Pronged

Maybe I'll try to squeeze another one in, under the wire.

Here's a bit of hilarious stand-up that will really make you think.

You know when you're watching a nature programme, right, and they describe the animal's sense of smell? Or sight? 

It's always either really good or really bad. It's never just... average.

You never get them saying: "The leopard's most useful predatory tool is its eyesight. A leopard's vision is around... 1.1 times as good as a human's. So pretty much the same as ours, give or take. It's not even, like, always the case. It's an average. Some leopards have worse vision than some humans. It's really very, very similar.

Anyway..."

I suppose mediocre qualities get omitted from the final voice-over. They go without saying, really. They don't start each section by telling you the animal is composed of atoms. 

You see?

Pretty solid stuff.

It's funnier if you imagine me doing an impression of Richard Attenborough. Or David or whoever. As long as it's an Attenborough, the laughs will be there.

How about this for the first line of a novel?

I've never had people gang up on me. But once, last Christmas, I had some people gang down on me. I didn't even realised what had happened until afterwards.

I'm asking to have it printed in blue.

That's two good ideas so far: the stand-up material and the novel first line. One more and I can get back to my Neptune jigsaw. It's pretty tough going. I still can't even tell whether it's supposed to be the planet or the god.

Is this piece a trident or Triton?

AAHAHA! That's a proper Neptune's moon/god confusion joke.

"But Paul, don't both terms come from the same classical root? Obviously the planet and moon's names are an intentional parallel to the Greek myths?"

Yes, fine. Still. I thought it was clever.

Here's my third idea:

Bring back sacks. Sacks have fallen by the wayside. In the old days, everything was in sacks: potatoes, coal, kittens. But the box and the bag took over so quickly that we didn't even register it.

Bring back sacks.

Remember what made Britain great.

Sacks. 

Sacks did.

Laughtermath

The Oxford Comedy Festival was on Saturday.

But I'm really, really tired. Do I have the energy to launch into a full breakdown of the event; the highs and lows; an analysis of the acts; a prolonged self-assessment?

Do I?

I don't think so. But let's see what I can manage.

There were two shows; one in the afternoon and one in the evening. I was the compere for the first one, and did stand-up at the second one.

It took place at the Old Fire Station in Oxford, which is a really nice theatre venue and seems very well-suited for comedy.

The standard of the acts was very high. There was sketch, improv and stand-up, and I laughed many a big laugh. The shows were possibly a bit long. I was certainly very tired by the end of it, but that might be because I'm thirty-one.

Many of the other performers were young and full of vitality. I remember when I was young and vital. Actually, that's not true. I've never been vital. Even as a young man, I was strictly optional. I think the best I ever got was that one year when I was ancillary, but that seems like a long time ago now.

I won't write about the other acts individually, because I'd worry about leaving people out. They were all excellent.

(But if you contact me privately, I'm happy to give you a full list from best to worst, including snide, unprofessional barbs and a reductive analysis on which of the performers was the most attractive. [Untrue.])

I really am tired. Luckily, I wrote a long email about the gigs to my friend and occasional writing partner Alex 'Dice Cricket' Clissold-Jones, so I can chop out some bits of it.

It will also create the impression that there's a certain level of journalism going on here, even though I'm only quoting my own sloppily-written correspondence.

Here is local comedian Paul Fung with his take on his compering performance in the afternoon:

I compered the afternoon. I was just OK. The crowd was pretty small, but loud enough, and seemed to enjoy the acts. My audience chat was variable, as were my little bits. As I said, there wasn't much time to spare, so a lot of it was rattling through the acts. It was pretty tiring having to be 'on' for that long. At one point I did a bad joke, that got an audible 'Jesus...' from the audience, which was nice. I would describe my overall performance as 'acceptable'.

In the evening, I was doing a ten-minute slot towards the end of the show. Here's bearded misanthropist Paul Fung with his take on the events leading up to my performance:

So anyway, I was scheduled to go on as the penultimate act, with the Dead Secrets closing. But as time went on (and on and on), it was clear that we were running out of time. Prior acts were asked to shorten their stuff, as was I.

My prepared stuff was all new and was mainly one big bit, so I struggled to think of what to cut. As the act before me was on, I decided that I'd cut a whole massive chunk from the middle and just do a couple of short bits, and spent a while panicking about which I should do.

Then, seconds before going on stage, The Dead Secrets (amusingly dejected, already in their elaborate costumes) said that they'd decided not to perform because it was so late, so I was the last act.

I didn't know what to do. I'd reconciled myself to my really short set (which I'd also decided would build up to the Dead Secrets), and now had to stick some stuff back in.

I ended up doing most of my prepared material.

It included the scariest stretch of performance I've ever done. I have a whole bit where I make fun of racists who have protested about a film version of the musical Annie with a black cast. I jokingly express my support for their views in a way which is supposed to satirise what they're saying (in a winking "isn't this ridiculous?" kind of way), and I'd tried to make it clear that I was making fun of them. Obviously it wasn't clear enough.

Silence. Intakes of breaths. Disapproving noises. Basically, they just thought I was doing racist material. And there I was, the last act of a long show, destroying all of the good will in the room.

But luckily - LUCKILY - I'd begun the whole thing by saying that this topical material was my audition for Mock the Week as an off-hand comment. And I ended with a callback saying "It's not clear who the victim of that joke is  - it seems like it's satirising bigots, but is still attempting to get laughs from bigotry... and that's why that's my audition for Mock the Week" (in a slightly hacky "and then I got OFF the bus" kind of way). And to my huge relief, it got a laugh, and I think everyone realised what I'd been trying to do. It was all delivered as written, but I didn't think I'd have to wait until the last line for people to understand my point.

If I had been being racist, the Mock the Week framework would have been a pretty shitty cop-out (and it probably was anyway), but it saved my bacon.

The stuff before that was pretty good, and I ended on my LSD/LEDs joke, to make sure I got an actual laugh. Then I got the fuck out of there.

Scary. I'd rather die on stage than have everyone think I was a racist, or even a Ricky Gervais-style ironic racist.

There you have it - right from the horse's face.

(By the way, I didn't mean to make fun of The Dead Secrets there. They brilliantly organised the event - and it was a real shame that they didn't get to perform in the evening. It's just that there's something quite funny about disappointment in costume.)

Anyway, I was generally quite pleased with my evening performance. The event as a whole was really good, with enthusiastic, supportive audiences (including the smaller one in the afternoon, and the sell-out in the evening). I'm really grateful to have been invited to take part, and I'd definitely recommend going along if they do another one in the future.

And it was all for charity. I'm going to pat myself on the back as soon as I can. Maybe I'll go and do it in the toilet cubicle. For half an hour. And if anyone knocks on the door, I can bellow: "Yes, this is exactly what it sounds like! I'm proud of the selfless work I've done!"

I should write reviews for a living. Look, I've even formatted my comments as block quotes! I can do anything. I'd be happy to review comedy, or even write serious political think-pieces, for The Guardian or any other left-leaning publication. My only requirement is that I will only ever quote myself. Even if it's about the Euro, which I know nothing about.

The money that people in Europe use is the Euro, when it used to be all francs and the German ones (in Germany), but it was hard and now things make people think they should have not have done that please and pounds is better?

Can British people win the Pulitzer Prize? The only winner I know about is Lois Lane, and she's from Metropolis, USA.

Oh dear. The quoting and colours seem to have interfered with my formatting. It looks a bit messy now. Also, I used a split infinitive earlier on that I'm reluctant to change.

But that's not really my job, is it? Leave it to the subs.

Petulant Machine

February started so well, with a couple of posts in quick succession. But look where we are now: a desperate sixth post before the month is out.

I'm yearning for a leap year. Yearning.

But when I have a deadline, I do my best work. Much like the cornered tiger, which also does its best work when it has a deadline.

I've posted this elsewhere, but I might as well share the knowledge with my ones of blog readers.

I'm doing stand-up at the Oxford Comedy Festival, at the Old Fire Station, on Saturday 29 March.

The bill is full of various sketch, stand-up and a third thing comedy acts. I'm sure they're all very good. It's also for CHARITY. That's right. I am a good person.

There are two shows, one at 2pm and one at 7pm. I'll be compering the first one and doing a "set" (which will be "funny") at the later one.

Full details, including ticket ordering information, are at the link I'm about to copy and paste after the upcoming colon:

http://oxfordcomedyfestival.org/

It promises to be hilarious and terrifying for all involved.

Luckily, I have a lot of material.

Isn't it annoying when your clench your fist and you're accidentally holding an ostrich egg?

***

I've been tidying up at work, and have inhaled about three hooverbagsworth of dust. I keep coughing.

I suppose my terrible lung problems serve me right for not tidying more often.

Hey: here's something. I once wrote a song with the following first line:

Inside my chest, sequestered, is a petulant machine

Is that, or is it not, the worst opening line of any song ever written?

The word "sequestered" is not the kind of lyric you want to stick up front. And "chest, sequestered" is a challenge for even the most skilled of mouths.

I never even came up with a permanent second line, because there was no way to follow it. Though most variants of the second line, ended in the word 'baby'. I think it was to provide contrast: a clichéd word to counterbalance a stupid, ungainly one. Light and shade. Baby and sequestered.

Huh.

According to Wikipedia, there's a Canadian metal band called Sequester. Actually, it seems like it's just one guy.



I was going to make fun of this, but it's actually pretty OK.

I think his success comes from lopping the 'ed' from the end of 'sequestered'. That's why he's a professional.

'Sequester' has lots of plus points. It has the word 'quest' in it, which is pretty good (though he should have replaced the 'q' with a question mark). It also ends with 'er'. All good bands end in 'er', like Guster, Squarepusher, and... er...

It gives the act a sense of agency. They're doing bands. They're always moving, always progressing. Unlike those stupid noun bands like Travis who have been stationary for their entire career.

And don't get me started on those terrible pronoun-number bands. U2 and Shed Seven should be ashamed of themselves. My sister used to like U2 but shed pretends that shed didn't. I still tease her about it, though.

***

You see? Deadlines FOCUS ME LIKE A LASER.

Now excuse me whilst I browse Sequester's back catalogue. I can even sing along. This dust is making my voice more metal by the minute.

Better The Drivel You Know

I'm a vain man, so I've been going over old reviews of my stand-up. It's not just because I want to pat myself on the trumpet; this is a marketing exercise. Now, when I do future gigs, I can point to this page.

I won't link to this page. I'll point to it.

I think this is the best I can come up with.

"gruffly brilliant" - The Londonist

"cuttingly comic observations" - Oxford Theatre Review

"confident and polished material" - Oxford Theatre Review

"confident and cool, he's the type of comic you want to befriend, whilst simultaneously making you hate yourself" - Cherwell.org

I think I'll get rid of the third one. You don't want two reviews from the same source, unless they're both from the Guardian or Terry Jones. Also, they both begin with "confident" which is repetitive and inaccurate.

The last one is clearly the best, even if it might not be totally grammatically accurate.

***

I'm wearing slippers. Slippers are the future, my friends. They're warmer than socks, but not as constrictive. You can answer the door in slippers. Admittedly, you'll lose a lot of respect from the postman.

"What are you doing here?" he'll say. "And how did you open my front door? It was locked!"

"I made a key!" you'll say, in your slippers. "How about a taste of your own medicine?"

Then you'll give him his mail.

***

In an attempt to keep my momentum going, I'm not going to dwell in any one area for too long.

Here are some words that you see a lot on message boards and comment sections. They tell you a lot about the person writing them.

Dross

If someone describes something as "dross", they invariably have terrible taste.

Drivel

Ditto.

Asinine

People use this term to make themselves sound intelligent, but the only people who use it are desperately insecure about their ability to understand things.

Naff

Using the word 'naff'' is naff, and it was so even back in the early nineties.

Puerile

Nobody with even an ounce of imagination or joy has ever criticised something by saying it is "puerile". It's a term that ten-year-olds use to show their superiority to nine-year-olds.

There are probably more that I'm forgetting. This is important work.

***

FOOTBALL'S ON TONIGHT!

COME ON YOU REDS!

SOUTHAMPTON FOOTBALL CLUB!

COME ON THE GOAL KICKERS!

LET'S BE UP IN DEM DROP-BALLS, YO!

One of Southampton's (many) bright young stars is James Ward-Prowse. He's good at taking free-kicks.

His name is good for chanting. I'd particularly like to hear his name sung to Our House by Madness ("in the middle of our team" perhaps?). This tune was previously used for defender Claus Lundekvam back in the day, so it's a definite possibility.

An outside choice would be the Mighty Mouse theme song (immortalised by Andy Kaufman). It would be a bit complicated. But if he ever won us a game, he genuinely would have saved the day.

But the one I always get stuck in my head is the Simon & Garfunkel song So Long Frank Lloyd Wright.

"So long, James Ward-Prowse..."

It's not ideally suited to a football chant. Chants aren't normally so... wistful. If the Northam stand started singing that, I think the whole team would just feel a bit melancholy. It's not a good motivator.

Also, there's a flute in it. You'd need to have a section of the crowd with flutes, which could be hazards if thrown on to the pitch.

Even if the words were changed to "come on, James Ward-Prowse", I can't see it catching on anywhere beyond my flat.

***

My legs are cold. The slippers can only do so much. I'm going to have to take off some of these ice packs.

It's difficult to know when to finish a blog post. If I force myself to keep writing, I might come up with something amazing. On the other hand, it is my day off. I should be winding down. Genius is exhausting. If I come up with something amazing, I'll be feeling it tomorrow.

It's best to go now. Keep your powder dry, as the coke dealer said to the captain of The Titanic.

Though we all know how that turned out...

Reputation Building

I performed stand-up comedy on Saturday night. And what a performance it was. There I was, in a venue, speaking words, making sense, wearing a shirt. You should have been there.

Lucy and I arrived late, because our bus was late, so we missed our train, and then the tube wasn't running, and then it was a leap year.

The gig was very nice and relaxed. The audience were appreciative and very willing to offer ideas, interjections, suggestions, yawns, and other feedback. That sounds sarcastic, but they actually were very nice. They were at just the right level of participation: equidistant between silence and throwing stools.

It gave me the chance to offer up some improvised zingers (5%) and some endearing floundering (95%). It was a lot of fun. I did almost all new material, and it seemed to go down quite well.

On the way home, we got some food at Burger King. I haven't been to Burger King for many, many years. I got a burger that was 'bread-meat-meat-meat-cheese-bread'. I think it was a bit much for me. You can't suddenly leap back into fast food without having prepared. My body struggled to deal with the salt. I spent the rest of the night considering regicide.

You'd think the amount of Domino's pizza I eat would have prepared me. But I think the lack of vegetables threw me. With a pizza, you get the wholesome nutrition of that red sauce, which acts as a palate cleanser. And crispy onions are essentially a sorbet.

Next time I'll go for a 'bread-meat-meat-meat-cheese-limp lettuce-brown tomato-bread' option. That's proper balance.

I don't know why I list my burger components from bottom to top. You'd think it would be the other way round. Top to bottom, like reading Chinese. I suppose I'm thinking of them as building instructions. You start at the bottom. Build the foundation. Then gradually pile things up. I've always been architecturally minded. That's why I put a tiny french fry fire escape on the side of every burger: SAFETY FIRST.

***

I ordered some shoes online yesterday. It's the biggest risk I've ever taken. Even bigger than when I went to Atlantic City and bet all of my chips on rack at the roulette wheel.

"Everything on rack!" I said.

"Rack isn't a colour, sir," said the casino employee (though he was American, so there was no 'u' in colour).

"I'm on a roll," I said. "I can feel it! Luck is on my side. Everything on rack!"

"Again, sir, there is no rack. There's red and there's black. Also, you don't need to tell me what you're doing. Just put your chips on the..."

"I feel it in the water! Here," I said to a passing woman, "kiss my chips for good luck. Not that I need it!"

"We all know where this humorous situation is going," said the casino employee (though he was American, so he... oh wait humorous doesn't have an initial 'u' in it anyway? what about humour though huh wtf?).

"Do we?" I said.

"Well not exactly. But roughly. It's not going to be worth it."

"Fine."

Then something interesting happened. The end.

***

I might be a bit burnt out.

Leave me in a dark room for eight months. When I come out, I'll be as good as squinting new.

Grinning Paul Oh Yes

The title of my last post didn't conform to the 'NaNoWriMo'-style naming structure of my other November posts. This might give you a clue about how well the writing is going. It is not going well.

This month has been a bit stressful, so I've had to take certain measures to maintain my sanity. These measures include not writing thousands of words every day, and watching various WWF wrestling events from the mid 1980s. I'm still sane, so it must have worked.

I'm also doing some stand-up in London on Saturday. The details are here. I haven't done any comedy since last December, so I'm probably going to be brilliant. Comic ideas take time to ferment. If you're patient, you can come out with something bursting with flavour.

On the other hand, I've forgotten how to use a microphone. I can never remember which colour wire you're supposed to cut.

Just so you know, I've done twelve tweets about wires, plus another couple about The Wire. But I don't want to be thought of as "the man who copies and pastes his relevant tweets from a spreadsheet into his blog post and changes the font colour to blue". So I won't post them here. Two of them are really funny, but I won't post them here.

Instead, here's a picture of me. I think, from my Tumblr research, that this is what's known as a GPOY. That's a gratuitous picture of yourself. I've been doing these since before they had their own acronym.

I found this one recently. I like that the lighting makes one side of my face look bigger/more heavily made-up than the other.

I also like the fact that it represents the exact opposite mood to the one I'm in now.

I might make it my new Facebook profile picture. I like the idea that people who I once knew (and befriended online), but who have now almost totally forgotten me, will see this and think that I have a fashionable mental illness.

In real life, it's not fashionable. In real life, I have the Mumford and Sons of mental illnesses.

I looked in the mirror today, and my hair is getting greyer.

Hard to Swallow

Saturday night's comedy gig was reviewed on the Londonist website. I'm becoming Mr Review on here lately - sharing kind things that people have said as soon as they appear. I suppose I find it edifying to share these with you, as you've always known how amazing I am, and will be pleased to see it confirmed in ink. Cyber-ink.

I also find it edifying to use the word 'edifying'.

In this most recent review, I get what is a generally positive one-sentence review. I'd now like to spend several thousand words analysing it in detail.

The sentence starts off promisingly:

"Paul Fung had a beard and was gruffly brilliant..."

That's very nice. I'm not sure why the beard is relevant, but it's nice to know they have the right man. I'm always happy to be called 'brilliant', though I've never thought of myself as particularly gruff. Maybe it's because I had a sore throat.

If that was the whole review, I wouldn't have thought much more about it. But the sentence finished with this thought:

"...like if Rufus Hound had swallowed Jack Dee."

Now...

This comparison isn't something I have a problem with. The phrasing on the other hand, is a real curate's egg. I've been thinking about it since I first read it, and have given it a lot of thought. So much thought, that I've forgotten to bathe, sleep, or be annoyed by the government.

The first thing to say is that I don't take issue with either of the two comedians mentioned. I don't have strong opinions on either. I've never really seen any Rufus Hound stand-up. I've mostly seen him on panel shows and the like, and he seems pretty funny. I don't know how similar our styles are, or if the commonality is just one of facial hair. Jack Dee is obviously a well-established name in comedy. Perhaps some of my deadpan deliveries are similar to his.

I don't know. It's difficult to judge my own style of comedy. The combination of these two might accurately sum me up.

If the sentence had been "...like a combination of Rufus Hound and Jack Dee", I would have found it interesting, but unremarkable.

But the whole 'swallowed' thing: that's the sticking point.

Journalists need to think of creative ways of making comparisons. That's the main part of their job. No-one wants to read an non-literary analogy. It would be a waste of time.

So the journalist will use clever tropes and phrases to create a vivid picture. When they want to say that someone is a cross between two other people, there are different avenues they can take.

The bare-bones, basic version is "[BLANK1] is like [BLANK2] meets [BLANK3]". For example, "Tim Minchin is like Russell Brand meets Bill Bailey". This gets the point across, but is a bit clumsy, and lacks flair.

There is of course the famous "[BLANK1] is like [BLANK2] on drugs" comparison, which is always insightful.

When I was growing up, the most common variant was "[BLANK1] is like the lovechild of [BLANK2] and [BLANK3]".

I don't know if that is out of fashion now. The word "lovechild" seems very 1990s. I don't even know what it means. Does it imply something illicit? Surely you could just use "child" and it would mean the same thing. But at least it conjures up the idea that one person has characteristics that combine those of two other people. It's genetics - writers love to sneak in a bonus science lesson.

But the writer of my review has gone for the much more creative, and much less orthodox variant: "...like if [BLANK1] had swallowed [BLANK2]".

This conjures up an undeniably strong visual image. And it's not the most flattering one.

As I said, it's not Hound and Dee that's the issue. That comparison is an undesirable one, regardless of the people involved. A person who has consumed another person is not something you want to look like.

Even if the people involved were really flattering. Even if I'd been described as "...like if Usain Bolt had swallowed Mozart", I'd still be a bit nonplussed.

I'd rather not be compared to a cumulative two people. Maybe if the people were really thin, it wouldn't be so bad. If I was described as being "...like if Karen Carpenter had swallowed Gandhi", that would have been better. That combination might make for a tolerable double-person. It also would have piqued the curiosity of any reader, and might have drawn a crowd to my next gig. I would have tailored my act to fit the description, walking the fine line between tragic and racist, inciting a riot and then refusing to fight back.

The thing is, neither Rufus Hound or Jack Dee are particularly thin. I'd say they're both reasonably large. For one to swallow the other, would result in quite the monstrosity. I mean, I would have appreciated it if the reviewer had stipulated that it was Jack Dee circa 1991. That would have been something.

(I'd like make it clear that I'm not debating the accuracy of the comparison. It is accurate. But just because something's accurate, it doesn't mean you can't complain about it.)

Maybe I'm viewing it the wrong way. Maybe the comparison is even more literary than I'd given it credit for. It might be a creative analogy of my comedy style. Perhaps I have a Jack Dee-like cynicism that has been "swallowed" by the more cheerful approach of Rufus Hound. On aspect of my comedy style has been subsumed within another. Maybe that's what they meant! It was very clever, very apposite, and very flattering.

Maybe that's it.

Maybe that's it.

"...like if Rufus Hound had swallowed Jack Dee."

Maybe that's it.

Or maybe I just looked ill. I'd probably be ill if I tried to swallow Jack Dee. He wouldn't be too happy either.

Despite the many paragraphs I've spent complaining about this, I'm very pleased with the review. I just want people to think I'm funny, that's all. It's not a beauty contest.

(Incidentally, my appearance in a recent beauty contest was also reviewed. I was described as "...like the lovechild of Gloria Gaynor and a snowman, that's swallowed some magic mushrooms". It was me who described me like that, and I was only partially correct. Still, third place is nothing to sneeze at.)

I'm very grateful for the review. In fact, my tempering something complimentary with something self-deprecating may make this one of those #humblebrag situations. That's when you disguise self-congratulation behind a thin, unconvincing layer of modesty.

But my ratio of self-loathing to arrogance must be, like, 30-1 in this blog post. That's like the homoeopathic version of a humblebrag. The particles of smug are so diluted that they have no bearing on the final product.

For my next gig, I'm going to shave off my beard and change my style completely.

Then we'll see who eats whom.

***

Maybe I am gruff...

Hydrology

December. The Year of the Bag.

I don't know what that means, but it's how my brain decided to open this post. My brain can be a trial sometimes. But when he's happy and behaving himself, when he's busy with his crayons or gamma-Aminobutyric acids, you just look at his little brain-face smile, and it makes it all worth it.

It's strange to have finished NaNoWriMo. I feel as though a huge weight has been lifted off me. There are several other huge weights, waiting (weighting) to take its place, but that's for Tomorrow Me to think about. For now, I am relieved at no longer having any kind of word-count pressure. I could end this blog post right now, and no-one would be able to say anything against me.

But I won't end it now. There's too much to tell you about.

I went to London for a stand-up gig on Saturday. We took the Oxford Tube coach, and were stuck in traffic for a long time. Luckily, Lucy and I are always about three hours early for every event, so it didn't cause to much rambunction.

What? 'Rambunction' isn't a word, Mr Spellcheck? I think you'll find that it is. I don't even need to make sure I'm correct. I am correct.

The gig was at a very nice pub in Clerkenwell. We had food beforehand. I had a brie and caramelised onion sandwich for some reason. I don't know why I mention it here. I suppose I thought it might lead me into an interesting diversion. Perhaps the diversion would be a hilarious sideways look at the process of caramelisation. I might wonder when it was invented. I might imagine caramelising various unlikely things, like Gargamel or camels or caramel. It would be hilarious.

Likewise, brie might have led me to a discussion of the actress Alison Brie. Perhaps she could star in a film called Brie Encounter, where Alison Brie (played by herself) gets some cheese in her eye at a train station and then falls in love with a giant bit of brie, but is married (to some kind of chutney), and it ends with her cutting off her nose to spite her brie. Which is frowned upon.

But I didn't think of any of those things. The sandwich I ate didn't lead me down any of those avenues. It was a damp squib. A lightly toasted damp squib. With rocket.

The gig was in a nice back room with a stage. The night was run by The Awkward Silence, who also run the Oxford nights I've been performing at. There was a good crowd and all of the acts did well.

I was doing the same stuff as I did in Oxford last time. It's been a while since I've repeated material, and it's always a surprise to see the differences in reactions when performing in front of a new crowd. Most of it went pretty well, though both of my main bits petered out a little. I had to work a little bit harder than usual, which was actually quite fun. I did some ad libs that were enjoyable, especially when dealing with an audible exclamation of disgust after one of my jokes.

I was probably a bit complacent and had a bit of rust when going off-track (I've been spoiled by the generosity of Oxford audiences). But I had a good time, and was pleased with my response. By which I mean their response to me. Not my response. My response was the same as it always is: shuffling, embarrassed awkwardness and an imperceptible nod.

On the way home, I was thirsty. I have a bit of a cold, so my throat was (and is) sore and dry. But we only had about a third of a bottle of water left. I was forced to ration it. I appreciated every occasional mouthful. It made me realise how lucky we are to live with abundant water. We take it for granted. We glug it down like it's going out of fashion (it's not - water is always stylish).

When water supplies are low, you realise what a blessing it is. I now know exactly what it must be like to go through a horrendous drought in the Third World. Sitting there, on the comfortable bus, eating a duck wrap, I was a little bit thirsty. It was hell.

I don't understand why anyone still lives in the desert. Sort it out. There's too much water in the UK. Come over! You'll be welcomed with open arms. If there's one thing that the British are renowned for, it's our universal acceptance of immigrants.

Come and drink from our wells! You don't need camels here (caramelised or otherwise).

Hey! Water! That reminds me of something else. I didn't plan it - it was just a happy accident.

There was some flooding recently. You might have seen an item about it on the moisture news. There was all kinds of wettening in Oxford. The meadow at the back of our building was completely submerged. And I, with my terrible phone camera, was there to document it.

Here is our car park:

That brown stuff is water. There's usually a lot of grass back there. The bridge is just about above the water line. But it is no longer a bridge. It is a wooden island. Poohsticks is unworkable.

Luckily, we live on the second floor and don't have a car, so we can laugh at our hapless neighbours, and throw things at them. We can mock them by bulk ordering snorkels and having them delivered by barge.

That photo isn't great. But if you take a picture at sunrise, you don't need to worry about equipment or skill. Nature makes it look good. God is the original Photoshop:

You see? That could be on the cover of some kind of lamppost magazine. It's a bit grainy, but I blame that on the grains. Stupid grains.

So, this is what December feels like. I think we're going to be fine. Let's just ride it out. Together.

NaNoMicrophoNo

I'm all hopped up on Earl Grey tea, so let's put some words down.

I'm slightly behind schedule with the old NaNoWriming, but there will probably be time for that later. That's the clarion call of the failed writer, but I have confidence in myself to get back on the writing horse and... I don't know... do a whole chapter about stirrups or something.

Have I used "clarion call" correctly? Let's see.

Ah, a clarion is a kind of bugle or trumpet. That makes sense. It's probably connected to "clarinet", and also to Clarissa Explains It All.

It probably is.

Good old Earl Grey. It has never made me not make sense once.

I had a stand-up gig last night. It was another good one.

There's a review of the night here. I'm pleased with what they said about me, but I am slightly annoyed that they misquoted me. I would never use the word "hipster" as an adjective.

It was all new stuff, though a big chunk came from a previous blog post. You see? You guys get the inside track. You will always know about these things first. It's like being inside the head of a great artist. Or within a five mile radius of Quentin Tarantino.

There was quite a bit of improvised stuff in my set, including having to deal with a broken tripod (which I referred to as a "monopod" to little reaction).

The main thing that stuck with me was my interaction with a girl in the front row. "Girl" might be a bit patronising, but she was so young and innocent looking that it made my eventual abuse of her all the worse. Her phone went off early on, and I did some not-particularly-hilarious bit of mock outrage that I was worried she took seriously. I don't like to pick on people in the audience, because I hate being picked on myself.

She was in the front row. Nobody wants to be in the front row. For all I know, she was reluctant to sit there on the grounds that she might get singled out. "Don't worry! No-one will talk to you!" her friend might have said. Her friend should be ashamed for being so hypothetically wrong.

A while after the phone thing, she reacted to something I said in an interesting way. I talked to her again, concluding that, coupled with the phone call, she must be an "attention-whore".

It was meant in a gentle way, but there's something about the word "whore". People don't tend to like it. She and her friends reacted in a really outraged, sitcom way. I felt terrible immediately.

I tried to dig myself out of it with an improvised bit that I found quite funny, even if the audience didn't. I'm paranoid about being thought of as a misogynist, so was insistent that there was a hyphen in 'attention-whore', rendering it politically correct. "That hyphen makes me not a sexist," I said. I was pleased with that, because it was strange logic expressed in a strange syntax.

If it was anyone else, it would have been fine. But she looked so sweet and nervous that I felt like I'd punched Bambi in the face.

I'm sure this is all incredibly patronising, and that she was absolutely fine about it. But I like to chastise myself about meaningless things. By doing it, I make myself seem sensitive and considerate, without having to take any action to remedy my behaviour.

I also sang a made-up segue song that didn't really work.

All in all, a nice evening with a nice crowd. I didn't even have any awkward conversations with strangers.

I should really get back on the novel horse. My story has reached an exciting stage, where an anthropomorphised cliff is having to explain to his father why he won't join the army. I think the next chapter will be about that not happening.

Red Fog

Last night, I dreamt that I was supporting Mel Tormé in concert.

I was doing a few minutes of comedy to warm up the crowd before he came on.

I try not to talk about my dreams too much, but I thought I'd mention this one as it demonstrates the credulity of the unconscious person.

Because, whatever talent I may have for comedy, I think everyone would agree that this arrangement is indicative of an incredibly poorly-booked evening of entertainment.

There are several reasons for this.

1) The combination of comedy and music is not necessarily a bad one. Alternative comedy acts supported punk bands in the 80s, for example. But these acts at least had an overlap of demographics; perhaps even a philosophical similarity in the pursuit of their art. But I would imagine that the stark contrast between my hilarious sideways look at life and Tormé's melodious crooning would be quite jarring. Especially for the elderly.

2) Mel Tormé has been dead for thirteen years, hampering his range.

***

I wrote the above on Saturday.

I'd forgotten about both the dream and the blog post. I was probably going to go into more depth there. Two reasons are not "several reasons". I'm sure you can spot the other flaws in the booking for yourself. You don't need me to spell them out. Not all of them.

Ah, well.

My flies were undone earlier.

If I was in America, my fly would have been undone.

I don't know why we pluralise it and they don't. It's probably the same principle as the great math/maths divide. And trouser.

I'd been out doing glamorous things, like picking up a prescription and heading to the pharmacy (not necessarily in that order). I'd had friendly chats with people. I thought I was being quite the charming devil, making witty remarks, high-fiving a cycling policemen, helping a group of children crack a smuggling ring, buying a flower for a veteran.

But then I realised that I hadn't zipped up this morning. And my smug world collapsed like a house of cards that had seen a ghost.

The embarrassment wasn't the worst part. The worst part was having to re-evaluate my whole morning. What had seemed to be a pleasant jaunt became, in crystal clear retrospect, a farce. I wasn't charming, I wasn't witty, I wasn't suave. I was an oblivious oaf.

Everything I knew was wrong. It was like the end of The Usual Suspects.

My balls were Keyser Söze.

***

Another thing that happened to me today (if you're counting, that's two), is that I had to scan my passport for a boring legal purpose.

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like the uncle who Osama bin Laden was reluctant to invite to Christmas dinner, in case something nasty kicked off.

[Let's quickly break down the problems with that sentence. This time there actually will be several.

1. It's too long.
2. It's an obvious joke.
3. I could have said "I look like a terrorist" and it would have worked just as well.
4. It's clumsily expressed.
5. I should have made a more specific terrorist example, rather than "something nasty".
6. Muslims don't celebrate Christmas.
7. It's probably racist.

There are loads more. Mel Tormé will be turning in his grave.]

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like a terrorist.

[That's better.]

But the scanner wasn't great. Maybe I didn't push down the photocopier... lid... flap... thing far enough (no-one's ever accused me of working for Canon).

There wasn't enough light, so I went from "terrorist" to "mystery demon":

I hope the people at the Early Learning Centre don't object. I can't wait to harm some children.

Sorry, that should be help some children. I have a typing impediment.

***

To conclude this delightful blog trip to Planet Paul, I should tell you that I've signed up to do NaNoWriMo. I said I'd do it, and I have done it.

(National Novel Writing Month is where you attempt to write 50,000 words of fiction in one month. It will be a struggle.)

They say you should tell people about it, so that you'll be a public failure if you give up. Though they word it a little more positively than that.

But I don't want to tell people. I don't like talking to people for any reason.

I'm not going to tell people. Instead, I'm going to tell you.

So now you know.

If this subject never comes up again, it's because I gave up. Or have been killed in a paragliding/carbon monoxide conspiracy.

Here's my NaNoWriMo page:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/diamondbadger

For all I know, you may need to be a member to see it. I haven't provided details of my novel yet, because I still have NO IDEA what it will be about.

Ah, well.

Well.

Goodbye.

Skim

Comedy was Friday. Friday was Comedy.

It was a stand-up gig. I spoke some, I hesitated some, I wore a delightful hat.

I thought it went really well, all in all. The second half of my set involved some props and almost no prepared material, so could have been a huge disaster. Luckily, things went smoothly, and there were all manner of fun surprises.

[On re-reading that, I don't know what I meant. What were the surprises? Laughs? I suppose they were fairly unexpected.]

I never know how much detail to go into when talking about my gigs. Should I provide an introduction and comprehensive overview of the night as a whole? Should I analyse the other acts on the bill? Should I give details of the venue? Should I give specific details of what material I did?

Do I want to preserve some mystery? Maybe I shouldn't give anything away in case I want to do it in the future. You readers may attend a future gig, and won't appreciate being spoiled.

My pal Alex took a short video of "laughgate" (as he referred to the evening - he loves the suffix "-gate"), but there weren't really any jokes in it. Maybe I'll post it here sometime, just to give you a flavour of my shirt and weight.

The gig, Laughter Track, is organised by a sketch duo called The Awkward Silence, and is always an utter delight. I don't know how they attract such discerning, generous, clever, attractive crowds, but they manage it all the time. It means I feel comfortable experimenting and I don't have to fall back on my classic routines ("a woman choosing between some shoes and her child"; "David Cameron being immoral"; "service station pig misunderstanding"; "racism", etc).

The whole night was tinged with sadness however, as I was unable to watch the England-San Marino match. I'll try to bounce back from that hardship.

---

Oh no! Someone has squashed those three asterisks! They used to be so pert and prickly, like brave wire Christmas trees, and now they are as flat as dashes.

Who could have done such a thing? Who has the wherewithal, the strength and the outright cruelty to flatten three innocent asterisks?

It can only be the nefarious Dr Handnote, the arch-enemy of... footnotes. Or, well... I mean, because asterisks are sometimes used to indicate footnotes.

Yeah.

I just gave myself the thumbs up, reflected in a spoon, to convey my negative feelings about my idiot thumbs.

But we're only human, aren't we? Humans can't delete bits of writing that don't work. It would be great if we could, but we can't.

***

Oh look, they're back. They must have been crouching.



GUH!

I just slapped myself in the face.

Come on, Paul. Snap out of it!

There are things to do. I can't just sit here staring at the word "crouching" for the rest of the afternoon.

YOU'RE A PROFESSIONAL!

I need to finish this blog post and get on with my life. People have probably enjoyed this. You don't need to keep working on it.

There's no point in mounting a rescue when there is no-one in jeopardy. That would simply be an exercise in ambulance exhibitionism. If you really want to impress people, stick a gif in this post. People love gifs.

Just one gif. Then leave.

Gif and go.

Gif and go!

You're hilarious.

***

Hilarious.

Red Mists

I'm doing stand-up on Friday. I don't want to give too much away here, so let's just say: I'm doing stand-up on Friday.

As usual, I'll be armed with untried and untested material. Every gig is a leap into the unknown. Or (if the venue doesn't have an unknown) the cigarette machine.

When the gig is over, there will be an after-party at Colin Dexter's house. He seems well up for it (his "Get out! I'm calling the police!" seemed sarcastic). I have it on good authority that he has a murder mystery hot tub, so make sure you bring some waterproof motives and an open mind. You can't spell "incrimination" without "rim nation".

This section of the blog seems to have come to a natural halt. So either we give it an unnatural jump-start (like Dr Frankenstein would), or we leave it to congeal on a slab as we move on to more mobile pastures.

When you think about it, I'm the Frankenstein of metaphors. I dig up remnants of symbolism that no-one else thought were of any use (correctly), and I stitch them together into something vaguely resembling a sentence.

In silhouette, it looks like a clever allegory, but when you hold your candle up to it, you can see that it's all black-bruised and stitched together with shaking hands. It's an abomination. Someone should kill it. Someone should burn it at the stake. But I've granted it safe haven in my Château du Blog, and won't let the hordes through the gates.

It may be a monster, but it's my monster.

Then I stick in a further simile, like Han Solo's waistcoat, and the creature wails and collapses in on itself.

Back to the drawing board.

***

Don't feel bad. I'd hate me too, if I was in your position. It's only natural.

I'll keep it simple from here on in.

I am Paul. I live in Oxford.

My hair is brown.

My eyes are brown.

My head is large.

I bite my fingernails.

I am tired.

I am always tired.

I am twenty-nine.

I like The Wire.

I like sandwiches.

I like coffee.

I hate coffee.

I like coffee.

I am tired.

I write a blog.

I bite my thumbnails.

Dogs.

There we go. Confusing imagery is a crutch I can discard at any time. I can also summon it back to me. Like Mjolnir.

***

I've realised that I've written two blog posts with almost identical titles. They weren't even that far apart. I wrote Red Mist on 24 July 2012, and The Red Mist on 21 September 2012.

Am I really that low on blog title ideas? At least they're on similar themes. Maybe I should re-title one or both of them. I can play up the first Red Mist as a prequel. Or the second Red Mist as a sequel. Or both of those things.

Maybe it can just be like Alien and Aliens. Or Final Destination and The Final Destination. Or Grease and The Grease.

People are good at differentiating between similar, but subtly different, products. That's why no-one ever buys carp insurance by mistake.

I've probably doubled-up on other post titles too. I could hilariously give this one a title I've already used before. That would be meta.

Everyone loves things that are meta nowadays. Life is a comment on itself. All human experience is an in-joke that we're all smug about understanding.

There are probably some people who don't "get" life. We pity them.

No, that's not right. We don't pity them.

We "pity" them.

Get it? ;-)

***

I wish I could stop making points. It's a real burden. Why can't my writing be meaningless?! WHY?!

I don't know. But it can't be.

Hog

What a difference a week makes! It makes calendars slightly larger. Or the print slightly smaller. Either way - a difference. To calendarsmiths at least.

I had an impromptu stand-up gig on Monday night. Or was it impromptu? I had about three days' notice. That probably qualifies as promptu.

It was a very nice gig at a nice venue, but I was the only comic; the other acts being poets, musicians, and, in one (fictional) case, a Venus Fly-trap who had learned to speak (it was mainly hack "fly-digestion" material).

I wasn't very good. It was my first bad gig for a long time, and it brought me back down to earth with a bump. That chandelier wasn't as strong as it looked.

AHAHAHA! Get it? I just used a metaphor and then pretended I was speaking literally. That's the kind of wit that got me so many half-smiles and a lack of eye contact.

The audience were actually pretty good, given that they weren't necessarily there for comedy, but I performed badly. I didn't have time to (re-)learn my newer, more interesting material, so I went back to my old stuff, which I know, but am a bit bored by. I should have warmed them up a bit before starting. I did some ad-libs that didn't really go anywhere, and kept coming back to them. These interjections served as regular, timely reminders of my own ineptitude.

It wasn't that bad, just a bit flat.

The worst part was just being in my own head for the whole evening. Whenever I'm out in public, I'm the most awkward person in the room. I radiate awkwardness powerful enough to blow hats off. I feel like my clothes are ridiculous, my small talk is painful and my body language screams "I'm screaming".

I know I'm awkward. People know I'm awkward. I know they know, and they know I know they know. But that just makes things worse. We're trapped in a feedback loop of mutual unease.

I spent a lot of time on my own trying to look normal. I could have tried to talk to some strangers, but I was terrified as always.

To take up some time, I genuinely wrote the following on my phone:

I'm writing this whilst perched, like a sweaty gargoyle, on the bicep of a leather sofa, because it makes me look slightly better than if i was playing tetris. It's not even proper tetris, but some loser pop game. I can't believe i'm going to have to transcribe this all later.

It has been a struggle. Well recognised, PastPaul. Though you should have capitalised your 'I's and 'Tetris'. You've made us seem like (a) chump(s).

I should just embrace the life of a hermit. I've tried to fight my nature, but I can't do it. I have to remain true to myself by myself.

There's nothing wrong with being incapable of dealing with other humans. I was born this way (shying away from the midwife), and I shouldn't have to hide it. Say it loud! I'm timid and I'm... well, not proud exactly... but... uh.... and not loud either. I don't want to... you know... draw any attention to myself...

(Apart from this whole blog about myself that I urge people to read. But at least you can't see my stupid jacket on here.)

On the way home from the gig, I saw a hedgehog. That made me feel a lot better. I like hedgehogs. I think they must be worth at least 8 points.

On the way to work, Lucy and I are sometimes cheered up by seeing animals and birds. Ordinary birds (sparrows, tits, blackbirds) are worth 1 or 2 points. A robin is worth 4. A duck is highly prized. Ducks will always cheer you up. That's why they exist. 7 points.

A squirrel is also a joyful sight. As is a puppy, or dog that's 'puppy-at-heart'. The latter requires surgery to verify, which is less cheerful.

I think a bear would be 15 points, but we haven't seen one yet. Not on Banbury Road.

***

I wrote (part of) a song at the weekend. I write songs fairly frequently, but do nothing with them. I've tried to record them properly before, but it never sounds as good as it does in my head. I blame it on my technology rather than any talent-dearth I might be suffering from.

So I thought "screw it", and just recorded this on my webcam, terrible audio and all (terrible jacket not pictured). I also split myself into four for some reason. Does that make me a band?

I think this is something about teenage sexuality, but I haven't really worked out what any of the lyrics mean.

Still... it's some mixed media. That's always good for making me feel accomplished. And look at my shirt!

(I seem to nod my head a lot when I sing. Like David Gray. Remember him? I don't. I don't even know if he's 'Gray' or 'Grey', and refuse to check on principle.)

***

I should leave it there. You can ponder what you've seen today. It doesn't just have to be this blog. Ponder everything. Did you see a shoplifter? Did you see a fishing rod? Did you see a bear?

If so: bravo.

Bra.

Vo.

The full 15 are yours.

Me, Me, Me (Him)

The gig is over, and was a good one!

I did almost entirely new material, which probably showed at times (there were certain bits that I'd change if I did them again). But all in all, I was pleased. The rest of the night was thoroughly entertaining, and I met some nice people.

And now it's Saturday. And sunny. And we've just received a Tesco shipment of delicious, unwholesome food. And I cleaned out the fridge. It's a good day.

I'm not sure if my uncharacteristic happiness will change the energy of this blog. Probably not. Differences in energy at such a low level are negligible to the layman/laywoman/laytransgenderperson.

Someone reviewed the show, and you can read it here. I'm described as an "experienced comic" which is not strictly true. I've been doing it for a few years, but my gigs are so infrequent that I'd have to live to 100 to become experienced (and by that time, all my material would be about false teeth and yearning for death).

My friend Darren (friend might be too strong a term there - we've only met once, but he seems very nice, and I didn't want to bust out "acquaintance") suggested that "experienced comic" equated to "comic with a beard". I think that's probably right. In my head, I still assume I'm as young as anyone. I feel that all of the student comedians are my peers, when in fact they're ten years younger than me.

My beard is going grey, too. I wonder how old people think I am...

I might start acting the part, and begin offering people advice and sharing anecdotes about the old days, when Amy Winehouse was still alive and The Sopranos was still on the air.

I'll act like this all the time, especially to my friend Matt (friend might be too strong a term there - we know each other well, but have an antagonistic relationship, possibly because we find each other so sexually attractive).

I'll give him advice, and tell him about how stand-up comedy works. He's ten years younger than me too, but has done - I estimate - 16 times as many gigs as I have, and is already a seasoned professional. He'll find it annoying.

One good thing about the review is that I finally have a quote to use when promoting myself. I don't like to promote myself (except on here, and I think that's allowed), but occasionally I've been asked if I have any quotes to help sell me. I never do. Quotes from my mum don't count, apparently.

There are a couple of options of quotes to chose from. I think I'll go for "nimbly skipping". That way, I can also use it when promoting my skipping skills.

***

On the way to the gig, something interesting happened to me on the bus.

Something interesting always happens to me on the bus on the way to gigs.

I don't know why this is. It's probably that they're not interesting things, but that the adrenalin and nerves of impending HILARITY turn the most innocuous events into Two Ronnies sketches.

Once, it was the case of the 31 singles (which includes a reference to The Lamination of Islam, which needs to be made into some kind of offensive film).

On another occasion, it was the case of the inflatable monkeys.

On both occasions, I thought about discussing the incidents on stage. I thought about it last night too. It just seems that the idea of "something happening to me on the way here" is such a cliché that when something interesting ACTUALLY DOES happen, you feel compelled to discuss it.

When something is that rare, you have to take advantage of it, even if it's a bad idea. That's why I always masturbate to Halley's Comet. You never know if you'll get another chance.

But on none of these occasions have I actually brought the bus incidents up. I will say, though, that the incident from last night seems to have the most genuine potential.

I was sitting downstairs on the bus. It was about half full, and quite dark outside. I was listening to my portable MP3 device and worrying about whether I was about to die on stage.

I started staring at my reflection in the front window of the bus. I was quite a way back, but I could see my stupid face, so we locked eyes.

I don't know if anyone else ever just stares at their reflection, but I do. It's fun to look at yourself for long periods of time. As though saying "well, I guess we're stuck with each other".

I was staring at my reflection and listening to my music. As usual, I was thinking that my situation would be a good music video for the song I happened to be listening to. "Oh yeah! This would be such a cool video! Just a guy, on a bus, staring straight ahead. Why hasn't anyone done this before? Get me Gondry on the phone!"

Of course, the reason no-one has made that music video is because it would just be a guy. On a bus. Staring straight ahead.

It would be dull.

So anyway, I was staring at my reflection, as you do: finding yourself incredibly handsome, but trying not to show it on your face. I don't want him to know I like him, so we're both giving each other identical poker faces.

I'd been staring at myself for a couple of minutes, when suddenly my reflection moved.

I hadn't moved. If I had, the reflection moving would have been par for the course.

I had stayed still, but my reflection had moved. "What madness is THIS?!" I might well have asked myself, and might well ask myself later.

There was a simple explanation. The reflection I'd been staring at for all that time didn't belong to me.

It was the reflection of the man sitting behind me.

His seat was slightly higher than mine, so only his face had been visible. It was dark. I was far away from the window. I'd been wrongly staring into the dead eyes of a stranger, instead of my own beautifully dead eyes.

I didn't want to turn around, but I didn't get any sense that he was offended. Perhaps he was flattered. Perhaps my poker face isn't as good as I originally thought.

When he got off the bus, I saw that he looked a little bit like me, but not really enough to have made my mistake an understandable one.

That's the end of the anecdote. I was probably wise to not discuss it on stage.

I'm looking forward to seeing what bus-based adventures I'll get up to before my next gig.

***

I've just seen that the review page has been updated with a second opinion on the night. Less effusive than the first, but they do describe me as "A real fung guy", which is appalling racism. I'll petition to have the entire OTR site removed from the internet.

It's journalism, not slurnalism.

It's almost enough to make you feel that these reviews don't have credibility. Except that the one praising me definitely, objectively does.

I'll see you next time, when I'm bound to be less happy and more down in the dumps.

Deeper in the dumps.

Dash

My heart is racing.

My mind is racing.

My pulse is racing.

My chin was disqualified because of a false start.

7,000 laps to go.

(My tongue is also racing)

***

Don't think that I'm living in some kind of hole. I haven't been blogging or tweeting much because my attention has been diverted elsewhere. I'm building a wicker caber.

That's untrue, but it could be false. That's what makes it all so exciting.

I've been trying to write the beginnings of a sitcom. I've also been thinking up material for a stand-up gig on Friday.

I'm doing all new stuff for no particular reason. I've decided that my gigs are so infrequent that there's no point in honing old stuff. It would be like shaving a tunnelling dog: by the time it comes back, it will be shaggy and covered in big clods of earth.

So I might as well just do something different each time. That can be my thing. I can demonstrate how prolific I am for a short period every few months.

I haven't had a bad gig for a while, so I'm probably due one. To protect against that, I've come up with some clever ways of turning the gig around:

1) Whitney Houston jokes
2) Breakdancing
3) Put down a heckler who resembles an empty stool
4) Pretend to drop the microphone, and then pick it up (pretend)
5) Say "Is this thing on?" about every object in the room. Even ones that can't be off or on, like a poster.
6) My legendary impersonation of Alistair McGowan
7) Simon Says
8) Pretend I'm playing basketball and then have myself ejected for "gluttonous travelling"
9) Worship some kind of holy tree.

I've only got nine. Ten would be excessive.

***

I haven't got much time. I want to finish this blog post before I reach a particular clock time. It has imbued my writing with a sense of purpose that I will never is for something I perfect semsme klu

I've also had coffee.

You'd think I would have realised that when:
a) I noticed myself drinking some coffee
and
b) various parts of my body were racing

But it was only a few seconds ago that I realised how jumpy I was. A colleague's phone rang and I jumped so high that I've been declared clinically airborne. It's lucky I was holding onto my keyboard.

I need to learn how to marshal my own chemical intake. One minute I'm hopped up on caffeine, the next I'm necking liquid palladium just so I don't lose face with an gang of "ghost peers" who wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for those three paracetamol I had for brunch.

Time's nearly up. This must be what it's like when you're making an Oscar acceptance speech. Too little time, too many neurotic producers to conspicuously omit.

This will be my Oscar acceptance speech.

I couldn't have done this without Nancy, Brad, Brod, Lynne, Squedrick, Phil, Danielle, Brynn and Leroy Rosenior.

THAT IS ALL

Straightforward

Let's forget all about that big event that just happened with the [CENSORED] and the [CENSORED] and the mulled [CENSORED].

I'm reclaiming the period between 27 and 30 December as a time for thinking about something else. I don't know what yet. Possibly brackets.

But first, I need to do the washing up. I'll let you know how it goes.

***

Straightforward.

At one point, I put a spoon in the little cutlery... holster... thing on the draining bored and it fell out. I then jammed it hard back in there, to send a message to any other rebel utensils that might have been watching.

We call it "washing up". The Americans (I believe) call it "washing the dishes".

[I don't know what the Canadians do. You can never tell with them. They're liable to celebrate Boxing Day on the one hand, and speak French with the other. You can speak French with your hand, if you make a fist and draw a beret and some onions on it.

I seem to be in an easily distractible mood.]

I don't know which washing term I prefer. "Washing the dishes" sounds much more specific. There's no way that can get misconstrued. No-one who's seen that on their chore rota would started scrubbing satellite dishes, or some other kind of dish (such as Soapdish with Kevin Kline).

"Washing up" could be anything. "Washing up" might refer to cleaning your hands before dinner. Or something to do with the Pixar film.

But perhaps it's better to be vague. If you "wash the dishes", you might ignore other items that don't seem to be dish-like. A spatula is not a dish. A mug is not a dish. An egg hammock is not a dish.

COME ON. THIS IS GOLD.

TEN MINUTES OF STAND-UP RIGHT HERE.

Everyone likes material on chores.

It's the first thing you learn in comedy school: CHORES = GUFFAWS.

***

Mood

Erratic

(I'm going to stop using these prompts in the new year. They are inhibiting my flow. Think about how much longer that washing up bit could have gone on for!)

Listening to

I've been given some good music as a [CENSORED] present, and have bought some more today. I heard this yesterday, and enjoyed it.

Reading

More Pinker. Did you know: more people were killed in Washington DC last year than weren't?

***

In fact: FORGET IT. I'm bored of being compelled to tell you all the things I'm listening to and smelling. (I reserve the right to tell you those things in my next post)

Let's get unfettered! I could go anywhere! I could be anyone!

I could tell you about the time I went coconut shy-diving.

Everyone should do it once before (or after) they die. Here's how it works:

Instead of an aeroplane, you jump out of a big paper cake. Instead of a parachute, you're wearing nothing whatsoever. And instead of jumping into the sky, you jump into a coconut shy.

Do it suddenly. You may find that it's painful (what with the hard coconuts and the nudity and all), and that you might ruin the days of many children, but the adrenaline rush is off the scale.

Remember: this must be done at a public carnival, fair, fayre, or "amusing park". Doing it at a private coconut shy is no fun.

Whilst you're there, you might also want to play chicken with the ghost train.

You see? Anywhere!

I never wear pink in case I start bleeding and it clashes.

You see?

I just tweeted that. I don't care. I'm a wild man. I'm a wild card. Admittedly, I don't know how to drive and I've never had cocaine and I'm too afraid of people to even answer my own phone. But still!

WILD!

Like a wild rabbit!

Look how wild it is!

No-one tells that rabbit what to do. That rabbit could be in the rabbit version of Easy Rider.

(Do your own Dennis Hopper joke. I'm too wild right now.)

***

Whew.

That was tiring. All of those exclamation marks have left me feeling quite worn out.

I haven't had anything to eat yet today. No rabbit; no nothing.

I should probably have something to eat.

I'll have something to eat. I'll let you know how it goes.

***

Straightforward.

I had two toasted pieces of Tesco Finest Farmhouse Multigrain Batch, beneath Tesco Olive Spread, beneath Squeezy Marmite.

Two points of interest there:

1) I saw a stain on the floor whilst the bread was mid-toasting. I managed to scrub it and dry it before the bread popped up.

2) I just went to make sure I had the exact names of the items correct. I had to get up. I was dead-set on getting it right. Even though no-one could possibly care. Even if they did care, they'd have no way of checking I was telling the truth, unless they broke in here, today, and checked the cupboards. I'm an idiot.


If I'm honest, there was probably too much Marmite on there.

Now I'm thirsty.

I hate it when people begin sentences "If I'm honest...".

I mean, you should probably be honest. I understand if you can't be. And if you have to keep something from me (perhaps you're having an affair (or an affayre) with my biggest rival from fencing college), begin your sentence with "To be honest...".

That's fine. You're indicating your honesty.

"If I'm honest..." suggests that even you don't know whether or not you're telling the truth. In which case, why bring honesty into it? You don't know. Leave it ambiguous. Or come clean with your uncertainty.

"To be honest, I'm not sure if I'm honest. I think."

COME ON. THIS COULD BE MY SECOND ENCORE.

I should probably leave you to be alone with your thoughts now.

I'm going to get a drink.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Feeble Road

I had a stand-up gig on Friday.

I was waiting at the bus stop for a bus. I was hoping the bus would take me some of the way to the venue where the gig was to be held. And it did. That gamble paid off, but I'm not going to get complacent.

At the bus stop was a couple.

I don't know if they were a couple-couple. But there were two of them - one male and one female. The looked fairly normal. But the man was carrying a bag, and in the bag were two large inflatable monkeys.

As I said, they looked quite normal. The couple, I mean. Not the monkeys.

The monkeys were inflatable. Most monkeys are not. Inflatable monkeys are not the norm. I estimate the ratio of non-inflatable monkeys to inflatable monkeys is about 1,000,000-to-1.

Not that there aren't a lot of inflatable monkeys. I'm sure there are. But if we're including inflatable monkeys in our calculations, we have to include all inanimate monkeys. There are lots of inanimate monkeys: egg-cups, stuffed toys, novelty pencil cases, shampoo bottles. None of them are inflatable, but they're all monkeys.

And that's before we even get to the real monkeys, of which there are literally dozens.

So the inflatable monkeys were unusual. The couple were normal. And the incongruity of those two facts, made the whole incident all the stranger.

What was this guy doing with the monkeys?

They weren't wearing any costumes. They didn't even seem to be dressed particularly smartly. What events require the presence of two inflatable monkeys?

Perhaps they were attending a party, the theme of which was '1981 Football Crowd Racism'.

But that would be a terrible theme for a party. It's much too specific.

The options would be very limited. Also, there would be the whole racist element. They'd probably do racist chanting. They'd claim it was ironic, I'm sure. But irony is not an excuse for beating up black people and harassing John Barnes. It just isn't.

Maybe they were going to an off-the-wall Remembrance Day ceremony. The way we commemorate significant events changes over the years. Even solemn occasions can be enhanced by new methods of communicating our respect. Maybe in place of the two minutes' silence, they were having two minute primates.

That doesn't work, of course. 'Primate' doesn't sound much like 'silence'. And, as I already said, these monkeys were actually quite large. But I can't go back and delete that sentence now. It would be cowardly.

The couple (and the monkeys) got on the same bus as me, but got off one stop earlier. At Keble Road. Perhaps they were going somewhere in Jericho. Somewhere monkey-related.

I'll probably never know.

And, what's worse, it will probably never matter.

The gig itself went well. The other acts were of a high standard, and I felt genuinely nervous before going on stage. I'm sure it showed. But I think I did OK, with quite a lot of new material and a couple of forced callbacks.

My biggest laugh probably came from the ad-lib "I don't even have any constituents". It's funnier out of context.

I thought about mentioning the monkeys on stage. Oxford is a small town. Someone in the audience might have known who the monkey couple where. I chickened-out in the end, because I might have felt forced to do one of my famous monkey jokes.

"Timke is monkey" might have been one of them.

I just thought of that. I might tweet it and see if it gets retweeted. It doesn't even really make sense. It's supposed to be a play on 'time is money'. Actually, I won't tweet it. I don't think I could take that kind of rejection.

I'm pretty sure they were monkeys, by the way. The inflatable things I saw.

I don't think they were apes. They were in a bag, so their tails were concealed, but they certainly seemed to be monkeys. Which is a shame, because if they were apes, I could have done my ape surgery/gibbon-cutting joke (from my last blog post).

But they were monkeys. And to do an ape joke would be a zoological blunder. I try to avoid those wherever possible.

Despite the actual comedy going well, I did struggle with the small matter of talking to people. I had a number of conversations with a variety of different people, and I was incredibly awkward with all of them. I think that's one reason why I could never have a real stand-up career. I make people feel uncomfortable, and not in a good way.

If I could travel by some sort of pneumatic underground tube to each gig, do my set, and then tube my way back home, everything would be fine. But we don't have pneumatic underground tubes. Not in Oxfordshire. Thanks a lot, Cameron!

***

You don't think...

no.

No, it couldn't be.

They're monkeys, not apes.

But you don't think...

maybe...

maybe the couple weren't the ones taking the inflatable monkeys to Keble Road?

Maybe the monkeys were taking THEM.

This could be the beginning of a Planet of the Inflatable Apes scenario! Or Inflatable Monkeys!

Or maybe the inflatable monkeys actually WERE apes. Hiding in plain sight. No-one would expect a species revolution from monkeys. Not those cute little guys! They've got tails. They help us by bringing remote controls and laughter. And the apes KNOW THAT.

They posed as monkeys, and are now taking over the world! Starting in North Oxford!

Imagine the indignity of being ruled by inflatable apes.

I'd be fine with real apes, but inflatable apes? That's beyond the pale. They'd have to confiscate all pins.

I should have grabbed the monkey-apes when I saw them. At the bus stop with the couple. I should have thrown them onto the road and stomped them all flat and airless.

The monkeys, not the couple.

I should have shouted "FOR HUMANITY!" when doing so. The couple would have thanked me, I'll wager.

Oh God. What if I'm responsible for the Planet of the Inflatable Apes? I don't think I could handle that burden.

And what's worse - much worse - is that if these monkeys truly were apes, I could have done my gibbon-cutting joke all along.

YOU MANIACS etc!

***

If I went back and edited that, I could probably come up with something quite coherent and mildly funny.

But I'm not going to do that.

It would be cowardly.

Bits

I'm doing some stand-up in a couple of weeks. I think I know roughly what I'm going to do: a long new bit, a medium sized old bit and a few short bits of indeterminate vintage.

But it can't hurt to come up with some more material. Especially as my last couple of entries haven't been laughfests.

You know me, I don't like to plan these things out, so I'm just going to think of a random word and riff on it. That's right: riff. I know all the comedy language. E.g. the "mic" is the raised platform upon which the comedian (or "heckler") performs.

I still haven't thought of my random word yet. I'm waiting for the right time. You don't know that, of course. I might have a ready made bit of material based on a certain topic that I'm eager to share. But I don't. And the quality of the material will demonstrate this perfectly.

I've just tried to think of something, but my mind went blank. Lucy suggested I use a random word generator, so that's what I'll do. I'll use this one. You can choose the word type and the complexity. I think I'll go for an average noun. I've always thought of myself as an average noun of some sort, so it will suit me down to the ground. My random topics will be in bold. That's my exciting system. Excited? Of course you are.

My first topic is...

Midnight

[compere introduces me] [muted applause]


I was up until midnight last night. Not the middle of the night. Midnight. I'm not an animal. The middle of the night is, what, 3am? Of course, it depends on how we define the middle. Are we doing averages? Is it the mean? Is it the median? (I don't remember what those words mean, but I'm sure they're relevant).

3am might be halfway through the night, but it's not necessarily the pivot point. Because night gets thicker as it goes on. Between 4am and 6am, night is like a dense slice of chocolate cake. From 11pm to 2am it's more like an After Eight.

The middle of the night seems like it should be the most difficult place to extricate yourself from. Like the middle of a Justin Bieber concert. Surrounded by screaming girls, not even enough room to tear your ears off.

[one stifled laugh]

The middle of the night is the time where the day seems most distant. The middle of night is hidden, deep in the jungle. The contrast between night and blinding morning is at its sharpest.

Which of course means that the middle of the night is... just before my alarm goes off.

[audience shouts: "TELL US A JOKE!"]

OK, OK. I've got other material. I've got a great bit about...

Duplication

Do you ever worry that there are an infinite number duplicate realities? An infinite number of dimensions? An infinite number of alternate, duplicate yous? And that you're the worst one?

Out of all of them, you're the most boring, the most out of shape, the worst cook, the worst pool player.

They'd get together. All of the other yous. They'd hold a meeting. "Well, Paul. We've got good news and we've got bad news. The good news is that you're unique in the universe."

"Ooh, brilliant!"

"Yeah... yeah. But the bad news is that your uniquely shit. You've come bottom of the league table of possible yous."

"Right... but I am unique?"

"Yes, you're unique. In the same way that a snowflake is unique. But where we're snowflakes, you're a shitflake. You are uniquely shit. There's no-one that's shit in the same way as you, and with the same intensity as you."

"Oh. But hang on. If there's an infinite number of mes, surely there can be no bottom to the table? There must be an infinite chain of mes, of an infinite variety of shittiness?"

Then the Council of Interdimensional Einsteins would come out and explain it to me.

"Infinity has to end somewhere. And it ends with you, you shit."

Then one of the Einsteins knocks my hat off, and when I bend over to pick it up, a duplicate Newton kicks me in the arse.

[an audience member's phone rings] [the compere signals that my time is nearly up, even though I've only been on for five minutes and was guaranteed fifteen]

That's nearly all from me. I just have one more thing to tell you on the subject of...

Seven

I always think seven is the coolest of the numbers. The most futuristic, anyway. So streamlined and asymmetrical. I bet the fusty old eight and the doofus six get really annoyed with her.

That's right - seven is female. She doesn't make a big thing of it. She wants to be judged on her own merits.

Seven is always on the move. It's going right. You can tell that just by looking at it. It's pointing that way > 7.

Seven is making its way up the pecking order. It used to be between three and four, you know. But she's making waves. Like an entrepreneuse. Smashing the glass ceiling of numbers, getting covered in shattered fractions, suing that pervy three for sexual harassment.

Don't refer to seven as lucky. It's patronising. But she is magnificent.

She'll be heading further up the number ranks before you know it. She'll be above the twelve. Marshalling an increasing number of dwarves and samurai, kicking that impostor Se7en in its nonsensical alphanumeric face.

[the compere gives me another frantic signal]

I'll just end on a quick joke about my final topic, which is...

Ride

What's the most nauseating ride at the theme park?

The schmaltzer!

Thanks everybody, you've been great!

[one woman claps]

***

Well. There we go.

It's good to stay polished, isn't it?

I wouldn't say any of that was usable stand-up material.

Or stand-up material of any kind.

Or even material. It wasn't material. It was immaterial.

But at least we've all had some laughs.

Some of us have. Some of me. Part of me. A small part of me.

A small part of me laughed.

I think it was my self-doubt. It was a laugh of vindication.