It has begun. The process of doing weird things just to talk about them on the radio.
For me, the blogging and the radio have been hugely helpful in forcing me to be creative. I am someone who definitely needs fairly short-term deadlines to work towards, even if they are self-imposed. It is when I get into that mindset that I blog often, and since having radio shows every weekend it has become normal to work towards them through the week, rather than being a lazy sponge and watching weeks slip away fruitlessly.
In the sort of life-affirming seminars that get booked by schools and are forced upon children, a lot of importance is put on the taking of opportunities. One in particular that I remember touched largely on half-chances, and on how you should grasp and indulge every half-chance, because you never know what that could amount to. It was a similar philosophy that led me to take the music gig last Friday, and it will certainly, at least I hope, continue to inform my decision-making. But the sort of half-chances that I want to talk about are of a less serious variety.
During the gig, which was for charity, there was to be an event where the audience would be encouraged to throw pound coins at a bottle of Baileys, with the nearest thrower winning the bottle. I was asked whether or not I would like to be in charge of this activity, which I turned down automatically, as the thought of actively having to corral the drunkest members of the audience was not one I relished. As I thought it over by myself, however, I realised that I had to be involved in it. My childhood enjoyment of commentary kicked in and I suggested that both I and the organiser should run the event, and commentate on the throws. I thought this would be a weird and enjoyable experience, which it was, but foremost in my mind was the prospect of doing the radio show the next day and declaring that I commentated on a game where drunk people threw pound coins at a bottle of Baileys. And I was paid for it. I was quite surprised as I asked for each new competitors name, how docile their reactions were. It took me by surprise that simply having a microphone, and having already been on probably helped, put me as quite a figure of authority. The reactions I received were the reactions of people who were speaking to someone who knew what they were doing, while I was, at that point, massively winging it. That, I suppose, is really the key to genuinely being in control. I was a lot calmer and more casual while performing on Friday, and I think that helped, I certainly enjoyed it more, and it felt less like a recitation and more conversational.
The whole ethos of saying yes and going for silly things has probably seeped into our worldview in part thanks to Ray Peacock, who is a bastion of willfully daft eccentric behaviour. We haven't quite got to his level of not worrying about things, but I'd like to think we are on that path. I am using 'we' to refer to The ACRE, I am not being overly bombastic.
When I drove up to Dafydd's house to pick him up on Saturday, he was being accosted on the doorstep by two Jehovah's Witnesses. There're always two, a master and an apprentice. He flashed me a huge grin through the middle of them as I parked up, and he tells me that the belly laugh I let out at that point was audible to him. It later came out that he had been talking with them for quite awhile, keeping them talking because he knew I would turn up soon. It amused me all the more to know that he had indulged them at the door purely to amuse himself and me, which in itself, for me, was more amusing and noteworthy than being accosted by the religious in the first place.
I hope we can keep true to this silliness and open-minded indulgence of the unusual, those two very small occurrences brightened up my weekend no end.
the end.
Showing posts with label radio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label radio. Show all posts
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Friday, 13 November 2009
Journal of Cannonby: The Further Misfortune of Stephen Teal
Here is last week's reading from the astonishing diary of Captain Cannonby.
- CNBY YELLS.
The script was read/played by:
Narrator: Me
Cannonby: AM Caradog Llywelyn
Carmarthen Bevan: Me
Stephen Teal: Dafydd Evans
Bludonna Snow: AM Caradog Llywelyn
Boris: Dafydd Evans
*****
Journal: The Remarkable Doings of Cannonby
The Further Misfortune of Stephen Teal
Narrator
Drifting restfully over a sea of still and sparkling azure, the crew of Captain Cannonby collectively catch their breath, as a quiet period descends over the fraught group. Nothing can be heard apart from the occasional complaints from passing seagulls, the slow slop of the waves against the proud boards of the magnificent pirate galleon, the Sodden Calamity. The most recent rumpus that befell the reckless crew had them stuck tight in a sea that had frozen over, seemingly in the blink of an eye. They had been caught in the sea-fields of the Octnarwhal, a creature thought to be made completely out of myth, lies and hearsay, but in reality a creature that is created from the component parts of an octopus and a narwhal. It leapt from the sea and set upon the crew, eventually being dislodged by handyman Carmarthen Bevan, but not before hideous damage had been done. Luckless bosun Stephen Teal had become entrapped in the tentacles of the Octnarwhal, and, using its magical powers, had replaced his head with an Octnarwhal egg. Deep in the heart of the Sodden Calamity, Brave Mr. Teal lays, attempting to recover from his injuries, though he is in no way aided by constant visits from his overeager Captain.
CNBY: (exclaiming) Ruddy hells bells man, what in the name of Nefertitis bleached moustache has happened to your head?
BVN: (pleading) Please, Mr Captain, the octnarwhal did him a mischief, you were there, remember.
CNBY: Oh yes. He had an egg for a head. However, his head is no longer an egg.
BVN: Well Captain, you know what eggs do...
CNBY: They scramble! They boil! Scramble and boil with bubbling eggy rage. Fear them Bevan, or they will egg your house.
BVN: I live on a boat.
CNBY: They will egg your boat man! They do not give two hoots for your housing situation.
BVN: Look now, you've missed the point, the egg didn't scramble or boil sir, it hatched.
CNBY: (exclaiming) Nature's miracle! Congratulations Stephen, you've given birth to your head! What's its name?
BVN: He's having trouble speaking sir, he hasn't quite gotten used to passing the vocals through the body of an octnarwhal pup.
TEAL:
CNBY: That's disgusting!
TEAL:
BVN: Look you've upset him now Captain.
CNBY: Son of a bun Stephen Teal, I'm beginning to wish your face had never been born!
TEAL:
Narrator
But for all the Captain's jest in regards to the strange seapuppy that was the mangled face of Stephen Teal, little did they know that it was about to become the main player in a very strange turn of events. For high above the Sodden Calamity, a mysterious hot-air balloon hovers ominously, like a fat wasp ready to poke its stinger into a slack bicep, and the cutting eyes of Bludonna Snow, the world's most prominent seal clubber are locked on the oblivious galleon. The balloon is fitted with an enormous PA system, which its two inhabitants, Ms Snow and her industrious and loyal servant Boris, use to pump out their signature tune in preparation for their assault. And when you hear on the wide of open seas, you know that you are only minutes away from having your seals clubbed.
SNOW: Look at them down there Boris, they have no idea that very soon, I will have clubbed their seal pups into oblivion.
BORIS: I don't see any seals.
SNOW: Of course you don't dear Boris, that is why I am the clubber, and you are the gimp.
BORIS: OK.
SNOW: I can sense one, hiding in the bilges like the filthy rat it is.
BORIS: I thought it was a seal.
SNOW: It is a seal! Enough of this, it is time to strike! Grab my bats Boris, we will jump.
CNBY: It really is a lovely day for a man to have a human head.
CNBY: Hello, you've jumped onto my ship. Who are you?
SNOW: Club him boris.
SNOW: Now to find this seal.
BVN: Oh binbags, they've only gone and conked the Captain, Teal, help me get him to safety.
TEAL:
SNOW: That's distgusting! Why are you wearing a seal on your head? And why does it have a horn? And tentacles?
TEAL: (struggling to speak) i-i-i-t-s o-c-t-n-n-n-n-a-r-w-w-w-h-o-l!
BORIS: That's disgusting.
SNOW: Rubbish, pass me my bat, it may not look like a seal, but like my old master used to say, you can take the seal out of the club, but I will still club the seal. (either this or ad-lip random battle-cry) HAAIYAH!
BVN: Oh no. Don't just stand there Stephen, focus your energies, use horn attack!
TEAL:
SNOW: AAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!
Narrator
With an almighty charge and prod of his mighty octnarwhal horn, Teal sent Snow hurtling through the clear mid-afternoon sky, where she landed safely in her hot-air balloon, because this is a daytime show, and not even the baddies are allowed to die. The crew are straggled over the deck, Carmarthen Bevan looking bemused and befuddled, Stephen Teal nursing his horn and the comatose Captain Cannonby splayed across the boards. Boris stands nearby, attempting to look inconspicuous and nonchalant, which of course makes him all the more apparent, and he is sent to the kitchen to become the ship's chef. And that is how you make friends when you are a pirate.
*****
If you're itching to find out what becomes of Cannonby and his crew, we'll be continuing the story tomorrow (Saturday 14th Nov, 2009) in the second hour of our 12-3 radio show on www.rhonddaradio.com.
A podcast will appear in the middle distance that is the future. This is now certain.
See you there.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Exemplum: An Example From One's Own Life
My Mondays seem to be coloured by a necessity to get up ludicrously early in order to involve myself in community radio, be it to attend meetings or to actually record a show. This week then it was an earlier start again, as I/we had to be there for half 9 in order to undergo some training by an envoy from the BBC.
Luckily we decided to take our CDs and notes regardless, as the training was called off due to the person who was meant to train us becoming ill. We had reached the station almost an hour early, and so we wasted some time in a little café which was run by the world’s surliest salesperson.
The recording went ahead afterward, and was a lot more fun to do than the first, with both my radiopadre and I loosening up and embracing tangents. The downside to this turn of events is that some sections of our show might be slightly chaotic or difficult to listen to, although I’m not really sure how inaccessible our humour actually is. It is also good that we have begun our tenure in radio presenting with recordings that aren’t going out live and are able to be edited, as in one of the sections our silliness led to comments that a certain program was “gay”, which I foolishly said in whispered tones as though this was a shockingly unacceptable thing. I had intended to have this sound utterly ludicrous and have the joke collapse under the weight of its own idiocy, however it just made me sound homophobic, so I am glad that we were able to just take it out. I don’t mean this to sound as though I am saying: “oh I’m edgy with my ‘you can’t tell these anymore’ jokes”, because it wasn’t edgy, just stupid. I think its interesting that we have recorded about four hours worth of footage, which in reality is closer to two since it is packed with songs, and that is all it took before something came out wrong. Also, Dafydd almost said ‘fuck’, so we have now edited the suggestive ‘fuh’ out of the recording. Just so everyone knows it isn’t just me cocking up. And if you disagree, you are clearly a gay fuck.
I made a point of going to sleep early as my early starts look set to continue this week, as I had to drag myself out of bed today for a haircut, will have to do so again tomorrow for another pre-record (which I am looking forward to), and the rest of the week I will likely have to be up in order to practise material for an open spot I’m doing on Friday. Exciting and busy times.
I was involved in an incident as I made my way to the barber, and while I am amused in retrospect, at the time I was annoyed.
A new walkway has been constructed near to me, which came about due to the creation of the new road, which meant that it was no longer possible to nip through the industrial estate to pass into a town which has a train station. The new shiny path, or as I have now decided to call it: Path 2.0, skirts a small hill, and so provides a leisurely, and importantly a clean, stroll instead of what used to be a muddy and bog-filled dirt track. I do have a history of enmity with the path as when they were constructing the path they failed to put any signs up in the night declaring that there were foot-deep holes spaced out down the path, filled only with the potential of a lamppost. Now since there were no lampposts, and no sun or moon, I fell in one, it hurt, I got compensation, like those horrible people on the telly tell you to get and I spent it on something frivolous and silly no doubt and I’m not proud of myself and I don’t like falling down holes and hope it never happens again okay? Nowadays though, there are lampposts.
Not that I needed them since it was in the morning and sunny, so I strolled on amiably, listening to Atom and His Package and looking forward to a haircut. Of course looking at me you wouldn’t think I was having a good time, but that is neither here nor there: it is up to me when and where I practise my look of deadpan-disgruntlement. The woman who cut my hair was certainly unperturbed by my vacant gaze, though it is difficult to hold a miserable jib when I am looking directly into my own face. I begin to think “aww, smile!” and then I get incredibly angry as there is nothing that will make me grimace quicker than someone beseeching me to smile. Once again, I digress.
The actual anecdote revolves around a dog, a little mongrel that was wandering the path by itself. People often walk their dogs down the path, and so I naturally assumed it was with somebody, though I later came to discover it certainly was not. The way in which I discovered this was by looking sideways and down. The dog was keeping perfect pace with me, jogging alongside me as though he was my friend, although similarly giving off the vibe that I was his owner. This meant that when the dog later went about being a nuisance to other people walking their dogs, it was I who received suspicious glances until I, through a mix of gurning and mime, made it as clear as possible that I was in no way affiliated with the overly friendly hound. Luckily I avoided any situations of utter random hilarity, although a worry did pass through my head when the dog hung back in order to do his secondary business that an overly enthusiastic member of the police would leap out of the bushes in order to force me to remove the offending refuse. Bizarrely, the leavings were a pure cocaine white, which is most bizarre as I have absolutely no idea how white cocaine is.
The dog continued to follow me, which was becoming a serious nuisance as I was heading into town, where it would be necessary to cross quite busy roads, and even though I knew it would make a better anecdote, I didn’t really want the dog to get run over. Even though if I subsequently nursed it back to health I would most definitely have a worthy good deed for Jon Richardson, I knew it was a better deed to ensure the dog wasn’t run over in the first place. The path forks two ways at the end, one around the back of houses, the other over the new bridge, it is worth noting that I am a traditionalist and therefore always go the old way around the houses. As soon as I started on this path the dog sprang ahead down the street, and I saw my chance. I doubled back and cut across a little barrier in order to join the path across the bridge, and in so doing escape the dog. I thought myself a very canny fellow.
I only made it about halfway over the bridge though, before I realised that the dog, most likely utilising his extraordinary sense of smell if I’m any judge, was at my side again. I turned to it and said “Go away!” and it did.
Anti-climactic who?
At least it didn’t get run over (as far as I know).
On my way back, it wasn’t there…
Luckily we decided to take our CDs and notes regardless, as the training was called off due to the person who was meant to train us becoming ill. We had reached the station almost an hour early, and so we wasted some time in a little café which was run by the world’s surliest salesperson.
The recording went ahead afterward, and was a lot more fun to do than the first, with both my radiopadre and I loosening up and embracing tangents. The downside to this turn of events is that some sections of our show might be slightly chaotic or difficult to listen to, although I’m not really sure how inaccessible our humour actually is. It is also good that we have begun our tenure in radio presenting with recordings that aren’t going out live and are able to be edited, as in one of the sections our silliness led to comments that a certain program was “gay”, which I foolishly said in whispered tones as though this was a shockingly unacceptable thing. I had intended to have this sound utterly ludicrous and have the joke collapse under the weight of its own idiocy, however it just made me sound homophobic, so I am glad that we were able to just take it out. I don’t mean this to sound as though I am saying: “oh I’m edgy with my ‘you can’t tell these anymore’ jokes”, because it wasn’t edgy, just stupid. I think its interesting that we have recorded about four hours worth of footage, which in reality is closer to two since it is packed with songs, and that is all it took before something came out wrong. Also, Dafydd almost said ‘fuck’, so we have now edited the suggestive ‘fuh’ out of the recording. Just so everyone knows it isn’t just me cocking up. And if you disagree, you are clearly a gay fuck.
I made a point of going to sleep early as my early starts look set to continue this week, as I had to drag myself out of bed today for a haircut, will have to do so again tomorrow for another pre-record (which I am looking forward to), and the rest of the week I will likely have to be up in order to practise material for an open spot I’m doing on Friday. Exciting and busy times.
I was involved in an incident as I made my way to the barber, and while I am amused in retrospect, at the time I was annoyed.
A new walkway has been constructed near to me, which came about due to the creation of the new road, which meant that it was no longer possible to nip through the industrial estate to pass into a town which has a train station. The new shiny path, or as I have now decided to call it: Path 2.0, skirts a small hill, and so provides a leisurely, and importantly a clean, stroll instead of what used to be a muddy and bog-filled dirt track. I do have a history of enmity with the path as when they were constructing the path they failed to put any signs up in the night declaring that there were foot-deep holes spaced out down the path, filled only with the potential of a lamppost. Now since there were no lampposts, and no sun or moon, I fell in one, it hurt, I got compensation, like those horrible people on the telly tell you to get and I spent it on something frivolous and silly no doubt and I’m not proud of myself and I don’t like falling down holes and hope it never happens again okay? Nowadays though, there are lampposts.
Not that I needed them since it was in the morning and sunny, so I strolled on amiably, listening to Atom and His Package and looking forward to a haircut. Of course looking at me you wouldn’t think I was having a good time, but that is neither here nor there: it is up to me when and where I practise my look of deadpan-disgruntlement. The woman who cut my hair was certainly unperturbed by my vacant gaze, though it is difficult to hold a miserable jib when I am looking directly into my own face. I begin to think “aww, smile!” and then I get incredibly angry as there is nothing that will make me grimace quicker than someone beseeching me to smile. Once again, I digress.
The actual anecdote revolves around a dog, a little mongrel that was wandering the path by itself. People often walk their dogs down the path, and so I naturally assumed it was with somebody, though I later came to discover it certainly was not. The way in which I discovered this was by looking sideways and down. The dog was keeping perfect pace with me, jogging alongside me as though he was my friend, although similarly giving off the vibe that I was his owner. This meant that when the dog later went about being a nuisance to other people walking their dogs, it was I who received suspicious glances until I, through a mix of gurning and mime, made it as clear as possible that I was in no way affiliated with the overly friendly hound. Luckily I avoided any situations of utter random hilarity, although a worry did pass through my head when the dog hung back in order to do his secondary business that an overly enthusiastic member of the police would leap out of the bushes in order to force me to remove the offending refuse. Bizarrely, the leavings were a pure cocaine white, which is most bizarre as I have absolutely no idea how white cocaine is.
The dog continued to follow me, which was becoming a serious nuisance as I was heading into town, where it would be necessary to cross quite busy roads, and even though I knew it would make a better anecdote, I didn’t really want the dog to get run over. Even though if I subsequently nursed it back to health I would most definitely have a worthy good deed for Jon Richardson, I knew it was a better deed to ensure the dog wasn’t run over in the first place. The path forks two ways at the end, one around the back of houses, the other over the new bridge, it is worth noting that I am a traditionalist and therefore always go the old way around the houses. As soon as I started on this path the dog sprang ahead down the street, and I saw my chance. I doubled back and cut across a little barrier in order to join the path across the bridge, and in so doing escape the dog. I thought myself a very canny fellow.
I only made it about halfway over the bridge though, before I realised that the dog, most likely utilising his extraordinary sense of smell if I’m any judge, was at my side again. I turned to it and said “Go away!” and it did.
Anti-climactic who?
At least it didn’t get run over (as far as I know).
On my way back, it wasn’t there…
Thursday, 24 September 2009
I Survey from My Lofty Snobbery-Pony
If I don’t start writing now, I feel as though I will let an entire week pass without provoking a dragon of any variety. Which is unthinkable in a week where I have been attempting to flex my creative muscles in as many arenas as is possible, so here we go with a straight retelling of my activities (we’ll see).
I began the week by forcing myself out of bed at an unreasonable hour in order to pre-record a radio show idea that my radio compadre and I had been preparing for the better part of a fortnight. The actual premise for the show, which is far more unique and thrilling in my imagination than it can possibly be in reality, has been bouncing around since the later part of last year, and it is incredibly strange and exciting to actually have an episode of it recorded.
We were shown a heartening amount of trust and were left to our own devices in the studio, which certainly helped, as a recording would probably be awkward and forced were there someone overseeing our efforts. As it transpires, I feel the first few sections were still a bit jerky and nervous, but I think we were far more affable and amusing after that.
I once again delved into the time-consuming world of editing as it was necessary to have certain errors removed, such as playing the wrong tracks (Dafydd) or mistakenly putting the ‘.co.uk’ ending when plugging the website (me). It is good that mistakes came from us both I think, as if it were one of us in particular dragging down our average this would lead to bitterness and resentment, eventually culminating in a huge fall-out where one of us is drugged, lugged into a hemp sack and dumped in the river Selsig. Which would result in an evening of drug-induced damp slumber.
More of my time was taken up with the weekly reviewing project I am involved in, or perhaps co-founder of, of which I feel it is my duty never to miss an entry. This is likely going to prove impossible, although with sufficient organisation and dedication I will be able to meet the weekly deadline ad infinitum, however it has been in the realms of both organisation and dedication that I have always been slightly lacking. My review this week was of the film Paprika, which I have seen several times before, and is a film I genuinely adore, which perhaps made it quite so easy to write a review for, if it was slightly more difficult to stop writing. In order to begin a back-catalogue of reviews I decided to watch Vexille today, so that I could accumulate notes on various pieces in order to not be forced into watching whatever is on hand on the reviewing day in question. I really enjoyed the piece, though I am glad I watched it so far away from a deadline, as some of the comments I have regarding it require research in order to substantiate them, as I don’t fancy making wild statements and invite upon myself the rocket-powered vitriol of internet geekrage (as I saw it described in a Guardian comment section, although I added the term ‘rocket-powered’ myself).
At times I don’t really understand my own dedication to the blog phenomenon, or ‘blognomenon’ if you please, with my original reasons having their roots in giving me somewhere to workshop stand-up comedy ideas in the dark where a handful of would perhaps read them. More and more it has simply become a repository for my topical musings, due to the vast amount of news I read whilst in work, and also for the logging of my day to day doings, which I don’t particularly want to make a regular occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I don’t get up to very much interesting, case in point being the fact that I have so much free time as to enable me to pump out over 1000 words a day for a blog almost every other day. I would like there to be more of the sort of stupid expansion of a story in a similar vein as drowning my radio co-presenter in a shallow river, but in reality I tend to do more of this self-referential indulgent mememememememe rubbish. Now for something hopefully amusing.
On the drive back from work every evening, it is necessary for me to pass through the main road directly in front of the University in which I studied until I graduated this summer (yay me, I am cleverclogs). Now that it is term time once again, the roads are packed with returning students and excitable freshers, and the humbuggery that non-students stereotypically feel for students has not been long in worming its way into my psyche. The short autumn days ensure that I am driving home in darkness, and nothing impacts my driving more negatively than poor-lighting conditions and excess flesh. Wednesdays are the worst, as the University clearly still runs the midweek event ‘Score’, I could tell simply by the vast swathe of vapid hatefuls swamping the road. Now in the country where I live, Wales, it was my understanding that the road was where the cars go, and human beings, for their own safety really, are to walk along the pavement. Of course, I would prefer that vacuous brain-dead knock-off trend-plebs stayed indoors, or at least out of the beam of my headlights. If I accidentally run over a dog or a cat, that would be a shame and a pity, if I ran over a ‘party animal’ it would be a nuisance. I want to get home and into the warm as quickly as is safely possible, which is one reason why I am quite so much at odds with these people who insist on getting all dressed up and going out. I also have a quarrel with the phrase ‘getting all dressed up’, because the actual process is less about putting clothes on, and more about seeing how little it is possible to wear and not be arrested and/or die from hypothermia.
As much as vacuous near-nudity both distracts and frustrates me, pride of place goes to one particular bell-end who managed to dispossess me of any nostalgia and longing I may have felt for Uni just by walking down a street. The fellow in question was weaving foolishly between the other users of the pavement, holding his hand on his forehead as though it was some sort of fin, and pulling an ‘amusing’ face. It was not this negligibly annoying behaviour that fired a nuclear dart of fury deep into my brain and withered my soul, rather it was his chosen garments. Or more specifically, the ‘hilarious’ words writ upon it. Now I would argue that a rugby shirt should be worn on a night out on only 3 occasions: 1) fancy dress, 2) St David’s Day or 3) when the rugby is on. Now having noted that no one else was in fancy dress I could guess that this fellow was a bell-end. The final nail in his coffin, the coffin of my judgemental prejudice to be exact, came as I read the words on his back and realised he must be what people refer to as a ‘character’. Emblazoned upon his shoulders was the moniker ‘Captain Poon’.
He may as well have been carrying a sign which said “You are not going to enjoy my company”.
Luckily for the both of us, our brief liaison was merely a glance from a passing car, as just as he would have very little of value to add to my existence, I hardly think my clever dickery would be amusing to him, and I have no intention of debasing myself to amuse students.
At least, not now that I am no longer one myself.
Ah, hubris.
I began the week by forcing myself out of bed at an unreasonable hour in order to pre-record a radio show idea that my radio compadre and I had been preparing for the better part of a fortnight. The actual premise for the show, which is far more unique and thrilling in my imagination than it can possibly be in reality, has been bouncing around since the later part of last year, and it is incredibly strange and exciting to actually have an episode of it recorded.
We were shown a heartening amount of trust and were left to our own devices in the studio, which certainly helped, as a recording would probably be awkward and forced were there someone overseeing our efforts. As it transpires, I feel the first few sections were still a bit jerky and nervous, but I think we were far more affable and amusing after that.
I once again delved into the time-consuming world of editing as it was necessary to have certain errors removed, such as playing the wrong tracks (Dafydd) or mistakenly putting the ‘.co.uk’ ending when plugging the website (me). It is good that mistakes came from us both I think, as if it were one of us in particular dragging down our average this would lead to bitterness and resentment, eventually culminating in a huge fall-out where one of us is drugged, lugged into a hemp sack and dumped in the river Selsig. Which would result in an evening of drug-induced damp slumber.
More of my time was taken up with the weekly reviewing project I am involved in, or perhaps co-founder of, of which I feel it is my duty never to miss an entry. This is likely going to prove impossible, although with sufficient organisation and dedication I will be able to meet the weekly deadline ad infinitum, however it has been in the realms of both organisation and dedication that I have always been slightly lacking. My review this week was of the film Paprika, which I have seen several times before, and is a film I genuinely adore, which perhaps made it quite so easy to write a review for, if it was slightly more difficult to stop writing. In order to begin a back-catalogue of reviews I decided to watch Vexille today, so that I could accumulate notes on various pieces in order to not be forced into watching whatever is on hand on the reviewing day in question. I really enjoyed the piece, though I am glad I watched it so far away from a deadline, as some of the comments I have regarding it require research in order to substantiate them, as I don’t fancy making wild statements and invite upon myself the rocket-powered vitriol of internet geekrage (as I saw it described in a Guardian comment section, although I added the term ‘rocket-powered’ myself).
At times I don’t really understand my own dedication to the blog phenomenon, or ‘blognomenon’ if you please, with my original reasons having their roots in giving me somewhere to workshop stand-up comedy ideas in the dark where a handful of would perhaps read them. More and more it has simply become a repository for my topical musings, due to the vast amount of news I read whilst in work, and also for the logging of my day to day doings, which I don’t particularly want to make a regular occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I don’t get up to very much interesting, case in point being the fact that I have so much free time as to enable me to pump out over 1000 words a day for a blog almost every other day. I would like there to be more of the sort of stupid expansion of a story in a similar vein as drowning my radio co-presenter in a shallow river, but in reality I tend to do more of this self-referential indulgent mememememememe rubbish. Now for something hopefully amusing.
On the drive back from work every evening, it is necessary for me to pass through the main road directly in front of the University in which I studied until I graduated this summer (yay me, I am cleverclogs). Now that it is term time once again, the roads are packed with returning students and excitable freshers, and the humbuggery that non-students stereotypically feel for students has not been long in worming its way into my psyche. The short autumn days ensure that I am driving home in darkness, and nothing impacts my driving more negatively than poor-lighting conditions and excess flesh. Wednesdays are the worst, as the University clearly still runs the midweek event ‘Score’, I could tell simply by the vast swathe of vapid hatefuls swamping the road. Now in the country where I live, Wales, it was my understanding that the road was where the cars go, and human beings, for their own safety really, are to walk along the pavement. Of course, I would prefer that vacuous brain-dead knock-off trend-plebs stayed indoors, or at least out of the beam of my headlights. If I accidentally run over a dog or a cat, that would be a shame and a pity, if I ran over a ‘party animal’ it would be a nuisance. I want to get home and into the warm as quickly as is safely possible, which is one reason why I am quite so much at odds with these people who insist on getting all dressed up and going out. I also have a quarrel with the phrase ‘getting all dressed up’, because the actual process is less about putting clothes on, and more about seeing how little it is possible to wear and not be arrested and/or die from hypothermia.
As much as vacuous near-nudity both distracts and frustrates me, pride of place goes to one particular bell-end who managed to dispossess me of any nostalgia and longing I may have felt for Uni just by walking down a street. The fellow in question was weaving foolishly between the other users of the pavement, holding his hand on his forehead as though it was some sort of fin, and pulling an ‘amusing’ face. It was not this negligibly annoying behaviour that fired a nuclear dart of fury deep into my brain and withered my soul, rather it was his chosen garments. Or more specifically, the ‘hilarious’ words writ upon it. Now I would argue that a rugby shirt should be worn on a night out on only 3 occasions: 1) fancy dress, 2) St David’s Day or 3) when the rugby is on. Now having noted that no one else was in fancy dress I could guess that this fellow was a bell-end. The final nail in his coffin, the coffin of my judgemental prejudice to be exact, came as I read the words on his back and realised he must be what people refer to as a ‘character’. Emblazoned upon his shoulders was the moniker ‘Captain Poon’.
He may as well have been carrying a sign which said “You are not going to enjoy my company”.
Luckily for the both of us, our brief liaison was merely a glance from a passing car, as just as he would have very little of value to add to my existence, I hardly think my clever dickery would be amusing to him, and I have no intention of debasing myself to amuse students.
At least, not now that I am no longer one myself.
Ah, hubris.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
A Document Regarding Frivolous Patois
"Don't people in Roath have the same right to a decent night's sleep as everybody else?"
This is the only line from a news article that I have discovered today that I found noteworthy. I reproduce it here, out of context, in the hope that the vagaries surrounding the quotation will add to its oddness.
I am unsure what to write about today, so I will allow myself what I originally believed this blog would not become, and write an entry specifically about myself. Oh dear me indeed.
I have been surrounded by children recently, due to the nature of my job, and I have discovered that the youth of today has adopted a number of odd colloquialisms that I find jarring. This is hardly surprising, and indeed is one of the things to be expected from generation to generation, but as I am only 21, I am slightly flummoxed to note the difference in language use already present in people 7-8 years my junior. I appreciate that I may not be a legitimate bastion of current slang, as evidenced by my use of terms such as “flummoxed”, “legitimate” and “bastion”. However, some of the language used without even the thinnest veneer of irony or self-awareness is flabbergasting.
I am no stranger to the concept of “ownage”, though it is feasible to assume that I would not use it straight-faced even in its original definition. What is most surprising to me is the new usage that has cropped up where kids, referring to their armour on an online game, inquire hubristically: “Do I look ownage?” Despite being employed as a glorified child-behaviour paladin, my degree in, and passion about, the English language lead me to view this use of language with an air of haughty distaste.
Another example of ludicrous patois is the decision of the children to actually declare, out loud, with their voices, out of their own mouths, into the air, where you are HEAR it: “OMG!”. Actually spelling out the letters instead of saying the words these letters have come to represent. I have come to the point where I allot myself 15 lashes if I ever use the actual phrase “oh my god”, and to hear little human whelps using the bowdlerised phrase with no sense of how idiotic they sound leaves me chilled. I think it all comes down to the fact that I hate children, and in this sense I am both not suited and perfectly suited to being in charge of them. They also say “noob”. I am agèd beyond my days.
In a jarring change of topic, I will now stop talking about something that frustrates me and begin discussing things I enjoy. I was let loose into a radio studio recently, along with my future co-presenter, to “get a feel of the room”. What we achieved in the hour or so we were allowed in there was, though it is swell-headed of me to say so, beautiful. We quickly came to grips with the technology and the software by ourselves, since we are such tech-savvy clever Richards, we then proceeded to ‘practice’ and prepare an off the cuff non-recorded pilot of what we think our show should be. It essentially comprised of songs we don’t like being seamlessly faded in and out of each other to an accompaniment of us cachinnating cacophonously. In the heightened oddness of the studio, which I am going to refer to as The Atelier, even the most spurious joke or funny story became hilarious, sending us into rapturous bellowing laughter. We gleaned far too much enjoyment from being ‘naughty’ and pronouncing Foo Fighters as though it was a naughty word (which of course we cannot do on air due to the Don’t Say The Naughty Words! Act 1914), and also from a frighteningly accurate impression of Sarah Millican, which no Rhondda-born man has any right to be able to do, and also a very poor John Lennon. We toyed with the idea of pretending to be from other community radio stations located around the country, welcoming imaginary listeners in a heavy faux-cockney accent to Pearly Kings FM, and topping this off with a gravitas laden “Have a banana”. It was all scuppered however as the manager of the station walked in on us raging through an angry dialogue pretending to be from a Liverpudlian station. I think we scared her quite a lot, and perhaps made her question her own judgement in terms of letting us in. Regardless, we had a swell time (I am very much on board in the attempt to re-popularise this term).
As well as our being-silly centric live shows which we will be broadcasting on the weekend when the radio gets started (if all goes well), we are also planning on doing a number of pre-records using a format I dreamt up last year, and that we have been meddling with in order to amuse ourselves. I am very excited to be planning and preparing for the Cultural Exchange Program, the premise of which is very simple indeed. We will be picking a genre (of Jean Reno as we will be attempt to rebrand them) each, amassing a selection of songs from the genre, playing them to each other and discussing them, in the hopes that The Exchange will make us better, more rounded individuals, and failing that, that some laughter will have been created. Despite having prepared fastidiously for the first show, I won’t put details here as it is still far enough away that I feel I must keep as much information to myself in order for it to remain fresh on the day.
Suffice to say, preparations for the show have been engrossing and enjoyable, even when certain songs cannot be chosen due to the often colourful language my preferred genres contain. I take these instances to be a challenge, and tracks that are unsuitable for broadcast have already forced me to seek out other tracks, which have often proved better. Hopefully we will be able to incorporate a “Tracks We Couldn’t Play” section, in order to explain the reasons they couldn’t be used, which I have already discovered often have quite amusing reasons.
To close up, here is a track that I most certainly couldn’t play, and is a chirpy, although somewhat abrasive, piece. See if you can spot why it’s inappropriate.
Answers on a postcard please.
This is the only line from a news article that I have discovered today that I found noteworthy. I reproduce it here, out of context, in the hope that the vagaries surrounding the quotation will add to its oddness.
I am unsure what to write about today, so I will allow myself what I originally believed this blog would not become, and write an entry specifically about myself. Oh dear me indeed.
I have been surrounded by children recently, due to the nature of my job, and I have discovered that the youth of today has adopted a number of odd colloquialisms that I find jarring. This is hardly surprising, and indeed is one of the things to be expected from generation to generation, but as I am only 21, I am slightly flummoxed to note the difference in language use already present in people 7-8 years my junior. I appreciate that I may not be a legitimate bastion of current slang, as evidenced by my use of terms such as “flummoxed”, “legitimate” and “bastion”. However, some of the language used without even the thinnest veneer of irony or self-awareness is flabbergasting.
I am no stranger to the concept of “ownage”, though it is feasible to assume that I would not use it straight-faced even in its original definition. What is most surprising to me is the new usage that has cropped up where kids, referring to their armour on an online game, inquire hubristically: “Do I look ownage?” Despite being employed as a glorified child-behaviour paladin, my degree in, and passion about, the English language lead me to view this use of language with an air of haughty distaste.
Another example of ludicrous patois is the decision of the children to actually declare, out loud, with their voices, out of their own mouths, into the air, where you are HEAR it: “OMG!”. Actually spelling out the letters instead of saying the words these letters have come to represent. I have come to the point where I allot myself 15 lashes if I ever use the actual phrase “oh my god”, and to hear little human whelps using the bowdlerised phrase with no sense of how idiotic they sound leaves me chilled. I think it all comes down to the fact that I hate children, and in this sense I am both not suited and perfectly suited to being in charge of them. They also say “noob”. I am agèd beyond my days.
In a jarring change of topic, I will now stop talking about something that frustrates me and begin discussing things I enjoy. I was let loose into a radio studio recently, along with my future co-presenter, to “get a feel of the room”. What we achieved in the hour or so we were allowed in there was, though it is swell-headed of me to say so, beautiful. We quickly came to grips with the technology and the software by ourselves, since we are such tech-savvy clever Richards, we then proceeded to ‘practice’ and prepare an off the cuff non-recorded pilot of what we think our show should be. It essentially comprised of songs we don’t like being seamlessly faded in and out of each other to an accompaniment of us cachinnating cacophonously. In the heightened oddness of the studio, which I am going to refer to as The Atelier, even the most spurious joke or funny story became hilarious, sending us into rapturous bellowing laughter. We gleaned far too much enjoyment from being ‘naughty’ and pronouncing Foo Fighters as though it was a naughty word (which of course we cannot do on air due to the Don’t Say The Naughty Words! Act 1914), and also from a frighteningly accurate impression of Sarah Millican, which no Rhondda-born man has any right to be able to do, and also a very poor John Lennon. We toyed with the idea of pretending to be from other community radio stations located around the country, welcoming imaginary listeners in a heavy faux-cockney accent to Pearly Kings FM, and topping this off with a gravitas laden “Have a banana”. It was all scuppered however as the manager of the station walked in on us raging through an angry dialogue pretending to be from a Liverpudlian station. I think we scared her quite a lot, and perhaps made her question her own judgement in terms of letting us in. Regardless, we had a swell time (I am very much on board in the attempt to re-popularise this term).
As well as our being-silly centric live shows which we will be broadcasting on the weekend when the radio gets started (if all goes well), we are also planning on doing a number of pre-records using a format I dreamt up last year, and that we have been meddling with in order to amuse ourselves. I am very excited to be planning and preparing for the Cultural Exchange Program, the premise of which is very simple indeed. We will be picking a genre (of Jean Reno as we will be attempt to rebrand them) each, amassing a selection of songs from the genre, playing them to each other and discussing them, in the hopes that The Exchange will make us better, more rounded individuals, and failing that, that some laughter will have been created. Despite having prepared fastidiously for the first show, I won’t put details here as it is still far enough away that I feel I must keep as much information to myself in order for it to remain fresh on the day.
Suffice to say, preparations for the show have been engrossing and enjoyable, even when certain songs cannot be chosen due to the often colourful language my preferred genres contain. I take these instances to be a challenge, and tracks that are unsuitable for broadcast have already forced me to seek out other tracks, which have often proved better. Hopefully we will be able to incorporate a “Tracks We Couldn’t Play” section, in order to explain the reasons they couldn’t be used, which I have already discovered often have quite amusing reasons.
To close up, here is a track that I most certainly couldn’t play, and is a chirpy, although somewhat abrasive, piece. See if you can spot why it’s inappropriate.
Answers on a postcard please.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Voluntarily Volunteering Volunteering Observations
Volunteering is a strange process. Throughout the vast majority of my life I have not been a volunteering sort of person. In school I was often involved in a number of interesting extra curriculars, but this was always as the behest of teachers or friends. Since leaving Uni, however, I am attempting to buck this trend.
In order to have enough to write about, I am using the word ‘volunteer’ in a very broad sense. My first foray into the world of volunteering came when I was involved in giving University hopefuls a tour of the campus. Which I did once. In all truth this was not meant to be a volunteering program, I would have been paid for my efforts, but I did such an awful job of it I felt it would be wrong to chase up payment. There is an applicable saying referring to money and sense that I could apply to that anecdote, but I won’t. Though I have.
I am also broadening ‘volunteering’ to include comedy open spots, which I started seeking out earlier this year. These shouldn’t really be considered volunteering, as I very much wanted to do them, and arguably I was earning more in non-monetary terms than I was investing. I wonder whether open spots / open mic nights are officially considered voluntary work, although I am not inquisitive enough to do anything apart from include the query here.
In a more direct sense I will, in the near future, be volunteering for a local community radio station, but even this doesn’t quite fit the bill for me. Volunteering is usually portrayed in such a way as to seem like a burden and a hassle, but my experience of volunteering for the radio so far has been a joy, and genuinely exciting. For me, being involved in the workings of the station is less an unpaid use of my time, and more a fantastical romp through the airwaves, wondering quite how I have been allowed free reign to fill time between songs. Still, it hasn’t happened yet, fates may conspire against my radio aspirations. My comedy efforts have thrived thus far however, and I am fully confident that I will be equally competent in the radiographical sphere. Because I am a self-impressed hubristic eloquent yob.
It is interesting that I have the opportunity to discuss my understanding of volunteering to such a degree, as I am writing this whilst in work. Having run out of interesting (to me) BBC, Guardian and Chortle articles to peruse, I am forced to write my own words in order to pass the time. The responsibilities of my employed role require me to ensure the safety of computers, and the harmony of a cyber café. The dash of the ‘e’ in cyber café was placed there automatically by Word, I note this as it would be simply ghastly if the reader were to find within me a quantum of pretention.
My job of babysitting internet-browsing youths is particularly stress free at this point, as 4 kids playing Runescape are hardly ‘rowdy’ in any way shape of form. There are a group of my co-workers assembled in the corner of the room schmoozing, but instead of joining them and enjoying some rational human company I am compiling this facile correspondence to be flung haphazardly into the vacuum of the blogosphere. How deliciously futile.
A mixture of monitor-based-pain of the eye-area and a lack of sleep conspire to shroud the room in a foggy haze. Either that or a monitor has overheated in a Runescape based tragedy. I hope the second is the case and I am freed from the 20 minute minimalistic survival game until the end of my shift. On second thought I think I will wait it out.
I am now down to three children left under my scrutiny. Down to the final three. Who will win? You decide. The winner is Youssef Richards-Harrowby, whose name I have altered for security reasons.#
What this post proves is that my creativity is hampered by the potential for people to glance over my shoulder. Also sleep deprivation and lack of respect for the blog reading public.
I would end this post with a 'meh', but I hate that phrase with a passion akin to fury. 'Meh' is evidence of a lack of thought, and a lack of thought is the only truly evil action a human being can undertake. So why don't you 'ave a fink about dat den cleverpants?
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