I've discovered the cure for the world's energy usage crisis, and the rising rates of obesity amongst western countries: cut back on central heating. In order to fully test this theory, I have decided to go without any heating for the last three days. Here is a rough outline of my diary over those three days:
10:45 pm, Day 1: Heating goes off. Curl up in bed. Lovely and toasty. Sleep, or, realistically, watch Life (With David Attenborough) until sleep overcomes me.
7:45 am Day 2: Wake up earlier than expected, due to desperate desire to urinate. Get up hurriedly and rush to the bathroom. Seconds later, regret getting up. Finish, and sprint back to bed. Cold is overwhelming. Get up 15 minutes later, and get into shower. Try and avoid as much time as possible outside. Get dressed faster than ever before. Go to Tesco, if only to steal their warmth. Buy energy food: bananas, apples and pasta.
6 pm Day 2: Have eaten considerable amounts of banana. Still not warm. Consider a third jumper.
7:20 pm Day 2: Already in bed. Have eaten enough pasta to keep me full until 2012. Consider hibernating. Reject the notion as outlandish, and rather too "Bearish".
10:00 pm Day 2: It gets even colder at night. Become convinced man is yet to invent an adjective suitable to describe the conditions. Settle for "Cold", in a deliberately understated way.
9 am Day 3: Wake up. Regret it. Get up to go to class. Get into shower. Leave sanctity of warming shower, and enter arctic wilderness that my bathroom has become. Convinced I saw a caribou. Flee pack of hunting wolves clad in towelled dressing down. I was I mean. Not the wolves. That'd be silly. But a very good camouflage in my bathroom. The cold is leading to mental degradation.
10 pm Day 3: Shivering. Begin writing this. Still haven't eaten since pasta meal. Still, bizarrely, feel full. Consider a second pair of socks in combination with my slippers. Reject the notion. Consider thermometer in order to accurately measure temperature. Laugh at the thermometers in one of my lecture halls that go from -30 Fahrenheit to +130. Giggle at this for ten to fifteen minutes. Finish this. Go to bed. Shivering replaced by a dull acceptance of the cold.
I am dedicated to seeing this through as an experiment. If I can do it, anyone can do it. I'm saving the planet. What are YOU doing?
Monday, 7 November 2011
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
The Butter Debacle
A chat I had with a friend about my thrilling life:
"I heard noises in the kitchen, so I went to investigate, and there were people in there, doing checks, but it meant I had to pretend I had gone in there for another reason, to get something. I panicked, and got out butter. I now have to sit and watch my butter slowly melt until they leave, or have a bread and butter slice I don't REALLY want. This is the sort of hectic activity my day entails."
"'Oh, sorry, I was just wondering what the noise was'?!"
"I'll quote the original text. "I panicked". Now, if you'd presented the scenario to me again, and said "How are you going to handle this?" I'd do what you recommended above. But at the time, my brain shifted from "Helpful" to "Panic mode". I'd overheard someone saying "I really like the smell of butter, is that a crime?!" earlier today, so butter leapt to my mind. I announced "Just, uh, just getting some butter." to the assembled crowd in the kitchen, who stared at me in silence till I got the butter out. I then gestured at the butter, as if to go "See? Butter!" in the hope this would break the tension. I shall admit now, it failed spectacularly in this regard. I don't imagine that could have gone more awkwardly."
Thrilling conclusion: I had to put the butter back, the people were still in the kitchen. In my naivete, I tried the "Gesture at butter" move again. I even threw in an eyebrow raise (Suggesting "Butter, eh? Tsk!"). In case anyone wasn't thinking I was mental, my mouth opened without me knowing about it and the words "Just putting the butter back. I like butter." had tripped out of my mouth. Aggressively bland and stupidly inane. I stopped myself, but I could feel an "mmmmm" about to come out too, so at least I salvaged something.
"I heard noises in the kitchen, so I went to investigate, and there were people in there, doing checks, but it meant I had to pretend I had gone in there for another reason, to get something. I panicked, and got out butter. I now have to sit and watch my butter slowly melt until they leave, or have a bread and butter slice I don't REALLY want. This is the sort of hectic activity my day entails."
"'Oh, sorry, I was just wondering what the noise was'?!"
"I'll quote the original text. "I panicked". Now, if you'd presented the scenario to me again, and said "How are you going to handle this?" I'd do what you recommended above. But at the time, my brain shifted from "Helpful" to "Panic mode". I'd overheard someone saying "I really like the smell of butter, is that a crime?!" earlier today, so butter leapt to my mind. I announced "Just, uh, just getting some butter." to the assembled crowd in the kitchen, who stared at me in silence till I got the butter out. I then gestured at the butter, as if to go "See? Butter!" in the hope this would break the tension. I shall admit now, it failed spectacularly in this regard. I don't imagine that could have gone more awkwardly."
Thrilling conclusion: I had to put the butter back, the people were still in the kitchen. In my naivete, I tried the "Gesture at butter" move again. I even threw in an eyebrow raise (Suggesting "Butter, eh? Tsk!"). In case anyone wasn't thinking I was mental, my mouth opened without me knowing about it and the words "Just putting the butter back. I like butter." had tripped out of my mouth. Aggressively bland and stupidly inane. I stopped myself, but I could feel an "mmmmm" about to come out too, so at least I salvaged something.
Pundemonium
"Have you ever seen a royal box at the theatre?"
"No, but I once saw Princess Anne go 4 rounds with Barry McGuigan in a Leicester bar."
I was a pretty famous silent performer for a while, but I had to give it up. Didn't want to hog the mimelight.
I saw a vulture playing with some sort of meat puppet. Must have been a carrionette.
Another bird one, I saw a man killing hundreds of seabirds on his lawn. Well, it was an albatrossity.
Obscureish music references now. Cypress Hill have recorded a political biography of Iraq's longest serving leader. It's called "Hussein in the Membrane". As part of the album, they've also recorded "Blair De Loon", a new remix of Clair de Lune, which pokes fun at Blair's record as Prime Minister, and "Bush It", which, as you don't need me to tell you, is a new take on Salt-N-Pepa's classic seminal hit, obviously aimed at George W Bush. Should be good, I'm looking forward to it. Since we're on the topic of music, this isn't a pun as such, but I'm beginning to suspect Sir Mix-a-lot and Lady Gaga haven't ACTUALLY been knighted.
I'm opening a travel agents/fish and chips shop. I'm calling it "Going Plaices". That or an Elvis Presley themed Travelodge with it's own small race-track underneath, called "Kartbrake Hotel".
Where do letters go to worship God? Commanion. Except the letter K. He's too busy running a protection bracket. I got given a date rape drug in my mail this week. It was apostroofie. Apostrophe? A post roofie? "Date Rape drug" is just a roofiemism. Euphemism? Christ, this is harder than I thought. I met up with my relative Miss O'Nim. She's a bit of a black sheep, completely the opposite of the rest of us. Aunt O'Nim, we call her. Go easy on me, I've got irritable vowel syndrome. I'm trying to fix it with my diet, I'm becoming a verbivore.
[Caution: Not a pun] If I ever have kids, I'm going to leave cryptic messages written in child's handwriting for them to find in later life and be completely baffled and confused by. Ideally, they'd ask me "What do you think this means? I found it in my room when I was clearing it out. It... It looks like I wanted to overthrow capitalism aged 7. Was I displaying communist tendencies then?" and I'd say "well, when we played snooker, you did refuse to break up the reds, declared the black fundamentally wrong for being so high value, then demanded we make every ball worth the same".
Alternative endings to that include "Whenever we played chess, you demanded that the pawns stop infighting, unite, and overthrow an outdated political elite that ruled them. We had to stop playing with kings and queens. You didn't like chess much."
"You hated monopoly, repeatedly shouting "All property is theft!" and when I charged you rent for landing on my square, you demanded the other players work with you against me. We had to make all the land publicly owned, in the centre of the board. It was a bureaucratic nightmare, but you seemed to enjoy it."
Apparently they're going to swap the hour and minute hands from small and big, respectively, to the alternative (ie, big and small, respectively). All I can say to that is "Not on my watch!".
Extreme tidying, it's the new craze sweeping the nation. Buster "the Duster" Johnson is brushing aside his competitors and mopping the floor with them. He's really cleaning up in the leagues.
THAT'S IT FOR PUNS AND OTHER RELATED SMALL THINGS.
"No, but I once saw Princess Anne go 4 rounds with Barry McGuigan in a Leicester bar."
I was a pretty famous silent performer for a while, but I had to give it up. Didn't want to hog the mimelight.
I saw a vulture playing with some sort of meat puppet. Must have been a carrionette.
Another bird one, I saw a man killing hundreds of seabirds on his lawn. Well, it was an albatrossity.
Obscureish music references now. Cypress Hill have recorded a political biography of Iraq's longest serving leader. It's called "Hussein in the Membrane". As part of the album, they've also recorded "Blair De Loon", a new remix of Clair de Lune, which pokes fun at Blair's record as Prime Minister, and "Bush It", which, as you don't need me to tell you, is a new take on Salt-N-Pepa's classic seminal hit, obviously aimed at George W Bush. Should be good, I'm looking forward to it. Since we're on the topic of music, this isn't a pun as such, but I'm beginning to suspect Sir Mix-a-lot and Lady Gaga haven't ACTUALLY been knighted.
I'm opening a travel agents/fish and chips shop. I'm calling it "Going Plaices". That or an Elvis Presley themed Travelodge with it's own small race-track underneath, called "Kartbrake Hotel".
Where do letters go to worship God? Commanion. Except the letter K. He's too busy running a protection bracket. I got given a date rape drug in my mail this week. It was apostroofie. Apostrophe? A post roofie? "Date Rape drug" is just a roofiemism. Euphemism? Christ, this is harder than I thought. I met up with my relative Miss O'Nim. She's a bit of a black sheep, completely the opposite of the rest of us. Aunt O'Nim, we call her. Go easy on me, I've got irritable vowel syndrome. I'm trying to fix it with my diet, I'm becoming a verbivore.
[Caution: Not a pun] If I ever have kids, I'm going to leave cryptic messages written in child's handwriting for them to find in later life and be completely baffled and confused by. Ideally, they'd ask me "What do you think this means? I found it in my room when I was clearing it out. It... It looks like I wanted to overthrow capitalism aged 7. Was I displaying communist tendencies then?" and I'd say "well, when we played snooker, you did refuse to break up the reds, declared the black fundamentally wrong for being so high value, then demanded we make every ball worth the same".
Alternative endings to that include "Whenever we played chess, you demanded that the pawns stop infighting, unite, and overthrow an outdated political elite that ruled them. We had to stop playing with kings and queens. You didn't like chess much."
"You hated monopoly, repeatedly shouting "All property is theft!" and when I charged you rent for landing on my square, you demanded the other players work with you against me. We had to make all the land publicly owned, in the centre of the board. It was a bureaucratic nightmare, but you seemed to enjoy it."
Apparently they're going to swap the hour and minute hands from small and big, respectively, to the alternative (ie, big and small, respectively). All I can say to that is "Not on my watch!".
Extreme tidying, it's the new craze sweeping the nation. Buster "the Duster" Johnson is brushing aside his competitors and mopping the floor with them. He's really cleaning up in the leagues.
THAT'S IT FOR PUNS AND OTHER RELATED SMALL THINGS.
Hallowe'en
Hallowe'en is fast approaching. What I like about it (The only thing I like about it) is that it immediately divides everyone into "Is prepared to dress up" and "Won't dress up". I am very much in the latter, and my plan is to make fun of people who think it'll be fun to go out as the archetypal slutty nurse, Florence Nightingale, or early 20th century ace president, William Taft, with bitter comments, which they'll be too busy having fun to notice. Worst, though, I can see a pumpkin in our kitchen, which suggests that a flatmate is actively encouraging people to get into the "Hallowe'en spirit". I am to Hallowe'en what Scrooge was to Christmas, without the ultimate redemption of the changing dreams. Bah, humbug.
Of course, sometimes with costumes, they represent a deeper or more intangible point than the mere costume being worn. "What are you dressed as?" "I'm dressed as the cutbacks to an already stretched NHS." "Are you sure you didn't accidentally pick up the skimpy nurse costume?" "Oi! The lack of length in this skirt is a METAPHOR, alright, and my eyes are up here! Pervert."
Or occasionally they're a deliberate attempt to be ironic, which is intended to be cool, but almost always comes off as incredibly annoying. That includes the gem "What are you dressed as?" "The guy who doesn't dress up for Hallowe'en" "Oh, haha, you're so VERY clever. Was the shop all out of 'someone who isn't an unrepentant arsehole?'".
As a final Hallowe'en gesture, I'm going to include a concise list of people I'm not expecting to see people dressed up as this Hallowe'en:
1980s darts sensation Bobby George.
Governor of the Bank of England Mervyn King.
5th century BC "Father of History" Herodotus.
1980s Australian cricketer Mervyn Hughes.
The last Pope to have resigned, 15th century sex-symbol Pope Gregory XII.
19th century British Prime Minister Spencer Perceval.
James Brudenell, who, as you don't need to tell me, was the 7th Earl of Cardigan, famed for leading the Charge of the Light Brigade.
Only president to have served non-consecutive terms in the US, Grover Cleveland.
I could go on. But for your sake, I shan't.
Of course, sometimes with costumes, they represent a deeper or more intangible point than the mere costume being worn. "What are you dressed as?" "I'm dressed as the cutbacks to an already stretched NHS." "Are you sure you didn't accidentally pick up the skimpy nurse costume?" "Oi! The lack of length in this skirt is a METAPHOR, alright, and my eyes are up here! Pervert."
Or occasionally they're a deliberate attempt to be ironic, which is intended to be cool, but almost always comes off as incredibly annoying. That includes the gem "What are you dressed as?" "The guy who doesn't dress up for Hallowe'en" "Oh, haha, you're so VERY clever. Was the shop all out of 'someone who isn't an unrepentant arsehole?'".
As a final Hallowe'en gesture, I'm going to include a concise list of people I'm not expecting to see people dressed up as this Hallowe'en:
1980s darts sensation Bobby George.
Governor of the Bank of England Mervyn King.
5th century BC "Father of History" Herodotus.
1980s Australian cricketer Mervyn Hughes.
The last Pope to have resigned, 15th century sex-symbol Pope Gregory XII.
19th century British Prime Minister Spencer Perceval.
James Brudenell, who, as you don't need to tell me, was the 7th Earl of Cardigan, famed for leading the Charge of the Light Brigade.
Only president to have served non-consecutive terms in the US, Grover Cleveland.
I could go on. But for your sake, I shan't.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Clearing out Fail Farm
The biggest news on the lips of the nation: Dale Farm "travellers" have been evicted! The last time an eviction was this big in the news, Big Brother was still popular and relevant (A far cry from our modern times). Yes, the travelling folk who meticulous set up full-time homes that weren't going anywhere (It's good to know I can randomly ascribe myself qualities I don't possess if they're in my heritage at some stage. On that basis, I'm a God-fearing war-mongerer, and probably addicted to opiates too. My relatives were surely alive in 19th century Britain), have been evicted from their illegally occupied land. This is just a warm-up for Britain's police force, as we plan to evict Israel from their slightly illegally occupied territories too. Consider it a pre-season friendly for the force, get to work together again, competitive fixture with no risk of failure. It couldn't go wrong. The residents soon staged a mass walk-out in protest at being made to, uh, walk out, in a bizarre twist. They've been there 10 years and sort of walked out after the police stormed the place going "If you wanted us out, you only had to ask! Tsk. We don't want to make trouble. You silly people.".
Sticking with surprising evictions having an inevitable conclusion, Libya's ex-leader Gaddafi is now dead. France said "It's an end to 40 years of tyranny" conveniently forgetting to add "Which we just stood by and watched for decades because Gaddafi was a politically expedient leader, despite his close ties with terrorism.". Britain's PM, Cameron said "I think today is a day to remember all of Colonel Gaddafi's victims" carefully not adding "Which we as a nation forgot when Tony Blair was the first major world leader to endorse him, and hung out with him, signing neato oil deals.". Of course, like all good tyrants (To take Alain Juppe's use of "Tyranny") we, that is to say, Britain and France, supplied him with weapons deals for decades. What Cameron meant to say was "This is a day for conveniently forgetting our roles in the rise and maintenance of Gaddafi, and instead remembering that we helped bring him down! Can we help the National Transitional Council, perhaps by selling you arms or buying oil?". Of course, this death was inevitable, like the sun coming up, or Britain exporting arms to people who eventually use them on their own citizens. There would have been no sense of conclusion without it, and there's nothing worse than an unfinished civil war. Of course, we're totally helping out nations under tyranny. So we're solving North Korea, right guys? No? Well, Zimbabwe? No? We must be too busy with Iran then? No? But only because we're stopping off and sorting out Syria first, right? No? Huh. I guess we're nothing better than despicable hypocrites who make politically expedient moves and claim we did it because it was "right", whilst letting the world do what is pretty obviously wrong right in front of our faces. Brilliant.
Side note: I don't want to suggest I'm bad at picking a fantasy team, but when I picked my fantasy dictator team, I went for experienced, old hands who would rake in the points, and then Mubarak goes and retires, ruining my strike force, and from nowhere, Gaddafi's out for the rest of the season with a niggling death wound he picked up in a pre-season friendly against his own citizens. Not to mention the surprise move by Ben Ali. I'm pinning my hopes on Bashar al-Assad (Captain) and Ahmadinejad (Vice-captain).
In other news, people in America and Britain have gathered in order to protest.. uh, stuff. In general. Some of the stuff they're complaining about includes fiscally irresponsible behaviour by banks, which were let off the hook from both regulation and having to be responsible for their own failures. Also complaining about the corporate influence in modern politics (For £50,000, you can spend the night with David Cameron, and talk to him. It's easy to make the lewd comparisons to him being a high-class prostitute, obviously, but I'm better than that. I'm sure campaign donations to large political leaders in America is equally shady, possibly even more so thanks to corporations being people, and political donations being free speech, bizarrely), which seems reasonable enough to me. "We'll give you, the man who is supposed to be impartially deciding the rules of the nation, loads of money in exchange for time spent telling you what we would simply love it if you did. We may do this fairly frequently if it gets results." has the ring of untrustworthiness to it. Far be it from me to suggest giving politicians thousands of pounds would influence their decision-making, I'm merely saying it MIGHT. Protests thus far have been met in New York with the tiniest smidge of police brutality, and widespread condemnation at the fact that these people "Look funny" and "Don't have a cohesive message", despite the fact that the majority of Americans agree with the general thrust of the message which is "The American Dream is dead, and American Politics killed it". "Work hard, do your bit, and one day you could have YOUR retirement plan generously donated to global banks because of their shortcomings!" seems to be the gist of their social security system just now.
There's been a Greek general strike. Obvious jokes at the ready: "How did anyone notice?" and "What did they do differently?" and "Didn't that start around 440 BC with the release of Histories by Herodotus?". This is in protest at the aggressive austerity measures enforced in the face of their somewhat laid-back lifestyle (Retirement age of 61, the minor issue of not really paying the taxes they owe, etc). I sincerely doubt the strikes will cause Greece to go "Fine, let's go bankrupt! THAT'S a good idea! Jeez. For the country that invented democracy, we're not very good at it.". The Greek finance minister must be spending his days alternately hiding beneath his desk and telling his secretary to clear his appointments, and weeping in a therapist's office, saying "It all started when I was a boy, and I bought toys with money I didn't really have, on credit! You're right!".
That's enough news. We're done here.
Sticking with surprising evictions having an inevitable conclusion, Libya's ex-leader Gaddafi is now dead. France said "It's an end to 40 years of tyranny" conveniently forgetting to add "Which we just stood by and watched for decades because Gaddafi was a politically expedient leader, despite his close ties with terrorism.". Britain's PM, Cameron said "I think today is a day to remember all of Colonel Gaddafi's victims" carefully not adding "Which we as a nation forgot when Tony Blair was the first major world leader to endorse him, and hung out with him, signing neato oil deals.". Of course, like all good tyrants (To take Alain Juppe's use of "Tyranny") we, that is to say, Britain and France, supplied him with weapons deals for decades. What Cameron meant to say was "This is a day for conveniently forgetting our roles in the rise and maintenance of Gaddafi, and instead remembering that we helped bring him down! Can we help the National Transitional Council, perhaps by selling you arms or buying oil?". Of course, this death was inevitable, like the sun coming up, or Britain exporting arms to people who eventually use them on their own citizens. There would have been no sense of conclusion without it, and there's nothing worse than an unfinished civil war. Of course, we're totally helping out nations under tyranny. So we're solving North Korea, right guys? No? Well, Zimbabwe? No? We must be too busy with Iran then? No? But only because we're stopping off and sorting out Syria first, right? No? Huh. I guess we're nothing better than despicable hypocrites who make politically expedient moves and claim we did it because it was "right", whilst letting the world do what is pretty obviously wrong right in front of our faces. Brilliant.
Side note: I don't want to suggest I'm bad at picking a fantasy team, but when I picked my fantasy dictator team, I went for experienced, old hands who would rake in the points, and then Mubarak goes and retires, ruining my strike force, and from nowhere, Gaddafi's out for the rest of the season with a niggling death wound he picked up in a pre-season friendly against his own citizens. Not to mention the surprise move by Ben Ali. I'm pinning my hopes on Bashar al-Assad (Captain) and Ahmadinejad (Vice-captain).
In other news, people in America and Britain have gathered in order to protest.. uh, stuff. In general. Some of the stuff they're complaining about includes fiscally irresponsible behaviour by banks, which were let off the hook from both regulation and having to be responsible for their own failures. Also complaining about the corporate influence in modern politics (For £50,000, you can spend the night with David Cameron, and talk to him. It's easy to make the lewd comparisons to him being a high-class prostitute, obviously, but I'm better than that. I'm sure campaign donations to large political leaders in America is equally shady, possibly even more so thanks to corporations being people, and political donations being free speech, bizarrely), which seems reasonable enough to me. "We'll give you, the man who is supposed to be impartially deciding the rules of the nation, loads of money in exchange for time spent telling you what we would simply love it if you did. We may do this fairly frequently if it gets results." has the ring of untrustworthiness to it. Far be it from me to suggest giving politicians thousands of pounds would influence their decision-making, I'm merely saying it MIGHT. Protests thus far have been met in New York with the tiniest smidge of police brutality, and widespread condemnation at the fact that these people "Look funny" and "Don't have a cohesive message", despite the fact that the majority of Americans agree with the general thrust of the message which is "The American Dream is dead, and American Politics killed it". "Work hard, do your bit, and one day you could have YOUR retirement plan generously donated to global banks because of their shortcomings!" seems to be the gist of their social security system just now.
There's been a Greek general strike. Obvious jokes at the ready: "How did anyone notice?" and "What did they do differently?" and "Didn't that start around 440 BC with the release of Histories by Herodotus?". This is in protest at the aggressive austerity measures enforced in the face of their somewhat laid-back lifestyle (Retirement age of 61, the minor issue of not really paying the taxes they owe, etc). I sincerely doubt the strikes will cause Greece to go "Fine, let's go bankrupt! THAT'S a good idea! Jeez. For the country that invented democracy, we're not very good at it.". The Greek finance minister must be spending his days alternately hiding beneath his desk and telling his secretary to clear his appointments, and weeping in a therapist's office, saying "It all started when I was a boy, and I bought toys with money I didn't really have, on credit! You're right!".
That's enough news. We're done here.
Monday, 10 October 2011
LibDems are a lot like a First Love (Part 2)
The LibDems are a lot like first love. But there's always got to be a point where it all goes wrong. Where you're left wondering "What did I do? What could I have done better?". You've built up an identity around being a LibDem voter. All of a sudden, with a few injudicious choices that's not an option anymore. Sure it's fair to say there's blame on both sides. Did you really do everything you could do to be a better LibDem? Did they really do everything they could do to keep you voting LibDem? It's hard to say.
You start by looking at yourself, blaming yourself. "I could have done more. She let me down because I didn't give her any choices. I was a terrible party-voter.", but you soon snap out of it. You switch to denial. "She'll come back. She can't go on without me. It'll be fine. I'll be a better voter this time. I can change.", but after a bit of time has passed, it switches to anger. "She sold me out! I can't believe that two-faced cow of a political party! She said she loved me! She was just paying me lip-service! She was just using me! she's used people before me and she'll go on using people after me. I don't need her anyways!". Then you go to the classic third stage of grief: Bargaining. "I'll take her back if she repeals the Digital Economy Act. I'm sure she will. I can trust her if she does. Who cares about Tuition Fees? Everyone makes mistakes. She fell in with a bad crowd, what could she have done?".
Then you switch to depression. You wake up every morning thinking "God, I wish there was a political party that truly represented the best interests of me and the common man. Goddamn it!" and then roll over. They dominate your waking moments, the loss you feel. You've always identified yourself as a LibDem voter. What are you now? Just a floating voter? Back on the political market? You go out to political rallies, trying to see if another party will catch your eye, but you don't really feel it. There's only one party for you in your heart. The LibDems. But that's not an option anymore.
Eventually you arrive at acceptance. This is the stage where you write annoying blog posts comparing a seemingly meaningless political mishap to the genuine heartbreak of a relationship ending. You know that, perhaps, political monogamy isn't for you just yet, it's maybe too soon for you to be settling down with a political party for the rest of your life. You're still young. Perhaps there will be a time when, a few years from now, you bump into the LibDems at a news broadcast held by your mutual friend. You say to each other "You look well.", and there's still a little spark there. Time heals all wounds, and you begin to see the saucy glint in her that says "I'm as left wing as you're going to get from mainstream parties", and the chemistry flows. You've both grown up a little. Perhaps there's still a chance for the LibDems in your heart.
You start by looking at yourself, blaming yourself. "I could have done more. She let me down because I didn't give her any choices. I was a terrible party-voter.", but you soon snap out of it. You switch to denial. "She'll come back. She can't go on without me. It'll be fine. I'll be a better voter this time. I can change.", but after a bit of time has passed, it switches to anger. "She sold me out! I can't believe that two-faced cow of a political party! She said she loved me! She was just paying me lip-service! She was just using me! she's used people before me and she'll go on using people after me. I don't need her anyways!". Then you go to the classic third stage of grief: Bargaining. "I'll take her back if she repeals the Digital Economy Act. I'm sure she will. I can trust her if she does. Who cares about Tuition Fees? Everyone makes mistakes. She fell in with a bad crowd, what could she have done?".
Then you switch to depression. You wake up every morning thinking "God, I wish there was a political party that truly represented the best interests of me and the common man. Goddamn it!" and then roll over. They dominate your waking moments, the loss you feel. You've always identified yourself as a LibDem voter. What are you now? Just a floating voter? Back on the political market? You go out to political rallies, trying to see if another party will catch your eye, but you don't really feel it. There's only one party for you in your heart. The LibDems. But that's not an option anymore.
Eventually you arrive at acceptance. This is the stage where you write annoying blog posts comparing a seemingly meaningless political mishap to the genuine heartbreak of a relationship ending. You know that, perhaps, political monogamy isn't for you just yet, it's maybe too soon for you to be settling down with a political party for the rest of your life. You're still young. Perhaps there will be a time when, a few years from now, you bump into the LibDems at a news broadcast held by your mutual friend. You say to each other "You look well.", and there's still a little spark there. Time heals all wounds, and you begin to see the saucy glint in her that says "I'm as left wing as you're going to get from mainstream parties", and the chemistry flows. You've both grown up a little. Perhaps there's still a chance for the LibDems in your heart.
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Dead Baby Jokes
Hi. This is a public service announcement. It's about Dead Baby Jokes. You know what I mean. Here's an example. I googled "Best Dead Baby Joke", got redirected to a site DEDICATED to them. The gem they picked out: "What's the best sound in the world? Hearing dead baby's hips crack under pressure!".
I think it's fair to say NONE of us could possibly deny the humour in this joke. It's clearly hilarious. It's the funniest thing I've heard all day, but all these dead babies don't talk much. Haha, I made one of my own. These are great!
The dead baby joke is one of society's worst inventions. It's the last refuge of people who want to sound edgy and interesting without actually being edgy or interesting. They're a joke, in the same way as anyone who tells one honestly thinking it's funny is a joke. I'll admit, comedy is very subjective, it's hard to determine what's funny and what isn't. But I think we can all agree, collectively that "Hearing dead baby's hips crack under pressure" isn't ever the punchline to a joke. If you find the idea of a dead baby's hips breaking funny, you're seriously wrong.
"But it's funny because it challenges the social norms"
"Haha, I just punched you in the face, totally unexpectedly, because it's not a social norm! Haha! You're right, this IS fun!"
Breaking a taboo with a message or even some sort of wit is fine. But this is just saying something to be offensive and get a reaction. People DO laugh, because it isn't acceptable, and they feel a frisson of excitement, but it isn't funny. The reason people have to resort to saying dead baby jokes is because they don't actually have anything interesting or edgy to say.
Prepared Edginess ©: Saying things society won't let you say™, available at all good shops.
I sincerely hope this becomes the top link on Google for "Dead Baby Jokes", so that they read this and go "Christ, he's right, I'm hiding behind this shield because I can't interact in a manner which makes me seem like the person I want to be, that is, edgy and dangerous, without relying on someone else to tell me what I should say to be outside social norms. Perhaps I should just pack it all in, and get some of my own opinions, and decide who I am, not make up a fake persona for myself derived of who I want to be clashing wildly with who I am. Some people are just normal people. I am one of those people.".
If this compels at least one person to stop telling dead baby jokes, I can consider it a success. If YOU'RE thinking about making a dead baby joke, STOP. Thanks.
I think it's fair to say NONE of us could possibly deny the humour in this joke. It's clearly hilarious. It's the funniest thing I've heard all day, but all these dead babies don't talk much. Haha, I made one of my own. These are great!
The dead baby joke is one of society's worst inventions. It's the last refuge of people who want to sound edgy and interesting without actually being edgy or interesting. They're a joke, in the same way as anyone who tells one honestly thinking it's funny is a joke. I'll admit, comedy is very subjective, it's hard to determine what's funny and what isn't. But I think we can all agree, collectively that "Hearing dead baby's hips crack under pressure" isn't ever the punchline to a joke. If you find the idea of a dead baby's hips breaking funny, you're seriously wrong.
"But it's funny because it challenges the social norms"
"Haha, I just punched you in the face, totally unexpectedly, because it's not a social norm! Haha! You're right, this IS fun!"
Breaking a taboo with a message or even some sort of wit is fine. But this is just saying something to be offensive and get a reaction. People DO laugh, because it isn't acceptable, and they feel a frisson of excitement, but it isn't funny. The reason people have to resort to saying dead baby jokes is because they don't actually have anything interesting or edgy to say.
Prepared Edginess ©: Saying things society won't let you say™, available at all good shops.
I sincerely hope this becomes the top link on Google for "Dead Baby Jokes", so that they read this and go "Christ, he's right, I'm hiding behind this shield because I can't interact in a manner which makes me seem like the person I want to be, that is, edgy and dangerous, without relying on someone else to tell me what I should say to be outside social norms. Perhaps I should just pack it all in, and get some of my own opinions, and decide who I am, not make up a fake persona for myself derived of who I want to be clashing wildly with who I am. Some people are just normal people. I am one of those people.".
If this compels at least one person to stop telling dead baby jokes, I can consider it a success. If YOU'RE thinking about making a dead baby joke, STOP. Thanks.
A Thousand Milibands in a Band.
It was the Labour Conference! I expect you watched little else, glued as your were to your screen by an unwavering support for the left wing. Ed Miliband gave his best rendition of someone who isn't hateful (Although didn't manage to portray someone who isn't boring. His speech is below the "Public loos with views" video story. Ed Miliband is objectively less interesting than the developments in portable excretion devices). He opened with some jokes (If I ever make a political speech to an audience thousands, I think it'd be an ideal place to test out how good my scriptwriters' jokes are too), which pained me. It's a Labour conference, not the Edinburgh Fringe. Just tell me what overarching and unachievable policies you'll idly promise the nation. And what a great bunch of policies they were. Starting with "Journalists' Register", a licence for reporters. And if they misbehave, that licence gets revoked. Similar to doctors and drivers, except when they screw up, someone/some people die, whereas when a journalist screws up, either ethically or factually, they get sued for libel or criminal activities. Logic dictates that if a journalist keeps getting sued, people won't want to hire him. Still, fundamentally bizarre as an idea, seemingly put in there deliberately to garner public support after the phone hacking fiasco (Far be it from me to suggest Labour are doing things with anything other than the purest of intentions). Speaking of not doing things with the purest of intentions, Miliband attacked companies for being ruthlessly capitalist, despite the fact they don't exist to make friends, or act as a force of moral good upon the nation, they exist to accumulate wealth. Portraying them as requiring morals simply isn't fair, it's up to governments to enforce morals on them. Corporations are like toddlers, specifically toddlers who really, REALLY love biscuits. you've got to smack their hands when they steal your biscuit tin, or you'll be left going "Who's had all my custard creams!?" with a toddler covered in crumbs going "It wasn't me" with biscuits in their mouth. The Government needs to protect biscuits. If corporations were moral beings, I doubt their sole reason for existing would be the gathering of wealth.
General, non-policy points made by Miliband: Labour wants to regain the trust of the British public. They want to make this clear, because some of us might have been confused by their lies. I was personally surprised, because I expected them to try and alienate me further. (This sort of thing annoys me. It's like when all the major parties say that they're going to be tough on crime. Of course you are. You all are. But you've all got to tell me this, individually, in case I go "My god, the Tories haven't explicitly stated they're going to be tough on crime. I guess this means they're going to let murderers run riot with a chainsaw and no remorse.". Honestly, we get it, you're all very tough on crime. Let's stop babbling on about this and go to stuff you actually disagree on so that I can differentiate you, although that's increasingly hard with identikit politicians and everyone moving to a centrist-right position. We don't have to keep saying the obvious).
Factfile on Ed Miliband
Ed "The Head" Miliband was born in 1969, and went to the same school as other, more famous luminaries, N-Dubz, where he earned his nickname, for having an unusually large head. After this, he went to Oxford and studied PPE (Unusual for a British politician). Little is known of his life between this and working for the treasury, although some Labour fans speculate that he spent 40 days and 40 nights wandering alone in the desert, and that he wrote all the Spice Girls' hits under a psuedonym. Whilst working for the treasury, he was granted a twelve month sabbatical in order to teach a course at Harvard, whereupon he was granted access to then-Senator and presidential-hopeful John Kelly. Upon his return, he was made chief economist for the country. He left this post to run for parliament in Doncaster North, a place dear to his heart, as he had spent exactly no years living there before the election. After winning the safe Labour seat, he was quickly promoted into cabinet. From there, his rise to stardom has been meteoric.
Other Stories that are thankfully not Miliband related include:
The EU wants to bring in a new financial levy of one thousandth of every transaction between institutions, or one ten-thousandth on trades in derivatives. This is, of course, an unthinkable sacrifice for the poor, defenseless banking sector to make, and Britain, last bastion of hope and joy, has vowed to protect this charming little infant from such ludicrous taxes of 0.1%. Ostensibly, the fear is that, such an insane tax hike on the poverty-stricken financial sector (Which, as well we know, more than pays its way already with the current taxes it pays) will cause it to up sticks and leave the expensive, shiny buildings in London and move elsewhere. Personally, I'm pretty certain they're bluffing. HSBC repeatedly threatens to move to Hong Kong, in the face of more financial regulation (Of course, regulators are like Dementors in Harry Potter, swooping in and destroying everything banks know and love, like the ability to shove the global economy towards a cliff then go "Look out, you'll knock it off! Would you look at that. You just broke the economy. What's the world coming to when you can't leave nice things on the edge of a cliff?", and threatening to leave completely is sort of their last Patronus spell. That is a Harry Potter-tax analogy. you do not see many of them in the wild), and increased taxes ("Pay to use the services you provide by making this an ideal place to work? Are you mad. No no, we'll have none of that nonsense") which apparently makes it financially unsuitable for them to work here. I bet Somalia could lower its taxes to 0% and it wouldn't encourage HSBC to move their operations out there.
That's the news. Ish. Two stories. I'm rusty. Give it time. I'll get it back.
General, non-policy points made by Miliband: Labour wants to regain the trust of the British public. They want to make this clear, because some of us might have been confused by their lies. I was personally surprised, because I expected them to try and alienate me further. (This sort of thing annoys me. It's like when all the major parties say that they're going to be tough on crime. Of course you are. You all are. But you've all got to tell me this, individually, in case I go "My god, the Tories haven't explicitly stated they're going to be tough on crime. I guess this means they're going to let murderers run riot with a chainsaw and no remorse.". Honestly, we get it, you're all very tough on crime. Let's stop babbling on about this and go to stuff you actually disagree on so that I can differentiate you, although that's increasingly hard with identikit politicians and everyone moving to a centrist-right position. We don't have to keep saying the obvious).
Factfile on Ed Miliband
Ed "The Head" Miliband was born in 1969, and went to the same school as other, more famous luminaries, N-Dubz, where he earned his nickname, for having an unusually large head. After this, he went to Oxford and studied PPE (Unusual for a British politician). Little is known of his life between this and working for the treasury, although some Labour fans speculate that he spent 40 days and 40 nights wandering alone in the desert, and that he wrote all the Spice Girls' hits under a psuedonym. Whilst working for the treasury, he was granted a twelve month sabbatical in order to teach a course at Harvard, whereupon he was granted access to then-Senator and presidential-hopeful John Kelly. Upon his return, he was made chief economist for the country. He left this post to run for parliament in Doncaster North, a place dear to his heart, as he had spent exactly no years living there before the election. After winning the safe Labour seat, he was quickly promoted into cabinet. From there, his rise to stardom has been meteoric.
Other Stories that are thankfully not Miliband related include:
The EU wants to bring in a new financial levy of one thousandth of every transaction between institutions, or one ten-thousandth on trades in derivatives. This is, of course, an unthinkable sacrifice for the poor, defenseless banking sector to make, and Britain, last bastion of hope and joy, has vowed to protect this charming little infant from such ludicrous taxes of 0.1%. Ostensibly, the fear is that, such an insane tax hike on the poverty-stricken financial sector (Which, as well we know, more than pays its way already with the current taxes it pays) will cause it to up sticks and leave the expensive, shiny buildings in London and move elsewhere. Personally, I'm pretty certain they're bluffing. HSBC repeatedly threatens to move to Hong Kong, in the face of more financial regulation (Of course, regulators are like Dementors in Harry Potter, swooping in and destroying everything banks know and love, like the ability to shove the global economy towards a cliff then go "Look out, you'll knock it off! Would you look at that. You just broke the economy. What's the world coming to when you can't leave nice things on the edge of a cliff?", and threatening to leave completely is sort of their last Patronus spell. That is a Harry Potter-tax analogy. you do not see many of them in the wild), and increased taxes ("Pay to use the services you provide by making this an ideal place to work? Are you mad. No no, we'll have none of that nonsense") which apparently makes it financially unsuitable for them to work here. I bet Somalia could lower its taxes to 0% and it wouldn't encourage HSBC to move their operations out there.
That's the news. Ish. Two stories. I'm rusty. Give it time. I'll get it back.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
The Roman Times review of the Bible
I recently found the Times from 36 AD, carrying a review of the Bible. What follows is a translation from the original Latin.
"The Bible: God (20 Denarii)
God, 3600 time Deity of the Year, turns his hand to novels in his ambitious debut piece. The 36.73 test batting average omnipotent being chose to express his first piece through a mixture of burning bushes, parables, and interpretative dance. Essentially a stage piece reworked for general consumption, this book is certainly a hefty tome, split into two portions, the "Old" testament, and the "New" testament. God's writing style is indicative of a self-indulgent piece, at one stage suggesting that every action you perform is unto the glory of himself, and whilst he attempts to sway us with a more humanity-centric second half, you sense that ultimately, the focus never shifts from the omniscient one. The Almighty seems to be resting heavily on the laurels of creating the earth, the heavens and the seas, the opening segment reading rather more like his brief memoirs than an objective viewpoint.
Initially, you're on God's side, but as the character develops, you shift against him as he unveils unimaginable wrath for seemingly minor sins. In essence, God's character is the worst flatmate in the world, silently hating you, then leaving a thousand page note outside your door with a list of dos and don'ts. "And Lo, God said, there shall be one fridge drawer left open for my things, and he saw that this was done, and that this was good.", then condemning you to an eternity in damnation for putting your milk in his section. The character shifts towards the end of the book to someone who only wants to be loved, and will love you back, but by this stage it's hard to like him. "Don't eat shellfish! What did I tell you about eating shellfish!? It's right there in Leviticus! Are you sure you read this thing cover to cover? It's SPECIFICALLY an abomination to eat anything that lives in the sea that doesn't have scales or fins. Does this crab have any fins? Scales? I don't see any! You know how I feel about this, Dan. Eternal damnation. It's the only way you'll learn.".
His son, on the other hand, is rather more likeable. The 4 time Messiah of the Year, and Middle-East Miracle Worker of the Millennium, is rather less strict with trifling sins, instead focussing on forgiveness and absolution for these things. The 26AD Ice Skater of the Year (From where he picked up his nickname, "the Water-Walker", due to his ease and casual grace out on the ice), performs miracles for fun, yet keeps his humble exterior, which is eminently more desirable than God's vicious envy. Chronicling the life and times of Jesus, the new testament is rather more parable-based, with plenty of stories for the keen reader to bear in mind whilst trying to live a better life. That being said, he's insistent that the best way to be better as a person is not to merely do good things, but to do good things for God, indicative of the author's egotism. Although, you get the sense that if you were to leave your milk in Jesus' drawer, he'd probably just say "Hey guys, try not to leave stuff in my drawer, okay? I'll let it go this time.", rather than, say, condemning you to an eternity in the bowels of hell. It's the little things that count.
Some of the book is a little far-fetched, it must be admitted. The revival of Lazarus in particular, is hard to believe, but then again, it's a pretty accurate summary of God's career in recent years. Create world, lie low, publish Bible. Jesus' comeback, too, was unexpected and hard to believe, but then I said the same of Cicero, and his last trial was a real ripsnorter, so I guess we live and learn.
All in all, a strong basis for a worldwide religion, looking forward to God's follow up, "The Crusades and Me: My role in Middle-Eastern conflicts". 4/5"
There you have it. Pretty well-received in its day, and still going strong a mere two millenia later. The Bible, everyone.
"The Bible: God (20 Denarii)
God, 3600 time Deity of the Year, turns his hand to novels in his ambitious debut piece. The 36.73 test batting average omnipotent being chose to express his first piece through a mixture of burning bushes, parables, and interpretative dance. Essentially a stage piece reworked for general consumption, this book is certainly a hefty tome, split into two portions, the "Old" testament, and the "New" testament. God's writing style is indicative of a self-indulgent piece, at one stage suggesting that every action you perform is unto the glory of himself, and whilst he attempts to sway us with a more humanity-centric second half, you sense that ultimately, the focus never shifts from the omniscient one. The Almighty seems to be resting heavily on the laurels of creating the earth, the heavens and the seas, the opening segment reading rather more like his brief memoirs than an objective viewpoint.
Initially, you're on God's side, but as the character develops, you shift against him as he unveils unimaginable wrath for seemingly minor sins. In essence, God's character is the worst flatmate in the world, silently hating you, then leaving a thousand page note outside your door with a list of dos and don'ts. "And Lo, God said, there shall be one fridge drawer left open for my things, and he saw that this was done, and that this was good.", then condemning you to an eternity in damnation for putting your milk in his section. The character shifts towards the end of the book to someone who only wants to be loved, and will love you back, but by this stage it's hard to like him. "Don't eat shellfish! What did I tell you about eating shellfish!? It's right there in Leviticus! Are you sure you read this thing cover to cover? It's SPECIFICALLY an abomination to eat anything that lives in the sea that doesn't have scales or fins. Does this crab have any fins? Scales? I don't see any! You know how I feel about this, Dan. Eternal damnation. It's the only way you'll learn.".
His son, on the other hand, is rather more likeable. The 4 time Messiah of the Year, and Middle-East Miracle Worker of the Millennium, is rather less strict with trifling sins, instead focussing on forgiveness and absolution for these things. The 26AD Ice Skater of the Year (From where he picked up his nickname, "the Water-Walker", due to his ease and casual grace out on the ice), performs miracles for fun, yet keeps his humble exterior, which is eminently more desirable than God's vicious envy. Chronicling the life and times of Jesus, the new testament is rather more parable-based, with plenty of stories for the keen reader to bear in mind whilst trying to live a better life. That being said, he's insistent that the best way to be better as a person is not to merely do good things, but to do good things for God, indicative of the author's egotism. Although, you get the sense that if you were to leave your milk in Jesus' drawer, he'd probably just say "Hey guys, try not to leave stuff in my drawer, okay? I'll let it go this time.", rather than, say, condemning you to an eternity in the bowels of hell. It's the little things that count.
Some of the book is a little far-fetched, it must be admitted. The revival of Lazarus in particular, is hard to believe, but then again, it's a pretty accurate summary of God's career in recent years. Create world, lie low, publish Bible. Jesus' comeback, too, was unexpected and hard to believe, but then I said the same of Cicero, and his last trial was a real ripsnorter, so I guess we live and learn.
All in all, a strong basis for a worldwide religion, looking forward to God's follow up, "The Crusades and Me: My role in Middle-Eastern conflicts". 4/5"
There you have it. Pretty well-received in its day, and still going strong a mere two millenia later. The Bible, everyone.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Britain's Got Talent 2011: World's Worst Audition
I'll link you to this video, despite it being explicitly banned under the Geneva Convention as the world's most awkward thing to sit through (Along with Jim Davidson videos in an enlightened era, and video footage of Piers Morgan doing absolutely anything) in recorded history. I know what you're thinking. "How bad can it be? It's presumably a link to a Britain's Got Talent audition. At worst, it'll be mediocre.". But your confidence is misplaced, for this is no ordinary audition, this is an audition by an aspiring stand up comedienne, who's deluded herself into the frenzy of optimism required to go on this show.
Initially, it starts well. Then that dizzying 2 seconds ends, and the real nightmare begins. "What a wonderful audience". Well, she gets them onside early, a good ploy. Then she tells her first "Joke" (I had to put that in quotation marks, I tried not to, but my conscience wouldn't let me do it) and very quickly, the crowd turns from faint amusement to bafflement. "Because, I'm worth it" was possibly one of the most confusing things I've ever heard. "Still," I thought, "perhaps I'm being mean! I shall persevere.".
She launches confidently into her next "Joke", unfazed by the general audience confusion at what appeared to be, to all intents and purposes, a joke, with a delivered punchline, bar the usual funniness that comes with a joke. In the echoing silence, she drops her next bombshell of a crowd-pleaser, the line "Garlic Bread". There's nothing worse than the sound of several thousand people being quiet. I can only guess at her thought process, but it must be as follows: "I've delivered the punchline, but they're not laughing! Garlic Bread! I mean, this is GOLD! What sort of morons am I dealing with here?! They don't even laugh at the Garlic Bread line! Wait! Maybe they didn't hear me, despite them being almost eerily and unnervingly hushed, and me, armed with a microphone which is perfectly functioning. I know what I'll do! I'll say the line again. They must not have heard me. I'll say it slower too, just in case that was the problem." and out of her mouth dutifully trip the words "Garlic. Bread.".
But there was a faint air of relaxed confidence about it, which started to disturb me, and it slung the onus back on the viewer to get it. "Maybe...Maybe she's right and I'm wrong.... Maybe that IS a joke and I just can't tell... Is it? It can't be... But she's so confident! It MUST be! But it isn't! I don't know! CURSE YOU WOMAN." was my thought process. The faint ripples of laughter certainly didn't help, since they were aimed at her, but could have been people going "Oh, GARLIC BREAD! Hehehehahahoooo...".
By the time my internal monologue had wrestled itself to the conclusion that this was definitely not a joke, she'd launched cheerfully into her next joke, a classic line. It's the only one that I actually recognised as a joke. It's noticeably a joke, because it came from Peter Kay's "Live at the Manchester Arena" show. Part of me is thinking "If you're going to steal jokes, at least give them the the required context of teletext holidays. Or more realistically, if you're going to steal jokes, you might as well steal better jokes." whilst another part of me was thinking "...I suppose I should at least be thankful she told a joke.". She then gets booed off, and for some bizarre reason, swears at the audience, as if it's somehow our communal fault that she was terrible.
I could easily link this in to misplaced confidence in your own abilities, but that would leave me wildly open to scathing attacks on my writing capabilities ("Like a capybara trotted across a keyboard, and the resulting text put through a special scanner to remove anything even encroaching on witty or interesting, with the final result being what he churns out. His almost impeccable streak of talentlessness is faintly impressive." - The Times) or I could turn this on the terribleness of a joke falling flat (In my opinion, more terrifyingly hard to deal with than TB), but that would be a similar outcome ("For one so scared of jokes falling flat, his jokes are all like chords on a piano which has been specially tuned so that every note is flat by half a semitone, or like pancakes which have been placed under the heavy roller at lords before the first morning session of a difficult third test" - The Independent), but I choose to do neither of these things. I can only show you this, and hope that you recognise the terrifying world that is my existence, that I have had bad dreams about that video, and obsessed about it for months. It is not an easy life I lead, but someone has to do it.
Initially, it starts well. Then that dizzying 2 seconds ends, and the real nightmare begins. "What a wonderful audience". Well, she gets them onside early, a good ploy. Then she tells her first "Joke" (I had to put that in quotation marks, I tried not to, but my conscience wouldn't let me do it) and very quickly, the crowd turns from faint amusement to bafflement. "Because, I'm worth it" was possibly one of the most confusing things I've ever heard. "Still," I thought, "perhaps I'm being mean! I shall persevere.".
She launches confidently into her next "Joke", unfazed by the general audience confusion at what appeared to be, to all intents and purposes, a joke, with a delivered punchline, bar the usual funniness that comes with a joke. In the echoing silence, she drops her next bombshell of a crowd-pleaser, the line "Garlic Bread". There's nothing worse than the sound of several thousand people being quiet. I can only guess at her thought process, but it must be as follows: "I've delivered the punchline, but they're not laughing! Garlic Bread! I mean, this is GOLD! What sort of morons am I dealing with here?! They don't even laugh at the Garlic Bread line! Wait! Maybe they didn't hear me, despite them being almost eerily and unnervingly hushed, and me, armed with a microphone which is perfectly functioning. I know what I'll do! I'll say the line again. They must not have heard me. I'll say it slower too, just in case that was the problem." and out of her mouth dutifully trip the words "Garlic. Bread.".
But there was a faint air of relaxed confidence about it, which started to disturb me, and it slung the onus back on the viewer to get it. "Maybe...Maybe she's right and I'm wrong.... Maybe that IS a joke and I just can't tell... Is it? It can't be... But she's so confident! It MUST be! But it isn't! I don't know! CURSE YOU WOMAN." was my thought process. The faint ripples of laughter certainly didn't help, since they were aimed at her, but could have been people going "Oh, GARLIC BREAD! Hehehehahahoooo...".
By the time my internal monologue had wrestled itself to the conclusion that this was definitely not a joke, she'd launched cheerfully into her next joke, a classic line. It's the only one that I actually recognised as a joke. It's noticeably a joke, because it came from Peter Kay's "Live at the Manchester Arena" show. Part of me is thinking "If you're going to steal jokes, at least give them the the required context of teletext holidays. Or more realistically, if you're going to steal jokes, you might as well steal better jokes." whilst another part of me was thinking "...I suppose I should at least be thankful she told a joke.". She then gets booed off, and for some bizarre reason, swears at the audience, as if it's somehow our communal fault that she was terrible.
I could easily link this in to misplaced confidence in your own abilities, but that would leave me wildly open to scathing attacks on my writing capabilities ("Like a capybara trotted across a keyboard, and the resulting text put through a special scanner to remove anything even encroaching on witty or interesting, with the final result being what he churns out. His almost impeccable streak of talentlessness is faintly impressive." - The Times) or I could turn this on the terribleness of a joke falling flat (In my opinion, more terrifyingly hard to deal with than TB), but that would be a similar outcome ("For one so scared of jokes falling flat, his jokes are all like chords on a piano which has been specially tuned so that every note is flat by half a semitone, or like pancakes which have been placed under the heavy roller at lords before the first morning session of a difficult third test" - The Independent), but I choose to do neither of these things. I can only show you this, and hope that you recognise the terrifying world that is my existence, that I have had bad dreams about that video, and obsessed about it for months. It is not an easy life I lead, but someone has to do it.
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