I’ll let you know if George sends a reply.

Liam

In a similar vein to yesterday’s post, I’m having trouble understanding why DMX is so insistent upon rapping about Iago, the villainous parrot sidekick in Disney’s Aladdin, in his track ‘Party Up’:

Liam

A few days ago, I was listening to Living Colour’s ‘Cult of Personality’. You might remember it from playing GTA San Andreas. Now I can’t stop thinking that they’re singing about coats. Listen and see what I mean:

Maybe I just really need to buy a coat. It is getting colder.

Liam

Hopefully I’ll now be able to take the time to write pieces that are worthy of your time. Thanks for reading.

Liam

Either way, I couldn’t win. A refusal to dance would have signified to my peers that I’m wetter than a wet wipe on the deck of the Titanic, but their estimation of me would have been dramatically lowered as soon as I busted out some moves. You see my dilemma.

That’s not to say I don’t have a repertoire, of sorts. I’ve got a few moves. I sometimes step slightly forward with my left foot, and I sometimes slightly forward with my right. That’s two right there. In moments of reckless abandon, I have been known to step forward with one foot and then the other. I know. I’m a god damned maverick. I scare myself sometimes.

And let’s not ignore the moves that my top half is capable of busting out at a moment’s notice. Namely moving my arms while defensively keeping them close to my chest, so that I resemble a tyrannosaurus rex whose mother took Thalidomide.

You see what I mean.

More often than not I will seek out an empty table and discuss the awkwardness of this whole social expectation for us to dance, in some grotesque post-Curb Your Enthusiasm display of self-alienation. You don’t have to say it, I know I’m a knob.

I start people watching from my ivory tower. I see a dancefloor as a very accurate description of how British people participate in democracy. There are the snide sideline commentators. There are the people will stay on the floor regardless of the track, because, well, they can’t think of a better alternative. And the others will hear a song they really like, and will march in groups on to the dancefloor with pointed determination. They will also make a huge spectacle of their pointed determination– often actually pointing with determination as they make their way towards the floor, as if their index fingers are being dragged to the dancefloor by some fishing wire connected to the DJ booth. They’re off to dance and they bloody well want you to notice. When the run of agreeable songs comes to an end, they will march off with a similar degree of ostentation.

I have an idea on how to ensure these people get enough exercise: simply play a song that the kids are down with– perhaps some dubstep fart symphony or something– and then, 15 seconds later, whack on a song from The Carpenters. Keep alternating in 15 second increments. And be sure to replace the wooden flooring once a week, some spots are going to wear down very quickly.

But I digress. If you ever find yourself not wanting to dance, look at the dancers. Really look at them. Of course there are the people who enjoy dancing, and do a damn good job at it. But I’d say 90% of dancefloor participants aren’t enjoying themselves. They drag their limbs lethargically and look around, hoping that they appear to be having a brilliant time. Then they pose for the camera phones; irrefutable photo evidence to dismiss any doubts that they weren’t having the most fun in the history of ever.

We go up on to the dancefloor to be with our friends. Why else would we put ourselves through that ordeal? And the social convention of having to dance when there’s a large empty space and loud music playing doesn’t appear to be going away any time soon. So, I propose an alternative: Outsourcing.

I’m sure that if we all chipped in as a collective, we could build some huge dancing warehouses in India. Wooden dancefloors that would stretch as far as the eye can see. When it comes to that moment when you’re expected to get up and dance, you set up a video conference and watch your counterpart do the dancing for you. Pay them £5 an hour, and the job’s a good’un. That way, the dancing is still getting done, and we get to socialise without making tits of ourselves. Who’s with me?

Liam

“Yeah, I’m just sat on some wooden steps with my wabs out. What of it?”

“I was told that if you put it close enough to your ear, you’ll hear the sea.”

“I forgot my watch, so I thought if I aimed my quiff just right I could use it as a sundial.”

“I didn’t think that my previous hairdo was phallic enough.”

This next one was my favourite, but unfortunately the photo didn’t come out too well:

I’ll clarify: it’s a lady model driving a car without a seatbelt, using her knees to steer. Either that or she has parked up and is attempting to use a terrier to secure her steering wheel. Here’s a better picture:

Man models seem to have the easy end of the deal. They just have to pout and look chiseled, pulling Blue Steel or something akin to that. But the lady models are subjected to humiliation after humiliation. If Germaine Greer ever writes ‘The Female Eunuch 2: Judgment Day’, or something like that, I humbly suggest that her first chapter focusses on getting man models to be made to look ridiculous. Perhaps they should be made to wear glasses made from spaghetti hoops. Or a raincoat made of medical gauze. Or some clothes from Jack Wills.

Liam

The girl who is sat in front of me pulled a pack of Weetabix out of her bag and proceeded to nibble part of one. I considered writing a piece asking how on Earth this is possible. Had she saved up saliva for ten minutes before chewing on the dry biscuit? Had she soaked them in oil? That would pretty much have formed the basis of that piece. Riveting stuff.

Then the train’s catering trolley wheeled past. I shit you not, I considered writing a hilarious list of amusing sandwiches you could make. Fortunately, the quality control area of my brain, atrophied as it is, canned that idea quite soon after it was conceived.

I also looked around and noticed that everyone in my vicinity was wearing headphones and playing with their mobiles. I considered writing a piece of social commentary about how technology is disjointing us, isolating us from our peers. Incisive stuff. Or at least it would have been, if I’d written it before the inception of the iPod. Or the mobile phone. Or the Walkman. Or even the television.

How about a cutting piece on how irritating it is that Apple have decided to change all of their touchpad gestures for the latest iteration of OSX Lion? There’s one for whitewhine.com, if ever I heard one.

I even tried to find something amusing about the pattern of the train’s carpet. There’s nothing amusing about the pattern of the train’s carpet. It is inoffensiveness defined. See:

And that’s when I decided to stop.

Some people come up with lovely descriptions for creativity such as ‘mining for diamonds’. I see it more like dashing your brains against a brick sieve until a small chunk of grey matter manages to pass through to the other side, whereby it is then dragged slowly across a keyboard for as long as it takes.

I should say that I do actually enjoy writing. I just wanted the internet to be grateful to me for not polluting it with most of the rubbish that my brain tries to present to me as a valid idea.

Next week: I attempt to draw the blueprint of a brick sieve, as penance for mixing my metaphors.

Liam

In other news: I’m really enjoying re-reading Catch-22. I’ve never seen bureaucracy get skewered quite so hilariously. Read it, if you get the chance. The chapter on Major Major Major Major has to be the funniest thing I’ve ever read.

As always, I’ll update if/when I get a reply.

Liam

“You might want to learn how to touch-type”, my new employers told me, “you’ll probably be taking notes at meetings.” Dutifully, I’ve started learning how to use all my fingers when typing, but now I worry that I’m groping my computer.

My previous ‘technique’ consisted of banging down on the keys with my index fingers. It felt much more businesslike. It helped me keep a healthy distance from my computer– I knew what I wanted the computer to do and the computer did it. It was loud, inefficient, and, most importantly, unsexy.

Now, with the help of this website, I’ve finally taught myself to use all of  my fingers to type. For those who don’t really know about touch typing technique, I’ll try to explain: Basically, each finger is assigned a base  location and has specific keys to hit. You keep your fingers close to the keyboard, cutting out the unnecessary effort (and time) expended by repeatedly lifting and lowering them. An unfortunate drawback is that it’s also quite sensual.

Being inexperienced, touch-typing is a slow and lingering process. My fingers don’t quite know where the keys are. I drag my digits slowly across the contours, trying to hit the right spots. They never leave the keyboard. Whereas before I was able to keep the contact to a minimum, now I can’t help but to caress the keys as I try to learn proper technique.

It’s all a bit awkward really. I can’t help but feel that touch-typing is a bit improper, and that mother certainly wouldn’t approve. It’s also worrying. Worst-case scenario: in a fit of London loneliness, I’m sat alone with my computer one night, touch-typing. Deprived of human contact, I begin to fall for my computer– like that bloke from V for Vendetta. I then decide to marry my computer, and become one of those bizarre sad acts that you read about on Page 3 next to the lady with her tits out. I attempt to consummate the marriage and end up in A&E, joining the bloke with a ketchup bottle up his arse in becoming a piece of folk-lore that junior doctors tell each other in hushed tones.

No. I won’t allow it. I can’t. Maybe I should stop writing blogs and instead be a vlogger.

Actually, sod that. I’d rather try to shag a laptop than become a video blogger, no contest.

Liam

“I have a state of the art shirt that allows me to obtain your Direct Debit details via a hug. C’mere…”

Now that I am getting used to city life, I have to plan my route very carefully. If I’m on a high street, I have to ensure that they can’t lock on to me. Even being in their peripheral vision is dangerous. It’s like a really shit version of Metal Gear Solid.

No doubt you’ll have seen them yourself. They go by many names. Charity fundraisers. Charity muggers. Chuggers. Human spam. For a time, I tried to start my own meme, ‘Charasite’. Y’know, because they’re taking funds away from the charity itself? Kind of like parasites? Yeah. That one didn’t really take off. Just as well really. It is a bit vicious.

Their causes are valid, and the practice obviously generates money for charities– otherwise they would have disappeared by now. I feel bad saying it, but there’s something very annoying about being constantly guilt tripped by these people.

So, instead of just ignoring them, I’ve come up with humorous ways to throw them off their sales pitch. That way, I can chuckle to myself and drown out the voice in my head telling me that I’m a horrible person who should be more charitable.

Here are my techniques. I can guarantee from experience that they’re 100% effective.

1) Meow at them

“Hello sir, did you know that hundreds of donkeys won’t have a roof to sleep under tonight?”

“Meow.”

2) Say what you would normally say, but in a really squeaky voice

Try saying something like ‘I’m sorry, I’m very busy’ in a voice not dissimilar to that of the mouse in Fonejacker.

3) Speak in the third person

“Hey! You’re looking buff. Have you been working out?”

“He has been frequenting the gym, but he is very busy today and must continue walking.”

4) Say something slightly sinister

“Hello, sir. Can I take a moment of your time to talk about poverty?”

“I can hear your clipboard talking to me. It says that you’re not a good person.”

You have some artistic licence to play around with this one. But remember: charity muggers are people too, and like to be able to sleep at night.

Honestly, if you do these with a straight face then your assailants will be utterly baffled, giving you ample opportunity to walk on. Maybe best to just keep them for charity muggers. I doubt it would act as much of a deterrent for actual muggers.

Liam

For a more balanced view of charity fundraisers, see here and here. It’s something I feel genuinely ambivalent about, but ambivalence isn’t funny. Unless you’re trying to get someone to explain why they actually buy The Sun when they acknowledge that it’s rubbish. Then it’s pretty funny.