O’BAMA (# 74,900)
The search for the lost apostrophe.
Wow.
What a line.
If he achieves nothing else with his presidency of (possibly) the most powerful nation on earth, in my book Barack will have achieved greatness with this one-liner after a pint of Guinness in Ireland today, at the almost untraceable birthplace of his great, very-great, uber-great grandfather.
Tell me people of Germany, is Angela this funny?
And Sarkosy fans and Putinites, do your leaders make you laugh with them, not at them.
If so, please send your stand-up scriptwriters to 10 Downing Street, London, SW1A 2AA.
THE ONLY BOOKS THAT MAKE MONEY ARE ABOUT FOOD & KIDS (# 74,901)
I heard this today from a good friend.
There’s a lot of truth in it and a fair amount of sadness too.
Why don’t manuals sell the way they used to – is it because we’ve lost the patience to fix things?
Will anyone ever publish a set of encyclopedias again when wikipedia simply rapes it of its intellect?
Is their a Bible or Koran out there waiting to rewrite the future?
Is there an ounce of courage left in mainstream publishing?
Is everything in publishing governed by what’s gone before?
Has publishing eaten itself?
Is it too late for it to rescue its soul from the bile?
What if Frantzen had a billion bastard clones?
All these answers and more can be found at your nearest Amazon depot.
HYPERSUPERINJUNCTION (# 74,902)
As the plague of common-as-muck injunctions blur into one, we are seeing the rise of its super-rare cousin, the super-injunction, superseding it.
Whatever next?
Why not leap straight to hyperultraextrasuperinjunctions and be done with it?
It seems to me that the language of superlatives is to blame. We’ve lost the ability to use short simple words in an order that is easy to read yet sinks in deep. Is it the fault of legal people. Well, maybe not. They have their tongues tied behind their backs to remix metaphors. Hang on, I’ve caught the disease now. Help! Save me from this grandiloquent guff.
Walk the dog.
Breathe.
Better.
Time for bed.
Night.
Night.
THE SECOND COMING OF WHIGGISM (# 74,903)
Dear Coalition
If you cast your minds back to 1688, you will recall the whiggery movement that stood to subordinate Parliament, the crown and the upper classes, which in turn gave rise to the Liberal party in the mid C19th. Within this calendar year, mark my words, there will a renaissance of extraordinary force from both within your cosy twosome. These insurgents do not yet know who they are, but by God they will.
Run for cover when the time comes. You have been warned.
FROZEN TYPIST (# 74,904)
I’ve noticed a thing or two over the years about the process of recording thoughts on a keyboard.
My right hand gets cold. Only the right, not the left.
Is it hypothyroidism? Or is this because I hit more keys with the right than the left? Is it because this right hand is really only a right forefinger, such is my stunted ability to type? This doesn’t happen long hand as the left hand knows its role which is to steady the book while the right generates its own heat and energy.
To stave off the big chill, I am slouched next to a fading fire with my right hand closest to the embers. I just grabbed a slice of bread which is turning to the very early stage of toast, so it must be working.
If you encounter cold hand symptoms while writing, practice piano instead. Failing that, climb into a fire.
SENT FROM MY GRAVE (# 74,905)
Apologies for the quality of this communication.
We now receive messages that often end with: Sent from my i-phone/blackberry/android (delete as necessary).
This is not just an ad for the mobile. It’s an excuse for the laziness of the words. It cuts the sender some slack while vaguely insulting the person at the other end with the following subtext: ‘This was written in haste because you’re not that important to me and I’m really busy, don’t you know.’
Assuming it’ll become the norm and we’ll dictate our written messages before too long, we will see how rude/polite the machine will interpret our voice and tone. Will it edit us? Will it stop typing and say to us, “hang on you mean motherfucker, go easy on her, she’s your granny”. Will it self-correct our idle grammar? Will it contextualise our message and explain our distractions? Will it add its own PS to sweeten up the recipient?
Apple, HTC, Nokia, Sony Ericcson & Co, I take it you’re working on this right now. If not, why not. You got us into these habits. There better be a way out because sooner or later a smartphone will start a dumb war.
YOUR CHARMING BEAVER (# 74,906)
How do you sign off a letter? Not an email, a letter. Remember those flesh and blood expressions of humanity before ‘the internet came along and sucked the life out of everything fresh’ (Sandra Bernhard)?
Simone de Beauvoir wrote letters for decades to Jean Paul Sartre, ending each epistle with:
Your charming beaver
We live in a world that doesn’t know when and how to say hello and goodbye. This stands out like a pumping heart, even though the letter were written 60 years ago. Our doors are too often open and even when they’re shut, locked and boarded up with oak and nine inch galvanised screws, people still find their way into our lives, and possibly us into theirs.
If you have ever received a more eloquent sign off, please write to me longhand at:
Peter Kirby, Treveague, Gorran, St Austell, Cornwall, PL26 6NY, UK.
Farewell
x
DISCUSSMENT (# 74,908)
An argument where both parties agree.
UNREADING (# 74,909)
Unreading is an art form.
It is not illiteracy. It is a disabling of logic and reason.
It massages the brain until it ejaculates barely detectable spasms of stupidity so tiny that a mosquito might muster a smile were it able to read in the first instance.
If there are any mosquitoes listening to this by way of fellow insects reading it out aloud, then please tell us:
is unreading better than sex?
POLIDUCTS AND PROCIES (# 74,910)
We are in a state of flux.
A transition born out of an economic mid-life crisis the world over.
Companies are governing and governments are selling.
In the middle sits a society of wounded customers who vote for poliducts and buy procies.
Whether the roles are fully transposed remains to be seen, and to a certain extent their fate is in your hands, my hands, our hands, but not their hands.
Their hands are tied in a Stuck In The Middle Of You* moment from Reservoir Dogs.
Long may they be bound and gagged.
* This observation is dedicated to Gerry Rafferty who died today.