Moving?
I don't know if anyone has seen that film Insomnia. The one with Al Pacino, not the original.
It's O.K.
The man Nolan tries hard to visually reproduce the actual effects of insomnia. It works quite well, but never really matches the being-in-a-virtual-reality-machine-that-recreates-your-normal-enviroment-but-in-a-manner-that-is-just-not-quite-right way that is the genuine experience of someone who doesn't sleep well.
Today/yesterday (oh, you sort of lose track of time as well) Tired Mam returns from her Saturday job. I have had three hours not-really sleep the previous evening.
I am informed that Dempsey and Makepeace are coming around for nibbles and drinks this/that evening.
What fun.
Actually, I always enjoy the half-hour that myself anf Dempsey steal in the pub that is conveniently located 1.5 minutes walk from my front door, but this is not the point.
After some time, all four of us fall silent for a moment. I welcome such silence.
Getting Favourite Daughter and Favourite Son fed, bathed, dressed in P.J's, given milk, tucked into bed, read story, do tidying-up, do hoovering (I'll teach Tired Mam how to turn it on one day. Funny, it's actually her hoover from long before she knew me. You would think she would know) and make sure I do not resemble Wurzle Gummage. It's a lot to do. I welcome the silence. (I fail at the personal appearance thing.)
Silence. It's been a whole four seconds now.
Tired Mam: Well. Go on then. Be funny Mr. Entertainment.
I can't be doing with this. It is true that, when surrounded by a limited amount of people I know quite well I am often Mr. Amusing Anecdote and Funny Story. But I am not some sort of comedy whore. I cannot perform at will.
Tired Mam: You've always got a funny story when we have people round.
I sigh. I look at my brother and his girlfriend.
Me:[with great sense of all sorts of not-good-sensations] I bought a Stanley Knife the other day.
I then explain that it was a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Having started, I have no choice other than to tell the rest of my shit story. My younger brother at least has common courtesy
Dempsey: NO WAY!!
at the moment I explain that I was quite innocently brandishing a very sharp knife at an innocent check-out girl with an open till.
Tired Mam quitely watches this, aware of the fact that she has already heard this story. From reading my shit blog. And has now heard me say it out loud, almost word-for-word. Knowing that there is so little in my life at the minute, nothing worthy of comment occurs more than twice a week.
Do I stop this silly thing? I started it as a deadtime not-sleeping filler but it's grown a bit.
Do I move, and hide the new url?
I can't do that.
It's O.K.
The man Nolan tries hard to visually reproduce the actual effects of insomnia. It works quite well, but never really matches the being-in-a-virtual-reality-machine-that-recreates-your-normal-enviroment-but-in-a-manner-that-is-just-not-quite-right way that is the genuine experience of someone who doesn't sleep well.
Today/yesterday (oh, you sort of lose track of time as well) Tired Mam returns from her Saturday job. I have had three hours not-really sleep the previous evening.
I am informed that Dempsey and Makepeace are coming around for nibbles and drinks this/that evening.
What fun.
Actually, I always enjoy the half-hour that myself anf Dempsey steal in the pub that is conveniently located 1.5 minutes walk from my front door, but this is not the point.
After some time, all four of us fall silent for a moment. I welcome such silence.
Getting Favourite Daughter and Favourite Son fed, bathed, dressed in P.J's, given milk, tucked into bed, read story, do tidying-up, do hoovering (I'll teach Tired Mam how to turn it on one day. Funny, it's actually her hoover from long before she knew me. You would think she would know) and make sure I do not resemble Wurzle Gummage. It's a lot to do. I welcome the silence. (I fail at the personal appearance thing.)
Silence. It's been a whole four seconds now.
Tired Mam: Well. Go on then. Be funny Mr. Entertainment.
I can't be doing with this. It is true that, when surrounded by a limited amount of people I know quite well I am often Mr. Amusing Anecdote and Funny Story. But I am not some sort of comedy whore. I cannot perform at will.
Tired Mam: You've always got a funny story when we have people round.
I sigh. I look at my brother and his girlfriend.
Me:[with great sense of all sorts of not-good-sensations] I bought a Stanley Knife the other day.
I then explain that it was a not-really-Stanley-Knife. Having started, I have no choice other than to tell the rest of my shit story. My younger brother at least has common courtesy
Dempsey: NO WAY!!
at the moment I explain that I was quite innocently brandishing a very sharp knife at an innocent check-out girl with an open till.
Tired Mam quitely watches this, aware of the fact that she has already heard this story. From reading my shit blog. And has now heard me say it out loud, almost word-for-word. Knowing that there is so little in my life at the minute, nothing worthy of comment occurs more than twice a week.
Do I stop this silly thing? I started it as a deadtime not-sleeping filler but it's grown a bit.
Do I move, and hide the new url?
I can't do that.
posted by Tired Dad at
3:00 am
16 Comments:
Oh, fuck me! Everyone's moving and changing and hiding! I can't be doing with it! All the time and effort creating new links and deleting old ones. Be loud, be proud; be a tedious cunt and a tired dad.
ah tis fine to recycle crap stories from blog. i do it all the time.
i've been dinning out on the meeting the boys ex, now lesbian and her lover with dried spunk on my face tale for ages now...
come to think of it i should probably stop telling that one. i just get odd looks.
bum.
Do the Joe Pesci line from goodfella's
'I amuse you? You think I'm some sort of fucking clown?'
I agree with our masked friend. Stop your whining and get on with it. Most of it's good. Some of it's brilliant. Some of it's a bit boring. Most of my blog is boring, and some of it's brilliant, but only when I steal other peoples' photographs and write what I think are amusing captions.
I haven't got a job anymore. That can mean one of two things. Either I get another job, or take the rest of the year off to write my shit blog. I'm going for that one.
xxxx
Yes you are occassionally shite but then aren't we all.
More often than not though you are right on the money.
You have to keep going I've only just set up your link.
Well, you could do that, but you would be found eventually by the usual crowds of scabs and hangers-on.
I bet TD already does the Joe Pesci line! Probably in the mirror!
You're funny n witty. Whether yer tired or not's irrelevant - well it is t'me anyroad. Keep it goin' mate. It's therapeutic for yer readers at least. Makes us laugh. Laughin's good. Ta
*: Thanks, and no you cannot have one of my cigarettes and I will not buy you any cider. Drop the ski-mask when hanging around my local convenience shop and you may have more luck.
Lovely Sleepy: I HAVE NO STORIES THAT GOOD! If I did, I would become a professional raconteur. But remove any references to spunk on my face. I must check your archives. I'm glad you get the mileage. But for me, repeating shit things of no interest in my life that at the desperate hours of the early morning seem desperatly important in front of a group of people at least one of which knows of my shit blog is, well - shit. I am not enjoying it.
RD: Shit. SHIT!! The cliche is often true. Several days later, it occurs to me that would have superb. I do it really well an all.
Amanda: Don't worry about comments - for all you know I have only ten readers per week, all of home feel obliged to comment because I drop them the occasional line. Don't worry about such things - if you want to write stuff, do so.
DM: HELLO! My emails have been returned - was getting worried. Sage and no-fucking-about as always. The Frostrup woman - based on recent performance - is bound to go on maternity leave again in about two weeks. Make freinds with her. You'd be better. And she does not think you are a twat.
Davenelli: Welcome, and thanks.
M_G: Welcome back. And thanks. Bit quiet round your gaff. Give it a go. People will think it's shit, people will think it's ace. So what? Try. It's fun. Amusingly, the only reason this place exists was so I could also post a comment round Rose's place. Amazing.
Anon: Alright. How the *fuck* did you know that??? This isn't funny. The missus swears she is not you, and I know few other people who know my Joe Pesci impression is that........oh. Am I that transparent? I own a sharkskin suit, a black shirt and a skinny blue tie. I put a folded hankerchief in the top pocket. I inform strangers that I am MADE. Shit. SHIT. (Some of this is true).
Dinners: As ever, ta.
4GA3B:You haven't. But welcome.
It's just a pain. I'm not a talker. I'm a thinker (I've got letters and everything. Quite a lot, if I felt inclined to disclose and if I really felt it meant anything). But, it just feels silly.
Grrrrrrrrr.
TD: Hmm, maybe so. Nothing particularly draws me towards the blogging world, but perhaps I'll give it a go.
Or failing that, just put a bunch of porn up and make a packet off the banner ads.
Look, I don't care if you smoke or not, or whether or not you run the vacuum cleaner, but dammit, it's important to spell Worzel Gummidge correctly! (Not to mention that yesterday you put two Ls in "appealing" -- that's appalling, which of course does have two Ls.)
M_G: Up to you. But pornography? Who would be interested in such material?
A: Pedantic. Did I spell that right? Anyway, I was so traumatised by WURZEL as a child it's a wonder I can even type his name.
I noticed the Worzel thing too, but I've given up trying to correct every error I see on the Internet. And I have read it all, just like TD's old colleague.
Comment 8 of 20
TD: Have read your site for the first time in ages, and it's really fucking good now. Like it. Like it lots.
Your first mistake was telling her about it in the first place.
*: He did really say that. HE DID. Anyway, I spent far too many years living in Gloucestershire, where the 'Wurzels' command almost legendary deference. Must of rubbed-off. I know all the words to 'Brand New Combine-Harvester' or whatever the fuck it was called. I was glad to leave. (Honestly. They were HEREOS around there.)
ScaryD: Well. Erm. Thanks. An email on the way.
Backroads BACKROADS!!!: WELCOME BACK! Good God man, I thought you'd stopped! You may be right. But there are no secrets in Tired Towers. Although it would have been nice if this were one. Surely Mrs.Backroads is aware?
None of my business - nice to see you updating again, and as a writer I read and admired long before I started this - found you through Fluff - lovely to have you back here.
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