Here is my new stand-up! I think you'll find it moving and educational:
If there's one thing I've learned from this performance, it's that the first word of your routine, your opening salvo, your jumping-off point, should probably not be "um".
I like to think the large stretches of audience silence were deep contemplation, rather than boredom.
My ending montage suffered slightly for the lack of 'Wind Beneath My Wings', but I stuck in a bit of Brahms. It turned the tone from jolly parody, to something more emotionally resonant. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's creating the illusion of depth.
Saturday 28 February 2009
Friday 27 February 2009
The Cowboy-Style Saloon Doors of Perception
I woke up in an inexplicably good mood today. It was quite clear from the moment I opened my eyes, and has lasted until now. I thought I'd better document it, in case I suddenly become surly and forget the whole thing.
More of my blog posts should be written whilst happy. There's no reason why optimism should be of less merit than cynicism. We watched a Josie Long DVD yesterday, and I was really impressed that such a positive show could be so funny. Most comedians start with things that really annoy them, rather than inspire them.
I've probably written far too many morose, whiny posts. The trouble is, you need to be really charming to get away with that kind of optimism. If you're not charming enough, it just comes across as annoying. So I'll try to have a general air of pleasantness about me, without any specific saccharine praise.
My good mood is all the more surprising given the recent road-blocks in uploading my latest stand-up video.
Everything was going fine - I'd put in titles and a musical montage, and was uploading it to Youtube, when I was told that I had infringed copyright with the music I'd used. Indeed, I had used a famous song, but only for about ten seconds, so I thought it would be ok. I'm quite impressed at the efficiency of Youtube's piracy detectors! So I'm going to have to remake it, perhaps with a different peace of music. I'm contemplating doing my own version of the song, but that might change the tone from "uplifting" to "embarrassing and pathetic".
The big problem is with my laptop. All of a sudden when I turned it on yesterday, it began making noises. Not the usual computer noises, but loud, rattling mechanical noises. It sounded like there was a metal wasp trapped in the machinery. That seems unlikely, but you can't be sure.
It's really loud! I'm worried that the computer might catch fire at any moment. I'm considering using it as an ad-hoc smoothie maker (force the fruit and juice between the keys and just wait for some tasty cyber-puree to spring forth). The machine is working ok, although it seems to freeze a bit often, so I'm not sure if I should get it fixed, or just buy some ear-plugs.
***
I came up with two new variations on an old joke. In many ways it is a similar process to Shakespeare's adaption of classical myths and legends into his plays. I'm like a temporal facilitator, blending the genius of the ages.
Joke #1:
Q: When is Jim Morrison not Jim Morrison?
A: When he's ajar.
Joke #2:
Q: When is a Door Door Binks not a Door Door Binks?
A: When it's a Jar Jar Binks.
I was a little bit too please with these jokes, but never mind. I might try and come up with some more, so that I can release a range of highly specified Christmas crackers.
(By the way, if you don't know the original joke upon which those were based, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you)
More of my blog posts should be written whilst happy. There's no reason why optimism should be of less merit than cynicism. We watched a Josie Long DVD yesterday, and I was really impressed that such a positive show could be so funny. Most comedians start with things that really annoy them, rather than inspire them.
I've probably written far too many morose, whiny posts. The trouble is, you need to be really charming to get away with that kind of optimism. If you're not charming enough, it just comes across as annoying. So I'll try to have a general air of pleasantness about me, without any specific saccharine praise.
My good mood is all the more surprising given the recent road-blocks in uploading my latest stand-up video.
Everything was going fine - I'd put in titles and a musical montage, and was uploading it to Youtube, when I was told that I had infringed copyright with the music I'd used. Indeed, I had used a famous song, but only for about ten seconds, so I thought it would be ok. I'm quite impressed at the efficiency of Youtube's piracy detectors! So I'm going to have to remake it, perhaps with a different peace of music. I'm contemplating doing my own version of the song, but that might change the tone from "uplifting" to "embarrassing and pathetic".
The big problem is with my laptop. All of a sudden when I turned it on yesterday, it began making noises. Not the usual computer noises, but loud, rattling mechanical noises. It sounded like there was a metal wasp trapped in the machinery. That seems unlikely, but you can't be sure.
It's really loud! I'm worried that the computer might catch fire at any moment. I'm considering using it as an ad-hoc smoothie maker (force the fruit and juice between the keys and just wait for some tasty cyber-puree to spring forth). The machine is working ok, although it seems to freeze a bit often, so I'm not sure if I should get it fixed, or just buy some ear-plugs.
***
I came up with two new variations on an old joke. In many ways it is a similar process to Shakespeare's adaption of classical myths and legends into his plays. I'm like a temporal facilitator, blending the genius of the ages.
Joke #1:
Q: When is Jim Morrison not Jim Morrison?
A: When he's ajar.
Joke #2:
Q: When is a Door Door Binks not a Door Door Binks?
A: When it's a Jar Jar Binks.
I was a little bit too please with these jokes, but never mind. I might try and come up with some more, so that I can release a range of highly specified Christmas crackers.
(By the way, if you don't know the original joke upon which those were based, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you)
Wednesday 25 February 2009
Refugee-chic is back in fashion
I did another stand-up thing last night - video will be up soon. It was a bit of a let-down in the end. I had quite a long set planned in my head, but had to edit it down significantly in order to fit into the timeslot.
I had to lose my favourite bit as well! It related to the earlier stuff, so I couldn't do it on its own, but I'm a bit annoyed that I had to miss it out. I might do it in a video or something and post it here. I need closure!
I didn't get too many laughs, but it was ok. I had to follow a really funny and really energetic act, which made me seem even duller than usual. I also found - once again - that the bits where I improvised got much bigger laughs, so maybe I should do more of that. The trouble with me is all my ideas are quite long and sprawling and involved (as you may know if you read this blog), so it's difficult to just do a ten minute slot. It takes me ages to warm up. I'm like the Greg Valentine of stand-ups.
Still, it's all a learning experience!
I'm looking forward to a relaxing weekend. I decided to plug the gap in my DVD collection where cheesy action films should go. So I ordered Con Air, The Rock, and the Die Hard quadrilogy (even though that's not a word). So I'm hoping to watch a lot of explosions and quips and dodgy Nicholas Cage acting.
I'd quite like to write a British action movie in that vein. I suppose Hot Fuzz was pretty similar, but that was more of a cop movie. I want to do a lone-hero-fighting-all-the-odds movie. I actually wrote the beginning of such a screenplay on my English MA. It was called Oblivious, and featured an apathetic loser forced to battle an evil corporation. I haven't read it in a while, but I can only assume it is a work of genius. Derivative adolescent genius.
Maybe I'll post some of it here. The plot description includes the line 'an inept middle-class Die Hard ensues'.
I didn't get a distinction, in the end. I can only speculate as to the reason.
***
I've just remembered that the same script was the one I documented ages ago here, where I received the comment from the marker:
"'Refugee-chic' is a horrid abuse of language."
I bet no-one has ever received that comment on a piece of academic work. And I have to say, I'm rather proud.
I had to lose my favourite bit as well! It related to the earlier stuff, so I couldn't do it on its own, but I'm a bit annoyed that I had to miss it out. I might do it in a video or something and post it here. I need closure!
I didn't get too many laughs, but it was ok. I had to follow a really funny and really energetic act, which made me seem even duller than usual. I also found - once again - that the bits where I improvised got much bigger laughs, so maybe I should do more of that. The trouble with me is all my ideas are quite long and sprawling and involved (as you may know if you read this blog), so it's difficult to just do a ten minute slot. It takes me ages to warm up. I'm like the Greg Valentine of stand-ups.
Still, it's all a learning experience!
I'm looking forward to a relaxing weekend. I decided to plug the gap in my DVD collection where cheesy action films should go. So I ordered Con Air, The Rock, and the Die Hard quadrilogy (even though that's not a word). So I'm hoping to watch a lot of explosions and quips and dodgy Nicholas Cage acting.
I'd quite like to write a British action movie in that vein. I suppose Hot Fuzz was pretty similar, but that was more of a cop movie. I want to do a lone-hero-fighting-all-the-odds movie. I actually wrote the beginning of such a screenplay on my English MA. It was called Oblivious, and featured an apathetic loser forced to battle an evil corporation. I haven't read it in a while, but I can only assume it is a work of genius. Derivative adolescent genius.
Maybe I'll post some of it here. The plot description includes the line 'an inept middle-class Die Hard ensues'.
I didn't get a distinction, in the end. I can only speculate as to the reason.
***
I've just remembered that the same script was the one I documented ages ago here, where I received the comment from the marker:
"'Refugee-chic' is a horrid abuse of language."
I bet no-one has ever received that comment on a piece of academic work. And I have to say, I'm rather proud.
Monday 23 February 2009
The World's Tallest Man
Thursday night:
"Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to say hello. It's a real pleasure."
"Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to say hello. It's a real pleasure."
"Oh. Thanks."
"I suppose you get this all the time! I'd just like to shake your hand. The people at work aren't gonna believe it when I say I met you!"
"Oh. Um, are you sure you're not... you haven't confused me with someone? Because I'm not..."
"Ha! Good one! As if I wouldn't recognise that face anywhere! Would you mind if I took a picture?"
"Well, no. But I really think you might have me confused with someone else. I'm not famous or anything."
"So modest! It must be tough to stay so down to earth when you're a celebrity!"
"I'm not a celebrity! I'm really sorry, but you must be thinking of someone else!"
"What?"
"I'm... not famous."
"But... aren't you the world's tallest man?"
...
"No. No I'm not."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you sure you're not?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
"Shit. Sorry to have bothered you."
"But..."
"But what?"
"I mean, surely it was obvious that I'm not the world's tallest man."
"What do you mean?"
"Look, I don't want to be a dick about it, but I'm about 6'. maybe 6-1. I'm not short or anything, but I'm clearly not the world's tallest man."
"Alright, mate. It was an honest mistake."
"You must be aware that there are taller people in the world. I mean, that guy over there by the bar is much taller than me."
"I just thought... y'know. You remind me of him, that's all."
"But he's the world's tallest man. His height is his defining characteristic. That's the first thing you'd think of, surely."
"Look, I made a mistake! There's no need to go on about it!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I'm sorry."
"Right."
"It's just..."
"Just what?"
"Just surprising, that's all. It's an odd mistake."
"Let's just drop it, ok?"
"Of course. Sorry."
"It's fine. Don't worry about it."
"It's just..."
"For God's sake..."
"It's just it's funny that you thought I was the world's tallest man..."
"Yeah?"
"...and you didn't seem to notice that I'm wearing an eight pound beard of bees."
...
"Oh. Yeah, you're right. I didn't notice."
"You see what I mean about it being strange?"
"Yeah, I suppose that is strange. I mean, the world's tallest man wouldn't need to wear a beard of bees, would he? What with being really tall. That would be enough."
"Um, I think I should go now."
"Oh. Right."
"Did you still want that picture?"
"Nah, not really."
"Fine."
Thursday 19 February 2009
I say, eye c'est, ice eh?
I'm trying to hone my craft by writing jokes within an accepted framework. I think it will be tricky, but will provide a useful learning experience.
***
Doctor, Doctor! I feel like a pair of curtains.
In what way?
I don't know. I just feel a bit like fabric.
But why curtains, specifically?
I feel like two bits of fabric. Hung vertically from a rail. Usually used to cover a window.
Yes. That does sound like curtains.
Well, what's your advice?
It sounds like a stressful situation.
Yes, it is.
To be honest, I'm at a bit of a loss.
My wife told me to pull myself together.
That seems a bit dismissive.
That's what I said.
You often get that with people who aren't trained in this kind of thing. It's like depression. And M.E.
Curtains is like that?
A bit like that, yes.
Is there any kind of medication I could take?
A bullet to the brain.
Really?
Yes. I prescribe it to most of my patients.
How many times a day should I take it?
Just once. It should do the trick. If the problem persists, up the dosage to jumping in front of a train on fire.
What about the Hippocratic Oath?
He's dead.
Who?
The Hippocratic Oaf.
Oh, I see. Ha ha ha. We appear to be talking at crossed purposes.
He took his prescription and now he's dead. The Oaf.
Right.
And now it's time to take my medicine, if you'll excuse me.
Goodnight, Doctor.
Goodnight.
***
That was easy.
I'm going to write a series of stories about the Hippocratic Oaf. He's like a Frankingstein, but with a stethoscope.
(I foolishly searched for Hippocratic Oaf on Google. It has been done many times before. I thought I was clever, but I suppose it was inevitable that an idea of such genius would already have been done.)
I'm going to go to bed now. I'm very tired. You don't need to know that. But it will help contextualise this entry in the event of my death.
***
Doctor, Doctor! I feel like a pair of curtains.
In what way?
I don't know. I just feel a bit like fabric.
But why curtains, specifically?
I feel like two bits of fabric. Hung vertically from a rail. Usually used to cover a window.
Yes. That does sound like curtains.
Well, what's your advice?
It sounds like a stressful situation.
Yes, it is.
To be honest, I'm at a bit of a loss.
My wife told me to pull myself together.
That seems a bit dismissive.
That's what I said.
You often get that with people who aren't trained in this kind of thing. It's like depression. And M.E.
Curtains is like that?
A bit like that, yes.
Is there any kind of medication I could take?
A bullet to the brain.
Really?
Yes. I prescribe it to most of my patients.
How many times a day should I take it?
Just once. It should do the trick. If the problem persists, up the dosage to jumping in front of a train on fire.
What about the Hippocratic Oath?
He's dead.
Who?
The Hippocratic Oaf.
Oh, I see. Ha ha ha. We appear to be talking at crossed purposes.
He took his prescription and now he's dead. The Oaf.
Right.
And now it's time to take my medicine, if you'll excuse me.
Goodnight, Doctor.
Goodnight.
***
That was easy.
I'm going to write a series of stories about the Hippocratic Oaf. He's like a Frankingstein, but with a stethoscope.
(I foolishly searched for Hippocratic Oaf on Google. It has been done many times before. I thought I was clever, but I suppose it was inevitable that an idea of such genius would already have been done.)
I'm going to go to bed now. I'm very tired. You don't need to know that. But it will help contextualise this entry in the event of my death.
Wednesday 18 February 2009
Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave
Here is a pretty cool band:
I wonder if counter-culture in post-war Germany was more or less intense than in the rest of the world. Or the same.
***
I'd quite like to own an orchard.
I'd set up invisible web between the trees, and catch scrumpers.
Then I'd remove their blood (through some kind of pressurised hose mechanism) and use it as the base for a fine cider. It would have a complicated, woody flavour. Apples and blood; perhaps a touch of rose-petal. Then I'd sell it by the bottle.
I suppose you would call such a product Spider Cider (or Cpider).
I, on the other hand, am much more subtle. The brand name of my drink is:
Uncle Paul's Arachnid-Inspired Blood 'n' Apple Frothy Broth
I think it would be a success. I'm sure it would be.
People tend not to base their products on spiders nowadays. I suppose it's a bit old-fashioned in today's go-go world of Conchord, Mackintosh computers and the music of The Seahorses.
People think that invoking the name of the spider in your product is something of an arachnorachronism. But I think there's still room in this modern world for our eight-legged friends (unless they're some kind of freakish double-horse - which are not welcome).
I raise a glass to my spider-friends (a glass of Uncle Paul's Arachnid-Inspired Blood 'n' Apple Frothy Broth, of course), and drink a toast to each an every one of them. Except Spider-Man, who doesn't count, no matter how many letters he sends me.
***
I'm going to call my son Orchard. It can be shortened to Orch, Orchy, Ork or Orky.
Or Dork.
Thus ends the satire of the name 'Richard'. Coming soon, a satire on the name 'Helen', and a satire on twigs.
I wonder if counter-culture in post-war Germany was more or less intense than in the rest of the world. Or the same.
***
I'd quite like to own an orchard.
I'd set up invisible web between the trees, and catch scrumpers.
Then I'd remove their blood (through some kind of pressurised hose mechanism) and use it as the base for a fine cider. It would have a complicated, woody flavour. Apples and blood; perhaps a touch of rose-petal. Then I'd sell it by the bottle.
I suppose you would call such a product Spider Cider (or Cpider).
I, on the other hand, am much more subtle. The brand name of my drink is:
Uncle Paul's Arachnid-Inspired Blood 'n' Apple Frothy Broth
I think it would be a success. I'm sure it would be.
People tend not to base their products on spiders nowadays. I suppose it's a bit old-fashioned in today's go-go world of Conchord, Mackintosh computers and the music of The Seahorses.
People think that invoking the name of the spider in your product is something of an arachnorachronism. But I think there's still room in this modern world for our eight-legged friends (unless they're some kind of freakish double-horse - which are not welcome).
I raise a glass to my spider-friends (a glass of Uncle Paul's Arachnid-Inspired Blood 'n' Apple Frothy Broth, of course), and drink a toast to each an every one of them. Except Spider-Man, who doesn't count, no matter how many letters he sends me.
***
I'm going to call my son Orchard. It can be shortened to Orch, Orchy, Ork or Orky.
Or Dork.
Thus ends the satire of the name 'Richard'. Coming soon, a satire on the name 'Helen', and a satire on twigs.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Wherever I Lay My Hat (That's My Hat-Rack)
I'm thinking of rearranging our living room.
I love the living room. It's full of cool stuff, like books and comics and paintings. I really believe that where you live has a big impact on your wellbeing. I like to think of it as psychogeography, but it's probably closer to feng shui. Either way, I love being surrounded by things that mean something to me.
But I also like to rearrange and reorganise. At least I used to.
When I was a teenager, hardly a week would go by without me rearranging my bedroom (the bed should go by the window, no, against that wall, no, in the wardrobe, or maybe crushed into a fine paste by a big machine, then smeared on toast, then put by the window). I'd also like to re-order my CD collection or my bookshelves. I'd make lists and everything.
No, I didn't have a girlfriend. Why do you ask?
I haven't reorganised for a while though. And our room needs sorting out. At the moment we have deep shelves, which are crammed with DVDs. They're three rows deep, so finding the right disc takes a lot of shifting and investigating and memory skills, a bit like a game in the Crystal Maze. Every now and then, you find some hidden gem that you've forgotten about (ooh, The Negotiator!). The rows and boxes inhale and exhale like the tides, so that the one film you're looking for is always the least accessible.
We also have too many DVDs for the shelves, so there are piles of them in random places. If we were to be wiped out by a Pompeii-style volcano, future generations would study these piles, and speculate about their purpose. It's the Stonehenge of DVDs.
We also have loads of books with no home. Most of them live under the bed, but it would be nice to put them on display. At the moment, we only have one proper bookcase, filled with the cream of the crop: lots of English literature, philosophy, Harry Potter, cookery books, and classic novels, some of which we've actually read. That's not including the row of graphic novels and trade paperbacks (mostly Marvel superheroes, but some randoms), which sits on the floor by the wall.
We really need some new shelves. Despite being furnished, the flat was distinctly lacking in shelf-space when we moved in. I suggested hiring some prostitutes, just to sit against the walls, holding books and DVDs and ornaments. The estate agent raised his right eyebrow, made excuses, and left.
I had to by all the prostitutes a taxi home in the end. I think one of them stole my copy of Kafka's The Castle, but I didn't begrudge him.
That's right: him! They were male prostitutes! Who's misogynistic now?! Consider your preconceptions challenged, my friend.
On the walls, we have Munch's Madonna (not the original - as far as I know), a Blake print, and various comicbook images (including the cover of Daredevil #181 signed by Frank Miller!), and a big mirror that allows us to see what excellent dancers we are.
It's a great room. But will be even better after certain things are sorted out. We have old newspapers under our coffee table. They're pretty old. I think one has an optimistic story about Neville Chamberlain's impending visit to meet with the German leader (Adolf someone). I think everything's going to be all right!
After the reorganising, we'll only need a few things to make it complete: aircrash-style oxygen masks hanging from the ceiling, deep shag carpet, tropical fishtank, coconut shy, and a massive, stuffed head of a moose, completely obscuring the window.
I love the living room. It's full of cool stuff, like books and comics and paintings. I really believe that where you live has a big impact on your wellbeing. I like to think of it as psychogeography, but it's probably closer to feng shui. Either way, I love being surrounded by things that mean something to me.
But I also like to rearrange and reorganise. At least I used to.
When I was a teenager, hardly a week would go by without me rearranging my bedroom (the bed should go by the window, no, against that wall, no, in the wardrobe, or maybe crushed into a fine paste by a big machine, then smeared on toast, then put by the window). I'd also like to re-order my CD collection or my bookshelves. I'd make lists and everything.
No, I didn't have a girlfriend. Why do you ask?
I haven't reorganised for a while though. And our room needs sorting out. At the moment we have deep shelves, which are crammed with DVDs. They're three rows deep, so finding the right disc takes a lot of shifting and investigating and memory skills, a bit like a game in the Crystal Maze. Every now and then, you find some hidden gem that you've forgotten about (ooh, The Negotiator!). The rows and boxes inhale and exhale like the tides, so that the one film you're looking for is always the least accessible.
We also have too many DVDs for the shelves, so there are piles of them in random places. If we were to be wiped out by a Pompeii-style volcano, future generations would study these piles, and speculate about their purpose. It's the Stonehenge of DVDs.
We also have loads of books with no home. Most of them live under the bed, but it would be nice to put them on display. At the moment, we only have one proper bookcase, filled with the cream of the crop: lots of English literature, philosophy, Harry Potter, cookery books, and classic novels, some of which we've actually read. That's not including the row of graphic novels and trade paperbacks (mostly Marvel superheroes, but some randoms), which sits on the floor by the wall.
We really need some new shelves. Despite being furnished, the flat was distinctly lacking in shelf-space when we moved in. I suggested hiring some prostitutes, just to sit against the walls, holding books and DVDs and ornaments. The estate agent raised his right eyebrow, made excuses, and left.
I had to by all the prostitutes a taxi home in the end. I think one of them stole my copy of Kafka's The Castle, but I didn't begrudge him.
That's right: him! They were male prostitutes! Who's misogynistic now?! Consider your preconceptions challenged, my friend.
On the walls, we have Munch's Madonna (not the original - as far as I know), a Blake print, and various comicbook images (including the cover of Daredevil #181 signed by Frank Miller!), and a big mirror that allows us to see what excellent dancers we are.
It's a great room. But will be even better after certain things are sorted out. We have old newspapers under our coffee table. They're pretty old. I think one has an optimistic story about Neville Chamberlain's impending visit to meet with the German leader (Adolf someone). I think everything's going to be all right!
After the reorganising, we'll only need a few things to make it complete: aircrash-style oxygen masks hanging from the ceiling, deep shag carpet, tropical fishtank, coconut shy, and a massive, stuffed head of a moose, completely obscuring the window.
Friday 13 February 2009
Pay Your Rates!
I may have mentioned this before, but The Fall are the best band in the world.
I listen to The Fall whenever I'm feeling creatively stagnant or artistically bereft, and they cleanse me like a glorious bleach. They are the black coffee of music - pure and rich and cynical.
Mark E Smith is a hero, largely because there's never any question that he's a nice guy. There's no part of me that thinks we'd really get on. From the outset, I've known that he's scathing and ugly, and that enables me to respect him, without diluting that respect with affection or warmth.
That's the trouble with hero-worship. I used to want my heroes to believe everything I did, and to be just like me.
I love the wit and musical ability of Ben Folds, but he's a bit of a misogynist. I love the integrity and skill of Stewart Lee, but he seems aloof and a bit of a snob. I love Chris Benoit's professionalism and wrestling acumen, but he murdered his wife and child, and committed suicide. Heroes shouldn't really do that.
But Mark E Smith is a grumpy, erratic dick. A genius-dick, I'll grant you. But a dick nonetheless. So I can bathe in the acidity of his work without worrying about whether he'd like me. He wouldn't like me. There's something appealing about that.
The first Fall track I heard hooked me immediately. I don't know why, exactly. Your mid-20s are probably too late to be falling in love with bands. Here it is:
We all know that people heaping praise on someone or something is really annoying, so I'll stop there.
It's difficult to strike the right balance between irritating fanboy love and constant complaining. You want to share your enthusiasm in a non-annoying way, like Josie Long does. But it takes a level of skill that I don't really have.
So instead, I avoid the issue, by wandering off on stupid diversions, like an ox straying from a country lane into the Indy 500 (only to finish in third place, after a yak and a horse dressed like Penelope Pitstop).
That last sentence annoyed me. It was a bit too wacky, just for the sake of it. It's bad to self-annoy. You have no-one to punch but yourself. I could delete it, of course. But I'm scrupulously honest. If I deleted it now, I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror.
Sometimes, having this much integrity can be something of a burden. That's why once a month, every month, I burn down an orphanage.
I listen to The Fall whenever I'm feeling creatively stagnant or artistically bereft, and they cleanse me like a glorious bleach. They are the black coffee of music - pure and rich and cynical.
Mark E Smith is a hero, largely because there's never any question that he's a nice guy. There's no part of me that thinks we'd really get on. From the outset, I've known that he's scathing and ugly, and that enables me to respect him, without diluting that respect with affection or warmth.
That's the trouble with hero-worship. I used to want my heroes to believe everything I did, and to be just like me.
I love the wit and musical ability of Ben Folds, but he's a bit of a misogynist. I love the integrity and skill of Stewart Lee, but he seems aloof and a bit of a snob. I love Chris Benoit's professionalism and wrestling acumen, but he murdered his wife and child, and committed suicide. Heroes shouldn't really do that.
But Mark E Smith is a grumpy, erratic dick. A genius-dick, I'll grant you. But a dick nonetheless. So I can bathe in the acidity of his work without worrying about whether he'd like me. He wouldn't like me. There's something appealing about that.
The first Fall track I heard hooked me immediately. I don't know why, exactly. Your mid-20s are probably too late to be falling in love with bands. Here it is:
We all know that people heaping praise on someone or something is really annoying, so I'll stop there.
It's difficult to strike the right balance between irritating fanboy love and constant complaining. You want to share your enthusiasm in a non-annoying way, like Josie Long does. But it takes a level of skill that I don't really have.
So instead, I avoid the issue, by wandering off on stupid diversions, like an ox straying from a country lane into the Indy 500 (only to finish in third place, after a yak and a horse dressed like Penelope Pitstop).
That last sentence annoyed me. It was a bit too wacky, just for the sake of it. It's bad to self-annoy. You have no-one to punch but yourself. I could delete it, of course. But I'm scrupulously honest. If I deleted it now, I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror.
Sometimes, having this much integrity can be something of a burden. That's why once a month, every month, I burn down an orphanage.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
3-1-14 25-15-21 3-18-1-3-11 20-8-5 "3-12-5-22-5-18" 3-15-4-5?
I'm in a bad mood and I don't know why. I feel like punching something, but I fear it might be looked upon as a breach of office etiquette. I'm trying to take out my frustrations by typing. It doesn't work very well.
I can't hammer on the keys too hard, or it will annoy my colleagues.
I thought I might be able to release some aggression by typing certain words. But I don't know if it will work.
Smash. That didn't work.
Aargh. That didn't work either.
Perhaps I can create some kind of linguistic dischord that will simulate a rage-induced outburst.
Cod-frock, for example. Or B'NAMF.
They don't work.
Perhaps I can rail against some hated object. I could wax lividly about The Daily Mail, or the film The Butterfly Effect, or that rubbish episode of Horizon I watched yesterday.
But it's not the same. You can't beat a good solid punch as a therapeutic outburst. I could punch the desk and pretend I was killing a mosquito or a mole or something. I could headbutt the screen and claim that I slipped and tried to use my face to steady myself. I could chew paper-clips.
Or, I could take a deep breath and stop being stupid.
But I'm not going to do that.
***
I'm still unsure about Twitter, but I have found an excellent advert for it. Tim Key is a poet who you might recognise from Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe, or the sketch show Cowards. All his Twitter entries (or tweets, in the parlance of our times) are short poems. They're great! Here are some examples:
Poem#264. Oliver kissed his wife and squeezed her fat hand. She wriggled free and baked a celebratory cake. (32)
Poem#323. “I love you baby”. She kissed me and I unwrapped her gift. It was a Moby CD. Yes! She’d listened. She’d picked up on my hints.(0)
Poem#171. “I’m not marrying that pig!” I said to mother. She continued to leaf through the portfolio. (32).
It makes me want to do something similar. Put poetry has already been covered. Maybe I could write an entertaining series of numbers.
99207223645511892, for example.
I could gain a cult following. People would call me 'that number guy'. Numerologists would study my work. I could adapt it into a stage-play and then a sitcom, and then a feature film.
Numbers are under-represented in art. Except, perhaps, for Caravaggio's 'Thirty-One'. And as everyone knows, that particular work doesn't exist.
That's why Caravaggio is the master.
I wonder if you could produce a truly revolutionary and profound work of literature in less than 140 characters. That's what Twitter is for. Every day, every tweet, is a search for genius.
The search may be fruitless, but that doesn't mean it is not worthwhile. Unless you are searching for actual fruit. In which case, go to the greengrocers. They will help thee.
I can't hammer on the keys too hard, or it will annoy my colleagues.
I thought I might be able to release some aggression by typing certain words. But I don't know if it will work.
Smash. That didn't work.
Aargh. That didn't work either.
Perhaps I can create some kind of linguistic dischord that will simulate a rage-induced outburst.
Cod-frock, for example. Or B'NAMF.
They don't work.
Perhaps I can rail against some hated object. I could wax lividly about The Daily Mail, or the film The Butterfly Effect, or that rubbish episode of Horizon I watched yesterday.
But it's not the same. You can't beat a good solid punch as a therapeutic outburst. I could punch the desk and pretend I was killing a mosquito or a mole or something. I could headbutt the screen and claim that I slipped and tried to use my face to steady myself. I could chew paper-clips.
Or, I could take a deep breath and stop being stupid.
But I'm not going to do that.
***
I'm still unsure about Twitter, but I have found an excellent advert for it. Tim Key is a poet who you might recognise from Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe, or the sketch show Cowards. All his Twitter entries (or tweets, in the parlance of our times) are short poems. They're great! Here are some examples:
Poem#264. Oliver kissed his wife and squeezed her fat hand. She wriggled free and baked a celebratory cake. (32)
Poem#323. “I love you baby”. She kissed me and I unwrapped her gift. It was a Moby CD. Yes! She’d listened. She’d picked up on my hints.(0)
Poem#171. “I’m not marrying that pig!” I said to mother. She continued to leaf through the portfolio. (32).
It makes me want to do something similar. Put poetry has already been covered. Maybe I could write an entertaining series of numbers.
99207223645511892, for example.
I could gain a cult following. People would call me 'that number guy'. Numerologists would study my work. I could adapt it into a stage-play and then a sitcom, and then a feature film.
Numbers are under-represented in art. Except, perhaps, for Caravaggio's 'Thirty-One'. And as everyone knows, that particular work doesn't exist.
That's why Caravaggio is the master.
I wonder if you could produce a truly revolutionary and profound work of literature in less than 140 characters. That's what Twitter is for. Every day, every tweet, is a search for genius.
The search may be fruitless, but that doesn't mean it is not worthwhile. Unless you are searching for actual fruit. In which case, go to the greengrocers. They will help thee.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
I've recently purchased a device that lets me hear peoples' internal monologues. I bought it online. It was pretty cheap (£11.99 + p&p). I didn't really expect it to work, to be honest. I thought it might be like those x-ray specs you see advertised in the back of old comics. But it works like a charm.
I tested on myself first: putting the earpiece in and pointing the amplifying sensor at my own brain. "This is never going to work," I thought and heard simultaneously. "Wait a minute. It does actually seem to be working".
"This is incredible," I said to myself, via the brain, through the sensor and into my ears. "I'm entirely aware of everything I'm thinking. Does my internal voice really sound like that?"
I was eager to test it on a stranger. I dismissed my initial concerns about invading peoples' privacy by reasoning that if I were telepathic, I'd be doing it all the time anyway.
I looked out of the window, and saw the postman collecting post from a postbox, putting it into a postbag and loading it into his postman's postvan. I pointed the sensor at him.
"...I wonder how many of these envelopes I could eat before I died. I reckon one hundred and fifty. The Jiffy bags might prove tricky. Unless I blended them up into a mail smoothie..."
I grew weary of his internal monologue, and did a quick survey of the street. Firstly, a young boy riding his bike:
"...if Superman had a bike it could fly and he'd have special wheels and could ride it in space and Batman would be jealous..."
Then I moved the sensor along to an elderly woman:
"...that boy might stab me. But I'm ready for him! I can do Karate. I learned it during the Blitz. People used to teach Martial Arts in exchange for cheese and eggs. Because of the rationing..."
Then to a preppy-looking student:
"...could always buy a strap-on, I suppose..."
Then to a dog:
"...woof. Woof. Woof..."
Then to another dog:
"...I'm not sure about that dude. All he seems to do is 'woof'! Doesn't he ever strive for something more?..."
It was an exhausting experience. I thought I needed a sit down. I pointed the sensor at my head again, just to confirm. "I need a sit down," I mused. We're in agreement, then.
The next day, I took it on the bus. The sheer range of the thoughts shocked me. Such anger, such perversion. But I was on a bus after all.
Over half the people on the bus consciously expressed a dislike for my choice of outfit. It has made me rethink my wardrobe.
It was a depressing day at work. By covertly reading the thoughts of my colleagues, I caught a glimpse of the way things really are.
My boss, who I always thought of as rather pleasant: "I could kill a goat and drink its blood. Yes, that's right. All the blood. It will cleanse me. It will cleanse my soul for the arrival of the Dark Lord..."
My workmate Carl: "I hate work. And my colleagues. Especially that stupid bearded idiot looking at me right now. And what's that machine he's pointing at me? What's the earpiece about? I'm gonna staple his tongue to my car and drive to Ghent..."
Don from the post room: "#la-la la-la lah! One of these letters contains a bomb! la-la la-la lah! No-one will know where it came from! la-la la-la lah! And they'll make me their ruler - King Don, King Don! la-la la-la lah!#
It was disheartening. I'd always suspected that work was like that. But to have it confirmed was a bit of a heartbreaker.
I threw the machine away when I got home. Sometimes it's better not to know, I thought.
And I was right. Because that night I bought myself a surprise cake!
If I'd been scanning my thoughts, the surprise would have been ruined!
Carl came round and shared the cake. He brought a stapler and a full tank of petrol. But nothing untoward happened. I suppose he had a change of heart. Perhaps it was the buttercream icing.
My favourite.
I tested on myself first: putting the earpiece in and pointing the amplifying sensor at my own brain. "This is never going to work," I thought and heard simultaneously. "Wait a minute. It does actually seem to be working".
"This is incredible," I said to myself, via the brain, through the sensor and into my ears. "I'm entirely aware of everything I'm thinking. Does my internal voice really sound like that?"
I was eager to test it on a stranger. I dismissed my initial concerns about invading peoples' privacy by reasoning that if I were telepathic, I'd be doing it all the time anyway.
I looked out of the window, and saw the postman collecting post from a postbox, putting it into a postbag and loading it into his postman's postvan. I pointed the sensor at him.
"...I wonder how many of these envelopes I could eat before I died. I reckon one hundred and fifty. The Jiffy bags might prove tricky. Unless I blended them up into a mail smoothie..."
I grew weary of his internal monologue, and did a quick survey of the street. Firstly, a young boy riding his bike:
"...if Superman had a bike it could fly and he'd have special wheels and could ride it in space and Batman would be jealous..."
Then I moved the sensor along to an elderly woman:
"...that boy might stab me. But I'm ready for him! I can do Karate. I learned it during the Blitz. People used to teach Martial Arts in exchange for cheese and eggs. Because of the rationing..."
Then to a preppy-looking student:
"...could always buy a strap-on, I suppose..."
Then to a dog:
"...woof. Woof. Woof..."
Then to another dog:
"...I'm not sure about that dude. All he seems to do is 'woof'! Doesn't he ever strive for something more?..."
It was an exhausting experience. I thought I needed a sit down. I pointed the sensor at my head again, just to confirm. "I need a sit down," I mused. We're in agreement, then.
The next day, I took it on the bus. The sheer range of the thoughts shocked me. Such anger, such perversion. But I was on a bus after all.
Over half the people on the bus consciously expressed a dislike for my choice of outfit. It has made me rethink my wardrobe.
It was a depressing day at work. By covertly reading the thoughts of my colleagues, I caught a glimpse of the way things really are.
My boss, who I always thought of as rather pleasant: "I could kill a goat and drink its blood. Yes, that's right. All the blood. It will cleanse me. It will cleanse my soul for the arrival of the Dark Lord..."
My workmate Carl: "I hate work. And my colleagues. Especially that stupid bearded idiot looking at me right now. And what's that machine he's pointing at me? What's the earpiece about? I'm gonna staple his tongue to my car and drive to Ghent..."
Don from the post room: "#la-la la-la lah! One of these letters contains a bomb! la-la la-la lah! No-one will know where it came from! la-la la-la lah! And they'll make me their ruler - King Don, King Don! la-la la-la lah!#
It was disheartening. I'd always suspected that work was like that. But to have it confirmed was a bit of a heartbreaker.
I threw the machine away when I got home. Sometimes it's better not to know, I thought.
And I was right. Because that night I bought myself a surprise cake!
If I'd been scanning my thoughts, the surprise would have been ruined!
Carl came round and shared the cake. He brought a stapler and a full tank of petrol. But nothing untoward happened. I suppose he had a change of heart. Perhaps it was the buttercream icing.
My favourite.
Tuesday 10 February 2009
People say we're monkeying around. They are incorrect.
Here's a heads-up.
I don't know about giving a heads-up. I suppose it's to make people pay attention. But what if the salient thing is happening on the floor? You can't give a heads-down. Or a heads-45° left. So, heads-up.
The open mic comedy thing I did is becoming a regular thing. If you are on Facebook, you can find details here. (Members of the Facebook group also get a discount on the entry price).
If anyone reading this that knows me, you're more than welcome to attend. If you don't know me, you are also welcome. If you know me, but hate me, it's probably best not to come. If you don't know me, but hate me, all I can say is: bravo.
It's on the last Tuesday of every month at Baby Simple, Cowley Road, Oxford. I should be there every month, unless my next routine gets me banned from the venue (and my Ku Klux Klan outfit is still at the cleaners).
The next one is two weeks away, and I will be doing lots of new stuff. It's slightly scary, but hopefully things will come together.
I might take my ventriloquist's dummy on stage, in case things go badly. You can always count on Ringo, the diseased chimp for a few laughs!
Unfortunately, Ringo died some years back. But luckily I have the ability to manipulate his corpse (through a hole in the back of his skull), and also throw my voice without moving my lips! If anything it's a more impressive act than when he was alive.
Of course his act is now mainly composed of maudlin anecdotes about the monkey afterlife.
Which is unpleasant for him, as he was an ape.
It brings a tear to your eye. It brings a tear to his eyes too, but that's technically just the puppet lubricant I use to ensure his limbs and moving parts don't grind and break.
Yes, you can always count on Ringo for a few laughs.
I have to go now, as I have something in my eye.
(Stupid puppet lubricant)
I don't know about giving a heads-up. I suppose it's to make people pay attention. But what if the salient thing is happening on the floor? You can't give a heads-down. Or a heads-45° left. So, heads-up.
The open mic comedy thing I did is becoming a regular thing. If you are on Facebook, you can find details here. (Members of the Facebook group also get a discount on the entry price).
If anyone reading this that knows me, you're more than welcome to attend. If you don't know me, you are also welcome. If you know me, but hate me, it's probably best not to come. If you don't know me, but hate me, all I can say is: bravo.
It's on the last Tuesday of every month at Baby Simple, Cowley Road, Oxford. I should be there every month, unless my next routine gets me banned from the venue (and my Ku Klux Klan outfit is still at the cleaners).
The next one is two weeks away, and I will be doing lots of new stuff. It's slightly scary, but hopefully things will come together.
I might take my ventriloquist's dummy on stage, in case things go badly. You can always count on Ringo, the diseased chimp for a few laughs!
Unfortunately, Ringo died some years back. But luckily I have the ability to manipulate his corpse (through a hole in the back of his skull), and also throw my voice without moving my lips! If anything it's a more impressive act than when he was alive.
Of course his act is now mainly composed of maudlin anecdotes about the monkey afterlife.
Which is unpleasant for him, as he was an ape.
It brings a tear to your eye. It brings a tear to his eyes too, but that's technically just the puppet lubricant I use to ensure his limbs and moving parts don't grind and break.
Yes, you can always count on Ringo for a few laughs.
I have to go now, as I have something in my eye.
(Stupid puppet lubricant)
Friday 6 February 2009
Cut
As annoying as the weird videos that are 'related' to mine on Youtube are, nothing could prepare me for the sheer joy at having one of the related videos be for an episode of Greenclaws. Remember Greenclaws?
I used to like it as a kid. If you aren't aware of it, let's go through the synopsis from the Wikipedia entry. As with all children's programmes, it is really, really weird.
Greenclaws was a big green monster who lived in a greenhouse.
[As a child, this seemed perfectly acceptable.]
Every week, Iris would visit Greenclaws. They would put a seed in a plant pot, put the plant pot inside a tree, wait for Owlma (a mechanical owl) to alert them that the plant was ready, answer three riddles/questions from Owlma (which were always along the lines of "Twit twoo, twoo, twit twit twoo?" and then translated into English by Greenclaws for him and Iris to solve), then open the tree to find the plant had grown in to something bearing unusual fruit.
[This run-on sentence captures the pure insanity of the show. Planting seeds is fine. Growing trees is fine. But where does the MECHANICAL OWL come in?!]
Each episode featured a song filmed (lip-synched) on location, most of which were written by Hilary James and Simon Mayor. There would also be a story told featuring ancestors of Greenclaws while the plant was growing, accompanied by illustrations.
[I like that they had to stipulate that the songs were lip-synched, just in case the artistic integrity of a man dressed like mucus was called into question]
But it was a great show. I'm glad to be associated with it. Even if I can't work out why I would be.
***
I've found out that the phenomenon documented in the entry below is sometimes called catachresis. It's a cool word. I had a strenuous internal debate over whether to change the title of that entry to 'catachresis'.
In the end, I decided not to, as the current title (The 3 Rs: Repetition, Repetition, Repetition) is a reference to a Fall song (coincidentally called 'Repetition'), and to remove a reference to The Fall is a crime tantamount to defecating in a cathedral.
***
Some words to live by:
Don't rock in a rockery
Don't smoke pot in some pottery
Don't build a flat on some flattery
Don't swing a bat in a battery
Don't show your butt in a buttery
Don't spend a lot on a lottery
and finally:
Don't tease Pat in a patisserie
You're welcome to suggest your own, but I fear the last one (which Lucy came up with) may be the apex of this little word puzzle, and possibly all human achievement up to this point.
***
I had my haircut recently.
My head has now gone from the lumpy and massive (like a beanbag in an anger-management class), to small and polished (like a Communist pebble). The hair makes the top of my head too flat.
But I can never be bothered to get it cut regularly. So it's preferable to have it cut really short once every six months, rather than mid-length every few weeks.
My head feels a lot lighter (and colder). I might invest in a wig, or a well-trained wolverine.
Luckily the two shops (This Little Wiggy and The Discount Wolverine Depot) are next to each other in the shopping centre. So I can make up my mind once I get there.
Which reminds me, I could also go to Make Up Your Mind in the same precinct, and where they smear your exposed brain with blusher and eye-shadow.
Then I can catch the bus home, my head looking like a warped globe designed by Hieronymus Bosch.
I used to like it as a kid. If you aren't aware of it, let's go through the synopsis from the Wikipedia entry. As with all children's programmes, it is really, really weird.
Greenclaws was a big green monster who lived in a greenhouse.
[As a child, this seemed perfectly acceptable.]
Every week, Iris would visit Greenclaws. They would put a seed in a plant pot, put the plant pot inside a tree, wait for Owlma (a mechanical owl) to alert them that the plant was ready, answer three riddles/questions from Owlma (which were always along the lines of "Twit twoo, twoo, twit twit twoo?" and then translated into English by Greenclaws for him and Iris to solve), then open the tree to find the plant had grown in to something bearing unusual fruit.
[This run-on sentence captures the pure insanity of the show. Planting seeds is fine. Growing trees is fine. But where does the MECHANICAL OWL come in?!]
Each episode featured a song filmed (lip-synched) on location, most of which were written by Hilary James and Simon Mayor. There would also be a story told featuring ancestors of Greenclaws while the plant was growing, accompanied by illustrations.
[I like that they had to stipulate that the songs were lip-synched, just in case the artistic integrity of a man dressed like mucus was called into question]
But it was a great show. I'm glad to be associated with it. Even if I can't work out why I would be.
***
I've found out that the phenomenon documented in the entry below is sometimes called catachresis. It's a cool word. I had a strenuous internal debate over whether to change the title of that entry to 'catachresis'.
In the end, I decided not to, as the current title (The 3 Rs: Repetition, Repetition, Repetition) is a reference to a Fall song (coincidentally called 'Repetition'), and to remove a reference to The Fall is a crime tantamount to defecating in a cathedral.
***
Some words to live by:
Don't rock in a rockery
Don't smoke pot in some pottery
Don't build a flat on some flattery
Don't swing a bat in a battery
Don't show your butt in a buttery
Don't spend a lot on a lottery
and finally:
Don't tease Pat in a patisserie
You're welcome to suggest your own, but I fear the last one (which Lucy came up with) may be the apex of this little word puzzle, and possibly all human achievement up to this point.
***
I had my haircut recently.
My head has now gone from the lumpy and massive (like a beanbag in an anger-management class), to small and polished (like a Communist pebble). The hair makes the top of my head too flat.
But I can never be bothered to get it cut regularly. So it's preferable to have it cut really short once every six months, rather than mid-length every few weeks.
My head feels a lot lighter (and colder). I might invest in a wig, or a well-trained wolverine.
Luckily the two shops (This Little Wiggy and The Discount Wolverine Depot) are next to each other in the shopping centre. So I can make up my mind once I get there.
Which reminds me, I could also go to Make Up Your Mind in the same precinct, and where they smear your exposed brain with blusher and eye-shadow.
Then I can catch the bus home, my head looking like a warped globe designed by Hieronymus Bosch.
Thursday 5 February 2009
Stand-Up - Baby Simple, Oxford 27/01/09
I've finally managed to put my stand-up up on Youtube! I've had the first and last sections up for a while, but it's taken ages to do the middle bit for some reason. Anyway, here they are. I'll let you know what I think about them below.
Paul Fung Stand-Up - Baby Simple, Oxford 27/01/09
Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
***
I'd like to thank Ayd Instone for filming and editing these. He's a very funny fellow. He also performed on the night - you can find lots of cool stuff of his here.
My fellow Guild members also performed on the night - here are videos (and links to other performances) from Ian Williams and Joff Thompson.
As for my own performance, it's inevitable that I don't really like it. I know that rationally it went well, and I seemed to get some good laughs. It's just that I hate watching myself.
You know how some people hate hearing the sound of their own voice? Well I hate my voice, my face, my body, my stupid smug expressions, and pretty much everything else. If I met myself on the street, I'd punch me in the face. I've broken several mirrors that way.
I should probably study and learn from these videos, but I'll probably just avoid watching them. Paul is a much more attractive proposition from inside his head.
I do think that I spoke a bit too quickly at times (which is to be expected from a nervous newbie I suppose). Also, the end of my 'genes' bit (which I also wrote about here), where I'm slapping myself in the head, didn't go over too well. It's probably too complicated an idea, and might need some rewriting.
I did a few ad-libs, which seemed to go down well. When I'm more confident, I'll try to do more improvisation. All in all, I'm pleased. It's good to have some evidence of a performance anyway.
The only downside is that, as before, the related videos on Youtube seem to all be slightly seedy wrestling fetishes. I'm starting to regret calling this blog Headscissors. It seems odd that DiamondBadger wasn't my first choice. I wonder how difficult it would be to change...
I have too many internet pseudonyms. Headscsissors, DiamondBadger, PFunk13. It would be all right if they each had a distinct personality: one the sleazy, perverse one; one the TB-carrier; one the unlucky slap-bass player.
But they're all me. Like mixing a wide range of interesting, exotic ingredients together, only for them to form a grey, flavourless mulch.
Hopefully I'll post new performances in the future, perhaps from the Royal Albert Hall, perhaps from a street corner... Who can tell?
All I know is the future is big and confusing and exciting. What's going to happen next?
(A cup of tea?)
Why not?
Paul Fung Stand-Up - Baby Simple, Oxford 27/01/09
Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
***
I'd like to thank Ayd Instone for filming and editing these. He's a very funny fellow. He also performed on the night - you can find lots of cool stuff of his here.
My fellow Guild members also performed on the night - here are videos (and links to other performances) from Ian Williams and Joff Thompson.
As for my own performance, it's inevitable that I don't really like it. I know that rationally it went well, and I seemed to get some good laughs. It's just that I hate watching myself.
You know how some people hate hearing the sound of their own voice? Well I hate my voice, my face, my body, my stupid smug expressions, and pretty much everything else. If I met myself on the street, I'd punch me in the face. I've broken several mirrors that way.
I should probably study and learn from these videos, but I'll probably just avoid watching them. Paul is a much more attractive proposition from inside his head.
I do think that I spoke a bit too quickly at times (which is to be expected from a nervous newbie I suppose). Also, the end of my 'genes' bit (which I also wrote about here), where I'm slapping myself in the head, didn't go over too well. It's probably too complicated an idea, and might need some rewriting.
I did a few ad-libs, which seemed to go down well. When I'm more confident, I'll try to do more improvisation. All in all, I'm pleased. It's good to have some evidence of a performance anyway.
The only downside is that, as before, the related videos on Youtube seem to all be slightly seedy wrestling fetishes. I'm starting to regret calling this blog Headscissors. It seems odd that DiamondBadger wasn't my first choice. I wonder how difficult it would be to change...
I have too many internet pseudonyms. Headscsissors, DiamondBadger, PFunk13. It would be all right if they each had a distinct personality: one the sleazy, perverse one; one the TB-carrier; one the unlucky slap-bass player.
But they're all me. Like mixing a wide range of interesting, exotic ingredients together, only for them to form a grey, flavourless mulch.
Hopefully I'll post new performances in the future, perhaps from the Royal Albert Hall, perhaps from a street corner... Who can tell?
All I know is the future is big and confusing and exciting. What's going to happen next?
(A cup of tea?)
Why not?
Wednesday 4 February 2009
An Inspector Calls (me a sicko)
It's interesting that murder has become quite a glamourous thing.
It's the ultimate crime - ending someone's life.
But it's become a staple of entertainment. Daytime TV is full of murder-mysteries, from Diagnosis: This Guy's Dead, to Stabbing She Wrote, the execution of another human being is not just acceptable, but entertaining; sometimes charming.
There's a certain jollity to the whole thing. I suppose murder has been the basis of so much art, that's it's just become a part of everyday thinking. It's part of the bloodstained wallpaper, it's the garrotted elephant in the room.
It's interesting that we fetishise this crime in particular. The same panicky moral guardians decrying the decline of the world are happy to watch someone killed, as long as the murderer is wearing a tuxedo and played by a credible character actor.
You never get an episode of Midsomer Murders where someone is killed, and the rest of the episode is about the psychological impact of this horrific act - just 45 minutes of sobbing in the bath. It would be boring.
It's also interesting that murder can be quaint and homely in these programmes, and intense and disgusting in films like Saw. It's weird that you can sit and watch a suspicious vicar killed on a village green with a cricket stump, and then go to the cinema to watch a screening of the latest gorno splatterfest, where the stump is used in a much less pleasant way.
I'm sure people think this is a terrible thing. But I quite like the variety available to the discerning murder connoisseur. It's just the explanation of ideas in different ways. Just because an idea is unpleasant, doesn't mean it doesn't merit exploration. I'm really pleased that we live in a world where we're allowed to use art to look at anything we want. There's probably some innate human fascination with killing, so different people have looked at it in different ways. We can use ideas however we want, and the diversity of our creations is pretty exciting.
I don't really want to watch Midsomer Murders or Saw. But I'm glad they're around.
But it's funny that it's only murder is acceptable. I don't think you could have a daytime ITV show about a pair of bumbling detectives trying to solve rape cases.
It just wouldn't pull in the viewers. I suppose murder has a kind of clean ending. Once someone's dead, you can draw a line after it. With rape there's a bit too much of a disturbing aftermath. And no-one wants to deal with that in the middle of the day. They'd probably turn to Countdown, where rape only exists as a disappointing four-letter word (in any case, you should probably choose 'pare', for propriety's sake).
It's difficult to match the glamour and sophistication of a good old-fashioned murder. Not on a council estate or anything, but in a grand country home, in the 1920s, with people wearing feather boas and waistcoats. In that context, the slaughter of another human becomes a symbol of upper-class gall. It's like sending young teenagers to their deaths at the Somme - regrettable, but ultimately a bit of a laugh.
I was planning on setting up a special weekend getaway, to give people a taste of this world. I know people who have been to murder mystery weekends and had a great time. Unfortunately, my Paedophile Mystery Weekend has started to seem quite ill-judged.
The premise is simple: a group of people, all playing characters, arrive at a stately home. On the first night, it will be revealed that a child has been sexually abused. The rest of the weekend involves trying to track down the culprit, by deciphering a series of clues.
Before they arrive, each person is given a card with their character on it. They also get told whether or not they're the child molester. When I sent out the cards, people didn't seem too keen on playing their roles for some reason.
Here are a few of the characters:
Barry Bitter
A washed-up glam-rock singer, villified by the British tabloids, returning from Asia to stay in the stately home for some reason.
Max Plunk
A strange bearded man with a bag full of sweets, who's come to stay in the stately home for some reason.
Mr Fingers
A former schoolteacher sacked from his job under mysterious circumstances. He wears glasses, and his legs jiggle about. He has a creepy voice, and is staying in the stately home for some reason.
Madame Chandelier
She runs a brothel and is addicted to absinthe. She wears a necklace of human ears, and is staying in the stately home for some reason.
Father Seamus O'McShamrock
A priest who smells and sweats, and always wears gloves. He owns the stately home. For some reason.
Apparently the scenario lacked the 'romance' of a murder mystery weekend. I suppose one mistake was making everyone the culprit, and it just became a bit of a seedy and unsettling idea.
My second mistake was asking people if they'd mind volunteering their children for the part of the victim. It's only an acting! But still, some people can be sensitive...
It just goes to show the odd moral hierarchy that people construct. Isn't killing someone as bad as abusing someone? It must be the same ballpark.
(My third mistake was having the child character both abused and killed. It didn't really give me any kind of moral grey area to play with).
I suppose it's just going to be me in that stately home this weekend. Playing all the characters myself.
For some reason.
***
I realise that I got off track with that elaborate scenario. But can we all just agree that I was making a genuine satirical point, and that I'm not sick?
Thank you.
It's the ultimate crime - ending someone's life.
But it's become a staple of entertainment. Daytime TV is full of murder-mysteries, from Diagnosis: This Guy's Dead, to Stabbing She Wrote, the execution of another human being is not just acceptable, but entertaining; sometimes charming.
There's a certain jollity to the whole thing. I suppose murder has been the basis of so much art, that's it's just become a part of everyday thinking. It's part of the bloodstained wallpaper, it's the garrotted elephant in the room.
It's interesting that we fetishise this crime in particular. The same panicky moral guardians decrying the decline of the world are happy to watch someone killed, as long as the murderer is wearing a tuxedo and played by a credible character actor.
You never get an episode of Midsomer Murders where someone is killed, and the rest of the episode is about the psychological impact of this horrific act - just 45 minutes of sobbing in the bath. It would be boring.
It's also interesting that murder can be quaint and homely in these programmes, and intense and disgusting in films like Saw. It's weird that you can sit and watch a suspicious vicar killed on a village green with a cricket stump, and then go to the cinema to watch a screening of the latest gorno splatterfest, where the stump is used in a much less pleasant way.
I'm sure people think this is a terrible thing. But I quite like the variety available to the discerning murder connoisseur. It's just the explanation of ideas in different ways. Just because an idea is unpleasant, doesn't mean it doesn't merit exploration. I'm really pleased that we live in a world where we're allowed to use art to look at anything we want. There's probably some innate human fascination with killing, so different people have looked at it in different ways. We can use ideas however we want, and the diversity of our creations is pretty exciting.
I don't really want to watch Midsomer Murders or Saw. But I'm glad they're around.
But it's funny that it's only murder is acceptable. I don't think you could have a daytime ITV show about a pair of bumbling detectives trying to solve rape cases.
It just wouldn't pull in the viewers. I suppose murder has a kind of clean ending. Once someone's dead, you can draw a line after it. With rape there's a bit too much of a disturbing aftermath. And no-one wants to deal with that in the middle of the day. They'd probably turn to Countdown, where rape only exists as a disappointing four-letter word (in any case, you should probably choose 'pare', for propriety's sake).
It's difficult to match the glamour and sophistication of a good old-fashioned murder. Not on a council estate or anything, but in a grand country home, in the 1920s, with people wearing feather boas and waistcoats. In that context, the slaughter of another human becomes a symbol of upper-class gall. It's like sending young teenagers to their deaths at the Somme - regrettable, but ultimately a bit of a laugh.
I was planning on setting up a special weekend getaway, to give people a taste of this world. I know people who have been to murder mystery weekends and had a great time. Unfortunately, my Paedophile Mystery Weekend has started to seem quite ill-judged.
The premise is simple: a group of people, all playing characters, arrive at a stately home. On the first night, it will be revealed that a child has been sexually abused. The rest of the weekend involves trying to track down the culprit, by deciphering a series of clues.
Before they arrive, each person is given a card with their character on it. They also get told whether or not they're the child molester. When I sent out the cards, people didn't seem too keen on playing their roles for some reason.
Here are a few of the characters:
Barry Bitter
A washed-up glam-rock singer, villified by the British tabloids, returning from Asia to stay in the stately home for some reason.
Max Plunk
A strange bearded man with a bag full of sweets, who's come to stay in the stately home for some reason.
Mr Fingers
A former schoolteacher sacked from his job under mysterious circumstances. He wears glasses, and his legs jiggle about. He has a creepy voice, and is staying in the stately home for some reason.
Madame Chandelier
She runs a brothel and is addicted to absinthe. She wears a necklace of human ears, and is staying in the stately home for some reason.
Father Seamus O'McShamrock
A priest who smells and sweats, and always wears gloves. He owns the stately home. For some reason.
Apparently the scenario lacked the 'romance' of a murder mystery weekend. I suppose one mistake was making everyone the culprit, and it just became a bit of a seedy and unsettling idea.
My second mistake was asking people if they'd mind volunteering their children for the part of the victim. It's only an acting! But still, some people can be sensitive...
It just goes to show the odd moral hierarchy that people construct. Isn't killing someone as bad as abusing someone? It must be the same ballpark.
(My third mistake was having the child character both abused and killed. It didn't really give me any kind of moral grey area to play with).
I suppose it's just going to be me in that stately home this weekend. Playing all the characters myself.
For some reason.
***
I realise that I got off track with that elaborate scenario. But can we all just agree that I was making a genuine satirical point, and that I'm not sick?
Thank you.
Tuesday 3 February 2009
The 3 Rs: Repetition, Repetition, Repetition
"It's like Groundhog Day!" said Lucy, this morning on the way to work.
I couldn't work out why. I suppose we have walked that way before, but not recently. I couldn't notice anything else that was overly familiar.
"In what way?" I asked.
"It's really cold."
She was right.
We watched the documentary on the Groundhog Day DVD yesterday. It's pretty good (even though Andie MacDowell was in it). Apparently the weather was freezing, and the actors and crew had to keep moving to stay warm.
It was cold on that shoot. It was also cold this morning, on the way to work. Lucy was right.
But I wondered if you were allowed to appropriate a phrase for an entirely new meaning. Most people would think the statement "it's like Groundhog Day" to refer to repetition. You probably wouldn't think it referred to the cold.
But language is a flexible beast. I don't see why we can't screw around with it as much as we like!
So from now on, if I compare something to Groundhog Day, it means it's cold.
I'm trying to think of others.
A related one is déjà vu. From now on déjà vu doesn't mean feeling like you've experienced something before. To compare something to déjà vu now just means that it's French.
Eg:
"The other day, I was biting into this croissant, and it was like... I don't know... like déjà vu."
"Maybe it's from a childhood memory?"
"What? I just meant that, like the phrase 'déjà vu', the croissant is also a product of France. You idiot."
Yes, I think that's a good idea.
Another one is 'like watching paint dry'. Traditionally, this refers to any boring activity.
But if I have my way, from now on it will refer to the act of observing a decorative liquid converting to an opaque solid film. Unless (like Richard Herring) I have misunderstood the art of simile. Which seems impossible.
I think I've run out of ideas. This didn't quite have the mileage I was hoping for.
Hmm. Suddenly, for no reason, I'm reminded of that bitter winter I spent in Paris. It was like Groundhog Day déjà vu all over again.
Weird.
I couldn't work out why. I suppose we have walked that way before, but not recently. I couldn't notice anything else that was overly familiar.
"In what way?" I asked.
"It's really cold."
She was right.
We watched the documentary on the Groundhog Day DVD yesterday. It's pretty good (even though Andie MacDowell was in it). Apparently the weather was freezing, and the actors and crew had to keep moving to stay warm.
It was cold on that shoot. It was also cold this morning, on the way to work. Lucy was right.
But I wondered if you were allowed to appropriate a phrase for an entirely new meaning. Most people would think the statement "it's like Groundhog Day" to refer to repetition. You probably wouldn't think it referred to the cold.
But language is a flexible beast. I don't see why we can't screw around with it as much as we like!
So from now on, if I compare something to Groundhog Day, it means it's cold.
I'm trying to think of others.
A related one is déjà vu. From now on déjà vu doesn't mean feeling like you've experienced something before. To compare something to déjà vu now just means that it's French.
Eg:
"The other day, I was biting into this croissant, and it was like... I don't know... like déjà vu."
"Maybe it's from a childhood memory?"
"What? I just meant that, like the phrase 'déjà vu', the croissant is also a product of France. You idiot."
Yes, I think that's a good idea.
Another one is 'like watching paint dry'. Traditionally, this refers to any boring activity.
But if I have my way, from now on it will refer to the act of observing a decorative liquid converting to an opaque solid film. Unless (like Richard Herring) I have misunderstood the art of simile. Which seems impossible.
I think I've run out of ideas. This didn't quite have the mileage I was hoping for.
Hmm. Suddenly, for no reason, I'm reminded of that bitter winter I spent in Paris. It was like Groundhog Day déjà vu all over again.
Weird.
Monday 2 February 2009
#Then put your little hand in mine! There ain't no hill or mountain we can't cliiiiimb!#
As you might see from my semi-literate tweetings, we went to see a charity comedy gig on Saturday. It was called OrangAid, and was about saving the Sumatran orangutan.
It was in the New Theatre in Oxford, a pretty big venue that I'd previously only been to to see the Mighty Boosh. On that occasion, we sat in the balcony, which was so high and precarious it felt like watching spangly ants from the top of a weather vane.
This time we were in the stalls, and could have assassinated the acts if we'd planned ahead.
It was a pretty stacked line-up: Stewart Lee and Josie Long (who we'd seen before), Lucy Porter and Marcus Brigstocke (who we hadn't), with Daniel Kitson as compare.
Everyone was great. We saw some new material from Lee and Long. Lucy Porter was really funny too, and I'm tempted to get her DVD from GoFasterStripe as a result. She's much funnier than is necessary for someone so charming. That sounds patronising, but I don't mean it that way.
I wasn't too sure about Brigstocke before the gig. He always seems to have a bit of the Robin Ince-style uber-cynicism about him. But he was excellent too.
Daniel Kitson was Godlike. I can't explain why he's so good. It's almost frustrating. With Stewart Lee, I can look at what I admire, I can analyse his techniques, I can attempt to emulate his style.
But Kitson is just FUNNY.
At one point he was throwing charity chocolate into the crowd, whilst being pelted by coins. You can't beat that.
It was a great gig. We got some of the chocolate, and donated a fair bit to the orangutans.
It's good to go out, have a laugh, and help some apes. It's often difficult to do all those things simultaneously.
Sometimes you go out and help some apes, but find the experience spiritually draining, and you end up weeping onto their hairy necks.
Sometimes you go out and have a laugh, but you're laughing at the dismemberment of a mandrill. That helps no ape. (I know the mandrill is a monkey. But the apes don't like it.)
Sometimes you have a laugh and help an ape, perhaps bathing Clyde from Every Which Way but Loose. But you haven't gone out.
The point I'm trying to make is: uh... y'know. I did all three of those things. At once.
I forget why it's important.
***
We watched Groundhog Day yesterday. I have a weird thing about only watching certain films when they're seasonal. I only watch Christmas films at Christmas. I only watch summer films in summer. And I only watch Back to the Future II when it's the future, or the past. Or the present.
Groundhog Day is a great film. There's almost too many interesting things to explore with that concept.
It would be an amazing film except for one thing:
Andie MacDowell.
What is the point of Andie MacDowell, other than to age slowly?
I don't know if it's her or her character, but she's the most humourless, bland, preachy, whiny, pretentious and repellent female lead in movie history. If I was living the same day over and over, I'd be pleased because it would give me a chance to murder her over and over again.
It could well be the character. But then again, she's equally irritating in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
You know how Dustin Hoffman has a quirky charm that he brings to every role? Andie MacDowell has the same thing, except it's a sense of punchability.
I'm sure she's very nice in real life. But I don't want to see her on screen, unless she's being butchered by Bill Murray in a variety of increasingly sick ways.
There could be a deleted scene where Murray sits in a corner, laughing, as the groundhog devours MacDowell's corpse. It would last for eight hours.
I'm sure she's nice in real life.
I'm not one of those internet people who gets all worked up, and starts hating someone they've never met. It's silly and it's cruel and it's immature.
But tell me you wouldn't love to see a version of Green Card with Gérard Depardieu pummelling her in a meat locker. Tell me you wouldn't!
You would, wouldn't you?
So who's the sick person here?
I think I've made my point.
It was in the New Theatre in Oxford, a pretty big venue that I'd previously only been to to see the Mighty Boosh. On that occasion, we sat in the balcony, which was so high and precarious it felt like watching spangly ants from the top of a weather vane.
This time we were in the stalls, and could have assassinated the acts if we'd planned ahead.
It was a pretty stacked line-up: Stewart Lee and Josie Long (who we'd seen before), Lucy Porter and Marcus Brigstocke (who we hadn't), with Daniel Kitson as compare.
Everyone was great. We saw some new material from Lee and Long. Lucy Porter was really funny too, and I'm tempted to get her DVD from GoFasterStripe as a result. She's much funnier than is necessary for someone so charming. That sounds patronising, but I don't mean it that way.
I wasn't too sure about Brigstocke before the gig. He always seems to have a bit of the Robin Ince-style uber-cynicism about him. But he was excellent too.
Daniel Kitson was Godlike. I can't explain why he's so good. It's almost frustrating. With Stewart Lee, I can look at what I admire, I can analyse his techniques, I can attempt to emulate his style.
But Kitson is just FUNNY.
At one point he was throwing charity chocolate into the crowd, whilst being pelted by coins. You can't beat that.
It was a great gig. We got some of the chocolate, and donated a fair bit to the orangutans.
It's good to go out, have a laugh, and help some apes. It's often difficult to do all those things simultaneously.
Sometimes you go out and help some apes, but find the experience spiritually draining, and you end up weeping onto their hairy necks.
Sometimes you go out and have a laugh, but you're laughing at the dismemberment of a mandrill. That helps no ape. (I know the mandrill is a monkey. But the apes don't like it.)
Sometimes you have a laugh and help an ape, perhaps bathing Clyde from Every Which Way but Loose. But you haven't gone out.
The point I'm trying to make is: uh... y'know. I did all three of those things. At once.
I forget why it's important.
***
We watched Groundhog Day yesterday. I have a weird thing about only watching certain films when they're seasonal. I only watch Christmas films at Christmas. I only watch summer films in summer. And I only watch Back to the Future II when it's the future, or the past. Or the present.
Groundhog Day is a great film. There's almost too many interesting things to explore with that concept.
It would be an amazing film except for one thing:
Andie MacDowell.
What is the point of Andie MacDowell, other than to age slowly?
I don't know if it's her or her character, but she's the most humourless, bland, preachy, whiny, pretentious and repellent female lead in movie history. If I was living the same day over and over, I'd be pleased because it would give me a chance to murder her over and over again.
It could well be the character. But then again, she's equally irritating in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
You know how Dustin Hoffman has a quirky charm that he brings to every role? Andie MacDowell has the same thing, except it's a sense of punchability.
I'm sure she's very nice in real life. But I don't want to see her on screen, unless she's being butchered by Bill Murray in a variety of increasingly sick ways.
There could be a deleted scene where Murray sits in a corner, laughing, as the groundhog devours MacDowell's corpse. It would last for eight hours.
I'm sure she's nice in real life.
I'm not one of those internet people who gets all worked up, and starts hating someone they've never met. It's silly and it's cruel and it's immature.
But tell me you wouldn't love to see a version of Green Card with Gérard Depardieu pummelling her in a meat locker. Tell me you wouldn't!
You would, wouldn't you?
So who's the sick person here?
I think I've made my point.
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