Another Little Disappointment

Hi, I'm Log. Or I used to be, until people started calling me Jon. No-one calls me Jonathan though, which is why I chose that name for the cover of the lightweight comedy paperback I wrote a while back, just so no-one'd believe it was me. I am a masterpiece of branding.

Hanky Code: July 2009 Update

8 Jul
2009

So we all know about the basic Hanky Code, right? It’s the failsafe method that gay men use to find a husband. If you’re straight, here’s is how it works:

1. Choose the colour that represents the thing you like.

2. If you like doing it, but the hanky in your back left pocket. If you like having it done to you, put it in your back right pocket.

3. Go to a gay bar. Press your bum against the bum of a man you find superficially appealing. If two similarly-coloured hankies meet, a small klaxon will sound. Stay perfectly still and a pride march will begin to happen.

It was invented in the 1920s, when web design looked like this, and we’ve invented loads of sex since then: so here’s the July 2009 update, which you can print out and insert into your gay manuals immediately.

Colour	Left Pocket	Right Pocket
Steaming Ash	Doesn’t Like People Who Get Too Close	Is Trapped In A Cellar
Windows 3.1 Basic 16 Colour Palette	Despises the hanky code	Enjoys unsophisticated irony
Bunsen Flame	Enjoys comparing non-sexual violations to rape because it feels edgy	Recent victim of armed robbery but not rape
Embroidered Egg	Virgin	Clumsy
Rusty Battleship	Loves it when you do that thing	Will do that thing without getting embarrassed and saying “I can’t do it on demand, stop it”
#E248FA	Violent sociopath seeking the appearance of a normal life while the killings continue	When the evidence mounts, would rather confront his partner directly and in private than go to the police.
Conchineal & Mustard	Is who he is and people better deal with that, because he says how he sees it, and doesn’t see any reason to apologise for that	Has none of the five human senses
Underwater Level	Has a torso shaped like a vase	Enjoys tesselating his own and a friend’s face against a torso
Fox’s Glacier Mint	Smells powerfully of aniseed	Doesn’t get jealous when dogs pay more attention to partner
Pinot Blush	Really enjoys having sex with men	Goes convincingly through the motions

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Twitter, And The Poetry Of Arsepuke

25 Jun
2009

Before I get into the Bum Vomit Poetry that inspired this post, heres why Twitter is awesome. I dont know if anyones blogged about Twitter yet, or their feelings about it, so if this is too groundbreaking / pioneering, please take a few minutes to prepare yourself.

To best illustrate my changing relationship with Twitter, here is a conversation between 2009 me and 2008 me.

2008 Log: Twitter, I dont get it
2009 Log: Thats because youre a fucking dick

strongTwo weeks later/strong

2008 Log: No hang on, Ive thought of a reason now, its a symptom of the pervasive whittling of thinks, the stupidification of humanity, the unstable egotism of anyone who cant keep a fucking thought to themselves
2009 Log: Oh yeah, I noticed they werent making books any more, and every other communication channel has been legally limited to 140 characters, you fucking dick. And whos the cunt who thought it was worth telling the world that a he shit on his own dad?
2008 Log: That wasnt me, it was him
2007 Log: Dont bring me into this, Ive never even heard of Twitter

With Twitter, I have watched my friends casually interact with celebrities, with my mouth right-angle agape. Like a dog whos watching some cats being naughty and wants to join in – but is too nervous about the possibility of human disapproval – I looked from the cats (my friends) to the humans (celebrities), and waited for the rolled-up newspapers to come out.

Then, when I saw the humans reach out and stroke (reply to) the playful kittens, I lost control and thundered in, sending ropes of drool flying up the walls. “IS ARDAL O HANLON NICE, I BET HES A CUNT REALLY” I shrieked at Graham Linehan, in response to his link to a harrowing article about the Iranian Election. “WAS THAT MAN REALLY A PEEDO” I bellowed at Armando Iannuci, as he disclosed news of an arthritic toe.

So now, Im fully in with the hip bunch, and its all thanks to Twitter. And now, to my point.

Following back anyone who seems like theyre a human, its also introduced me to the poetry of a man called Mike. On Twitter, he’s mikeisbrill, and when he used the phrase Carry On Wearing My Anus Like A Balaclava, I had to take ten minutes out of the day to imagine how the eyeholes in an anal balaclava would work.

Gouging out holes in the tract of a man wouldnt, obviously, help you see. Instead, it would allow the mans guts to press more directly against your eyes. If, gods spare us all, your eyes were open, the constricting pressure would prevent you closing them – your pupils swivelling helplessly against the liver of your host.

And then, theres the mouth-slot. A full anal balaclava, Im fairly sure, would drive even a robust man to vomit. But that brought up its own set of logistical problems. Crafting a human anus into a gut balaclava, as desirable as that immediately sounds, is beginning to look like more trouble that its worth.

Sensing that there was unexplored beauty in this situation, I immediately demanded a poem – and thats exactly what I got. So, basically this is the longest link to a poem youll ever read.

THIS LINK WILL TAKE YOU TO A POEM YOU WILL LIKE

• In: Words
• Tags: arse, arsevomit, twitter, vomit

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Back-Dated Michael Jackson Blog Shows Staggering Empathy, Foresight

23 Jun
2009

I’m a staggeringly sensitive person. I’m perfectly attuned to humanity, and the energy that human emotions transmit along the fibres of the universe. When someone is sad, their sadness consumes me – unless someone is standing between us laughing, in which case I’m struck by a serene sense of balance, and can resume shopping.

But when a force as powerful as Michael Jackson is suffering, it’s like a spear landing in my chakra, and my response is an unearthly spiritual howl, a reality-shearing scream that cuts directly into the higher dimensions. You might have missed it: it’s easy, when your mind is full of the nothing mush of the physical world, to not notice someone screaming in the sixth dimension.

This is why I stood outside, screaming. People need to know what is coming. I am the only one that knows Michael Jackson is going to die.

This is my vision: a shadow spreading over the Kingdom of Pop. A child’s face in the sun, her tears extinguishing the flames. A suddenly-visible moon, presiding over the baronies and feifdoms of pop’s subgenres, basked the peasants tending the paedofields in a ghastly unlight.

The world is coming apart, Pop is ending, and there’s nothing we can do. It’s already happened in my head, and you cannot change what has already happened (in my head).

I give him two days. And that Farah Fawcett looks like she’s got a dicky tit, too

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Look At What I Overheard

18 Jun
2009

I’m always hearing amazing conversations. Other people say they don’t overhear any great conversations at all, so the only logical explanation is that my threatening presence makes everyone put in a bit of extra effort. It’s certainly true that spikes of conversational excellence occur at that precise time I shake my fist, drop my trousers, and make huge snarling whoops. Take this conversation, that I overheard on the bus, this very morning.

Son: I hope this bus does a loop the loop
Mother: If it does, I’ll park a tit on your leg

Bouyed by this warm cross-generational interchange, I disembarked and entered my regular morning newsagent. It is here, that I always cast my eye over the Pork Farms pasties. I imagine them in my mouth, and try to work out whether that would be a thing I’d be happy paying £1.79 for.

This is my benchmark of acceptability: every day that I decide not to buy and eat a Pork Farms pasty at 8:30am, is another day I have passed the human test. Imagine my surprise when I overheard this!

Customer: My hand’s stuck in this bag of Monster Munch.
Shopkeeper: Have you tried taking it out?
Customer: Tried for a while, but now I quite like it. It’s like a crunchy mitten.
Shopkeeper: A mitten… of monsters!
Customer: Yes!

Cheered immeasurably by this stolen banter, I wandered out of the shop, where I overheard a homeless gentleman trading bon mots with his carrier bag.

Man: Did I tell you about my time at the Danish Embassy?
The carrier bag billows out an unearthly gasp, and paisley swirls envelop the man.
Man: It was the grooviest year of my life.
The bag catches a gust of wind, and rockets into the stratosphere, where it is struck by lightning
Man: And I haven’t stopped dancing yet!
The man snakes himself around a lamp-post, where he remains perfectly still, but for the wild muddling of a lazy, prehensile erection.

Even at work, the people around me have incredible conversations, which I overhear with overstated reaction shots. Cupping my hand to my ear, blinking six times and saying “whu-uuu?”, or simply hooting like a maniac: everyone knows when I’ve overheard something, because I’m standing up, and repeating it word for word. This is a conversation that I’m overhearing right now. I’m piping directly from my ears to my fingers. It’s coursing through me like cake batter, and you are my ovens.

Gelatinous Cube: Man, HR are being such dicks about this tribunal hearing.
Halfling: Dude, I heard about that. You shat out a skeleton soldier in the atrium lift?
Gelatinous Cube: Fuck, when you put it like that, of course it sounds bad. He came out as he went in. Undead.
Halfling: He says you shat the helmet into his face. He says you did it with such deft comic timing that it could only have been deliberate.
Gelatinous Cube: Haha! I totally did that. I thought “he’s just done a double take and collected his thoughts, long enough has passed for everyone to think it’s over, now’s the time for a strong visual punchline”. The Beholder cracked up, it was awesome.
Halfling: Don’t come out with this shit at the tribunal, man.
Gelatinous Cube: You worry too much.
Halfling: You know what, I’ve always wondered why skeleton soldiers carry gold around. Why do the undead need money?
Gelatinous Cube: You still working on that open mic set?
Halfling: Fuck you.

That’s all I’ve overheard today. If I hear anyone saying anything else, I promise you, you’ll be the joint second to know.

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What Burglars Don’t Steal

12 Apr
2009

It’s been long enough since the burglary – and the tear-jerkingly generous response of friends and colleagues - for this post to not to seem like a begging message. So, here’s what I wrote the day after burglars nicked everything I own, and one of Stuart’s Dr Who DVDs that was in my XBox. I haven’t heard the last of that, I can tell you! ”Why don’t you put things back in their boxes; that was part of a box set; I’m not really saying any of this, you just love the idea of being henpecked”.

When you’re burgled, by people who you’ve come to suspect are French, there are six things that pass through your mind. I’ve distilled these six thoughts as the universal human stages of dealing with home invasion, possession theft, and a lack of sexual assault that’s bordering on remiss.

Thought 1. Oh hey, I’ve been burgled pretty hard
Thought 2. I’ve got so much more space to do handstands now
Thought 3. This has the familiar whiff of France about it
Thought 4. Look at all the awesome stuff they left behind
Thought 5. I wonder if they came into the bedroom and watched me sleeping before deciding against the sexual assault
Thought 6. This could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for to use that Windsor font from The Good Life titles

Today, I’ll be focussing on point four. Here’s what they left behind. I was going to Twitter it, then I thought “hey Log, why don’t you write a fucking paragraph”

A glass of pink wine. It was like we’d laid the room out for Santa Claus. Whenever I’m stressed, my mouth becomes dry and uncomfortable. I’d hate for anyone burgling me to become irritable and lose focus because they’re involuntarily smacking their lips and wincing, so I left a glass of murky pink wine out. Clearly – not fucking good enough for them.

If I’d known we had dignitaries visiting, I’d have put out a tube of Prawn Primula and some Tia Maria. Next time, give us a bit of fucking notice, OK? I’ll leave a Tuc biscuit wedged into a little pink cushion shaped like Prince Philip’s bumcrack. I can be classy when I need to be.

A Carnival Of Monsters Dr Who Adventure. This means one of two things. Either they thought that it actually was a carnival of miniaturised monsters, that would expand to full size when the box was opened – or they’ve already watched it, and know what incoherent shit it is. Take that, Terance Dicks! In your well-respected face!

A pouffe. I can understand this one, actually. It’s perfectly rational to imagine that this is a sophisticated Al Murray-summoning burglar alarm. The first burglar to say “do we want that pouffe?” would trigger a seventeen minute sketch with Al Murray’s gay Nazi. And I think, it’d sound, something, like, this!

Al Murray: “DID SOMEVON SAY POOUUUUUFFFE”
Henri-Luc: “He honh he honh”
Jacques: “I could use a pouffe in my downstairs room”
Al Murray: “MEE TOO IF BY DOWNSTAIRS ROOM YOU MEAN ANUS”
Jacques: “Well, I probably did. The phrase ‘downstairs room’ isn’t really a common one, I was using it mainly to set you up for that exact response. I was being a dutiful straight man ”
Al Murray: “I’M A RIGHT COMMON ONE, I’LL DO ANYTHING FOR A CHOCO LIEBNIZ”
James Corden: “I just think it’s brave of me to make so many jokes about my weight, when it must be genuinely horrible looking like I do”
Al Murray: HANG ON I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING ABOUT STRAIGHT MAN YET
Henri-Paul: “Il y a onze oignons dans le poubelle, je veux les baiser”

[Al Murray re-enacts every conversation of the entire second World War in a hysterical gay voice, while Corden removes his top and starts pushing socks into his belly button]

Hot Naga Chilli. I’d like to think that the burglars were spice cowards, and my taste in nature’s thumpier condiments took them aback. However, I suspect the reality is one of them saw the bottle, got everyone to look at it, and said “Naga, Please!”

Everyone would have laughed for around twenty minutes, and then their stupid mate would have come through our window, and ruined the skirting-around-the-word fun for everyone by saying “Nigger, please” and expecting everyone to laugh in the same way.  Breaking the joke in this way just sped up the theft of my stuff, so you can imagine how annoyed at him I am. Even Al Murray would have to black up before saying the nigger word, and he’s very much the barometer of what is and isn’t brilliant.

Guitar Hero World Tour: Actually, I’m bored now. I’d just put the words on the image, and felt like I had to mention it in the body copy. Look at me, saying phrases like body copy, like it’s normal. I’ll be saying “page furniture” next. PRESS B TO STOP EVOLVING INTO A PRICK

Anyway, here’s a quick summary for you:

WHAT THEY DON’T STEAL	WHY THEY DON’T STEAL IT
Carnival of Monsters DVD	“Monsters are fantastical, and have no place in a world driven by short-term economic gain.”
Pouffe	“Cubes are physically demanding shapes to hoik through a sash window”
Glass of Off Wine	“No thanks, we’re burgling a house atm”
Hot Naga Chilli	“The security dimple in the metal cap isn’t depressed”
Guitar Hero World Tour	“I stole my son a real guitar last week, and I’m not sure the skills are transferable”

• In: Words
• Tags: al murray, burglary, french, hot naga chilli, james corden, pink wine

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A Tragedy Cheapened Is A Tragedy Halved

3 Apr
2009