The Wire

If someone called Sue owned a venue, she could host a comedy night called "Hilarity in Sue's" (like 'hilarity ensues', which sounds similar, thus: joke).

I just come up with this stuff!

I've always been blessed with a tremendous knack for realising that one thing sounds similar to another.

It's Friday afternoon. Things have slowed. The leaves are falling. The last traces of pancake batter have long-since evaporated. There's no escaping it. We're all braced for one of our periodic lurches forward in time. I don't keep anything in my shirt pocket that I don't want to lose.

On the intersection between Victoria Road and Lucerne Road in Summertown, there's a length of wire that used to belong to someone, but now belongs to everyone. It fell from private to public ownership so quickly, no-one even noticed. It was less than a second. One person's loss is the world's gain.

But that person lives in the world too. His or her loss is his or her gain. She breaks even, everyone else on the planet gains.

Private ownership benefits no-one. There are people out there who want to stop the wire from falling. They want to sew our pockets shut. They see the loss of their wire as a personal hardship. But it isn't. They haven't lost anything.

The thing they hate is not the losing. What they hate is the notion that someone else will gain. They'd rather have useless pockets than see anyone else happy.

They deny this. Occasionally, they'll graciously offer up a tiny section of wire, out of the goodness of their hearts. They care, you see. But they don't care. They really don't. They create laws to make sure the pockets are closed. The decry people with no wire. They hold up wire as the highest good. But they become hysterical if someone tries to take theirs.

Those people are animals, they think. Get your own wire! But they can't. Their pockets are sewn shut too. To be fair.
 
I beseech you: let the wire fall. The world will gain. You will gain. No-one will lose. The happiness of others is not something to fear. Don't sew up your pockets.

Gravity is not an assault on your freedom.

***

I can't tell you how impressed I am with myself! But I'll try!

I just wrote that first wire sentence with no idea what I was going to say. But, creative and clever as I am, I was able to turn it into something thought-provoking. What a guy (me)! Admittedly, the thought is "Uh, yeah, I sort-of get it. But it doesn't really hold up to much scrutiny, does it?".

Still a thought, though.

Still. A. Thought.

I win again. But I'll cut my trophy into pieces and stir it into the common pot. We will all die of lead poisoning.

It's fun to make up analogies. No-one can question them, because you can change what they represent if you feel like it. You are the god of your own metaphor. If it proves to be unsustainable, you can just throw it away like a rotten simile. No harm, no foul.

I'm a thinker.

I've always been blessed with a tremendous knack for using my brain to generate thoughts.

Counting Sheep

I couldn't get to sleep last night. For some reason, my brain was whirring like a whirring brain, and I kept thinking and arguing and ranting to myself.

This will occasionally happen. It's usually about politics or some other moral issue. I start to rehearse arguments with idiots in my own head. I am outraged at their views, and try to persuade them with eloquent fury and cold hard facts. I rarely do convince them, because they don't live inside my brain. It's difficult to win an argument with a figment of your imagination. Straw men can be quite aloof.

Some of the things that I was furious about last night were gun ownership, health care, The Daily Mail (at lot of my anger was directed at that), Page 3, and pretty much anything else.

I was stirring up these arguments for no apparent reason. I suppose I enjoyed the righteous fury. There was an adrenaline rush, putting those people in their place. But it meant that I couldn't get to sleep.

It would be OK if I could make a tidy conclusion. If I'd worked out exactly what I wanted to say, I could let the matter lie. I could even transcribe it as a blog post, and be thought of as quite the polemicist.

But I never reach an end. The same thoughts keep churning and churning, the same objections are raised, the same stupidity is identified. It's like being on a rollercoaster powered by your own ego, and the rollercoaster is determined to teach me a lesson. It won't stop, and the safety restraints hurt my neck. I'm wasting my time and accomplishing nothing. There's no use in setting the world to rights if the world is contained within my skull. That world can never be saved.

I was most angry with things that seemed to me (and still do seem to me) to be OBVIOUSLY STUPID. There's a campaign to remove the topless girls from Page 3 at the moment. There are some interesting arguments about the objectification of women vs freedom of choice. But the real argument seems to be: COME ON. Having a topless woman in a newspaper for no reason is CLEARLY STUPID. It's just obviously a ridiculous idea. STOP MAKING THE HUMAN RACE LOOK BAD.

I don't think my debate skills have improved with age. I hope I don't resort to such irrational discourse in my waking life. I might become one of those people (those idiots), who think they can identify a clear-cut morality.

Of course, unlike all those other people, I'm right. They may think they're right (in exactly the same way as I think I'm right), but it just so happens that they're actually wrong and I'm actually right. I'm me and I'm right. A strange coincidence, but there it is.

I wonder why my brain wanted to rob me of sleep. Maybe it just wanted a few more hours of activity, so was stirring things up, like someone throwing a beehive into a synagogue. My brain played me for a fool.

Well, the joke's on him (I assume my brain is male, despite the lipstick). Now I'm so tired I can barely string two thoughts together! He's useless!

Now I'm the one laughing! Or I would be, if the brain wasn't the driving force behind that particular physical activity.

I'm breathing, though. Don't need the brain for that. No, sir.

Paul 1 - Brain 0

(Legs - 2)

by Paul

"It's colder than a yesterday up in here!" - anybody in my office

I keep shivering. I need a jumper. Can I wear my hoodie at work? Will it make me look unprofessional? Hoods are for the unprofessional. Professionals can afford detachable headwear. It's one of the perks of being on top of things.

I have so much to tell you about! I'm wearing a shirt. And you?

No, I'm not wearing you. I was asking if you were wearing a shirt. The misunderstanding was perfectly misunderstandable.

Remember when you were a child, and they'd make you sit on the floor? What was that about? It was demeaning. The floor was hard, as well. We'd have to sit through long assemblies with a hard floor beneath our cheeks. A carpeted floor would have been fine.

I think it was a way for the adults to prove their superiority over us. "Think you're big shots?" was their implicit rhetorical question (all implicit questions are rhetorical - if you want an answer, you need to explicitise).

"You're not big shots," they'd continue. "You don't even have chairs. You're already smaller than us, but now we've made it undeniable. Irrefutable. Plain. We tower over you. So don't talk, or fight, or answer back. Don't ask questions. Questions are for the chaired. You're not chaired. You're the lowest of the low. Literally. Except for the children in the basement. And they're dead. DEAD."

They said all this with their eyes, but the meaning was clear.

That's why, when I'm  the headmaster of a school with all the proper permits, I'll insist that children are suspended on harnesses three hundred feet in the air. All of the teachers will be in pressurised chambers six hundred feet below sea level. Our assemblies will instil in our swaying, terrified children a sense of importance. They (the survivors) are our future. We are subordinates.

We can teach them about fire safety on Skype. The risks will be illustrated by the magma swirling around our staff room.

Mmm... magma. I could do with some of that right now. It would be a welcome relief from the cold.

OK. Well, it's nearly break time. Let's reconvene here in about... fifteen minutes? Get yourself something to drink, visit the lavatory, and be back here by twenty-to at the latest. That's right: twenty-to. Yes, it does look odd written down.

***

Great - thanks for being so punctual. Are we all here?

Where's Neighthan? Oh that's right - he has a music lesson. He's learning how to play any trombone.

The agenda from the second half is on page three of your handout. The first page is the agenda for the first half. The second page is the agenda for the first page.

Let's just check that we got through everything.

Talk about how cold it is? Check.

A thing about hoodies? Check.

Children on the floor? Check.

We didn't cover Austria, but we can come back to that at the end.

In this session, I'm hoping that we can deal with some of the issues that have arisen from being alive.

I'd like you to all draw a picture of me and then post it on the internet.

Split yourselves into groups. Now re-coagulate. Great.

***

Sorry about that up there. Remember my last entry? The one about depression? That was proper writing. It was on one topic, and made some arguments. So I can do it. It's just that, as I said earlier, it's pretty cold.

I'm reading a book at the moment. It's Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. It's a rare foray for me into modern fiction, and it's a bit depressing so far. All modern fiction is.

Anything happy is frivolous. And anything short. Short and happy is a disastrous combination for a successful writer. That's why Sandy Toksvig is considered bad luck in literary circles. They have to cross themselves whenever she enters the room, and refill their pens with fresh sorrow.

I'm only reading Freedom on the recommendation of a former colleague/"friend" (let's call her 'A'). I can see why she liked it because she was an IDIOT.

That's possibly a bit harsh on 'A', but for all you know, she could be fictional (just like 'S', '88' and 'Felicity').

All of my friends, and most of my "friends", are fictional. That's why I don't get invited to many weddings or sued for libel more often. It's a great way to live. I'd recommend it.

Sorry - this was originally going to be sensible, to make up for the nonsense above the asterisks (the creepy twin in the asterattic). But I lost my way. I'll write a proper review of the book when I've finished. It will be interminable and lacking in insight, but will feature a photograph of me holding the book, looking intense.

***

Oh, you're still here?

Sorry, I thought I'd published this. It can get a bit confusing. Sometimes I have three browser windows open at once, just in case. It's hard to keep track of what I've done and what I haven't, who I've ogled and who I haven't and why I've succeeded and why I haven't.

I'll get this onto the internet immediately. It's not something that people will flock to, I'll grant you that. But the photo I'm going to put at the top of it (which I've yet to choose) will raise a few smiles down at City Hall (or if British: the Council Offices).

The Red Mist

I've been angry and depressed this week, but I'm not feeling too bad now. That means I can write about it from an disinterested perch, occasionally nudging a falcon to brag about my neutrality.

I'm not usually depressed. I don't know if my depression is actual depression. I'm probably insulting people with actual depression by putting me in the same boat as them. Maybe my depression is small "d" depression, as opposed to the more legitimate big "D" Depression. (A bit like the distinction between small "c" and big "C" conservatism, both of which incidentally lead to depression of both cases)

Depression (and, having started the sentence with that word, you have no idea which version I'm talking about) is a dangerous adversary. It's self-sustaining and it spreads quickly. It's like a virus. It snowballs. It's like a snowball virus.

You don't just feel depressed about one thing. That would be understandable. If you'd broken up with your husband, or been called ugly by a parrot, being depressed would make sense. Those are bad things, and it's natural to feel bad about them. But depression isn't satisfied with that. It wants more things to consume with its blackness. Totally unrelated things become swallowed up by it.

It may start with the parrot insult, but it spreads to your whole life. Your job is awful. Your house is awful. Your relationships don't work, you're stupid, your DVD collection is full of rubbish films. All films are rubbish, in fact. All art is rubbish. The human race is an awful thing. The black tendrils of depression creep over everything.

Earlier this week, I was hating every single tweet and Facebook status I could see. Even if they were totally innocuous. I thought the sentiments were disgusting and the people spouting them were more so. (I tried to write that as "moreso", and the spell check appropriately wanted to correct it to "morose".)

I hated people for liking things or enjoying themselves, I hated photos of happy people with their families, I hated songs.

At one point, I was actively remembering things so I had more stuff to hate. That's what depression does.

I should say that, for me, depression doesn't usually have an identifiable cause. It's not always black and white like a parrot insult (though it usually is - I need to buy some beak tape for Polly...).

It starts from nothing, and takes over everything.

In tandem with this spread, depression uses the devastating tool of truth.

When we describe someone being angry, sometimes we use the expression "the red mist". It's used in football quite a lot. When a player does something indefensibly stupid and aggressive, they say that "the red mist descended". Anger is a corrupting force that descends from the heavens, or rises from the bowels of the Earth, which obscures the moral vision of a person. They can't see clearly.

But that's only what people say when they are not depressed, or when they're not angry.

When you're actually angry, it's not a red mist at all. You are the one who sees clearly. Everyone else are the ones blinded by mist (probably a happier colour - baby blue, perhaps).

When you're depressed, you think that you're finally aware of the truth. The depression and the hatred are correct. Your assessments of other people and the world are correct. The rest of the time, you've been brainwashed.

How can all these people not see how terrible the world is? The evidence is EVERYWHERE.

Depression doesn't just grab hold of us, it convinces us. It liberates us. It's like a totalitarian dictator, trying to give us freedom through terror, and righteousness through persecution. We're assaulted on all sides by the forces that tell us things are OK. If we concede to them, we're weak and we're being screwed over. (What was I saying about Conservatism again?)

When you're depressed, you're not just feeling it now. The anger can travel through time. It makes you think you were a fool for ever enjoying yourself. All past happy experiences were a sham. All future happy experiences are a lie that must be staved off for as long as possible!

The red mist is nothing of the sort. It's a magnifying glass. It's a microscope. It's tinted spectacles, which are the opposite of rose-tinted. It's those glasses in They Live that allow you to see aliens.

That's what makes it such a dangerous force. That's why people let depression ruin, or even end their lives. It's a terrifying enemy.

As I think about it now, not feeling depressed, trying to remember my anger and yet unable to understand it, I worry that I was right! Maybe the depressed me was right all along! I'm probably hornswoggled and bamboozled right now. I can't see the truth. The world seems like an OK place. My relationships and house and DVD collection seem fine. The human race seems fine.

But that's only because the baby blue mist has descended. In my next bad mood, I'll realise once again how wrong I'm been, and will cling onto the dark truth with my black fingernails: vindicated.

Pretty scary. But, even if my depression is on the same continuum as that of people with severe problems, I'm incredibly lucky. It's quite rare for me to fall victim to these moods. For some, the black fingers are a constant presence. For some, the darkness outweighs the light for the majority of their lives.

And we wonder why they don't listen when we tell them it will all be OK, there's nothing to worry about really. We are blind. They can see.

So... I dunno. Give to some anti-depression charity or something? I hadn't really thought of a conclusion for this. Yeah, give some money. That'll sort it all out.

(I may have lost some dramatic punch with that ending. But screw it. This ain't The New Yorker.)

Storm in a Teacup

The downside of my ongoing blog cataloguing process is that I have to read a lot of this blog.

When you read a lot of these entries in quick succession, patterns begin to emerge. There are familiar rhythms and reference points, which mean that I'm starting to second-guess every word I write. Each sentence seems to be textbook "Me", and I worry that I'm predictable. If television shows tend to get stale after three or four seasons, what does that say about my 725-post blog?

We know what it says. It says "meh". And we hate it for saying that.

On the other hand, most people only read this intermittently. They've had time to rinse the taste of me out of their ears, so that each post is as fresh as an iced apple. An iced apple, right in the earhole.

No-one has the same issues with me that I do. Most people can't even remember my name. I'm very grateful for that, as it means I can wear my various stolen monogrammed blazers.

***

But enough about me (up to March 2009, there are 32 posts labelled "solipsism"). Let's write a story.

I'm thinking of taking part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this year, so I need practice.

And ideas. (I tried to workshop some for a similar initiative last year, and I can honestly say that I've thought of nothing else since)

A quick story warm-up (or "storm-up") will get me primed. I haven't been primed for a long time. I hope my priming shorts still fit.

So. Let's get rolling.

Typing. That's the ticket. Here it goes.

A story:

That's right. A story.

A post-colon story, coming your way next:

(By next, I mean after these brackets are closed. Brackets don't count.

I'm tired today. I should probably... Oh right! The story! Sorry, I forgot. Here it comes. Right after the closing bracket.

Which should be here any time now.

Yes.

Any time.)

The Easter Pageant was coming. There was an argument to be made for it. 

Each year, the children of St Sebastian's put aside their pencils and paper, and focused their energies on making an Easter-themed argument. Traditionally, the argument had been quite a staid affair. Mr Nichols had insisted on keeping things subdued. The argument would be non-controversial: muted colours, safe subject-matter. It would usually involve a straw man making a frivolous egg request, and then being rebuffed by the public-minded citizens. The argument wouldn't last long.

It wasn't even much of an argument, to be honest. It was just a big grey rhetorical question, and the children hated having to put it together.

But Mr Nichols had retired the previous Christmas. His replacement, Ms French, had very different ideas.

"The Easter Pageant is coming," she said to the class. "There's an argument to be made for it."

They rolled their eyes (or would have, if they'd have been older).

"Mr Nichols has given me his notes." She took out a plastic-bound, laminated booklet. On the front were the words 'argument' and 'hand-over' and 'notes'.

Steven, who was small and a boy, sighed audibly. He was in the front row, but that's not uncommon.

Ms French smiled. She tipped the booklet out of her hand, and it landed in an unlined metal rubbish bin which went KLLANNGMMNH.

Some of the children gasped. Steven put his hands over his mouth in surprise. He must have seen it in a cartoon.

"There's an argument to be made, and we're going to make it," said Ms French, trying to raise the kids off their seats with her intonation. "But it's going to be a proper argument. There will be two sides. There will be issues raised. There will be crepe paper and bright balloons. There will not be an easy resolution."

Megan put her hand up.

"Yes Megan?"

"Miss," said Megan, almost bouncing. "Can we have an argument about..." (her voice dropped to a whisper) "...Jesus?"

Ms French smiled, then slightly opened her mouth before closing it again. Her eyes swept the room.

"Well," she said, raising her arms wide and open. "It is Easter, isn't it?"

The children cheered (or would have, if they'd have been younger).

In the back row, Claire frowned, and vowed to tell her mother about this as soon as she got home.

Labels

I've finally pulled my finger out of its bejewelled scabbard and done what I should have done a long time ago: re-read and labelled some of my old blog posts.

I've been wanting to do it for a while, because I love the sound of my own typed voice. Also, I've forgotten everything I've written, and I was hoping to rediscover some kind of lost gem that I can repackage as a film pitch or pub chat bon mot.

I was worried that I'd go back and realise that I used to be eloquent and considered. This worry was baseless.

I'm only up to May 2008, but I've already started to grow tired of my own syntax. Now I know how you feel.

Things are starting to improve, but the 2007 Me was quite the douchebag. The three main problems with him are as follows:

Swearing

I used to swear all the time. I like swearing, and will still use it when appropriate, but back then I had no quality control process. I dislike artless swearing. Back in the day, I was throwing expletives around like they were going out of f*****n. I wanted to be Charlie Brooker, I think. I wanted to be angry and close to the knuckle. In retrospect, I sound grumpy and adolescent. Which makes a change from the present day, where I'm defeated and adolescent.

Rape Jokes

I've written before on this topic, so I won't go into it too much. I don't think that describing something as a "rape joke" tells us anything about it. But looking back over these early entries, there a quite a few times where I've used rape as reference point. These are usually part of a hilarious (and not at all hacky and contrived) scenario which illustrates my anger about something innocuous.

Looking back, these make me feel uncomfortable. I don't think any of these references were particularly offensive, but they certainly were unnecessary. I'm offended by these on a comedic, rather than a feminist, level.

Atheism

Man, I used to talk about this a lot. I still have the same beliefs, but I don't seem to go on about it as much. I was a bit crude and heartless (though broadly correct), and could certainly see how some people might think I was an idiot. I think that.

The trouble is, I wrote these entries when I was 24.

It's not like I can write it off as the ramblings of a raging teen. I was a fully-grown man, with his own beard and TV licence. It makes me worry that, in five years' time, I'll find 2012 Me just as annoying.

Maybe it's just part of the evolution of the writer. (And, yes, I am calling myself a "writer" for some reason)

I was probably just so crass because I hadn't figured out how to write yet. I was leaning on crutches whilst my typing legs developed. I wasn't to know that I'd soon be a completely different person: making the same tired observations, but using a synonym for "twat".

Labelling the posts has been quite enlightening. You can label every entry with key words to allow you to search for them. You can see the fruits of my labour at the bottom of the right-hand panel of this page. There's a long list of the various topics I've discussed.

I think the "solipsism" tag may be the most used by the end of this process. It's a redundant one, really. "Boredom" is under-represented at the moment, but I'm sure those statistics will shoot up soon.

"Cannibalism" is another label I'm hoping to add to. As I said, I can remember very little of what I write, so we'll see what turns up. It will be a fun adventure. An adventure in learning about our fellow man by snacking upon his flesh.

I've also modestly labelled some of the posts as "good". These are the ones that might be worth reading, and will possibly be revisited in the Retroscissors feature that I came up with once but didn't follow up.

I'm performing an important task here. These labels will allow people to digest my canon without having to swallow the whole deli counter. If you've always wondered what I thought of seagulls, your prayers have been answered.

I'm going to continue doing this until every last post is labelled or until I stop doing it (whichever comes first).

Hey, I should probably label this post too... How self-reflexive.

Frankfurt.

Gravy Boat

What's your perfect Sunday?

Perhaps you like to lie in and read the papers. Or do some work in the garden, then come in to a cold glass of beer.

Maybe you like to go on a bike ride, or go shopping for furniture in a branch of Ikea built in a deconsecrated church. Perhaps you prefer to take a long country walk, climbing over a stile to escape a Dalek.

You might play golf for all I know. Sunday golf.

But today, you can add a new tradition to that glorious list: reading some of my best tweets from the past several weeks. Whilst eating Yorkshire pudding. (The enjoyment of the reading is contingent on the Yorkshire pudding. In fact, the tweets may ruin your Sunday pudding experience.)

I haven't done one of these since mid-July. I can't remember if I've written anything good, or even if I've written anything at all. I can't even remember if I said the same thing before my last tweet compilation blog post. I might have.

Also, you're probably not reading this on Sunday. Sundays aren't a good time to post new content, because people are generally out doing any or all of the above activities, rather than waiting for a blog link from me.

But I'm going to live in the moment. And (at the moment) the moment is Sunday.

So let's all clean out the garage of our minds, and replace its content with the smell of bleach. It's the latest edition of:

Bleach Out and Touch Someone

***

I hate the sound of my own voice. So when re-reading my writing, I imagine it as having been written by somebody else. 

***

I'm trading everything I know, for all you know. 

***

I've been heroically putting things off today. My procrastination has even involved researching a dam analogy for this tweet. #Longyangxia

***

Lunch is my favourite of the deadly sins. ... (it is the way I do it) 

***

I challenge deceptive people to jump over my electric fence. The higher the wire, the spryer the liar. 

***

Well, this is embarrassing.

***

I wonder who used the phrase "you heard it here first" first. 

***

[something] ancestral; [something] kestrel. #workinprogress

***

You can pretty much sing any three-syllable phrase to the tune of the 'You've Been Framed' theme. 

***

I don't know how long it's been since I last washed my coffee mug, but I'm pretty sure Amy Winehouse was alive. 

***

Its insides have gone from sky blue to a subtle shade I like to call "pirate dysentery commode". 

***

The trouble is, I need to wait until the kitchen is deserted. Small talk is not my strong suit. I'd probably launch into my tap monologue. 

***

I am seriously, imperiously, curiously, furiously, uproariously, notoriously bored. We're talking adverb-level tedium, here. 

***

I just urinated out of boredom and into somebody's desk-tidy. 

***

I dreamt that I was watching a tennis match on TV. That was the whole dream. I think my subconscious is running out of ideas. 

***

I just invented a new hug. It's called "the sidecar". 

***

Two thirds of the way through this apple, I remembered I'd intended to eat a banana. 

***

Hey @BBC_TopGear! Here's a great line you can use: "Who needs a hot rod, when you can drive at VROOM TEMPERATURE?!!" (It's about cars) 

[Paul/Editor's Note: The Top Gear people didn't get back to me. Disappointing.]

***

"Put your hands in the bear like you just don't care... about the bear's welfare!" - Me, in that sort of club. 

***

Hair straighteners. 

***

Sorry. That last tweet was supposed to end with a question mark. 

***

Sorry. That last tweet was supposed to end with an exclamation mark. 

***

Sorry, Mark. That last tweet was supposed to have a comma after the penultimate word. And I forgot to capitalise your name& 

***

Sorry. 

***

It seems that the canteen has started giving out personalised change. Very thoughtful.

***

In a dream last night, I came up with a hilarious joke about how difficult it would be to live in the hollow head of a giant stone monster. 

***

Dream Me works on a higher comedy plane. 

***

I don't think I've ever been a "lapsed" anything. Or if I have, it was fucking ages ago.  

***

Existing is my one weakness.

***

Lunch with Lucy included the phrases "sparse parcel", "capsized quiche" and "I'm having one of those days where I wish I was a mist". 

***

Don't know what to do with those albatross eggs? Try a nice wingspanish omelette.

***

My hair and I are drifting apart. 

***

"How do you like HEM apples?!" - an eccentric seamstress. 

***

I got so hot on the way home that I was denied planning permission for my igloo and fainted. 

***

I got so hot on the way home that my blood became rice. 

***

I got so hot on the way home that nobody could bear to be around me. 

***

Using a year as an adjective is soooo 2010... 

***

"Ohhh, THAT's your game is it?" Ever since then, I've had my Monopoly box monogrammed. 

***

You can clench singular buttocks or fists, but I don't think you can clench an individual tooth. 

***

I've shaved my eyebrows into ellipses to make myself look more thoughtful. 

***

There's no "i" in "meta". 

***

Someone should write a film where a character falls into a swimming pool. 

***

When describing your orchard to a malusdomesticaphobe, try to focus on the trees. 

***

Please accept the majority of my apologies.

***

My tweet about Battleships included the phrase "off the B10 track". I could tell my parents were proud. It was my best Xmas ever. 

***

I can't tell you when I'll be using my Japanese face mask. It's on a need-to-Noh basis. 

***

If granted an infinite number of wishes, I'd wish for one more wish. 

***

TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY RUMOUR: I have been linked with a move to tears. 

***

TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY RUMOUR: Everyone-on-Twitter FC have shown a strong interest in weak 'surreal rumour' material. 

***

TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY RUMOUR: Shock loan deal for electric chair rental company. 

***

Instead of saying "bless you" to Lucy just now, I said "man, you were totally that sneeze's bitch". 

***

This morning, I woke up hating the fact that I had to. 

***

Ooh, ooh! Am I too late with my Neil Armstrong orbit/obit joke? I am? Oh. Well, never mind. Thank you for your time. 

***

I've been holding my index finger against my nose for the past hour, just so my discretion isn't in doubt. 

***

I've just eaten two too big sandwiches. Now I want to bomb a grain silo, so nothing like this ever happens again. 

***

Nothing makes me feel older than Machu Picchu. I'm not even close.

***

Great. I've just realised I missed a button on my shirt. Now I'm going to have to deal with a load of chainmail questions. 

***

This printer ink on my hands makes me look like a mechanic. 

***

This tweet writes itslef. 

***

Well, wasn't that nice? A couple of real humdingers in there! Together with four dinghummers. The perfect ratio.

Writing this has been a part of my perfect Sunday.

I'll spend the rest of the day sitting still, staring at the walls 'n' clock, straining and yearning and gurning to prevent a Monday.

Enjoy your apple sauce, you animals.