TPE 0005: When you are Holding a Hammer, Everything Looks like a Nail

Here is the very fifth installment of my moribund baby.  Look at it.

The Proverbial Experiment

Here's The Proverbial Experiment in all it's playlist glory.  Hopefully.  Leave a comment if it stops working.

Suh-moking

I should be writing stuff for the show which is now 8 days away, but the Law of Wanna-do-this-instead has come down upon me with it's litigious might.

A friend of mine is putting together a collection piece (what a clumsy and vague explanation, you'd swear art was one of my cultural blind-spots) about smoking, specifically people's experiences or memories of it.  This is what I wrote.

*****

The piano cuts out again, abruptly.  The melody crashes short in an ugly bark of mashed keys.  Deep-set, pin-prick eyes glare imperiously out of their wooden container, the frustrated countenance of the music teacher is a physical extension of the dilapidated vertical piano.  Criticisms explode in place of the jaunty number of only seconds ago; shrill, piercing, heard but unheeded.

I'm only in the choir because I am a good boy.  I was asked to join, I agreed, like a good boy is supposed to.  It is a slow process of discovery for me.  My discovery is that I don't enjoy the regimented specifics of the big choir.  Singing becomes significantly less fun when I'm not allowed to warble wildly wheresoever my voice wants.

The class is split along alto/soprano lines, being a young group, tenor and bass hardly factor.  I'm sure there's something more societal and less biological in how the alto/soprano divide dovetails so perfectly with the male/female divide.  Or more specifically, male/female+camp males.  The girls undergo a grinding repetitive practice of their soaring soprano, like unfeasibly laborious angels.  The boys are trusted to behave in the back.

Mistake.

If I've learned anything from my time growing up as a boy, it is this: boys are not at peace quietly waiting their turn.  They are hardwired to be as rowdy and infuriating as is humanly possible without prompting all-out infanticide (kids in Herod's time were really annoying).  We talked about wrestling, and just as surely as icing sugar leads to cake, talking about wrestling leads to wrestling.  I am now 23 years old, and I still feel that I am only a pose and a dramatic glance away from a running lariat at any given moment.

As ex-housemates of mine would explain it, the teacher "lost her fucking bin" when we got too loud, her mahogany visage crumpling into fury as though portraying the effect of woodworm in time-lapse.  There's no way to plead wrestling-based innocence when your legs are tied to someone else's in a textbook figure-of-four leglock.  The teacher's tirade raged on, as legs came loose and we got to our feet.  My back was to the teacher, while my friend faced her head on, wearing his best "I'm disappointed in myself" face (copyright Conor Sampson (2010)).  I saw this as a personal challenge of mischief, and while he maintained his theatrical expression, I locked eyes with him, and under the shrieking crescendo of a bollocking, I narrowed my eyes in a broad parody of what I imagined cowboys to be, raised my hand to my mouth, and took a big old toke of my imaginary cigarette, rebellious nonchalance personified in glorious mime.  It is still possibly the funniest thing I have ever done.

He laughed, we got in worse trouble.

This is the closest I have ever come to smoking, and the closest to ever being naughty.

bAdvertising Poster

Oooh, doesn't this look all nice?

TPE 0004: Home is Where You Hang Your Hat

The series that will run and run.  Here is the very fourth episode.

I hope you like it.

acrecomedy@gmail.com
www.theacre.net

bAdvertising

I figured I should finally write a little something here to commemorate the fact that come the end of this month, we of The ACRE will be celebrating our first live show.  We've done live stuff before, in our ones and twos, but this will be the first time we've collectively written an hour's show and will be performing it off our own impetus.

All the live work I've done before has comprised of doing a turn at someone else's night, on a bill of acts unrelated to me.  I'm finding it considerably more daunting to be putting on a night of which the main attraction is meant to be us.  My relationship with the Facebook event page is best described as neurotic, "What do you mean you aren't attending, Person-I-Vaguely-Knew-in-School!?  You fucking cock!" etc.

And on the other side of things the fact that there are actually confirmed attendees fills me with dread when I am holding a 10 minute script which is meant to be exactly 6 times longer within 3 weeks.  It will be.  I am going to write the hilarious fuck out of that script.  When I'm done with it it won't even know it was born.

Yes, yes, self-indulgent passive-aggression, we get it.  What is it about?

The show is cleverly hurriedly cleverly called bAdvertising, which is 1) concise, 2) amusing, 3) a clever play on the iProduct way of naming things and also 4) sums up our basic stance that it is bad.

We're running it in the Gartholwg Lifelong Learning Centre, so we are writing it as a mock adult learning course, which is apt, and is a conceit we hope will cover any sticky spots in the script ("Hay, this bit is educational, that's why you aren't laughing!").

There will be at least 1 actual joke.

I suppose I am documenting this here for posterity and to placate my own worry that though I am not specifically writing the show at this point, I am at least doing show-related work.

On the off-chance that you, the hypothetical person reading this, is within reasonable distance and of a desire to come and see it, all the details can be found here.

Now, I am going to pull a pad and pen out and actually write for it.

"Knock knock".  "Who's there?"  "Advertising."  "Advertising who?" "".

I'll finish that one off later.

TPE 0003: The Forbidden Fruit is the Sweetest

Third installment of The Proverbial Experiment.  These videos are my attempt to show commitment to an idea.

Journal of Cannonby: Don't Hate us for the Hiatus

For real.  Here it is once again.


Narrator: Me
Boris: Dafydd
Bevan: Me
Cannonby: Luke
ZX: Me


*****

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby
Don't hate us for the hiatus


Narrator
When last we glimpsed our heroes, so many yons ago, they were in a golden suryper of a sticky situation.  The crew were involved in a pincer assault on Vinehaven, a vast castle home to a cannibalistic wine-obsessed cult, partly to rescue the kidnapped the comatose Stephen Teal and Bludonna Snow, and partly to pillage some wine.  The group of Cannonby, Bevan and ZX Ilfracombe led with a full-frontal bombardment, while the espionage team of Boris, Doktor Li Faiseas and Uh Nurse snuck in through concealed tunnels.  In dramatic fashion, Cannonby and co were able to bring down the main gate with the meta-punning use of an explosive petard, while elsewhere, Teal and Bludonna were about to be pulped into manwine by the dreadful Crimson Maude, assisted by the onlooking lackey Hazel.  Now, framed by a distant rumbling of brick and mortar, Boris and Bevan make their escape through the dense forest that envelops Vinehaven, their progress impeded by their hefty cargo, namely the deadweight of the unconscious forms of Stephen Teal and Bludonna Snow.


Boris: I still don't understand what happened back there comrade!


Bevan: It was the petard we hoisted Boris...


Boris: I didn't hoist any petards...


Bevan: Okay, it was the petard I specifically hoisted, it packed a lot more splosion than we... I had anticipated.  Not only did it collapse the main gate, it seems it also buckled the floor, plungling me into the winecellar.


Boris: It must have done more than that!  The entire castle seemed to be coming down!


Bevan: Yes, it seems our actions rocked the place to its very foundations, literally.


Boris: Mmm.  Well as dangerous as it has proved to be now, comrade, it was magnificent timing on your part, no joke!


Bevan: I would say so, yes.  From what I gather Teal and Bludonna would be halfway to the production line had I not intervened.


Boris: glorious, perfect Green Ranger ex machina, swooping in, saving the day...   You didn't have to see what happened though...


Bevan: Well I was reeling a bit from having fallen 20 feet... luckily I landed on my stiff upper lip, and that cushioned a lot of the blow.


Boris:  You should have seen it comrade!  The pillar they were going to use to pulp Bludonna


Bevan: And Teal.


Boris: the pillar came out of it's moorings and smwshed to the ground, oh Bevan, it was awful.  It caught the Doktor and Nurse directly in it's path, and one of the Vinehaven goons!


Bevan: I guessed as much, when I snapped out of my confusion, it was with an astounding swiftness that I realised I was wading through excavated viscera.


Boris: Oh, Cruijff above, what horror.  You know like when a line of blocks disappear in tetris?


Bevan: No, I mean it hasn't been invented yet...


Boris: Well, this was nothing like that it was like a band of furious gorillas brutalising an aisle of lumpy tomato soup!


Bevan:  Peace, Boris.  Let us make good our escape, ere something yet more fearful befall us.


Boris:


Narrator
As the rueful and sombre twosome trudge their way away with their comatose cargo, little do they know their progress is being surveyed by the canny and vengeful eyes of the other winecellar survivor, the sly and vicious Crimson Maude.  Meanwhile!  Back at the now-crumbling castle of Vinehaven, two stoic champions seem unflapped by the structural instability of the stronghold they are looking to scale.  With eyes set firmly at the top, Cannonby begins his ascent.


Cnby: Come, Ilfracombe!  My eyes are set firmly at the top, and I am about to begin my ascent!


ZX: For what possible reason would you decide to ape up this compromised monument?


Cnby: For this is why, follow my reason if you dare!  We're aiming for the figurehead of this organisation, no?  And where would you locate the head-honcho?  Your assumption is correct my cyber-composite super-companion... AT THE TOP!


ZX: Captain, though your enthusiasm would be amusing were I not a robotic construction, I must indicate that the logistical flaws in your reasoning are vast and manifold.


Cnby: Silence!  Your plaintive criticisms, whilst wholly grounded in logic, are but cannonfodder in the blast of my cannonlogic.  I looked up when I was outside, and I saw her, the Headpriestess.  Now, Ilfracombe, I was a face-off on the battlements, and hopefully by the time I get there, there will be a lightning storm aswell.  Now are you to become my tailgate or are you going to stay at the gate with your tail between your legs!?


ZX: Which are we here for Captain, conflict or wine?  It was my understanding that...


Cnby:  BOTH!  Both of course, why simply have your cake when you can have a battle over it and then eat is with some icing on all lovely yum yum!  It seems though you are appearing as ZX, you are seeing the world through the eyes of your ghostly viking companion Ivan.  Hear me well Ivan, gather the wine, I will head up top to make fisticuffs with the head-honcherina, and afterwards we'll have ourselves the most magnificent celebration seen under the sun.  Hold tight, and may Cruijff watch over you.


Narrator
ZX heads down to loot what wine he can find, Cannonby heads up to boot Vino in the behind.  Does Cannonby truly understand the severity of confronting Vinehaven's DreadPriestess, the merciless Mellencamp Vino?  Will ZX's efforts in the collapsing winecellar be as unproblematic as simply stealing some wine?  What plans are currently fermenting in the twisted mind of Crimson Maude?  When you find out, you might not be able to Cannonbelieve it! in the next uterus-tighteningly electrifying instalment of the Tales of Cannonby!


*****


Probably should be mentioned as a footnote that when we read this out Luke farted during one of his lines and this changed the dynamic of the script somewhat.


Why not re-read it and imagine a fart during a Cannonby line and imagine how much funnier it would be?


This'll appear on one of The ACRE Podcasts several months from now in the year 2011.


I entrust you with making your own week enjoyable.

TPE 0002: Better to Light a Single Candle than to Curse the Darkness

Here, then, is the very second installment of our immensely ambitious project to bring the proverbial world to its knees. This week I am joined by my co-ACRE and failed scientist Luke Sampson, in order to tackle the proverb: It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.

Brwm, brwm; beep, beep.

Communication is important.  Thought I’d start with a concise statement there so as not to be misconstrued.  Since communication is important it is equally important that the communication that you are undertaking is clear, or as clear as you can make it, so as not to be misconstrued.  Repetition can achieve this, although it can also make you look simple, and bore anyone reading, which is bad for communication.

Being misunderstood is one thing which frustrates me.  It frustrates me even more so if the person doing the misunderstanding is doing it wilfully.  There’s nothing which annoys me quite as much as someone trying to annoy me.  Which, in and of itself, is annoying.

Having been ‘the loud one’ for a portion of my life, I have been purposefully attempting to be softer and quieter when speaking, so as to salvage some dignity for myself, in the lieu of my childhood which I spent headbutting tables and dribbling water down myself for laughs (my own).  Rather than seeming dignified and considered, I come across as timid and people often can’t hear.  This is frustrating.

After spending time attempting to develop a more restrained and considered pattern of speaking and an, often needlessly, colourful way of writing, it is testing to be in a position where communication is in some way hampered.

Driving to work every day, there is an awkward junction which, since a new bypass was completed, has become a sticking point.  There are two sets of traffic lights side by side, one which directs traffic straight on and to the right, and another which directs traffic to the left.  I take the left, and often the left turn is green whilst the other is red, no problem.  However, the lights are situated on the crest of a hill, and so at the time of day I drive in, the sun is directly behind them, blinding sight and obscuring the colours from view.  Also, when the straight on light turns green, the light on the other set disappears completely.  These events mean that often someone stops at the lights when they should be driving on, causing a queue on a very steep hill, usually involving a bus, or a number of buses (the bus, of course, my nemesis).

I did this once, soon after the road had been completed, and when I stopped, uncertain as to whether or not I would be ploughed into should I drive on, a man I would describe as ‘very angry’ started beeping repeatedly and furiously at me, gurning like a beleaguered lobster, or a put-upon bichon frise.  I was quite stressed out by his aural attack, and decided that I wouldn’t subject someone to such a thing myself.

For three days in a row this week I have had to stop behind people who aren’t familiar with the quirks of the lights.  It is at that point that I realised fully just how limited the options available to car-based interaction are.  A beep of ‘hey, you can go’ is the exact same beep of ‘come on you tool, go!’  I feel bad after beeping, so I force myself to smile demurely afterwards, so at the very least any rear-view mirror interaction will dispel any suspicions of dickishness.

Recently, I had cause to remove some children from the premises where I work, and when challenged for a reason, I explained they were being punished for being “obnoxious”.  Now, with the information offered to me by 21^st Century super-magic ‘the internet’, I can offer that this word means ‘extremely unpleasant, very annoying or objectionable; offensive or odious’.  All that took was typing the word ‘obnoxious’ into a search bar embedded in an internet browser.  Children, however, are tediously devoid of resourcefulness when they decide to be.  They declared, as a group, that they didn’t understand the word ‘obnoxious’.  Given that I had invested quite a lot of my initial reasoning on the word ‘obnoxious’, I found their lack of vocabulambition, ironically, obnoxious.  Throwing them out for being ‘rude’ doesn’t have quite the same impact.  Makes me look like a screeching oldyn tymes Governess.  ‘Bad attitude’ makes them into Fonz-like dudes who are fighting the man.  My ad-libabilities are lacking still, I could only stretch to “whatever, just get out”.

Kids and cars.  Bastards.

The Proverbial Experiment 0001: A Watched Kettle Never Boils

Here we have the inaugural outing for my very own vanity project, the splendiferous Proverbial Experiment.  On this occasion we scrutinised the proverb 'A Watched Kettle Never Boils'.

May pedantic deconstruction prevail.

Fill Your Boots

A sketch conceived, or at least workshopped, in a library.  How very inappropriate!  It was, however, filmed in the idyllic and overgrown gullies of the picturesque Rhondda valleys.

Official Alternative Ending to Twilight

Here is our 100% legitimate official alternative ending to the twilight series.  Thanks to H.G. Wells for inspiration and Richard Burton for being badly mimicked.

Extreme Human Ragdoll

This sketch is far and away our most Xtreme.  A tribute to all extreme sports shows.

With thanks to Sound the Attack for allowing us use of their extreme licks.

An Eggcorn Revenge

A sketch almost certainly inspired by the eggcorn investigations of Messrs. Adam and Joe of a Saturday morning/afternoon.

How To Reintegrate a Soldier

This is the first of our socially-conscious edu-info-tainment sketches.

Hard Reset

This is a sketch born out of the pain of my youth.

Just Another Minute

Way back when it seemed that I was much better at linking things and using this blog constructively, it seems therefore that there are a backlog of sketches that we've now filmed that I haven't linked here.

I will now take the opportunity to do so.

Journal of Cannonby: Come on Baby, Let's Do the Twist

I haven't posted one of these scripts for ages, because we stopped doing them.  This was the final script that was performed before the huge summer gap.  Gap?  What's this?  Are they to be starting up again?  PERHAPS!!

Narrator: Me

Boris: Dafydd

Cannonby: Jean-Pierre le Grenouille

Maude: Me

Vino: Jean-Pierre le Grenouille

Bevan: Me

Nurse: Me

Doktor: Jean-Pierre le Grenouille

Hazel: Dafydd

Boris: Dafydd

************

Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby

Come on Baby, Let's Do The Twist.

Narrator

In the last episode of Tales of Cannonby…

BORIS:      Here's the hidden passageway!

CNBY:       Destroy the gate!

MAUDE:    Throw the switch!

Narrator

Waw-ee, lots of exciting happenings and stuff.  There is an imminent crushing of Teal and Bludonna on the cards, they are aboot to be crushed into a fleshy winepaste, though we can only hope that Boris' newfound hidden passageway leads directly and conveniently to that chamber but I suppose we'll have to wait to find out won't we?  Eh?  Eh?  Let us join a reflective Mellencamp Vino, who stands in her i-viney tower atop the battlements of Vinehaven…

VINO:         Oh, for a goblet of fresh wine!  How many moon cycles have I suffered without the gush of wine to slake my tempestuous thirst?  *sigh*  I had hoped to lead Vinehaven into its most fruitful age, but during my time at the metaphorical helm we have been struck with the worst drought in our history.  I'd assumed that dethroning the last Vineleaders and banishing all men from the citadel in a feminist coup d'état would lead to a better Vinehaven for ALL!  For all the women at least.  But the random thoroughfare through the region has all but died out, which means no fresh blood slash wine for us.  You'd think an out of town colony of sexy women would receive more visitors, really.  It's all this gender equality business that's ruining it for us.  It's political correctness gone mad. *sigh*  If I look out of my i-viney tower down upon the courtyard, there's ne'er a person in sight.  Oh wait, actually there is.  Is this some sort of siege?  What the hell is going on?

Narrator

And far below, in the courtyard…

CNBY:     Pull your weight you metallic curmudgeon!

BEVAN:   Look, Captain!  I don't mean to pour vinegar in your toilet, but just shouting at ZX isn't going to make him work any harder.  He may look like a robotic killing machine but inside he is a vulnerable fleshy sac just like everyone else.

CNBY:     That sounds vulgar, but it isn't!  You've won me over with your innuendo-laden logic.  I will be satisfied that he is moving at his current pace.

BEVAN:   That's very good of you, Captain.  Just look at the door there, you can see the outer crust of the polished oak cracking.  We'll be able to rush inside in a matter of hours!

CNBY:     Won't they have discovered us by then?

BEVAN:   Now, Captain.  You aren't meant to be the voice of sense in these conversations.  If you carry on like that you'll undermine the brittle equilibrium we've built up over these months, and then where would we be?

CNBY:     Still stuck outside the Castle?

BEVAN:   Touche.

CNBY:     That's not really a good enough punchline to deserve a touche.

BEVAN:   Touche.  Hoist by my own touche-based petard.

CNBY:     What is a petard?

BEVAN:   Well, according to wikipedia: A petard was a small bomb used to blow up gates and walls when breaching fortifications.

CNBY:     Well that's unbelievably coincidental, given the situation we are currently in.  Bevan!  Don't hoist yourself with that petard, use it to destroy the gate.

BEVAN:   Captain, given the flexible nature of radio broadcasting as a medium which requires imagination to really enjoy, and also the chaotic nature of this very story, your suggestion to use the petard I hoist myself with to blow up the gates is both as lazy and idiotic as it is genius.

CNBY:     That's the way I sail!  Blow the gates!

BEVAN:   Yes sir!

Narrator

But as the straight-forward team had concocted their petard-based scheme, Boris and the medical-centric characters were sneaking their way through the secret passages hoping to use the cack-handed distraction of Cannonby in their own clandestine plot to rescue Teal and Bludonna.

BORIS:    I see light at the end of the tunnel!

NURSE:   I see nothing within that sentence which could be misconstrued for comic effect.

DOKTOR: Correct.

BORIS:    There's a big ol' room just beyond the aperture here, it looks like a cross between a wine cellar and a brewery.  There're two beautiful women who are manning, sorry, there are two beautiful women who are womanning a lever, looking to bring down a giant mechanic foot and crush Teal and Bludonna into wine OH MY GOTT!

DOKTOR: Finally, we're back to the plot.

MAUDE:   Throw the switch!

HAZEL:    Yes, Miss Maude.

BORIS:    (really long and drawn out) STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

(sound of switch being thrown, foot descending and crushing Teal and Bludonna)

Narrator

Well I did not expect that.  It is a bit abrupt isn't it?  I mean I can see what they were going for, trying to undermine story cliches by actually killing off the hostages but surely that's not the answer?  I mean it wasn't particularly funny.  I think I've lost faith in this story now, I don't think I'm even going to listen next week.  See how you start the episode then.  Think you can just play with the listeners emotions like that, killing off long-running popular characters.  Who do you think you are, Eastenders?  Or 24?  Or The Wire?  I would imagine.  I've not seen any of them.  Well you aren't, you are The Tales of Cannonby, and next week you will continue to be, the Tales of Cannonby!  Come back to see what happens, who knows, it might be some kind of trick, or magic-ear puzzle.  On the Tales of Cannonby!  They are definitely dead though.  (gap)  Or are they?  Eh?  Eh?  They are yeah.  (gap)  They might not be though.  (gap)  See how I feel.  (gap) On the Tales of Cannonby!!!!

*******

It was left on a ludicrous cliffhanger...

How is that going to be sorted out?

Customer Inquiries: Imperial Leather Reply

In my last blog I documented the attempts of Arthur Isherwood to get some customer service.  I posited, wrongly it seems, that he would receive no reply. Imperial Leather have disproved this, and in so doing proven themselves to be in possession of a sense of customer care and also of humour.

Hi-thanks for your email
Don't worry, washing yourself in Jojoba will not have any long term adverse affect on your masculinity so I wouldn't worry too much on that score. Infact, all our shower gels could be considered "uni-sex" it depends on which fragrances you like/dislike! But if you do prefer the more masculine fragrances then the mens range would obviously suit you better
Regards
Anonymous McJones

Still, while they assure me that there are no 'long term adverse' effects, that does seem to imply that there are short term adverse effects.  Hopefully this is only 'smelling "girly"', Arthur seems not to have reported any such effects, so here's hoping he is in the clear.

Customer Inquiries

My good friend the artist Arthur Isherwood recently penned three customer inquiries and it seems unlikely that he will receive a reply due to the eccentric turn of phrase which he utilises.  He has asked me to replicate them here for public consumption, which I, being a great friend, have agreed to.

The first was sent to the ice cream company Antonio Federici, who recently had an advert picturing a pregnant nun banned.

Hello,

I recently became aware of your company following the widely reported banning of your "Immaculately Conceived" poster ad.  I personally found this ad gently amusing, as did my wife, who is a Roman Catholic, and therefore supposedly the sort of person who would have been insulted in the eyes of the ASA.  Needless to say, I feel as though the banning was misjudged and heavy-handed.

I was heartened to discover, reading further into a BBC article, that your firm was planning on "securing a series of billboards close to and along the planned route of the Pope's cavalcade around Westminster Cathedral", with posters in the same vein.  Since this visit has now played out, and no report has surfaced, I was wondering whether it had been possible to see out this plan, or whether you had, once again, been hamstringed by the misguided actions of the ASA?

Your desire to "comment on and question, using satire and gentle humour, the relevance and hypocrisy of religion and the attitudes of the church to social issues" certainly chimes with me personally, although I do hope that you retain your desire to make ice cream that is delicious and cold.

While satirising the idea of imaculate conception does question some of the inherent hypocrisies in religion, I wonder if it would be more effective to focus on certain hypocrisies that are current hot potatoes.  For example, the current Pope is making waves in the press for having covered up, and failing to protect the victims of, a large-scale Catholic priest paedophile ring, and I feel it would be an incredibly bold way for you to comment on and question the hypocrisy of religion and the attitudes of the church to social issues if you addressed this colossal hypocrisy.  It would be fairly simple, I would suggest, to create an ad for this in the style of your current "Ice cream is our religion" campaign, perhaps showing a kneeling child with its eyes closed being covered in vanilla ice cream by a gurning priest.  The tag line could be 'it is more blessed to give than to receive' or perhaps 'see no evil, evil semen'.  Perhaps I have overstepped a mark there, the ideas are your jurisdiction, after all.

Looking forward to hearing from you

Arthur Isherwood

The second was to Imperial Leather.

Hello,

I am a student, and as such don't often have the opportunity to treat myself to a washing experience, not one that is enhanced by the presence of brand name soap anyway, and a number of blue moons have passed since last I was fortunate enough to cleanse myself with an Imperial Leather product.

My Imperial Leather lull was put to an end last night however, when I returned home to visit my parents.  I took advantage of all the home comforts I have not been privy to in my Sawesque dormroom.  Food and drink were first on my list, but, as you may have guessed, I then had a shower.

This shower was punctuated by the blessed presence of Imperial Leather shower gel, the Softly Softly range to be more precise.  In my haste to wash I overlooked its milky hue and applied it generously on my body.  It was only on later inspection that I discovered it was made of Jojoba Milk and Vitamin E.  Now I am not overly familiar with the Jojoba, and since I was suspicious that it was derived from the word 'juju', I investigated.  I have since discovered that this is a "girly" ingredient.  I further investigated your range of shower gels and discovered that one is 'For Men', further raising my stress levels.

What had I just done to myself by smothering my masculine body with a shower gel which is not for men?

I am panicked, and writing to you to enquire whether there will be adverse effects on my male body due to the use of this non-for men shower gel.  I am quite concerned as I have a beard, which is possibly the most manly thing, aside from a penis, possibly.  If there will be adverse effects, are there any steps I can take to counteract the feminisation of my body?  I have been self-medicating with steak and ale pies, but I just feel bloated, which is a woman's emotion.

Yours hopefully

Arthur Isherwood

And the third was about Lilt (but sent to their parent company Coca-Cola).

Hello,

Whilst writing this is I am currently slaking my thirst with a bottle of Lilt Zero.  It is fulfilling it's role quite well, which is amazing considering I am quite concerned, and it is 'best consumed chilled out'.  I can only imagine how wonderful it would taste were I only able to calm down.

The source of my consternation on this occasion is the declaration of the bottle of Lilt that is has a 'totally tropical taste'.  I assume this claim stems from the fact that it contains pineapple and grapefruit, which are considered tropical fruit.  I was wondering whether the pineapple and grapefruit used to make Lilt are sourced from the tropics, or whether the fruits themselves simply suggest a tropical taste, rather than them being an actual tropical taste.  Closer inspection of the ingredients listed, however, shows that pineapple and grapefruit juice from concentrates make up only 5% of the beverage.

I was wondering further, therefore, whether the carbonated water, citric acid, acidity regulator, sweeteners, flavourings, preservatives, antioxidants, stabilisers, colour and the source of phenylanine listed on the bottle were also sourced from tropical climes, or whether they contribute to a tropical-like taste.

I inquire because the drink claims to have a 'totally' tropical taste, whereas my research has led me to surmise that in reality is has a 'somewhat' tropical taste.

Yours inquisitively

Arthur Isherwood.

Good old Arthur, being a low-level nuisance.  Maybe one day he will use his tedious nagging for good.

For Kpafuka's Sake

I have not been writing here because I am currently in a funk.  During my tenure in this funk, I have been considering the phrase 'in a funk', where it came from, why it makes sense, and why it is preferable to describing the state of funkedness in any different manner.


When I say 'I am in a funk', I am not in any way suggesting that I have entered a particularly 1970'sesque state of being, nor that I am in some way channeling the spirit of James Brown or or hanging out with the perpetually topless Keziah Jones*.  Although I would enjoy that.

I believe this usage of 'funk' came from the mishearing and subsequent misappropriation of the word 'fug'.  As in "a fug descended on the room", or "fug me! she's beautiful" (hahahaha an hilarious joke there).  'Fug' and 'funk' both share the annoying properties of being words that I can't say without them sounding like the word 'fuck', due to my poor enunciation on the sounds of 'guh'(g) and 'ung'(ng).

So, why is it easier to proclaim oneself 'in a funk' rather than 'depressed' or 'miserable'?  It is likely that depression and misery are inherently very negative things, with no positive affiliations to speak of.  There is a vulnerability in both, as well as, I would argue, the general assumption of weakness and patheticity, especially when self-diagnosing.  In contrast to this, the term funk is synonymous with Messrs. Brown and Jones, and even though the understanding is that being in a funk is a bad thing, something upliftingly funky will happen soon to burst you out of it.

The unmasking, or at least understanding, of this kind of slippery verbiage is what spin-doctors would need to be familiar with.  Though spin-doctors are viewed fairly negative, this is the sort of subliminal substitution most people make a million times everyday.  Picking up on it and subsequently picking it apart is probably the most laborious hobby I picked up from my time in University, and from a personal point of view possibly the most valuable skill.  Until such time as I make mime my main mode of expression, anyway.

This sort of spinning is made to express vulnerability in a way that hides any vulnerability as much as possible.  It is a similar technique to one I cannot seem to stop myself from, which is replacing 'me' with a general 'you' when outlining something which leaves me out on a limb.  Such as in the line: "So, why is it easier to proclaim oneself 'in a funk' rather than 'depressed' or 'miserable'?" where I have assumed a generalisation whereas in reality it is only me personally that I am 100% sure of, in terms of this usage.

I have to end this entry now, a sex machine just came ploughing through my partition wall, I think it's a sign to get out of my funk, and to get on up and stay on the scene.

*Some scholars believe that Keziah's chest is constructed of a muscle-alloy that is uniquely magnetic and repels all human clothing.

What I Did for My Summah

Since formerly responsible members of my family have deemed it necessary to go on holidays for the end of the summah, certain domestic responsibilities are currently resting on my shoulders.


One such responsibility is the task of exhausting the dog.  A dog is a very energetic organism, and this one in particular is an electric bastard.  The dog's favourite activities are barking incessantly and digging the settee.  Barking is an annoying and futile past time, and the settee is not a construction that reacts well to being dug, as it is made out of leather, rather than a more earthy substance that would lend itself slightly better to the scramblings of doggy paws.  In order to foil the dog's infuriating and illogical behaviour it is necessary to completely wear him out, which I do by dragging him in a circuit of the mountain.


There's usually no-one on the mountain path, but since it was such an idyllic sunny afternoon today, there were a few others navigating the mountain.  This was a slight nuisance to me, as I was scruffily dressed and needlessly self-conscious of this fact, and had chosen the mountain trail in order to pander to my isolationist tendencies.  The dog is a strange mix of bullying nosiness and cowardice, eager to bark at all and sundry and then hide behind me, behaviour which is annoying and embarrassing.


During the initial ascent, there was a young lady walking her dog in front of me.  I purposefully hung back, in order to ensure that my dog was far enough from hers that it wouldn't cause a palaver.  This was the reason, and not, as liars would have you believe, that I was attempting to ogle rump.  This was not my aim.  But it did occur, due to circumstances.  I was aware that it was likely that I would have to pass her at some point, because my plan was to undertake a gargantuan route, in order to fully knacker my dog, and no feeble woman would have planned such a grueling trek.  As I foresaw the moment of takeover, I became self-conscious, due to my scruffy clothes, my unruly dog and a plastic clamp I had attached to my shorts that contained a bag of my dog's shit.  Using my powers of recognition, I identified the woman from her hair and height, not as liars would have you believe by ogling, as someone I had known when I was but a small boy.  Her parents live up the street, and I was expecting to pass some inane banalities as we briefly crossed, while secretly we would both be considering what possible relationship we might have had if we'd been better friends as kids.  Or probably that would just be me, in my fevered imaginings.


She sat down on a large rock, looking out over the valley, with a look of deep philosophising on her face, I imagined from a distance.  She raised a cigarette to her mouth and I was, in my squeaky-clean life-view, disgusted.  I realised then that she was actually an older woman, and not the person who I thought she was.  I then retrospectively realised that I had been ogling a sexy assed quadragenarian, and not, as I had believed, a youthful beauty.  Moreover, this realisation changed my situation from one of being a completely acceptable virile ogler, to one of being depraved.  I believe that lusting after an older woman is a gruesome perversion.  That is what I 100% believe.  No lie.


My dog spent the ascent strangling himself with the leash, licking pooh and drinking dirty water.  I was, reasonably I believe, frustrated by this.  My dog has no respect for me, despite how much bigger I am than him, and my ability to beat the shit out of him should I choose to do so.  I don't know whether he finds my 100% genuine opinions on sexualising mature individuals abhorrent, but if so, his methods of expressing it are unusual and confusing.  At around the half-way mark, his tiredness resulted in an improvement in his behaviour.


I realised that taking my dog for a walk has the same narrative flow as a Stewart Lee or a Richard Herring show; initial excitement followed by overwhelming annoyance, levelling out to enjoyment and ending with satisfaction and the feeling that something positive has been achieved.  And in deciding to do it again (walk the dog/watch a show) the annoyance part is forgotten.


My final bullet point in the plan that started this post read: coming to terms with the cowardice/bullying/annoyingocity of my dog.  At the moment he is sprawled out on the mat in a way that could, hypothetically, if I was a different sort of person, be described as 'cute'.  I am aware, however, that he will wake me tomorrow with his selfish plaintive mewling.  And I'll have to take him up the mountain, again, if it doesn't rain.  I resent the dog, and his stupid dog face.


Pokemon raised my pet expectations (petspectations) far too high.  Damn you, Satoshi Tajiri.


This is no way to restart blogging after a summah's hiatus.  It is the way I have done it.

Digital Submission

Not really sure whether this is worth writing about, since my understanding of it is shaky at best, but I am going to have a stab at it regardless.



Isn't region locking a load of contrived horseshit?


My main area of region locking interest is games, I am not hugely into films, and tend to find that even though there is usually an unnecessary gap between releases in different areas, most films tend to be available globally. I don't really know enough about it to have stated that so confidently, but there we go.


My gripe is with games. My first run-in with region-based troubles was with Xenogears. I received a copied Xenogears disc as a young man, which is very naughty, until you consider that it wasn't available in the UK, and hasn't been released here since. Chipping the PS1 was a common occurrence (as I remember, at least), and it seems that as consoles become more complex it has quieted down, although it is sure to be popular amongst certain circles regardless (tech whizzes, criminals etc). Chipping enabled you to play games from other regions, although the main aim was to play cheap, copied games (I imagine).


With the internet now morphed into an all-powerful being, such retro naughtiness as copying discs has quieted down in favour of emulators which can play a huge catalogue of games on a computer, rather than having to muck around with the guts of actual consoles. Official console releases and OS updates are often implementing blocks that are trying to keep pace with hackers/modders/whatever they are called nowadays who are developing these emulations. I discovered this while looking for a port of Xenogears which was playable on the PSP. Playing PS1 games on the PSP has become a very simple thing thanks to the PlayStation Store, which enables customers to buy downloadable versions of the game, fairly cheaply aswell, which can then either be played on the PS3 system or sent to a PSP.


The system is there, officially there, for these ports to be done and for Sony and friends to make money, rightfully so, out of it. I have recently, as I'm sure I've mentioned, purchased Final Fantasies 7 through 9 in this way, and I have enjoyed the experience of playing them through again very much. I was doing some research earlier on, looking into what other RPGs have made their way to the PS store, so that I could enjoy more retro delights on the go. I looked down a frankly gargantuan list of old titles that have been released, which included Wild Arms (1 and 2) and Xenogears. I was delighted. Genuinely fucking delighted. I was excited that I'd get to play these games, and buy them legitimately, since I actually could.


But I can't. Because the duopolising fuckpowers of the trans-Pacific Sony twins (Brett and Shinji) hate anywhere that isn't North America or Japan. The amount of downloadable games released in Japan and the US is so staggeringly skewed compared to the stuff they've put out over here it's actually ridiculacious. There is no issue of physically making and transporting these games, even if a particular game isn't expected to sell particularly well, surely there's benefit of putting it up there? Surely the effort of making a game available in the European store isn't so restrictively high that there's a chance Brett and Shinji will make a loss on it?


I realise there are other issues, such as, in some instances, complicated rights/royalties involved which means that more care is needed with releases in different areas. Also, some areas of the world are slightly more squeamish and so games are modified so that they get, ironically, butchered versions of games with all the scowling digitally modified so that all the characters are smiling a plastic smile. But surely the vast majority of games aren't so steeped in unwieldy small print?


All of which doesn't really explain why there are less games on the European Playstation store. It's likely that the US and Japan are markets which make more money for the bastard twins, but maybe if you put more games on the store you'd make more money.


My argument has collapsed under the weight of its own infantile impotence. I look like a peuce-jowled parody of a South Park internet gamer as I write this. Arse.


Release Xenogears as downloadable content in the UK you bastards. I jest wants to pleh mah geeeem! AH WANTS TO PLEH MAH GEEEEEEEEM!!

XENOSAGA WAS OVERRATED, GIVE ME FEI FONG WONG!

FEI FONG WONG!

FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEI FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG WOOOOOOOOOOOONG!!!!!!!!!

P.S. I am old enough to know better.