterisks, an ambitious failure or two, and a conversation with my past and future selves.

It's anniversary time.

Bring out your bunting, I'm stealing the monarch's thunder. But my colours aren't red, white and blue. They're brown, black and chrome. God Save The Blog.

If you'd like to chart my development as a writer and as an adult, you can view my previous celebrations here:
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600

I've read all of them. I certainly seem to hate the Catholic Church in the first two. Of course, I still hate the Catholic Church. But I'm less outspoken about it. I seem to have mellowed. Seven hundred posts' worth of mellowing. I'm barely conscious.

Seven hundred. That's quite a lot. You couldn't fit them all in an envelope. Unless they were on a USB stick. And even then, you'd need one with a large GENIUS capacity.

I'm patting myself on the back. And I'm backing myself to pat myself on the back. And Pat is backing... oh, you know.

You know.

You can open your champagne now.

***

In Post #600, I wrote:

Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be famous.)

Well, Post #600 Paul, it's funny you should ask. And sleazy. I'm currently wearing an outfit that you may well also have been wearing. Grey boxer shorts (old), two grey socks (superficially the same grey, but they actually belong to two different sock families), my jeans (my only pair of jeans; my only pair of trousers), my brown shirt, and some trainers.

And eleven ruffs. I'm struggling to breathe, but every now and then make up for it by rolling on my desk and claiming to be a car wash.

Who's the most famous person to have died? I don't know. You were writing your question in September 2011. Donna Summer and Robin Gibb have died recently. Are they famous? Have I missed out anyone obvious?

I've looked it up on Wikipedia. Whitney Houston and Davy Jones are both pretty famous. Oh hang on. I've gone further back and there are loads of famous people: Gaddafi, Jobs, Smokin' Joe, Christopher Hitchens.

Let's say Gaddafi. He deserves it. Congratulations.

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

***

I've been meaning to do this for a while, so have taken advantage of the occasion to put together a little tribute video. To myself. You may think that's crass, but I've never claimed to be Not Crass. Have I? No.

The images in this video all come from previous blog posts. I keep them all in one folder and forget what I used them for. See if you can remember any of them! It'll be fun! Quite a lot of them are of me. I really do seem to be interested in my own face.

The song is also a new one, written specially for use here. Listening to it has finally made me realise that I'm not as good a singer as I seem in my head. In my head, I'm a good singer. Outside my head, I'm the opposite of that. You all knew that before of course, but I've finally caught up.

Enough preamble! Let's reminisce!



*sniff* I think there's... something in my eye...

Any gloominess or complaining in that video was ironic, I assure you. I'm very happy to be alive.

On the not-receiving-many-comments front, I assume it's just because all of my (many?) readers are too busy. But I'd like to give a shout-out to e.f. bartlam, whose comments are always much appreciated. You should visit his blog, which is always interesting.

It's strange to give a shout-out. I wasn't sure if it was a shout out, a shout-out or a shoutout. You shouldn't give too many away, though. Not in this recession. Hoard your shout-outs. You can use them as firewood after the apocalypse.

***

Yesterday, I did the washing up. That's not interesting in and of itself. It's not even interesting... uh... out and... unrelated to... yourself... But I'm still going to tell you about it, because my psychotherapist asks me to discuss my traumas. She has no existence outside of the previous sentence, but still - you can't argue with a diploma.

The reason the washing up was traumatic was that it took AGES. Far longer than any washing up has ever taken before. I don't know why. There didn't seem to be that much stuff to do. There wasn't anything baked-on. There was no need for prolonged scrubbing.

It just seemed to last forever. There was always another plate, another mug, another spoon. We only have about two spoons, I don't know where they were coming from. It was like some kind of Escher chore: every time I put a mug on the draining board, it would fall through its own handle and back into the mug factory. Filthy.

I had to stop at one point to recharge my batteries. I lit a fire (with bundled shout-outs as kindling), and had to forage for food. Luckily, I was in the kitchen. Food was abundant. That didn't stop me from eating a sponge, of course. I wasn't passing up THAT opportunity.

The clock ticked ever onwards, and there were still more things to wash. I kept generating suds. I kept rinsing. Evening turned to night, night to morning, morning to lunchtime, ashes to ashes, person to person, Heavens to Betsy.

My arms ached, my soul ached, my water consumption caused a perennial hosepipe ban. Everything was piled, teetering on the draining board, heaped as high as the precarious tower of metaphors and exaggerations I've built in this blog post.

And then it was over.

I wept.

I slept.

I was inept.

Upon waking, I looked at my hard work.

One colander and a few egg cups.

Had I imagined my struggle? Was it all a delusion caused by drinking Fairy liquid? I'll never know.

But I'll never forget it.

Or I might, I don't know. It's probably not important.

***

There's too much text up there. These celebrations are supposed to showcase my diversity. Sure, the video did that. Even if I keep listening to it and dislike it more each time.

But I can do more. I will do more.

In Post #600 I did a script extract that was bad, even by my standards. So let's remedy that with something AMAZING.

I haven't written it yet, but can only assume it will be.

WILLIAM: Susan? Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: Come over here.

SUSAN: I can't. 

WILLIAM: What? Why?

SUSAN: This is a phone call. You are eighteen thousand miles away. And I'm a paraplegic.

WILLIAM: But there's a spider.

SUSAN: Be that as it may...

WILLIAM: Oh... Hang on. It's not a spider. It's just a shadow.

SUSAN: Good. Listen, I'd better go. I'm giving a lecture on emotivism, and I...

WILLIAM: Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: I was wrong. Well, I was right. It is a shadow.

SUSAN: Mmm-hmm?

WILLIAM: But it's the shadow of a spider. So there is a spider.

SUSAN: Why don't you just ignore it?

WILLIAM: Ignore it?

SUSAN: Yes. It won't bother you if you don't bother it.

WILLIAM: You said that about my samurai sword.

SUSAN: Yes. It's the same thing.

WILLIAM: But it cut my arm off.

SUSAN: Only after you provoked it. What did you call it? "A glorified butter knife"?

WILLIAM: *pause* Yeah...

SUSAN: So just don't insult the spider.

WILLIAM: Ah.

SUSAN: Ah what?

WILLIAM: I already called it a glorified daddy longlegs.

SUSAN: Run into the garage and lock the door. I'll phone the sheriff.

You see? I can really deliver when I put my mind to it.

***

Short jokes!

Horse? Face.

Chicken? Side.

Spade? Doug.

Brown? Stick.

Leon? "Prince of Lemons"

Octopus? Noctopus.

Wire wool.

Misunderstanding.

***

And to round things off, here's a creepy Jeff Hardy:

***

We've all been through a lot. Let's take a moment to reflect. Polish yourselves.

***

I suppose that'll do it. I bet the Queen hasn't got a picture of herself looking this stupid. If she did, it would have to be made into a stamp. And if it was, I'd start sending a heck of a lot more letters.

I'll see you again shortly.

800 will be a nice round number.