Category Archives: Autobigraphical

The world doesn’t work properly.

I wish the world worked correctly, in a way in which my mind would be more comfortable. Then I would have been able to use one of the numerous dusty dead woodlice I found as a substitute for the lost grub screw. Stupid lack of wordplay-based surrealism in the so-called ‘real’ world.

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Filed under Anger, Autobigraphical, shorts

I worry about me, sometimes

But not often. Maybe not often enough. I let other people handle that.

The latest thing that is worrying me slightly about myself is that I appear to have subscribed to a blog in Bloglines that is not only in a language I don’t understand, but one I don’t even recognize.

But I am not afraid.

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Oh, how unpleasant

I don’t really go into details, but the upshot is that the [until very recently] perfectly usable ballpoint pen I purchased myself not four weeks ago is now in the bin. The one by the toilet.

UPDATE, a few short minutes later. I’m so traumatized, I forgot to help myself to FREE CAKE. Cake!

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Today has not started well

I awoke at 7:30 with:

  1. a slight headache
  2. a vague recollection of a slightly disturbing dream
  3. a BadSong [sic] stuck in my head

The slight headache: I suspect is caused by a combination of mild hangover and caffeine withdrawal, and it is is still here, two and a half hours later. For the moment, I’m sticking with the decaff PG Tips. Ouch.

The slightly disturbing dream: I was at a dinner party of some kind and, immediately after one of the other diners (none of whom I recognized) had said something, I made a hilarious pun on one of the things just said. This bon mot was met with a stony silence, and even after I carefully explained it to the people, there was nary a titter. Simpletons.

The BadSong [sic, and showing no signs of improvement]: As well as the headache and the hideous nightmare, I also woke with Jason Donovan stuck in my head. By which I don’t mean physically embedded in my cranium, although that would have resulted in a swift and merciful death compared to what actually happened. No no, I had Too Many Broken Hearts stuck there. And it is still stuck there.

One is not amused.

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Dreams…

So I’m about to relay the contents of a dream I had the other night. How wondrously self-indulgent. Not that intermittently churning out this crap isn’t self-indulgent anyway. But you know what I mean.

So, what’s the worst that could happen by disgorging myself of this information? People read the first line, declare “I’m not reading such self-indulgent crap!” and take their eyeballs elsewhere. So, how good of me to warn them, quite frankly. I suppose someone could try to interpret and analyse it, and in so doing gain insight into something disturbing lurking in my psyche. Like estimating that there’s a 70% chance I’m David Icke.

Still here? Good. To business!

The first bit of this dream that I remember: I was running myself a bath. I suspect that at least one person’s Freud-o-Meter is now making twitching movements with its [inevitably phallic] needle, but I shall progress.

Floating happily in this bath was a small creature, a crustacean of some kind. Only a little one. With a pointed spirally shell, and little crustaceany legs. You know the sort. About the shape and size of a vole in a snail costume.

So, I fished it out and popped it into the bathroom sink. And then got into the bath. And then the next thing I remember is the appearance of altogether larger crustaceany legs emerging over the rim of the sink. The creature had transformed itself into something rather more crab-like, about the size of a wide sandwich. I seem to recall picking it up out of the sink. I would guess after having instantly got out of the bath, and dried and dressed myself, but who the hell knows.

But then! I was in the back garden of a terraced house. And there were lots of (non-crustacean) creatures milling about the place. Mostly rodenty sort of things. Cute, harmless-looking rodenty sort of things. And a pigeon, with a face like that of a tiny owl.

These creatures suddenly started scurrying towards little burrows at the edge of the garden, and other similar creatures started scurrying in the opposite direction, emerging from adjoining burrows. The whole thing only took a few seconds, and it was seemingly co-ordinated with military precision. I believed then in the dream, as I do now, that these creatures were working the garden on a shift pattern.

“This is all very well, but what of the crab creature?” I imagine the less patient of you asking. Well. The crab creature is now in a large, circular shell, about the height of a standard door. I know this, because it emerged out of my bathroom door, more or less filling it. (I have reappeared in the house now. I do get about a bit.) And it is now bipedal. And… also appears to have turned into a man in a costume. A large crab costume which is padded out with sand, that the man inside is now abandoning, leaving behind an empty crab-suit, and a large pile of sand. And who’s going to clear that up do you suppose!? Not me, because I’m waking up, sharpish!
And that is all I remember. Make of it what you willl. I am fairly confidant that I am not, in fact, David Icke. Although with visions of crab-men, I may now have taken a small step along a similar path…

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Musical journey

My initial remotely amusing observation was to be that, while walking down the street listening to P-Funk on one’s iPod (or generic non-Apple music playing device of choice/necessity), it is simply impossible not to strut. I was like Peter Parker in the black suit in Spider-Man 3. If there had been any passers-by, they would have greatly admired my moves. Let’s say. I was eyed warily by a pair of teenage girls, but they would most definitely have been an anomaly in a larger sample.

On sitting down to write of this personal voyage of discovery, however, I discovered another musical factoid: accidentally listening to Karje by Taavi Tulev on full volume on headphones provides a listening experience akin to placing a sturdy galvanized bucket smartly on ones head and then having this bucket violently staved in by a wooden-spoon wielding Gordon Ramsay who’s a bit cross about some peas. This is not very relaxing. I apologize if it has affected the quality of my prose.

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Karaoke

I must apologize for the murdering of the following songs at karaoke (even though I enjoyed it, in a tipsy, grotesquely flat fashion):

Monty Python – Always Look On The Bright Side of Life

Led Zeppelin – Good Times, Bad Times

Marvin Gaye – I Heard It Through The Grapevine

Frank Sinatra – Strangers in the Night

I thank you.

[Update 2007-09-09]

See the photographic evidence!

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I Am Powerful

For rousing in oneself a feeling of raw power and primeval energy, I have discovered there’s nothing quite like biting the head off an animal and devouring the whole thing in one sitting. Even if it is a chocolate reindeer.

As news of this feat spreads, I imagine I will be all the more feared and respected.

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Toilet soap trauma

I enjoyed a slightly alarming encounter in a pub toilet the other night. No not that sort of encounter, before you start sniggering at the back. I was washing my hands when a slightly inebriated gentleman leaned past me while I was washing my hands to get to the soap dispenser, for there was only one, on the right of the two sinks.

Normally, the drunkenly over-enthusiastic operation of this machine that resulted in the lever falling off and thus rendering the dispenser useless would have been strange enough. What really confused/surprised/frightened me was that after abandoning the hand washing, he went back to the urinal. At this point, I rapidly made my exit. While taking great care not to laugh.

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I love self-service checkouts…

Self-service checkouts at supermarkets are great.

  1. They don’t judge you when you pay for items costing a grand total of £1.59 with a credit card.
  2. You can continue the constant muttering to yourself.
  3. They’re much more effective at hiding their “I could do so much better than this, you know” expression than people.
  4. If you’re just buying a small bottle of water and an umbrella, they don’t notice the fact that you’re trying not to laugh because it might appear the first thing you’re going to do with the umbrella when you leave the shop is test it.

Not quite up to the standards of self-service ticket machines in Japan where you get a nice animation of someone bowing to you, though.

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