Filed under: being alive, comedy, comedy writing, culture, funny, humour, life, opinion, perspective, philosophy, random, serious stuff, stupid thoughts, thought for the day, thoughts, writing | Tags: being alive, comedy, comedy writing, funny, gay humour, life, literary journalism, opinion, perspective, philosophy, random, random stuff, serious stuff, society, stupid, stupid thoughts, thought for the day
If this isn’t illegal it probably should be, yet we all do it. You get in the car with your duffel coat on and the six layers underneath to keep out the winter cold. You blast the heater and then overheat by the time you’ve made it to the first set of traffic lights. Now, here’s the dilemma plain and simple. You gotta get that damn coat off but you don’t have time to take the seatbelt off, remove the coat and put the seatbelt back on again before the line of cars behind you start sounding their horn. What do you do? You do it whilst your driving AND whilst you’re wearing the seatbelt! And do we think of pulling over to take it off safely – never crossed my mind officer!
DT
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There’s a book called ‘Highlights in the History of Concrete,’ that has sold enough copies for it to still be in print. Who on earth is buying this book?
I like the idea of writing a serious factual book on a subject so utterly disinteresting to everyone that it actually becomes interesting for this very reason. It’s reverse psychology, like people who wear clothes that are so out of fashion they are actually in fashion. I am currently undertaking research for three books which I hope to enter into a new bookshelf category at Waterstones bookstore called - Disinterested Awareness:
Large Candles – The Facts.
How to Comb Blond Hair with Your Fingers.
The North Atlantic Manual of Paper Cuts 2009.
DT
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The Hard Rock café I was eating in today had a pink Cadillac suspended from the roof directly above me. There’s surely no way it could fall, but I still couldn’t enjoy my curly fries for fear of it landing on my head. I then made myself laugh at the thought of my own obituary – ‘hit by a pink Cadillac whilst eating curly fries.”
When you think of all the freak accidents that happen every day, there’s an administration clerk at the registry of births, deaths and marriages that has to record them onto death certificates. The term ‘death by misadventure’ is very appropriate to me being squashed by a Cadillac with curly fries poking out of my broken skull.
DT
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The emphasis is on “look” gay as opposed to being gay, or even acting gay.
I am an espresso-drinking straight man who happened to catch a reflected glimpse of myself today in a café. My entire frame is wrapped around a tiny little cup, and unless I tape in the little finger to a bigger one it involuntarily sticks out and makes me look gay. My clothes are too crap to be an aristocrat or a gay man, so at best I can pass myself off as metro sexual.
The general rule is the bigger the bloke, and the further away from Paris he happens to be sipping an expression – the gayer he looks. Gay men and theatre directors should be the only men drinking espresso in the UK.
DT
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Street scams are like internet scams – we know about them in theory and then it’s usually too late when we find out about them in practice.
Tourists are particularly susceptible to street scamS, but even on home soil some of them are almost believable. A young girl in her early twenties approached me in the street today with a clipboard and a sponsorship form on disabled children which she had obviously photocopied. There were a few names already on the list as she presented it to me with her thumb over the donations column. There was no ID badge. She was obviously a fraud and I told her so and moved on with my day. I then got to thinking how I would turn myself into a credible street scam money machine, and just at that point a nun walks past me. Rather, it was a woman wearing a nun’s habit that I automatically assumed to be a nun, and herein rests the tools for simple emotional manipulation.
Who would question the sincerity of one wearing the holy garments? I wouldn’t, and I certainly wouldn’t ignore a nun, a priest or an arch-bishop who stopped me in the street in the same way I would a ‘chugger’ (charity mugger) shaking a tin. Any cause will do – after all, I am not giving to the cause I am giving to God’s servant.
I’m sure it would be far easier to make a dog-collar from a cereal box than an Arch-bishop’s mitre from a baseball glove, but either way this is a scam that I will never use for fear of being struck down by a thunderbolt … and because I am a morally transparent member of society, of course.
DT
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Every city has bums begging for change – fact. Sometimes I give and sometimes I don’t. There’s no hard and fast rule for me in dealing with bums other than to try and momentarily work out if this person is really in need of help or just a lazy bum who has dropped out of society. How does one go about actively becoming a bum anyway? I have often fantasised about turning up one day in an unfamiliar city and just sitting on the pavement amongst soiled chewing gum, rolling up cigarettes and slowing growing one big flat dreadlock.
I do give change to drug addicts – and yes, I know they will buy drugs with it. All judgement aside, here’s a guy begging for change in the rain under an ATM machine. There’s no dignity here and his life is evidently far, far shittier than mine so I can spare a few coins to ease my own guilt if nothing else.
We’ve all heard the same stories before, and you may begrudge this bum some change for a meal or a bed for the night, but would you begrudge him a dump? With public toilets in London now charging between 20p – 50p, where does a homeless man take a crap? I may not care if this guy starves to death or sleeps in a bus shelter but I don’t want him having to take a shit in a multi-story car park. Come on, give the guy a break and give generously. When was the last time you had to take a shit on tarmac?
DT
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Where do pens go? Is there a lost island of biros somewhere?
In the days when I had a regular office job, I could never keep the same cheap black biro pen for one week straight. I’m like a smoker with a 20 a-week habit, only instead of bad breath and yellow fingers I’ve got half a dozen black plastic pen tops on my desk. Wherever they go they obviously don’t need their tops.
I went through a stage of thinking the cleaning lady was taking my pens and squeezing out the black ink to use as hair dye (why else would she need 20 pens a week?). I then worked out that pens, just like gossip, must do the rounds of the office, and surely – according to some natural law of lost stuff – they will end up back in my hand eventually. I secretly marked my pens but they never came back. Eaten somewhere by something that lives in a dark corner of the office at night!!
Is stuff ever even lost anyway? It’s lost to us and found to other people. Everything has to be somewhere, so where are my pens?
DT
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Brain cells, brain cells. I’m sick of hearing about how clever and efficient the brain cells are. When it comes down to efficiency, you can’t beat the anus cell for work ethic.
All biological cells in the human body are universal and define themselves and their job by those cells around them. They all contain the required elements to determine what they should become and apply themselves accordingly. Isn’t that amazing? This means each and every cell is capable of doing anything it’s asked to do. If you’re assigned to work downstairs in the rusty bullet hole then you’re an anus cell. If you’re in the left ear shoveling earwax then you’re an ear cell – simple.
What a utilitarian paradise our bodies are. There’s work for all; no unemployment; no need for unions; one wage for all; and no need for holiday leave. Our cells do everything they’re asked without any tea breaks and never complain about the long hours. The brain is the boss, and would probably have a large human resources section where all new cells report for their first day at work. A new young cell turns up for his first day at work in his dad’s suit with clean socks on. The conversation would go something like this:
New Cell: Hello. I am a new cell reporting for work today.
Human Resources Cell Manager: Hello young cell. You are to report to the supervisor in the Anus this morning. Do you know how to get there?
New Cell: Yes. I know a blood cell that is car pooling and is leaving on the jugular express this morning for the Anus.
New Cell (later that morning): Hello Anus Cell Supervisor, I am a new cell reporting for work.
New Cell Supervisor: Yes, good morning son. Please get into that astronaut suit over there and go to the Svinkter where there’s a pile of brussel spouts that need turning into shit.
… And that’s his job for seven years. Every seven years, each of the trillions of cells in your body will replace themselves, so this little anus cell will drop dead at work and a new one fills his boots silently and automatically on a continuous basis until you eventually drop dead.
We could all learn a thing or two from the Anus cell about efficiency at work.
DT
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As the advice goes, how do you actually go about meeting someone at a supermarket? Which aisle is more amenable to love? There is something very romantic about dairy (cow’s tits, milk maids, etc) so I would personally opt for midway down the cheese and margarine aisle. Single people have cats, so look out for the cat food in their trolley.
Have you noticed the basic flaw in this theory – people do not speak to each other in a supermarket, so unless you’re stacking shelves and someone asks you where the gluten free pasta is, starting a conversation could be tricky. You’ll need a better icebreaker than ‘can I help you carry your cheese,’ or “haven’t I seen you by the McVitie’s biscuits before?”
Real supermarket love is offering your ticket at the deli counter or making eye contact in the dried fruit section. In a world of consumables and bright lights eye contact is king. Dress for the occasion. Walking past the bleach dressed in a backless ball gown might be overstretching the limits of subtlety, and will make you shiver uncontrollably by the frozen peas.
