Sad times.

I went to London yesterday. I thought I’d do a stand-up gig, as I thought I should probably practice for Sunday, when I’ve got another, bigger gig booked. Unfortunately, it’s a night where it’s very much first come first served in act terms, and I got there late because I was too busy buying some Monster Munch, so wasn’t allowed to perform as they were already full. I then had to spend my time just ambling around London on my own, which was pretty depressing really. I usually don’t mind it, and I’m usually quite entertained by London, but for some reason I just felt really down. I’m not really succeeding at anything at the moment, and I wasn’t even sure whether I wanted to do the stand-up gig last night. I nearly just stayed at home because I’ve become so wracked with self-doubt that I don’t think anything I do is any good and nobody will enjoy it. To be honest, I suspect I’ve made a complete hash of my life and I’m not sure what I can do anymore, however having just said that, Spotify seems to have taken the time to recommend drug trials to me. I’ll be honest, selling my body to science in the hope that I’ll become the next Wolverine does appeal somewhat. Though being the idiot that I am, I already consider myself to be a modern day Wolverine, based only on the fact that I’ve never broken a bone. Now, I’ve never seen my bones, but I can only assume that this is because they’re made of metal. Maybe I’ll enrich a shark with uranium and let it bite me. At best I’ll become some kind of superhuman shark beast, and at worst I’ll get some kind of advert out of it wandering about with my shark bite visible to the world while people scream about seeing my true colours shining through. Just like a rainbow. A scarred rainbow.

To cap off a fine day yesterday I thought I’d go and cheer myself up with some ice cream, so I went to the special ice cream shop and asked, quite clearly I thought, for some rum and raisin ice cream. You can imagine my surprise then when the man at the counter instead decided to get me pomegranate flavour. How do those two things even sound the same? Rum and raisin. Pomegranate. I was too polite to say “How the hell did you hear that as pomegranate?” instead assuming that the mistake was mine. I’m not sure anybody can actually understand what I’m saying, leading to the tremendously unique situation of not actually having a first language.

“Somebody call 999! My house is on fire!”

“Hey everybody! There’s a pomegranate party at Andy’s!”

“No you berks! Call the fire brigade!”

“He says there’s bobbing for apples as well! I’m there!”

I saw an interesting family though. They were stood in Leicester square and performing to a crowd. I say performing, two of them were stood there looking sinister while the dad kept dancing with people. They were kind of dressed like the Addams family, indeed, I think that’s who they were meant to be. They were cool. This was very much the high point of the day. I also gave some money to a beggar, and less impressively, some other people who just asked me if I had a pound. They said it was so that they could get home, though in retrospect I’m not overly convinced. When one of them saw that I was willing to dole out pound coins so freely, she then asked whether her friend could have a pound as well. I gave her 30p, pretending that was all the change I had, then stealthily jingled away with my pocket full of change into the night.

I’ve got two more stand-up gigs booked at the moment. I think after that I’ll see whether it’s something I really want to keep doing. I can’t be sure whether I’m doing it at the moment because I genuinely enjoy doing it, or whether I just think I could be quite good at it, so keep doing it to see whether that’s true. I’d really like to be the best at something, or at least know that people thought I was good at something. These companies I go to think I’m completely inept. I never did get feedback from the company I went to, even though I emailed them and left a message on an answerphone asking them to call me back. I thought about turning up to the office whilst I was in London and forcing them to explain to my face whilst I peeled an orange in a sinister way, but unfortunately if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year, it’s that I’m completely incapable of peeling an orange in a sinister way. Usually I just sit there spraying citric acid all around, sometimes I blind myself with it, that’s not sinister at all.

“So tell me Mr Binns… what was it that made you rej- ARGH! Hold on, hold on, I can’t see! My ey- ARGH! Wait, just stay there, I’ll be with you in a seco- oh for fuck’s sake it’s on my jacket now. I just washed this this morning! Are you still there? Mr Binns? Mr Binns?”

On the other hand, my citric infusion does mean that I am kryptonite to cats. I’m not entirely sure how this will come in handy, but one day I’m sure it will.

Well this has been fun, even bordering on the slightly therapeutic. It’s really gone on for quite a while though. I’m going to go and eat a yoghurt now. Bye.

Donald Trump sacks people.

Good news everybody! Tonight on BBC1, starting at 11:20 PM, there’s a new series of The Apprentice USA! Hooray! Release the balloons!

Really though, everybody should be excited about this. It’s a tremendous programme. Think about The Apprentice UK, and then crank the ridiculous up to maximum. And crank the actual point of the series up to maximum as well. You see, whereas here in the UK, the eventual winner ends up with some daft prize like colouring in liquorice allsorts or trying to flog the latest Amstrad product (‘It’s a briefcase AND a pen!’), from what I’ve seen of the last few series of The Apprentice USA, the winner actually gets to build a giant tower block of their own, or construct a casino, something impressive like that. I’m fairly sure that Tim, one of the former winners of The Apprentice UK, got the reward of having to market a toothbrush, which is hardly comparable.

“It’s a toothbrush… AND a pen!”

“What? So I’m scribing on my teeth?”

“AS YOU CLEAN THEM! YES! … Hello?”

What also makes The Apprentice USA so brilliant is the presence of Donald Trump himself. People here seem to assume that Alan Sugar is some kind of brilliant maverick, but they probably just haven’t been witness to the insanity of Donald Trump, in which the boardroom scenes are basically just an opportunity for him to play some kind of demented buckaroo, seeing how far he can push things before he gets wheeled off to a home. There have been weeks where he’s decided to fire everybody, and indeed, one week it just became like watching a reinactment of the Stalinist purges, where one person up for a firing said that they thought another member of their team was crazy (who wasn’t even in the boardroom, and there was absolutely no evidence to suggest she was crazy in the slightest), before Donald Trump then summoned her from the safety of the mythical ‘I’ve not been fired yet’ house, and fired her based on this piece of fiction, letting everybody else go free. He’s a maniac. Apparently there’s 15 episodes in this series, though it’ll probably only take 3 until everybody’s been fired and Donald Trump has to craft himself some kind of Pinocchio-esque apprentice out of the boardroom table to make the whole thing seem worthwhile. It should be fun though.

I also went and watched The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus yesterday. I thought it was good. A magical film. That’s my review, so expect to see that on the front of the DVD when it’s eventually released.

Now I am going to go and try to prepare a stand-up set, as I might do a gig tomorrow, and maybe eat some noodles whilst I’m there. Both fun activities. Bye.

I am the Bourne Identity.

Last night I received emails from Guardian Jobs informing me that they’d been hacked by a hacker (who else?) and that they’d managed to acquire details that I’d used to apply for jobs through there, probably my address, email address, telephone numbers, probably my CV too. Many people would be concerned by this, I’ve remained remarkably calm in the knowledge that this is a crime essentially comparable to robbing Stig of the Dump. I’m actually quite excited about it. If somebody has stolen my identity, then in my idiotic head this means that technically I no longer exist. I am now Jason Bourne. Admittedly, a Jason Bourne who’s potentially looking at strangers running up an obscene amount of credit card debt in his name, rather than having $5 million stored safely away in a Swiss bank account, but still a Jason Bourne of sorts. Or the Jackal. He was also a man without an identity. Actually, that’s probably not true, I think the Jackal’s problem, and indeed, Jason Bourne’s problem, was that they actually had loads of identities. Too many if anything. That’s probably what’s happened here, I’ve had my identity stolen my some kind of trained assassin and they’ll use it to commit heinous crimes in my name and gallavant about the world with my passport. Admittedly, they’ll find it somewhat tricky to get into my character, and it’s a fairly niche identity to use.

“Bourne, we need you to play a One Stop employee who writes about cakes in his spare time.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t question my methods Bourne. Can you do it?”

“Well, it’s funny you should ask, because it just so happens that I have the perfect alias…”

I actually did baffle a company with an alias of my own once. I used the name ‘Andrew Ward’ instead of ‘Andy Ward’, and they thought I was an entirely different person. I mean, as far as brilliant alter-egos go, it’s not exactly going to go entirely under the radar of Interpol, but for a moment I considered myself some kind of master criminal, expertly able to slip into different personalities at the drop of a hat. I say different personalities, it was me, just with a slightly more formal name.

Anyway, now one of two things can happen.

1. I can pay an organisation £13 a year to make sure that my details aren’t used for credit-based bad things. Which is at least 4 times what my identity is actually worth.

2. I can give the thieves a day’s head start and then track them across the globe for sport, culminating in an epic battle with my evil alter-ego on a volcano.

I think we all know which one I’m going to choose.

Garfield burns the curtains.

Jon: Garfield! Dinner time!

[Garfield comes bounding down the stairs]

Garfield: It’s about time Jon, I’ve been sat up there eating shards of my own leg for the past three hours, what the hell took you so long?

Jon: Well, I’m glad you asked, you see, I’ve prepared you a special treat for tonight…

Garfield: Oh Christ, you’ve not invited Glass Paul around to dance for us again have you? Because I’ll tell you now, I’m not hoovering him up this time.

Jon: Even better than that… Ta da!

Garfield: Jon, what the hell is this?

Jon: It’s lasagne! I thought you might enjoy it.

Garfield: Jon, you know I only eat tuna, what do you want me to do with this?

Jon: Just give it a try! You might like it!

Garfield: Jon, I’m a cat alright. Cats like fish. Nine out of ten cats have absolutely no idea what lasagne even is.

Jon: And what about the one who does?

Garfield: He hated it Jon. They all hate it.

Jon: But surely you can just give it a quick try… I mean, it took me a long time to make…

Garfield: Jon, I appreciate the effort and all, but I’d rather just have tuna.

Jon: Give. It. A. Try.

Garfield: … No.

Jon: Garfield, I’m not joking, if you don’t have a mouthful of lasagne I’ll burn your house down.

Garfield: Jon, you wouldn’t do that. You live here as well.

Jon: You think I wouldn’t? I’m not joking Garfield, I’ll do it.

Garfield: Go on then, call my bluff.

Jon: I’m lighting the match Garfield. I’m lighting the match. Oh yeah, do you see? Do you want the curtains to go up in flames Garfield? Is that what you want?

Garfield: Go on then John, light the curtains! See if I care! Heck, why not start by burning your stupid lasagne!

Jon: I STAYED UP ALL NIGHT MAKING THAT FOR YOU YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARD! TRY MY LASAGNE!

Garfield: DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF JON? YOU STAYED UP ALL NIGHT BAKING A LASAGNE FOR A CAT! LASAGNE FOR A CAT JON! YOU’RE A MENTALIST! GO ON! BURN THE CURTAINS! KILL US BOTH!

Jon: OH I’LL BURN THE CURTAINS! AND THEN I’LL BURN YOUR BRIOCHE!

Garfield: YOU BAKED ME BRIOCHE AS WELL?! FOR FUCK’S SAKE JON WHAT ARE YOU SOME KIND OF ONE MAN CAT BAKERY?!

Jon: NOT YET! BUT MAYBE ONE DAY! OR SO I THOUGHT…!

[Jon sets light to the curtains]

Garfield: NICE JON! NICE WORK! START A FIRE! DO YOU WANT TO GO CALL THE FIRE BRIGADE OR ARE YOU TOO BUSY CHECKING YOUR CAT TIRAMISU?!

Jon: HOW THE HELL DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THE TIRAMISU! HAVE YOU BEEN IN THE FRIDGE AGAIN?

Garfield: SEEK HELP JON! YOU’RE NOT ALL THERE! YOU’RE NOT ALL THERE JON! MMM! CATS LOVE LASAGNE JON! OH YEAH! CATS LOVE LASAGNE!

[Garfield grabs some of the lasagne with his paw and scoops it into his mouth]

Garfield: TASTY LASAGNE FOR CATS JON! YOU MENTA- Actually, you know, that’s not too bad.

Jon: Really? You like my lasagne?

Garfield: I hate to say it, but I could quite easily get used to it.

Jon: Garfield?

Garfield: Yes Jon?

Jon: I love you.

Garfield: That’s… good.

Jon: Garfield?

Garfield: Yeah?

Jon: You’re on fire.

Garfield: Goodbye Jon.

The bafflingly poor adventures of Glass Paul.

Episode 5: Glass Paul goes to the fairground.

Paul: “You know I don’t like the fairground. It never goes well.”

John: “Oh, calm down Paul! Just chill out and have some candy floss won’t you?”

Paul: “I don’t like candy floss, not after last time…”

John: “That was just bad luck, you can’t live your life worrying about everything going wrong. Now come on, let’s have a go on the waltzers!”

Paul: “Oh fine… come on then, let’s get to those waltzers!”

John: “Two please.” [Hands over change/cue tannoy announcement along the lines of 'LET'S GET READY TO RUMMBBBLLLLLEEEEE over the top of some 70s music that sounds like audio wallpaper paste]

Paul: “You know, I’m not sure this was such a good idea…”

John: “What’s wrong?”

Paul: “It’s just… it’s picking up speed and you know, it’s…”

[Paul crashes from one side of the waltzer into John, there is the sound of breaking glass]

John: “Ow! Fucking hell Paul! Yo-”

[Paul slams against John again]

Paul: “ARGH! MY SHOULDER! I THINK MY SHOULDER HAS SHATTERED!”

John: “Stop the waltzers! Stop them! No, no! No we don’t need spinning thanks! No, ple-”

[Fairgroundy man spins the waltzers. Paul slams into John again.]

Paul: “OH MY GOD I THINK MY FOOT JUST BROKE OFF!”

John: “Paul! You’re falling apart, get out, get off while you still can!”

Paul: “I’m trying! Help me lift this harness!”

[Together they slowly manage to lift the harness. As Paul is getting up it comes crashing back down on him.]

Paul: “MY KNEES! MY KNEES ARE BROKEN!”

John: “Crawl away Paul! Just crawl away before it’s too late! No, no, not that way!”

Paul: “HELP ME I’M CAUGHT IN THE MACHINERY!”

John: “STOP THE WALTZERS! HE’S CAUGHT IN THE COGS! ABORT THE WALTZERS! ABORT! ABORT!”

[There is the sound of shattering glass]

John: “GLASS PAULLLLLLLLLLL!”

♫ GLASS PAUL! GLASS PAULLLLLL! HE WAS MEANT TO BE A VASE BUT NOW HE’S NOT! GLASS PAULLLLLL! ♪

Episode 6: Glass Paul adopts a rescue dog.

John: “Have you made your mind up?”

Paul: “I don’t know, they’re all so nice I’d take them all home if I could.”

John: “Well, I’m afraid we can only take one, so you’ll have to make your mind up.”

Paul: “Yeah… I know.”

John: “Hey! I’ve got an idea! Why not spend some time with each of the dogs on these conveniently placed waltzers!”

Paul: “Well that seems like a good idea. It would help me get to know them I suppose if we were alone on the waltzers.”

John: “Ok, you go sit on the waltzers. I’ll go get the first dog.”

Paul: “Okey dokey.”

[Paul goes and sits down on the waltzers, as John goes to fetch a dog.]

John: “Ok, here we are! This is Buttons, the labrador you liked.”

Dog handler: “Oh everybody loves Buttons! He’s such a friendly chap! Come on boy, up! Up!”

[Buttons jumps on the waltzer]

John: “Right, we’ll just harness you in so that you’re safe, and you know, don’t crash against the sides! We wouldn’t want that to happen again!”

Paul: “Ha! I’m glad you brought that up! I was slightly concerned that that might happen again! Thank goodness I’m safe now!”

John: “Ok, that all looks safe. Now you and Buttons just enjoy the ride and you can decide whether you like him. Ok! Start the waltzers!”

[The waltzers start moving]

Dog handler: “Hold on a second, that’s not Buttons… Buttons doesn’t have that mark on his thigh!”

John: “Then who’s that?”

Dog handler: “Oh my god, that’s Gordon the labrador that hates refraction!”

John: “No! No way! How could this happen?!”

Dog handler: “They look sort of the same I guess!”

Paul: “Good Buttons. You’re a friendly hound…”

John: “So when those disco lights come on then he’ll start to refra… Christ! Don’t turn the lights on! Abort the lights! Abort! Abort!”

[The disco lights begin to flash]

Paul: “BUTTONS NO! BUTTTONNNNNNNNSSSSSSS!”

[There is the sound of shattering glass]

John: “GLASS PAULLLLLLLLL!”

♫ GLASS PAUL! GLASS PAULLLLLL! HE COULD EASILY HAVE BEEN A SET OF CROCKERY BUT THEN HE WASN’T. GLASS PAULLLLLLL! ♪

Feedback to the future.

I just called a company looking to get some feedback on my interview last week, mostly for my own entertainment more than anything else. It’s always intriguing to find out why people think you’re inadequate, and I’m bound to have supplied them with a boat load of reasons, so it’ll be fascinating to see which ones they’ve chosen. They were, unfortunately, not there at the moment (one person, not the entire company, they’re not all hiding from me I presume), however later I will endeavour to get this feedback. It is thus in the future. Hence it is… FEEDBACK TO THE FUTURE?

I’ll give you a second to just take that in, stitch your sides back together, massage your aching lungs etc. The feedback is quite high on my agenda of things to do today. I say agenda, it’s a list of things in my head. Two things. The other is just listed as ‘general writing’. For some reason, having been fixated on beef for ages (and the beef projects remain unfinished), I now want to write something about a tree, but I’m not sure why. I think I may be thinking of the film ‘My Neighbour Totoro’, which I’ve not actually seen, though I believe it may be about trees or something. I think I want to write My Neighbour Totoro, which will be somewhat problematic, given that it already exists. On the other hand, it would be a hell of a lot easier to just copy it out and claim it was my own than try and finish any of my current scripts, none of which will ever meet my bizarrely high standards. I’m starting to think that if I don’t believe they’re the best thing ever made, then they’re not good enough. If it’s not good enough to make people stand up and applaud after they’ve been on, then it’s a failure of sorts. I think my slight OCD is creeping into my work. Sometimes I have to scan back through the entire script to make sure that the characters have turned all the taps off and closed the front door, leading to somewhat catastrophic dialogue.

“We’ve got to save the princess! Come on, there’s no time to lose!”

“Alright, but one second, did we turn the taps off?”

“Yes! Now get in the damn car! Now!”

“I’m not convinced, I’m just going to go inside and check.”

[2 hours pass]

“Alright, they’re all off, and I’ve taken photos of them to remind myself. Let’s go.”

“The princess is dead!”

“Blimey… Did I shut the fridge door?”

It’s basically one big adventure in obsession. Nothing ever gets done because they’re all too busy standing about in the dark making sure that the hobs are off.

I intend to start more writing projects that I’ll never finish as well. I started writing a new ghost story yesterday, and that’ll hopefully be finished soon. They only used to take me about an hour to write, but it’s become somewhat more difficult after such a long time of having my mind on standby. One day though I intend to barge into Channel 4 with 100 scripts in a suitcase and release them into the wild. I’ll probably put some doves in the suitcase as well to make it a more spectacular experience when I finally do open it. Something like that anyway.

I’m going to call the company for feedback again now. They’d better not let me down.

Welcome to my socks.

“Ah, Monsieur Baffins! Here you are!”

“Who are you? Are you that guy who glued my teeth together?”

“No Mr Baffins, don’t be ridiculous. Won’t you come and sit and have a drink with me?”

“Ok… how do you know my name?”

“I guessed.”

“You guessed my name was Mr Baffins?”

“It’s a common name Mr Baffins.”

“It’s not. I’ve never met anybody else who goes by the name Mr Baffins.”

“You’re obviously not hanging out in the right circles… Mr Baffins.”

“What circles are you hanging around?”

“Baffins circles Mr Baffins. Baffins circles.”

“Ok, move on. Why am I here?”

“I’ve summoned you Mr Baffins to pay witness to my greatest achievement yet, a creation so inhumanly brilliant that it shall surely cement my reputation as the finest scientific mind of this generation.”

“Right… and who are you?”

“My name is not important Mr Baffins. However, might I say, it’s… somewhat familiar?” [Chuckles]

“… your name is Mr Baffins as well isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You heavily implied that your name is Mr Baffins. What the hell kind of place is this where we’re all called Mr Baffins?”

“I never said my name was Mr Baffins.”

“Is your name Mr Baffins?”

“Ok, yes. My name is Mr Baffins.”

“For fuck’s sake. Why am I always being summoned to conferences of Baffins?”

“Please Monsieur Baffins, allow me to explain my invention to you.”

“Fine, go on.”

“This device Mr Baffins, this… thing that I’ve been working on, is an accessory so unique that even I was surprised to stumble upon it. Allow me to show you.”

“Ok, but hurry up, I’ve got somewhere else to be.”

“Tell me, do you know where your socks are Mr Baffins?”

“… What?”

“Your socks Mr Baffins. Where are your socks?”

“They’re on my feet. Where do you keep your socks?”

“Oh Mr Baffins, you do indulge me with your priceless antiques.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Likewise, I am unaware of my current sock location, or at least I was. Until now. For I, Mr Baffins, have developed this iPhone application that shall always keep me in touch with my socks.”

“Keep you in touch with your socks?”

“Where are my socks Mr Baffins? Where are my socks? No, wait, don’t tell me, allow me to demonstrate, for when I turn this application on, then we shall ALL know where my socks are.”

“You mean tho-”

“No no no Mr Baffins, let it get to work.”

“But they’re on your f-”

“They’re on my feet Mr Baffins. They’re on my feet. You see, this device that I have crafted is pointing directly downwards, towards my foot area. I can therefore deduce that my socks are located somewhere within a 5 mile radius of wherever this is pointing.”

“But they’re on your feet.”

“Or within a five mile radius of my feet.”

“Or on your feet.”

“Or…?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Monsieur Baffins, we have all the time in the world. Now please, if you’ll meet me in my socks.”

“Meet you in your socks? MEET YOU IN YOUR SOCKS? THIS ISN’T MAKING ANY SENSE!”

“Or is it all just beginning to make sense now Mr Baffins? You grew up around socks didn’t you?”

“I’ve always worn socks, if that’s what you mean.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“BECAUSE MY FEET WERE COLD!”

“Or was it a preparation? A series of trials and tribulations ascribed by your father in order to prepare you for your destiny.”

“I doubt it, he died when I was 3.”

“But didn’t he leave you an abnormally large pile of socks in his will?”

“He left me 10 pairs. It’s hardly abnormal.”

“TEN PAIRS MR BAFFINS! TEN PAIRS! Why that’s more than one for every day of the week, that’s nearly a 50% surplus of socks! Did you never think Mr Baffins, never question why there were so many!”

“I was three years old and my father had just died. My first thought wasn’t exactly ‘Well this certainly seems like sock overkill…’”

“And yet it was Mr Baffins! And yet it was!”

“You’re beginning to assume the voice of Hercule Poirot, you realise that don’t you?”

“Oui Monsieur Baffins! And who is Hercule Poirot, if not your own father!”

“What?”

“Ok, in retrospect, that made no sense. The point I was trying to get across was that I was your own father.”

“What?!”

“Does it not make sense now? The fact that we both share the Baffins family name? The fact that we’ve both carved the Baffins family crest into our chests with a compass! Do you not see the facts my son!”

“We’ve both what? I never carved anything into myself, let alone the Baffins family crest. It’s a rubbish crest. It’s just a picture of a question mark and some unpronouncable Latin phrase.”

“Ah, you mean ‘Emprecgio consorta lombaro Baffins‘” [Chuckles]

“Yeah, what does that mean?”

“It means ‘What the hell kind of name is Baffins?’. Unfortunate, but true.”

“But you can’t be my father! We buried him 30 years ago!”

“Did you? Or did you bury a pair of sunglasses?”

“I think we’d have noticed to be honest.”

“Then you’re obviously not as observant as I’d assumed. MEET ME IN MY SOCKS MY SON! FOR ALL SHALL BE EXPLAINED! NOW, I MUST BID YOU GOODBYE! BUT I SHALL SEE YOU SHORTLY WITHIN MY COTTON-BASED FOOT CONTAINERS! TO THE SOCK KINGDOM!”

“…”

“…”

“You’ve just put the socks on your head and closed your eyes.”

“HOW CAN YOU SEE ME? You failed to notice the sunglasses, but your retinas piece through the mesh between here and the sock kingdom! How can this happen?”

“Tell me, what does the sock kingdom look like?”

“It’s dark, we have no sun within the sock kingdom! There is no light since the torches burned out!”

“Ok, and what does it feel like?”

“It’s a magical sensation almost like cotton being pressed against your forehead.”

“That’s it, I’m leaving.”

“No my son! Don’t leave me here!”

“I’m not your son am I?”

“Alright, no, you’re not.”

“Can I go now?”

“Ok.”

Curse you brie.

It goes some way to explaining how exciting my life is when I spent the last week or so building up to having a brie sandwich. This wasn’t any brie sandwich though, it also featured bacon, in what was, unfortunately, little more than a cameo appearance. Allow me to explain. Around a week ago, I visited a sandwich shop, where I ordered myself a tasty sausage sandwich. Whilst there however, I noticed that the person in front of me in the queue was ordering a brie and bacon sandwich, which smelled surprisingly good. I vowed to myself there and then that one day, I would try one of these tasty delights. As such, it wasn’t exactly a lifetime’s pursuit of attempting to fuse bacon and brie in a laboratory, I simply turned up at the sandwich shop a week later (i.e. yesterday) and ordered one. There was no series of tests I had to pass, the price was right, and they served me my sandwich. For a second I was content, knowing that I had achieved one of the simplest goals I’ve ever set myself (the rest of them, unfortunately, go unachieved). “Oh brie! Finally we are together!” I chuckled to myself. In my head, obviously, a man standing in a sandwich shop menacingly laughing at cheese doesn’t tend to go down well, not even in Saw 7.

“Welcome to my games!”

“Where the hell am I?”

“It’s a sandwich shop Mr Baffins. Do you not recognise it?”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to laugh at some cheese Mr Baffins. Is it not obvious?”

“You really are running out of ideas aren’t you?”

“… Yes. NOW LAUGH AT THE CHEESE MR BAFFINS! LAUGH AT THE CHEESE!”

“I can’t! You’ve glued my teeth together with Pritt Stick!”

“LAUGH AT THE CHEESE MR BAFFINS! LAUGH AT IT! WHITE SPIRIT YOUR GUMS MR BAFFINS AND LAUGH AT THE CHEESE!”

A sneak preview from Saw 7 there apparently, which I’ve recently been asked to write. It’s going to be somewhat of a diversion from the last few films, which, incidentally, I’ve never seen, but I can see it being a box-office smash. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, I was laughing at the cheese. Little did I know that soon I would… not be laughing at the cheese.

I think the problem was that the brie/bacon ratio was completely all over the place. The contents of the bread was 90% brie, and 10% bacon. Worse than this though was that I was to quickly discover that I wasn’t a particularly big fan of brie. It’s not the best cheese. Making up 90% of the sandwich, this was a problem. I ploughed on though, until the point at which I stopped ploughing on and just threw it in the bin. Later on though, I found myself in a lot of pain, akin to the kind of pain I experienced once before at university that made it agony to move. I am not sure what caused this, but I suspect that brie might be my Kryptonite. Worse than this, having eaten all this cheese during the day, I had nightmares when I went to sleep. Admittedly, they weren’t particularly hideous. I went to a waffle shop but it was closed. Even then the man kindly agreed to serve me my waffles, and I got them to take out, in a big bag. I’m not sure what else was in the big bag, all I know was that I was to walk to Pizza Express after that, but I never made it there, as I wandered off somewhere else.

This really has been an exceptionally boring blog. I’ve bored myself with it. There was never really even a point to it, I just thought I should write something down as I haven’t written in ages and I need to get back into the swing of writing. I’m still going to post this though, to remind myself of how phenomenally boring I’m capable of being, and act as a reminder never to tell the brie story in public because a) It doesn’t go anywhere b) nobody wants to hear it, and c) rhymes with brie.

Bye.

Notify.

My Spotify isn’t working. It is thus Notify. Do you see what I did there? Because it’s not working. Notify. Typically it would be Spotify, but in this instance it’s not working. Not being a key word. Notify. Spotify becomes Notify. Do you see? I’m going to make a note of this. I’ll remember to bring it up at the start of my next stand-up gig.

“What’s the deal with Spotify not working? Sometimes I like to call it… Notify! Do you get it? Eh? Eh? Well, that joke certainly didn’t go down as well as I’d hoped. Is it hot in here? Hotify? Hotify anybody? Is this mic on?”

Actually it’s just started working, so I wouldn’t be able to sell that with any conviction. That’s the main reason that it wouldn’t be funny, people wouldn’t believe that my Spotify wasn’t really working.

I’m really tired at the moment. I did have a biscuit earlier, but that didn’t wake me up at all. Nor did the marmalade cake. None of the usual methods. I tried to apply for a job, but I got bored halfway through and found myself here. Later on I might make myself a mug of Horlicks and put on my Splinter dressing gown, a plan that would be entirely without flaw, were I to actually have any Horlicks. I’m not sure just sitting around in my dressing gown would have quite the same effect. “Well this doesn’t appear to be waking me up at all. Perhaps I should start injecting the cotton directly into my veins. That should help.” Eventually I’ll just become some fat addict expanded due to too much jumper consumption (conjumption). I’ll just hang around outside Fruit of the Loom asking for a hit of somebody’s corduroys. It’s not 100% cotton, so it’s not the good stuff, but it’ll do. One day they’ll catch me sailing into a frigate into harbour with an abnormally large shipment of tank tops, and I’ll weep as I watch them sink my ship from a distance. You navy rascals.

What have I done recently? Nothing much. I’ve not even done any writing as I’ve been wasting my time applying for jobs at companies who aren’t even polite enough to let me know I’ve been unsuccessful. I’m going to go to the gym shortly though and work on something I’ve had planned for ages when I get back. Probably whilst sat in my dressing gown. I never did send off my first sitcom script by the way, it’s still shelved as I’m still not convinced it’s perfect. I’m not sure I’ll ever get round to sending it out as I’m obsessed with it being perfect. The second sitcom is still in an early stage too, as in about 700 words written, but that could be good. Hopefully. I haven’t done any stand-up for ages either. About 3 months now. I’ve got some gigs booked though, so soon I’ll be back on that stage being greeted by apathetic silence. Ah, the fun of it.

I’m fairly sure I’ve said Notify before. Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. Either way it’s equally funny*.

I’m going to go and lick my socks now. Maybe snort some mittens. Bye.

*I.e. Not at all.