537: Squirrels... again

I think I might be obsessed with squirrels. In the last week I have written two blog posts featuring prominent participation from squirrels (three if you include this one), and having just sat down to write a short story I seem to have written a few hundred words from the perspective of a squirrel. Of course squirrels cannot write, nor understand any form of human language (except maybe the amazing trained ones from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; yes, they are real squirrels...except the CGI ones... I obviously wasn't talking about those...), so the majority of the squirrel soliloquy is an explanation of the unlikelihood of a squirrel being able to write a story, and the request that the reader suspends their disbelief and imagines it in squirrel language. Squeaks, or whatever. It's rubbish really, but even when all you write is rubbish it's necessary to push through, to keep going. So stubbornly I will pursue the confused, apologetic squirrel soliloquy debating with itself whether it is actually speaking human or squirrel. I will pursue it and emerge the other side with either a pretty good piece of flash fiction, or as just a slightly more experienced writer with another shit short story.

Anyway the squirrels around here are rarely seen with laptop open, or even a pen and notepad, and even if they were I question their ability to use or understand the function of these advanced writing tools. If I grabbed hold of one of the bushy-tailed rodents, presented it with the gift of a stylus and wax tablet, I suspect that even that primitive and ancient technology would be far to complicated for the little squishy squirrel brain. Rather than jotting down a few words, writing E=MC², or doodling a fish with two heads, I expect little Mr or Missus Nutkin would refuse to accept the equipment into their little squirrel hands, and instead simply run away in terror at the giant alien mammal forcing mysterious objects upon it. The most advanced piece of equipment I've seen one of the local squirrels with was a paper plate, and even then it wasn't using it for anything, merely standing near it in the park. The paper plate was wedged into the iron railings of the boundary fence, and the squirrel was doing some squirrelling in the soil at the base of a great oak. I was minding my own business.

Can't promise I won't be blogging about squirrels again, but on the flip side, I can't imagine why I would. Not much left to say, and they are not among my short list of specialist subjects (kept in my wallet at all times should I ever need to go on Mastermind in an emergency).

491: No Power, No Fire

At around about eleven o'clock last night the lights all died, the ever present unnoticed electrical hum of everything faded, fire and burglar alarms began calling out in unsynchronised discord. At the same exact moment a small spring-loaded book-light on a table in the bedroom reached out its little arm to me spontaneously creating a little spot of light in the darkness about two feet below my face. A sudden power cut is surprise enough but when it is unexpectedly accompanied by a mysterious prick of light just below ones face, the confusion is next-to overloading. At the time, for a few fleeting moments, the two were inexorably connected: either one was the cause of the other, or they were both caused by or predictions of a terrific and imminent event.

I soon came to my senses and looked out of the window to see that the street lights were dead on this side of the road, but the other side was unaffected, and those lucky electric-powered buggers yonder were looking out of their illuminated living rooms to see what the racket was about. In no time we had little saucers of tea lights littered about the place, my flat mate was wandering about the darkness with a hand cranked dynamo torch, and I was reading my Mutants book by the light of the headlamp I climbed Fuji with.

Soon two fire engines had pulled up outside the house and fully equipped hunks were running about thinking where's the fire, where's the fire. Finding none, and only misfiring fire alarms and darkened windows, they struggled with what to do. After some discussion and deliberation they decided the best thing to do was to turn off the spinning blue fire engine lights, and then just hang about a bit kicking up their heels. I felt like letting them blow out the tea lights just to give them something firemanny to do. They looked so disappointed.

We realised there was no hot water, and I repeatedly tried to switch on the light every time I entered a room. It was all very exciting. Our first night back in the flat after spending new year with family; I'm glad we made it back in time. I tried to turn the laptop on but it wasn't charged. I tried to put the kettle on but it wasn't feeling up to it. I tried to run some hot water but it didn't feel like showing up. Then at midnight exactly, with a wire of restarting electrical background hum, the lights came back on, things clicked and shuffled and modern life came back. I shaved in the warm water of modernity, and bathed in the bright light of Western science and the workmanship of electricity repairmen.

413: Not Funny and Not Art

"It's a very humbling thing about being a comedian that if someone thinks you are funny, they are right; and if someone thinks you aren't funny, they're right," said Jimmy Carr on this week's episode of BBC Radio 4's The Museum of Curiosity. That's an incredibly perceptive observation. He then goes on to say, "When you write a joke it doesn't really exist as a thing until you tell some other people, and if it doesn't get a laugh it's just a sentence." Clearly Jimmy Carr, whether you like him or not, is a man who knows what he's talking about. Personally I think he's hilarious, and his jokes are brilliant minimalist snips of wordplay and misdirection.

If you don't like Jimmy Carr you would merely declare him unfunny and move on. He's just not funny; perhaps I don't get it. Or you might have specific objections: it's too rude, it's nasty, it uses subject matter which I don't think is suitable for humour. What I have never heard however is anyone claiming he isn't a comedian, or that isn't comedy. When someone is not a fan of a comedian or comedy show, they merely declare it shit, or say they don't like it, and move on to something they do like: end of story. This however never happens with art. When someone happens across a piece of art they don't like, or don't get/understand, it is very common to here the statement, that's not art.

Whether or not something is funny (which is a point of view) is subjective, but whether or not something is art is objective: it is not a point of view. As Carr stated "if someone thinks you aren't funny, they're right," but conversely if someone thinks a piece of art is not art they are always wrong. A piece of art is a piece of art and to claim otherwise will always put you in the wrong. A correct subjective statement to make about art would be "that art is shit." That's fine, and it's true; it is shit. I've talked about this before somewhere in blog-gone-past, but have course to bring the subject up again, due to the fact that at least every two months or so, I'll hear someone wrongly claiming that's not art.

Now that is temporarily out of my system, let me refer you back to the Radio show The Museum of Curiosity. It's fantastic: very funny indeed, and will introduce you to topics, facts, subjects and opinions on a wide range of subjects. If you like laughing, and like learning, and are therefore probably alive to some degree, then listen to The Museum of Curiosity. I'm now off to see if I can find old episodes on the web somewhere.

Here's a list, with YouTube videos:

The Top 10 Most Unfunny Comedians of All Time

It's by an American magazine, so it's unfairly misses out some of the truly dreadful British comedians about (Lenny Henry, Michael McIntyre...)

383: A Genuine Expression of Love, or 'Exalted the Lozenge'

Most things are shit. Some things are not. Sometimes I think I focus too much on the shit; it is easier to take the piss than express genuine praise free from sarcasm or irony. My speaking voice often misleads people into perceiving positive comments as sarcastic. As a result I withhold praise as much as possible. I will attempt to rectify that. Here is a puff-piece about something good:

It's rare I find a product that I am prepared to stand up and be counted as a fan of. That might be because it is rare that products actually function properly as advertised. Usually tedious bits of plastic, chemicals or electrical gadgetry are held up as life changing wonders. Aftershave and deodorant are promoted as wielding the power to draw clunge and cunt (hendiadys?) uncontrollably from afar. Trainers with rounded heels can magically transform the flabbiest arse into a perfect photoshop peach. Fast food restaurants are saving the rainforests, and fizzy drinks manufacturers, airlines and credit card pedlars are creating better future; a unified chorus of humanity.

But there is at least one product out there that actually does what it claims. Even better than that, it does it with a presumably modest budget, deduced by the fact I have never seen any form of advert for it; not TV or print.

Jakemans ®

Boston ENGLAND

Est 1907

THE ORIGINAL

AND FAMOUS

Throat

& Chest

Soothing Menthol Sweets

A DELICIOUS TASTING MENTHOL SWEET

MADE WITH ONLY THE FINEST INGREDIENTS

I am prone to sinus blockage. This is due to being a member of a species that walks upright on two legs, head held high, yet having evolved from four-legged ancestors. At some point our ancestors heads faced forwards and our sinuses drained freely. Now mucus pools in the evolutionary mistake we carry in our heads. Add to that my weak, allergic city-dwelling pigeon-chest and you have a recipe for a bunged up nose. My hearing goes and my head pounds as the concrete sets inside my skull. No amount of hocking, snorting or blowing will do anything to easy the pressure and clear my airways.

There is only one cure, the magnificent Jakemans Throat & Chest sweets. Tonight I had that very problem, and sucking on one menthol lozenge (also with aniseed and eucalyptus) caused my ears to pop and my nose to run. Two tissues later and my head was completely clear. The back of the packet claims once tasted they will be your favourite soothing sweet. I first tried them about three years ago on recommendation from a work colleague. I had never heard of them and was used to trying and failing with tunes, vicks, lockets, airwaves, and those little nozzles you jam up your hooter. None of them work. Jakemans do. I'm going to have another one, and quietly enjoy the freedom to breathe in and out of my nose. I'm not sponsored by them, but I wish I was.

You know what else is not shit (litotes?)? Loperamide. In fact it has the power to bring about the opposite of shit: no shit. But that's another story altogether. 

327: "It's ages since I last had caviar."

"It's ages since I last had caviar." : the most pretentious thing I said today – let's see if we can beat it. Well to begin with I've been copying the punctuation style used in James Joyce's Ulysses for the last few blogs : its all colons and semi colons, hyphens spaces and incredibly long sentences – except the difference being that Joyce was a fan of cricket, whereas I prefer fencing anc classical dressage; most pretentious of all the sports 'likess' is Wimbledon, so serve me up some strawberry's and cream, pat me on the arse and send me in after whoever is the current British star.

I get this beard wax specially imported from Guatamala – it's made using organic hair and the carapaces of a local giant crab louse – I know it sounds disgusting, but there's nothing like it – my handle bar mustache is strong and long, glossy and happy. It contains no E numbers and neither does this speciality loaf, which is baked by Bakers Against the Iraq War Co-Operative – I've hollowed the loaf out and filled it with steamed asparagus and quails eggs. It's a sandwich and a lunch box all in one – I have recycled some hemp rope into a handle for my loaf.

When I walk I hold myself to get maximum exposure : I've got something to say , but people get the measure of me the moment they see me – I use a shallow exterior to lure people in ; before they know it they are swimming in my depth. There goes the guy with a loaf on a rope people say ; other's reply I know him, he is very knowledgeble on Gothic architecture, rides a unicycle and has some interesting words to say on the real story behind 9/11 – and the people will say to me you should write poetry, I bet you'd be really good at it. And I say well.

I collect name tags from shops and fast-food restaurants and wear them together like medals on my chest and lapels – I view it as an art piece and a statement about modern man's downfall from warrior to wage slave, the disposable nature of modern culture and the temporary nature of unskilled work. I am a blogger. People think being pretentious is a bad thing , but I see it from another angle – to me being pretentious is a positive – I want to be pretentious.

I call my mum mama and my daddy Frank and I have a pet salamander called George A Romero and a complete collection of De Agostini magazines – my favourite series are British Steam Railways, Hannah Montana, and Elvis. I sit in coffee shops with my Apple computer, but that's normal ; everyone I know does that – sometimes I go along without my Apple and just sit their eating an apple, you know just people-watching waiting for that one woman (or guy, you know I'm down with that) who gets what I'm doing.

One day I'm going to wear my hair in ringlets and wear a woggle instead of tying my tie in the post-colonial way you do. You all think Heinz baked beans are the best but I actually prefer Netto own brand. I'm awesome ; you can tell just by looking at me.

Apart from the details, and the fact I made it all up; it's all true.