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JohnF has a go at crap comedy cliches.

Oh, and while we’re at it, let’s ease up on the dumb blonde jokes, because they just don’t understand them.

Well, I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s had a difficult week, what with the Bush administration’s lazy response to Hurricane Katrina tempting me at times to wonder whether he’s really such a capable President after all. So it is greatly reassuring to see all the photographs of him shaking hands with people in New Orleans – some black people, even! – proving that he does care about them after all.

Better still, he has asked his Daddy, popular former President George Bush Senior, to lead a relief fund in his own name (not sure who this Clinton character he’s doing it with is, though). So the Bush family are well and truly on the case, and let’s hear no more of this childish sniping that it took the President a long time to respond to the crisis. He is a busy man and probably had an important game of golf to finish.

I suppose it’s obvious why George W. Bush needs a relief fund to help with the problem, when he’s clearly so unwilling to part with any of the billions of dollars he already has for such things. No doubt these are needed for more important funds – the nuclear stockpile fund, perhaps, and the all-important space race – so thank God that America has been able to depend on aid from bigger countries such as Sri Lanka and Afghanistan in the mean time.

You can donate to the Bush-Clinton fund here.

On the other hand, if the thought of giving money to a fund with the name Bush in the title makes you want to vomit up a week’s worth of meals, as I have found to be a problem, you might consider donating to the Red Cross, who I would point out were on the scene of the disaster several days before George W. Bush even noticed that it had happened.

Going through old emails I discovered that I had written:

I don’t want to upset people (because I’m weak like that (unless they’re David
Blunkett; he can roast in hell and I’ll toast marshmallows)).

For which I apologise. Sorry, David: obviously you’re not all alone as an outcast in my otherwise pleasant society. Charles Clarke and Tessa Jowell are there with you.

(Tessa, if you’re reading: I know you’re all happy that we’ve got the Olympics, but can we try to prevent a six year drought in British arts funding just a little bit? You could auction your children or something.)

Just had a difficult time deciding what music to put on.

Fun as it would be to listen to all my birthday Bowie, I have work to do and he’s far too distracting.

It’s rather sunny outside which suggests Vaughan Williams, but it rained on me very violently earlier and you can still smell the water in the air, which makes him inappropriate. A more wet-weather British composer would be Britten, but I can’t seriously try and work with a Britten opera in the background. Sibelius seemed like a good compromise, as he’s a bit like Vaughan Williams without so many cows, but maybe a little bit too jolly for the time being; on the other hand I didn’t fancy anything melodramatic like Rachmaninov. But it’s definitely a romantic afternoon, which rules out everything pre-Beethoven. And I can’t listen to Beethoven because he reminds me of youth orchestras. A more obscure composer called Stenhammer almost fit the brief, but he’s a bit grandiose and Wagnerian given my slightly delicate state after a weekend of parties and a night of insomnia.

Then it struck me: Mendelssohn. This is most definitely a Reformation Symphony moment.

Sorted.

My fans will be delighted to see that my profile is now up on the Superprep.com website. It’s not the best photo of me ever, but it’s pleasing to see that my arm strength has finally been acknowledged, and I’d like to reassure you all that I’m working on my running ability and mobility.

Not so sure about “he seems to be comfortable when pocket is rolled” though.

#26: Lessons to be learned from birthday parties

If you have a birthday party involving friends who irresponsibly continue to buy you drinks all night to wash down the yummy chocolate cake and slightly misguided quiche, then decide to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer with your housemate at two in the morning, neither of you will remember anything at all about the episode when you wake up.

Well, we both remember there was a fat man in it, otherwise we haven’t got a clue what happened.

I did, on the other hand, dream a rather exciting episode of Buffy which I remember much better. It had George W. Bush in it and it was very scary. It also had Spike crying because he couldn’t get his hair dye to work and Angel took pity on him which was stupid because it was so obviously a trap.

Anyway. From what I remember of my birthday, it was a very nice one indeed. There was even a glitter ball. Many thanks to all who took part.

It’s thundering overhead, and I’m quite worried. I have another six thousand words to dictate tonight, and how will it look if every other sentence has “rumble” in the middle of it?

#18: Lessons to be learned from Willow

Is it important? Perhaps you should tell Giles.

#17: Lessons to be learned from Angel

If you are an immortal being, you will be seen with a completely absurd haircut and possibly a moustache to match whenever there is a flashback, to signpost to a stupid audience the number of different centuries you have lived in. It’s no wonder you’ll keep waking up in a cold sweat.

Try to immediately vanquish everyone’s memory of the myriad of horrific hairstyles from your past by allowing a provocative amount of your naked, muscled, sweaty body to show.

I get home about eight o’clock these days, which is – quite suddenly, and unexpectedly – around dusk. This means that the balance in my eyes between cones and rods starts to shift, so that although I can still pick out shapes well, only quite bright colours are obvious – sunsets, for instance, are all the more vivid, and so quite beautiful.

Of course, the same thing is happening to other people, which means I really should start using lights when I cycle home.