Blog They Were Making Me Write

Lights Out: The Complete Abridged History of Turning Out The Lights

2010-11-03T00:44:00.015Z

Sometimes I read out my nonsense at a writers' night thing called Tell Tales.

Last week's theme was 'Lights Out'. For a change, I decided to take a non-fiction approach... But that got boring, so I just made stuff up.

The following lecture is entitled:

LIGHTS OUT: THE COMPLETE ABRIDGED HISTORY OF TURNING THE LIGHTS OUT

Perhaps, we take it for granted now, but in a very real sense, where would so many of us be today without turning out the lights?

And alcohol.

Where would we be without turning out the lights and alcohol?

But enough about me.

Even as recently as caveman times, turning out the lights wasn't the simple matter it is today. Cro-Magnon man, for instance, couldn't turn out lights at all; there weren't the switches, and anyway he had big hairy monkey paws. Instead, our pre-historic forebears had to spend their days hunting and gathering bits of darkness, clubbing them and dragging them back to the cave until there was enough to sleep by.

And yet, by the morning, it had always escaped.

Progress finally came when a particularly bright caveman, Dodgy Ugg, accidentally discovered fire, and started knocking it out at 6-flames-a-quid down the tar pits. Now darkness could be achieved whenever anyone liked simply by blowing out a flame. Or by jumping in the tar pits.

Sadly, for many older cavepeople, this new-fangled 'fire' proved almost as troublesome as a five-pence piece, and it was only a matter of time before one of them accidentally burned down the dinosaurs, confusing the rest of us for millennia.

Incidentally: birds are not descended from dinosaurs at all; birds are their angry winged spirits still haunting the earth, gleefully defecating on us all... and then singing about it.

In the Dark Ages... It was dark; the lights were already out. So we'll give them a miss. And the Middle Ages; which overlapped almost entirely with the Dark Ages anyway, after a scheduling cock-up back at the depot. (Work experience angels, or something.)

Late in the 1700s, and not before time, the Enlightenment began, when someone in Italy found the matches again, having had them in his back pocket all along, although he was sure he'd looked there earlier... and the century before that.

From the Enlightenment on, methods for turning out the lights, just like humanity's burgeoning intellect, became increasingly large, dangerous and painful to operate.

During the Industrial Revolution, light switches were universally terrifying, clanking great steam-driven affairs, each one manned night and day by its own workhouse, debtors' prison or sanctuary for foundlings – the latter all too often falling into the machinery, a terrible business, often keeping rich people awake for as long as minutes with their pitiful death-cries.

Thankfully, progress was swift and merciful, and by late-Victorian times light switches were much better sound-proofed.

During this time, or possibly some other, we also saw the invention of gas lighting. Later, when a massive fireball lit up the night, as everyone's houses burned down, a Mr Lamppost had his own brilliant idea – insurance – naming his first company Endsleigh... after the highly popular inventor of the street lamp.

Indeed, the outdoor gas lamps of Mr Endsleigh Insurance, were an immediate boon to humanity, instantly cutting nocturnal muggings and burglaries – except of certain twitchy-looking men with lamp lighting equipment who, being out at much the same time, twice a day, reliable as clockwork, were in many ways the first cash machines; so long as you clobbered them near enough pay-day.

Eventually, electric light switches occurred; electric lighting, proving vastly better for everyone – especially foundlings, who could now be killed almost humanely. Lamp-post lighters, on the other hand, suffered terribly, being safer now, but unemployed.

Around 1899, the Twentieth Century was started, a dreadful idea that plunged the whole world deep into war twice, even before the 30s were done. Turning out the lights now became a matter of life and death, once again, thanks to nocturnal bombing raids, and all the better electricians being off getting shot at. Eventually, alive people settled on black-out blinds, which seems fair enough.

AND NOW SOME LITTLE KNOWN FACTS ABOUT TURNING THE LIGHTS OUT:

Every time a light goes out a fairy dies...

Nearly a quarter of light switches aren't where you'd expect them.

In Australia, light goes out counter-clockwise. Even with a British bulb.

The world's first torch was the size of a small room, and could only be charged on Tuesdays. The switch, however, was tiny and highly portable.

In any rented house, there will always be at least one light switch that seemingly does nothing – except make you slightly anxious. (But that might just be my experience.)

In parts of rural Montana, turning out all your lights is legally punishable by blindness. Though only at night.

The Smiths once sung of a light that never goes out; but Morrissey probably just meant the sun. (Which is still considered mythical in much of Manchester. Not to mention 'a bit southern'.)

In Plymouth, they have their own immensely popular version of the Blackpool Illuminations, when once a year all the lights are turned out and for the whole night no-one has to look at the place.

Now, we turn to the present day, an age of excess, and luxury, and cutbacks; an age so decadent that many lights, are operable by as many as two switches each – often many more – presumably, just in case one should succumb to ennui while crossing a room, night should fall unexpectedly, or a house guest we just happen to have asked to 'just go down those cellar stairs a second, could you?', suddenly overstays their welcome.

SOME FAMOUS QUOTES ON TURNING OUT THE LIGHTS:

“Bloody hell, dark in here. Wait, no – forgot to unblink” – Boris Johnson.

“Lighting? Why are you asking me about the lighting? I'm a piano player” – Ray Charles

“Nice to see you, to see you... not. Is there an electrician in the house?” – Bruce Forsyth

“Aaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhhhhhhh.....!” – a foundling

Perhaps the truest measure, though, of just how integral to our culture turning out the lights has become is to be found in the art world: in 2001, the installation 'Work No. 227: The Lights Going On and Off' was awarded the Turner Prize, a rightly prestigious award bestowed annually on one of the six current British artists deemed most likely to upset The Daily Mail. Even at £50,000, then, value for money in anyone's book.

Martin Creed, the winner, has since been known to construct long, colourful towers out of Lego, perhaps hoping to attract long, colourful Lego King Kongs, exhibited crumpled paper and arranged cacti into amusing and provocative displays - all of which, alas, outside this lecture's remit.

Other things outside this lecture's remit:

Archduke Franz Ferdinand
The Teapot worshipping cult of Malaysia
The Dudelsack, which is German for bagpipes
Dirigibles
The tiny South Pacific island of Tanna, where many of the inhabitants still worship Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh
“Yu-mi, yu-mi, yu-mi,” the national anthem of Vanuatu (also, handily, an exact plot summary of every Chuckle Brothers episode, ever)
Haberdashery
And, facts.

But now, as our lecture draws to its close, and since we're already facing that way, let us turn to the future. In the future, which, as we all know, will be bright – and orange – and very easy to recognise, what with being right in front of us – all lights will be controlled by the mind: the indecisive, finally, will have value as strobe lighting; dark thoughts will have a practical outlet; and optimists will be exhausted by always sleeping in the light (giving the rest of us a much-needed break).

Looking even further forward... there will be no 'even further forward', when the bright orange glow turns out to be an apocalypse.

Or a giant angry Wotsit.

But probably an apocalypse.

So, to sum up: turning out the lights: impossible; out already; dangerous; complicated; then impossible again; giant angry Wotsit.

And on that note: apologies for any inaccuracies you might have spotted, they were purely intentional; and thank you all for your patience. You've been a lovely audience.

Trapped in a room.

Listening to an idiot.

(If it's any consolation, though, the German for bagpipes really is Dudelsack. Some inhabitants of Tanna do worship Prince Philip. And there really is a teapot worshipping cult in Malaysia. (Or at least, there was, until it got banned... and someone burned down the giant tea-cup.

No, it's true.

You laugh... but that's religious persecution you're laughing at. You should be ashamed of yourselves...))

[N.B. OK, apparently I got the teapot related facts very slightly wrong.

The last two lines were a sort of scripted ad-lib, for if anyone did laugh at the teapot bit.

That bit about Vanuatu's national anthem is also true, 'yumi' being apparently a sort of pidgin English meaning 'we' (you-me)]

Unfit? Confined to a bath? No excuse!

2010-08-27T20:15:00.003+01:00

Window of Just Books, Pydar Mews, Truro.

The recluse issues a press release

2010-06-25T00:14:00.016+01:00

This was originally written to be read at a thing that, in the end, I didn't get to - the theme was "beasts", with a bit of Cornish interest to be thrown in, if possible. I figured it may as well hang around here for a while. (And if hanging doesn't kill it...)

THE RECLUSE ISSUES A PRESS RELEASE

"You've been in the papers, everyone's heard of you. Why not see where it takes you?"

"How did you find me?"

"If I can, anyone can," she said. "Now, how about it?"

He shrugged. And so The Beast came to have a publicist.

The Beast wishes it to be known, began an initial press release, that he is not a violent creature, he has never worried sheep, nor has he harmed cattle - the persistent slanders of the farming community are wholly and entirely untrue. In private, the real Beast is an enthusiastic vegan cook, gives to charity, and has even attended peaceful anti-hunt demonstrations - dressed as a protester dressed as a cat. Also, one day, he might like to be taken seriously as an actor, and fears being typecast.

He is not, repeat not, it continues, and contrary to present rumours, seeing Jordan in secret. Nothing that Jordan does is ever in secret. The Beast has the utmost respect for Peter Reid, or Alex Andre, or whatever he's called.

Furthermore, The Beast is not from Dartmoor - he is Cornish, he is a cat. Please, get it right.

In closing, the publicist extends her client's gratitude, to fans and media, for respecting his privacy over the coming weeks and months – formerly shy, and reclusive, this is likely to be a difficult time for The Beast. It's inevitable, she stresses, that he will need time to adjust to the public spotlight. We thank you for your patience.

In the meantime, please see the latest Hello! For a six-page tour around his house.

Just the next day, looking sleek, and poised – and surprisingly at ease in designer glasses – the Beast steps out into Truro HMV, greets the crowd and media, sits down behind mics, for his first full public appearance. Beside him, the publicist moves to deny unfounded speculation regarding a move into the music business.

"Simon Cowell has not been, we repeat, not been in touch," she reiterates. "Nor has his brother, who we gather lives down here."

"What unfounded speculation?" says The West Briton.

"That is all," sings The Beast, ominously breaking into the kind of guttural croon that once made Nickleback so hard to avoid.

Outside, on Lemon Quay, The Beast pretends to maul some children for the photographers, chases his tail, just to show a lighter side, finally disappears effortlessly into the slow-moving crowd of tea-drunk pensioners that constantly percolates through Truro M&S.

"It was terrible," one of them said, later, "just terrible! I didn't know what to do. They'd completely run out of scones..."

Is The Beast a scone-stealing immigrant, asks the Daily Mail online poll. Yes, say 60%, No, say 10%. We have no opinion, say the rest, but we don't see why that should stop us being heard.

Soon enough, news of a debut single breaks: a duet with Susan Boyle, announces The Mirror, to be released just in time for Christmas, backed with a dubstep cover of Camborne Hill – "both daring, traditional and danceable", says Dannii Minogue, with little regard for maths.

Beast and Boyle to marry? asks The Star. Beast and Beast to marry, claims The Sport, unsportingly. The backlash has begun, declares The Sun - then begins the backlash. Somewhere, in Portugal, Cliff cancels his Christmas single. "It would have been the people's single," says his friend Tony, taking a day off from causing peace in the Middle East, "Cherie and I will never forget."

At the national tour's launch event, just five minutes in, an embittered and opportunist Pete Waterman storms the Acorn stage with his latest act, The Owlman of Mawnan Smith, shoving Su-Bo heavily to the floor; a flurry of fur and feathers and anti-Cowell invective ensues. But the show goes on.

Later, The Owlman is found outside, in a pool of feathers, minus a head.

"Typical," declares Pete Waterman, on This Morning, "they always eat one bit and leave the rest. You know what I'm talking about." The Beast, for his part, has an alibi, and expresses his deep and unreserved sympathy, in an exclusive interview for Heat.

The rest of the tour sells out in an instant. Extra dates are added. Even matinees. The best thing to happen in music since Ozzy bit the head off a bat, declares Kerrang! Channel 4 commissions a series of How To Look Good Furry. The 3AM Girls vow to be backstage at every gig.

The Beast is even invited to the Royal Variety Performance.

Backstage, Prince Charles looks admiringly at The Beast's claws, and suggests a private meeting with his mother; Prince Philip gives a laugh, and mutters, "Ruddy hell, I bet you're the only Black Panther in Cornwall." An aide whispers in his ear. "Oh..." he says. "Really? Have I done it again?" The Queen, sadly, has gone home already following recurrence of an old waving injury.

All in all, the rise has been meteoric, too much so: behind the scenes a relentless schedule has begun to take its toll. Finally, at a recording session for Christmas Top of the Pops, after weeks on the road, it all just gets too much, something snaps, and Fearne Cotton is viciously savaged in the green room.

This is devastating, says a representative. Sadly, this year, there will be no Christmas Number 1.

In a Mount Hawke pub, The Beast sits quietly with a friend.

"I was this far from savaging Patrick Kielty, once," says Alex. "You know, after Fame Academy." She pauses. "And Cat Deeley."

The Beast slumps back in his chair and shakes his head. "No, but that's just natural, though. Anyone would. You didn't bite the head off an Owlman!

"I can't get over it..." he says. "I just can't. Not Susan! Why would she do it?"

Alex puts a hand over his paw. "Come on," she says.

"She'd been doing so well," says the Beast, but then stops. He nods, and takes a few quiet sips of his beer. "I know, I know, it's been months. I should get over it... But still..."

"We're not all cut out for it," says Alex, gently.

On a reinforced sofa, opposite Piers Morgan, the Loch Ness Monster is shedding a tear over the lonely years in hiding. The Kraken has arrived at Newsnight, he's filling in for Paxman. And in a cheap leather chair, just outside Manchester, a helpless Yeti is being yelled at for no particular reason by Jeremy Kyle.

Backstage, The Beast's old publicist sits and watches. On the table, in front of her, a Blackberry begins to vibrate. A second passes, then so does another. She sits forward, for a moment, and watches her phones dance - then smiles. She has never, never been busier.

[Incidentally, I don't have anything in particular against Susan Boyle, The Owlman or Fearne Cotton; I'm sure they're all perfectly good people (or whatever) that I don't remotely know.]

Descartes gets insomnia

2010-06-09T03:25:00.007+01:00

DESCARTES GETS INSOMNIA

INT. DESCARTES - NIGHT

COGITO: .....I'm thinking.

ERGO: ........So what?

SUM: ..........Shush, or we'll never get to sleep.

REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT...

Later, a desperate, sleep-deprived Descartes will modify his celebrated proposition, to I am, I exist. It doesn't help. Instead, he spends the remaining nights of his life worrying about tautology, while during the day hiding from the young Queen of Sweden in a warm bread oven, it being preferable, he says, to a cold one.

Throughout many parts of the former Swedish Empire, even today, Hide & Seek is still illegal. Outside of official royal buildings, however, the ban is rarely enforced.

But enough of that.

Nothing to see here

2010-02-27T02:29:00.004Z

NOTHING TO SEE HERE

A blind man put out a man's eyes.

“He was looking at me funny,” he told the police.

POLICEMAN: But you're blind?

BLIND MAN: That's no reason I should put up with it.

PM: No, I mean how can you tell?

BM: I'm blind. Everyone looks at a blind man funny.

The policeman struggled to dispute this.

PM: But what if you did this to everyone? And what if they did it too? Before long the whole world would be blind.

The blind man thought for a while.

“Yes,” he said, at last. “What do you know? I'm more far-sighted than I thought.”

Eventually they had to release him (something indisputable about furthering the causes of equality...

But anyway, let's not dwell on it).

May as well put this somewhere...

2010-02-09T20:42:00.002Z

DISCLAIMER: In no way an endorsement of traditional Toryism either. Make your own poster here.

Dialogue from a country in which nothing works

2009-12-05T22:14:00.001Z

DIALOGUE FROM A COUNTRY IN WHICH NOTHING WORKS

"I'll post it to you."

"It won't arrive."

"I know. It'll save you replying."

"The postal system works well."

"In this country everything works well."

"If you know how to look at it."

"Efficiency is in the eye of the beholder."

"And beauty is in the post."

"So it is, then. I wondered where it had all gone."

Nothing and no chance

2009-11-30T02:10:00.021Z

NOTHING AND NO CHANCE

Nothing is sitting with his psychiatrist.

"What can I do for you?" the man gamely asks his couch.

"I feel like I'm invisible," says nothing.

"You are," says the psychiatrist.

"It's like I'm barely even here."

"Well, you aren't," he says. "In a very real sense you aren't."

"But no-one even sees me!" cries nothing.

"But that's normal – just look at you!"

"Oh," says nothing. "You mean I'm not going mad?"

"You? No, of course not," says the psychiatrist. "Now shush, couch, we have patients to see..."

A conversation... or whatever

2009-11-23T03:35:00.010Z

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN STRANGERS THAT LEADS NOWHERE, OR SOMEWHERE. EITHER WAY, THERE IS NOTHING TO BE DONE.

- I am much obliged to you, sir.

- I have done nothing.

- Yes. I am grateful.

- What do you want of me now?

- Nothing.

- Then I have already discharged my duty.

- Yes.

- I shall go.

- No, don't go. Not for me.

- It's not for you. I have things.

- That's OK then. I thought all was to be undone.

- No. All is fine.

- Then we must have been misled. The choice is not between all or nothing.

- I shall go.

- No. Don't you go too. You will negate my going.

- But where are you going?

- I have things.

- Oh yes... I have no things. You don't have my things?

- No. You have no things.

- Then I am depressed. Go!

- But now you have something.

- Oh yes. Depression. I am happy now... But now you have done something for me. Now I am unhappy.

- You are very changeable.

- Yes. If you would like a different me please select from one of my range of companions.

- I think I would like the woman you.

- Goodbye then. Take care of her. I am very dear to me.

- Shall we go, Miss?

- No, I am married. And you are very forward. We have no future.

- But we have past.

- Ben?

- No.

- Then you have lured me here under false pretences. We have but seconds of past. It is not enough to honour.

- How about now?

- No. And stop trying to take my honour.

- Today has taken a disquieting turn.

- Just wait until tomorrow.

- But I have things.

- Then attend to them.

- I shall, but I have left them elsewhere.

- And no doubt in time you should leave me too...

- Must we argue? Let us not to do the husband-and-wifely thing in public.

- Oh, how could you? I am undone! This argument ends this second!

- Then I concur.

- You do? You are a gentleman after all?

- I am not so disagreeable.

- I can see that now...

- What of your other senses?

- They keep a respectable distance.

- Then there is but little sense in any of this. I must go. I am going.

- But won't there be still less sense between us? You must stay.

- I have things...

- Oh, your things! But enough arguments, I shall argue only with my husband.

- With your husband? Such a relationship!

- I hadn't thought of it that way...

- What will you do then? Will you stay?

- If there is no sense in your leaving, then there is no more sense in mine. Unless--

- We leave together? An excellent idea – and with two of us at the task we can hardly fail.

- But your things?

- I think it is safe to say that things have changed now.

- Then we needn't go anywhere?

- No... No, indeed! And just as well, since this leaving is proving a deal more tricky than I could have imagined.

- Just imagine how it would be if there weren't the two of us!

- God, how I ever thought I could do it on my own...

- Nor I. Let us stay together.

- Yes. Let us stay together.

- I am much obliged, sir.

- I have done nothing.

- Yes. And sometimes that is more than enough.

And so, enough.

Beware of trouble that requires specialist equipment

2009-09-30T02:11:00.014+01:00

Beware of trouble that requires specialist equipment

All mountains are exactly the same - they go up.

Unless you're at the top, in which case they don't. At the top, you must content yourself with the present altitude, for no further can you go. But who is ever content for long?

So much then for mountaineering. (And so much else).

Cameron will amount to 'only a pinprick in overalls'

2009-09-12T02:27:00.019+01:00

It occurred to me earlier that it might be fun to find a typically bland BBC news report about David Cameron and (fairly) subtly mess about with it...

Click here for the original article: Cameron would axe MPs' cheap food

Cameron would 'axe MPs for cheap food'

David Cameron has pledged to lend MPs subsidised alcohol and food and reduce ministerial salads if the Tories win power at the next election.

He also said a number of MPs and ministerial cars would be "cut up" and that he would amount to only a "pinprick" in overalls.

Ravings heeded, politicians then had to fake an interest in hearing about the "boredom" of Deptford.

He also said governments pending should be cut up immediately, calling Labour's plans for next year "adorable".

Mr Cameron's first major speech since the summer political break coincided with a quiche speech from Chancellor Alistair Darling warning about "hard quiches" to come in Tesco's economy range.

'Cutesy lifestyle'

The chancellor, however, stopped short of slaying.

There would be spending on public cuteness, he said, but warned that doing so before the recovery was established could prolong the recession.

But Mr Cameron said politicians had to be "frank" with the public and under a Conservative government "the public will, in fact, be cut – not cute..."

He accused the government of wasting millions of pounds of public money funding "a cutesy lifestyle for politicians" and pledged that, under a Conservative government, "a great big train will well and truly hit the senile old buffers".

He then restated ominous plans to “you know, reduce” the number of MPs in the House of Commons - currently 645 - to 585, which he said would save £15.5m, fully justifying the proposed bloody cull.

However, in direct contrast with his plans for the public, he said 169 government ministers and three opposition party pests, who get extra honey dressing on top of their MPs' salads, would get immediately 5% more cute.

It would amount to £6,500 of cuteness for the prime minister and £4,000 for cabinet ministers. Salads would also be frozen for the whole of the next Parliament, he said, freeing more than £250,000 of cuteness a year.

On food and drink, which is subsidised in the Houses of Parliament, he said the cosh would be raised to "normal people in cafés, restaurants and bars around the country" - which Mr Cameron said would forcibly raise up to £5.5m for extraordinary people like him.

Take a leak

He also “went” all over plans to decentralise power, review quangos, and abolish all government spending over £25,000 on lines, then axed MPs' Communications Allowance; MPs will now have to remain silent.

Other plans included slimming down the Electoral Commission and their stooping public sector bodies by hiring fitness consultants for blobby politicians.

Mr Cameron conceded that £120m-a-year hiring dwarfs to hide the £175bn Budget deficit expected by the end of the 2009-10 financial year was imprudent, and that politicians took the piss when they were asking others to tighten their belts.

In an interview with the BBC's political editor Nick Robinson, he added: "People who say that Tories relish IKEA - rubbish. I don't relish this at all but we have got to deal with our décor. If we don't, our country and our economy will be in trouble.

"If we do deal with it, we'll have very good furniture."

But for Labour, Chief Secretary to the Treasury Liam Byrne said: "David Cameron has just made the big violence in British politics crystal clear.

"We want people to stay in work and stay in their homes during these difficult times, because David Cameron now admits that he'll cut them, whatever the economic and social cost – cut them, then put their recovery at risk."

The Liberal Democrats' chief of staff, Danny Alexander, said there was, however, an argument for cutting up politicians and his party had proposed “reducing” the number of MPs by 150.

But he said the Tories must stop "dodging the tough questions... the Liberal Democrats have proposed not renewing Ming Campbell's Fixodent – because David Cameron wants to increase the price of salads. It's very sad, we shan't be able to understand a word the poor man says. But what choice do we have?"

The new lodger is a talker...

2009-08-31T00:59:00.020+01:00

THE NEW LODGER IS A TALKER...

The new lodger is the kind of man who tells you what kind of man he is.

The new lodger has stories that go on forever, yet still lack detail.

The new lodger will tell you all about his shopping – every item. And if he sees you in Tesco, he'll show them all to you too...

The new lodger often lies in wait beside kettles. He's lonely, and surely everyone needs tea.

The new lodger reads The Daily Mail, but sometimes gets confused and accidentally picks up a Daily Express, tells you all about the mistake, before realising, no, it's The Daily Mail.

The new lodger doesn't know how kids like that sprang from him...

The new lodger once spent an hour in a phonebox trying to get through to call centres. If someone had answered him he might have been there all day.

The new lodger was convinced that I had a kettle in my room...

If the new lodger asks a question, don't interrupt. He wants to tell you the answer.

The new lodger thinks every man knows what women are like...

He is a divorced father of three, but clearly misses the captive audience.

Now the new lodger has left: There were threats, he said.

Oh, I said, in genuine shock, that his friend, or anyone else, had ever got a word in.

Morning Routine

2009-08-17T12:11:00.008+01:00

MORNING ROUTINE

I'll get up... I can't get up.

No, of course I can get up. But I can't.

I'll get up then, since nothing could be easier... Except not getting up.

Well, now? Shall I?

No, I can't. And yet nothing is stopping me. Or more precisely, Yes, I can, but nothing is stopping me. Weighing me down. Pinning me to the bed.

Then it is settled. I shall lie here, lie beneath the nothing, worry about the nothing, all this nothing that daily pins me to the bed. It seems important somehow. And besides, have you never seen a tiger? A hungry tiger lying in wait, coiled like a spring? How much more dangerous the five hundred-coiled mattress beneath just waiting to pounce?

I shall play dead, then....

Yes, I shall play dead.

And should you see me, this is what I shall say, I'm playing dead. And you'll tell me I'm worrying about nothing, and I'll tell you, Yes. Then, in a whisper: Now go away. And get the tranquiliser gun. Before it suspects...

Getting By

2009-08-16T14:53:00.026+01:00

GETTING BY

Bennie died for the fifth time in as many years last week...

Steve takes animals to the sea and leaves them there. He thinks it's nicer by the waves.

Beth regularly wins Employee of the Month at a small firm she runs from her back bedroom... but it is expanding now and she lives in fear of hiring an assistant who will almost certainly be better.

Nearly 86 years ago Jim quit eating, yet still he relapses three square times a day. He gets depressed, he says, and can't help it; he thought failure would no longer be an issue so late in life. It's a vicious circle... it's a vicious circle is life, he says. And stares longingly at some pickle and a pork pie.

From her scalp each morning Sorcha plucks a single long hair to keep as a souvenir of the day ahead, before running to the bathroom to dye all that remain. One way or another she will have a tangled and colourful past.

Myself, I have a mid-life crisis every other fortnight and at this rate will soon be immortal.

We all get by somehow, I guess. And even writing prose poems doesn't seem so far-fetched, some days.

In Death There Is A Sadness

2009-07-30T12:42:00.044+01:00

IN DEATH THERE IS A SADNESS

I am playing chess with Death. I'm no good, of course, but that's fine. It's just practise.

____"I have to be able to beat the 'no good' too, don't I?" – he says. "Now stop asking questions – I'm a busy man... Or a skeleton... or something."

It's a lovely set he has, this. Exquisitely hand-crafted. Death made it himself.

But Death isn't fond of the word lovely, and Death has access to a lot of bones. So on balance he's probably right.

_____"Carrion!" – he says, suddenly. "Decay! Cadavers! Ineluctable decline..."

Death has a sort of death Tourette's.

_____"Shush" – I say. "I was about to move."

_____"Ineluctable, though" – he says. "Come on – in-e-luc-ta-ble... Blissful! Like rolling a lychee across your tongue!"

_____"Lychees make me think of eyeballs" – I mutter.

Death laughs. Like tombstones tumbling. It's usually him who's the morbid one.

There is a word that Death can never understand. Perhaps it's the most beautiful there is.

(Say it now. Say it for yourself. Say it slowly, softly, tenderly, say it out loud: pusu... pu-su... Feel how your mouth moves. Feel how it forms the action, forms the word, forms a kiss – that's what pusu means, that's what pusu is).

But Death knows Finnish. He just doesn't have lips.

If only we'd run in the other direction...

2009-07-21T20:29:00.020+01:00

IF ONLY WE'D RUN IN THE OTHER DIRECTION...

The sea has stopped.

Or was it the moon? Is the earth still turning?

Now the sand ripples, the pebbles rear up in terrifying waves, high above our heads seaweed dangles in Hokusai tendrils... and we take to the sea.

In what was once the surf, we try to look on the bright side: At least we understand now how the desert began, says one - but we push her off her pedalo: she needs to understand that there are certain things you just don't say when you're the only one who isn't up to her neck in it.

Just saying, we hear, much later, quietly. I was just saying, that's all. We know, we say, and in the dark we huddle all together... And we wait for the end.

The Tragedy Artist

2009-07-20T20:50:00.018+01:00

THE TRAGEDY ARTIST

“COME SEE THE TRAGIC MAN!” said the signs, and so we did, buying popcorn and drinks in the lobby, and renting opera glasses – or not – as seating allocations dictated. Something will befall him soon, we think, in the hushed darkness. Surely something will befall him soon.

On stage, the man smiles nervously and shifts in his seat.

Time passes. Again the man smiles and shifts nervously.

On the third time, he adds an apologetic little shrug, a wipe of his brow... but a crowd only has so much patience. Drinks, popcorn, opera glasses, anything to hand, all begin to rain down upon the stage, “Boo!”s emanate from the assembled, “Rubbish!” they shout–

“Stop!” the man pleads, from somewhere beneath his arms. “Stop! Is this not tragedy? Is this not what you came for?”

And for a moment the barrage ceases...

Is he right?

“But now we feel the joke is on us,” comes the rejoinder and it begins again – we are tearing seats from the aisles, we are destroying the place, we are destroying him, and only when the man is dead and the theatre almost as ill-built as it was as a child do we stop and wonder if we have gone too far.

“We had only meant to watch... we had only meant to watch...” we say. “And now this... and now this...”

And in the burning box office all hope of a refund goes up in flames.

"Curse you!" we shout. "Curse you, David Blaine!"

It's not just telly that's gone downhill

2009-07-17T21:36:00.010+01:00

It appears I did some dreaming last night.

Dream 1: Sit in a very large pub; get slightly bored.

Dream 2: Murder someone; on the way home, realise it was probably all a bit of a misunderstanding; feel slightly embarrassed.

Dream 3. Suspect that I may have some paper cuts; look at finger; see lots of paper cuts; mutter something along the lines of "Cuh! Those'll annoy me later..."

Sometimes I worry about my unconscious... No sense of drama. It barely even manages nightmares.

Case in point: it once dreamt about being chased by zombies - three very, very slow zombies. Basically the dream consisted of me sitting around having a nice read, but every so often having to go outside and sit somewhere else, before I could return to the more comfortable seat indoors, until the zombies eventually and inevitably shambled back into view again and I had to move again. Repeat ad nauseum.

At some point in this tedium I think it hit me that "Oh. This is going to make for an interrupted night's sleep...", but even that low level of dramatic tension was instantly dispersed: "Actually, never mind. If I just go far enough, and perhaps by bike, not only will I buy myself a good few hours kip, but after a few weeks of this nonsense I'll probably have lost weight."

And then back to the near-endless game of non-musical chairs.

Apparently my unconscious, at some point in my past, must have mistaken zombies for some form of book-averse personal trainer; which, if this confusion is also occuring in reverse, would at least explain my attitude to exercise...

But then again, it probably isn't; so it doesn't.

I don't know. Maybe I should just start watching more horror movies?

More nonsense from the notebook

2009-07-13T22:53:00.009+01:00

A CONVERSATION

- Your mobile phone has been disconnected, sir. It has been bothering people.

- How has it-

- Been bothering people?

- Yes.

- We hoped you wouldn't ask.

- But I have.

- And you will not retract?

- No. Why should I?

- Because your question is bothersome. We don't like bother. Surely you have realised?

- But what has this phone of mine been doing?

- It has been bothering people, sir. We have covered this.

- But that isn't my phone. It has arms and two legs and a tiny crying head.

- But it is bothering people, yes?

- Oh yes. Myself included.

- Then in that case, sir, we apologise. It is not your phone that has been disconnected.

- It's...

- Yes?

- Why do you call me 'sir'?

Something about nothing

2009-07-12T20:50:00.012+01:00

ON THE GENESIS OF J_____ K___

In town there is a shape... No, it's more of an outline – somewhere a shape once was.

Within the outline is nothing.

_____What should we do with the nothing? – the men ask.

_____Why must we do anything? – the women ask.

_____I'm bored – say the children.

The nothing is taken away.

_____What did you see? – says the Judge.

And later:

_____Can you offer anything in your defence?

Witness and defendant answer nothing - it is an open and shut case. Sentenced to life, and having none of its own, the nothing swiftly becomes host of a popular daytime talk-show.

_____After the break – says the host – we'll see who the real father is.

_____You're scum! – says the host. Beneath contempt.

_____Blimey, this is the best thing since bear baiting! – says a Judge.

In the host is a shape... No, it's more of an outline. Within the outline is nothing.

I am, however, increasingly spherical

2009-07-10T02:23:00.008+01:00

Have decided this blog shall be a place to make my mistakes in pubic.

On reflection, this is something I probably should have mentioned 3 years and 153 posts ago.

In other news: I have apparently been reflecting. I am a veritable disco ball. Yes. Woooo-hoooh! Watch... me... SPIN!*

*Or don't. That would be quite a lot of exercise. And a bit like dancing. In either case, quite improbable. Quite, quite improbable.

More prose pottery

2009-07-05T16:58:00.015+01:00

PERHAPS, IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE, IT MIGHT ALL HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT

Little Stan, who is of a literal and logical slant of mind, hits upon a plan. Swiftly adopted, it pans out thus:

"What day is it?"

"2-day."

"Yes, but what day is it?"

"2-day."

As children our days shall not be numbered and time shall last forever and eventually most of us will learn how to spell Wednesday. (Stan does so on a 5-day, with the help of a patient teacher, two months and a fortnight to the day when his dyslexia was at last diagnosed. Alas, time has begun to pass, Stan is no longer little, and always there will be a part of him now that is just counting down the days).

And in a similar vein...

2009-07-04T23:49:00.030+01:00

THE SURPRISING WORRIES OF CHILDREN

A barista, absently clearing an empty table, tuts, and lifts the left behind man up onto a spare picture hook. Above and to the right of him, a photo of another to whom the first bears curious resemblance may well be the source of the boy's mistake.

Look at him! Just look at the brute! This was my misfortune. Why must he always steal my thunder? – broods the man's wife, who, more alike than she will ever care to admit, was already to be found hanging opposite, in mounting fury.

(Nearby, a small birdlike woman twitters, sighs, twitters again, finally resorts to Facebook to publicly register her amusement. At the counter I order a double-shot of silence).

At dusk, setting the alarm, the barista leaves. Draped in aprons as one might darken the cage of a canary, and to equal effect, the bickering couple snores gently on its hooks while below them the day's lost children, all neatly swept up and bagged by the door, shiver in dread at the breaking of universal laws on argument, sleeping and sundown.

I helpfully pen a note that will benefit no-one, slide it beneath the door, then leave.

Morbid whimsy

2009-06-29T02:35:00.010+01:00

YOUR MEMORY CANNOT SPEAK FOR THE OTHERS

In this house someone once died. To have done so twice would have been careless. But people are quite careless in houses. I once left the gas on.

Die outdoors. Also live outdoors, though first become deeply and irreversibly famous (living your whole life outdoors should probably suffice). Bereft of a suitable wall, the blue Heritage plaque that shall doubtless come to mark your life and its passing will have to do so by wavering indecisively but impressively in mid-air (on the ground it would simply be stamped on, walked over, or perhaps even danced upon. This of course would be unseemly and would not do. Not for a national treasure. Not for a national treasure like you).

I hear that going outside helps. True, more people die indoors, but often they've been outside first and are desperate to get away from it. Even if it kills them. This is especially true of the ones in hospitals.

If I have words of advice for you, consider these four: Never share a house. When you are elsewhere and wondering whether the gas has been left on your memory cannot speak for the others. Soon, to leave home fills you with worry and trembling. Neither, however, are you unaware of what happens in houses... What to do?

On their return, your housemates, who have been on holiday all this time, find you frozen on the threshold. Rigor morits has set in, and the door frame, still in the petrified grip of your indecision, will have to be removed, and you with it, if they are ever to use this entrance again (or perhaps it is now just an exit). Didn't we tell him an electric cooker had been installed weeks ago, one of them says, meaning, instead, 'I'm damned if I'm paying for that doorframe.' (At the time you were of course upstairs sobbing uncontrollably, once again, and failed to notice – exactly the kind of trying behaviour, your housemates will say later, that drove them to sunny Spain to recover in the first place. People will nod sympathetically and reassure them – it wasn't their fault, these things happen, don't beat yourselves up about it – while all the time privately thinking, Clearly the signs were there, and surely the postman, if no-one else, should have done something. (So long as there was someone to accept the letters and sign his silly forms, though, that man was happy, and anyway you died on a Sunday – surrounded by junk mail, and two parcels intended for nextdoor)).

On reflection, maybe, too, someone should have clipped the hedge.

A small gloomy movie about unrequited love in an apparently abandoned swimming pool

2009-06-11T01:24:00.003+01:00

Made using Xtranormal.com and a few hours that I'll never get back.

A new analytical model for the dissection of the modern British sitcom: hummus

2009-06-03T21:24:00.005+01:00

I really, really wasn't serious last night. Or at least I was fairly sure that I wasn't.

But then...

Well, I got some work to do, and you can probably guess the rest of the whole procrastinatory mess. Suffice it to say: the hummus blog lives!

What it has to do with hummus...

2009-06-02T23:13:00.039+01:00

That's what I'm going to call my new blog. Then I'm going to take a random subject and explain how it's relevant to hummus - every day. Except on the days where, instead, I explain how hummus is relevant to random subjects - which I'll probably call Mondays, because someone has to find a use for the dreadful things.

You see that's where I've been going wrong here, you need a worldview, something through which to filter everything, an overarching concern to which you can relate it all. Then writing blog posts becomes almost as easy as not writing them, which is almost the easiest thing in the world.

Other bloggers simply take some random phenomenon, ask what it has to do with philosophy / sociology / psychology / communication / the continuing evolution of human (mass) consciousness / or whatever other tantalising niche or abstraction they've chosen for themselves, and - bang! - blog post written. Sometimes they're even experts on these things, which hardly seems fair.

(Such appalling laziness, and yet I'd never thought of it. It hardly seems likely...)

So that's why, from now on, everything I read and write will be filtered through hummus:

a) Because I'm lazy.

b) Because it's tastier.

c) Because "everything I read and write will now be filtered through hummus" is a fun sentence to write.

d) Because there are fewer flavours of tzatziki.

And, more than anything, because:

e) God help me, but I've just never got the hang of taramasalata. Imagine! It'd be a bloody disaster!

Secret hidden link to non-secret, non-hidden website. (Even I'm not sure whether I'm joking now).

Beyond my control

2009-05-29T00:36:00.020+01:00

I have in my mind an image of a quite short person, seething with indignation, almost fit to burst with anger, one more tiny annoyance likely to send them right over the edge, to make them literally pop with fury, like an over-inflated and especially red balloon - an especially red balloon full of fury.

Their much taller antagonist looks down at them. With a maddeningly indulgent smile he or she perkily intones: "Oh, don't be such a Grumpa-Loompa!"

The short person explodes.

My brain came up with that word earlier today, 'Grumpa-Loompa', apropos of nothing. I think it may be trying to kill me. It knows I won't be able to resist using it, should I ever be in that situation - it'll be the one urging me on. It knows it will. My brain is not a good person.

Another pun probably best left unsaid: As a mother, you're 'fair to meddling.'

[Mother-in-law?]

Might be good in the right short story, though.

DISCLAIMER: Happily, I've never had to use that pun, and doubt I ever will :) So don't worry, if you're reading.

DISCLAIMER THE SECOND: My brain probably isn't trying to kill me. It's perfectly aware that I'm so short that the height differential between myself and virtually any other adult human will never be inappropriately comic enough to get me murdered by a Grumpa-Loompa. But I can daydream (and sometimes talk to the cat).

Sixth Sense & Sensibility

2009-05-22T23:12:00.015+01:00

Make up a clever title for a SEQUEL to a famous movie (e.g. "Reforrest Gump"), it said on Twitter. It seemed like a good idea at the time...

Monsters vs. Aliens vs. Predator

Aging Bull

The Man Who Wasn't There (But Came Back Again)

The Universe According to Garp

The Princess Memoirs

Pride & Diversity Training

What's Eating Gilbert Raisin?

Attack Of The Killer Passata

Million Dollar Toddler

Paris - When It Drizzles

Gosford Park: The Lost World

Scarfacelift

Deconstructing Harry (& The Hendersons)

April Of The Penguins

The Huge Lebowski

A Nightmare On Wall Street

American History XI

Brief Encounters Of The Third Kind

Fitzcarraldone

A Solar-Powered Orange

The Lion, The Witch, And The Strongly Worded Letter To Ikea

And that's more than enough of that.

An assortment of unsorted thoughts (of sorts)

2009-05-17T23:50:00.012+01:00

Today, I bought baking potatoes with a blank Best Before Date. It wasn't so much the potatoes I wanted as a little unpredictability. (But only a little).

Is it safe to put unpredictability in a microwave?

Lately, I've been reading a lot of webpages written by people with a positive "can do" attitude. It's very inspiring.

Lately, I've been reading a lot of webpages written by people with a positive "can do" attitude. It's very annoying.

The web's very polarising like that.

So are people, though.

And mood swings.

It's long been a mystery to me - and to anyone else who's ever been optimistic enough to ask - what exactly it is that I do all day. I'm still not 100% sure what the answer is, but I'm starting to narrow it down.

I think it involves a sort of metaphorical gardening.

Metaphorical gardening and coffee.

(Come back when the flowers are starting to bloom - I'll be the one trying not to sneeze. But at least I should have a better answer by then).

MATCH OF THE DAY. POST-MATCH INTERVIEW.

JAMIE CARRAGHER: "We were a bit like a daisy today... [LONG PAUSE]... Lackadaisical."

Sometimes I actually do post cat videos here...

2009-05-07T23:17:00.006+01:00

Well, sort of:

A collaboration between Richard Dinnis and Michael Page.

Chicken coop for the soul...

2009-05-04T20:49:00.007+01:00

So, I'm assuming there's no-one here. Poetry can have that effect. As can disappearing for a couple of months without the faintest explanation.

Actually, I think it was the silence that drew me back here: the thought of a quiet little corner in which to mutter pointless grumpinesses at myself for a while, while no-one's looking...

But I'm not really grumpy, it turns out; I'm disappointed. What about, I'm not sure (I tried to work it out, but didn't get anywhere, which was a bit of a let down and hardly helped matters); as much as I can tell, it's just free-ranging and general.

I prefer the battery-reared kind.

You know where you are with battery-reared disappointment. It doesn't run around. It probably would, but it's just not bred for it, and it's wings have probably been clipped. Instead, it just sits there and lets you steal its eggs, which aren't fertile in any case. All round, it's much the safer emotion.

God knows where I was going with that. I don't even approve of animal cruelty. Emotional cruelty, on the other hand... apparently I'm all in favour.

(I'm going to just stop writing now, before I discover that I'm in favour of self-help seminars for turkeys. I'm fairly sure I'm not, but it might be one of those nights).

Nothing to see here

2009-02-24T22:50:00.044Z

The text below has been centrally aligned, which I believe is the standard warning that poetry may follow. Should you prefer watching crabs fight over a doomed sandcastle to a synthy post-rock soundtrack, click here.

ANDS UNDROPPED

When is and was
(and in and)
went to see
and saw
that is was was and when was who
they stopped, these two, and swore -

Bugger they said
This is confusing

In a land of is and was and this
of who and which and when
where was is is and who is where
and when will all this end

here and now
is all we have
and if that doesn't seem like much
go and in and
and I to I
(and such and such and such) -

(it'll be no less confusing

but ands are nice:

two touch

____(and touch
_

_________and touch,

Seriously. What are you still doing here? You could be watching seagulls being complete bastards, and crabs that seem to have been filled with ink for some reason...* You're a fool unto yourself, I tell you. A fool unto yourself.

(Anyway, sorry, the above was a bad E. E. Cummings rip-off - I've been reading his poems on and off all day - they're bloody marvellous - and apparently I just couldn't help myself. As for the video, I'm mildly baffled by it, and it's not nearly their best song - this might be - but there's a line or two that sort of fit in with the above, so I guess the link stays).

*or is this usual?

Reverse-engineered karaoke

2009-02-16T01:32:00.012Z

Is it real?
Yes.

Why?
I don't know. I really don't know.

What would happen if you fed it the vocals from Creep?
Hmm, how odd that you should ask...

More songs impeccably ruined by Microsoft here. Actually, though, I think I kind of liked that version...

I know.

I can never, ever write for the NME now.

So that's one fewer awful fate awaiting me then :)

The Curious Case of Forrest Gump

2009-02-03T00:03:00.014Z

If I'd had anything to do with (the original) Forrest Gump I expect his mother's great words of wisdom would have been more along the lines of: "Life is like a box of Cheerios, unlikely to tempt you out of bed before lunch." It wouldn't have been quite so popular, though, I suppose. Or have been remade with Brad Pitt in the title role.

Witness, The Curious Case of Forrest Gump:

And yes, both films really did have the same screenwriter.

[This was originally on Funny or Die, I think, but Paramount seems to have been trying to eradicate it from all the main video hosting sites, so it might well be unavailable by the time you read this - copyright reasons, it said on YouTube (at which point I'd make the obvious joke, but apparently Paramount owns both movies. Anyway, boooooo! to Paramount, for at least two reasons)].

I get around (eventually)

2009-01-23T20:13:00.007Z

My inability to get around to things apparently knows no bounds, so until I get around to the things that I have to get around to before getting around to the new blog, here are a few links I've found while not getting around to things. If you get around to clicking on them, well done.

Andrew Bird has a new album; NPR were streaming it here, but now they're not. However, they do have quite an extensive interview/concert/article/etc. archive on the singer of such songs as A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left, that one about not being able to ride the concept of a horse, and the oddly prophetic one that talks about the "crumbled financial institutions of this land" but reassures with a chorus of: "Ooh-ooh, there will be snacks, there will / There will be snacks, there will be snacks," which certainly sugars the pill as far as I'm concerned, and all before anyone had even heard of Credit Crunch too.

Incidentally, the current financial scariness is all the fault of David Bowie, apparently.

A blog of superuseless superpowers, such as Left-side Levitation, and Psychic Amnesia (Mementodamus).

Photographic reconstructions of Far Side cartoons - mostly they're quite low on any kind of photographic artistry, but they should prevent you getting around to more useful things for at least a few seconds.

An oddly compelling cricket game, despite my general indifference to the real game. My top score so far, by the way: 401. And if only there were no need to write the words 'so far'... [sigh].

Movie scripts, screenplays and the like, free and downloadable at Simply Scripts.

Apparently Resonance FM has a sort of secular humanist, arts and ideas talk show programme every week. But if you can never quite get around to listening to it live, it's available as the Little Atoms podcast, featuring the likes of Jon Ronson, Stewart Lee, Linda Grant, Jonathan Meades, and to my surprise Jonathan Derbyshire, who tried to teach me philosophy many years ago. Despite that, I bear him no grudge, and oddly had encountered a few articles with his name attached to them very recently too (hadn't got around to checking it was the same bloke, of course, but sometimes chance does the job for you. But, alas, only sometimes).

The Daily Routines (or, possibly, lack thereof) of artists, writers, and other people prone to occasionally doing something interesting (and John Grisham). WARNING: may depress or reassure, depending on the person and the day. Or in the case of Flaubert, both; somehow.

A maker of wonderfully whimsical comics; and her friend's very accurate and amusing parody. Oh, and another online comics site anthology 2.0 thing (it has lots of comics, and is a bit 2.0-ish, or something).

Lego. Lots of lego.

Anyway, enough. I have things to be getting around to.

A vague announcement

2009-01-07T19:42:00.007Z

I wonder if I can get away with saying the month-long pause was a tribute to the memory of Harold Pinter?

No, didn't think so. After all, at least three weeks of it weren't even posthumous (mmm, humous....)

Er, anyway, what I actually came here to say was that I might not be here much in future. I've got a bit bored of it all and am probably heading elsewhere. Not to the 140-character land of Twittering, mind; I just fancy a bit of a flight from reality for a while - not sure quite what that'll consist of yet, but more than likely it will take place aboard a blog.

More details as and when...

[strokes beard mysteriously]

[owner of beard glares and goes to sit somewhere else]

Untilted

2008-12-05T00:56:00.012Z

In the background: feet. In the foreground: a block - it is mine. In the middleground: stuff - it gets everywhere; somewhere, there is always stuff.

Now you know the landscape let us begin.

I have been approaching the block from many angles lately. (But the feet aren't mine. They aren't anyone's, they're just feet). The most oblique angle I have tried is 176°. Or perhaps I'm being obtuse? Yes, I am. Though not quite as obtuse as I might be. Beside the block is a hole - it is a block hole. It has no purpose, it is just a poor pun. Give it some money. Even if you do, it won't go away; you'll just be encouraging it, and later you'll doubtless see it staggering around drunk and swearing. It may even try to fight you. Then you'll be sorry.

The block has words scrawled on it. Two of them are Birmingham. So are all the others. They aren't accurate. Or dirigible. They're Birmingham. Or do you need telling a third time?

As usual the feet are trying to get my attention - I can hear them jumping up and down in an agitated sort of rhythm. I can't see them, though. There's stuff in the way. They can't see me either. They're feet. Let them jump. They're meant to jump. They're also meant to run, and go away, and walk out on you, and leave. Bastards.

I wish I could ignore the block. I wish it would go away. I wish I hadn't covered it in Birminghams. I don't know what I was thinking. I really don't. I was probably thinking about Birmingham. It's all Jonathan Meades' fault. It's all Jonathan Meades' fault. It's all the fault of Jonathan Meades...

FADES OUT

[Links lead, respectively, and respectfully, to (YouTube-sized) parts 1, 2 and 3 of Jonathan Meades' wonderfully absurd docu-thingy on Birmingham - more telly should be like that. So much more].

A merciful break from the awful puns of recent days

2008-12-04T13:31:00.009Z

Anyone with any curiosity about the writing process, and TV writing in particular, could do worse than have a look at this week's Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe (or track it down on YouTube, TV Links, etc., if you're reading this in a week's time). It's always worth a look anyway, of course - unless you don't like Charlie Brooker. But for this week at least a liking of the grumpy one isn't even a pre-requisite: for 50 minutes it's all about the people being interviewed - Paul Abbott, Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain, etc.

Overall, lots of useful stuff, but most reassuring was finding out that even the likes of Tony Jordan, Graham Linehan and Russell T Davies are hopeless procrastinators/fastidious researchers (depending on your point of view/level of self-delusion) who hate writing, but love 'having written'. Paul Abbott even employs people to force him to write - which is just brilliant. Made me feel much better.

Anyway, must go. Lots of research to do, and all that...

(Wonder if the Inland Revenue might accept that my over-priced coffee consumption should count as research? Hmm...)

9:00 AM

2008-12-02T12:33:00.011Z

When I awoke this morning a note lay beside me on the pillow. It gave a phone number, and above the number a message: "Perhaps now you will reconsider my offer?" it read. Beside the note lay a seaweed strand and a seahorse's tiny severed head...

Angrily getting out of bed, I snatched them up and heading for the shower dropped them in the nearest bin - who did they think they were! So, perhaps tomorrow I shall be sleeping with the fishes? But it's the priniciple of the thing. Never will I give in to the demands of lobsters!

Shoe romance - part 2

2008-12-01T23:00:00.020Z

After the shoes have been to Relate the problem takes on a new complexion:

This couple of shoes with their differing views, 'twas inevitable
That both would fight, 'twas inevitable that both would lose

But the trouble is through now, they've promised it is. The issue's address'd
He'll stop trying to be right now, and she'll never be left

Shoe romance

2008-12-01T17:34:00.021Z

It is a harsh fact of romantic entanglements between shoes that they will always be laced with tragedy. For should even the slightest of arguments arise in paradise - and what couple is ever without its disagreements? - at argument's end, only one of the pair will have been right...

The other will always have been left.

Slogan for a T-shirt yet to be made

2008-11-30T22:44:00.002Z

FRONT: Life is pointless.
BACK: More pointing please.

Song titles (revised): #117

2008-11-30T22:42:00.001Z

Bon Jovi - You Give Love A Bad Haircut

Overheard

2008-11-30T22:41:00.002Z

A studenty girl talking about a Christmas present someone has bought for someone else:

GIRL 1: She's got him like this wartime book, for forty quid, and it's like got stuff in it.
GIRL 2: [Makes some kind of commiseratory sounding noise].

Also overheard

2008-11-30T22:40:00.000Z

Bunch of students leaving Caffé Nero, talking about what they have to do later:

GIRL: I need to bleach my hoodie.

Rejected Ad Campaigns: #123

2008-11-30T22:37:00.003Z

If cleanliness is next to Godliness, and if God is to be feared, is it any wonder that people litter?

KEEP BRITAIN TIDY. BE AN ATHEIST

A short story without a home

2008-11-18T23:25:00.025Z

I was writing earlier and didn't know quite what to do with this gloomy specimen, but as it's pretty short and also more or less a true story (to the extent that I ever remember anything correctly) I decided it may as well darken my blog...

SOMETHING HAPPENED

I once met a man with a hole in his head. We all have holes in our heads, of course, to let air in and feelings out, but this was an actual hole in his actual skull - in the ordinary run of things it shouldn't have been there.

He told me that he'd come for a meeting. I told him that he was a month early.

"But I've come all the way from Norwich!" he said, as if expecting that this would somehow collapse time.

It didn't; time was lamentably robust at that reception desk. By way of consolation I offered him a cup of tea to refresh him before he retraced his mistake.

On his return from the toilet the tea was ready; I passed him a mug, and perhaps assuming some kind of exchange was necessary, he gave me his life story. I politely tried to give it back, but he was insistent - I suppose when you've come all the way from Norwich you want to do something more than drink tea.

Happily, I forget the exact events of it now - it wasn't a terribly happy story. All I can remember today is that it included an accident and a year of painful, lonely treatments and recuperation in a specialist ward at Addenbrooke's Hospital, in Cambridge; a year that left him still not quite right, but much healthier and with a hole in his head. He pointed it out to me, or I'd have never known it was there - it wasn't even big enough to be shocking. But it was still hard not to show revulsion - the state of his scalp was terrible: great flakes of rice-papery dandruff... you could almost smell the hair just by looking at it. Maybe when you have a hole in your head, though, washing your hair is far more trouble than it's worth?

Finishing his story - the tea was long gone - he got up, sighed, and returned to Norwich. I took the mug, washed it up, and returned to my book. I was 23, and wished I didn't identify quite so strongly with the central character, a middle-aged man who is slowly coming to the realisation that he is an unwilling stranger in his own life, too tired to even wholly despair, barely even able to feel, drearily trapped inside his own head - something must have happened to cause it, he thinks, but he has no idea what. It's like a part of him is missing.

It's a good book, though, Something Happened - once you get used to the repetition. And I'm quite OK these days.

A few days later it snowed., overnight and unexpectedly. No buses ran; I could have stayed home; but I set out for work anyway, on foot. Mile upon mile of gleaming white, almost wholly untouched; the world transformed, shining, deserted - a clean slate in negative? I wasn't even sure of the way to go - but how could I not?

UPDATE: Well, with the benefit of a day's distance and some helpful comments, it's finally back to the original ending, I think - many thanks for the free editing :) I might even leave the damn thing alone now.

Oh, and if you highlight the apparently blank space above, the alternative ending's still there.

Obama: a plea for sanity

2008-11-15T22:17:00.009Z

A few moments ago, I was going through the long neglected news feeds on my Google Reader account (now there's a singularly unpromising opening line...) - the World News feed for the Guardian, to my dismay, had something like 738 unread stories on it! Yikes. How would I ever catch up with all that newsiness?

Well, 738 headlines later, it turned out I needn't have worried: nothing has happened. Absolutely nothing. There was an election somewhere (Glenrothes, or America, or some such place), but besides that the world's done nothing. Actually, that's not true, I think someone somewhere might have annoyed a bear and died, but besides that it seems the planet was too busy holding its collective breath until Obama got elected to be doing anything newsworthy. Frankly, it's a miracle the sudden collective exhalation on November 4th didn't cause a tsunami - thank goodness for Time Zones.

If I sound cynical about the whole thing, well, I'm not really. Just bored. Thoroughly bloody bored of the whole wearisome decade-long bloody election that still doesn't seem to be over even now that it is. Yes, it's lovely that America's found someone to burden with the task of living up to the unrealistic and contradictory dreams, hopes and expectations of billions worldwide - and disappointing at least half of them. And no, it couldn't have happened to a nicer person - poor guy (even if he does only have himself to blame). But does it fill me with hope?

Sort of. A bit. Maybe.

Oh, I don't know - I mean, isn't hope too precious to pin to just one thing? Especially a politician - even one who isn't George Bush, a moose hunter, or one heart attack removed from a moose hunter. Anyway, I'll certainly be leaving my hope where it is: sort of free-floating, generalised, and mostly unattached (much more difficult to lose it that way, I find, but that might just be me).

My real point, though, is that although I'm glad that by far the least Bush-like candidate won, and I really am, I can't help but be afraid that expectations of Obama have been raised so high already that he can only disappoint - whenever someone is so lionised by the media it only ever ends one way. Sure, I'd love it if that didn't happen, if he somehow didn't drown beneath the water everyone's expecting him to walk on, if he somehow managed to emerge from the economic, environmental and foreign policy minefield he's inherited without it all blowing up in his face, and if he somewhow emerged from the most potentially compromising role in the world without being compromised. But he's only human - and we're a disappointing bunch on the whole, aren't we?

But is that how the media will see it?

Just a couple of days after he'd won the race to stand beneath the biggest, most clangingly apparent sword of Damocles ever for the next four years, someone in the Guardian was already asking: Now that Obama has won, will the blogosphere turn against him?

Well, of course it will. Not just because the blogosphere isn't just one thing with one mind, it's lots of different people with vastly differing perspectives, so at least some of its denizens won't be happy (to be fair, the writer is actually talking about the Democratic blogosphere; but even there the point probably still holds). But mostly it'll turn because sooner or later he'll actually do something.

Instead of talking about change, he'll change something. Instead of saying, "Yes, we can", he actually will. And instead of saying, "Yay! Go Obama!", some of us will start saying, "Well, maybe he can, but I wish he wouldn't." In short, we'll discover what his policies actually are - and we won't like some of them.

And what will the media pick up on, what could possibly be the biggest, most newsy news story after so much hype and hope? Disillusion. The slightest hint of it and the media will remember, "Ah, we loaned a pedestal somewhere...", and send in the repo-men to take it back.

Of course, there's every chance it'll all go swimmingly (if not quite walking on water, that would still be quite an achievement), and that I'm completely wrong to even suspect that the mother of all media backlashes is waiting somewhere around the corner expectantly sharpening her disapproval. I would love nothing more than for Obama to make the world a better place. But...

There is other stuff happening. I'm sure there must be. I mean, there usually is, and sometimes it's even sort of important. And if we could hear about that instead for a while, please, that would be lovely. I mean, I get it, I really do; everyone's really excited; the world might be about to become a nicer place, and to an extent it already has. But come on, everyone's behaving as if the whole world's won the lottery. It hasn't. Not yet. It's just bought a ticket. So if we could just stop talking about the winnings - endlessly speculating, predicting and raising expectations beyond all reasonable limits - until we know what they are... well, that's just not going to happen, is it?

But hey, I can dream.... or wait, should that be dream I can? Or... (there. You see what this incessant Obama coverage is doing to me? And now I've just added it to it... Gah!).

Bill's got a blog!

2008-10-10T00:00:00.004+01:00

Yep, that Bill. He of the beard, the infectious enthusiasm and a thousand photocopies. Bill Greenwell.

These days it seems he can be found thinking out loud in here - doubtless much more conducive to the task than those strangely impermanent windowless rooms up at Tremough...

[sighs wistfully, and gets all nostalgic for the MA days...]

My Winnipeg

2008-10-08T22:46:00.007+01:00

The unconscious of a filmmaker. The unconscious of a city. Merged in a fever-dream.

That's my best attempt at summing up My Winnipeg, the film I saw at The Poly this evening. The poster calls it a 'docu-fantasia'. Either way (and both ways), it's definitely the only film I've ever seen that credited a 'Tapioca Wrangler'. A detail that at once seems utterly relevant, utterly misleading, and as distinctive as the film itself.

Film contains: snow; sleepwalking; Surrealism; attempted leaving; hilarious short experiments in family psychodrama; psychogeography; critical nostalgia; brilliance; and as much to inspire and haunt the memory as you'll find in many a good book (it's brilliantly filmic, but at the same time you can't help thinking about the best experimental literature).

The highlight: rediscovering that feeling of being in a cinema and - for a whole movie - having absolutely no idea at all what's coming next - it was like spending 80 minutes in the company of a long-lost friend (there was even that initial awkwardness - in other words, if the opening ten minutes or so seem hard going, they're more than worth it).

If only it hadn't been the last showing - I kept getting distracted by short story ideas...

Trailer time:

Paul Ross loses title of 'Worst Presenter Called Ross'

2008-09-27T20:20:00.014+01:00

Should anyone have thought Alan Partridge was fiction:

[Courtesy of The Guardian]

Radio awards and MBEs must have been very easy to come by, once upon a time...

Random ponderance

2008-09-16T22:10:00.009+01:00

If prose flows
Shouldn't a poem
Rhy-em?

News from the world of copywriting:

In March, I made up a quote for someone as part of an article (I was asked to; he was important and didn't have time to make up quotes of his own). I wondered if it had been a good quote. Today, I was reading background materials for another article I've been asked to write, and there he was again, not saying exactly the same thing.

How many times has he not said this, I wondered? Probably every day of his life, and yet to my knowledge it has only been reported twice. I was comforted; I can stop worrying. He's evidently not as important as I thought.

Walking news:

When overtaking a line of elderly people walking slowly with sticks you don't expect one of them to blindly attempt an overtaking maneuvre of her own just as you draw level - or at all, quite frankly (apart from the blind part, possibly). That very nearly ended in disaster.

But tell me, which of us was the fool to be in such a hurry?

(Yes, her. Obviously. This isn't an American sitcom with a neat moral at the end).

No old people were hurt in the making of this blog post. Just mildly startled.

Yet another thing overheard*

2008-09-12T02:14:00.003+01:00

On the way back from looking at the Tall Ships, Falmouth Docks, Wednesday:

WOMAN: Oh no, you'd be amazed at what you can get into these wellingtons.

*I guess my hearing must have improved.

Another thing overheard

2008-09-03T21:22:00.004+01:00

Walking down the main street, Falmouth, this afternoon:

SMALL BOY: Indiana Jones hates me.

Things recently overheard

2008-08-25T23:25:00.004+01:00

INT. TESCO.

Small child: (VERY LOUDLY AND VERY INDIGNANTLY) I am NOT making any NOISE!

INT. COSTA COFFEE. TWO BOYS ARE PLAYING ON A SOFA BEHIND THEIR PARENTS' BACKS; THE PARENTS ARE TALKING TO ANOTHER COUPLE:

Father: (WITHOUT EVEN TURNING TO LOOK) Whatever you're doing, stop it.

At least, I think it was only three...

2008-08-23T19:51:00.012+01:00

An intelligence test for people with two mobile phones:

Step 1. Use Phone A to call Phone B (perhaps, to test that you haven't broken it), then promptly forget all about this.

Step 2. Some hours later, discover a missed call on Phone B and try to return it.

Step 3. If Phone A should happen to ring while you're trying to do this, mutter in irritation, hang up, and try to answer it. If whoever was phoning has rung off try to call them back.

Repeat steps 2 and 3, getting ever more exasperated, for as many times as it takes you to suddenly feel very, very foolish indeed.

Scores:

1 repetition = Intelligent enough, though perhaps slightly more than averagely forgetful.
2 repetitions = Consider whether your ambitions in life might not be realistic after all. Or better still, ask someone more intelligent to do it for you.
3 repetitions = Try to laugh off your own alarming mental deterioration in the form of a dimly humourous blog post.

Things that get on my nerves

2008-08-22T22:27:00.027+01:00

No. 12,207: Tea-towels that merely re-distribute the moisture. Almost as pointless as those competitive walking events at the Olympics.

Incidentally, by the way... what collection of twisted and dangerous individuals thought, "Yes, that's a sane and reasonable idea, let's hand out medals every four years to the three people in the world who can run least slowly while appearing to walk"? It's the sporting equivalent of the moonwalk. Or Olympic ventriloquism.

In 2012, therefore, I want to see competitors wearing a white glove on one hand and punctuating their bizarre waddles with frequent high-pitched yelps and groin grabs. And time penalties for any yelps that don't appear to have come from the creepy puppet on the end of their other hand; or if a judge spots their lips moving.

I mean, it's not as if that would look an awful lot madder than it does already...

No. 12,209: The number 12,208. No reason, and by tomorrow I'm sure it'll have passed.

No. 12,210: Competitive walking, apparently.

UPDATE: A little something for anyone unfamiliar with the walking race (note the commentator's telling Freudian slip at about -1:10):

Perez wins men's walk by nearly a minute @ Yahoo! Video

Apparently, even the home of Takeshi's Castle finds speed-walking a bit mad:

Apparently it can

2008-08-21T11:01:00.010+01:00

Tourists (presumably) on the decking outside Costa Coffee, Market Street, Falmouth, 18/8/08.

What's not clear from the photo is that it was raining fairly heavily. They stayed out there for ages...

And they weren't even smokers (not even the kids).

It can't rain all the time...

2008-08-12T02:30:00.008+01:00

A little something by Jane Siberry, optimistically dedicated to the Cornish summer:

Discover Jane Siberry!

Also known as "that song from The Crow soundtrack" (for that matter, Jane Siberry herself is also known as Issa, these days), it's kind of a slow-burner... but if you like spacy, ethereal, and sort of gradually transcendent it's defintely worth a listen.

Pragmatic job adverts

2008-08-05T22:29:00.007+01:00

I like to imagine they unsuccessfully advertised for the careful kind, then lowered their expectations:

Casual Art Handling Technicians

£11.85 per hour - Tate St Ives, Cornwall

Original advert here (well, you never know, there might be someone clumsy enough reading this...).

Past glories

2008-08-03T23:16:00.005+01:00

Remember when I tried imagining Radio 4 programmes plus or minus a letter? I was listening to the radio earlier (just for a change) and couldn't believe I missed this one:

Whatever you do, don't make them angry - Cross Incontinents

An unfortunate conjunction

2008-07-17T01:32:00.011+01:00

As I write, the top of Times Online's today's Most Read stories tab reads thus:

I had sex with my brother, but I don't feel guilty
Top 50 'wish you'd been there' moments

Truthkickers

2008-07-16T23:03:00.015+01:00

BBC 1 recently launched a new drama series called Bonekickers. As far as I can be arsed to establish, it's basically a cross between Time Team and that time-travely ITV thing with the dinosaurs, except without the time travel bit, or the dinosaurs. So, erm, just think archaeologists talking urgently and rushing about a bit, really... In Bath.

Anyway, here's the pay-off line from a Radio 7 trailer for Episode 2:

"Bonekickers: the search for the truth is beneath us."

Nope. I was wrong. They probably don't rush around at all. They must just sit there looking conspicuously bored and sighing occasionally:

INT. SUMPTUOUSLY APPOINTED ACADEMIC LOUNGE

ARCHAEOLOGIST 1: Oh, there must be higher ideals for us to pursue, don't you think, Jenkins?

ARCHAEOLOGIST 2: I know. Truth's just so passé (SIGH).

ARCHAEOLOGIST 1: Yes. Old hat.

ARCHAEOLOGIST 2: Bullwhip.

ARCHAEOLOGIST 1: What?

ARCHAEOLOGIST 2: Aren't we naming bits of Indiana Jones again?

ARCHAEOLOGIST 1: No. (PAUSE) And we never shall. Not after that stupid plot twist with the aliens...

One of my occasional music posts

2008-07-07T23:24:00.015+01:00

First things first, the following is brilliant and should be downloaded immediately:

Johan Heltne - Hjärta. Instinkt. Principer. [courtesy of It's A Trap! Scandinavian Music Journal]

If you haven't done that already- and let's face it, why should you have done - I guess I should probably try to explain what's so brilliant about it. Which is a bloody nuisance, quite frankly... but anyway, re being brilliant, it just is - in a Swedish chamber-pop, Andrew Bird mixed with Joseph Arthur and lots of lovely strings and plinky things kind of a way. If it were a person he/she would put you at ease immediately with his/her gentle warmth, openness, enthusiasm and charm, inspire you, make you look at things anew, then unexpectedly and wisely leave before all that became, frankly, just a little bit wearisome - whether you might see him/her again, you'll have no idea but, in a way, that won't even matter, they made you feel good for a while and you'll settle for that; that's better than most chance encounters go.

Of course, this is where music has the advantage over people, you can press play again and bask in that feeling as many times as you like. Ha, beat that 'people'!

Erm, anyway, there are three more free tracks to download on his website, plus an album to buy here (or at iTunes), and the inevitable MySpace page. He's with a different set of musicians on each track, apparently, so don't expect them all to be like that one. But do expect them all to be excellent, especially Din alkoholism är ingen alkoholism - a walk along a breezy, deserted beach in late-October, just as dusk's falling, except in song form. Wonderful.

In other news: some naughty techie types have worked out how to download any song from MySpace. The tracks you'll get are only 96kbps bit rate, but you could always just buy them instead, couldn't you? Except when you actually can't, because they're unavailable as far as you can tell, which is when that link really does come in handy.

He mostly just wimbled on about his book, really...

2008-07-02T23:59:00.011+01:00

On Radio 5, for the last couple of weeks, Simon Mayo's afternoon programme has been coming live from Wimbledon, so there haven't been too many Daily Mayo podcasts. Evidently rain stopped play today, though, so Julian Clary popped in for an interview.

Wherever Julian Clary is involved the possibility of innuendo is so great that you become sort of hyper-alert to ambiguous turns of phrase. In other words, I'm not sure whether Mayo served up these feedlines deliberately - the delivery was entirely deadpan - but here they are:

Referring to the probable outcome of Federer vs Ancic:

"I suspect Roger's just going to think 'I'm going to get this over with and blow him off the court.'"

[You can almost hear the late, great Humphrey Lyttleton saying that first line on I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue, can't you? Followed by a pause and "Well, he wouldn't want to do that on court - you can get arrested for that sort of thing."]

About 30 seconds later, discussing match winning celebrations:

"Do you like the Andy Murray style - when he was so pumped up the other day after the five set match and he was yelling and shouting and waving his fists around, and he showed everybody the size of his... [LONG PREGNANT PAUSE] biceps?"

Amazingly, both those serves went unreturned. Must have been distracted by the claustrophobia he kept moaning about, I suppose.*

IN OTHER NEWS: I have become addicted to olives. Especially the huge green Spanish Gordal olives sold by Provedore - pigeon egg-sized and just bursting with umami... Yum :)

Hmm, I don't think I've ever developed a healthy addiction before...

*Apparently, he was finding the studio/commentary box thingy somewhat cramped, but he could cope so long as they kept the door open.

I'm not the only one

2008-06-21T00:05:00.000+01:00

Ye gads! I appear to have been published!

Well, just a little bit.

But still, woo-hoo! I didn't really expect that at all. Obviously, you must all go to the relevant site and order a copy RIGHT NOW - after all, a daddy-long-legs died in the cause of this book.

(Erm, and proceeds go to War Child - £6 from each book bought, or £10 from every copy downloaded. Which, of course, is the real reason you should buy it. Just to be clear.

Oh, and well done to SJ Peach and the editing team!).

Saturday in Falmouth

2008-06-12T22:32:00.046+01:00

The Moor. Saturday. People with large knitting needles were knitting with shredded carrier bags.

One of the people had knitted a chair.

Someone else had knitted a woman.

Whether she really wanted to be unravelled, or to hear the complete works of Bob Dylan being played by a succession of tag-teaming buskers behind her, I'm not sure.

She didn't say anything.

Or move.

Here are the knitters, making single bags out of many bags (I thought it probably better not to point this out).

As I joined the main street (really two streets - Market Street and Church Street) roars could be heard. Also: seagulls, insects, and exotic birds; perhaps an elephant. Being sounds, I was unable to photograph them.

Other corroborating evidence of their existence was also lacking: my fellow shoppers and idle wanderers seemed to be ignoring the unfamiliar soundscape.

First the knitters, now this. Troubling.

Yet pleasingly disorientating. Like being in one place but with the soundtrack to another.

Some say Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon is a perfect alternative soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz. But this wasn't like that. The bricks weren't yellow. And none of the short people were singing.

A few minutes later, I was in the middle of sending a text message when a pink Cadillac drove past, down the non-yellow brick road. It contained three people in 50s regalia, and for a brief few moments Rock 'n' Roll could be heard mingling with the seagulls, the lions and the elephants, and the silence of short people.

The car was gone before I could photograph it.

By now I was at The Poly. An exhibition by the Wooden Hand Collective looked interesting. I decided to wander in.

In a kitchen, hiding from the Box Office people who wanted a cut of everything sold, I bought a card. It was Mandrake 5 by Tarkus Blackmore - he has no net presence so I can't link to it. You'll just have to take my word that this happened.

It occurs to me now that I don't really remember there being a kitchen in that gallery before... But never mind. There probably isn't. It was probably just some room with lots of kitcheny things in. This of course would also be quite an accurate description of a kitchen.

Again, never mind.

Leaving the possibly non-existent kitchen, and then the rather more definitely existent gallery, I was pointed towards an upstairs gallery by a sign proclaiming "Live Art." Had I been looking at dead art? It certainly hadn't moved. Or perhaps if I ventured upstairs I would have the chance to live art? I wasn't sure if I'd done that before (I had definitely drawn things sometimes, and had presumably been alive at the time, but I figured that this probably didn't count as art).

Intrigued, I soon found myself trying to open a locked door.

There was no mystery; I simply had the wrong room. In the correct room, the walls were adorned with sheets of A4 paper printed with people's memories of cars beneath different shades of car paint. I decided the work lacked balance. Where were the cars' memories of people? Maybe the printer cartridge ran out.

In a corner, was a monitor. It was showing someone's feet.

Next to it, on a windowsill were scattered what appeared to be progammes of events. Indeed, this was exactly what they proved to resemble - perhaps representational art was not dead, after all? Further observation revealed the evident trouble someone had gone to: programme dates and times had been made to match with this exact weekend, and like a mirror held up to a mirror, reflecting on into infinity, this work itself even listed the exhibits I was stood amongst at that very moment.

Someone had dreamed up countless other events for it to list too.

I had to have one!

Possibly disturbing the artfully random arrangement, I quickly slipped one into my bag and left. No-one noticed.

No-one else was there.

Supposing that perhaps other events listed might exist too, I followed a helpfully included map and soon found myself watching two girls in overalls feeding each other jelly and ice cream with long spoons. A cassette player tried in vain to convince me that I was at a children's party, rather than in a white room amongst mostly non-children, mostly looking serious.

Once the girls had stopped, the serious looking people began to applaud. I wasn't quite sure why. Hadn't the girls failed in their task? Look how much food was still uneaten:

And the ice cream had melted.

I suppose it was kind of a hot day, though.

Downstairs another monitor was showing feet.

I went back upstairs. In an empty room a bicycle orchestra had failed to turn up. In another empty room a woman told me that there was nothing to see there. I didn't point out the empty room to her. Or that she was in it. In still another room someone was making fruit cocktails - they weren't for me. I tried another door.

In the dark, on a projector screen, some kind of meat construction was squirting milk and roaring in slow motion. Hoping it wouldn't do this for too long, I sat down and watched.

After this, feet were shown. They looked cold. This time they were in the rain.

In a series of fixed camera shots: a toddler could be seen doing undignified things to a cat, a small dog patiently and lengthily standing on two legs was ignored by people watching Eastenders, and two cats fought while another five ignored them. Eventually, a dog knocked the camera over.

Another fixed camera shot showed us a post-smoking ban game of drive-in Bingo. In Ireland, in smoke-filled cars unsociable people sat listening to numbers. A horn sounded. Someone had won. I wasn't sure who.

Next, we saw an artist showing his father his work (stick around until 00:34, or fast forward to it if you're squeamish).

Last, the feet again. And two hands pretending to be feet. I left.

Atop feet; smallish but real.

Apparently, feet are inescapable. Especially your own. No matter how fast you run. There's probably a message in that somewhere...

Either that, or an elaborate defence for foot fetishists.

[Something resembling an explanation. Oh, and the sounds of the Serengeti were being played from speakers in the windows of flats above the shops].

Hamster In A Coma

2008-05-22T20:38:00.026+01:00

Google suggests that this, apparently, wasn't one of the tabloid headlines when Richard Hammond was in that car crash a couple of years ago, even if I do seem to remember things entirely differently... Anyway, I'm not really sure why I happened to think about that, but it did lead me to wondering about this:

What other Morrissey or Smiths song titles might benefit from the inclusion of one or more fluffy rodents?

Here are my suggestions (plus, possible themes and subject matter; oh, and a couple of non-rodents):

There Is A Gerbil That Never Goes Out - highlighting the serious issue of rodent agoraphobia.

Squirrel, Squirrel, Down We Go Together - Morrissey entreats a reluctant squirrel to join him on a slide.

Death Of A Disco Dormouse - a cautionary tale about resisting the lure of the bright lights.

We Hate It When Our Ferrets Become Successful - elegy to bitter Music Hall acts whose animal partners struck out on their own.

I Keep Mice Hidden - Morrissey confesses to having frequently ended games of Hide & Seek without telling anyone.

That Vole Isn't Funny Anymore - somewhat blunt lament to a rodent's squandered comic talent.

Big Mouse Strikes Again - Thatcher-era nonsense about Mickey joining a trade union.

You're The One For Me, Ratty - Morrissey makes plain his feelings; to the disappointment of Mole, Badger, and Mr Toad.

Vicar In A Coypu - the less said, the better (to quote the Catholic Church).

Pretty Girls Make Cavies - Morrissey finally explains his misgivings about heterosexual entanglements (see also, Some Girls Are Bigger Than Otters).

Have-A-Go Marmot - anthem to a vigilante ground squirrel.

Suffer Little Chinchilla - decidedly upsetting ballad, in which it becomes clear that Morrissey wasn't always so deeply committed to animal rights (see also, Marmot On The Guillotine).

This Lemming Man - protest song, in which Morrissey parodies the migratory urges of others while blithely ignoring his own domiciliary arrangements.

Squirrel Loves Me - following initial reticence, something beautiful unexpectedly blossoms at the foot of a playground slide.

More songs listed here, should anyone else fancy joining in...

Today's news

2008-05-20T20:08:00.006+01:00

Apparently, we can no longer call people* cults in public. Yes, I said cults. Which does make me wonder if The Guardian might be next to receive a summons from City Of London police:

"Actor Will Smith is funding his own private school that will teach youngsters using an educational system devised in part by the Scientology cult."

After all, how much more public can you get than a newspaper?

OK, I know, a newspaper article probably doesn't exactly fall under the Public Order Act, but doesn't that, in some roundabout way, just show how ridiculous the whole summons was?

Bunch of...

Erm, anyway, here's a village that wants to change its name.

*or perhaps just Scientologists?

Are you starting?

2008-05-15T12:16:00.005+01:00

US declares polar bears threatened - today's Guardian.

Was it just me who read that headline and immediately started wondering about an Axis of Furriness?

A precursor to insomnia, probably

2008-05-09T23:48:00.006+01:00

Sometimes, I really wish the world would just stop and let me catch up. All things considered, I'm sure I must be at least a few revolutions behind.

Or are there revolutions these days? All I seem to experience are blurs, between one thing and another. What happens in between, I'm not quite sure - I'd venture to suggest 'stuff', but that sounds overly specific. And I'm not even sure that anything does happen in between, since by the end of a blur I seem to find that all sorts of things have instead failed to happen and I'm wishing the world would just stop and let me catch up.

Damn. That must be what's happened again. That's usually what marks the end of a blur; and the beginning of the next.

Sometimes, though, it isn't suddenly noticing that the steady accretion of things gone un-done has become too large to be comfortably ignored (no matter how hard you try). Sometimes it's noticing that some potentially significant thing you actually have done (often inadvertently, since why would anyone do anything significant on purpose? You'd only be creating trouble for yourself) has reached un-ignorable levels of significance. I think that might have happened too.

A dual blur, then. The metaphysical equivalent of a double booking, minus anyone who might apologise.

Hmph.

I hate dual blurs.

Bluebeard, and other sights from St Mawes

2008-05-07T01:46:00.010+01:00

Bluebeard - St Mawes quay, 1/5/2008.

As I look at this, I like to imagine all the little boats hanging from the harbour wall, after someone's pulled out the plug... - St Mawes quay, 1/5/2008.

A polite (and precisely punctuated) warning - car park wall, St Mawes quay, 1/5/2008.

I had no idea hairdressers could be state registered. There's even a Hair Council, apparently - St Mawes, 1/5/2008.

Crouching photographer, hidden swastika - fencework outside a house on Marine Parade, St Mawes, 1/5/2008

St Maudit's well - off Bohella Road, St Mawes, 1/5/2008

My parents were in Falmouth last week, so I was forced to eat lots of nice food, stop for both morning and afternoon coffee almost every day, and wander around such places as St Mawes and the Eden Project. Somehow I survived to bring you this record of my torments.

Eden Project photos to follow, when they're all sorted and the right way up.

Guardian steps up recycling campaign

2008-04-27T01:49:00.001+01:00

Lazy journalism? Or is the news just hopelessly cyclical? Click on these two stories - written just over a year apart - and judge for yourself:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2007/feb/28/health.society
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2008/apr/16/medicalresearch

Also: 'may increase the risk of death'? Erm... how exactly? Isn't death already a certainty?

Tales of ordinary madness

2008-04-24T23:33:00.007+01:00

Overheard this afternoon in Costa:

"Sue? Who the Hell's Sue?" A pause. "Oh, you mean complete nutter Sue? The failed psychopath."

A while later:

"No, I lost my duck."

News that cannot end well:

Not content with bringing us the Maennergarten, and the automated waiterless restaurant, Germany is now also home to the world's first drop-in advice centre for stalkers.

I think the idea's to help them stop, rather than offering hints and tips, but still, you wouldn't want to work there. Imagine it:

"You've stopped stalking your ex? That's wonderful, Dieter. When did this happen?"

"Well, you remember that car that was outside your house all night..."

Falmouth pride

2008-04-24T00:29:00.009+01:00

Prince of Wales Pier, Falmouth, 10/4/08.

There was a silver prince too, but some old bloke was sitting in front of it. I suppose he didn't have silver grey hair, though, or I probably would have taken a photo.

UPDATE: Apparently, Jim Davis has heard about Garfield Minus Garfield, and he likes it.

Stuck indoors on a nice day

2008-04-23T21:46:00.005+01:00

New Street, Falmouth, yesterday.

After reading this post, I thought at least one of my readers might appreciate this one today. Get well soon, Taiga :)

UPDATE ON THE TESCOPOLY POST: There were a couple more articles in today's Guardian about the Thais being sued by Tesco. One of them's visiting London at the moment and gave an interview. The other piece is just a short overview of the situation.

Tescopoly

2008-04-19T20:15:00.031+01:00

Tesco Express, Events Square, Falmouth, 23/3/08

Recently, I've been seeing quite a lot about Tesco in the news. In Thailand, for instance, it's suing a couple of journalists and a former Thai MP; basically, just for being a little bit critical, really. Either that, or because Tesco's feelings got hurt: "Ha! Tesco doesn't love Thais,"* said one of the journalists, not entirely seriously; the ex-MP seems to have made the mistake of calling Tesco "aggressive" (or its expansion plans, at least) and getting a figure wrong. He admitted that he'd got the figure wrong, but apparently that didn't help.

But besides suing Thais, Tesco also appears to be: trying to topple iTunes, launching its own degree programme, making tentative attempts at taking over America, and recording record profits (£2.8bn last year). Oh, and they're suing the Guardian too (something or other to do with tax avoidance; I couldn't really be bothered to read it). Quite a list...

All of which leads me to two conclusions:

- Despite the ominous catch-all vagueness of the closing threat, Mr Restall probably got off quite lightly.

- It might be time to post a YouTube clip on here again...

Can't think why, but for some reason, that one just seemed kind of apposite.

IN OTHER NEWS:

Sentence of the week:

"I got a lump in my throat when they were old enough to pick up the chainsaw." The Guardian's Weekend magazine.

*If Tesco is suing over this remark (and it is), surely that means that its management believes a corporation has, um, actual human emotions? Hmm...

Used pumpkin sale

2008-04-18T23:59:00.002+01:00

Bottom of Old Hill, on the way to Penryn, 4/5/07

More stuff to come at the weekend. But for now, I just happened to remember this old photo.

Rooting around

2008-04-13T20:31:00.015+01:00

Some while ago I wrote a post on here promising to do various things on this blog, such as posting more often, reviving my old blog, and writing monthly updates about how my attempt at a writing career is going. Hmm, actually, I think those things were pretty much the extent of what I promised... Anyway, I haven't quite fulfilled any of those, apart from blogging more often. And, oddly, my blog soon thereafter turned from mostly words into mostly pictures - hmm...

So, anyway, it's probably about time for one of those writing career updates.

The idea, if you recall, was that if I'd promised to report regularly on the progress of said career, I might be forced to have some progress to report. Except, well, that incentive rather rapidly, and happily, became redundant. So, erm, I guess I won't be doing that, after all.

In other words, I'm now freelance copywriting just often enough to live on. Woo hoo! Especially as it doesn't take up loads of time, either - hence the unexpected beginnings of a photography habit, probably - and should leave me plenty of time for writing fiction... Er, should I ever get around to it, obviously [sigh]...

Which reminds me, if there's still anyone reading this who doesn't know about the fate of the sitcom I had pitched to Radio 4:

- They liked the writing

BUT:

- Too many things set in workplaces had been commissioned lately (very true; possibly should have though about that...).
- They weren't sure the idea could sustain a whole series (well, I thought one series, at least. But admittedly I hadn't got much in the way of ideas for anything beyond that, so, um, fair enough probably).

Still, on the bright side:

- I should rework it for the Afternoon Play slot, they said, and get it pitched again.

Er, I haven't really got around to that, though... And I'd had enough of the idea, for the time being, to be honest... But still, I'm just about to send the first ten pages of it off to this thing, so who knows, it might get me somewhere...

Oh, and one last thing:

Part of the copywriting work entails regular blogging elsewhere. So, if you're ever fed up of my pictures and fancy being fed up of my words instead, head on over to The Root of the Matter (it's the blog of the copywriting company I'm working for).

Still, someone else's words are there too, sometimes. So don't worry, it won't all be bad.

Self portrait in blue

2008-04-13T17:14:00.007+01:00

The sea, Falmouth Harbour, by Events Square, 3/4/08.

Actually, I wasn't at all Disappointed In The Sun that day, but that was the song that sprang to mind while looking down at an underwater shadow self. Seemed like it would have been the perfect accompaniment:

Under the sea is where I'll be
No talking 'bout the rain no more
I wonder what thunder will mean, when only in my dream
The lightning comes before the roar

The song (that's a download up there, by the way) is by a Belgian band called dEUS, from their deeply odd and deeply wonderful second album, In a Bar Under the Sea (utterly, utterly recommended - if nothing else, try Little Arithmetics. As are the more accessible first album, Worst Case Scenario, and the near perfect The Ideal Crash). Oh, and here's their MySpace, too.

A comment on graffiti removal, perhaps?

2008-04-10T10:59:00.007+01:00

Bus stop, near Gyllyngvase Beach, Spernen Wyn Road, Falmouth, 8/4/08.

I quite like this bit of graffiti. Sure, it's a cliché, but even clichés can be meaningful in the right context. Here, for instance, it's just not what you'd normally expect, either from graffiti, or the side of a bus shelter. Usually, there'd just be some advert calling upon you to think nothing more reflective than "Must consume", "Run Fat Boy Run," or "Jordan's written a children's book about ponies? Well, I'm sure that'll be marvellous. And doesn't at all make me despair for the future of the human race."

Sheds of Falmouth

2008-04-06T15:24:00.009+01:00

A shed - Events Square, Falmouth, 3/4/08

Some more sheds - Events Square, Falmouth, 1/4/08

Some bigger sheds - beside Events Square, Falmouth, 3/4/08

The bigger sheds' prisoner - Events Square, Falmouth, 3/4/08

Gulls Lane

2008-04-02T20:52:00.011+01:00

Outside wall of the yard outside the Trago Mills warehouse, Hulls Lane, Falmouth, yesterday.

In case you can't read the last word, it says "Get your seagulls in ure." I think 'ure' is local dialect for 'here', but I'm only half-Cornish, so that might be only half right...

UPDATE: Yep, seems I might well have been wrong. My fully-Cornish father, in fully-Cornish fashion, thinks Devon is probably to blame.

Liberal Democrats in 'making the news' shock

2008-04-02T19:56:00.006+01:00

"No more than 30... A lot less than that," really doesn't mean: 'as many as 30' - I mean, 1, or 2, for instance, would be a lot less than 30. Of course, if you're a newspaper or TV station in search of a headline...

And they say politicians spin things.

Anyway, whether or not how many people Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg pretty much didn't admit to having slept with (while single) is actually news, hats off to the Guardian picture editor who found this photo to illustrate the (non)story. Genius. Should anyone happen to click on it, by the way, the filename was the Guardian's*:

*It's a bastion of political correctness, is the Graun.

Hulls angel

2008-04-01T22:39:00.013+01:00

Hulls Cottage, Hulls Lane, Falmouth, this afternoon.

Yes, I know, that pun was unforgivable. But the next time Fal Falafel's open I'll be going to Hell anyway.

Sugar, sir, or eternal torment?

2008-03-30T19:55:00.009+01:00

Fal Falafel (take-away van), The Moor, Falmouth, 20/3/08.

I haven't got around to asking them what exactly 'Hell' might be yet - anyone else know? Of course, maybe it's something different for everyone...

I suppose I'll have to start actually writing stuff again, at this rate...

2008-03-20T00:08:00.016Z

I once - in the process of sighing and muttering "Good grief!" - came to an abrupt realisation that much of my adult personality might be directly attributable to having read too much Peanuts as a child. After a moment's reflection, the rest, I decided, could probably be blamed upon Garfield. What the following says about me, then, I dread to think.

By way of Taiga's blogroll, I present to you the wonderfully bleak, Beckettian genius of Garfield Minus Garfield:

It really is much better without him, isn't it?

Oh, and if anyone came here hoping for quirky photos, sorry, no new ones here today, but I'm sure Taiga can oblige again: there's many, many a gem to be found within her Flickr account, quirky and otherwise. And I'd have said that even if she hadn't linked to me the other day :)

Seriously, they're great.

Now, be off with you - I have lasagna to eat. And a kitten to mail to Abu Dhabi...

And for fresh...?

2008-03-15T20:23:00.013Z

The Moor, Falmouth, this afternoon.

Mary, mary, quite quite scary,
How does your garden grow?

We all live near a yellow submarine

2008-03-12T14:41:00.012Z

For those who don't know, Falmouth is nextdoor to a smaller town called Penryn. I was slightly early for a meeting there this morning, so took a little wander down Commercial Road:

"Penryn? Arr, thar be dragons, lad. Thar be dragons... Erm, if you look carefully."

Actually, if you look carefully at one of these photos, you might see me somewhere, too.

More photos of something semi-hidden...

2008-03-09T22:20:00.014Z

Harbour Commissioners Office, Arwenack Street, Falmouth, this morning.

I can't quite get my head around this one. A teddy-bear and a photo of two small children, left in a public place, would tend to have me imagining that something tragic is being marked here, but... well, I just don't know at all - where are all the flowers and the notes, and the names and the cards and the notices? And why is the bear all but hidden behind the column?

It's a very private public memorial...

Actually, I can't help thinking that it might be something like that. That perhaps whoever left it wants only the comfort of knowing it's there.

I don't know.

And I don't know, either, whether these photos should be here.

When I first saw the bear I thought it was just something odd to photograph. Now I'm not so sure that it isn't in fact the kind of sad quiet determined gesture that can make you feel that humanity's not such a sorry, undignified mess to be in after all.

Actually, they probably should be on here, then.

Heads in the cloud

2008-03-06T00:25:00.007Z

Woolworths, Market Street, Falmouth, 5th March 2008.

Funny what happens when you stand in the middle of a street taking photos of something in the sky. Apparently at least four people had never noticed the faces before. A local couple even stopped and talked with me for a while. They hadn't a clue how the faces got there either, but she used to work in Boots when the pay was 20p per hour and you weren't supposed to work anywhere else. She did, though, she said. I forget how that came up.

Before...

2008-03-02T20:42:00.020Z

Opposite University College Falmouth's Woodlane campus, 21st June 2007. In case the sign's not quite clear, here's the text:

I do beg your pardon,
I am a guerilla garden.
Please do not mow,
I am trying to grow.

And after...

Same location, 3rd September 2007.

UPDATE: A garden-loving fox found this. Thanks, Taiga :) Apparently, the Falmouth Guerilla Gardeners had a blog.

For more info and links on Guerilla Gardening, here's the Wikipedia page. I'm quite liking the idea of moss graffiti; more of which, here, here, but not here or here (they're both great, though, much like that Little People blog).

Don't ask me...

2008-02-29T18:42:00.008Z

I hadn't really intended to start photo-blogging, but sometimes things just present themselves...

Outside Tesco Express, this afternoon, The Moor, Falmouth.

Love hurts

2008-02-28T20:19:00.017Z

Seen today, in Falmouth; right at the end of a low shelf, kind of keeping out of the way. Still a bit tentative about risking rejection again, I suppose.

I forget the name of the shop, but it's the gifty one on the left as you enter St George's Arcade.

Tomorrow is Today

2008-02-23T15:48:00.023Z

By the time tomorrow comes it is always today. And seeing as it currently appears to be today, the musicy blog post that I promised 'tomorrow' shall now follow.

Actually, it'll follow after this booky bit. My real excuse for the post not appearing on Thursday was that I spent much of the day proof-reading (not much fun, but agreeably well paid) and then went out (rather more fun, though less well paid). The next day, I didn't much fancy staring at a computer screen - I wandered, I drank coffee, I read. Admittedly, some of what I read was on the computer, but mostly it was Alasdair Gray's The Ends of Our Tethers.

Of his other books, I've only read Unlikely Stories, Mostly, another, though much longer, short stories collection; near unreadable for one large chunk, but beautifully designed, laid-out and illustrated, and in the main imaginative, playful, funny, somehow just a little off-kilter.

The unreadable chunk even seemed quite forgiveable: there was a spirit of experimentation - typographical and otherwise - about it; and it seemed wholly in-keeping with the book and the personality of the writer that some bits might fail and some succeed brilliantly.

You see, there's a sort of unapologetically shambolic and erratic but brilliant spirit that runs through Gray's writing (what I've seen of it), and I assume through him. I kind of like that, and if his experiments sometimes don't quite work out... well, a) it's not like you had no warning, and b) trying something and failing is another story in itself, regardless of the events of the actual narrative itself. I'd much rather read someone with ambition and imagination trying and failing, than someone competently and deliberately keeping within their own disappointing little box, not even occasionally bumping up against its sides, or testing their own limits. That's what being dead's for.

As for The Ends of Our Tethers; overall, I'd say it was a short and irascibly enjoyable read.

Granted, the first story - barely the faintest ring of truth about it, but at least short (read, slight) and a little bit whimsical - set the bar very low for those that followed, and while limbo-dancing beneath it might have been the greater challenge, happily, the remaining twelve cleared it pretty comfortably.

Yes, you couldn't help feeling there was a sense of laziness, and cobbling together about it all: a couple of short shorts being little more than anecdotes of friends; an account of going on an anti-war march that was journalism rather than fiction; even the book itself was less fulsomely illustrated and much more conventionally laid out than normal. But having said that: with each of those borrowed anecdotes Gray had a point to make; the anti-war march piece was in keeping with the other stories, with an author who so often draws on autobiography (or gives that impression), and was suitably seething with indignation; and the book was still somewhat more pleasing to look at than your average paperback.

Admittedly there were a few pages where a character took some delight in fascinatedly cataloguing the different kinds of scabs, crusts, and dry skin that picking at his loss-induced eczema would cause him, and what he did with them, but the rest didn't stray into unreadability (and that bit only if you found The Singing Detective unwatchable). No, all in all, thirteen (well, twelve) more and less entertaining easy reads, depicting various combinations of bafflement: at men, at women, at himself, war, politics, inequality, ageing, and at the world in general.

Flaws?

Of course. Plenty. But I doubt he'll apologise for them. They're part of the fun. And Gray knows it: with a defiant ambiguity I can't help smiling at, the book's even been subtitled 13 Sorry Stories. And the bit at the back describing where the stories come from: Critic Fuel. Two finer bookends for this collection I couldn't imagine.

And in that cheeky spirit of wilful non-apology: actually, I think tomorrow might just be tomorrow after all...

Poetry, but at least it's not mine

2008-02-20T00:29:00.014Z

Found this poem earlier today:

Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

- Mark Strand (1963)

It was on the inside panel of a CD called wherever I am, I am what is missing, by Laika. Haven't quite decided whether I like the CD yet, but quite enamoured of that poem. Sort of puts me in mind of one of my favourite songs, too:

I Love the Unknown - Clem Snide.

In other news: Sounds OK* has a sale on, various obscure but interesting CDs for £2. Inevitably, I couldn't resist...

More music stuff tomorrow.

*second-hand record shop in Falmouth.

Dig, Lawson, Dig!!!

2008-02-18T22:13:00.014Z

Actually, it was John Wilson presenting Front Row on Friday, not Mark Lawson... but anyway, I'm sure at least a few readers of this blog might be interested to know that he was interviewing a certain Mr N Cave about the Bad Seeds' new album. Listen again here (the interview's just about 13mins in). You'll hear a few clips of new songs, and the sinister-shadowed* one happens to be on pretty good form.

*thanks to a near impenetrable wall of unnecessarily tall goths, that was about all I could see of him at the Alexandra Palace, a dancing, stalking shadow on the wall. Quite impressive in its own way, though; as you might imagine, Nick Cave's shadow very much suits him.

You're Not The Only One

2008-02-18T15:43:00.010Z

Not words of consolation to anyone else who might be here for reasons of procrastination (or to me, for that matter), but the title of a blog compilation book thingy that Patroclus linked to the other day. It's in aid of the charity War Child. Here's what the site says:

We would like you to submit (to us at bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you've been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc. We've called it "You're Not The Only One" to reflect the camaraderie of blogging.

Erm, I doubt this post was really quite what they were after... but still, they said thank you, and stuck a link here. So if anyone else feels like needlessly taking up the time of people they don't know in the name of charity, follow that last link - deadline's 29th Feb 2008. Of course, unlike me, some of you will most likely have something actually vaguely suitable to submit...

Surely?

The joys of house-sharing

2008-02-18T13:38:00.006Z

No. 111: Staring out of your window at other people's shapeless, faded underwear drying on the washing line.

Is it just me, or is the sight of a pair of thick greyish tights hanging limply on a washing line one of the most drab, depressing sights in the world?

Plus, there's a sock hanging from between their legs. Which is just wrong.

Especially when the wind blows.