If not seizing the moment – at least go for a walk (Perfect Pub Walks with Bill Bailey).

Posted: March 17, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

First of all, walking and talking was my idea first.

Before The West Wing, before Adam Buxton’s podcast, before that other guy near LA who hikes into the hills with celebrities, there was me. Walking. And talking. Entirely to myself.

But this show – Perfect Pub Walks with Bill Bailey – does it very well indeed. Mental health, accessing nature, exercise, fresh air, sunlight, and perhaps being slightly ‘on camera‘ – this is how interviewing should be.

A discussion. With motion.

But I am worried about Paul Merton’s knees. I don’t often, because I don’t every really see them, since he’s been most regularly sat behind a panelist desk on HIGNFY for the past 3 decades. I saw them even less when he appeared on Just a Minute.

And I’m coming to realise, the comedy old guard that I grew up with; Merton, Bailey, and most importantly – etcetera – who I like to imagine is still youthing it about the place, is actually getting older to the point of being…old.

And nobody seems to be guarding any of them, least of all Merton’s clifftop knees.

I’m sure this has happened before, but my only frame of reference for this was when Matthew Corbet stepped back from the Sooty programmes. I was a child when that happened, and as an adult I saw Matthew return for a spot in a much later series and found he’d not only grown old, but I’d become an older person too – albiet one that still watched the Sooty Show.

Inclined to remedy this feeling, I did as I often do and gave my father a ring to get it off my chest.

Bad idea – as this only uncovered that he’s now in his 70s and at the stage in life, even in 2024, at which old people die purely on the grounds of being old. He’s not dying, but everyone would basically not complain too much if he suddenly did because it’s what’s supposed to happen.

This upsets me.

And this’ll be the same for many people. I’m in my mid-thirties, and as far as I’m concerned I’m going to live as long as I please – which is very much down to how good the customer service of life goes on to be.

If I’m not satisfied with your tone, I’m going to take my business elsewhere, thank you very much. This mortal coil never suited me anyway.

But I don’t expect to age myself, nor my heroes to age ahead of me, be that the comedy greats, or be that my dad.

That phone call, and this programme (about walking and talking, which – remember – was my idea originally) gave me a moment of realisation – I need to go for a walk.

With family. My wife. Dad.

My friends too – though they are fat, lazy, awful and won’t talk to me for some reason – and it’s mutual.

It was a good moment to have and I know I need to seize it.

Basically, these moments accumulate to suddenly becoming yesterday, and a fair few number of them amounted to ‘years ago‘ and the debt we owe for letting them slip-by can’t really be repaid.

So, I’m going to go for a walk with my father, and I’m sure I’ll tell you all about it. My Dad’s not a famous fellow, but he’s my fellow and I know he loves me very much. It’s nice to know that.

We can talk about the years of evenings we sat next to each other watching The West Wing, or laugh about the surreal satire Merton may have delivered on a most recent HIGNFY. Plus the latest developments on the Sooty Show.

I’ll give him the low-down as to my creation of walking and talking – which I really did invent.

I even created a phrase for it: “the walk and talk” but I forget why I called it that now.

Sam


An unromantic hotel room.

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I think a good hotel room is unromantic.

Same as how a happy life, without conflict, drama or the overcoming of both, doesn’t make for a good story.

Happy stories are for the birds, unlike the movie ‘The Birds’ by Alfred Hitchcock, which is a fantastic idea about birds attacking rooftops and that being an issue for some reason (the cure for zombie apocalypse, human or avian, is baseballbats directly into the blood stream – just not your bloodstream).

I’m in a hotel room as I write this and it’s fine.

Quite nice actually. Comfy bed, door locks as it was built to, TV televises, and the window offers a vista of one of England’s more breathtaking carparks.

All rather nice, all rather dull. Nice. How nice. Very nice.

No one likes a good experience be relayed to them, it’s uninspiring.

You don’t pull your closest friends to the side to tell them that there’s no need to rise to the challenge because it turns out everything is nice and the TV works, therefore they’ll be no righteous battles, mountains hurdled or passionate shagging tonight, thank you.

People like a good story about a bad time, preferably overcome but not vital to the hopes of battles, hurdling and shagging.

This hotel room has vibes, and they’re comfortable.

I didn’t realise it’d have vibes when I booked it.

I just wanted a bad time, every now and then, to keep things interesting and to make sure there’s a tale to tell.

Oh well, maybe the room service breakfast will be subparr.

I’ll be sure to let you know

Sam

PS: Next morning. There was only one sausage. Hilarious! But still, regrettably, nice.

Topics that ruin your working day

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The holocaust.

Anyway, I woke early one morning at the start of lockdown, frankly enjoying the idea of not having to leave the house.

My son was about one at the time (there weren’t two of him), and I’d become used to waking early for feeding time, as well as to prep for the work commute.

With no need to commute due to that there pandemic, and with my son being coddled by my wife (both still asleep upstairs), I made my way down stairs in my pajamas with the kind of swagger that celebrates not having to do anything as physical as having a ‘spring in my step’ for the rest of the day.

I laid down upon the sofa, kettle boiling, bowl and spoon cornflaking, and skimmed through the DVDs stacked title-out on the bookshelf (why else have a bookshelf, unless needing somewhere else to place your coffee and cornflakes?).

Realising that having woken at 6am meant I had by then just under three hours to somehow put on a clean shirt, move to the office-room and turn my laptop on – I had time to enjoy a movie.

I’ve a good DVD collection. They’re not really for watching, because the films are either a little too intense, or too boring for the rest of the family, or too regularly watched by me over the years because I love them so much.

But one title filled that spot between knowing it’s a cracker of a movie, and not having watched it too recently.

Children of Men.

“Coooool” I would have thought if I actually thought words – which I don’t, but the did still regard the movie, and the premise of watching it with time to spare, before work, as – coooool.

So I put the disk in the player, lowered the volume so as to not wake my Mrs and little son, and watched.

A little under two hours later, I turned off the television, made my way back upstairs, needing to wash my face and put on a clean shirt….and opted to get back into bed.

I reemerged with ten minutes to dress, and turn on my laptop.

Which I did!

And from that point I spent the rest of the day solidly not giving a shit, or anything else helpful or unpleasant to give, to my colleagues, their projects, their workloads or their latest news since coming back from annual leave and having some smashing photos to share from their time in Gibraltar.

The film’s plot, about there being no more children, until there suddenly was one more and it was born into a post-semi-apocalyptic war zone before being sent adrift with its mother towards what might or might not be a friendly boat, had really bummed me out.

How could I reinvigorate myself following so harrowing a tale of constant violence and death at breakfast?

Cornflakes should not be accompanied by shot midwives. CORNFLAKES SHOULD NOT BE ACCOMPANIED BY SHOT MIDWIVES

This ruined the working day for me and frankly the pandemic all went downhill from there (no disrespect intended).

The topics of that film has ruined my working day, but there are others.

And happily, they’re jolly.

Like South Park.

South Park is one of those entities that I forget about and am then delighted to be reminded about because it’s simply excellent. All you’d want from comedy.

I feel like I could do comedy, and if not to the degree of South Park, then at least – slightly. Slightly comedic would be a step in the right direction.

But pondering this means that, again, I am dwelling on topics that are terrible for my deadlines, traumatic for my proofreading, and deadly for my career progression since I realize the career I’m in isn’t the one I want to fucking progress with.

And quickly from there I’m wishing I too was in a post-semi-apocalyptic war zone rather than in this particular Teams online meeting because I’d bet those shot midwives would have a better sense of humour than any of you fuckers.

Fuckers.

Fucking colleagues.

Colleagues!

Before I go, here’s some more work-day ruining topics:
Modern Slavery
Unit 731
Carol Ann Duffy
The Simpsons
7 Dirty Words You Can’t Say On TV
Surprise Military HomeComings

A nice mix there, but one that makes me cry the most is Elvis performing Unchained Melody. Try working on a spreadsheet after watching that stunner.

All the best,

Sam

I can’t be alone in thinking this. I’d like to be though.

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

There’s always a risk of being honest online.

One must tread (type) carefully with the expectation that one is racist or something equally unpleasant and therefore not deserving of having a blog anymore.

Now, I probably am racist, but I’ll leave that to folk more qualified than myself to diagnose. I can’t think of any specific views or prejudices at this time, but I’m sure they’ll surface on my commute home through traffic.

Less so focused on the likely-racism for today though; I want to talk about feeling sad.

Because I do feel sad.

I’m sad right now.

Oh look, I just got sadder.

And this has happened before with me, and it’ll likely crop up again, but I do keep reverting to this perpetual option I have to wander into a field and die.

Not suicide – I don’t have a violent bone in my body – but definitely not trying any more.

I don’t know if that counts as ‘giving up’, or ‘no longer putting up with the planet’s negative sides any more’ (can a planet, being round, have a side? When I’m in a bad mood – yes it can. A temper-dependent, partially flat Earth).

Either way, I like the idea of having the option to wander into a field, sitting down, and worries ebbing away as one of two things happen.

  1. I master meditation and Zen the shit out of myself.
  2. I abandon the premise of hunger, ambition, regret, loss, hope, fear, glory, pride, and especially having a numb bum from sitting in a field for too long.

Hunter S Thompson made clear is his view on suicide, ultimately by shooting himself in the head (really showing his conviction) and in what he left behind – his words.

Beautiful words on the matter.

“I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time.”

And then the note – ‘Football season is over’.

It was his final note. We probably shouldn’t know about it – I doubt it was ever meant for us.

But still, his point remains now as true as then.

It’s a weariness. I cannot be bothered with the blue bells and bird song.

I’ve had enough of the laughter of children and the company of friends.

Women aren’t what they used to be, nor am I.

Bye….along those lines.

The sort of things that are why you want to leave a dinner party that’s gone on too long, but you don’t mention because everyone thinks you’re suicidal, and that reflects awfully on their hosting skills.

I’ll cheer-up, I’m sure. Maybe not tomorrow, but hopefully before the weekend.

And whilst in this mood, I still like to ponder walking into a field, harmlessly, carelessly, and should I die then I shouldn’t care, because of the careless happiness I’d feel about being in a field.

On a sunny day, obviously.

Not too sunny, either – that won’t work for me.

For this I’d have that kind of particular preference that comes from a mix of memory and imagination and won’t ever actually happen – that’s my kind of weather.

It’s good for the soul.

Sam

Sandwich ingredients – can’t we all just get along?

Posted: January 31, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Say you’re a slice of cheese, with all the crucial memories and opinions that a slice of cheese would have.

You want, specifics? Fine you’re brie.

Actually, no – you’re cheddar. Being cheddar is important for this.

It matters to me.

Anyway, you’re a slice of opinionated (cheddar) cheese – and someone places a slice of ham on top of you.

Opinionated ham.

Ham with a mother.

Ham with hopes (not dreams though – it’s just ham).

And that slice of ham is laying on top of you face to cheesy face – how would you feel?

Perhaps you’d nod politely at one another, like businessman bumping into each other on a crowded train, but then again, that doesn’t often happen when they’re both horizontal.

It’d be really neat if you’d both simply get along. No need to shove.

But that’s not all – next is the disappointment that comes from the comfortable slice of bread you yourself had already been placed on.

You’d been enjoying it being as soft and convenient as it was to relax upon, though weirdly, it was particularly buttery. As buttery as anything you can think of as being buttery.

Not many things are buttery. In fact, its likely that most things that are buttery, aside from bread, are not intended to be buttery.

Buttery.

Albeit buttery, it was a pleasant place to find yourself as a slice of cheese, even when a slice of ham is pressed against you.

Then, you see over the slice of ham’s………………. shoulder (?)……a second slice of bread descending its way towards you.

Now I can’t pretend to have ever heard cheese before. But if I were then, like you are now – a piece of cheese about to be imprisoned within the kind of butteriness that you’d honestly begun to trust – I think I’d have a lot to say. And even more to scream.

Meanwhile, the slice of ham is still squished up against you, face-to-face, unable to move because it’s inanimate (AKA “thoroughly well-cooked”) and is desperately asking what you’re freaking out about, but can sense the darkness looming up from behind it.

As I said, I’ve never heard cheese, and I’ve never heard the inside of a sandwich either, but I’ll bet its muffled.

Now I don’t want to be grim here. There’s no pain in the life of this cheese (can’t guarantee same for the ham) so have no fear of me describing the agony of teeth coming together through you – some cheddar cheese.

But, the idea of being chewed cheese basically just occurred to me and I wanted to share consideration for the sensation with you.

My favourite part was the suggestion of the cheese and ham nodding politely at each other. Its nice to get along.

There might be a metaphor in there somewhere, sandwich ingredients getting along and so on.

But I’ll leave that to you to be interested in, I’m just curious about being a piece of cheese.

Sam

Why I don’t remember my weekends.

Posted: January 26, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I tend not to remember my weekends, because I tend not to remember most things that aren’t memorable.

I cooked pig’s feet on Sunday night, and I have literally no clue what we took place.

No clue.

I’m thoroughly informed on the flavour of trotters (taste like pig feet, probably like your feet too), but not on the preceeding 48 hours.

It’s because I ‘Walter Mitty’ – but not in the exotic or adventurous sense like the famous movie.

Instead, when my weekend is happening, and especially when my wife is explaining to me what we’re doing for the weekend, I like to get lost in an internal fiction of mundane oddness.

And it’s very frustrating.

I’d love to enjoy the memories of a weekend, or maybe even the weekend itself, but I reverie without mercy to the point that I’ve broadly got no idea what’s going on.

My wife was speaking, as I presume she does regularly, and instantaneously I began daydreaming about how I would explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, using only the most choice grunts and hand-gestures.

Why did I do that?

I didn’t do that!

That daydream happened to me and I simply couldn’t look away.

If this bizarre scenario played itself in your head – you’d also miss-out on your wife’s plans for your weekend.

And to be frank, whilst I’d like to enjoy the weekend, sometimes – I also really want to give some serious consideration to how I’d explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, and then watching myself in my own head, with an ancient Viking I’ve never even met before, miming a vagina whilst really committing to an effeminate moo.

Sometimes, I’d really like to do that.

But, reality is also lovely at times.

My wife and kids a smashing, really lovely. Can’t fault them at all.

My wife walks towards me with a smile that she can’t help – because she, like me, has a massive face.

Thus, she presents me with a smile, the same way someone might want to show me they’ve a bucket.

And my children – they’re worth being around for, as well as all that parental responsibility, etc.

My son reminds me of me, he’s the best show off and hopefully will do better than having a blog one day.

My daughter makes me laugh, and I expect that’s a phase till she finds easier means of getting chocolates and dollies.

How do they compare with an ancient Viking ignorant of bovine gender?

They’re preferable, but I’m still distracted by the ridiculous.

I’ll just have to concentrate on the preferable, I suppose.

But I hope you appreciate that having an uninvited Nordic fellow, complete with axe and beard and numerous other stereotypic apparel, inserted into your head from nowhere, might be distracting.

Because it is – I’ve written a whole blog about it. That’s how distracting it is – it gives me focus.

If this distracting focus makes me a millionaire thanks to this blog, that’s a negative – I don’t want my son to be inspired by such things.

He’s already distracted enough, with the void look in his eyes that tells me that in his head he’s somewhere nicer than the conversation I’m currently giving him.

He needs a good, solid focus, uninfluenced by fictional Vikings and me.

He needs his grinning mother – the ultimate reality, the sort you can both hang your hat on and rely.

My daughter will be fine, she takes after the ultimate reality with the big face.

I’m reminded of something teachers have said for, I expect, centuries…”must try harder”.

I’ll certainly try.

Sam

Can’t I just donate a foot and have fewer worries?

Posted: January 16, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I wish sacrifice was real.

Not that form of sacrifice we see every day, in which people sacrifice (meaning ‘dedicate’) their time and efforts to something for others; time and efforts that might otherwise have been enjoyably spent on more selfish endeavours.

People do that every day, and that’s wonderful. Good for them.

I mean the kind of sacrifice that currently doesn’t work. The other…..other….kind of sacrifice.

Don’t worry, I don’t want to sacrifice my children or pets or anything like that.

Just one of my feet.

To the gods.

If I could lop off my left foot (I need my right foot for work) and throw it into the fire of heavenly donations (like an ethereal footbank) in exchange for just a little less woe – I’d do that.

Let me put it like this: you can retain your left foot…..or…..your mortage is paid off by the gods. Which would you choose?

I’d be hopping to the bank with a right-footed glee not seen since I hopped for genuine joy as a child.

Then I could spend my money on things I really want to buy. Like a shoe.

And I mean no offence to those out there without left feet, but this is my view and whilst I’m sorry right now – I’ll happily apologise further when my mortage is paid off by the Gods and I can consider sacrificing some of my remaining toes in exchange for free wifi.

My children get ill, you see.

And if you’ve children too, then so do yours.

Consider this – plus war, climate change and taxes, and you’ll realise – your not as attached to your left foot as you once thought. And you’ll feel this all the more following the ‘procedure‘.

All in exchange for a little sacrifice. Just a little less woe, would be nice

Fewer feet, less woe, a fair compromise.

And what will the gods do with my foot?

None of my business, but there’s no doubting that it’ll all come down to procreating with it and birthing angelic hordes of demi-god feet that can march or tap-dance at will.

Not that it’s any of my business.

Sam

Bread. Where did the inspiration come from?

Posted: January 8, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Because I don’t have it.

The inspiration for bread is beyond me. Especially the ‘yeast‘ bit.

I have no idea what yeast is to be honest with you. And should I ever find myself holding a lump of it in my hand and was told to get some of the local crops to make bread, I’d seriously have to consider leaning on magic to get the job done.

And that’s with magic being real, which it isn’t, but then again I suspect yeast might not be either.

Take some wheat, squash it in a dry manner – don’t let it get wet in the squashing process.

Find some yeast, if you believe in such things, and just add it. I’m not sure how, maybe throw it at the dry squashed wheat. How thick a crust you get depends on how hard you throw it.

And where to find said yeast?

I’d imagine a cave, or the underside of a mighty boulder, or behind a waterfall at the mermaid lagoon – what does it matter? It doesn’t exist anyway.

When hunting the mythical ‘yeast beast’, search the forgotten realms of some dark bakery, where it continues to both give decent, hard-working folk infections, whilst simultaneously remaining imaginary.

Back to whatever ‘baking’ is:

It’s possible you then contribute an egg to the proceedings, but that might result in a cake and cakes are simply ridiculous – look at them. They have cherries on top.

Heat, the hot stuff. Put it in the mixture. On and around too.

With that done, it’s just a matter of time.

Time to wonder what the hell you were playing at, throwing yeast at things and hoping there’d be a positive outcome because you made it hotter.

What the hell were the first people who actually made bread trying to do? From whence did their inspiration come?

From whence?!

There’s only one possible explanation for bread.

And I do believe it’s the creativity of idiocy, curious to see what happens when you do something to something and see if something happens.

In this case, it was bread. But what was the first baker trying to achieve? Food?

Because and no point in the bread making process does it look like food.

It looks like matter with no future, regardless of if it gets hot or not.

What could they see that I can’t?

Did they have any idea it would become the basis of poetic metaphors for religious and socio-political economic movements, or the far more serious daily status is holds for the French?

Probably. Most of my actions are based on how important the outcomes will be for the French. Such as this blog, which I’d presume they’d refer to as “hors-de-propos” – the opposite of bread.

Sam

The News. Interesting, irrelevant or 80 years old.

Posted: January 1, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Today's paper. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I am sitting here, trying to remember what articles I read now. Thankfully it was the Daily Star, so there were lots of pictures.

Pictures are good memory joggers, especially as they make words standout in the first place, and the Daily Star nails this, mainly through images of massive interest and zero relevance. Like this one:

Its a beaver. Doesn’t really need the words actually, though I do like the “Hey“.

“Hey” indeed.

The Daily Star might be what we’d hand to the extraterrestrials to give them an idea of what our focus really is, or we’d roll it up to bop them on the head (nearest equivalent) to shoo them out of our atmosphere.

Either way, we’d still say “Hey”.

If they ever come at all, but in the meanwhile….we’ve clouds.

We’re just not dangerous enough yet. Or cool enough either. I’m doing my bit, but you should all really be a bit more dangerous.

Perhaps like the warrior in the garden, rather than the gardener in a war. But I’m frankly more interested in a dangerous gardner.

With big, purple and suggestive-as-hell vegetables. Mainly purple.

It’s nice to have a goal which accommodates climate change, since the UK is going to have no aims to avoid it.

And, purple vegetables. Very ‘in-vogue’. Very ‘end-times’.

It’s getting hotter. Leave the heating off, especially if you’re in the pub.

I like a cold pub. It’s a chance to wear your coat indoors, as though you’re at ski-resort in South London (great place to drink and ski but not actually the latter).

Or you can wear loads and loads of fashionable outfits, like the music video for ‘Only You’ performed by The Flying Pickets.

THAT’S fashion. THAT’S a chilly pub.

It’s scenic. Looks good. You can’t take it away from chilly pubs, from The Flying Pickets, and from magpies.

Take a magpie. Take two, they’re free.

Now flatten it.

And you’ve got yourself the flag I’ve always thought would suit me, and my inevitable nation-state, very well indeed thank you.

Of course the black, of course the white. But those two; with that blue……if not the heights, then certainly the depths of fashion.

The last thing I noted in this paper was an advert. For a book of a tale from a witness to warcrimes they endured as a child in WW2.

I’ve tried to write about this theme but I’ve struggled to summarise in my irreverent style.

WW2 is still the news. Because we still can’t quite believed it happened.

Probably a book worth reading. Like a newspaper worth enjoying the pictures of.

Sam

Healthcare defence. How to blow your nose.

Posted: December 28, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

I’ve had a head cold.

It’s been very Christmassy.

A solution was to blow my nose, which I now know was a mistake without proper training.

Simply, I blew my nose too hard, to the point that the room began spinning after an immense pop.

I was dizzy, and after enjoy that for a minute or sonwith a few twirls about thr kitchen, i decided to google what might be seriously wrong with me.

Apparently, I never learned to blow my nose properly. And probably, nor did you.

I visited a health are website which explained: “if you blow your nose with too much force, the air that moves through the tube puts intense pressure on the little bones of your inner ear.”

Immediately upon hearing this, I felt like a right bastard.

Oh those poor little ear bones. There’s only three of them and they’re tiny. And I imagine they’re sisters too, being a trio, yet also a mix of toddlers and grannies; the traditionally infirm.

Too much pressure? I can relate, oh my dear, dear little ear bones.

The sympathy I felt was immense. Not for me, but for my ear bone trio that never did nothing to nobody.

Without a doubt, this same sympathy should be utilised for the benefit of our own health, individually and nationally.

Consider this. You drink too much. You think to yourself “this isn’t doing me any favours really, but oh well”. So you drink. Too much.

Now picture the same scenario, but with your liver sobbing quietly because the nasty alcohol was picking on it and pickling it.

I need to stimulate the same for my ventricles. Don’t we all?

We (well, even if you all don’t, I will) should adopt a more aggressive, protective, perhaps even parental attitude to our health.

Psychopathic, would be most appropriate.

“Anyone here got a problem with my darling little gall bladder, step my way and I’ll nut you…..with my defenceless little forehead….”

It might be a flawed approach, but then apparently so is the traditional method of blowing one’s nose.

One nostril at a time everyone, same for blowing your nose as it is for all things.

One nostril. Less dizzy. And defend your gall bladder with your lives.

Sam

PS: this is written in memory for those dearly beloved little ear bones. They just couldn’t take the pressure of the season.

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