All posts from old website in one long, unreadable chunk.
March 12 2006
There’s a great deal missing up to this point. Were this to be a complete memoirs, we’d need to start way back in the 1970s, when everything began (solipsistically).
There’s plenty of interesting tales that will be missing, like my upbringing in a Gentleman’s Club. What I lacked in amicable company was more than compensated for by all the cigars I could smoke. That only lasted until I was about eight years old, when I turned to my only friend, the road. Most small children have an imaginary friend, so what matter if mine was largely asphalt.
Africa was calling. I recognised the area code. Having saved up a small amount of money by working as a fluffer, I caught the boat to Africa, where I lived for some time.
I settled in a small group of humble dwellings, eating whatever we could lay our hands on. We often ate tactile things. I had three wives, my favourite of which was French, and was father to many children. For eight years this was a blissful existence, until one day the sun went down and I realised it had all been a mirage.
Now only a mere fifteen years old, I returned to Britain full of bitterness. Actually I was 25% bitterness and 75% water, as I remain to this day.
For a time I took up odd-jobs, anything I could perform without thinking or facing the horrible truth of my own mortality. For a fifteen year old, it’s probably fair to say that’s a bit morbid. One could well surmise that I was quite feasibly a ‘bit of a dick’.
These jobs included making rakes, cleaning beans, sorting port and, more disappointingly, a GP.
After systematically blackmailing my myriad employers I lost every job, something with hindsight I probably should have seen coming as blackmail is a crime (as I have been more recently informed).
On a summer evening I was sat crying into a glass of fine, fine red wine, empoverished and slightly shabby but not unclean. A strange man gave me a joke book, and instead of cheering up, I went about telling other people jokes. So now I think we’re up to date.
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March 15 2006
I have an appointment with a man at a cafe. I’d prefer not to discuss the content of the meeting, because that keeps it all suitably vague, and exciting.
If you’re going to meet people (I recommend it), meeting them in public is always a good idea. There’s always the chance that any given person has been sent to ‘deal with you’. A public space makes an assassination far, far less likely. Cafes are ideal for these purposes.
Anyway, so I have to go to this cafe today, to meet this man, about this thing. We shall have strong coffee no doubt. My health is dubious these days; there is a fine balancing act between alcohol and caffine that correlates with sunset and sunrise.
I’m thinking of taking up falconry. I think it would be marvellous to have your own bird that you could whip out at parties to do tricks and things. You’d have to be careful about it flying away though; I think clipping wings is cruel, so a neat alternative would be keeping the falcon permanently drunk. Then it would fly into things as well, doubling the amusement value.
With no gig tonight (a rare reprieve from the road) I plan to have a few frames of snooker then see what the night has in store. The snooker’s going well, I’m on the cusp of hustling, but you have to be careful. Hustle one wrong chap and you could end up with broken legs. What they don’t realise is that plays into your hands – future hustling will be so much easier, as nobody expects to lose to a man who has to play snooker from a rudimentary trolley.
I’ve started building my trolley already.
Right. I’ll have to wind this up now, as my engagement with a man about a thing looms large. The weather today is slightly 19th Century. There’s a wind chill that is reminiscent of Victorian poverty, and the sun doesn’t seem likely to come out for another hundred years or so. I shall wrap up warm and walk extremely close to other people to feed off their body heat like the parasitic chilly man that I am.
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March 29 2006
After ten days on the road, a brief and welcome respite. I’d hoped for two days doing absolutely nothing, but doing nothing is actually quite hard.
I went to see my local cobbler today. He’s everything you’d expect from that kind of artisan, and I trust him to do a good job because he’s got a full compliment of fingers. Once I’d told him what I wanted fixing, and in what manner, he asked me if I’d like ‘anything else’.
It was the manner in which he asked, with one raised eyebrow and a cheeky grin, that made me think it possible that he was offering some kind of illicit cobbling. I’m such a let down. I really wished at that moment that I’d said ‘Why in fact there is something else…’ then whipped out a grubby bondage kit that had suffered the wear and tear of all kinds of unholy abuse.
So I felt quite good about things having been to the Cobbler. Just to even things out, I then went to the bank where my mood clearly plunged back to a normal low.
I played a Belgian Bar in Glasgow earlier in the week. Disappointingly, there were no Belgians. I’d bust my gut translating my whole set to no avail. Fortunately it was full of Scottish folk, who you may or may not know speak a variety of English.
It must be hard being Christopher Eccleston. It’s clear to see he’s a wonderfully talented actor with a great range and a fairly impressive CV. To have all that, yet to be so hideously unwatchable must be frustrating I think. He’s not ugly or shit at his job, it’s just that some people are naturally grating and he’s got that down pat. I tried to watch a film he’d starred in and had to leave simply because his presence is nauseating. Poor chap.
There’s not much in the fridge. I’m hoping the landlord will pop round, as he sometimes does, and offer us some game that he’s shot that day. The disturbing difference is that he shoots it in the butchers. Much easier I’ll warrant, but kind of missing the point.
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April 10 2006
Bird Flu has arrived in the UK. There seems to be a palpible air of tension created by a media furore based upon absolutely nothing.
On the radio a Bird Flu Expert (I’m not sure how long he’s been one of them) was asked what the panicking population can do to avoid catching the deadly disease. His one piece of advice was that we all refrain from drinking Swan’s Blood. Well said that man.
I had a lovely picture in my head of two Goths pausing over breakfast, one turning to the other saying ‘You’re sure this is from a Goose?’
More pressing matters for me include doing a bit of washing and remembering to eat. I’m forgetting to eat more often than I used to. Luckily I manage to remember before I die most days. Phew.
Puzzlingly, there seem to be the remains of a child’s birthday party all over my flat. It’s been a heady few days, but nowhere can I recollect a child’s birthday party. I dread to think, to be honest.
At somewhat of a loss, I believe I may make a return trip to visit my old friend the cobbler. I want to test him, take him something that will make his day. I was thinking maybe of walking in with a cow on a rope, telling him that my shoe isn’t quite right and see if he can turn the cow into a shoe. I realise that’s advanced cobbling, but this guy seems like he could turn his hand to butchery should the job require.
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April 20 2006
I was once told that if you freeze a frog it won’t die, it will just go into stasis. Sat in my unheated basement room failing to perform even the most basic of tasks, I am forming a theory of evolution that links directly from frogs to me.
Please don’t get me wrong: I’m not in the habit of creating tenuous scientific theories, although this is probably as pertinent a place as any to say that our assumption that the earth is round is the kind of unquestioning behaviour that leads to Governmental tyranny.
Lately I’ve been mostly terrified. It seems the young lady living in the flat above me has built a hovercraft and insists on driving around her small flat in it about twice a week. It’s only a matter of time before her floor (my ceiling) collapses and ends both of our lives. The noise is unbearable. It sounds like a hoover.
A friend lent me a book on self-belief. I thought that was a bit rude, to assume that was the kind of help I needed. I explained to him the basics of Cartesian Dualism and how self-belief is the only thing I could be sure of. He called me a smug know-all bastard.
As far as I can tell, the only people for whom self-belief is crucially important are fairies. Without it they disappear. That must make fairy motivational classes quite easy.
Anyway, it was a kind gesture on my friends part to lend me that book. I was having a minor crisis of confidence (I started thinking I might never kill again) and he kind of set me back on the righteous path.
Onwards and upwards. Tonight I ride the metal horse to the smoky stacks and bright lights of London town to entertain the sprawling underbelly of sin, indulge in some serious vice and hopefully find a good smoothie vendor.
Oh, By the way, should you be reading this and know any good uses for Snake Oil, please could you let me know? I keep buying the stuff and I’m yet to find a practical use for it.
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April 21 2006
Getting down to some SERIOUS bevity today.
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May 2 2006
Now. It’s not really my place to tell other people how to do their jobs properly. Really. But there’s no excuse for lacking a certain level of civility during any human transaction (by human transaction I don’t mean slave trading you understand).
Yesterday, I went out to eat in a restaurant and was quite severly rubbed up the wrong way by what I can only describe as a chump. I was initially wary as he was sporting one of those particularly obnoxious ‘goatee’ beards, usually the facial adornment of choice for IT Consultants and date rapists.
He insisted on twisting the bottle as he poured the wine which has always been a pet hate of mine. It’s an unnecessary flourish that serves no purpose other than to symbolically give out the message that you’re a clueless host and unforgivably flamboyant. I considered for a brief moment illustrating the physics of the situation (the neck of a bottle is a perfect circle so how twisting it should make any difference is something you could explain to most infants and retards.
So we’d got off on the wrong foot.
He then refused to serve tap water, saying that they don’t have any. Tap Water. At this point I was mentally unloading both barrells into his self-satisfied face. However, he didn’t realise that I had the upper hand. I happen to know that it’s ILLEGAL not to serve somebody tap water in a dining establishment.
So I called the police. Who weren’t particularly impressed with my water-tight logical standpoint, and seemed to mistake me for a time-wasting, petty-minded fuckhead.
I should probably point out that I was grumpy before arriving in the restaurant. With hindsight, I can now see that I may have reacted in a slightly over-strong manner, and my dinner was ruined by my own headstrong belief in manners and logic.
My nan was disappointed, and I promised that next time we’d finish the meal before I took any kind of moral standpoint.
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May 24 2006
I’m a trypanophobic. I think we all are really, it’s just the brave among us who choose to admit it. Trypanophobia, I need hardly tell you, is the irrational fear of syringes.
It’s not the same as ‘not liking’ injections – the only people who really enjoy needles are the mental ones, like junkies or blood donors.
This makes trips to the Dentist unfeasibly tense, as happened yesterday. It doesn’t help when you’ve got a particularly macabre Dentist with a sense of humour.
To lightnen the mood, I was nervily making crap jokes until that was no longer possible because my mouth was full of cotton wool. The only outlet left for my diffusing of the stress was making funny faces from the nose upwards.
It made perfect sense to do so at the time, but my dancing eyebrows and flaring nostrils couldn’t have been more out of place, not to mention distracting for a man about to drill into my very soul.
I haven’t seen anyone today, and feel I’m becoming more and more of a hermit. To pass the time, I cook gourmet banquets fit for a wedding, then throw them in the bin.
There’s a police car parked outside and a banging on the door of the flat above me. I hope they’ve come to confiscate her hoover. Maybe the two events are unrelated.
I should water the plants. As my only living companions it would be a shame if I managed to unwittingly kill them all. I could claim it was a hunger strike I suppose. Maybe that’s why the police are here.
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June 16 2006
I’m having a mild panic that I might be attacked by Christopher Eccleston. I wrote some pretty rum things about him earlier, and now I’ve realised that he might have read them. Still, as long as I stay away from the film sets of low-budget gritty films I should be safe. And if he does choose to hunt me down he’ll not be able to remain incognito for long. Doctor Who propelled his fame to frankly unwarranted levels.
I’ve been playing Scrabble against myself. That way I never lose. I don’t know if I’m a bad loser or a good loser, but it’s best not to find out. Just in case I’m a really bad loser and have a breakdown. I don’t understand bad losers, unless you’re playing a game like Russian Roulette. Then you’ve got some cause to be annoyed.
I read today that the global hedge fund totals 1.1 trillion pounds. That’s a lot of hedges. The global dry stone wall fund is just 23 pounds. I think that says a lot about global attitudes towards walls.
I made a mistake earlier today. I was walking home with a large bottle of champagne that I had bought to celebrate cleaning the toilet. On the way home I passed a gleeful scene of a couple of proud parents watching their child ride a tricycle. I asked what was going on and they said it was his first time on the trike, and they were really happy. Seizing the opportunity to be a part of their kids maiden voyage, I smashed the bottle of champagne across his head as if he were a cruise ship. The parents misinterpreted the gesture.
I bite my nails. It’s better than biting other peoples nails. I was caught biting my nails yesterday by a friend, who unkindly (or kindly – I couldn’t read his impenetrable gaze) told me that it was as unhealthy as licking around the rim of the toilet bowl. Now I’m not sure which bad habit I should give up first. Actually, I should probably disregard both of these and concentrate on cutting down on throwing bricks. I throw far too many bricks at inappropriate moments.
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July 2 2006
The internet is a worldwide phenomenon, and as such, this could be being read in Dubai or Shanghai, or indeed any major city ending in ai. It’s for that reason that I’ll begin with an explanation.
In Britain, there’s a lot of coastline. A certain kind of person moves to live on the coast. They lack dignity, self-awareness and they epitomise the very worst example of social mobility.
It would seem obvious to most people that having enough money to buy two life-sized china snow leapords for your lawn doesn’t symbolise your class. Or rather, it symbolises all too well your class. I’m aware that class is a muddy issue at the best of times in the UK, but tacky is tacky. If you’re a lover of chintz with a bugbear about the immigrants, chances are we’re not going to get on. Luckily, I avoid the coast when I can, so we’ll probably never meet.
Anyway. I had to do a gig in Bournemouth. The residents would have you believe that they live on the English Riviera. I would beg you to reconsider and see it more as a potent cocktail of coffin dodgers and Loaded magazines core market.
I was on stage, doing my best to use short words and various grunts to get my point across (needless to say, I omitted jokes and satire concerning the fragility of modern humanity). Then for the first time in my life, a young man bit me on the willy.
As heckles go, it was certainly among the more feral I’ve received and caught me off guard somewhat. I wearily continued, riding the punch (or the chomp).
When the gig had finished, he approached me and said ‘that was me who did that, nice one, nice one’. I presume he repeated ‘nice one’ because his vocabulary was too limited to think of an effectively emphatic synonym in its place. I played along because, well, I didn’ t want a recurrence of the earlier incident. At one point he actually used the phrase ‘no hard feelings?’ totally missing the potential irony of what he’d just said.
Human life evolved from the seas, and its fitting that the more basic life forms feel the urge to be near it.
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August 22 2006
I’m now more than halfway through the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I’ve learnt many things.
Things I have learned:
It’s a bad idea to creep up on a man for a surprise ‘hello!’ when he has five years of JuJitsu training.
Food, it seems, is a luxury item. Nutrition can be gleaned from the air around you, I’m sure of it. I think I’m medically dead.
Don’t abuse your venue staff. They weild more power than you’ll ever know. If someone controls your lights and sound, you are nice to them.
Posh people are ruder than everyone else. I think I knew that before, but Edinburgh puts everything under the magnifying glass. If you read this, ‘Aidan’, from yesterday’s gig, I hope we never meet again, ever. You are genuinely a poisonous human, toxic ironically to mankind alone.
It is ill-advised to tell an eight-year-old girl that you’ve been following her at a children’s comedy gig. Especially when Mum and Dad are sat right next to her. I would dearly love that to not have happened. Think, dickhead, think.
I need an umbrella.
However bad my show is next year, I’ve done enough rubbernecking to be assured it won’t be the worst on the fringe. But that’s a fairly low aspiration.
It’s amazing how little sleep a person needs.
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September 28 2006
Well, what a thing. I just saw a pigeon fall over. If you think it’s funny seeing a person trip up (which it is), you should see the avian version. Piss funny.
I’m being distracted by Deal or No Deal on the telly in the background as I write. I’ve just noticed that Noel calls the audience members ‘pilgrims’. Not in a cool country and western ‘howdy pilgrim’ way, he believes these people have travelled with a religious purpose to watch box-opening. The arrogance of the man is astounding.
So here’s the big one for today; I can’t work out if being able to ride a horse is deeply cool or deeply uncool. My kneejerk reaction is that it is well cool. Gauchos. Cowboys. Sheriffs. These are the people upon which COOL is founded. If I could have my time again, I think I would have gone to Sheriff School and learned to ride, wear hats and dispense justice.
Being able to ride a horse is also a transferrable skill. I presume you can also ride zebras. Although if you ride into town on a zebra you don’t get taken seriously.
The problem is, there’s a big flip side to riding when you look at the reality instead of living in an invented Western in your head.
Over-privileged, arrogant public school types. Joining the pony club, including the anuual pony club ball, an orgy of cocaine and bragging. Hanging out with the kind of girls who like pencil cases and bumsex. Spending your weekends trotting through marshes with a stubborn, shitty horse and a bunch of enthusiastic dickheads. Being mocked by people who can actually ride because you can’t go more than a mile before you start moaning about a sore arse.
Surely, surely, surely that’s not what every Sheriff had to go through? On balance, it’s not worth it. Maybe that’s why they all look so gnarled and toothy. Years of gnashing their teeth biting their tongue just to qualify to shoot bad guys from a moving horse. No. Not worth it. Not for all the pointy badges in the West.
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October 1 2006
So, a weekend in Glasgow comes to an end. It’s the first time I’ve been there for any extended period, and I was dreading it. The rumours I’d heard about the place previously meant I approached the escapade expecting to meet nothing but half-humans, feeding off violence and eating their young.
I’m happy to report that my preconceptions weren’t entirely true. Although I didn’t see any babies while I was there, so I can neither confirm nor deny actual eating of young.
On Friday and Saturday night, the streets were no more repellent than any other major British city. I’m not sure if there’s some sort of Depravity Trophy I don’t know about, but people really go the extra yard in their hedonism.
Actually, hedonism’s probably the wrong word. The cliché of hedonism is orgies, drug taking and self indulgence. People instantly gratifying themselves in all manner of naughty ways. It’s indubitably one of the sexier philosophies.
A sketchy definition of Hedonism says that basically, if it gives you pleasure, it’s the right thing to do. The logic behind that is that if everyone’s maximising pleasure, there will be more happiness overall.
Hedonism would say that if I like gobbing on old women, then it’s the right thing to do. That can’t be right, unless the old woman likes being gobbed on. Which, might I boldly add, is unlikely.
Thing is, if I’m doing what gives me pleasure, then I’m being hedonistic. So if I’m sat at home with a cardigan, a cup of tea and a crossword, I can quite rightly tell people that I’ve had a night of pure hedonism.
Of course, as a world philosophy it can never work. It’s dreadfully short-termist. It’s behaving like a five year old; ‘Present! Bike! Carboard Box! Discovering my body!’ You would have to be continually excited by all new things all the time, which would be frankly exhausting.
You see, hedonism seems so attractive in theory because it seems care-free and pleasure driven – after all, who can truly say they don’t like pleasure?
But it’s ridiculous. Everyone loves a moan about their lives, God only knows, especially in Britain. Apparently over 50% of the British population would emigrate were they given the chance. MORE THAN HALF. I say good. Fuck off. I’d much rather live in a country without you miserable dicks complaining your way through the cheese aisle. Go and live on an estate in Spain with your villa. I give it 2 years maximum before you hate that too because unfortunately for you, you will always be you. That’s the big irony. The one thing you’re really trying to escape from is the only thing you can’t. Which makes me giggle.
Shit. I’ve digressed quite angrily there. Back onto hedonism and why it’s a fools game. I think the digression will pan out to seem relevant. Actually I don’t, but I’m going to have a massive stab at blagging it.
Here’s your problem. If you’re truly going to live the life of a hedonist, you’re going to quite quickly be rejected from society. If you just ignore everything that doesn’t cause you pleasure, you’ll end up losing your job, money, house, relations and friends.
Another irony; by living a hedonistic lifestyle, you’ll end up not being allowed to continue. Once you’ve lost your job, money and friends, you’re a tramp. In my limited experience, tramps tend not to be welcomed into orgies with open arms. It’s kind of bad form, despite which it’s hard to get anyone to even touch your old chap when your cologne of choice is Dry Blackthorn.
Plus the actuality of an orgy is horrid. In principle it might be all jolly hockey sticks at the time, but you can’t ignore the fact that at some point in the future,someone is going to have to mop up.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had to sign a confidentiality agreement. I just signed my first one. It concerns the most pointless, trivial nonsense imaginable. If I told you what it was, you’d be offended by how bored I was making you.
Problem is that I’ve signed a legally binding document that relates to what comes out of my mouth: something over which my brain has little control. It seems unfair that I could be punished (I’m not sure what the punishment is actually – a gagging order?) for just saying some boring words. I’m really tempted to put it on here, but I know that would lead to trouble. And I’m nothing if not a specialist at cowardice.
I’d love to live with a ‘don’t give a fuck’ philosophy that lets you do things like parachute jumps, motorbiking and knocking on peoples’ doors then running away. But as soon as I get into one of those situations my brain starts telling me that it’s life-threatening, and that I’d be better off just sitting on a. I’d love to go on the back of a motorbike, but I’d hate to have to explain afterwards why the bike now smells of piss.
Admittedly, it’s a fairly rare game of ‘Knock Down Ginger’ that ends with death. It would have to be a very, very wrong door to choose. I don’t know, a gun-toting athlete maybe, or a circus knife-thrower who’s become recently deranged. Spurious, you might think, but in my head these are REAL dangers.
I don’t play the guitar, for the reason that if you leave spare guitar strings lying around the house, all you’re doing is arming any would-be assassin. The door to my house is well secured, although not too well secured; what if you manage to lock yourself inside the house with your nemesis? Imagine fumbling with a clumsy deadlock whilst trying to repel the hammer blows – it clearly doesn’t bear thinking about.
Yet, with all these fears eating away at my potential experiences, I’m utterly against the right to defend yourself. If I’m attacked, and I’m allowed to defend myself, then not only am I in a brawl, but then there’s the added humiliation of having them laugh at how shit I am at fighting. I’m willing to lose a few ribs in a scuffle, but certainly not my dignity.
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October 6 2006
People hold a lot of store by being ‘modern’, as if it’s a good thing. Modern is such a nebulous idea, that people use it to cover up all manner of failings. Two prime examples of this:
1. ‘Oh, it’s not that I can’t hold down a job, I’ve just got a portfolio career. Yah, it’s modern you realise.’
2. ‘No, no, no. You misunderstand. I’m not a flagrant whore. It’s just modern to sleep around you realise.’
No, I don’t realise actually. Unless modern means the utter erosion of any value that was ever held dear, then I’m afraid I just don’t realise.
On the same point, the worst thing the Americans ever did was introduce the world to openness of emotion. I’m perfectly happy not crying and snotting all over you thanks very much, and I’d imagine you’d rather it didn’t happen either. Good news all round, and thank God there’s still some people left with the decency to bottle up their emotions. And to the charge that it’s unhealthy: With the money I’ll save on not having to clean tears out of my shirts, I can afford a perfectly good psychologist.
It’s not a problem when you’re around acceptable company, people with whom you have a tacit agreement that you would NEVER ruin their day by displaying some kind of embarrassing show of malaise or affection or whatever.
It’s when you meet new people. There’s not many phrases I hate hearing more than: ‘I think we’re going to be really good friends’.
Like fuck we are. Maybe if you didn’t say creepy things we would have had a chance. For Fuck’s Sake; have you never watched a horror film? People who make predictions about friendship ALWAYS end up taking you and either using you as food for some kind of malevolent pet or as a glorified dildo. Why would you choose to make such an unnecessary display of kindness to someone you hardly know? So if you meet me, and you have a hunch that we might be good friends, just remember that you don’t know me very well, and I am approaching the whole social engagement from the standpoint that you are a potential freak/rapist/bore/swinger/killer/cat lover.
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November 1 2006
I’ve just had Chowder for lunch. I don’t know if Chowder is officially different to soup, or a sub-genus of soup. It certainly feels more manly to go around telling people you’re full of Chowder than full of soup.
I’m supposed to be frantically writing a new show, but the enormity of the task is making it seem unfeasible. Very frustrating and intimidating. My rather adult response has been to wander into a room, sigh, then wander into another room, sigh, and repeat until something happens to disrupt the routine. On this occasion what disrupted the routine was the fact that I’d not turned the hob off after cookin’ up some ‘o my Chowder, and a towel was singed. I leapt to the rescue of the towel, as only a true consumer of Chowder would.
The telly would be the perfect distraction tool (many people use it to distract them for the entirety of their lives), except it’s boring listening to people in ill-fitting suits BANGING ON about the bloody environment.
The planet’s fucked, and that’s a good thing. Maybe we’ll learn our lesson when we’ve all got asthma.
It’s surely better to be ignorant of global warming and the like. Then you can bumble along life without having to separate out plastics and cans. The world would end anyway, all we’ve done is speed it up – it’s better to live fast die young, anyway. Earth is like the James Dean of the solar system.
Of course, you could well level the accusation at me that it seems to be a fairly selfish outlook; whilst we burn up the planet, there’ll be nothing left for future generations. Well good. Future generations will be almost entirely made up of dickheads, certainly if the current generation is any kind of meaningful precedent. Plus, they might have a lovely time. The chemicals might eventually mutate, and the human race will evolve gills and wings and they’ll be able to fly. Now who’s got the worst deal? They can fly and breathe underwater, I can’t even get on the property ladder.
That’s pretty much all I’ve got to say on the environment. It’s boring and it’s already fucked, so can everyone please, please change the subject.
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November 27 2006
Having completed many miles this week (by car), I’m delighted to report that I’ve survived. The mental state of the British motorist deserves a little scrutiny. I’m not sure if there’s been some kind of communication breakdown, but the speed limits are supposed to indicate a MAXIMUM permitted speed. Most people treat them more like a guideline minimum; I was made to feel guilty for doing merely 32mph in a 30mph zone.
The government want people to slow down, so that fewer of us die and there’s still a population around to govern. I know it’s hard to see through the utter contempt with which we are all treated, but the government do want us alive and here. Granted, their job would be a lot easier without us meddlesome electorate to have to consider, but it’s not quite as much fun to lie to nobody.
So they don’t want us dead, and would therefore like us to slow down our road speeds. For years they’ve struggled with this, but recently cottoned onto something rather clever; telling the public that by slowing down, they will save money.
If there’s one thing the general public enjoy more than driving fast, it’s saving money. Lovely solution to a problem. If you can’t find a positive way out, just appeal to a negative. It makes sense; people’s negative facets are far more abundant.
Aside from motoring, I’ve come to a profound and disappointing point in my life. I will never be able to wear a hat.
I’m far from being a vain man, however I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for natty headgear. Whilst I never really suited hats as a youth (a toddler in a trilby is a sight for sore eyes), I thought my head would grow into a decent hat-wearing shape eventually.
Alas, I think the tectonic plates of my skull have ground to a halt, leaving me with a head that cannot be hatted without me looking like a fool. It’s a dreadful shame. I suppose I could still wear hats around the house, with the door locked and the curtains closed. just me on my own, performing my Naughty Hat Parade.
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December 7 2006
Increasingly, one is demanded to define oneself through the music to which they listen, which is a source of constant angst for people who want to look cool.
It’s about belonging, really; everyone wants to be a part of some kind of group or clique so that they can fool themselves that they have some kind of meaningful identity. If you want to seem intelligent you’ll join a book club, if you want to appear to be unpredictable and dangerous you’ll get something pierced, if you want to come across as an utter, utter cockface you’ll join a golf club. That’s how things work.
But with music it’s such a bore. Ask anyone what kind of music they like, their kneejerk response will be ‘a bit of everything, as long as it’s good music, it doesn’t matter to me’. Defensive, you see. Nobody’s keen to nail their colours to the mast in case it’s met with derision. The problem here is that you are associated with the paraphanalia that comes with any music and that’s simply unfair.
Just because I happen to enjoy country music and power ballads, does NOT automatically turn me into some kind of gay cowboy. I don’t even like horses. Just because I enjoy a driving rhythm or twangy guitars entails nothing regarding riding anything or anyone.
Some of the patterns ring true; if you’re under 40 and you seriously enjoy classical music, then it’s pretty certain you’ll be some kind of serial killer. If you’re a fan of hardcore trance music alone, I would imagine you to have a fondness for sweating.
It’s amazing how influenced people will be based on your music. I overheard the tail end of a conversation recently which went ‘He’s a bit racist, but he’s really into Tom Waits, so we got on fine’. It’s a bafflement. Suddenly you can buy integrity in HMV.
And by the way, if you ‘get’ experimental jazz, no you don’t: YOU’RE WRONG. It’s a massive hoax on the music world. It’s like religion: you have to believe in a quality that you can’t hear, see or comprehend.
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December 13 2006
I didn’t choose my own name. Nobody does. It’s a scary day when a mother looks down at her newborn child and immediately it says ‘Good morning. Call me Arthur.’
Over time, however, I’ve got used to my name. Again, that’s to be expected. Life would be a torrid experience if you never really got used to your name. One of my friends is a teacher, and has a child in her class called ‘Isaac Cox’. That’s a name to which I presume you’d rather not become accustomed.
This week, I have been FORCED to change my name. My agent wants to put me in some acting book (fuck knows why, my acting is worse than my skiing, and I’ve never been skiing), and I’m not allowed the same name as someone else. So just because some inferior Dan Atkinson chose the hapless acting profession and lingers in some book whilst he wastes his life working in Starbucks, all of a sudden I’m not allowed to be known by the same handle my parents gave me.
I was incensed. I’m still slightly chippy.
Given that this in my view is a civil liberties issue, I insisted to my agent that were my name to change it would have to be ‘Captain Incredible’ and I wasn’t going to comprimise. They came down heavily on that saying that I wouldn’t be taken seriously if that were my name. Surely that’s the fucking point. Anyway, I comprimised because a confrontation loomed and I’m shit at them.
First thing was to keep my own christian name. I have no desire to change it, and I wouldn’t respond if people called me by something else; I have the learning curve of a large dribbly dog.
So I have got to keep ‘Dan’ or ‘Daniel’ at the start. First thought was ‘Daniel Pearl’. Purely from a practical point of view that’s got to be available because he copped it in Iraq. Apparently that’s no good either.
Daniel Defoe is quite cool, but if we’re all being frank here, it’s rather wanky too.
I settled on ‘Dan Rice’. Look him up on Wikipedia.
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January 2 2007
For the two-hundrend and fourth day running, today I failed to put up a shelf. A turning point. My epiphany was this: how much better will my existence be if I just have my belongings at head height? Unless they are hats, not much. The floor is for things to be on, so I’ve decided to stop fighting gravity.
As a treat for the new year, I did my tax today. I surmised that if I started the year by perfoming a task that is probably the only thing less pleasant than burning to death, the rest of the year will be simply marvellous by comparison. It’s a strange mix of numbing boredom and at the same time shame mixed with horror at the amount of packet sandwiches it is possible for a human to consume over a single tax year. Accountants get a lot of sterotyping that I would like to break apart; any being that choses to do that all day every day deserves their own helicopter (or treat of equivalent amazingness if they don’t like helicopters).
I’m currently wearing a hat. I look stupid but it doesn’t matter because I’m alone. I win again!!!
The other thing of note that happened was the plumber coming round. I want to write here what I thought about that, but I’ve just become overcome with an urgent feeling that he could feasibly read this. I know he won’t, but he could, and if I put down what I think here and he does, I will feel the full length of his plumber’s snake. I’ll turn it into stand-up, where I can check my audience. Look out for my plumber vitriol at upcoming gigs…
Aging is seldom kind. I’ve just been home for the festive period and saw a lot of faces I’ve not seen for quite some years. Everyone’s face looked the same as it did, with one notable difference: they all looked like they’d been beaten around the face with a rubber hose. My friends are, I suppose, predominantly male, and that’s got something to do with it. The male, middle-aged face is never a pleasant thing. Lumpy.
Tomorrow I’m going to the Natural History Museum with a couple of kids (legit) and I can’t wait. When you’re with kids you’re allowed to act like a nob without people realising that you’re actually a nob.