Torching the Void

I'm cold, so I must keep typing to stay warm. I can't pause, even for a minute. My life is at stake. If I stop to check whether I've written 'steak' or 'stake', or check to make sure which is correct, I could succumb to hypothermia.

I'm like one of those heroic people who get trapped in a ravine and have to eat their own eyebrows to stay alive. I am a hero. Humans are capable of incredible things when their lives are in danger, and I'm no exception. I'm also a human. It would be so easy to give up and shiver and prepare myself for a thousand-year frosty nap, but I am tenaciously hanging on to life.

Life is a precious thing. And cold though I may (and am) be, I can't let it be snatched away from my trembling fingers. I'll type with every last ounce of energy. I don't think energy is measured imperially anymore, but I don't know what the equivalent is in millikilometoids.

I think it's working, you know. This finger action is increasing my core temperature. Like an apple in a furnace. The colour is coming back to nearly all of my cheeks. I'm beginning to feel human again. I'm not the Human Torch by any means, but I'm certainly not Iceman. I'm somewhere in between. Like Luke Warm, Tepid Adventurer.

I think my problem was drinking cold coffee. It wasn't always cold. It had originally been piping hot (rather than 'pipping hot', which is the furnace apple again). But I got distracted, and the next thing I knew, time had passed. The coffee was cold. But it was still sitting there in my mug, quivering with delicious caffeine, occupying space. So I drank it. It was disgusting, but in a good way (like a Rustlers microwaveable burger).

I might as well have drunk liquid nitrogen. Which is also better consumed hot.

I don't want to dwell on past mistakes. I've got to keep my spirits up. If you're trapped in a ravine, with your arm stuck between a rock and your other arm, with a broken radio and no rations, with a polar bear stalking you from above, with a diabetic friend dangling over a cliff edge, you can't start thinking about mistakes.

That way madness lies.

People sing sometimes, don't they? To keep their spirits up? They sing a rousing tune. Like that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Picard and some annoying kids sing Frère Jacques or something. We all remember that. That's part of our cultural consciousness. Like when Del Boy stormed the Iranian Embassy, or when Simon Cowell was shot into space and then shot (also in space).

I wouldn't sing a French song, though. There's nothing uplifting about that. Reminding myself of the very existence of France would be enough to make me lose hope and dash my head against the rocks.

I'd sing something properly uplifting. A song full of fire and hope and dignity. Something from An American Tail: Fievel Goes West. Or I could just do some beatboxing. There would be small risk of landslides, but it would be more than made up for by the copious morale, bubbling out of me like custard.

But I can't sing at my desk, can I? Or can I?

Sorry, I just asked the same question twice. That was redundant. In the same way as I'll be redundant after my office-based Blitz-spirit singalong.

I think the worst is over. My breath isn't steaming anymore. My moustache icicles have melted, and I'm beginning to get some feeling back in my thighs. And it's nearly time for lunch.

Lunch is the helicopter that will pry me out of the ravine and carry me to safety. I'm going to buy the hottest thing on the menu.

Coleslaw.

The Big Idea

You can all relax. I've made the discovery that will make me rich and famous.

It's quite a relief. I've spent years searching for the 'big idea' that will earn me millions.

This blog has proved to be something of a financial cul-de-sac. My naan bread-based takeaway Naan Of The Above never really took off (I don't know how to make naan bread).

But finally - FINALLY - the answer to my prayers is here. This idea with garner a lot of media attention. I'm not saying I'm going to be the next Matt Groening, but I do have a beard and a certain level of genius.

So. Here it is.

The Bike Brigade

They're a group of bicycle-themed superheroes. They fight crime using various bikey powers. Their enemies might be cars or pedestrians or something. Or pollution. I haven't really thought about it.

I'm not 100% sold on the name. 'The Bike Brigade' seems a bit lame. If anyone has any suggestions for a better one, I'll cut you in for six percent of the profits.

But the members of the Brigade (or 'BB' for short) as as impressive as the group name isn't.

Members:

Peddler

Founder, financial backer and driving force of the Bike Brigade. Peddler is a nonagenarian who fought crime in the old days (i.e. pre-1980), riding a penny-farthing. Now too old to make a difference, he's set up a new generation to continue his legacy.

Peddler is bedridden, but is still able to operate complicated pedalo-style machinery with his powerful legs. He's probably avenging something, but no-one really cares what.

The Spokesman

The leader of the group. The Spokesman is an eloquent orator, and has the power to control spokes. He can probably shoot them out of his hands. In fact, his hands are made of spokes. He's classy, professional, but has a certain wry charm. Possible catchphrase: "There's nowt so queer as spokes". (He's a gay Yorkshireman)

Vandalbars

Randal "The Vandal" Bandalbars was a troubled teenager from a broken home. He took his frustrations out on the windows, bus shelters and pensioners of his run-down neighbourhood. But the law finally caught up with him, and put him in the stocks (they still do that in Scotland). But they trapped him between two sets (sets?) of stocks, so his arms were outstretched in a T-shape. Left there too long, his arms are now permanently outstretched - JUST LIKE A PAIR OF HANDLEBARS.

But the punishment changed his outlook. Now he must cope with his arm curse and use his hooligan skills to fight crime, all the time also fighting against his rebellious impulses.

Belle

A beautiful metallic robot, who tinkles delightfully to alert people to her presence. Belle was created by a a mad twee scientist who also created the sleeping kitten grenade and flutterscotch (a cross between butterflies and whisky).

Belle turned on her evil master and joined the Bike Brigade's noble cause (whatever it turns out to be). Belle is relentlessly pleasant, to the point of making her a really dull character. But she sure is sexy!

Saddlesaur

On an early BB mission, one of Peddler's time machines accidentally took them back to prehistoric times. On returning home, they found a stowaway - a dinosaur with a head shaped like a saddle. Taking this as a good omen, Saddlesaur was formally invited to join the team.

Saddlesaur is fast and hugely powerful, but she's not too quick on the uptake. She's a dinosaur. They're not that bright by today's standards.

Tyra

Tyra made her name as the meanest professional wrestler in the Dakotas. With her tyre-style girth, she is nearly invulnerable to pain. Looking for more exciting challenges, she's joined up with the BB to kick arse and grip the road. She's African-American, sassy, and has a furious temper. But, to make sure this isn't too patronising or reductive, she also has a PhD in physics.

(For those keeping track at home, suggesting that a PhD is somehow incongruous with being sassy and black, is itself incredibly offensive. But writing this little disclaimer shows that I'm aware of it, freeing me up with more appalling stereotypes later on.)

Dick Chainey

On a tour of a munitions plant, former US Vice President Dick Cheney masturbated whilst thinking about all the foreigners that would be killed by the weapons all around him. His semen (which possesses demonic properties, not yet understood by medicine) fell through a grate and landed on a harmless inanimate bike chain.

However, the strange properties of Cheney's malevolent fluid somehow fused with the atoms in the chain, granting it sentience. The chain, now able to take humanoid form, is a metallic clone of Cheney, but the purity of the metal keeps the evil locked away. Christening himself Dick Chainey, this new hero uses his chain-based powers to fight evil with the Bike Brigade, all the while keeping the dark, evil, Republican, side of his character hidden from his team-mates.

Headquarters:

A bike shed somewhere.

Transport:

I can't decide if they all combine into a giant bike (Power Rangers-style), or if they ride separate bikes. They can't really have a car, can they? It would muddy the waters of their message (whatever that is).

***

So, what do you think?

I think we should go straight to a Saturday-morning cartoon series. We'll merchandise the HELL out of it (every child in the Western world will want a Dick Chainey action figure).

Also, as it's advocating cycling (important for maintaining a healthy bike physique), we can have them advertised in schools. We can have people dressed as the BB giving talks on bike safety.

Eventually, I'm sure Michael Bay will be interested in a movie. I'm already casting it in my head.

Its great to finally get this out there! I suppose I might be busy buying houses and whatnot with my vast royalties, so if I don't post for a while, that's why. Keep a look out for me in Forbes.

And remember: you heard it here first!

Gave Him a Look

Put yourself in her shoes. She doesn't know about this country and its customs. She's been here for two weeks. She only knows conversational English. She's in a strange land with a load of strange people. What do you expect her to do?

You've got to remember that other people think differently to you. They make choices that you wouldn't make. But that doesn't mean they're stupid, or heartless. It doesn't mean they should be mocked.

I want you to apologise to her.

Now.

I don't care. I don't care.

Yes, it will be awkward. But it's already awkward. You're going to have to... no, wait. You're going to have to be the bigger man.

Because it's the right thing to do.

She has been. She looks like she's been crying because she has been crying. You made her cry.

I know you didn't mean to. That's not the point. I'm talking about empathy, not... No. No, listen.

Do you remember last year when we went to see Hedda Gabler and that guy pushed in front of you in the queue? And you gave him a look, and he swore at you? How did that make you feel?

Well maybe he had a reason. Maybe he was justified. Maybe the man in the queue was totally in the right. His father might have died. He might have seen your look as a threat, I don't know.

The point is: he made you feel like shit. I know he did. I had to spend the whole evening with you.

Don't you think that, all things being equal, we should probably try to not make people feel like shit if we can help it?

Doesn't that sound like a reasonable thing to expect?

Well, how do you think she feels?

Yeah. Yes, maybe you're right. Maybe you are right. Maybe she's fine. Maybe it's like water off a duck's back, and she'll be out dancing tonight. Maybe she will.

But what if she isn't?

And what have you got to lose? Face? Composure? "Props" from the lads?

Just go over there and apologise. Make sure she doesn't feel like shit.

And make sure I don't feel like shit. Because, believe me, if you don't go over there and apologise, I will feel like shit. For a long time. Maybe so long that I won't want to feel like shit any more, and I'll get as far away from you as possible, just so the source of my shitness - my raison merde - isn't so oppressive.


I'm not a patriot. You know that. But I don't want this girl - I don't want anybody - to visit England and think that it's a land of arseholes. That's the message you're sending. You might as well be flying the arsehole flag right now. What you're telling her is that we don't care. We. Don't. Care.

Well, maybe you don't care. But I do.

So?

Are you going to do it?

I'm waiting.


...


...

I'm very proud of you.

Yes, it was very sweet.

No, I don't think she feels like shit.

And neither do I.

The film's starting in fifteen minutes. We should probably go.

Yes, you're still an arsehole.

***

That was interesting, wasn't it boys and girls?

No jokes in there. No explanations. No characters. No context.

Just some words.

I'm writing this at 1:20am on a Friday night. So, there's that.

I like to mix things up. That's me. I'm Jimmy Shuffle. That's what they call me.

I'm like 'Rowdy' Roddy Piper. Just when they've figured out the answers, I change the questions.

I mistyped that as "Roddy Pipet" just now.

I don't think 'Rowdy' Roddy Pipette would have been feared as a wrestler. Pipettes aren't intimidating. Unless they're full of infected blood. Or acid. But there's nothing rowdy about that.

Let's end this now. My bed is calling. It's muffled by pillows, but I can still hear it.

Good night, world. May you be bedecked with sunshine upon my return.

Clippers

Yesterday, a colleague of mine - let's call her 'S' - said that my head shape was unusual. I got my hair cut today.

These two things are not connected.

They genuinely weren't. In fact, I hesitated before having my hair cut because I thought just such a causal relationship would be assumed.

I was happy with my head shape. I'm not always happy with it - but I was yesterday.

When my hair is long, it goes through a cycle. When it's washed, it becomes fluffy and puffy and horrible. I look like an inflatable Lego man.

Then, it gradually gets greasier and greasier, and starts to look much better. The puff and the fluff is replaced by a ramshackle style. I look like I'm one of those sexy young people (bear with me), too busy to groom yourself properly, but too vain to stop worrying about it. That's where I was yesterday - all tousled and glamorous.

I don't know what affect this had on my head shape. I can only imagine it made it look pointer, flatter, 3Der, hairier or 8% Byzantine.

But this can't last forever. I'm not one of those people who can never wash their hair. You know which people I'm talking about: free-thinkers, free-lovers, children of the soil, Pagans, Carl Sagans, or students. I'm not one of those. So I had to wash it, and the brown cloud returned.

My hair was too long, and I had to destroy it. My head now looks considerably smaller.

But whilst 'S' and her cruel observations didn't force me into an unwanted haircut, people have done so in the past.

(I'm writing in a weird way today. It can't be helped. I have to be me.)

I remember when I was a young human (let's say I was 13), washing my hair. I don't think that was unusual, but the consequences were. I'm not sure if it was the length, the drying technique or the hair-care product in use, but my hair puffed out like a mushroom cloud. My puffy-fluffy 'fro had emerged.

It's not an Afro, or a Jewfro, as I'm not a member of either of those ethnic groups. And onequarterTrinidadChinesethreequarterscaucasianfro is a mouthful. But there it was.

I looked stupid and knew it.

It might have looked something like this:

This stupidness was confirmed at school the next day. An older boy laughed at my puffy hair-hat. There may even have been insults thrown. I don't remember the specifics. I've probably blocked them out.

Humiliated, I insisted that my mum take me to have my hair cut that night. I didn't want to face such a barrage again. She kindly took me, and I had my hair cut very short.

It might have looked something like this:

The following day at lunch, in the same seat, the same older boy laughed at my radically different, but equally stupid hair.

I'd learned an important lesson.

Don't kowtow to bullies - they will always find something to laugh at. Also, push them into traffic.

And so I did. That boy was laughing out the other side of his face. And peeing out the other side of his pelvis. I had the last laugh. He had his last solid meal.

Some of that isn't true. I think I lost the moral somewhere. It was probably about hair or the Manhattan Project.

Anyway, I now have short hair. My short hair doesn't go through a [Lego man > glamorous > filthbag > Lego man] loop. It will stay the same for some weeks. And my head shape will presumably stay quite consistent.

The life-cycle of my hair is fascinating. But no matter how much of it I send to David Attenborough, he's always to busy to cover it.

The story, not the hair.

My body hair is also hugely interesting, but the illustrative photos of that cycle have been confiscated by Thames Valley Police, along with the baseball bat I had earmarked for Sir Attenborough. It has a picture of his face on it, and is covered with my hair (and some of his I found in a scalp once).

I call it my Baseball Battenborough.

***

Stop writing...

NOW.

Machine Gun Wisdom

Heavens to Betsy! It's time for another of my patented tweet dumps!

One of the following tweets was my most successful ever - garnering around twenty-five retweets and a dozen new followers. See if you can guess which it is!

Strangely, despite this incredible glory, I haven't been offered any jobs, and am still mired in obscurity. My business plan of writing stupid jokes until I'm rich is proving to be unsuccessful so far. But one day it might bear fruit, like a bear pineapple or bear pear.

At least I have this blog, which is of such high quality that I'm sure to be a millionaire overnight. I'm not sure which night, but I've packed a bag just in case. I don't want to be taken by surprise.

So pour yourself a stiff seat belt, and brace your eyes and brain for another edition of:

Hard Graft Laughter

***

The pearly bird catches the Cockney worm.

***

I think the three of clubs might be the funniest playing card.

***

Fool people into thinking you're not wearing a mask by wearing a mask with a picture of your unmasked face on it. #tip

***

When I shake hands with someone, I see how far I can penetrate their sleeve. If my fingers meet the armpit, I know we'll be firm friends.

***

Film Pitch: KARAOKE KARADOKE - Carrie O'Quay is forced to carry a dough key, to open some sort of bread lock. A musical.

[Editor/Paul's Note - This wasn't the successful one. But it should have been.]

***

Product Pitch: CRABSINTHE - Bohemian shellfish liqueur.

***

When entering a building site, you're required to wear a really difficult hat.

***

I'm hitting my usual 36-minutes-past-the-hour lull. I spend my day bouncing from lull to lull until I get to my night time slump.

***

There's a man on a ladder in our office, looking into the roof. I bet he's not going to find any body parts up there. In a brown suitcase.

***

On 19 January 2024, I will die of excessive prescience.

***

Everyone my age is boring. Everyone younger than me is an idiot. People older than me feel the same way, and so want nothing to do with me.

***

I wish there was a mosquito on my cheek, just so I'd have an excuse to punch myself in the face.

***

I'm all for progress, but these new chip-and-PIN wishing wells seem to have lost the elegiac whimsy of the originals.

***

You should also let the bad times roll. It's not their fault.

***

I've got some flotsam, but still need to get some jetsam.

***

There's no need to run and scream. Explosions are far more afraid of you than you are of them.

***

A rabbit frozen in the headlights is a refreshing frosty treat on a hot day.

***

I'd rather have a concussion than a discussion.

***

I like it when people have funny things on their aprons. Like splattered clown batter.

***

You are wise to hide both your money and the fact of its being hidden. Your 'secret safe' secret is safe with me.

***

I've been dusting. But I haven't been impersonating Dustin Hoffman whilst doing so. That would be weird.

***

Whenever a rower insists on calling their oars "blades", I slash their throat with a razor-oar.

***

You can perm anything. It doesn't have to be hair.

***

I think this new Sky football co-commentator is actually OK. But maybe I'm just playing Neville's advocate...

***

I tried to start up a doorbell repair business, but my clients never seemed to be home.

***

A Thermos of warm milk can help you sleep. Especially if it's dropped on your head by a condor.

***

I need someone to slap me in the face, but I don't think any of my colleagues will be appalled enough to do it, no matter what I say.

***

In a stupor, perusing the "fruit of the month" sign in the coffee shop, I nearly said "plums" instead of "thanks". Rich in iron, apparently.

***

The Great Wall of China is the only man-made structure you can see from inside the Great Wall of China.

***

I just poured a bucketload of coffee into my weary husk of a body. It's like covering the Mary Celeste in petrol and expecting it to fly.

***

I'm worried I might be lost in the Sahara and that all this - my desk, my job, Twitter - is just a tedious mirage.

***

I do have sand between my toes, but that might be because I spent the morning kicking in egg-timers.

***

SLAVE-MANAGEMENT TIP: The best way to deal with a cross slave is by using a Philips-head slavedriver.

***

If you've had a sick day in the modern slang sense (ie. a really good day), you don't need to fill in a form. Thanks to HR for clarifying.

***

Writing the word "condensation" with your finger in some condensation conjures up a heck of a lot of respect from me, buddy.

***

Marketing is a subtle art. Eg: "The Whopper" is a successful brand name for a burger, but would be totally unsuited to a soprano saxophone.

***

I don't agree with people who say that I agree with them. Unless I do.

***

This cigar funhouse is just a lot of smoke and mirrors.

***

I AM BIVALENCE.

***

You live by the sword, you die by the sword. But the Rightmove website doesn't allow you to filter properties by sword proximity. #flawed

***

I've just drawn a perfect comparison. It looks just like one.

***

When we played 'Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes' at school, I always felt sorry for the girl who had no shoulders.

***

I'm vibrating due to too much coffee and am now magnetic. Does anyone need any paper clips?

***

I always panic when I'm asked if I want to save changes. Sometimes I click 'No' by mistake and have to undergo yet another vasectomy.

***

I shouldn't have picked those regret-me-nots.

***

Everyone swears. They should just incorporate 'washing the mouth out with soap' into the burial process.

***

If someone says "I'm not made of money!", bite down on them - just to make sure.

***

One day on Pluto is the equivalent of 153 Earth hours. So getting your 5-a-day is a piece of piss.

***

I always comb my hair after showering because it's the best way to clean my comb.

***

I urge you to reconsider.

***

I re-urge you to reconsider.

***

Silent to bed and secret to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, stealthy and wise.

***

I'm Top Dog around the office. In fact, I was the only member of staff to make the dog list. #proud

***

I don't like this coat rack. It's craning over my desk, as if to say "No coat again, Paul?". I had to eat it, OK?! WE'RE NOT ALL COAT RACKS.

***

I'd like to become some sort of guru, but that was too vague for Jim'll Fix It.

***

WRITING TIP: Writing is rewriting. And vice versa. Also, reading is re-reading. And making a quiche is re that also.

***

WRITING TIP: Show, don't tell. Don't ever tell. What are you, some kind of grass? Keep schtum. SHOW. In fact, don't even show. Allude.

***

WRITING TIP: Character names are important. No-one will buy a prison warden called Lonnie. It would never happen.

***

WRITING TIP: Structure is like a platinum exoskeleton - it may protect your organs, but you'll struggle to climb through a kitchen window.

***

I'm writing a book of my writing tips. Unfortunately, I've been following the tips. Now I've got no book and a load of quiche.

***

I've never been steeped in anything.

***

I like using Notepad. It makes me feel like a Raymond Chandler character. Especially when I'm wearing this hat.

***

If you're loud enough, it doesn't matter how good/bad your trumpet impression is.

***

Who you are isn't about what you do, it's about why you DON'T. #wisdom

***

I need to lie down. I've tried lying up, but it unsettles people.

***

If you press a key into the palm of your hand for three minutes, WHY?

***

"How would you like your zebra-steak cooked?" "Roar" - An extract from the lion-based sitcom I'm working on. Provisional title: THE MANE MAN

***

From inside a shark, you can safely see an underwater cage in its natural environment.

***

Sometimes, I realise I've mistyped my password half-way through, but hit enter anyway. Just in case the whole "password" thing is a sham.

***

I think this shirt might be on the way out. It's fraying to God - losing its structural integrity like Voldemort on a waltzer.

***

If you use enough mascara, you can make your eyelashes curl all the way back over your head. So you don't have to wear a bike helmet.

***

My policeman friend was involved in an accident. He claims to have had an out-of-Bobby experience. #thumbsup

***

It seems likely that getting the 'i' and the 'e' the right way round in the word "achievement" will be my biggest acheivement of the day.

***

I'll never forget where I was the day the Berlin Wall came down, but I'm terrible with faces.

***

There's some sort of mowing/blowing/trimming/strimming noise outside. It reminds me of when I was listening to the same noise moments before

***

I've barely had time to catch my breath today. Managed it though. I tricked it into a cupboard and then knocked it out with a cricket bat.

***

I lost consciousness, and when I woke up there was a '2' in the year.

***

The best thing about being in prison is that you killed that guy.

***

I bet in the old days, there was an ground-breaking "anti-jester", who deconstructed jesterism. And I bet he was beheaded.

***

Actors put ice cubes in their mouths to stop their breath steaming on cold days, or if they're playing someone addicted to ice.

***

Identical twins can always sense when their hair has caught on fire.

***

Just received a mysterious bunch of flowers from "A Secret Admyra Hindley". Now I don't know what to think.

***

Diane Keaton is my favourite Batman.

***

My catchphrase is "My catchphrase is [BLANK]".

***

THE EAR: If you put your mind to it, you can hear brainwaves.

***

The sad truth about the saucy, bawdy window-cleaner stereotype is that squeegees make you impotent.

***

It's chilly today, but that doesn't mean you can store all frozen goods in the hall and convert your freezer into a rabbit hutch. Seriously.

***

I thought I was going to do well in my Monk Exams, but only got a D in Vow of Silence Studies. Looks like I spoke too soon.

***

I don't want to make any snap judgements, but crackle and pop are both dicks.

***

That's the way the cookie crumbles. It crumbles like some tweets.

I hope you've enjoyed yourself today. You don't have to have enjoyed reading this, but I hope you've done something else fun. Like watching the news. Maybe you've had some toast. I just hope that this hasn't dragged your day's average quality level down too much.

Join me next time, for something that I haven't thought of yet.

Post

It's been a while, so let's dip into the Headscissors mailbag!

 

Talkin' Scissors

Hey P-Dawg

I've never written to a blog before, but after reading your latest post ("The End", dated 5 March 2010), I felt compelled to put pen to paper and let you know how ambivalent I felt about it.

I didn't hate it, but I can't really understand why you bothered writing it. The whole "twins" beginning didn't really make sense, though I suppose there was the germ of something interesting there.

The rest of it wasn't very well explored. It really was exceptionally average.

Keep up the work.

Nico Fronz

Portland, ME 

Hey Nico! Thanks for your letter! I can totally understand your feelings about that entry. It certainly did seem like filler. Maybe I'll follow up on the "twins" idea some other time. Hopefully the average entries are counterbalanced by the excellent and terrible entries!

Dear Paul

Long time reader, first time writer. Seriously. This is the first thing I've ever written. I'm only three.

Just wanted to drop you a line to say how much I'm enjoying 'Headscissors'. I've read several blogs, but this one doesn't make me want to kill myself. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.

1) In Post #502 ("Willpower"), you claim that watching Alan Shearer on television made you ill. Given that germs cannot be transmitted via television, how do you explain your accusation?

2) You've often spoken out in praise of The Armando Iannucci Shows. Does it ever bother you that the vowel-consonant pattern of his surname goes vvccvccv?

3) What's your favourite bread magazine?

4) Do you accept unsolicited blog articles? I have an idea for a short dialogue between two unlikely objects that I think is tailor made for 'Headscissors'.

PS. It's my tiny uncle's birthday next Wednesday.

Lerter Kilvers

Stockholm, Sweden

Such kind words! And so well written for a three-year-old! Thanks Lerter! I'll do my best to answer your questions.

1) I am aware that such a contagion is impossible, I suggested Shearer was to blame as a form of surreal humour. I respect him as a man and am sure he would never knowingly infect a MOTD viewer.

2) It does now!

3) I like The Daily Seeded Batch, but do most of my bread reading online nowadays.

4) I'm afraid I cannot accept unsolicited writing. This is due to the fact that I'm lazy, and other people make me all sad down my trousers.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to your minute uncle!

Dear Headscissors Head Office

This is the third time I have written to you with no response. PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THIS LETTER. I have been trapped in your disabled toilet for three months. No, I'm not disabled. Yes, I know I shouldn't be using it. I'm sorry. I feel terrible about it. But the handle broke off he door and fell into the sink, which in turn was accidentally flushed down the toilet whilst I WASN'T masturbating.

I've tried phoning for an ambulance, but they're not interested.

PLEASE LET ME OUT. I'VE HAD TO EAT URINAL CAKES. AND THERE ISN'T EVEN A URINAL IN HERE.

Karla Judd

Headscissors Office Disabled Toilet,

Waxahachie, TX

Thanks for your letter, Karla! Unfortunately, by the time we got around to opening your letter, you were already dead. Apologies.

Dear Headscissors
My friends have been telling me about your blog for years. "It's great," they said. I disagreed. But due to their persistence, I've begun to... well, not LIKE your blog exactly, but respect it somewhat. Not many people would start a blog post with no ideas, but you seem to do it constantly.
One suggestion: I was wondering if you had a fax number to send these messages to. Or even an electronic-mail address. Writing this letter has cost me my job as the manager of a quill factory.
Yours
Sean Penn
Hollywood, CA

Thanks Sean! We've always been willing to experiment with new technologies. It is possible to leave electronic comments (or "electro-thoughts") at the bottom of each blog post. Writing here will reduce the delay in publishing your feedback. We are still wading through letters that were sent before this blog even began. One is from a triceratops (judging by the handwriting).

That's all for this time, folks! Remember: without you, this blog would be marginally more pathetic.

Send your letters to:

Talkin' Scissors

8212 Scrupulous Drive

Waxahachie, TX

Remember, if you want your letter to be published, mark "OK TO PRINT" on your correspondence. TIP: Letters written in the bath may become unreadable.

I Need Your Clothes, Your Boots and Your Motorcycle

I'm not fashion conscious.

You may have noticed, if you've ever seen me clothed.

I'm decidedly fashion unconscious. I'm basically in a fashion coma. I'm not quite fashion dead, but if I was in Holland, they'd probably pull the fashion plug.

It's not that I don't want to look nice. I'd rather look good than bad. I'd rather people wolf-whistled than wolf-vomited. I just don't prioritise my wardrobe.

I have about four shirts. I have one pair of jeans that fit poorly. I have one pair of pin-striped trousers that are quite constricting in a certain area. I have two almost identical hoodies.

Those are the blobs on my fashion palette. My body is the canvas. The finished artwork is bland, derivative and displays a poor knowledge of anatomy.

I like to stay as anonymous as possible. Nothing too bright, nothing with stripes, nothing with LED arrows pointing towards my face.

I don't like to buy clothes with logos on them. I feel that a massive picture of a frog with attitude, or the motto of a false surfing university, might draw the unwanted gaze of strangers. That's probably not true.

If anything, I should have more complex and ostentatious designs, to draw attention away from myself. Anything less complicated than my own face will probably force people to look at me. And nobody wants that.

It's confusing.

When I'm rich, I'm going to wear expensive suits all the time. Even in the heat of summer. Even in the swimming pool.

Only the wealthy can dress well. Or the poor. The later have a stylish frugality that's very "2011".

I'm going to have to lose a lot of money. Or inhibitions. Or patience.

***

I assumed this examination of my clothing would lead somewhere interesting. But it didn't.

I've been taught by fantasy fiction that the wardrobe can be a portal to a magical land. But they're referring to the wardrobe as an object, rather than an inventory of apparel. I don't see any snow or lions or talking beavers or anything.

It's probably too hot for snow. And all of the beavers in our flat have been gagged. They're trying some sort of sign language, but it's not exactly talking.

Never mind, here's a photo of Arnold Schwarzenegger looking tiny next to Wilt Chamberlain and Andre the Giant:

There. That's better than some witch on a sledge, isn't it?

***

On the long walk home from work, Lucy and I get bored.

It's OK for the first half an hour, but round about Lonsdale Road things get difficult. We hilariously call it "Longsdale Road". Because it seems long. That's the kind of fun we have.

Techniques to make those last few streets bearable include: singing stupid songs, nudging each other into hedges (it's only ever me nudging Lucy, but I'm sure she enjoys it), playing numberplate games, swearing creatively and kicking stones.

All manner of genius has come from those desperate moments between sanity and a nice sit down.

At this time of year, a new opportunity presents itself. The sun is sinking low, and Longsdale Road goes East. (Actually, it goes both East and West, but we go East)

This means there are shadows to play with. On the walk home recently, our shadows have been nearly as long as the walk itself. They make us look slightly alien.

My favourite thing is to straighten my arm and rotate my wrist, so my hand is side-on. It makes it look like the whole limb is one long, tapering blade. Like the T-100 in Terminator 2.

You have to get it just right, or else you'll look like a fool! If you're going to make your arm into a shadow weapon, you need to take it seriously. It's the only way to get respect.

I can tell you're pretty impressed.

Look at it! It could be a bayonet! You can barely see any hand-contours at all!

You can also do shadow animals, but they're not as lethal.

This fun game usually ends with me doing my uncanny 'scythe' sound effect until Lucy shoots me with a silhouette Berreta.

And by that point, we're pretty much home.