I Nearly 'Sploded

I've not really got anything to say today (great start to a blog; rule #1 - grab 'em with your opening sentence.) So, true to that audacious opening gambit, rather than use my time online to write an absolutely hilarious and scathingly witty post about some political thing or even an amusing snippet of my day, I succumbed to the lure every Doctor Who fan feels.

Spoilers.

I used to keep up to date with them, but then the forum changed - regenerated! (ha ha iam funni) - and I did not find the layout either as aesthetically pleasing or easily navigated as before. So I stopped checking the set reports and spoiler reports and all that. I thought I could maybe watch the new Doctor, Matt Smith, knowing nothing about what was to happen.

But I went and looked. I still don't know everything and there'll be a lot of surprises still. It's all built on speculation but what I did read made me so excited! I am a sucker for the regeneration stories anyway, I think they're great. David Tennant's debut is one of the best episodes so far of the new series, and I love most of the regneration stories from the classic series. I don't know why, but my inner fanboy goes into overdrive when I see the new Doctor in the old Doctor's costume.

[Minor Spoilers follow, if you're bothered about that sort of thing]

So I nearly 'sploded when I saw Matt Smith in David Tennant's outfit. I nearly 'sploded when I read what monsters are apparently returning (excited about all of them). I nearly 'sploded when I read that - and I hope against hope that this is true - apparently the new Doctor's face will be incorporated into the opening titles a la Classic Who. And I nearly 'sploded when I read that not only might we see new rooms in the TARDIS (including a lab!) but there might be a story set entirely inside the TARDIS.

This is all making me grin from ear to considerably sized ear. I am a sad person, but by embracing that fact I am irrevocably happy. Is that a paradox?

Family Blogs

This is weird. Today I've struggled to find anything to blog about. Aside from a trip to the tip to dump the elderbush I chopped down and a jaunt to the supermarket to buy some beer, nothing has gone on. So I went back reading old posts to see if they would light the blogging fire deep within my blogger soul. They didn't. But I found an old post about those 'Family Blogs', where families blog about what they've been up to.

I thought it was quite a good post, if I say so myself. I remembered that when I wrote that post, I'd happened upon a family blog when I idly clicked 'next blog'. I thought, well if that yielded results then, then it might now.

So I clicked. And was taken here.

They must be more common than I'd thought. Especially when I took a look at this particular blog's 'favourite blogs list', here called 'Bloggers We Love.' 77 blogs and - of those 77 - 63 are Family Blogs. One of them 'The Nilsen Family.'

I had to take a look. How could I resist? Within seconds of seeing that blog on the list my mind was already imagining posts such as;

"Denis, bless him, celebrated his 64th birthday the other day. It wasn't a big or particularly happy gathering, what with him being incarcerated in Full Sutton maximum security prison on account of him being caught for killing 15 - that we know of - men and boys after his disposal of dismembered human entrails blocked his household drains. Still, 64! The family started to think, at some point in the late 80s, that he wouldn't make it this far. We were so happy when he made 50 without stringing himself up to a light fitting with his boot laces. But then we remembered that he always wore velcro ones."

Unfortunately, the Nilsen family blog doesn't seem to exist anymore. Just as well. Serial killer family blogs would probably not make good reading. That's why there is no West Family Blog....

Hold on.

No, here it is. I think the picture is evidence that the Wests managed to put everything behind them and make it all up to each other. Water under the patio, so to speak.

Anyway, I did a bit of ad hoc searching (you can do that with Google and stuff, it's dead good) and found that, yes, there is a Stokes Family Blog, these Stokeses being from Green Bay in Wisconsin. As far as I know, they are no relation. The wife is Michelle and - get this - the husband, Mr Stokes, is Chris. She is a senior Environmental Manager for a utility company and Chris Stokes is an Industrial Chemist. They love every second of their busy life and are, at the moment, decorating for Christmas.

I thought that odd, that I would rediscover an old post about family blogs and then find another one straight away. I hope I don't get drawn into following loads of families' blogs. I'm not pouring scorn on them, it's just that there's too many of them. Although if I find the Manson Family Blog, I will probably be hooked.

...

Conforming somewhat to the shop assistant cliche

"Excuse me, love?" came the voice of an elderly lady as I had my back to her sorting short sleeved ladies' clothes from long sleeved ladies' clothes (the two being together are like matter and anti-matter meeting and could result in the destruction of the cosmos). I stopped what I was doing and turned around.

"Oh sorry," she said, "I thought you was a lady."

However amusing that was - and it really was; I couldn't stifle a chuckle - what amused me more was that she could have internalised that statement and I would never have known she had mistaken me for a woman, nor would she have the embarrassment of me knowing she had mistaken me for a woman when I am in fact a man.

It just tickled me that she said it out loud.

Conforming somewhat to the shop assistant cliche I asked the boring, conventional question, "How can I help?" While the question was mundane, what I could do to help turned out not to be. I certainly wasn't expecting that to be what I could do to help. Most of the responses to the 'how can I help' question tend to be, "Can you tell me how much this is?" or, "Are these included in the offer?" or, "Do you sell doggie calendars?"

But this woman presented me with a woolly hat with the flaps that come down over the ears and said, "Put that on your head."

I took it from her and looked at her a little warily, it has to be said. While the head is the optimum place to wear the item she had given me, I was confused as to why she wanted me to put it on my own head.

"It's for a three year old but he has a very large head," she said, presumably in answer to my wary look.

How big was this three year old's head? Is my head small enough to be the same size as a three-year-old's large head? Apparently so. It felt quite bewildering to be a woman and then immediately afterwards a model of headwear for horrifically deformed infants, but I suppose it stopped the day being boring, and provided me with something to blog about (see this post for further reference).

Mmmmmmmonday

Good news and bad news. Bad news is the splinter's still there, causing mild irritation every time it hits a key on the keyboard. And it stings a bit more than the rest of my hand when it is submerged in hot water that's a little bit too hot.

Which means the good news is the money came in so the bill got paid, tickets to London got bought and the birthday card got set. I also bought some biscuits, rooibos tea and some yoghurt as well. So today has been a great day! A really good one. Even though I spent most of it cleaning the house, which you would think would make it a bad day, it has been a day I've really enjoyed.

I'm writing this while a butternut squash risotto I'm preparing simmers on the stove, which means there's a lovely butternut-squashy smell. I think this smell typifies my day. Mmmm. Not "AAAAAARGGGGHHHH HOW BRILLIANT!" or "BOOOOOOOOOO HOW UTTERLY SHITTILY RUBBISHLY RUBBISH." But, "Mmmmm..." Or, "Aaahhhh." Mmmmmmmonday.

What a thoroughly lovely day. I am such a sad little person that I'm so excited about having a cup of tea and a bourbon biscuit later, sitting in bed reading the...

Shit!

I forgot to get a newspaper. Oh for God's sake, this is the worst day anyone's ever had ever! MondAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!

It Won't Even Be the Remotest Bit of Fun

Sunday started out much like yesterday; newspaper, cup of tea. I've also got made an amazing hot chocolate with chilli and ginger in it and a brilliant lunch. But then I got a splinter whilst chopping down an elderbush (the splinter still in my finger at the moment) and it became apparent that I may not get paid in time to a) pay a bill that needs paying, b) arrange travel to London and back and c) buy a birthday card.

So that's not put me in the best of moods.

Still, the lunch and hot chocolate were amazing. But that probably won't mean anything to the promoters of the gig in London, the person whose birthday it is or Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs.

I made my finger all the more sore by trying to cut the splinter out. To no avail. Suppose I'll just have to wait for my body to force it out in due course. I could make a game of it, and take bets on whether it will happen before of after the money comes in. I could con myself into thinking it's really exciting when it really isn't, because the best case scenario is that the money will come in in time to pay the bill. And even in that best case scenario, I've still got a splinter.

If the money doesn't come in, the splinter leaving my finger won't be much of a consolation. It won't even be the remotest bit of fun finding out what will happen first.

Apologies for the downbeat post. There may be more like it over the coming days...

Comedy Brick Wall

After a period of writing quite a lot of new material I've hit a comedy brick wall again. I want to do a routine about the homophobe with the megaphone, and then choking on said megaphone by accidentally inhaling when breathing in a bit too hard before sprouting bigoted bile. I think that's a funny enough idea for a routine, but how to do it's the problem.

I got as far as one 'joke', which is when a homophobe says, as an acquaintance of mine once said, "Gay sex, I just don't get it," you should say back, "Don't worry, you'll get some one day."

Not sure whether that's good enough though.

It does go to show that I should keep this blog better than I have done in the past, as it's obviously a good means of generating material and a good outlet to write more frequently, which is something I always find like trying to pick a lock.

So I've now seen the latest Doctor Who, 'The Waters of Mars', as well as the scene from the next episode that was previewed on Children in Need. I liked the new episode, but then it only had to surpass the shitty one with the flying bus which I was utterly disappointed with. It wasn't perfect, and the things that usually frustrate me frustrated me but it was one of the better specials and the previewed scene from the next one, 'The End of Time', was actually pretty damn good in that the 'funniness' made me laugh rather than make me go, "Oh for fuck's sake, what's the man playing at?"

Roll on Christmas, which is only 4 weeks and 6 days away now. Oh, I had a mince pie this morning. First mince pie of the season. Mince pie, a cup of tea and the newspaper. Lovely.

"You Don't Know Things Because of Your Stupid Brain"

Today's patronising in the shop;

I was polishing shelves when one of the older volunteers (60s) asked to borrow the polish so that she could polish a glass coffee table. "Of course, you don't really use polish to clean glass. But then you probably didn't know that," she said.

Who even says that? "You probably don't know that." Nobody says it, except impolite people and people misquoting Michael Caine's wrongly-attributed catchphrase, "Not a lot of people know that." Honestly, I've never encountered anybody so infuriatingly patronising as the people in that shop. It's like they're a branch of humanity that hasn't really been versed in how to talk to people that weren't children when they were, because they've been spending their time sorting through dead people's belongings, going, "Ooh these are nice, aren't they? They will fetch about 49p I reckon. Shame they aren't in the box still, they could have reached £1.29! I mean, people mock the Queen, don't they, for wearing pearls, but they always look good!"

Take away the patronising nature of it, "You probably didn't know that," is still rude. It's basically just saying, "You don't know things because of your stupid brain." I've thought about it and I think what I might start doing is dropping little hints here and there, begin sowing the seeds, that I'm actually 36.

I reckon if I say it with enough conviction I can get away with it. Plus, the old dears all apparently seem to think anybody of a different generation is automatically a child. So they might not be able to distinguish between late teens and mid-to-late 30s. They'll be too busy going, "Ooh look at this, an old sewing machine. I reckon we could get £3 for that! But of course, you probably don't even know what it is, do you?"

Thatcher Dead

Apparently a man somewhere's cat died - a cat he had named after his heroine - and he sent a text message to somebody and allegedly there was a panic.

But then, the text did say "Thatcher has died."

What I don't understand is, even if Margaret Thatcher had died, why there would be a panic. With the best will in the world, it's not like it would be unexpected. She's in her mid 80s and every time she appears, she looks like she's hanging on by a thread anyway.

"Omigod Thatcher is dead omigod omigod omigod! Robbed of life when she was so young, had so much left to offer us. She had yet to achieve."

She was the first female Prime Minister, she achieved an awful lot. She pissed A LOT of people off. So most people won't even be upset when she dies. Personally, I loathe her. That's not to say I will wish her dead, I don't. But I wouldn't understand a 'panic.'

And that's even assuming the person leapt to the wrong conclusion it was MARGARET Thatcher that had died. They could have even jumped to the - still wrong; it was a cat - conclusion that it Carol Thatcher that had snuffed it. The point then remains; why the panic?

"How is the world going to run now that Carol Thatcher has shuffled off this mortal coil? Pray, what will we all do without her? She was leading this country and its people out of the problems we've been facing, she had very nearly saved the world now she is dead!"

Again, I loathe Carol Thatcher. When she refused to apologise for saying the racist thing she said, "As the daughter of the Iron Lady, I obviously wasn't born with egg-shell sensitivity," which to me just sounds like, "Just like my mother, I don't give care about anyone at all whatsoever." I would not wish Carol Thatcher dead. But I wouldn't understand a panic.

Then again, they could have jumped to the - still wrong; it was a cat, a cat belonging to a man nobody has ever heard of - conclusion that it was Mark Thatcher who had passed away.

"Oh me oh my, Mark Thatcher has died, what are we all going to do!?"

I do not wish Mark Thatcher dead. But I wouldn't understand a panic. Any Thatcher could actually die and there would be no justification for a 'panic.' None at all. They'd be an unpopular person, who doesn't really do anything, dying. What's to be so frightened of?

I don't wish to alarm anybody that may be reading this but, yes, today Thatcher did not die. A cat died. A cat. A man's cat. BUT the day will come when Thatcher (take your pick) will die. I hope this cat hasn't died in vain, and this cat's death - this man's cat's death - will mean people will now be prepared for when the day finally comes.

Maybe this cat has toughened up the human race, making us better equipped to cope with the panic of when Thatcher dies.

Doesn't mean I'm glad the cat is dead though. I wish nobody had died. BUT if I had to choose between Margaret Thatcher and a cat...

Homophobe with a Megaphone

On Sunday in Taunton the high street had been closed off and there were market stalls and childrens rides and an awful lot of hog roasts and plenty of revellers. The Christmas lights were turned on that night, so in the day there was a lot of activity. People singing carols, Heart FM broadcasting from their own stage on the high street and a 'poetry stage' which was a box with the word 'poetry' written on it outside Caffe Nero.

There was also a man in the middle of the high street, closed off to vehicles, with a megaphone. He had a couple of people stood behind him like followers, they were holding placards emblazoned with religious sentiments and he was shouting into his megaphone;

"There is something I want to talk to you all about. It is something we tolerate and we should not. It is wrong, and we need to see that it is wrong. I am talking about ho-mo-sexuality! People practising ho-mo-sexuality in front of us - in PUBLIC - and I say it is disgusting!"

These people desperately want to be heard (they have megaphones and print up leaflets), so the best thing to do is to ignore them I suppose, rendering them impotent. But they're so loathsome that it's really easy to get insanely angry with them. Livid, in fact. Above all, they completely miss their own hypocrisy. I'm pretty sure they would be outraged if someone were to take a megaphone and yell;

"There is something I want to talk to you all about. It is something we tolerate and we should not. It is wrong, and we need to see that it is wrong. People practise it in front of us - in PUBLIC - and I say it is disgusting! I am talking about Christianity!"

They would jump up and down and scream it's not fair, it's victimising them. But it's OK to bully the poofs. Imagine if a teenager were to walk past them who is already having trouble coming to terms with their own feelings and are beginning to think they might be gay. They are frightened to maybe admit it to themselves, and to others, because their peers mock it. Oh, and apparently people wander the streets with megaphones saying how dirty it is.

I'm not sure how long he was out there but I hope it wasn't for long. People were walking past him and laughing at him. Which I think ultimately is the best way to illegitimise what people like him preach. "You are a sad, comical little man with absolutely nothing serious to say."

I'm glad it's not this man's world anymore. I hope that a couple of years in the future, his views won't find any place in it whatsoever and that nobody will ever share them. I hope he realises he was wrong before he dies. I hope he breathes in too hard one day before making a horrid, abhorrent statement and chokes on his megaphone, so that his death rattle will be magnified for all who are walking through Taunton high street at that particular time to hear.

"What's that noise, Mummy?"

"It's the sound a homophobe with a megaphone choking on it makes in his last tiny few seconds of life."

And I hope one of his dopey male followers attempts the kiss of life. So that just as he dies someone can point and laugh at him and say, "Gay!"

As a Policy, It Can Do a Lot of Damage

No being patronised at all today in the shop. One old man did mistake me for somebody called Shane ("You dyed your hair Shane?") because I'm "the same age as Shane." Which turned out to be 18. But no 'little laddy' or anything like that. When I told the man I was not 18 he said, "Well you'll look better than me when you get to my age," robbing me of my usual retort. The man came back at himself, I didn't need to do anything.

Apart from guess his age when he insisted I do so.

This is always a tricky scenario to negotiate. Only less tricky than having to make a guess at a large woman's weight. Although that's never happened to me, I'm only imagining. I decided honesty is the best policy and guessed at 75. Having decided honesty was the best policy, I still didn't adhere to it and guessed 5 years younger than I thought he looked.

Turned out he was 72. Honesty may be the best policy but had I used it, I would have upset the old man. He would have wept in the crowded shop and got all flustered and confused and sobbed to the woman behind him in the queue, "Shane says I look 80 when I'm only 72," and I would have gone, "I'm not Shane, I already told you that," and this would have made him worse and he would have eventually shuffled off out into the cold November day, wondering whether he was 72 or actually 80, and he would never be sure again.

Just saying, as a policy it can do a lot of damage.

All Go

Today I did two loads of washing, put in an expenses claim for £35.01 of petrol (the penny making me look like a right tightwad when really I'd just accidentally gone over the round number when at the pump) and made some soup. So it wasn't a busy day really. I had to walk to the shop to buy some stamps so I could post the petrol receipts, but that was the most hectic bit. I would have watched the latest episode of Doctor Who (from last night) but it wouldn't download from BBC i-player.

I've heard from different people how amazingly great it was and how utterly embarrassingly shit it was. My opinion will probably fall somewhere between the two. I'm not exactly what you'd call a Russell T Davies enthusiast and his writing can incense me greatly but I would still quite like to watch a new episode of Doctor Who. Especially as there's only 3 - including last night's - before the mega-exciting regeneration.

Today Anna identified and catalogued 33 Roman coins, which is quite an achievement as they are not her speciality nor favourite, and did some research into 19th Century rhubarb forcers. Monday has been all go.

Tomorrow might prove less exciting, which would be a welcome opportunity for a rest, to be honest. And I've still got the 1812 Overture in my head. Although it was funny when two old ladies came by to drop off their technophobic magazine through the letterbox and were quite, quite startled by my banging on surfaces and making loud noises in my own private rendition of it.

Major Roadworks and Long Delays

Another stressful journey to get to Cambridge on Friday night. There were signs telling me about major roadworks and long delays on motorways and junctions that didn’t affect me so I thought I’d be alright following the route I had planned. But no. There were major roadworks and long delays there too.

I got my roadmap and looked at other alternative routes. I decided that anything would be better than crawling along the motorway at 20mph so I came off and started towards an A road I had found that would cut the roadworks out.

What I have discovered is that, and if there is a moral to this story it is this, there are roadworks and long delays everywhere on every single road in the country and if you want to get anywhere on time you will have to leave at 7 o clock in the morning, regardless of where you live and where you have to be.

Because it will stop you from panicking that you won’t get there, and it will probably stop you from screaming spontaneously inarticulate noises. And I think I might have used the word ‘cocksucker’ for the first time with no irony.

I arrived at the theatre fifteen minutes before showtime, but an hour after I should have been there. Luckily, Milton was sympathetic about the traffic.

The gig was fantastic. Quite tough to start with, as it is opening for somebody, but it went quite well and it was in a sold out theatre, which was a stark contrast from trying to elicit laughter from some freshers in their halls of residence bar the night before.

I was worried about the drive back because of severe weather warnings but I managed to get back OK. I also discovered that Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture is perhaps the best driving music. If not the best, then it’s my personal favourite. OK, you can’t sing along to it but you can still get into it. It was glorious. Plus before it came on, I had S Club 7 stuck in my head and the 1812 Overture took its place, which was a distinct improvement.

Joke Post #16

A joke I wrote today;

"I used to actively resist taking photographs but the one day, I just snapped."

My own personal rating of this joke; 4/5 (It's one of the better ones, I think)

Good Job I Left Early

It was supposed to take me just under 4 hours to get to Sheffield yesterday. It's a good job I left early because it took me nearer 7. Heavy rain, floods and roadworks meant it took me 2 hours just to go a couple of miles. This was made all the more irritating, not just by having to be somewhere, but also by the inanity of local radio stations. I decided, after a DJ laughing hysterically at his carpet cleaning story ("It took me eight hours!") and a woman ringing a phone-in to discuss burning imporant issues such as whether or not guests should take their shoes off when they enter someone's house, to sit and get angry in silence.

This meant I only just made the gig, then had a fairly tough but alright one and was then on my way again for another 4 hours. Even though it wasn't a horrible gig, it still felt almost not worth it.

The drive back was better in that there were no delays. None of it helped my cold though, which I was hoping would have gone for the big gig tonight. Still, I don't think it got any worse. I've got about the same travel time ahead of me today (hopefully not 7 hours), so I'd better get going just in case. But it'll probably be fine. What could go wrong?

Happy Friday 13th.

The Little Laddy

Whenever I say, "Ha ha I look about 14," I never really mean it, it's always a joke. An exaggeration of the fact that I do look quite young. But I don't actually think I look about 14. A couple of years younger maybe, about 20, but not 14. I never really thought that.

But now I'm starting to question it. See, as well as all these people coming to the door and asking if my mum is in, one of the older lady volunteers in the charity shop today called me the 'little laddy.' Now, she wasn't an ancient lady. She was in her late 60s/early 70s at the most, and has all her marbles. So she isn't losing her mind and didn't call me the little laddy in a doddery old lady way, she has her wits about her and seems perfectly mentally agile. So she was probably just being really patronising.

What is more is she did it in front of quite a lot of customers. Which meant that this increased my annoyance at being called that by quite a lot, while conversely meaning I couldn't call her up on it. Actually, maybe I would have been perfectly within my rights to say, "I'm sorry but I find that incredibly patronising that you would call me that; it is akin to me calling you 'the old woman.'"

But I didn't say that, I said, "Yes how wonderful it is to be at the beginning of life."