I posted this up on Twitter a little while ago, but I thought I'd post it here as well. It's a stretched canvas print of Paul Ross being sold on Amazon. What's great about it are the 168 reviews of people who claim to have bought it. It really starts to make up for all those dreadful comments you read on You Tube videos and the like when you see lots of people being genuinely funny. I'll quote a couple...
Please note - 74 out of 77 people found that last one helpful. That means that three people read the whole thing and then decided, on the whole, it was unhelpful.

I posted my own. What I did was, copy Bill Paxton's biog from Wikipedia and do a 'Find and Replace' with 'Bill Paxton' and 'Paul Ross'. I think it came out rather well.


I'll post again. With a certain irregularity.

From the Archives

When digging around in the back of my hard drive, I found amongst the foreign coins, unsharpened pencils and souvenir keyrings from a school trip to Lullingstone Roman Villa, a little film of stills I had made to illustrate a song from my second musical Yeti - An Abominamusical. The song - Brotherhood of Five - is sung by a mixed sex fraternity who protect the secret of the existence of the Yeti. A joke that Grant and I decided we really liked is that the brotherhood sing of the many brilliant things that exist in fives. But shortly into the song they run out of things that come in fives and branch out. Anyway. It turns out that's a pretty hard joke to sell on stage. Never mind. It's a good song. The music is by Grant Olding, arrangement by Chris Huntley, and performed by the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. Enjoy. I shall be back. With a certain irregularity.

This is the kind of thing I waste my time with.

Jon Taylor, Chris Pell, Me, Mark Evans and David Mitchell playing the game that became a sketch, that became me procrastinating and using Imovie.

Tut.

Is this a threat?

I got a sinister email from Real network the other day. They were generously offering me the opportunity of buying some software from them. Though I had no interest in buying the software, I clicked on the link anyway. Why not? It's better than doing any actual work isn't it? Isn't it? And sometimes clicking on links in emails is work too - such as when I receive Ergent Massages from the various banks that I must have joined at some point. I always respond to those, and thank my lucky stars that Unsightliness T. Infield, a bank employee has worked through his obvious dyslexia to inform me of problems with my bank security,

Anyway - this software from no such useful application, but did contain some hidden messages, or 'massages' as 'Chaffinches I. Bolder' and his colleagues insist on calling them. The software - the Morpheus Photo Morpher - I was told, could 'morph a photo of my baby into me' - in case I was so narcissistic that I could only bear looking at a picture of my baby if I was safe in the knowledge that it would eventually turn into a picture of me. No, under these options was the offer to :
I'm sorry - what? Transform my partner into a cat! Not a photograph of my partner. Just 'my partner'. The Real Player organisation are witches, it turns out, hell bent on felinising spouses. It goes to go show that not everyone is as trustworthy as Shriven V. Hotheadedness and the other member of the Abbey Notional Building Society.

One Year (and a bit) On....

I noticed that I set this blog up more than a year ago. No doubt fired up by the fact that it was my birthday. Predictably, I've done nothing since. But, as the snow settles outside, and work beckons, the idea of posting an entry here, in this dusty old attic blog space seemed more and more attractive. You may read into this that I cannot even be bothered to make tea. And that is saying something.

Ah. I've just heard the kettle boil. That means Anna is making tea. Excellent....

We went this week to see 'On the Waterfront' - the Berkoff directed adaptation of some film, the name of which escapes me. Now then. That was a difficult watch. I imagine it might be all right if you've never seen a play before. You know - the excitement of some lights being on, the joy of there being a bit of the room at the front higher up than the bit of the room that you're in which as got chairs in it, one of which you're sitting in, the thrill of there being some men talking and moving (v-e-r-y) slowly around the place in hats, doing physical theatre bits here and there with varying degrees of enthusiasm (It is worth pointing out here that the correct amount of enthusiasm for physical theatre is 'none' - congratulations to those who knew this). But, bloody hell, I really thought it was awful. But you know, lots of people seemed to like it around me, mainly because the Brando impersonator was sweaty - and we all know - you can't fake sweat so that's acting.

Here's a tip for getting through the show by the way. Keep telling yourself that the lead actor is in fact doing an impression of 'The Fonz'. It makes the whole thing a bit funnier. It also makes you aware of what the Fonz (notice I couldn't make a 'The Fonz'/the Fonz decision - is 'the' a self appointed christian name for Arthur Fonzarelli - and therefore worthy of capitalizing?) might have been like had he been severely autistic. He even did the impression through the slow motion bow at the end. Which cheered me up - partly because it was over, and partly because they were being actively pretentious at this point, which I could properly dislike without feeling bad.

Still - I did hear a tremendous theatrical anecdote which I shall impart tomorrow.

Good health, dear reader, I shall report again with a certain irregularity.