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Two students, looking through course documentation, choosing classes:

Jim: OMG, look! There's a class on bras! I'm doing that one! Should be fun, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. I've always been interested in bras, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Kev: There's a class on bras? Where?

Jim points to a course heading.

Kev: What are you talking about?

Jim: Bras.

Kev. Yeah. No. I mean, that's not a course on bras. It's a course on CObras. The snakes.

Jim: What?

Jim looks more closely.

Jim: Oh. I thought it was bras.

Kev: You can read. What did you think the C and the O were about?

Jim: I thought they were a winking face emoji. You know, like... "bras" *wink*. Or *wink* bras. Because they know it's rude.

Kev: Why would they put an emoji in the course name? Anyway, a C can't be a winking eye. There's no vertical winking. 

Jim: Isn't there? *winks*

Kev: It's a shame. I bet a course on bras would be pretty interesting. It could be mainly a fashion thing, but they could also get into bras as a political/ social symbols. Like burning bras and stuff. I think the history of the bra would be an interesting topic. 

Jim: Yeah, it's a shame. I suppose it would be unlikely for them to run a course on bras here at Sheffield Reptile College.

Kev: Yeah.

Jim: Not sure if I'll sign up for cobras. After all, I'm already doing that course on pythons.

Kev: How's that going?

Jim: I don't like it. I only signed up by accident. I thought it was a class on pylons.

Kev: Oh. Did you think the TH was, what, some kind of wonky waffle emoticon?

Jim: Mmmmmmmmmmaybe.... *waffles*

Through the Looping-Glass

I found a scrap of paper, wedged between two bench slats. It drew my attention because the paper was clean and starched-stiff, and sticking up like a proud feather.

I picked it up and read. In crisp, clear, hand-written text were written the words "PLEASE TURN OVER".

I turned it over, and read the other side. In crisp, clear, hand-written text were written the words "TURN OVER".

I didn't appreciate the lack of a please, so I thought "forget it" and tucked the paper back in the bench. All I want is a modicum of politeness.

Now I'll never know what was on the other side.

Good afternoon.

I've been re-reading old blog posts recently. Some of them are pretty good - even the ones I didn't like at the time. That means that in the future, I might enjoy re-reading this one.

Especially if the format is

INTERESTING.

No-one wants to re-read a wall of plain text.

I will now transcribe a conversation that took place during at least three separate Revolutionary Wars:

***

Head Revolutionary: Let's revolt.

Followers: We agree. On one condition.

Head Revolutionary: What's that?

Followers: When the existing system is overthrown, we should all get matching tattoos.

Head Revolutionary: *shrug* That's it? You don't even need my permission for that. That's totally up to you.

Followers: Yeah. No, we knew that. Of course.

Head Revolutionary: Oh, hang on. Did you want me to get one too?

Followers: Get one what?

Head Revolutionary: A tattoo.

Followers: Oh. No, we weren't thinking that.

Head Revolutionary: I will. I totally will. I'd be happy to get one.

Followers: No, it's OK.

Head Revolutionary: Right. So that was the only condition?

Followers: *conferring, whispering* Actually, no. We have a new condition. The tattoo one wasn't the real one. This is the real one.

Head Revolutionary: OK - shoot.

Followers: When the existing system is overthrown, we should all get Korean food.


Head Revolutionary: Korean food.


Followers: Yes. It’s non-negotiable. We won’t revolt unless we get Korean food.


Head Revolutionary: And that’s definitely your only condition?


Followers: *conferring, whispering* Yes. *conferring, whispering* Or a high-end pie.


Head Revolutionary: Fine. 100% agreed. Do you want me to pay?


Followers: No, we’ll all chip in.


Head Revolutionary: Great. So… revolution?


Followers: *cheering, fist-pumping* Revolution!!


But the revolution fails because the tattoos and the Korean octopus curry contain lethally incompatible inks.


***

I can’t wait to re-read that.

In my forties.

a conversation I dreamed a few weeks ago

Two people are having a conversation.

***

Person 1: My name is Charles Donnelly Player. So my friends call me 'CD Player'. Get it?

Person 2: Seedy Player?

Person 1: No, C. D. Player. Like a CD Player.

Person 2: Oh. Yeah, I get it.

...(pause)...

Person 2: Or, what about, instead of that, you call yourself C Deep Layer? That's even better.

Person 1: What does that mean?

Person 2: You know: Deep Layer. Like... you have a deep layer. Like underneath the surface, there's a hidden deep layer to you. One of your layers is deep. And the 'C' is your first initial. Get it?

Person 1: Ohhhh, right. Yeah, I get it. I think 'CD Player' is better, though.

Person 2: But why would you want to be named after an obsolete technology? You might as well call yourself 'Windows XP'. 

...(pause)...

Person 2: If your middle name was Xavier. 

...(pause)...

Person 2: And your first name was Windows.

Person 1: ...

What You've Done

I'm working on a series of sketches featuring a wise-ass gumshoe-type who is taken to various ramshackle locations, and each time sarcastically says "I love what you've done with the place...".

That would be the whole sketch. There would be a series of them. It would be his catchphrase.

I know rapid-fire catchphrase-based sketches are a bit 90s, but I think they're due for a comeback.

Here are my suggestions for the early sketches.

INT. ABATTOIR - DAY

Two henchman drag GUMSHOE onto the killing floor. There are animal carcasses everywhere. Blood on the walls, rusty saws, bones, hooves. They throw him at the feet of a BUTCHER wearing a bloody smock.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the place...

END OF SKETCH

That one's not great. But it's just there to set up the premise. There would be several of these in every episode.

INT. THE OVAL OFFICE - DAY

Two secret servicemen drag GUMSHOE into the office. There are plaques everywhere. Wallpaper on the walls, nice carpet, desk, potted plants. They throw him at the feet of BARACK OBAMA.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the place...

END OF SKETCH

We're already rolling.

I know what you're thinking. You're wondering what the joke is. Well, there isn't a joke. It's not that kind of sketch. The trick is repetition. People enjoy it when they expect something to happen and then that thing happens.

INT. THE EARTH'S CORE - DAY

Two mole-men drag GUMSHOE into a lava cave. There are lava everywhere. Lava on the walls, rivers of magma, molten rock, fires. They throw him at the feet of a FIRE DEMON.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the place...

END OF SKETCH

All of these sketches will appear in the first five minutes of the sketch show - just to get people up to speed.

After this, we can start stretching our comedy wings.

EXT. WORLD TRADE PLAZA - SEPTEMBER 11 2001

Two firemen drag GUMSHOE out of some rubble. There is dust everywhere. Crying people, paramedics, police officers, general distress. They gently help him to a STRETCHER-BEARER.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the place...

END OF SKETCH

Edgy.

You see how versatile this is? We can do anything with it.

By this point, we'll be about seven minutes into the sketch show, and people will be getting complacent. So we mix things up.

INT. CHINA SHOP - DAY

GUMSHOE walks into a china shop. There is crockery everywhere. Jugs, bowls, saucers, vases. The OWNER is behind the counter.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the plates...

The OWNER accepts the compliment with good grace.

END OF SKETCH

Yes, we are also going to do one set in a fish and chip shop. You can probably figure out the punchline. (Clue: it features a certain type of fish. Plaice.)

We're winding down now. Only a couple more in this episode. You can have too much of a good thing.

INT. GUMSHOE'S HOUSE - DAY

Two neighbours carry GUMSHOE into his own house. There are GUMSHOE's possessions everywhere. Furniture, photographs, Blu-ray collection, cat. They gently help him to the SOFA.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the place...

The neighbours look at each other, concerned.

NEIGHBOUR 1

(TENTATIVE) We haven't done 

anything with the place. 

This is *your* house.

GUMSHOE looks around and smirks.

END OF SKETCH

We'll be about ten minutes into a twenty-eight minute episode at this point (this will be on the BBC). The gumshoe sketches will stop for the next eighteen minutes. People will think we've forgotten about them.

But we haven't forgotten about them.

After the credits have rolled, we'll have one final surprise:

INT. HOUSE OF MIRRORS - DAY

GUMSHOE stares at his dozen reflections. He looks around and smirks.

GUMSHOE

(SARCASTIC) I love what you've 

done with the place...

His smirk falters.

GUMSHOE

(TENTATIVE) I love what you... 

(BEAT) What ALL of you...

His eyes well up with tears.

GUMSHOE

What have you done?

GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 1

Done to what?

GUMSHOE

To the place.

GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 2

We've been working so hard on it.

GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 3

Do you like it?

GUMSHOE gulps. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 4

Well? 

GUMSHOE'S REFLECTION 5

Do you like what we've 

done with the place?

GUMSHOE trembles, and then falls to his knees.

GUMSHOE

I...(BEAT) I LOVE it.

The reflections break into a kaleidoscope of smirks.

END OF SKETCH

END OF EPISODE

And that, my friend, is how you write a recurring sketch character.

A viral hit if ever I've seen one.

Now all I need is a sketch show.

And some lava.

Negative Space

A magic potion where, with each sip, the drinker gets one sip older.

There's an idea for Schweppes.

I've spent most of today feeling like I'm trapped beneath a collapsing tent. Poles keep poking me in the face, I can't see anything, and I've stubbed my toe on a little travel stove. It's been collapsing for hours. Who would have thought there could be so much tent?

I'll soldier on, though. I can make a hole in the tent with my bayonet. I'm nearly there. 

There must be a there, right? If there was no there, there would be no incentive for people to keep going. And people do keep going. They can't all be mistaken. They're just more clued-up on the wherefore of the there, and know exactly where it is. I'll just follow them, as long as I don't lose sight of them through the tenthole.

Don't think about anything right now, anyway. Ignore the tentish rain (vinyl, might it be?). Let's do an amusing dialogue between two unlikely characters. That's my trademark. Sometimes there are more than two. But I can't claim to have invented that.

***

Laertes: I hope you're not expecting anything "Shakespearean".

Matthew Clark: What do you mean?

Laertes: Some people expect a load of thous and alases. I just wanted to make it clear before we get going.

Matthew Clark: To be honest, I had expected that. 

Laertes: *shrugs* Well, sorry.

Matthew Clark: So you're not going to do any of that stuff? At all?

Laertes: Nope.

Matthew Clark: I have to say that's a bit disappointing. I'd promised Chris that...

Laertes: Who's Chris?

Matthew Clark: My son. My son, Chris. This is his birthday party.

He gestures towards the decorative banner, which reads 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHRIS'.

Laertes: Oh, right. *pause* You called your son "Chris"?

Matthew Clark: What's wrong with that?

Laertes: Oh, nothing. *rolls eyes*

Matthew Clark: So, what are you going to do?

Laertes: I was just going to get another beer.

Matthew Clark: No, not now. For your act. I thought when I was hiring Laertes to perform at my son's party, there would be a strong Shakespearean element to the show.

Laertes: *puffs out cheeks* Nope.

Matthew Clark: But you're Laertes. That's what you're best known for. 

Laertes: I'm multifaceted. I want to get away from all that stuff.

Matthew Clark: But your business card is in an Elizabethan font. There's a skull on it. Wearing a ruff.

Matthew Clark holds up the business card.

Laertes: That's one of the old ones.

Matthew Clark: So, what's your plan? How are you going to entertain eight ten-year-olds for half an hour?

Laertes: I've got loads of stuff. Bit of crowd work. Impressions. Balloons.

Matthew Clark: If I wanted balloon animals, I'd have booked a clown.

Laertes: Who said anything about animals?

Laertes pulls an unopened bag of cheap balloons from his coat pocket. He nonchalantly throws it at Matthew Clark, misses, and knocks over two paper cups full of cola. The drink seeps into the paper tablecloth.

Matthew Clark: Chris is going to be pretty disappointed. He specifically asked for you, because he's a big Hamlet fan.

Laertes: Your ten-year-old son likes Hamlet? Tell him to get out more.

Matthew Clark: I can't believe you have so much contempt for your fans!

Laertes: Look, I got stabbed, OK?! By a poisoned sword! Do you want me to relive that every weekend?

Matthew Clark: I... no. No, I don't want that. But would it kill you to make a small boy happy - on his birthday - by just approximating Shakespearean speech? For money?

Laertes: *sighs*

Matthew Clark: Wouldn't you have liked it if your dad had done something nice for you?

Laertes: My dad was an idiot. *pause* I mean, who hides behind a tapestry? 

Laertes starts to cry. Matthew Clark puts a consoling hand on his shoulder.

Matthew Clark: Look... do you want a goody bag?

Laertes: *protracted sobbing and sniffing* *nods*

Young Chris Clark enters the room, looking excited. His eyes widen.

Chris Clark: Wow! Are you Laertes?

Laertes looks at the boy, then to the boy's father. They lock eyes, and share an understanding. Laertes forces a smile.

Laertes: Yea. 'Tis I. 

***

We've won an important battle today, ladies and gentleman. We've all come out of this smelling of roses.

The Golden Age of Hollywood

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Nourishment

Two humans in a discussion in a room in a building.

Nicola: What makes you think I care what you think?

Olivia: That does.

Nicola: What?

Olivia: You. Asking the question. That very question makes me think you care what I think. Otherwise why would you ask it?

Nicola: No. No, no, no. I didn't ask what you were thinking though, did I? Just what makes you think it.

Olivia: Oh. I see.

Nicola: I don't care what you're thinking. I don't have the slightest interest in what you're thinking. I just want to know why you're thinking it.

Olivia: Oh.

A waiter brings over steak knives, and takes away the empty bread basket. The building seems to be a restaurant.

Nicola: Well?

Olivia: Err...

Nicola: What makes you think I care what you think?

Olivia: Ummmmmm... neurons?

Nicola: *smiles, nods* Yes. That's probably it.

Waiter: Parmesan?

Nicola: For steak?

Waiter: Oh, I'm terribly sorry. This is my first day.

***

Wasn't that fun?

I'm going to expand that scene into a slightly longer scene where one of the characters goes off to the toilet for a few minutes.

Until then: here is some writing on a topic.

I've been watching some television series that everyone else has already seen. I didn't want to be missing out on any global phenomena, so I bought the first seasons of Mad Men and Game of Thrones on Blu-ray.

I always seem to buy new TV shows in twos. I did the same thing with Girls and Enlightened. Though I like being able to alternate, it means that I end up comparing two programmes that don't really have any relation to each other. Beyond arriving in the same Amazon ethical alternative online shop parcel.

With both pairs, I've liked one and not-particularly-liked the other.

I like Mad Men and Enlightened.

I don't particularly like Girls or Game of Thrones.

I think this would happen with any two purchases. The strengths of one cast the weakness of the other in sharper relief.

The things that I like most about Mad Men are the things I find lacking in Game of Thrones. Interesting characters, for example. Or typewriters.

I won't talk too much about Enlightened and Girls. The former is moving, beautiful and complicated. The latter didn't make me laugh much, or like the characters, and I didn't find any of the stories very interesting.

Having said that, I don't think Girls is a bad show. It's clearly a work of individual vision, and has its own tone and point of view. If you're going to make good, unique television (as a lot of these HBO, and HBO-like, shows are), you're not going to appeal to everyone. Appealing to everyone is what network shows are like. Or what I imagine they're like. I don't watch them, because I don't like to associate myself with everyone. Or anyone.

The conditions that created Girls are the same as the conditions that created Enlightened. This fertile soil has nourished the modern golden age of... flowers... television... sunflowers... golden... I've lost control of another metaphor.

What I'm trying to say is: if you want the beauty of Enlightened, you have to put up with shit like Girls. Just like if you want free speech, you have to put up with Jeremy Clarkson.

Which brings us onto Mad Men and Game of Thrones.

Game of Thrones is not shit. I can see why people would like it. It looks great. It has a nice, rich fictional world to get lost in. It has lots of topless women. There are swords and stuff. People like swords. It's an impressive piece of craft. The show, not the swords. Though they are too.

But it seems to me to be one of those shows that's basically just a load of stuff happening.

The main appeal of GoT (that abbreviation will save me time) is that events will occur. And you watch to see what will happen. There isn't much time for ideas.

It's a big soap opera with wolves. And again, I can totally see why people would like it. It's fun to see exciting stuff happen. You get to know characters, and you want to know what happens to them. It's like your university friends - they mean nothing to you, but you still read their Facebook status messages.

But that's not enough for me. It might be because I didn't find any of the characters that interesting (with the obvious exception of Tyrion Lannister). They all fit into predictable roles. There are the noble ones, dealing with harsh realities. There are the villainous ones. There are the ones that are like sissy Klingons.

Maybe it's a strength of economical writing, but you know how each character is going to react to a situation. It's a bit boring, really.

The performances are fine. The dialogue is fine. It's not a bad show. It's certainly not like some other hugely popular television events (*cough*Lost*cough), that are actively terrible.

But I don't really fancy watching any more.

At the end of the season, I realised that I could well have just read the episode synopses on Wikipedia, and I wouldn't really have missed anything. With no characters to root for, there isn't much point in watching a programme that's all about events.

One other drawback to the programme is a bit similar to one in The Walking Dead (which, by the way, is much worse and more boring than GoT). In a world that's all harsh justice, torture, beheadings, despots, barbarians, war and suffering, there isn't much jeopardy. If every day is a struggle to survive, when a character dies, it just seems like a commonplace thing.

After a zombie apocalypse, the gap between death and survival is pretty small and covered in maggots. In the world of GoT, there's not going to be a super happy ending where things turn out OK. People are going to continue to suffer atrocities. And constant atrocities are pretty vanilla.

I'm not surprised that Game of Thrones is popular. But I don't have the emotional investment to keep watching a show with no depth.

Which brings us to Mad Men.

In contrast to the weak and watery gruel of Game of Thrones (presented though it is in a beautifully-carved earthenware bowl), Mad Men is a really meaty stew.

There's a lot going on there. Beyond the performances and the dialogue, which are both great, there's a lot of stuff under the surface.

It seems like a weird thing to appreciate. Nobody likes their favourite shows because of themes or subtext. But you notice when it's not there.

The characters in Mad Men are strange and unpredictable. They have intricate inner lives. They generally don't correspond to archetypes. You're not sure if they'll make the right choices. They're motivated by things that characters on television aren't usually motivated by.

Throughout the first season (and that's as far as I've got, so it might become Suddenly Susan after that for all I know), there are lots of juicy undercurrents. It's the kind of show where you sit silently through the credits, trying to digest what everything means.

It's a period drama where the period isn't the driving force. You forget when it is set after a few episodes. It just becomes a story about interesting, recognisable, yet totally unique, people.

If you just sat down and read the Wikipedia synopses of Mad Men episodes, they'd hardly tell you anything.

Game of Thrones is about, like, thrones and that.

Mad Men isn't about advertising. It's about... well... what's life about? It's about that.

I've probably been to harsh in my GoT criticisms, and too lavish with my MM (why didn't I think of this abbrev. before?!?) praise.

That's why you shouldn't buy two television series at the same time. In fact, you should have your mind wiped after consuming any piece of art. You need your palate cleansed. Find some brain sorbet, or your objectivity is compromised.

There. I've been wanting to write about that for ages. Now I have to go back and italicise all of the programme titles. I bet I'll miss some.

I can't wait until my next Amazon ethical alternative online shop order arrives. I've got the Complete Works of Shakespeare and the Complete Box-Set of Jim Davidson's Big Break arriving in the same package.

Bloody comparable, I'd imagine.

A Leader in His Field

The following conversation takes place at a market, recreation area, or other public meeting place. Or in private.

***

Sam: My brother invented the world's softest barbecue.

Richard: Wow. Really? That's cool.

Sam: Yeah.

Richard: So... is it... I mean... what does that mean, exactly? Is it, like, the meat is really tender and soft, or what?

Sam: No. It's the barbecue itself that's soft. The softest in the world.

Richard: Oh. Wow. Not bad to have that on your CV! So, is it... uh... is there, like, a function that it... I mean, is it softer because, what, it's easier to transport? Or more... flexible in some way? Or easier to clean...?

Sam: No, it's just soft.

Richard: Right.

Sam: Softest in the world. 

Richard: Mmm. Your family must be very proud!

Sam: Yeah, we are. It's a nice thing to have, you know? That kind of success.

Richard: Absolutely. (*pause*) Just so I'm clear on it, is it the - forgive me; I don't know the technical term - is it the main... uh... sort-of... hull of the barbecue that's soft? The main... convex housing, I mean. Is that the part that's soft?

Sam: It's all of it.

Richard: All of it.

Sam: Yeah. The whole thing's soft.

Richard: Right. What's it made of, though?

Sam: Ha! That's the secret isn't it! Otherwise everyone would be making them.

Richard: Oh. But you know?

Sam: Of course. He's my brother. But I don't think he'd be comfortable with me telling you... I mean, no offence.

Richard: Oh no, of course not. Don't worry about it.

Sam: It's just that people might overhear. Talking about it in public would be like giving the trophy away.

Richard: Trophy?

Sam: Yeah. For the world's softest barbecue.

Richard: Oh! So there was a... whole ceremony and stuff?

Sam: Yeah. I went! Proper black tie thing. It was exciting.

Richard: I bet! So there were, presumably, other people in the running? Other nominees?

Sam: Of course.

Richard: And they'd all made... soft barbecues.

Sam: Yeah.

Richard: Just... not as soft.

Sam: Exactly. Only one winner! Just the one statuette, after all!

Richard: Wow. And your brother won? Pretty sweet.

Sam: (*long satisfied nod*)

Richard: Was the statuette soft?

Sam: No, of course not.

Richard: Sorry. Stupid question.

Sam: So, have you got any famous relatives?

(*pause*)

Richard: No, not really.

NaNoPerNod

I will shortly have checked in.

And... there.

I am now checked.

I don't think I've mentioned it, but I now have a synopsis and extract of my NaNovel up on the internet-machine. You can find it here. I'm particularly proud of my synopsis, which tells you all you need to know.

I'm currently at 37,614 words. I would describe my work so far as "incoherent". I'm still just about on track, but I'm not counting my chickens (even though I am counting my words).

I'm far too busy. I'm worrying about Christmas shopping and a hundred other things. I long for the days when I was free of all worries and responsibility. Those days are fictional, but you can long for fictional things. It's allowed. I long for Long John Silver, and he's fictional.

Is he?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_John_Silver
  
"Long John Silver is a fictional character and the primary ant"

Yes. He is. (I might have ended that quote prematurely, but I might not have, for all you know.)

I haven't really got anything to talk about other than concerns, so here's a hilarious sketch I've just about to have written:

Doctor: Come in.

Patient: Hello, doctor.

Doctor: What seems to be the problem?

Patient: It's my wife, doctor.

Doctor: Oh yes?

Patient: Yes. She seems to have broken her leg.

Doctor: Oh. Well, why isn't she here?

Patient: She's afraid of doctors.

Doctor: Oh dear. Why do you think that is?

Patient: Because you broke her leg.

Doctor: Your wife is a LIAR. A one-legged LIAR.

Ernie Els: Anyone for a quick nine?

Doctor: Who's asking?

Ernie Els: ERNIE ELS.

Patient: ERNIE ELS.

Receptionist: ERNIE ELS.

Waiting Room (chorus): ERNIE ELS.

Everyone in England: ERNIE ELS.

Every Human: ERNIE ELS.



GOD: Ernie. Ernie Els. Ernie bloody Els.

***

Let's all knock off early and go get cocktails. My treat!

Yum.

I like cocktails.

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.

A Little Bird

I'm experimenting with new blog-writing techniques.

Having seen how sports pundits are so eloquent and incisive whilst wearing ear-pieces, I'm going to do the same. That way, the people in the studio can keep me on track, and feed me little fact nuggets with which I can pepper my writing. They can also warn me if I've said anything that might be considered racist.

[This is the first time since 1997 that anyone has used purple italics to indicate ear-piece audio]

For example, did you know that this is the first time since, I believe, 1997, that anyone has used purple italics to indicate ear-piece audio? That's a fact.

[Plug your book]

Whilst I'm talking about facts, you might be interested in my new book. It doesn't exist yet, but is bound to be full of interesting little titbits.

[Apologise for using the term "titbits"]

Morsels, I mean. Not ti... not the thing I said before. I apologise if I've caused any offence.

[Well done]

I suppose I could have said breastbits...

[Move on]

It's Easter. I haven't really got any topical material about Easter. I haven't bought any eggs or resurrection myths.

[Apologise to religious people. And chickens.]

Sorry about that. I was misquoted by my own diction.

[You should wash your ears]

I should wash my ears.

[No... you shouldn't say that. We just wanted you to know. It's disgusting in here.]

Wait, are you saying that you're actually in my ear? I thought you were just an audio receiver, feeding sound from a booth somewhere.

[Oh yeah. You're right. Sorry about the ear thing.]

That's OK.

[Lo*ssskkkrrracklssssssss*aven.]

I'm sorry? I didn't catch that.

[I said "Lo*ssskkkrrracklssssssss*aven".]

There's some kind of interference. Hey, I wonder if intraference is a word... I'm going to look it up.

[No, don't bother. We'll do that. You get on with the blog post.]

OK, thanks.

It's a bit grey and miserable out there today. It's the first day of a four-day weekend, which should be a cause for celebration, but the weather isn't playing ball. It's definitely a relief to have some time off. I feel like it's been a long time since our last break, but that's probably not

[Yeah, it seems like there is.]

What?

[Intraference. There's some stuff. Looks technical. I didn't really click on the links. There's some kind of geometrical image video thing, but I dunno...]

Oh. Well. Thanks.

Anyway, as I was saying...

[Have you got anything to drink? Or eat? We've been in here for ages.]

I left crisps in there for you. And some Evian.

[Yeah, I'm allergic to crisps. And Nick has some ethical qualms about Evian.]

Well, that's all there is.

[Can't you go to the shop?]

I'm a bit busy. Doing a blog post. Why doesn't one of you go? There are fifteen of you, after all.

[We're all watching videos on Youtube. There's this hilarious one where a cat is doing something.]

I think I've seen that one.

[Ahhhhhh!]

What?

[Nothing. Can we order Chinese?]

Do what you want! I'm trying to focus.

[Sorry. Sorry.]

The best thing about having four days off, or a "double-weekend" as some call it, is that there's less pressure to make the most of every second. That's not to say I do make the most of every second. I don't think I've ever made the most of any second. But I feel like I should.

This long break gives me slightly more time, and slightly less guilt.

[Hi. Can we place an order for delivery, please?]

What?

[Oh, sorry. Is this still you?]

What do you mean "still me"?

[Can you get off the line? We want to order some duck etcetera.]

No, I can't get off the line! You control the line! For me to get off the line, I'd have to rip my ear off!

[And... you'd... rather not do that...?]

Correct.

[That's fair. And you don't have any duck?]

I'm *this close* to disconnecting you.

[Please don't. We don't have anywhere else to go. Except clubbing. But that's not until later.]

I really don't think you've improved my blog-writing.

[AAAAAAAAAAhah! Stupid cat!]

Right that's it. I'm taking you out.

...

Phew! That's much better. Silence is golden. I think there's such a thing as too much support. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.

[That's racist]

WHO ARE YOU?!

[I'm not sure. But you really need to wash wherever this is.]

***

I'm no longer experimenting with new blog-writing techniques.

Sssss

SURPRISE!

Ahaha! You should have seen the look on your face! I can't believe we got away with it. I thought Fran had given it all away by being indiscreet on the bus.

So, you had no idea?

Classic.

Classic.

...

Classic.

Anyway... blog post.

You can't mistake it. If you're reading this, it is one.

***

RICK: One.

NICK: ...

RICK: Two

NICK: ...

RICK: Three

NICK: ...

RICK: Four

NICK: Rick?

RICK: Five

NICK: Rick?

RICK: Sick. 

NICK: ...

RICK: Sssss! Six!

NICK: ....

...

That was an extract from the play I've been writing just then.

It's about loss. And people with similar names. I'm hoping to perform it at this year's Failed Experiment Festival, which I'm finally going to get up and running this year probably.

I'm going to play Rick. Or Nick.

How have you all been?

That's not true. Really? That's not true.

If you're not going to be honest, there's no point in us even doing this.

I haven't achieved much lately, but that doesn't mean I'm all washed up. It's only natural for people of my age to experience a period of stagnation. It's only natural for me to suddenly hate writing and comedy and anybody showing any enthusiasm whatsoever. It's all part of growing up.

I think I need a sabbatical. Not just from my job, but from the human race. I'd like to live as an animal for a while. It will be like a humanity detox. I want to flush all higher brain functions out of my skull, and replace them with a pure nothingness.

For three months.

Then I'll be able to tackle my thirties with aplomb. I can own a suit.

But enough about me.

What about my clone?

He's going from strength to strength. Afterwards, he intends to tackle strungth. I think he may be a bit too ambitious, but he's always been like that. We're like chalk and cheese (except for the whole clone thing). Chalk and cheese in a pod. Thick as thieves.

I'll ask him to send through a photo some time. I'm sure you're all interested to see what he looks like.

The only thing I resent about my clone is that he never mentions me in his blog. What am I, chopped liver? (He only eats whole liver)

I'm enjoying this. I really am. I can only assume you are all enjoying this too, and that you don't think there's anything wrong with me. Or Paul 2 (that's what we call my clone's penis).

***

Whenever I'm using a pelican crossing, I always walk slightly faster than I would normally, as a courteous gesture to the waiting drivers. I know they have to wait for the flashing amber lights anyway, but I just want them to know that I'm thinking of them. There's nothing worse than a pedestrian who dawdles and lollygags, as though they're the only person in the world.

I walk slightly faster. Not too fast. That would be disconcerting. The drivers might think I was late or had a Crank-style heart condition. I walk slightly faster.

And I'm always annoyed that they don't notice.

Which is silly, because:
a) how would they know what my usual walking speed was?
b) I have no way of knowing whether or not they've noticed anyway

I just want them to appreciate my thoughtfulness, that's all.

Is that too much to ask?

Is asking "is that too much to ask?" too much to ask?

I don't know. But I resent it. I give and I give and I give, but Jenny Car-Owner just sucks it all up and leaves me a dried-out husk. I hope her parents (Ollie Car and Layla Owner) are thoroughly ashamed of her oblivious motoring.

I deserve better. Drivers should be 50% telepathic and 40% grateful. The other 10% can cover hair colour and miscellaneous characteristics (facial ticks and so forth).

I'm the best pedestrian.

My destiny is pedestriany. My dad said that, when he saw me struggling to understand a bike (aged 10 - which is a pretty old bike).

But enough about me.

Enough.

TGIF

I'm older than I was before this sentence began.

But that's obvious. I'm not one of those time wizards, like Mr Who or Jenson Button. I age. I keep moving forward, like a shark. Or Damon Albarn.

Time is a river (I'm a freshwater shark), and it floweth in but one direction.

Into the grave.

***

Hi Everybody!

YEAH!

It's Friday! So this post is going to be the funniest, funnest, funest, most happy-go-lucky blog post ever! Woo-hoo!

I'll tell you what I love more than anything - mechanical pencils.

They're like normal pencils, but a machine! Like RoboCop!

Sure, they snap easily. But you don't need to worry about all that pesky sharpening!

Also, if you hold down the clicky bit at the end, and press the lead into your skin, it looks like you're giving yourself an injection!

YEAH!

I hope you've all had a lovely week. Things in the city of Oxford have been amazing. Early in the week was the St Giles' fair. I don't like fairs, but I'm happy that the fair-lovers had something to brighten their days!

The weather has been variable, but that just means EVERYBODY's happy!

Looking forward to the weekend?

I suppose it depends on when you're reading this, I suppose. LOL!

-->
what are you doing?

I can't decide what I like better, Friday evening, or Saturday morning. I mean, on Friday, you have two lie-ins to look forward to, but on Saturday...

what are you doing?

Hmm? I'm... celebrating! Yeah!

what are you doing?

I'm just trying to be positive!

theres something wrong

No! No... there's... there's not. There's nothing wrong.

theres something wrong

I'm fine! Look at this hat! Does it suit me?

youve made a mistake

Well, I suppose it is a bit garish for the Autumn, but

no no not the hat - youve made a mistake with this enterprise

A mistake? Fun is never a mistake! Put yourself out there and say "Get ready, World! Here I am!". That's what Jody used to say, anyway.

who?

Jody! She was always so supportive.

who is jody?

Jody! Jody Jody. 

who is jody?

I...

what does she look like?

She's... she's got a big smile. A big broad smile. You can see all her teeth!

what colour is jodys hair?

It's... bronde. 

its what?

Blonde. It's blonde.

you didnt say blonde - you said bronde

It's brown. Jody! With her... the big smile... and the brown hair...

where is jody from?

She's from... uh... not... Bedfordshire. One of those other ones. Gloucester. Shire.

did jody give you your hat?

Yeah! How did you...?

you are not wearing a hat

I'm... I'm.... Who are you?

i am jodys brother

Jody... doesn't have a brother

i am jodys brother

Oh. Nice to meet you. 

what are you doing?

Sorry, what was your name?

i am jodys brother i have bronde hair, just like her

Why don't you come out of the dark? I can't see your face.

youve made a mistake

Wh...

youve made a mistake

Can I see Jody?

jody is in the dark

She...

...on Saturday, you're all refreshed after a night's sleep. So... maybe Saturday is better. Than Friday evening.

I hope you all have a... lovely weekend.

bronde hair, just like her

***

If I ever need to enter an insanity plea when convicted of a crime, I'll just link to this post.

Happy Friday Everyone!