I have the internets! Dear old internet, full of Java and html and... other technical sounding things. To be honest, I am much refreshed by my little spell off the grid, although a little disconcerted by how difficult it makes your life. Email has become the preferred mode of communication for every aspect of my university's staff, and it's been a stressful three weeks without it. I'm kidding, of course, I've just missed the porn.
But the portal is now open, and I can resume hawking my cerebral spittle into the big copper chamber pot of Blogger. Doesn't that sound wonderful?
In other news, I took on my dishwasher and lost. In the aftermath I've decided to shelve plans for my novel and begin a new project based on our turbulent relationship, and how we finally found other partners (I say, 'found other partners,' in Dishie's case it means 'found her way into the skip). Provisional title: Suds and the City. Excerpt below. See ya'll next week, and let's get some regularity round here!
Updated only when you aren't looking.
Sunday 27 September 2009
dishwasher
“Work!” I bellowed, giving the dishwasher a resounding thump.
The dishwasher failed to comply.
“Work, you bastard!” I iterated, opening the dishwasher door and slamming it shut again.
The dishwasher rumbled thoughtfully, as if processing my request. Then it fell silent again.
“Why won’t you work? Why is everything so hard?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The dishwasher refrained from answering either question. The second of these, admittedly, was a little unfair, and I wasn’t really expecting an answer.
“…,” I said, and opened the door again. I pressed a few of the buttons, waited for the beeping to subside, and then closed the door again.
“…,” said the dishwasher.
I decided to change my tactics.
“…Please work?” I asked, in as servile a voice as I was able.
With lordly composure the dishwasher surveyed my harried face, my rumpled clothes. Its adamantine face remained unmoved, and it kept its peace.
There was silence for a time.
“I hate you,” I said softly. Perhaps it did not wish to encourage me, or was disappointed in my shallow conduct. Whatever the case the dishwasher decided to keep silent.
“I… I spoke to my step-mum earlier,” I continued quietly. I did not wish to speak, but it had to be said. Things could not carry on the way they were.
“She said… she said that it’ll cost an awful lot to get a guy out to look at you, and with all the money we’re spending on the bathroom…”
I waited. Nothing. I began to grow angry, left here in stillness.
“She said we should just get another!” I blurted. “I can just buy one and she’ll refund me!”
It studied me. I began to realise that it did not take me seriously. The threat had gone practically unnoticed.
“It shouldn’t finish like this. It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be this way.”
The dishwasher clunked. It was a final exclamation on everything that had happened. There was nothing left to say.
The dishwasher failed to comply.
“Work, you bastard!” I iterated, opening the dishwasher door and slamming it shut again.
The dishwasher rumbled thoughtfully, as if processing my request. Then it fell silent again.
“Why won’t you work? Why is everything so hard?” I asked, my voice trembling.
The dishwasher refrained from answering either question. The second of these, admittedly, was a little unfair, and I wasn’t really expecting an answer.
“…,” I said, and opened the door again. I pressed a few of the buttons, waited for the beeping to subside, and then closed the door again.
“…,” said the dishwasher.
I decided to change my tactics.
“…Please work?” I asked, in as servile a voice as I was able.
With lordly composure the dishwasher surveyed my harried face, my rumpled clothes. Its adamantine face remained unmoved, and it kept its peace.
There was silence for a time.
“I hate you,” I said softly. Perhaps it did not wish to encourage me, or was disappointed in my shallow conduct. Whatever the case the dishwasher decided to keep silent.
“I… I spoke to my step-mum earlier,” I continued quietly. I did not wish to speak, but it had to be said. Things could not carry on the way they were.
“She said… she said that it’ll cost an awful lot to get a guy out to look at you, and with all the money we’re spending on the bathroom…”
I waited. Nothing. I began to grow angry, left here in stillness.
“She said we should just get another!” I blurted. “I can just buy one and she’ll refund me!”
It studied me. I began to realise that it did not take me seriously. The threat had gone practically unnoticed.
“It shouldn’t finish like this. It doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be this way.”
The dishwasher clunked. It was a final exclamation on everything that had happened. There was nothing left to say.
Saturday 12 September 2009
Contact at verbalslapstick@googlemail.com. I promise that it works now. It turns out that a: I can't spell 'Slapstick,' and b: I'm rubbish at making new email addresses anyway. Should all be taken care of now.
Interlude: in which a favoured interest comes to an end, and the writer has a brief think
On September 11th one of my favourite things on the Internet, the webcomic Scarygoround, will come to an end. *EDIT* Obviously the delay in publishing this post means that it is ALREADY over. Head to the site to read the hundreds of comments from wellwishers and fans remarking on its end.
I know my ol’ pal Nash is a Scarygoround fan, which ought to tell you everything you need about its quality. Scarygoround describes the very funny, slightly macabre and proudly odd exploits of possibly insane English rose Shelly Winters, the lives and loves of her friends, and the adolescent adventures occurring at the local secondary school Tackleford Grammar. It has been on the links tab on this blog since I started doing it. It’s just to the right, just over there. Go on, off you go, I shall wait.
I’m not as upset as I might be because John Allison, the man responsible for Scarygoround (and its spiritual prequel Bobbins) will be starting a new project on the very same website. I am eager to see what the new direction entails. I have a lot of faith in Mr. Allison, as he has been making me happy (in a quiet sort of way) for a few years now.
Mr. Allison’s reasons for finishing the comic are ones I can broadly support. He believes, as do I, that nothing can be extended forever without becoming diluted- that returning time and again to the same characters, the same formulas, is bound to run them dry, and taint the memory of what made them special in the first place.
He also has issues of readership to worry about. Scarygoround is how Mr. Allison makes his living; selling prints, commissioned artwork and merchandise related to the comic. It is therefore in more than just his creative interest that people read his work. Only a small fraction of those who view the comic actually buy the stuff that is on offer, and so if Mr. Allison is to stay in caviar Toblerone’s and keep up the payments on his rocket car, he needs to keep the number of readers as high as he possibly can.
Web comics rarely generate a sustained amount of publicity. This is not to say that people who enjoy them lose interest, but simply that people tend to get on at the ground floor or not at all. For a long running comic like Scarygoround it can be difficult to convince new readers to start without alienating the old. In print comics (and here I refer to the funnybooks, not the 'every day' comics you find in newspapers) a lull in the narrative that allows new readers to get on board without a lot of prior knowledge is called a ‘jumping on point.’ Because most long running comic books change writers and artists all the time their readers are quite used to peaks and troughs in the story. They are also used to continuity flying all over the place.
Web comics, on the other hand, have less room to work with. It is hard for artists to keep writing in start points without getting on the nerves of established readers, especially when the narrative only moves forward in daily increments.
So John Allison is hoping that the fans from Scarygoround will stick with him through the change, and that the new project will provide an opportunity for some new people to ride the bus.
Reading his thoughts on the necessity of attracting new readership, I had a short think about my own. I rest under no illusions; I know full well that Verbal Slapstick attracts only a few readers, mostly saintly and perspicacious friends who are generous in their support. I am grateful for their interest in what is essentially a vanity project. So far this endeavour has filled all my wants- it gives me a chance to write a bit, and think a bit, and provides a small audience for some of my other writing. A couple of people have read the last short story I wrote, which increases my general circulation by, I think, 200%.
Do I want more people to read this? Of course I do. It’s lovely to think people like what I write (and by extension, me) enough to swing past this part of the interwebs with any regularity. But I’m not in a situation like John Allison, in which I rely on my readers to provide part of my income. There is no need for me to reach any more readers, save to massage my own ego.
On the other hand, it would be nice to have more people commenting on the blog, especially anyone with ideas on what to talk about next. Also, the more people look at Verbal Slapstick, the more free criticism I get for my other scribblings. So perhaps I might start plugging this blog a little more. Would anybody mind? And if not, could they suggest ways in which I might go about it?
Sorry for this sudden bout of introspection. If you feel like some whimsy instead, I strongly suggest you give Scarygoround a try. The fact that it’s reached its end should not put you off. In fact, it strikes me as the perfect time to begin.
I know my ol’ pal Nash is a Scarygoround fan, which ought to tell you everything you need about its quality. Scarygoround describes the very funny, slightly macabre and proudly odd exploits of possibly insane English rose Shelly Winters, the lives and loves of her friends, and the adolescent adventures occurring at the local secondary school Tackleford Grammar. It has been on the links tab on this blog since I started doing it. It’s just to the right, just over there. Go on, off you go, I shall wait.
I’m not as upset as I might be because John Allison, the man responsible for Scarygoround (and its spiritual prequel Bobbins) will be starting a new project on the very same website. I am eager to see what the new direction entails. I have a lot of faith in Mr. Allison, as he has been making me happy (in a quiet sort of way) for a few years now.
Mr. Allison’s reasons for finishing the comic are ones I can broadly support. He believes, as do I, that nothing can be extended forever without becoming diluted- that returning time and again to the same characters, the same formulas, is bound to run them dry, and taint the memory of what made them special in the first place.
He also has issues of readership to worry about. Scarygoround is how Mr. Allison makes his living; selling prints, commissioned artwork and merchandise related to the comic. It is therefore in more than just his creative interest that people read his work. Only a small fraction of those who view the comic actually buy the stuff that is on offer, and so if Mr. Allison is to stay in caviar Toblerone’s and keep up the payments on his rocket car, he needs to keep the number of readers as high as he possibly can.
Web comics rarely generate a sustained amount of publicity. This is not to say that people who enjoy them lose interest, but simply that people tend to get on at the ground floor or not at all. For a long running comic like Scarygoround it can be difficult to convince new readers to start without alienating the old. In print comics (and here I refer to the funnybooks, not the 'every day' comics you find in newspapers) a lull in the narrative that allows new readers to get on board without a lot of prior knowledge is called a ‘jumping on point.’ Because most long running comic books change writers and artists all the time their readers are quite used to peaks and troughs in the story. They are also used to continuity flying all over the place.
Web comics, on the other hand, have less room to work with. It is hard for artists to keep writing in start points without getting on the nerves of established readers, especially when the narrative only moves forward in daily increments.
So John Allison is hoping that the fans from Scarygoround will stick with him through the change, and that the new project will provide an opportunity for some new people to ride the bus.
Reading his thoughts on the necessity of attracting new readership, I had a short think about my own. I rest under no illusions; I know full well that Verbal Slapstick attracts only a few readers, mostly saintly and perspicacious friends who are generous in their support. I am grateful for their interest in what is essentially a vanity project. So far this endeavour has filled all my wants- it gives me a chance to write a bit, and think a bit, and provides a small audience for some of my other writing. A couple of people have read the last short story I wrote, which increases my general circulation by, I think, 200%.
Do I want more people to read this? Of course I do. It’s lovely to think people like what I write (and by extension, me) enough to swing past this part of the interwebs with any regularity. But I’m not in a situation like John Allison, in which I rely on my readers to provide part of my income. There is no need for me to reach any more readers, save to massage my own ego.
On the other hand, it would be nice to have more people commenting on the blog, especially anyone with ideas on what to talk about next. Also, the more people look at Verbal Slapstick, the more free criticism I get for my other scribblings. So perhaps I might start plugging this blog a little more. Would anybody mind? And if not, could they suggest ways in which I might go about it?
Sorry for this sudden bout of introspection. If you feel like some whimsy instead, I strongly suggest you give Scarygoround a try. The fact that it’s reached its end should not put you off. In fact, it strikes me as the perfect time to begin.
Thursday 10 September 2009
Notes on crashing your car
Moving home is always stressful, but I like to distil all the worry and menial labour that comes with trading domiciles into one super-woeful trip. By the time I’m finished packing the car resembles one of those impossibly difficult 3D jigsaw puzzles that menopausal women buy for adolescents at Christmas. This is not only a time saver, it also provides opportunity for a Viking funeral should you crash on the way to the new house. If ya gotta go, you may as well go surrounded by all your stuff, I say.
What it really means is that driving requires a little more care. Things that would normally not present much of a problem, something like a particularly sharp bend or a spot of sudden braking, now become more interesting challenges. Too much swerve on the corner and suddenly you’ve got half a leather office chair in your lap. Lots of people drive like they were taking part in a rally, but to my knowledge no rally racers fill the back of the car with mirrors and frying pans before setting off.
This all makes me a bit nervous, because I consider myself quite a careful driver. That statement sounds reprehensibly self-righteous, but it is born out of hard lessons and deep disappointment. A couple of years ago I had my first car crash, and since then I have been much more careful on the roads. You might think that this is a case of shutting the stable door when there’s an elephant in the room, or whatever the phrase is, and you’d be right. But if we learnt the lesson before we made the mistake, the mistake would not have been made. Probably.
If you tell someone that you have been in a car crash, they will immediately say: “Are you all right?” This, society teaches us, is the correct response to any tale of physical misfortune. Unless you are telling the story from a wheelchair or in a full neck-brace they can probably see that you look fine, but the statement has an implication of sympathy that is also required. (If you were telling the story from a wheelchair they presumably would have noticed, and begun the conversation with “Are you all right?” To which you would have replied, “Nah, I was in a car crash.”)
The conversation will then continue with further questioning, as your companion attempts to discover the particulars of your unhappy accident. At some stage in the proceedings enough of a picture will have been painted to allow the apportion of blame. This is the crucial step in the whole process, as it determines what course the rest of the conversation will run. If blame rests fully or partially with the driver being quizzed, then broad sympathy of the ‘what a bugger for you, on the other hand, it could have been much worse’ kind is in order. If blame can be completely attached to parties not present, then sympathy coupled with outrage is on the menu instead.
Here’s the thing though. It’s ALWAYS your fault, buddy. Let’s have a look at some of the most fundamental requirements of driving a car:
Number 1: You’re supposed to arrive at some sort of destination. This is the purpose for which cars were, in fact, designed. If you just drive around and around until you run out of petrol and have to stop you are technically driving, but it’s not really what the manufacturer intended.
Number 2: You aren’t supposed to hit anything. Anything at all. Ever.
So having a car crash contravenes at least these laws, and probably more besides. In fact there’s a pretty solid argument that’s says while involved in one, you aren’t really driving at all. You’re crashing, aren’t you.
No one likes to be blamed for anything, and for men in particular crashing your car is a basic failing. As previously mentioned driving is a masculine activity, and failing to drive effectively makes you look like a big sissy girl. And so most tales of automotive accident told by men allow for a certain amount of wiggle room, and other men respect that. Few blokes just come out and say. “I didn’t mean to crash into him… but then I crashed into him.”
My accident was the result of some scary driving from someone else (see, wiggle room). As I was pootling home one autumn evening someone overtook on the blind bend in front of me, nearly hitting the car immediately ahead of mine. The person ahead drove on for a few seconds and then suddenly emergency-stopped, which threw me completely off. My final thoughts ran something like this:
“Cor, that was close. Could’ve caused a nasty acci—OH MY COCKING CHRIST I’M GOING TO CRASH MY CAR!!”
I was not afraid; I can say that with absolute conviction. Instead I was angry, luminously angry at the world and myself. I knew in a split second that my little Italian car would be a write-off. It had crumple zones. Not just lines of weakness, or areas where crumpling might potentially take place- whole zones, dedicated solely to providing maximum crumplage. It was destined to fold up like a Ferrero Rocher in a lorry driver’s back pocket. I swore, fluently and eloquently, and then got out to see if the other driver was ok.
Police called, car moved, details taken, I did what everybody does after a stressful situation: I called me mum.
*CLICK*
“Hello?”
“Hi Mum, it’s me.”
“Hello, you. What’s up?”
“I’ve been in a crash, Mum.”
“Oooh, no! Was it an accident?”
(Only my mother needs to confirm that I am not intentionally ramming people with my car.)
“Yes, Mum.”
“Hmm… was it your fault?”
“No, see, there was this guy overtaking coming the other way…”
Wiggle room, see? What, you thought just because I wrote it I was exempt? Who am I, Jesus?
What it really means is that driving requires a little more care. Things that would normally not present much of a problem, something like a particularly sharp bend or a spot of sudden braking, now become more interesting challenges. Too much swerve on the corner and suddenly you’ve got half a leather office chair in your lap. Lots of people drive like they were taking part in a rally, but to my knowledge no rally racers fill the back of the car with mirrors and frying pans before setting off.
This all makes me a bit nervous, because I consider myself quite a careful driver. That statement sounds reprehensibly self-righteous, but it is born out of hard lessons and deep disappointment. A couple of years ago I had my first car crash, and since then I have been much more careful on the roads. You might think that this is a case of shutting the stable door when there’s an elephant in the room, or whatever the phrase is, and you’d be right. But if we learnt the lesson before we made the mistake, the mistake would not have been made. Probably.
If you tell someone that you have been in a car crash, they will immediately say: “Are you all right?” This, society teaches us, is the correct response to any tale of physical misfortune. Unless you are telling the story from a wheelchair or in a full neck-brace they can probably see that you look fine, but the statement has an implication of sympathy that is also required. (If you were telling the story from a wheelchair they presumably would have noticed, and begun the conversation with “Are you all right?” To which you would have replied, “Nah, I was in a car crash.”)
The conversation will then continue with further questioning, as your companion attempts to discover the particulars of your unhappy accident. At some stage in the proceedings enough of a picture will have been painted to allow the apportion of blame. This is the crucial step in the whole process, as it determines what course the rest of the conversation will run. If blame rests fully or partially with the driver being quizzed, then broad sympathy of the ‘what a bugger for you, on the other hand, it could have been much worse’ kind is in order. If blame can be completely attached to parties not present, then sympathy coupled with outrage is on the menu instead.
Here’s the thing though. It’s ALWAYS your fault, buddy. Let’s have a look at some of the most fundamental requirements of driving a car:
Number 1: You’re supposed to arrive at some sort of destination. This is the purpose for which cars were, in fact, designed. If you just drive around and around until you run out of petrol and have to stop you are technically driving, but it’s not really what the manufacturer intended.
Number 2: You aren’t supposed to hit anything. Anything at all. Ever.
So having a car crash contravenes at least these laws, and probably more besides. In fact there’s a pretty solid argument that’s says while involved in one, you aren’t really driving at all. You’re crashing, aren’t you.
No one likes to be blamed for anything, and for men in particular crashing your car is a basic failing. As previously mentioned driving is a masculine activity, and failing to drive effectively makes you look like a big sissy girl. And so most tales of automotive accident told by men allow for a certain amount of wiggle room, and other men respect that. Few blokes just come out and say. “I didn’t mean to crash into him… but then I crashed into him.”
My accident was the result of some scary driving from someone else (see, wiggle room). As I was pootling home one autumn evening someone overtook on the blind bend in front of me, nearly hitting the car immediately ahead of mine. The person ahead drove on for a few seconds and then suddenly emergency-stopped, which threw me completely off. My final thoughts ran something like this:
“Cor, that was close. Could’ve caused a nasty acci—OH MY COCKING CHRIST I’M GOING TO CRASH MY CAR!!”
I was not afraid; I can say that with absolute conviction. Instead I was angry, luminously angry at the world and myself. I knew in a split second that my little Italian car would be a write-off. It had crumple zones. Not just lines of weakness, or areas where crumpling might potentially take place- whole zones, dedicated solely to providing maximum crumplage. It was destined to fold up like a Ferrero Rocher in a lorry driver’s back pocket. I swore, fluently and eloquently, and then got out to see if the other driver was ok.
Police called, car moved, details taken, I did what everybody does after a stressful situation: I called me mum.
*CLICK*
“Hello?”
“Hi Mum, it’s me.”
“Hello, you. What’s up?”
“I’ve been in a crash, Mum.”
“Oooh, no! Was it an accident?”
(Only my mother needs to confirm that I am not intentionally ramming people with my car.)
“Yes, Mum.”
“Hmm… was it your fault?”
“No, see, there was this guy overtaking coming the other way…”
Wiggle room, see? What, you thought just because I wrote it I was exempt? Who am I, Jesus?
Sunday 6 September 2009
The signal is down
I know, I know, it's another post explaining that there is no post. But it's not my fault this time I swear! I'm writing this on a purloined iPhone as my new house has no internet connection and they won't let me back in the university library yet. FML. There are two shiny blog posts waiting patiently on my laptop, all buffed and shined for their big day on the interwebs. If it doesn't look like I'm getting a connection this week I'll pop them on a memory stick and go round someone else's house or something. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves, or go and read Nash's blog, you know that's REALLY what you want to read.
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