The Nobility of Sloth

It's been nearly two weeks since my last proper blog post. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. Rest assured, I haven't just been sitting on my laurels. I have a smorgasbord of two exciting things to talk about. This will be like when your co-worker has been on holiday for two weeks, and they have so many things to tell you about that you have to move desks. "I hate the Maldives," you can shout from your new vantage point.

The first exciting thing is a small observation. Sometimes the smallest observations are the most exciting. The big ones are dull. Say you observed the horizon, for example? No-one would care.

My small observation is about the Paralympics. I've hardly watched any of the Paralympics, not because of a deep-held prejudice against the disabled (no matter what my parole officer says), but just because the football season has started. Football takes precedence against all other sport. It's my bread and butter. Anything else is... something I have less often than bread and butter.

Actually, I don't really have bread and butter that often. So maybe all other sport is my bread and butter, and football is my... something I do eat often. Sweetcorn, for example.

Football is my delicious regular sweetcorn.

The Paralympics (and Olympics and rugby and darts) is the nice, but unnecessary, bread and butter.

And I'll be damned if I'm going to eat bread and butter when there's sweetcorn on the plate. Unless I have a sweetcorn sandwich, but that's taking the analogy in an unproductive direction.

However, I did see a bit of the wheelchair basketball, which is always hugely impressive.

(Is it OK to say that? Is that patronising? I worry for the Paralympics broadcasters who have to walk a tightrope of being politically correct, admiring and yet not condescending. It's a necessary tightrope of course - all those considerations are important - but if I was in the commentary booth, I'd be terrified that I'd accidentally let slip a hate crime.)

I noticed one thing about the wheelchair basketball that amused me. In able-bodied basketball, whenever a player is fouled and has a free throw, there's weird little bit of etiquette that's always observed. After the first free throw is taken, whether the player scores or misses, his colleagues standing to the side of the key ALWAYS step towards him or her, and give a little supportive fist bump or hand slap. It's a way of saying "well done" or "never mind". Or, more accurately, it's saying "it doesn't matter how well you do - we're all behind you".

You can see an example of what I'm talking about here (you won't need to watch the whole thing):



I wonder where this ritual came from. Probably, it was an organic show of support that just happened one day. But now, everyone has to do it every time. What was originally a nice show of support has become routine. There can't be any thought behind it. It's just an obligation.

It's like saying "bless you" after someone sneezes. Originally thoughtful, but now a chore. The only reason to say "bless you" or give your team-mate a fist bump is because it would be rude not to do it.

What I noticed when watching the wheelchair basketball was that they do exactly the same thing. Of course they do - it's a convention of the sport. It's just that when you're in a wheelchair, it seems more like hard work to go over and touch hands. This pointless ritual requires valuable arm-strength. But they do it anyway, because that's just what happens.

Of course, me thinking this probably is patronising. Them rolling a few feet is as easy and natural as an able-bodied player walking. It's just part of the game.

I don't really think the convention is pointless. I mean, sport in itself is a pointless ritual. It would be weird to be annoyed at a pointless subset of it. It just shows (instinctive, meaningless) thoughtfulness and camaraderie. I think we can all admire that.

***

The second exciting thing I've thought about is how Matt Le Tissier has ruined my life.

I might sue him.

I'm a Southampton F.C. fan, and so Le Tiss was my hero growing up. He had an effortless talent that made everything he did look easy and beautiful. Here's a short illustration of his genius:



Le Tissier was notable for being:
a) fantastic, and
b) lazy

He didn't train hard, he wasn't in a amazing shape, he didn't run all over the pitch, he wasn't a bone-crunching tackler. He just wandered around like a pensioner kicking seashells until it was time to get the ball, skip past eight opponents and then rifle a shot into the corner of the net.

I think it was because of him that I valued the nobility of lazy genius.

It wasn't just him, in fact. I always preferred the louche, skillful enigma to the hard-grafting model pro. I'll always choose Cantona and Bergkamp over Keane and Viera.

The trouble was that this isn't a great lesson for a child to learn. The idea that, not only is laziness OK, but that it's preferable, to hard work isn't a good basis for future success.

That philosophy says: working hard is cheating; succeeding with minimal effort is ART.

If you work hard and achieve nothing, you've failed. If you don't work hard and achieve nothing... big deal - wake me for lunch.

I think this harmful idea must have grabbed me at some point. All of my school reports said the same thing: "Paul is bright, but needs to try harder", or... [I was going to write another example, but couldn't be bothered]

I don't really work hard at anything. I just hope that my natural talent will lead me down the path of glory. The trouble is, my natural talent is far from evident.

If you're a footballer, the nature of your talent is clear. You can be lazy if you do what's required of a footballer. If you don't work hard, but score goals and win matches, there's no problem.

But if your life is lived on those terms, it's not the same. You can't just be lazy in life, with no specific talent in any area. That's not lazy genius. That's just lazy.

I've been so caught up in with venerating the nobility of slothful brilliance that I've forgotten all about the brilliance.

In my head, sloth is worthy on its own terms. Genius would be nice, sure. But the sloth is key. One day, a talent may emerge to make this whole position justified.

"You see!" I'll say. "I was right to not try hard."

If it doesn't emerge, I can still say "Well, at least I had more sleep than you did. One-nil me!" and then die with a smile on my face (only because it's apparently less hard work than a frown).

It's Le Tissier's fault! I wanted to be like him! If I'd have grown up idolising Phil Neville, I'd probably have a lot more money, a lot more dress shoes and one hell of a well-tended garden.

This seems to suggest that I'm unhappy with my life. I'm not. I was just playing Neville's advocate. I totally believe the Le Tissier philosophy is worthy. With my potential locked away, there could be oceans of the stuff. If I release it, I might realise that I only have a pipette's worth of inspiration.

Trying hard is for chumps. Dedicated, respectable chumps.

It's better to burn out than fade away.

And even better than burning out is the idea that people will say: "I bet he's the kind of guy who could, hypothetically, burn out spectacularly".

***

Here's a bonus, related, exciting thing.

Ironically, the only thing that I actually have worked really hard at is football.

I have no natural talent at football whatsoever. As a child I struggled with this. Playing football is such a big part of developing into a well-adjusted WKD-drinking, deafening-car-stereo-hard-house playing, deadbeat 19-year-old dad. If you have no skill in that area, you're cut off from a whole social circle.

So I worked hard. I played it a lot. I practised on my own. I enjoyed it! I put in the hours and eventually, I turned myself from a footballer with no talent into a footballer with the bare minimum of talent. Whatever the smallest unit of football talent is called (I believe it might be "the Downing"), I had one of them.

I was still terrible. But I had just enough ability to play in a kick-about, complete a sloppy Cruyff turn, and not have to run away if an errant ball came my way in a park. All through hard work and dedication.

In the end, Phil Neville had the right idea.

"If you have an evident talent dearth // graft is a must, to show your worth."

He is a very wise man.

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.

!!~~POST #500 - UNWIELDY QUINCENTENNIAL BROUHAHA~~!!

If I'd released an album in 1989, this would be the cover.

Once again it's time to put on your nostalgia goggles, and celebrate the meaningless triumph of another post with two zeroes in it.

This is the 500th post of Headscissors (or as all the kids are calling it: I Don't Know What You're Talking About; Please Leave Me Alone).

I have a tradition of marking these events in a special way. My face is special. Lots of my faces are lots of special.

Special.

You can see my previous milestones below.




Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400

I've just re-read them all. There are some significant events contained therein. An account of my interview for my current job, the origins of my (now legendary) stand-up routine about selfish genes, a haiku, and a picture of me naked.

(Actually there is no picture of me naked. I just thought it might encourage you to look at the links. Because that's what you all want to see.

Of course, I've given the game away now. So I'll have to include an actual picture of me naked in this post, just to live up to my promise. Stay tuned.)

Indulgence is the watchword.

I have the word "indulgence" engraved on my watch, alongside a picture of me, my initials, and a picture of the watch itself, stretching into infinity.

H Samuel didn't sell many of that model.

So strap yourselves in for an exciting thrill-ride of words, punctuation marks, line-breaks and remarks so meaningless, you assume they must be references to something obscure, but are actually just pointless whimsy.

***

Ooh, I just caught this from Post #400:


Ooh, I just caught this from Post #300:

It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

Yes. Yes it is.

Post #500 Paul - are you wearing a hat?


No, I'm not. But I do have a woolly hat in my coat pocket. I might put it on later.

Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?

(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)

***

Mood: Monday.

Listening to: Jack Jones - Wives and Lovers

This is the most incredibly sexist song I've ever heard, which includes a lot of mainstream hip-hop and all those Motown songs in the 70s that seemed to essentially advocate domestic abuse.



Here are the lyrics (it's written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, so they deserve most of the blame/credit):

Hey! Little Girl
Comb your hair, fix your makeup
Soon he will open the door
Don't think because there's a ring on your finger
You needn't try anymore


[I like that even the first line is incredible patronising. I also like picturing the scenario of an exasperated 60s businessman coming home to a slob wife and being exasperated.]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
I'm warning you...

["I'm warning you"? Thanks for that. I'm sure it's friendly advice. Rather than a threat.

Remember to run to his arms the MOMENT he comes home. Even if he's carrying lots of bags and a cake. Don't give him time to put them down. Run to his arms. RUN TO THEM.

DON'T PAUSE, OR HE'LL LEAVE YOU.

DON'T EVEN TALK TO HIM. DO YOUR MAKE-UP AND RUN FLAT-OUT INTO HIS FACE BEFORE HE CAN EVEN GET HIS KEY OUT OF THE LOCK.]

Day after day
There are girls at the office
And men will always be men
Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers
You may not see him again

[Remember there are other girls in the office. This is your fault. Especially if you've let yourself go. The other girls don't have any say in the matter. They can't help but be drawn to your husband because of his power and testicles.

Men will always be men. So if you complain about his infidelities and various sexually transmitted infections, you're going AGAINST NATURE.

MEN WILL BE MEN.

CUNTS WILL BE CUNTS.

IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU AND THOSE CURLERS OF YOURS, YOU SOW!]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
He's almost here...


[If you're in a wheelchair, you might as well kill yourself.]

[I hope that last sentence isn't taken out of context. Remember, this is SATIRE.]

Hey! Little girl
Better wear something pretty
Something you'd wear to go to the city and
Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music
Time to get ready for love
Time to get ready
Time to get ready for love

[PREPARE FOR COPULATION. YOU ARE FEMALE. YOU MUST WORK HARDER TO JUSTIFY OUR MAGNANIMOUS TOLERANCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.

DIM THE LIGHTS TO HIDE YOUR WITHERED FACE. POUR THE WINE SO THAT THE ALCOHOL MAY DULL YOUR POOR HUSBAND'S PERCEPTIONS. SHIELD HIM FROM YOUR HIDEOUSNESS.

PLAY LOUD MUSIC TO DROWN OUT YOUR INFANTILE PRATTLE. PLAY A BURT BACHARACH SONG. THEN YOU CAN LEARN AS YOU'RE JUSTLY PENETRATED BY YOUR BENEFACTOR.

ALL WOMEN MAKE ME SICK.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.]

by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Reading: the instructions on the back of this bottle of bleach. It doesn't provide a serving suggestion, but as it's lemon scented I assume it's one of your five a day.

I won't get my hopes up, though. Last week I had some Toilet Duck in a Hoisin wrap and it tasted disgusting.

Watching: my previous post, where I forgot to say what I was watching. I just missed it out.

It wasn't intentional.

I haven't been watching people die, and subsequently trying to hide the fact.

I just forgot.

I wouldn't watch people die. I'd call an ambulance.

Unless my phone was broken. That couldn't be helped.

In addition to not watching people die, we also watched quite a lot of a TV show called Pretty Little Liars.

I can't tell you if it's any good, or indeed what it's about, because we watched it on mute.

That's what we do.

We decided there were too many attractive people in it. There was no-one below an 8. That's too attractive for me to relate to.

So I imagine it's terrible.

Playing: Bubble tennis.

It's so good, I almost don't want to tell people about it. But I suppose this is a special occasion.

Lucy and I discovered this a while ago.

You'll need two bottles of bubble-mixture (that's what it's called, right?) and two bubble-hoops (that's what they're called, right?)

The premise is simple: whilst bubbles burst in contact with hard objects (floor, table leg, Michelangelo's David etc), they don't burst in contact with other bubbles.

So you need a bubble stuck to the end of each bubble-hoop, and then to blow some bubbles. (Actually, blow the bubbles first. Find whichever method suits you best.)

Then, use your bubble-hoop bubbles to bat a third, loose, bubble back and forth. Like tennis.

You can even create your own net.

This probably hasn't been well explained. Perhaps some video proof is necessary.

[I tried to video bubble tennis, but it was a disaster. I don't think it can be filmed. Like ghosts. Or The Invisible Pete Sampras.]

It is amazing.

Eating: Salad bar salad again. I don't mean to be repetitive. Maybe I should start eating some more exotic things. Like cocktail bar salad, salad bar napkins, or salad glorious salad.

Drinking: Certainly no cleaning products. I don't know who has started that rumour mill. Probably Mr Muscle, that four-eyed little square. Screw him.

***

There's not going to be a picture of me naked.

Sorry.

(Or is there?)

No.

***

Hilarious Tweets:@diamondbadger
I haven't done any good tweets lately. This isn't a tweet. Honestly. This isn't some clever postmodern tweet. If it was, I'd write more conc

***

I'm starting a hobby. It's called zeal clubbing. It's like seal clubbing, but involves beating enthusiastic people to death.

Especially if they're enthusiastic about seals.

Then you club some seals.

We're meeting on Weds afternoons in the Town Hall. Anyone who shows up early will become a training dummy.

***

This is a trailer for the new film by Duncan Jones, the guy who directed Moon. It looks good. Like Groundhog Day meets Inception.

Though the only way I'd like to see that meeting happen is with Bill Murray beating the tedious cast of tedious Inception to a bloody tedious pulp. And then Andie McDowell.



***

ACORN BREAK:


(breakorn)

***

I think that's probably all.

I could write another haiku, I suppose.

Forty-love Nadal!
The spectral voice of Sampras
Calls for unseen balls

I'm going to pour myself a glass of celebratory Cif and get back to my night job as a regretmonger.

I'm pretty intense.

And so it goes

I understand that you need an eye-catching headline. I understand the need to make seemingly dry subjects accessible and interesting to a casual reader. But there comes a time when a headline is just misleading.

From BBC News:

Sex smell lures 'vampire' to doom

It's a story about lampreys.

Now, if they had just used the 'sex smell' angle, that would have been fine. If they'd have just used the 'vampire' factor, I would be perfectly happy.

But the combination of 'sex smell' and 'vampire' (in addition to being a search engine's dream) raises expectations that just can't be met by a story about lampreys.

And it is quite an interesting story, I'll grant you.

But when I read that headline, my imagination creates scenarios that Richard Black, the BBC News Environment correspondent, probably isn't going to write about. Unless it's April Fool's Day.

It's not April Fool's Day.

Unless everyone in my life has concocted a very elaborate prank in convincing me that it's three months earlier than it actually is.

If they have done that: bravo. I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.

Like a sea lamprey.

***

This is one of those entries where I haven't got much to say, so I split it into sections, creating the illusion of depth.

When I write these, I'm essentially saying: "look how diverse my interests are".

One bit is about something serious, one bit is about films, one bit is a humourous observation, one bit is a tedious self-commentary. I used to do them more often. I've grown as a writer.

Sometimes I groan as a writer as well. That's like a normal groan, but with pencil-shavings falling out of my mouth.

Ahahahaha.

***

Check out this scary pencil:



I found this through Robert Popper's new blog. You might know him as the co-creator of Look Around You, or the writer of The Timewaster Letters, or you might not know him at all.

I'm not crazy about blogs that are nothing but links to videos and other stuff. It takes ages to go through them all.

And yet he's the professional writer.

Where's the justice?

Oh. There it is. On the coffee table. I shouldn't leave it there, or something might get spilled upon't.

No-one needs soggy justice.

***

And I've just realised I have an over-reliance on beginning sentences with 'And'.

It's a useful device, and sometimes makes things funnier. But you shouldn't use it as much as I do. I should tone down the Ands.

And if that means I can't talk about the Andes, or Andy Crane, or Un chien andalou, that's just the stupid meaningless cross I have to bear.

***

If Jesus was crucified on an asterisk, what would be the footnote?

***

I'm thinking of inventing a non-violent alternative sport called 'goodminton'.

It's a bit like badminton, but without the unnecessary beatings. In goodminton, everyone gets a shuttlecock and is really nice to it. You could just stroke it, or take it with you on a day out (to Marwell Zoo, for example).

You could make it a little shoebox house, or paint it attractive colours.

Of course the word 'shuttlecock' is a bit offensive. Not that the word is unpleasant - but it is slightly phallocentric.

In goodminton, they're called shuttlecunts. It's a way of redressing deeply held gender assumptions about the primacy of the male.

It's non-competitive, so each session of goodminton is followed by mini-quiches and champagne cocktails. As of yet, the 2012 Olympic committee has not responded to my application.

Fingers crossed.

Holiday Journal - Day 2

Holiday Journal - Day 2 - 24/08/08

We woke up very late, which was enjoyable. I have yet to be disturbed by the seagulls. Wildlife plays quite a role in Sidmouth life. If it's not the noisy gulls or the crushable snails/slugs, it's the spiders.

As our room is separate from the main house, and is up the garden, we're susceptible to arachnid invaders. The main one lives in the door bolt-hole, and is surprisingly big. We've called him Usain Bolt-hole. We're too cowardly/caring to evict him, so we have to avoid him whenever we enter or leave the room.

In the early afternoon, we saw some of the Olympic closing ceremony. It was pretty good. Seeing Boris Johnson come out was a bit of a shock, though. I'm surprised he didn't make any racist comments or knock over the Olympic torch and set fire to Leona Lewis. A missed opportunity.

In the afternoon, we went up to have afternoon tea with my Granny and Great Aunt. It was the most English of affairs - a quaint cottage, freshly-made scones and cakes, little cake-forks, tea and awkward conversation.

In those situations, I feel that my powers are limited, because I can't fall back on my tactic of talking about ridiculous or obscene hypothetical situations. That's my only tool in social interactions. But when you're in polite and slightly aged company, it's difficult to ask what would happen if all world leaders and some wolves were locked in a branch of Ikea. I don't think my granny would really engage with that.

I think this will only be the beginning of the family socialising, which is a drawback to holidaying here. My extended family are lovely, but it's a bit difficult to truly relax when there's the possibility of a visit at any time. I still don't feel particularly relaxed. I may not manage it before we have to leave.

But still, I'm glad I don't have to wake up early. I think my ideal holiday would just be spending the whole time in bed. I could order pizzas and watch TV. Verticality is overrated. Almost everything fun can be done lying down. I bet very few injuries are caused when people are horizontal. I've seen the future. It's flat, safe and soft.

Sports and Guns

A quick burst of US culture today!

So, I watched the Superbowl and thoroughly enjoyed it. I decided to support the Giants in the end, mainly because they were the underdogs, but partly because I don't like patriotism as a quality. Whereas giants in general are pretty cool. Top three giants? Well, if you're asking: Andre (the Giant), Great Grape Ape (he counts), and the Giant Sequoia.

It wasn't Ray Stubbs, but that blonde kid from Sportsround doing the coverage, and I think he did an admirable job. They had to fill commercial time with the odd 'Superbowl Memories' package reminiscing about one of the games in its illustrious forty-something history. Which isn't much. The FA Cup pisses all over that.

Similarly, it's amusing when Americans mention they have over two hundred years of history. It seems so insubstantial. It's not fair really. Their history lessons have so much less to cover than ours, it's a wonder that every US citizen can't give details of every day in their history, right up to who had what for breakfast and a breakdown of each state by most popular hat.

One thing that watching the Superbowl does do, is remind me of how fucking brilliant (proper) football is. Soccer is so clearly the best sport, and by such a wide margin, that it's a wonder there's any debate. It has all the best qualities of every other sport rolled into one (except Foxy Boxing, but I'm sure that'll come).

***

Yesterday, I finally got around to watching Die Hard 4.0 (or Live Free or Die Hard, a kind of self-defeating ultimatum). I love the Die Hard films and this one was pretty good.

No fuss, just lots of action. It suffered a little from being rated PG-13, but not as much as I thought it would.

The only real flaw is that the villian was a bit pathetic. I didn't really buy the pretty-boy nerd as much of a threat, especially when compared to badass Alan "Shoot the Glass" Rickman and crazy-ass Jeremy "Holy Toledo! Somebody had fun" Irons. I think Gary Oldman should have got the part. He's insane enough to be a threat to McClane, if only for a while.

And strangely, I think I prefer it to the Bourne films, because you need a bit of humour in between the car crashes and bullets, even if it has to come from the kid from Galaxy Quest.

*** (this is a dividing line, rather than a star-rating)

While I'm on films, here's my review of No Country for Old Men:

Pretty damn good, but the title is a bit difficult. I'm sure I asked for tickets to "Old Country for New Men", "Country Men for No Colds", "Cowboys Know No Boys (Heath Ledger RIP)".

It was scary, the psycho guy was cool, great performances all round. And I'm a sucker for a lck of resolution, and some weird structure, so I rate this pretty highly. But then, I also really liked The Man Who Wasn't There when I first saw it, and it didn't blow me away on second viewing, so what do I know?

In conclusion, one thumb up for the quality of the film, and one thumb up for Kelly MacDonald being in it (I'm sure she'd enjoy that).

Pigskin

I don't really get the fuss about cannibalism.

Once someone's dead, they're dead. What does it matter who digests the flesh? It's either us or the worms.

If you kill someone with the intention of eating them, that's bad. Killing people is bad. I don't hesitate in saying that. Killing is unequivacably wrong. Definitely.

But I don't know why there is such a big taboo over eating people. Maybe it's just that we taste bad. But there doesn't seem to be the same stigma attached to eating fennel. It doesn't make much sense.

When I was a kid, I got quite freaked out by the trailer to Alive. But nowadays, I'd be quite willing (not happy mind you, I'd probably be quite shocked by the plane crash and corpses), once everything had sunk in, to eat a bit of human mince. Unless my victim had tattoos. They might taste all inky like an octopus.

Not that I've ever eaten octopus. That would be disgusting.

***

It's the Superbowl tonight!

I thnk I may stay up to watch it, as it's on BBC and won't have adverts every eight seconds. I'm not sure what they'll do to fill the time, as the Superbowl is generally 85% commercials, 6% preposterous half-time glitz, 3% instant replays and the odd bit of armoured trolls running into each other at speed. Maybe everytime the game goes to commercial, it will cut back to someone in the BBC studio (someone who never watched the sport before this week and seems out of place, like Ray Stubbs) and they can explain to everyone why the game is supposed to be exciting.

I don't mean t be pessimistic. I think American Football is really fun to watch. As I've discussed before, it's made for people with short attention spans, which makes it frenetic and brutal, like a drive-by punching.

I have a fondness for American Football, as I remember staying up very late watching it at University with my friend James, for no good reason, other than we had nothing better to do. It's a bit like Laurel and Hardy which we used to watch to avoid working.

If you are putting something off, everything else becomes incredibly interesting.

So tonight, when I should be getting a good night's sleep to allow for a productive job search this week, I'll be staying up all night, drinking jasmine tea, in my pants, watching Ray Stubbs shrugging.

My prediction: Patriots will win. I'm supporting them because I've lived in England all my life and I've only been to York once.

Grandstand, Bandstand, Handstand

The hurdles is a pretty weird athletic event. It's as though we got bored with people just running round a track, but couldn't think of another distinct physical skill to add to the Olympic canon. They could have tried to institute distance urination or speed head-vibrating, but instead they got lazy and thought up hurdles. Just running, but with stuff in the way. The event might as well be called Hindered Running.

I'd love to watch the Hindered Running section of athletics. You'd have to expand it a little, though. Having little fences to jump isn't that interesting. I'd like to see the runners pelted by stale scones. You could hand them out to the audience, and ask them to throw them as the race was underway. The first athlete to the finish line, of the last athlete alive, would have shown they had the strength to succeed.

Or have each athlete's wife or husband to say they want a divorce just before the race. They can throw down their wedding ring and spit on it in disgust. Any athlete faced with that emotional trauma would have to have real strength of character to complete the event.

OR (and I'm only brainstorming here) put a badger in a flat-cap on the sidelines of the track. Not in the middle, where it's obvious; just so that the athletes can see it in their peripheral vision. "Was that a badger in a flat-cap?" they's wonder. The true athlete would give it no further thought and sprint on like an electric cheetah.

If you were on the podium, hearing our dirge of a national anthem, knowing that you'd blocked out badgers, scones, and the breakdown of your marriage, the experience would be that much sweeter.

Hindered Running. 2012 beckons.

***

Staying with sport: Kieron Dyer. I wouldn't wish a broken leg on anyone, believe me. But there comes a time when you have to realise you probably weren't made to play football. Especially when you're sullen, perenially over-rated, and seem to have legs made of nothing but masking-tape and good intentions.

The purge of the mediocre from the England team should begin with Mr Dyer.

Jermaine Jenas, you're next.

***

'The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill' on The White Album is one of the weirdest songs I've ever heard. If goes from major to minor so often it makes me feel like I've gone back in time. It's a curious mix of Ziggy-era Bowie and the theme tune to some fucked-up Eastern European cartoon from the early 80s.

Them Beatles were crazy. Wrote some good songs, though.

***

I've gotta stop watching the Rockford Files. Aside from its awesome theme tune, I'm beginning to think being a Private Dick (no, I'm not going to make a joke, thank you) might be a good career move.

You get to work your own hours, all your clients are beautiful women, you get to trade witty barbs with loads of character actors, and you get to live by the sea, eating tacos for breakfast.

Now, I'm sure the perks of the job might not be quite the same if I lived in, let's say, Bolton. But I'm sure I could still have some fun. I'd need to get a distinctive car, though. All private detectives need to have the most conspicuous vehicle they can get their hands on.

I'd drive a milk float. I can just see me tailing someone on a dark winter evening:

"Hey boss, I think that milk float's following us!"
"Shut up, Rocko! There's hundreds of milk floats in this city."
"Well, shouldn't we at least speed up to 10 miles an hour, so he can't catch us?"
"I said shut up!"

***

Time well spent, I think you'll agree.

Brain Gravel

Lucy and I have been working on combining all the different proverbs relating to Rome. Something like "When in Rome, all roads lead to Nero fiddling in a day". I think it merits future thought.
***
We had two baby seagulls trapped in our back garden that had evidently fallen from their nest. We were worried they might die, so we put out water and bits of bread. My dad ushered them out the back gate, though, so they're gone. I hope they're still alive, and don't resent being ousted. Maybe they are able to live life to the full now, getting in with the cool seagull crowd. I just hope that, years from now, if they see us passing below, they'll remember our kindness and not shit on our heads. That would be nice.
***
I'm compiling a list of people that should be killed, blatantly ripping off of George Carlin. His list included people who say 'sounds like a plan!', which I found curiously amusing.
I would add the following:
- people who have been to 'the university of life'
- people who, when you say 'I'll try', respond by saying 'Don't try. Just do it'.
***
If you're ever particularly bored, particularly at work if you can only visit certain sites (ie. no porn), it's always good to go to the BBC website's Have Your Say section (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/talking_point/default.stm) and revel in the bigotry and ignorance of the British people. It really is quite entertaining, especially on issues such as smoking, imigration or gender inequality. I used to read these in a combination of anger and amusement, astonished by the world.
***
I've realised that Americans don't like sports. They like the atmosphere of sports and the athleticism; the merchandise and the extra-curicular nonsense, but they don't really care about the action. That's why in baseball and American football (which I enjoy, by the way), the actual play lasts for a fraction of the time, and everything else takes ages. It's also why they don't like football (there must be a reason). I think it's something to do with a lack of attention span.
This is also why they're so good at athletics. It's the drama and beauty of a sport broken down into its constituent parts, short and isolated. They also probably like poetry better than prose for this reason. Of course, i have no reason to think this, and no evidence. Also, I HATE generalisations based on nationality.
I should have given this more thought.
***
I'm sorry for rambling. Next time I'll be more consistent. Maybe I'll write a mini murder-mystery play based around the 'Live Earth' concerts. James Blunt can be killed. Tune in next time to find out. (Tune?)