Decisions

I'm writing this in an entirely different county!

It may take you a little while to deal with that revelation, so feel free to have a lie down or rub your temples until you feel better.

Change can be difficult to take, but I'm sure your constitution will soon allow you to continue reading as though nothing is wrong at all.

I'm in Devon. When I first began this blog, I was in Devon. So this is like a return to the motherland (my mother also lives here, but that's a side issue). This is like a pilgrimage to Java. Or it would be, if I'd started this blog in Java.

I didn't start this blog in Java. I started it in Devon (which is where I am now).

So, like the noble dolphin, tired of its brief evolutionary foray into land-dwelling, I have slunk back into the welcoming womb of the ocean to return to my racist lobster caricature friends. We're having a luau.

You can tell this blog was born in the West Country. Sometimes it will eat a scone. Sometimes it will host a Surfers Anonymous meeting. Sometimes it will build a sandcastle, sandbungalow or sandsuntanningsalon.

It won't do any of those things. It is just a blog.

You may have guessed that I have nothing to say today.

Correct. But if I say it a pretentious way, nothing will become something. Something with an umlaut in it. Or a reference to Cervantes.

AREN'T I CLEVER?

Every sentence I write is an attempt to redress the failings of my previous one. So far, I've sounded like a wanky idiot. So I've used the term 'wanky idiot' to show that I'm just an ordinary person. I don't always talk all funny or nuffink.

Now I need to counterbalance that last paragraph with something genuine and insightful. Something about bees.

Now I need to talk about wasps.

You see? It's a difficult proposition, this "trying to not sound like a loser" project.

Here are three things that have happened today:

1) I walked on a beach
2) I walked on a pavement
3) I walked on water

You might question that last thing, but remember: humans are composed of mostly water. So the soles of my feet are probably also mostly water. I have walked on the soles of my feet, so there. I'm not a liar.

***

I'd be a rubbish hitman.

I haven't got a gun. I haven't got any experience of using guns.

I've never been in a proper fight, let alone killed anyone.

I would have ethical problems with being a hired killer. I don't want to kill anyone at all, let alone have my victims being determined by some arbitrary third party.

I don't like to travel. I can't drive. I'm not good at making my own schedule. I'm not a "people person".

If anyone suggested to me that I become a hitman, I would unequivocally say "no".

I can do decent accents, I suppose. And wouldn't mind dressing up in cool disguises.

But that's not enough. The main part of being a hired killer is the killing. I am thoroughly unqualified.

Seriously. Don't even bother asking me.

I don't care how good the pay is.

The pay isn't an issue.

The fact of the matter is I don't want to be a hitman.

And even if I did, I'd be no good at it.

You want someone with expertise. Perhaps with a military background.

Look at my CV. Just look at it.

What is there on my CV that would make you think, in any sense, that I would be an effective assassin?

Yes, I know it says I enjoy problem solving. And I sort-of do. But not when that problem is a person being alive.

I worked for Thames Valley Police, granted. But those were office positions. There are no skills that I learned in those jobs that are transferable to killing. None.

Seriously. Give it up.

...

...

I haven't even been paintballing.

I went to Laser Quest a few times as a teenager. I was average at best. Check with the Laser Quest head office. I assume they keep the statistics.

It's frankly ridiculous that anyone would ever want me to be a hitman.

And I'll say again - I don't think I emphasised this enough before - I am anti-killing. I don't believe in capital punishment. I think taking a human life is wrong.

I will NOT become a hitman.

If we were writing a list of the pros and cons, the 'cons' would need several dozen sheets of paper. The 'pros' would just need a Post-It. A Post-It with 'quite good at accents' on it.

The evidence is so one-sided, I can't even believe this is an argument.

I'd be awful.

And I'm only getting older. I assume you'd want hitmen to start young. I'm nearly thirty. It's too late for me to start an entirely new career in such a specialised field. You might as well ask me to become a dentist. It's not going to happen.

It's madness, really.

No.

No.

I will not become a hitman.

No, you will not be able to win me round.

Yes, I know it looks cool in the films. I know Jason Statham makes it look cool. But that's not enough. Something being cool in Hollywood is not enough to make me want to take up a whole new occupation.

I'm literally 100% certain.

I would never become a hitman.

I'd never want to associate myself with Margaret Thatcher, but the lady's not for turning. (I'm the lady in this scenario)

I think I've outlined my reasons quite clearly. I'm absolutely intractable on this. You're wasting your time and my time.

I'd be a rubbish hitman.

You're going to have to find someone else.

Punch and Judy

Oh yeah!

B: An anecdote about a bleeding pensioner
On the day before my sister's wedding, Lucy, my friend Alex and I went out for a drink in Sidmouth. It was quite early in the day. Probably too early to be drinking, but we were in a mood to flout convention, I suppose. I was wearing an argument, Alex was dusting a soldier from the American Civil War, and Lucy was composed mainly of phosphorescent antlers.

Sidmouth is a small seaside town. Actually, I don't know if that's true. I'm not sure where it ranks on the scale of seaside towns. It could be relatively large for all I know. But it is a seaside town. And is smaller than India.

You know all about Sidmouth, of course, if you've been reading this blog from the beginning. We were living there when I began this Headscissors thing. But I feel I should accommodate the (what I imagine is) thousands of new readers I get each week. Welcome to you all.

So we went out at about half past eleven. Probably too early to be drinking. We went to Duke's which is Sidmouth's social hub (at least as far as my family is concerned) - a very nice pub/coffee shop on the sea front.

We ordered Pimm's, because it was summer and we're middle class. Also, I don't like drinking, but Pimm's doesn't taste like alcohol. So I can drink it to fit in with the rest of society. Like hanging out with cool smokers by using one of those joke-shop talcum powder cigarettes.

Alex also bought some crisps. If I remember correctly, they were Nobby's crisps. He was furious! Ahahahaha! Not really. That is the brand name. What a hilarious misunderstanding. I think they were an odd flavour. Like squid. Or jet skis.

As I said, it was sunny, so we went to sit on one of the tables outside, overlooking the sea. The table we sat on was wooden, and I believe it was round. It might have been hexagonal. It might even have been square. It could have been any shape. It could have been a pyramid. It could have been a Moebius strip, with a single pork scratching, discarded years ago, rolling across its surface for eternity.

But let's just say it was round. The shape of the table is important for what follows.

We sat at regular intervals around the table. Evenly spaced. We didn't discuss it beforehand, but it must have been instinct. If two of the three companions are closer together it creates seeds of doubt in the mind of the other. And seems a bit like a job interview.

We were sat at evenly-spaced intervals around the table, drinking Pimm's (even though it was probably too early to be drinking), and having hilarious banter (Alex loves banter - and the suffix "-gate", but that's not relevant here).

After a couple of minutes, I looked up and saw a paramedic.

I don't know how I missed him before.

He was wearing a luminous jacket. With "PARAMEDIC" written on it. It was like he was trying to be seen.

But I'd only just noticed him.

Because of our spacing around the table, neither Lucy nor Alex could see him (I told you it was relevant). Lucy was facing back towards Duke's, Alex was facing something else (perhaps a bronze statue of a seagull) and trying to do a crossword. Trying.

So it was my duty to say to these oblivious people "Hey, there's a paramedic!". Except I didn't.

Because the job of a paramedic is to help injured people. And there was an injured person.

That's why the paramedic was there. All the pieces fell together, like I jigsaw thrown from a hovercopter.

A couple of tables in front of me (unseen my my companions) was an old woman, looking slightly shaken, the back of her head covered in blood.

I don't use the phrase "old woman" lightly. It could be a bit reductive. But I'm 99% sure she was a woman. And I think pretty much everyone would have considered her old.

Though the blood was quite conspicuous, I think it was mainly because it covered her hair. I don't think there was a huge amount. But seeing an OAP's red rinse is a bit shocking, especially when you've been drinking Pimm's, and especially when it's probably a bit too early to be drinking, and especially when your sister's getting married the next day.

Well OK, the latter thing may not have had any impact on my reaction. But it adds a sense of significance to an anecdote which, to be honest, isn't nearly as interesting as this build-up would lead you to believe.

I hadn't seen the injury occur. I suppose she must have fallen and hit her head. She didn't seem too badly hurt - she was sitting up outside Duke's, not lying in hospital - but did seem to be getting stitches.

Anyway, that's not the salient issue. In fact, I resent her for taking up so much of my time already.

"Stupid woman! Look where you're going! Have some Nobby's crisps, you idiot! No he won't mind! Ahahaha! Not really. That is the brand name. What a hilarious misunderstanding."

The real issue was my reaction, which was to...

not really do anything - and not tell Lucy or Alex.

They couldn't see what was going on. They were having a pleasant time in the Devon sun, struggling through a crossword, eating Nobby's crisps (ahahaha), and drinking Pimm's, (and it was probably just about late enough by now to start drinking).

I didn't want to make them feel slightly uncomfortable. Which is all it would have been. Slightly uncomfortable. There's a bleeding pensioner nearby. She's being looked after by a professional medic. She'll be fine. We don't need to do anything. But we would feel slightly uncomfortable.

So I hid the fact.

And quite well, too. Especially considering I'd been drinking, and it was my sister's wedding the next day (and I'm not the best at keeping secrets at the best of times - just ask my gay friend Chris).

I felt quite altruistic. I was already feeling slightly uncomfortable. But I took one for the team.

Though my altruism was tempered by the fact that 10% of the justification for my silence was that I couldn't be bothered to move. After all, we had Nobby's crisps and newspaper spread across the place.

I don't want to get up just because there's a granny wearing a crimson hairnet, getting stitched up like fucking Batman.

I told Lucy about it afterwards. I don't know if I ever told Alex. If he's reading this: now you know the truth. I'm sorry for the secrecy. But I feel it was for your own good.

We had a pleasant time after that. I got quite drunk (and it was definitely too early for that), and we went home and had lunch. Or we did after Lucy volunteered us to go and get milk.

Three drunkards, off to get milk.

That poor cow...

So that's Bleeding-Pensionergate. A story of me seeing something mildly unusual and not telling anyone about it.

I might make it into a screenplay, starring Maggie Smith as Bleeding Pensioner and James Nesbitt as Nobby.

Queer as Folk

Oh well. I'm not surprised, or even disappointed. Just sad.

I saw the Simpsons Movie yesterday and it was rubbish. Just really bad.

However, it wasn't bad in the way that I thought it was. I thought I'd hate it because of the lack of subtlety, the bastardisation of much-loved characters, and beacuse of an overabundance of the same in-your-face edginess that they used to lampoon (see Simpsons Seasons 9-18 for further examples of this).

It was bad because it just wasn't very funny. They raised the odd smile, but the cinema was pretty quiet throughout. How can the same people responsible for, let's face it, the best television programme ever, produce something so... bland?

It didn't do anything that a Simpsons movie should do: nothing extraordinary in plot, no inside jokes for the nerds, no opportunities for the other Springfield characters to do anything interesting.

Oh well, at least it wasn't as bad as Family Guy.

That was a joke.

***

On the other side of the news (I don't know how many sides the news has, it could be a rhombus), it's the Sidmouth Folk Festival this week! It's a pretty huge event, and the place is crammed full of smelly hippies, bored kids and paedophiles (or Morris Dancers, as they're sometimes known). The latter make the kids slightly less bored.

Today we saw traditional Japanese drumming, performed by decidedly un-Japanese people. One of them looked like Coventry City manager Ian Dowie, I noticed.

There is a big craft fair, with people selling plastic animals and pendants and cloth bags and fudge. It's funny how a festival which is ostensibly concerned with peace and harmony and stuff contains tents that are the epitome of base, carny capitalism, selling people things they don't need for exhorbitant prices. Come on, no-one needs a gemstone thimble or a sponge frog, do they?

Well, hopefully the music will be good anyway. And I can act all superior because I live here, and complain about tourists with the withering old shrubs that sit on the seafront.

***

--witty closing remark was not found--

Our man in the field

Topical news today:

Sidmouth is right near Branscombe, which (you might remember) is where a ship called the MSC Napoli ran aground months ago. It was notable as many vultures flooded down to grab some of the fallen cargo and lower my opinion of humankind.

You can see the boat very clearly from Sidmouth beach. Anyway, they've only recently been trying to move it, but it has been breaking up as it is unstable. This has caused some oil and other polluting shit to flow into the water.

So today, in a (short) spell of glorious weather, Lucy and I decided to go paddling in the lapping waves. The sand golden; the crests of the waves and the beach pebbles shining like gems. The cool water soothed our feat, as the hot, muggy air floated up, past the red sandstone of the cliffs, towards the cloudless sky.

We sauntered along the beach, without a care in the world. And there, lying on its back was a big, fat, dead, crab.

This is when we noticed a lot of black stuff floating in the water. It seemed to be just little specks, but as we moved further on, we saw more and more. When our feet left the water, it was clear that we had lots of bits of oil on our feet.

We had to clean them with white spirit.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...

I'm not sure that the crab was killed by the oil, but it seems likely. What a disgusting abuse of nature. It made it taste all tarry! Yuk!

I'm not sure what the moral of the story is. Probably the controversial message: "pollution is bad!" That's a wonderful slice of Newsround morality. That programme only ever seemed to have stories on oil slicks and pandas (and that hot presenter Becky!). In many ways, it's just like the rest of television news, but with fewer pretensions.

***

Nerd Alert!

You know what's annoying? The fact that Superman in presented as being as fast as The Flash. I mean, speed is all The Flash has. He's not strong, he can't shoot lasers out of his urethra, he just runs quickly.

Superman can run, jump, fly, see through walls, pick up planets, juggle, punch people, sing, speak Welsh, smoke a pipe, fuck up the Coundown conundrum, and do innumerable other things. And he's as fast as The Flash.

Talk about emasculating. Poor Flash. If I was Superman (and, trust me, I'm close), I'd let Flash win a few races, just to make him feel better.

"Whew! You sure beat me, Flash! You really are the fastest man alive. I'm knackered!" and as he left, under my breath, I'd say "I'm just off to fuck Lois Lane and throw a potato into the sun, you fucking pussy..."

***

Here's a few more nonsensical nuggets from my writer's notebook:

"Posthumously, post-taramasalata-ly"

"Schindler's Listening!"

"Postman Pat must be turning in his grave"

"Hyde & Sikh"

***

To give me something to say beyond "goodbye" in this last section, my above Superman rant reminded me of this very funny site. If you haven't seen it before, I recommend browsing around:

http://www.superdickery.com/galleries.html

See you in the funny pages!

Or the OBITUARIES.