I got the fever

We all have our strengths and weaknesses. This is also true of health.

There’s probably something you’re susceptible to, and maybe something you’re just never going to get. It’s a bit like immune system top trumps. I was lucky enough to be immune to TB, so didn’t need to have the horrible inoculation that scars your arm for ever after. I’m not suggesting that a barely noticeable scar is worse than dying of tuberculosis, I was just pleased to be one of the lucky few who didn’t have to faint to get out of it.

Because fainting is not something my body balks at – it loves a good faint. I went to the doctor about it once, he told me some people are just fainters. I’m not sure if this was meant to stop me worrying that it was some kind of precursor to a horrific death, or a terrible slight on my contribution to history – either way, I am much more than a fainter, thank you very much.

I might lose consciousness every once in a while, but my natural resistance to one particular infectious disease kept my upper arm unscarred. Until, that is, my extreme reaction to insect bites left me with a permanent reminder of one particular mosquito. Something’s bound to get you in the end.

With me, it probably won’t be food poisoning. I have a pretty strong stomach, and could probably digest a rhino if I ever had the intention to consume one. Being a vegetarian, this is unlikely. Granted, not eating meat and fish cuts down my chances of contracting food poisoning, but I don’t think we should underestimate my constitution. One long day at college, my class ordered pizza. We all ate the same pizzas, and I was the only one to avoid feeling pretty awful. I’m just not one for vomiting. Not that the others were pro-vomiting, they are just more apt to vomit under certain conditions.

At times like that I’m really proud of my body. It might freak out when confronted with an insect bite, and sometimes at the slightest touch of grass, and collapse full on the floor for no particular reason, but it’s not going to vomit, even if it eats death pizza. At times right after times like that, I start to worry if that’s just my body being really bad at expelling toxins that it needs to get rid of, and right after that I start thinking of all the situations that could prove fatal. I’m also prone to anxiety.

This was demonstrated last time I had flu. I thought I was going to die. I don’t mean I felt really poorly – I genuinely thought I was going to die. I was at university, and my flatmates weren’t around for the weekend. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, as I didn’t have anyone to look after me. Due to my body’s predisposition for dizziness, my temperature was causing the room to spin. After a while, I decided I had to get myself a glass of water.

Because of my body’s love for hitting the restart button every so often, I have a few stories about hilarious places I’ve fallen over. Once I did it on some stairs, so got a bonus fall. And one Christmas I was ill, and got up in the middle of night, again for a glass of water. I remember reaching up to the shelf to get a glass, and then the glass getting smaller and smaller, and then going into black and white. Then I remember waking up in the bin.

This time was similar. I got out of bed to get a glass of water, and woke up after a while on my bedroom floor. The carpet of my flat was not particularly comfortable, or even clean; so I thought I better get up. Also, I was really thirsty, so up I got. And down I went.

Surprisingly, I had not regained the power to stand in a matter of minutes. I lay on the floor for a bit to regain my strength and then tried again. This time I didn’t even make it to upright. I lay there and resigned myself to the fact that this was how I was going to die. Two facts were troubling me. The first was that flu lasts for about a week, the second being that you can’t last without water for more than three days. My impact weakened mental faculties were still capable of deducing that these numbers did not add up well for me.

I realised that I was about to become one of those awful stories about people dying alone. I pictured my flatmates finding my cold, dead body when they returned. I pictured the local news report, and the misspelling of my name in my hometown’s local paper. It was pretty depressing, but there was nothing I could do but lie there and wait for death.

As well as a good faint, my body has another reaction to high temperature. I have been known to hallucinate. Lying on the cold, hard carpet of my draughty bedroom, I drifted into a strange reality where I was mountaineer making camp in a storm. I remember the snow, and the wind, as my tent took a beating from the elements. It wasn’t very comfortable, but at least I wasn’t thirsty.

When I finally came back to reality I was looking at an upside down bottle of iced tea. A few days ago I had made some for a picnic. I had made two gigantic bottles of it, and still had one of them left. I had then come home and meant to put it in the fridge, but forgotten. And the next thing I knew I had lost the ability to walk upright. It knew it probably wasn’t fit for human consumption – it had been outside and then in my room for a good while, but it was the only liquid within reach.

It was actually just out of reach, I had to knock it over and let it roll towards me. I couldn’t even sit up, so I had to open the lid and just pour it on my face. It wasn’t pretty, but it was fluid. Fluid full of the sugar that was to be my sole colorific intake for the next couple of days. I’m not exactly sure how long I stayed on the floor drinking very-much-not-iced tea, because I kept slipping into a crazy dream world. For a time I must have heard the people upstairs talking, because I thought someone was in my bedroom, shouting at me as I lay in bed. This had its good and bad points. Although I believed myself to be receiving completely unwarranted verbal abuse, I also thought I was in bed, which is better than being on the floor.

I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, but I didn’t die in the end. The tea saved my life. By the time I had drank half of it in brief face-drenching bursts, I had the strength to hold myself upright long enough to position myself so I would faint onto my bed, and when the tea had completely gone, I had rediscovered the ability to shuffle as far as the kitchen, have a lie down on the floor, get myself a glass of water, have another lie down, and then shuffle back to bed in triumph.

I had always felt tea was important, but I hadn’t anticipated it saving my life. If I were a prepared sort of person, I would always keep a large bottle of a sugary drink next to my bed, just in case. But I’m not that organised.

So there you have it, I have the stomach of an ox, and could probably digest one, no trouble, if I wanted to, which I don’t. But on the flip side, when confronted with influenza I am apt to believe I am a distressed mountaineer.  In the (soon to be a sensation) game of immune system top trumps, I score high for constitution, but low for the ability to stay conscious and distinguish reality. That’s just the hand I’ve been dealt. And I have to live with it, but thanks to tea I don’t have to die on the floor with it. So I’m chalking this one up as a success. 

good morning apatosaurus

too much morning

Some days are just slow. If anyone is having one of those, and wants to swap, I’m sure I have a myriad of options available.

I do have one in mind, interestingly enough. The day began like any other -  with me locked out from work because I don’t understand the keys. Let me be clear – I understand the concept of keys, I’m not just bashing them against the lock, or any random rock I find lying about on the ground. These keys and this lock just have a knack to using them, which I am yet to master.

I’ve been locked out of places before by broken keys. Places I was moving into during a heavy shower of rain that I spent sitting on the step of the house I was renting, but unable to gain access to, surrounded by all of my personal possessions that I had transported in a stolen shopping trolley at great effort.

Being an old hand at this locked-out lark, I remained calm. Especially since I was already inside in the corridor of the building, away from the intense heat outside, and also because the only thing I knew to be awaiting me on the other side of the door was a load of heavy bags for me to carry way downtown. A bit like when the bus to school is stuck in traffic and you think, “well, I did all I could, but I can’t fight circumstance”.

I have to say, my lack of distress was unsurpassed by all other bystanders. The other people there, who it was my charge to let in, seemed unable to cope with the situation in the same controlled, collected manner. They kept using words like “ridiculous” and informing me I would need to get new keys. They became quite agitated in fact, so I let them have a go to give them something to occupy themselves. But using a less than perfect set of keys to open a difficult lock, turned out to be a less than restful activity, and they kept on saying things about me needing new keys and not making too many copies of one key, which, aside from sounding contradictory was not much help opening the door.

In the end, one strapping individual managed to conquer the lock, and we all made it in, still with five minutes to spare before the start of the day proper. I had had the common sense to arrive in good time to spend a good few minutes locked out. That’s forward planning, and calm under pressure.

The next stage of the journey was the actual journey I was to undertake. I had a load of heavy stuff to transport in woefully inadequate carrier bags. In the heat. It was a herculean labour, and I bloody well better receive some kind of recognition from the gods for my trouble. I was only about half-way to the bus stop, when I saw a man fall out of the back of a van, in a painful-looking way, and hurt his back as he hit first the metal step of the van, and then the road, leaving him unable to get up. Naturally I sprang into action, discarding my heavy load momentarily to administer first aid and call all manner of ambulances to the scene.

In the end a police officer arrived and I didn’t have to do much other than sit with the guy and talk to him, and remind him every so often that he should stop trying to get up. I did this mainly by making distracting jokes about falling, because it’s never too soon. He appreciated my humour in the face of his distress, and after just a bit too long to be impressive, the ambulance arrived and I went on my way.

Unfortunately my weighty luggage had not been stolen while I was jumping into the fray, so I had to continue my struggle to the bus stop. I would like to take this moment to offer some advice. Never, ever, get on the M11 bus in New York City. This is a bus so full of the aged, injured and infirm that a blind guy had to give up his seat. Can you imagine the average state of the passengers, when this occurs? This was a bus so devoid of health, that after three stops I began to wonder if I had typhoid.

But my fellow weary travelers, decrepit and afflicted as they were, were not shy of poking their stupid noses into the business of where I should put my heavy bags, how I should hold them, where and how I should stand, and what would be a better method of transportation for me. I found none of these suggestions particularly helpful, and came close to snapping at one particularly irritating woman, who had a problem with me “blocking the aisle” by standing next to one of those poles designed to be held onto while you stand next to them, in the designated standing place. I came very near to pointing out that her larger than average body mass requiring two seats was at least a contributing factor to the situation she was so displeased with. But I took the high road, and turned up my ipod.

After I made it off the bus of doom, battled my way through some roadworks, and across a few streets, I was nearly at my destination. I took a rest – one of many along the way. I knew I wasn’t too far, though, and I could do it. I set off again remembering that I had already responded to a medical emergency, so how hard could carrying things really be?

Then the bags fell apart.

This made things decidedly harder. I would like it noted that this is a gross understatement.

I made it, though. And after a slight misunderstanding with a security guard who didn’t understand that I had to crawl through the turnstile with the bags purely because if I put them down they would spill their contents all over the floor, rather than this being a sure sign that I was a terrorist, bent on destroying the office building, New York, and civilisation as we know it, I delivered my cargo and headed back, relieved of my burden.

After all of the physical labour, I was feeling the need to do something that required a bit of a sit down. A lengthy one if possible. Luckily my career is at the point at which you can be faced with any number of challenges in the midst of a normal day. Sometimes you might be asked to write a bit of copy for publicity materials, sometimes it might be making calls or sending emails, and sometimes you just have to repair an antique radio.

I’m not one to turn down a challenge, probably because of my inability to distinguish a challenge from a dare. But even I remembered that I don’t have any training, knowledge or expertise in electronics. I did not excel in technology in school. In the course of our practical lessons I managed to solder my fingers together, superglue my hand to a desk, cut myself on at least three types of saw, sand, bruise and otherwise injure myself in various, less than exemplary ways. In short, I am not the person to entrust the restoration of an antique electronic device to.

My objections made, I dutifully set about following the instructions I had been assured would lead me to success, which I happily achieved. Wait, I don’t mean success. I mean the other thing… a small electrical fire.

It wasn’t like being electrocuted. I know that from the time I was electrocuted, but we don’t have time to get into that. But there was a definite fire, which I deem an unhealthy extra feature in a radio.

Police, ambulances and fire. Three for three for emergencies. All before noon.

No-one can cope with that – I was pretty close to windowing the radio, and following it out, I can tell you. But after the meridian, things took an upward turn. There was popcorn, and then team marketing took a well-deserved trip to the Good Sandwich Place for lunch. And Younger Sister made a series of jokes about me being the one who killed the radio star, which hit the spot.

So if you fancy trading a boring, lazy Sunday, I’m in the market. I’m not really interested in swapping the latter part of the day, though. It’s the morning that’s up for grabs. If no-one wants it I’ll probably just window it.

no bs

It’s funny the things you miss when away from home. The food you didn’t give a thought to, the weather you always complained about, the British Standard 1363 electrical plug…

Turns out, what really gets my patriotic juices flowing is a well-designed mains plug. My (somewhat limited) travels have so far taken me across Europe and North America, and I have yet to see a decent plug on either continent.

I define “decent” in the following ways:

1. staying in the effing wall
Most appliances require a constant supply of electricity to function. This is how electricity works. An iron stops being hot when the electrical supply is interrupted, and a vacuum cleaner ceases vacuuming under similar conditions. Why then, would anyone make a plug that finds staying in a socket a near impossibility when the appliance is moved the slightest distance?

It would be fine if I just wanted to iron the one iron-shaped patch of my t shirt, but that actually causes fires, so I’ll give it a miss, if that’s alright with you. And I have this weird thing about vacuuming the whole room, not just a tiny portion of it – it just feels cleaner to me somehow.

So why would anyone think a plug that fails to maintain even a semblance of a connection to the mains, would be anywhere near adequate? It’s not; stop pretending it’s ok. It really, really isn’t.

2. not killing you

The BS 1363 is a fine plug because it has an earth pin, and its corresponding socket has shutters. The earth pin is a safety feature woefully lacking from non-uk plugs, to their detriment, and everyone else’s intense danger.

The sterling design of the good old BS 1363 ensures that the earth pin is inserted first, and removed last, by making it longer than the other two. This means that if the plug is accidentally detached from the socket, the live wire becomes disconnected before the earth pin. Also, no-one gets electrocuted.

It also prevents electrocution through the use of the aforementioned shutters. The socket is also part of the genius, you see. It has shutters, which can be opened, only when the plug is inserted correctly. This means you can’t shove things into it that aren’t meant to be shoved there. Things like pencils, and scissors, and plastic farm animals – basically all the things Younger Sister used to like posting into the video recorder. She would somehow manage to obtain all manner of toys and stationary, and take great glee in having a right old post of them into the video recorder. She would then catch someone’s attention with an angelic yet devilish “look what I posted” and while we were wondering how she had managed to wreak such havoc in under a minute, and whether the video machine would ever work again, we would think “at least she can’t post things into the sockets”.

There’s also switches on the sockets, so you can plug things in when the current is switched off. This is much less likely to kill you. I say “bonus”!

3. glorious history

During the early 40s a committee was convened to assess the problems likely to affect the peacetime rebuilding of Britain. This was established by Lord Reith, who is also known for causing a stir whilst serving as Director-General of the BBC, by reporting multiple points of view on the 1926 General Strike, including the TUC. Not the Labour Party, though – that was a step too far for the Conservative government of the time.

Enough trivia – the point is, after the upheavals of two world wars, the people of Britain had a jolly good think about how to make the world a bit less awful. Out of this period came the welfare state, a new human-centric approach to architecture and town planning, and the introduction of national safety standards.

It was a time when people decided to change the world for the better, and part of that was deciding that homes should be less of a death trap. Part of that is stopping the electrical appliances killing everyone. Now, we complain about needing a stool-standing certificate to be able to use a step-stool. But at one time, there really wasn’t a single safety regulation, and we risked our lives in factories for a penny every three weeks and had to walk seven miles to school in the pouring rain, and if we ever talked to our teachers like that we were for it, “it” being the cane.

So really we should be happy about how the BS 1363 has been designed with the cord at the bottom, so you can’t yank it out of the socket by the cord – which is not safe, and isn't at all clever. The body of the plug is also wide so it keeps your fingers away from the pins when they are near the socket.

All in all, it’s a pretty good plug. You might disagree if you’ve ever stood on one in bare feet, but that’s hardly the plug’s fault, is it? Blame your giant feet, you clumsy, clumsy oaf.

Another British safety feature is not putting power outlets in bathrooms. Tell any American this and they respond "but then how do you use electrical appliances in the bathroom?" You don't. It's to stop you killing yourself. But is that much legislation going too far to protect people from their own incompetence?

I'm all for freedom - freedom to have a legal union with another consenting adult, regardless of gender, freedom of assembly, movement, speech, from disease and danger - these are all good freedoms. I'm not so sure we need to protect the freedom to use a waffle iron three inches from the bathtub. And while I'm generally a peaceable sort, I can see only advantages if an electrical standards obsessed warlord were to conquer the offending weak-plugged countries and bestow in their benevolence the glorious BS 1363 upon their grateful new subjects. It's just something about the BS 1363 that gets me all riled up like that.

Well, come the revolution you'll see what I mean...

9 to 5 survival guide - part four

a is for awesome, b is for badass - n

You know what naps are? Great. They’re just the best.

Plus, they’re totally badass now. They’re called power naps. They’re for powerful people, not just lazy, degenerate losers. Because sleep often gets a bad rap. It’s like – where’s Simon? He went home to get an early night? What a loser. Sleeping isn’t fun, and we’re all having fun here bitching about Simon being a loser for needing sleep like a normal human.

I’m totally with you, guys bitching about Simon, by the way. Sleep isn’t fun. And don’t even get me started on dreams. But poor Simon, whoever he is, never invited all his backstabbing mates over for a thrilling 8 hours of lying down. He’s not trying to convert anyone – he’s just doing what his normal, non-robot body needs. Do the same bunch of turncoats get on at James for eating organic carrots? “Oh that James is always eating organic carrots, what a loser” – no-one says that.

And lots of things aren’t fun, but are necessary – like recycling. No-one pretends they enjoy a good bit of rinsing out their empty plastic bottles, or sorting paper and card. But the sensible ones get on and do it. And sleep is a bit like that. We need it. We don’t really know why, yet. Theoretically, with enough fuel, a machine can run continuously – so if we eat enough, we should be able to forgo sleep, altogether. That’s the theory, and like many great theories it has only one flaw – it’s completely wrong and we die.

We die without sleep. Within a few days, if a human is unable to fall asleep their brain pretty much explodes and they die. I don’t want to worry everyone who finds it hard to get to sleep, because the high stakes of the situation may not induce a feeling of calm and relaxation. Really, though, just being alive is a sign that some sleep is being achieved. So take heart – you’re not dead.  

But this installment of a is for awesome, b is for badass is not t – for tangent, so let’s get back on track. Napping, snoozing, if you will, is epic. And now it’s cool, because some scientists (which are also cool) did some research that suggests that napping is not a sign of being a lazy good-for-nothing who can’t handle the hectic pace of modern life, but actually a super-cool way to recharge. Like  a smoothie.  

Taking a nap is like saying “I am an animal, fuck yeah!” And sometimes we all need to remember that we have physical bodies, however painful that can be – especially if you’re plagued with insecurities as to its inferiority. Homo sapiens are advanced animals (not as advanced as our no doubt soon to be alien overlords) but we are still members of the animal kingdom. We need to eat, sleep, and reproduce, and hopefully do those things somewhere not too uncomfortable.

Taking a nap is really embracing our animal natures and saying “robots are super awesome, but so are fleshy, carbon based life-forms like animals” and why not? Animals are pretty awesome – just look at bears. Enough said.

Naps are for people who aren’t afraid to admit that they’re tired, who don’t give a damn about what society or their boss thinks about them being asleep at their desk. Napping makes falling asleep a legitimate choice, rather than something you’re fighting because it would be really, hideously embarrassing. Taking a nap is being proud of the fact that you’re sleepy. Because you work hard, and play hard, and you are going to have a little sleep in the middle of the day, just like all the other mammals – no matter what anyone thinks.

Except that now it’s ok to do this. You don’t have to fight the ever more inevitable closing of your eyes. You can just say “fuck it, I’m taking a nap” and not be ashamed that you can’t make it through a few hours of work without a kip. You can also eat and go to the toilet (though not at the same time, that’s weird) and be proud that you are in touch with your body. You can accomplish the tasks that keep you alive. You are well on the way to being a Functioning Adult Human.

It still isn’t quite mainstream enough, yet, to not feel like a sneaky treat you’re stealing from the powers that be, whoever they might happen to be (it’s probably not Simon, though). This only helps to improve napping’s coolness rating. It’s still underground, and a little bit wrong. But unlike drinking at work, it can be argued to improve productivity, so it’s ok. But it’s still not acceptable enough that it’s lost its edge. Its cool, edgy, not giving a damn attitude.

So go for it – have a quick nap. You’ll like it. 

apatosaurus surprises!

a is for awesome, b is for badass - m

Just look at that. Is it not the cutest, most beautiful thing you ever saw?

Manatees are beautiful, gentle-faced creatures of pure joy. They are also completely awesome. Here’s why:

1. They are most closely related to elephants. You can see it now, can’t you? The family resemblance, I mean. Look at that prehensile upper lip…
2. They are thought to have evolved from four-legged mammals, and are also closely related to hyraxes, which are small, herbivorous mammals that make a few appearances in the Bible.
3. They sleep for half the day, in twenty-minute bursts, and then head up to the surface for some air. Awesome. Not only are the one of the most chilled members of the animal kingdom, but they can sleep underwater without needing to go up for air for twenty minutes.
4. The name “manati” means “breast” in the language of the Taíno.
5. They are also known as sea-cows. I suggest calling cows “land manatees”, because manatees are awesome. Sometimes I feel like I’m sort of a land manatee.
6. They were the inspiration for tales of mermaids. You might look at them and think “that doesn’t look like a mermaid” but really you should be thinking “that looks like a beautiful and awesome creature, I hope we can be friends”.
7.  There are 3 recognised species of manatee. And a fourth proposed. Woah, dude. The dwarf manatee is currently of disputed existence, which is pretty badass.

Manatees are just adorable, they swim around placidly, eating water plants and sleeping, not doing anyone any harm. They hear at higher frequencies than many marine animals, and because of this, cannot here the low sounds emitted by approaching boats. They’re also at risk from poaching, pollution and scary red algae. So it’s time we all started looking after them. There’s not an abundance of awesome in the world, and we can’t afford to see any more disappear.  

My own love for these majestic aquatic mammals may have started with a song about them on Sesame Street. Perhaps this is also where I got my thing about numbers and the alphabet. So, today’s post was brought to you by the letter M, the number 7, and the graceful manatee. 

a is for awesome, b is for badass - l

I love letters.

I’ve always been very excited about the post. Perhaps it’s due to the many hours I spent watching Postman Pat in my early years. That adorable fellow in the red van, delivering the letters with his faithful cat, Jess, is a pretty good poster boy for the Royal Mail. I actually loved Postman Pat so much that I had a toy black and white cat, which I named Jess, after Pat’s estimable pet. This was a great honour, although it also probably had a little to do with my inability to name my toys at all creatively.

I loved Jess, and I took her everywhere. She was one awesome toy cat. Then one day I left her behind at a hotel… and they sent her back to me in the post! The awesomeness involved in turning a sad, sad story, into a joyful reunion between a child and her favourite toy, involving a parcel from a hotel of all things, is almost too much to conceive of.

When you’re little the post is very exciting, and everyone seems to get letters all the time, except you. then you grow up and realise that they’re all bills and depressing bank statements, and the post office has queues like it’s a theme park, and the theme is incompetence.

But every so often you get a letter, and that’s just the best thing ever. It’s like getting a present, because you open it. And sometimes there is a present inside – sometimes it is some hilarious newspaper clippings or a tiny bar of chocolate.

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the internet, or if you just fell asleep on your keyboard and somehow ended up here, assuming it was a strange Microsoft Office wizard… but you’re online right now. Being online is great because you can do things like read hilarious blogs and look up how to cook corn on the cob when you’ve never done it before. Plus, there’s email. Email is brilliant for work – perhaps too brilliant, sometimes you look at your inbox and just want to scream “stop the madness” over and over.

It’s also great for keeping in touch with people on the other side of the Atlantic, especially since you can get it on your phone so it’s like they can text you. Skype lets you call people for cheap, and face Skype is free and comes with faces. And facebook lets your Younger Sister post videos on your page daily, so you don’t forget what music or hilarity is. But even though there are about a million and ten ways to keep in touch, letters are still exciting. This is due to their extreme awesomeness.

The paper helps – airmail paper is good, or writing on the back of your hilarious correspondence from various university departments (with your own annotations) is pretty great, as well as being good for the environment. Even if the paper is just normal, the little pictures all truly awesome people include are purpose built to make my day.

But the fun doesn’t stop with receiving letters, because I also like writing them. I often feel a sense of inferiority about my own letters, because I already know everything that I put in them. Other people’s letters are a lot more interesting to me, so I hope it works the other way round. If it doesn’t my letters are probably quite dull, which would be a shame because letters should be awesome.

And now to the reason we’re here – you fell asleep on your keyboard or something, but the stuff that you’re reading with that perplexed look on your face is here because sometimes I think things. But the reason it looks like this is that one of the things that I thought once, was that the letters one particularly awesome person sends me, are made even more awesome because of his illustrations. So I started putting little drawings in my letters, too, and then I thought I’d put some here.

All because of letters. Because letters are awesome.

tales from the subway: vol. iii

A new game is sweeping the city’s underground transport network…

tiny dog/massive rat

You’re a New Yorker – you know the drill. You’re underground in the intense heat or subzero chill that’s being visited upon you this particular week. You’re waiting for some semblance of a train, your anticipation is increased by the fact that there is no information anywhere, and your overall enthusiasm is somewhat dampened by the end of the world style décor. There’s probably a crazy person within 15 feet. If not, it’s you. Either way, you’re happily minding your own business (or screaming about the impending apocalypse) when-

Holy shit! There’s a rat in that woman’s bag!

Phew, turns out it’s just an absurdly small canine, not a rodent at all. Back to wishing this subterranean nightmare would end, when-

Oh no, a little dog on the tracks. It must have fallen, poor helpless thing. What will we do? Wait… woah, it’s actually a monstrous rat. I mean huge! It’s getting difficult to tell now, which is what makes the game so great. Most of the time you have to infer from the context – if it’s in a bag, it’s probably a dog, because who would carry a…

Wait just a second. It appears that we’ve fallen into the trap of thinking it’s normal to carry small dogs around in your bag, as one would a hairbrush or bottle of water. It’s a dog, madam. If it can’t support its own weight during this journey, then perhaps it shouldn’t really be along for the ride.

I understand the feeling that your probably miniature apartment might not be the best of places for the equally miniature beast, but does that necessarily lead to toting it around the city? Are the streets of New York, the subway network, the many shops you will visit, and the inside of your bag really a suitable environment for your beloved pooch? I have my reservations.

That’s actually putting it mildly. If you haven’t noticed, I tend to have quite strong feelings, particularly when trapped underground. And it’s not that I don’t like dogs, I just think that certain things can only be enjoyed within the relevant context. I like chocolate éclairs but I don’t want one to unexpectedly leap out of a curry. And I feel that even tiny dogs would probably be happier running around a garden.

New York is, of course, a large, bustling city. Not a rural idyll of green pastures. Please start behaving appropriately for your surroundings. This is a bookshop, your dog does not belong here. You are shopping, not driving a cow to market. Please stop letting the madness in.

At least the worryingly massive rats are spending their time in the subway out of choice. Not my choice, obviously, I didn’t ask for the creatures to be boldly scampering along the platform, and if there’s ever a referendum on the subject I would be tempted to vote no to rat habitation on public transport. After a full and comprehensive look at all the issues involved, of course. But your dog has been stuffed in your bag, and is making a noise that suggests that, not only was it not it’s idea, but it does not look favourably upon it.

Seeing as they are virtually indistinguishable, New Yorkers’ preference for tiny dogs over massive rats, is rather shocking. There are posters up all over the subway, bearing the legend: caution – rodenticide. Not that this has had any discernable effect on the rat population. Perhaps they should just have the signs read “caution – rodents” and spare us the exposure to noxious chemicals.

Rats would still be running around the stations, and dogs would still be peering mournfully out of shoulder bags. This is enough to push a person over the edge as it is, but a simple game with the objective of telling the two apart may be the only foothold of sanity we have left. So look over there – what do you reckon… tiny dog or massive rat? Happy commuting, guys! 

a is for awesome, b is for badass - k

Possibly the most awesomely named tree in the world.

You can imagine how they named it. Everyone was stood around, staring at a tree, wondering what to call it.

“Common coral tree?”

“Too common.”

“Lucky bean tree”

“Too Jack and the Beanstalk.”

Then “umsintsi,” “muvhale,” “mophete,” “kanniedood,” “mokhungwane,” and “umsinsi,” all rang out in rapid succession until some dude said

“Kaffir – boom!” and you can’t argue with that.

It may surprise you to know that the above are all actual names for the tree erythrina lysistemon. It may appear to the untrained eye (as well as the eye that has been practising for 20 years (that’s a long time to practise – get it right (woah, I’m funny))) that soup now is not really a temple of research. But trust me, Wikipedia has been well scanned on this one.

I can’t understand why some people insist on calling it the common coral tree. Firstly, how common are trees that look like coral? Is there an uncommon coral tree, and does that mean the tree is uncommon, or the coral it looks like?” but really (and secondly), when there are names like kaffir boom hanging around, daring you to use them.  

All in all, Wikipedia has a pretty high opinion of the tree I have long admired for having such a badass name. Birds are pretty fond of this deciduous beast, it’s used to treat a variety of medical conditions, it’s considered lucky, it’s not corky, it’s a member of the pea family, and it is often planted on the graves of Zulu chiefs as it is regarded as a royal tree.

Royal? If by that you mean king of the trees, then – boom! You’re correct, sir, the tree with the awesome name will rule all other trees. It really can’t fail with that go-getting attitude. “I think I’ll just sit here and photosynthesise – boom!” it can be heard to remark. And who’s going to argue with that?

So bow down and concede victory to the kaffir boom, king of trees – your name will never be as cool. But the kaffir boom won’t rub it in, for he is gracious and will just bask in the sunlight and grow its apparently magical fruit. But that fruit better be pretty darn magical if it’s going to me more awesome that saying being able to introduce yourself as “Boom, Kaffir Boom.”

The sad twist of fate is that trees can’t talk so can’t introduce themselves, no matter how awesome their name might be. So it’s up to us – we must bring up the kaffir boom in every possible conversation, no matter how unrelated. And don’t forget to shout “boom” for extra awesome.

Long live the kaffir boom!

a is for awesome, b is for badass - j

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Interrupting starfish.

Interrupting star-

Woah, I think you might have just been hit in the face. And, yes – my hand did look exactly like a starfish at that moment.

This is just the best joke ever. And I have been around jokes, I can tell you. Some people may regard me as a bit of a joke, but frankly, that’s just rude and I don’t have to put up with that sort of thing. Back to happier subjects – the interrupting starfish being the happiest of them all. I’m serious, especially about jokes.

The unparalleled joy I feel at smashing an unsuspecting loved-one, acquaintance or stranger full in the face with a starfish-shaped hand, is something to witness. You might not want to be on the receiving end, but that is the awesomest seat in the house, the only way to fly, and just downright fit.

The starfish joke just never gets old… for me. As the poor fellow interrupted by my hand’s exuberant portrayal of a five-armed echinoderm, you may find it a little wearing by the sixth or seventh time. But stick with it, jokes are only really funny after you’ve got really tired of them.  You may disagree – you might be one of those naysayers who think that jokes stop being funny after several hundred retellings. You are simply uninitiated into the secret that jokes actually get funnier after they get really, really lame.

The life cycle of a joke is much like that of a butterfly:

• The joke itself is the caterpillar – it moseys around being a funny little thing, and being jolly good at it. Everyone’s having fun, being humourous and eating their weight in leaves, until suddently it all gets weird.
• Then comes the awkward pupal stage where the joke has lost its pizzazz, it’s just not funny anymore, it’s just sitting there like a strange metamorphosising insect in some kind of disgusting cocoon, getting in the way and not making anyone laugh. At this point you can either give up, or push on through.
• If you have the courage and determination to stay in the game, you shall be richly rewarded when the joke awakes from suspended animation, as a beautiful butterfly from a chrysalis. It has somehow morphed into a classic – a joke we tell, because it is a joke we tell. It’s funny because it’s hilarious, and on and on in a twirling dance of cyclical reasoning.

I think most people who have met me, ever, have experienced the interrupting starfish joke at least once. If we want to achieve the butterfly stage then you all need to get more pro-active about getting hit in the face. Some of you may have already graduated to stage two – the stage of the disgusting pupae. You can be pretty proud of yourselves, but we mustn’t rest on our laurels, decadently delicious as that would be. We must move forward into the final stage, and in order to do so, we all need to get better.

I need to improve the frequency of the starfishing, and you need to get better at being hit in the face. Only then with the interrupting starfish joke reach its rightful place in the great hierarchy of jokes.

That’s not too much to ask, is it? 

9 to 5 survival guide - part three

a is for awesome, b is for badass - i

The interrobang is the most awesome piece of punctuation ever invented. Firstly, it’s called the interrobang, one of the coolest-sounding words ever to grace our collective ears with greatness. When this blog still only existed in my brain, for a brief while it was called Interrobang_ Then, when it started to exist in real life, it was called soup now, but that’s another story.

This story is about the interrobang. It was invented to stop people having to write:

“You want me to do what with the banana?!?!?!”

simply add an interrobang for extra awesome:

“You’re trapped in a lift with which teen pop sensation_”

The interrobang truly legitimises incredulity. Sometimes hyperbole is simply an appropriate reaction to the utter ridiculousness and/or horror of the situation, and for these times, just add an interrobang. You know it makes sense.

The beast that is the interrobang was invented by Martin Speckter, an advertising executive who was sick and tired of seeing a messy pile of question marks and exclamation marks at the end of sentences. Being a badass god amongst men, he just smashed the pair of them together like some kind of human Large Hadron Collider. Even the name is a smashing together of the alternative name for the question mark – interrogative point, and printers’ slang for the exlcamation mark – bang! Speckter actually asked his readers for suggestions for its name, some alternatives being “rhet”, “exclarotive” and “exclamaquest”, which sounds like an educational computer game from the 80s. Wisely, Specktor went with the mighty “interrobang”.

Speckter liked his punctuation tidy. I can’t argue with that. The interrobang deserves to be recognized as one of the great inventions of the 20^th Century, and for a brief period, it was. The swinging 60s were the heyday of the interrobang – it’s popularity was such that it was even included on some typewriters. Can you imagine how much I want one of those? It’s quite a lot, I can tell you…

Sadly, the interrobang was never really accepted into the general canon. It’s coolness was its downfall, and it never truly integrated with establishment punctuation. Its hippy-era popularity is now seen as nothing more than a fad. Thankfully, the level of awesome the interrobang possesses renders it failure-resistant, even in the face of rejection.

If anything, the interrobang’s fall from favour only serves to make it more awesome (if that’s even possible). It has kind of a Captain Oates “I’m going outside, I may be some time” sort of quality.  It’s time it was rescued from obscurity, though, and elevated to its rightful position as master of the sentence. To do this I propose not only reintroducing it into the world of writing, but also speech in general.

For example:

•  “The leader of the Conservative Party races pigeons_ Interrobang.”
• “Birds are really a type of dinosaur_ Interrobang.”
• “He was dressed as a clown the whole time_ Interrobang.”
• "Eels_ INTERROBANG."

Spiffy, eh?

notes from the underground - part 1

Part-time superhero seeks work, nemeses etc.

I don’t know if I’ve told you before, but I’m a superhero. I save lives, it’s what I do. In the sense that I have done it once. But considering that we’re talking about saving someone’s life, how many times do I really need to do it to impress you?

The story of how I saved not one, but two people from certain death on the tube begins with an average commute across London. It was a morning like any other – the pigeons were tustling for crumbs, the passengers were slowly opening their sleepy eyes, and I was bristling with awesome. You might not know that I am constantly poised for heroics, but the fact is that I saved two lives, and no-one can do that without being pretty epic.

My damsels in distress were a very old couple with two many suitcases. From the labels on their abundant luggage it was apparent that they were returning from a holiday in Thailand, the large wooden Buddha carving the gentleman in question was burdened with was also a hint. The minute I saw them my spidey senses began to tingle, it was pretty obvious they should have just splashed out on a cab, rather than struggle on the tube with their ridiculous amount of stuff. It was not obvious to them, obviously, but they were about to discover this fact with the help of the escalator.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen an old lady fall down a moving staircase, but if you can possibly arrange it, it’s worthwhile. Falling down the stairs is a pretty terrifying experience, but one that is generally over quickly. This is not true if the staircase you are falling down is moving up at the same speed as you are careering down it.

When this happens you are condemned to fall forever. You are falling down on the spot as the stairs, that are failing to provide your precious cranium with a soft landing, climb ever upward.

The old lady, overburdened with treasures from faraway lands, lost her footing and became trapped in an endless descent, no doubt causing the many parts of her body that were making violent contact with the escalator, considerable pain. The gallant gentleman was quick to leap into the fray. I can’t fault his intentions, though his style may have been lacking, seeing as all he managed to do was become locked together with his wife, forming an even larger and more painful deathball of plummeting fury.

When two old people manage to turn themselves into an endless sphere of pain and destruction, there’s only one thing that happens. Time slows down and you become awesome. Well, I become awesome. You’d have to experience it to really know how you’d react. I reacted by sprinting towards (and then up) the escalator to rescue the hapless ancient couple, who had fallen foul of their own luggage.

I bet you’d forgotten all about the luggage, much like the couple themselves. If you are, on the other hand, rather more observant, you may have been wondering when the carved Buddha was going to make an appearance.

The answer was right that second, as I reached them, as a terrifying projectile with an absurd pointy wooden hat-cum-sword-of-death. As it bore down upon us I did the only ridiculously heroic thing possible. I held onto the two revolving seniors somehow, and then used my own body as a shield against the Buddha missile, and the other (slightly less interestingly shaped, but much heavier) five items of luggage as they fell much more directly towards the ground than their owners could boast.

I don’t know if you’ve ever nearly been crushed to death by a falling suitcase, but something that heavy (these pensioners had not travelled light) could break your neck if it hurtled towards you at break-neck speed… hence the name.

When the projectiles had reached their destination I jumped up and helped the now visibly shaken couple to their feet, allowing them to finally reach the top of the escalator. Then, as they caught their breath, and were handed their numerous belongings by helpful (if not dashingly heroic) commuters, I did as all true heroes do, and quietly melted into the crowd.

I may have hummed “Holding Out for a Hero” as I walked away, but I think I’d earned it.

the case for many condiments

I finally gave in. I bought the balsamic vinegar.

I had been resisting since the last time I gave in ended in tragedy. Having remained piously economic for many months it was time for a gastronomic treat in the shape, size and consistency of balsamic vinegar.

I was pretty excited about this – it had been a long time. My excitement was, however, somewhat lessened by the ordeal of carrying heavy bags of shopping home in the rain. Some days it’s sunny and you’re out of French bread and olives – maybe you fancy a little hummus, or some croissants for breakfast the next day. But some days it’s going to be pissing it down and you need potatoes, milk (soy and cows’) and a big tub of whatever it is that pretends to be butter. There is a distinct correlation between such days, and instances of near collapse from shoulder exhaustion.

Having braved the weather and narrowly escaped death from extreme limb tiredness, the last thing I wanted to do was unpack the shopping and put it in cupboards. But I soldiered on soldierly, like a right old soldier. At which point, the stupid plastic bag (that I hadn’t wanted but the crazy checkout lady insisted upon me using even though it is destroying the planet) promptly fell apart, dropping a massive carton of cows’ milk (which I don’t even drink) right on top, and then through, the bottle of balsamic vinegar I was so looking forward to drizzling on stuff.

I hadn’t anticipated sloshing it all over the kitchen floor, cupboards, and walls. At the most I was going to splash a little on a salad. After scrubbing it out of what is a very small, and thus entirely splattered kitchen, I was not inclined to ever buy the rotten yet delicious stuff again. But time heals all, and after a few months I forgave the vinegar and we rekindled our love affair.

Now it goes on everything. Salad – add balsamic, bagel with brie – add balsamic, sauce you leave on the heat for too long and ruin – rescue with balsamic vinegar. I don’t think I’ve created a meal without balsamic vinegar in the last two weeks. I don’t know how my system will cope when I finally run out of the stuff and have to go cold turkey.

It was the same story with the sweet chili sauce. I put that on everything until it ran out and I had to buy more and then until that one ran out and I thought I had to stop the chili madness and buy some balsamic.

This must be stopped. It is bordering on barbarism when every meal tastes of a single condiment. The only solution is to buy all of the condiments, which is no solution at all, considering the expense of all the condiments would lead to having no money left to buy things to put them on. Food things, not shelves – shelves are way out of my price range.

It’s time to take it to the streets. Are you with me? the people need condiments!

apatosaurus advises

things you shouldn't tell me

Have you ever woken to find yourself in a Beckett play?

If you’ve ever been my boyfriend you’re probably enthusiastically (or wearily) nodding right now, as you think back fondly (or woefully) to that first time you unintentionally woke up in Waiting for Godot, with you reading the part of Estragon.

ESTRAGON: (restored to the horror of his situation) I was asleep! (Despairingly) Why will you never let me sleep?

VLADIMIR: I felt lonely.

ESTRAGON: I had a dream.

VLADIMIR: Don't tell me!

ESTRAGON: I dreamt that—


VLADIMIR: DON'T TELL ME!

Then I probably said something about a starfish and hit you in the face. But that really was the least of your problems, considering that you thought you were in a relationship but it actually turned out to be an absurdist tragicomedy. So you can just stop your complaining, the starfish joke is hilarious (particularly the bit where you get hit in the face).

You totally had it coming, by the way. Sugar-coating the whole being deservedly hit in the face with a brilliant joke about a starfish was just me being kind. Because, really, how could you? And it’s not just you – it’s everyone else, ever. You’re all guilty.

You know how I feel about other people’s dreams. But just in case it’s slipped your mind, I’ll recap – I am not a fan.

I like to wake up slowly and peacefully. I don’t like to launch into complex and burdensome tasks like eating and talking right away. I need a run up. In truth, I do not truly wake up until about 3pm. I may bumble around, being physically present before then, but I wouldn’t expect many witty anecdotes from my end of the table. You might say this is your favourite part of the day, because of my lack of exuberance for comedy, and that is fine. All I ask in return is that you refrain from asking me to explain string theory or expect me to know where my keys are.

Actually, there is one more thing. Don’t tell me about your dreams. I don’t want to know. I just don’t like it. Maybe it’s because I so rarely remember my own dreams, perhaps I am secretly jealous. Whatever, I just don’t want to hear about everything that didn’t actually happen to you last night. I lack the capacity to follow a rambling narrative about shopping in a museum with your great aunt Mildred, who actually looked like your geography teacher with any interest. Or the fact that you did not eat a really big cake that turned out to have mice inside. If you ever meet a miniature giraffe that can tell the future, do let me know. But not if you just dreamt if – that’s like tempting me with something awesome and snatching it away with the cold, grasping fingers of reality.

I really don’t enjoy hearing about what crazy events didn’t actually take place last night, especially since the plot does not tend to be well formed. Please don’t tell me. My reaction may be extreme.

Time enough for an apparent non-sequitur:

Racism is bad.

If this was on television, I would turn to the camera for this bit. I’m sure you’re as disappointed that this isn’t possible as I am. If it helps, you can imagine me turning away from the action an looking straight into the camera (appearing to look you right in the eye) to tell you how racism isn’t all that great. If you’re finding that hard to imagine because you don’t know what I look like, it might help to know that I don’t look very much like this:

but I might if I were a drawing.

But we’re deviating from the subject of racism being bad, which was in itself a deviation from the subject of hearing about the irrational and mostly inane nonsense that doesn’t actually happen to people.

Because what I actually wanted to do was make a joke about Martin Luther King really having it coming.

I think that’s pretty funny. He made a 20 minute speech about his dream, which sounds like something I would hate. In reality, I actually think that speech is brilliant (which is a mark of how good it is, considering that 20 minutes of a man saying “dream” quite a bit isn’t my idea of greatness, generally) but sometimes things that aren’t true are funny. And I think the Martin Luther King joke has comedy legs, especially if I worked on it for a bit and made it really good.

Unfortunately, saying that Martin Luther King deserved it kind of sounds pretty racist, and that is not a good thing* to sound. I felt in a quandary, so I did what I always do when I feel like that – I asked Younger Sister.

She said she thought it was funny because she knew I wasn’t actually a massive racist. When pressed for further details she explained that if she didn’t know me, not only would she be overwhelmed by the whole experience of meeting a long-lost sister, but hearing me say that the murder of Martin Luther King was justified might lead her to assume that I was incredibly racist and not someone she would ever want to speak to again. The response of this one-woman focus group was not improved when I attempted to make it explicitly clear that I’m not racist by prefacing the joke with “I’m not racist, but…” It turns out that “I’m not racist, but Martin Luther King was totally asking for it” doesn’t come across well.

What kind of a world is it, where you can’t make an innocent joke about killing someone? What have we come to when someone can’t make a nice little murder joke every so often? And you know whose fault it is...

You might at this point think I’m going to launch into a rant about political correctness and how awful it is that schools don’t have sports days anymore because competition isn’t allowed. But I’m not – I hated sports day, actually. I am not built for speed.

No, the real problem is the racists. They make my life a living nightmare. You might not be able to tell from the drawing, because it’s not coloured in, but I can quite safely be classed as “white”, and thus not the traditional victim of racism. But that is where you’re wrong.

Like many non-racist white people, I suffer from the effects of racism being thrust upon me. I will be having a lovely conversation with a nice person, and then out of nowhere they’ll say something racist, and I’ll realise that actually they’re awful and stupid. This is a great disappointment to suffer when you’re not expecting it. And what makes it worse is the fact that I feel duty-bound to challenge their unfounded and offensive beliefs and have to take time out of my day to attempt to change their mind.

Now, judging from their baseless and obnoxious beliefs, I think we can safely assume that the majority of racists are illogical fools, unlikely to be swayed by rational argument. So they’re probably not going to change their mind, no matter how many hours I argue with them. I’m not likely to be converted to bigotry, so the racist and I appear to be at an impasse.

So maybe I should just ignore the abhorrent drivel that is emanating from the racist’s stupid face, but then they might think I agree. Their repugnant ideas are not ok, and I resent them thinking that they are, especially when they think that I think so too. And if there are other people within earshot they might think I’m racist as well, which is not the impression I seek to create.

So there really isn’t a good option – it’s either let everyone think I’m racist, or spend hours explaining why racism is bad to someone who is committed to thinking it’s great, or worse, being unaware that they are racist themselves, and hostile to such a suggestion. It really is about time people realised what a massive pain their terrible opinions are for me.

Phew, what a lot of words you’ve just read. You wouldn’t have to do that if I was on television. But we have to work with what we have, so perhaps we need another recap of what we’ve learned:

1. racism is bad
2. don’t tell me your dreams
3. you shouldn’t attempt to be in a relationship with me if you don’t like Beckett.

 Great.

*neither is racism, kids.