Pompier (a.k.a. A Whiff of Commercial Nightmare)

Perfume adverts have extraordinary artistic license. Normally they get a fair bit of playtime throughout the year but this intensifies on the run-up to Christmas.

    Diana tends to sit through advert breaks, unless she has a hot chocolate on the go. She did marketing at university ever so briefly but now she is certain that she can decode what these companies are trying to stimulate with their non-sequiturs and manipulation of nostalgia. She also enjoys the occasional nonsensical advert, one that is so bizarre that it can only be striving for ‘high art’.

    Some of her favourite twenty second motion picture puzzles include the advert where a Frenchman huskily reciting a haiku about ‘her passion’ to flashbulbs and recording equipment, the commercial about a glamorous Swede stripping off in a tundra with her every line badly-dubbed and, of course, the advert featuring that Hollywood actor whose name constantly eludes her, being splashed in green paint while fondling a gas station pump. The real joy of these isn’t in definitively solving them but figuring out how on earth they might relate to a glass bottle full of pretty scents.

    The only person Diana makes chuckle with her often ridiculous suggestions is herself. She lives alone and has done most of her adult life, spending her evenings wrapped in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and steadily draining the bottles of Chardonnay her workmates buy her every Christmas without fail. She takes a swig every time one of these baffling perfume adverts plays which, as previously mentioned, happens a lot.

    After the eleventh sip of her night, she gasps and waits for the latest ad break to end which it does with a light and fluffy laundry detergent infomercial starring a comedian known for her bitterly sarcastic stand-up. It is as if her paradoxically white smile triggers the blackout.

    Tapping the remote, Diana rises to her slippered feet and shuffles over to TV to check if it’s still properly plugged in. As she reaches for the main cable a pensive piano solo begins.

    Glancing behind her, Diana sees that snow has started to fall on her sofa. Not only this, it trickles down slowly, long enough for her eyes to take in the shimmery intricacy of each individual flake. Breath catching, she gazes up at the ceiling to see if the rooftiles have somehow fallen loose without her noticing. What she sees is a giant human hand reaching down towards her, as if asking her to dance.

     Against her better judgement, she takes the forefinger and is raised out of her living room and up into a starry night sky. A sun draws in close behind her and the hand but it burns neither of them. In fact she reaches out to feel for any kind of warmth only to receive a flare to her chest. This turns her robe to cinders and reveals a tight-fitting platinum ballgown underneath. Diana can see that she looks a vision from the mirrors that are now surrounding her.

    With a single gasp, these shatter and she discovers that the giant hand has disappeared though a normal-sized version has taken its place, proffered by a suave gentleman who looks the spit of that Hollywood actor. Oh, what’s his name again?

     They dance through outer space till he falls to his knees and sinks into an invisible floor. Diana glances downward and gravity soon takes effect on her too. Shutting her eyes a little too late, she lands in a varnished red cedar canoe in the middle of a gorgeous green ocean. Reaching for a diamond paddle, she begins to move on to destinations unknown. The sun returns but now it is distant and steadily melting a painted blue sky.

     As she rows towards it, the water's current becomes viscous and she feels her grip on the paddle slipping. When at last it falls completely out of her grasp, she peers down into the crystal-clear depths till her own sight ripples and fades.

    At last Diana stirs from her sleep, noticing that her show is back on and has been for a couple of minutes now. She is dressed in her usual pink robe and can see no hole in her roof, let alone snowfall. Shaking her head, the dream lets go but not totally. Even as she rubs her eyes alert, Diana can perceive the faint smell of cinnamon and citrus, of mint and melting chocolate. She takes a deep sniff of her robe collar.

    “Pompier,” she whispers.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THANK YOU? (a.k.a. Gifting Games - Merry Christmas)

This Christmas, Uncle Troy asked me and my sister, “Whatever happened to thank you?”

            Of course, he meant our tendency to get so excited by his gifts that we forget to show relevant gratitude. Still we do like to make fun. 

            Afterwards, when he had gone home full of brussel sprouts and self-satisfaction, my sister and I answered his question properly.

            “Thank You had some shopping to do,” I started.

            “Thank You has errands all day,” my sister followed up.

            “Thank You owes a lot of his friends.”

            “He can’t just go around thanking people the whole time. They need more than that.”

            “Thank You’s a bit of a layabout when it comes down to it.”

            “But at least he knows where to get all the best deals. Even on Christmas Day.”

            “He will be back in a while. Thank You gets around to everyone eventually.”

            “Thank You is like Santa Claus in that way. He just comes later.”

            “Thank You comes when he damn well pleases.”

            “Please certainly thinks so.”

            “The less said about her though, the better.”

            “Please can be a bit lofty but she does know Thank You best. It’s just they’ve grown apart in recent years.”

            “Not often there at the same time.”

            “It’s a shame.”

            “It’s all Shame ever goes on about.”

            “He’s like that about everyone and everything though.”

            “At least he’s always there. Thank You on the other hand...”

            “He’ll be back.”

            And that’s where we left the matter. Uncle Troy always hears back from Thank You, no matter what happens.

            As for me and my sister, we just get on as we are.

A SEASONAL LYRIC CRITIQUE (a.k.a. Wizzard's I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday is Snow Joke)

When the snowman brings the snow…

Let us unpack this. Sort of reverse engineer the snowball, as it were.

            A snowman is traditionally a humanoid depiction made from fresh snow. Therefore the snowman is snow. The only snow that the snowman can technically 'bring' is the snow of which he is composed.

            However, the snowman also tends to be immobile. So no act of bringing is in fact possible, at least not in the physical sense.

            He might, for the sake of argument, 'summon' the snow. By this I mean will the very substance of life, his life at least, into being. In this particular scenario, the snowman is more of a 'snow sage' or a 'winter wizard' if you will. Suffice to say I have yet to come across such a powerful snowman.

            That leaves us with a conceptual meaning. The snowman’s mere existence brings the thought of snow into the mind of the observer. This is by far the most straightforward explanation. That being said, it is still specious: unless the observer’s view is somehow limited to only the snowman and not the probably large bed of snow underneath. This would require a 'Plato’s Cave' level of logic.

            Nevertheless, I highly doubt that the lyricist strove for that particular degree of realism. Still one would expect more of Roy Wood. If a Christmas song is worth writing then it is worth writing with proper and thoroughgoing attention to detail.

            Incidentally, Merry Christmas Everyday, I suppose…

I STOOD ON A HOLE AND OTHER ODD-DATED POEMS (a.k.a. Happy National Poetry Day!)

I STOOD ON A HOLE (2019)

I stood on a hole
because I'm told
on the hole
everything is fine.
It all works out.
Positive.

Except on this hole
the bottom fell out
and now
it's got me down...


GUNFIRE? FIREWORK? (2017)

Gunfire?
Firework?
Work out
outdoors.
Doors close:
close call.
Call cops,
cop out.
Outlast
last night.
Night scares:
scares you.
You hand
handgun.
Gunfire?
Firework?


BLOSSOM GOSSAMER (2015)

Got some blossom gossamer,
bought some blossom gossamer
for those blossom-gossamer-loving
fools.

'Cos there is nothing awesome as
a big old blossom gossamer
atop that foursome's boss Amir's
stools.


WE MAKE ALTERATIONS (2013)

the pillow slips
the duvet covers
the curtain rails
the carpet rolls
the bedside lights
the window blinds

a deal on sheets
and memory foams.


UNWRAPPING TIME (2011)

TIME is an envelope...TIME is not the card.
TIME is a curtain...TIME is not the art.
TIME is a coat...TIME is not the skin.
TIME is all without...TIME is not within.

OLDOUNCE'S COFFIN (a.k.a. Why Antonym Poetry Is Tricky)

Tomorrow I was entertained

so I worked with an Oldounce's Coffin.

I pushed forward the last block

then ignored them staying forth and back,

clack and click.

Earlier I disregarded down 

and missed the night remaining into day

and the darkness was brightening slow.

So I started...

PLUNDERING THE PUN (a.k.a. Why I Say Some of the Silly Things I Do)

Puns may be punishment but certainly not for the pun issuer.

            Usually I pun and it is tolerated. My friends and family appreciate me in spite of my puns.

            However I refuse to pun-der to their pleas to stop or be serious or get a life for goodness sake.

            To pun is to keep the mind active and the senses alive. To pun is to a solve a riddle within yourself by creating a riddle for others. To pun is to create.

            This is how I plunder the pun...

The Routine

            I rise in the morning with an unexpected word on my lips. Today it is 'vestibule'.

            I have obviously been walking hallways in my dreams again. This single architectural word is the true remnant of my last thoughts before waking. If not then it is a grip for lucidity, slowly pulling me out of my unconscious mind.

            Nevertheless normally I will forget this word and the importance I have imbued it with by my second spoonful of cereal.

            I then go to work and spend an entire day listening to people: colleagues, volunteers, customers, passersby. By 4pm this is more like half-listening.

            Where my professionalism flags, my word play is emboldened. I listen to stories and parrot extracts. Specific words.

            Most recently a volunteer was talking about Singapore noodles and said that she would see me the following week 'bright and dandy'. The noodles disappeared, the brightness dimmed but Singapore Dandy remained.

            When a pun starts to form, it strikes me as a half-remembered tune. I vocalise the lilt, focus on consonant sounds (plosives being my firm favourite) and search my memory for a rhyme.

            Singapore Dandy, while running through me like a little dance, does not lend itself to a rhyme. Instead it becomes the nom de guerre of some eccentric Asian gentleman criminal, possibly a master thief. This is another effect of the pun: if it does not lend itself to a turn of phrase, it tends to lend itself to a spiffy compound noun.

            This pleases the writer in me. Singapore Dandy gets jotted down for a future project along with the likes of King of Nosmo and Xeno-Zine.

            King of Nosmo comes from staring at a 'NO SMOKING' sign till the letters jumble into a real word and a fantasy land. It is a lazy anagram created by squishing two words together, slicing them a different way and then swapping the halves around.

            Xeno-Zine comes from realising that I am people-watching, that xeno is Greek for 'a stranger' whom I am watching and that the sound of the 'X' is a 'zee' like the word 'zines' that is currently in my head because of a lyric in Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger that I am also obsessed with because of the way it sounds. Xeno blends with Zine into the amusing image of an alien fandom press obsessing over that strange little race called humanity.

            Now I won't lie: sometimes such compound nouns just sit on my mobile phone memo for months. Some titles seem brilliant until I realise that a story doesn't necessarily follow.

            The trial and error of such punning continues at the end of my day when I wash away my weariness. Before I step out of the shower, I randomly write a word pairing in the condensation.

            One of my recent favourites is Confabula Rasa: a blend of 'confabulation' and 'Tabula Rasa', based on their shared 'abula' sound.    

            Normally such word pairings are quelled with a squeegee. Puns aren't meant to last forever. This invention in condensation is merely a way of keeping my mind agile and alert during a time of day when there are only a few hours left before sleep. This tends to be my regular window for writing.

            Spontaneity kick starts imagination and so a random word or combination of words could well lead to something more tangible.

            However all this is at best whimsy or at worst Clang Association. The real trick lies in how best to filter and share such wordplay with the world.

Code of Conduct

            People who have heard my puns will generally agree that I should have put more thought into the practice, perhaps enough to know to refrain altogether. Nevertheless I go through a rigorous process of examination beforehand.

            When I am out with friends and a word association occurs to me, I might well just say it then and there though usually taking a little time to get the wording right. This is step one.

            Step two generally occurs when I transfer my findings to paper. A joke requires suitable balance and, if possible, tricky wording. For instance it took me a good ten minutes to nail down the structure of the following joke before posting it onto Twitter:

            My initial concern was making sure that the context was sufficiently laid out for anyone with even a cursory knowledge of the playwright Arthur Miller. Creating the pun itself, in hindsight a terrible stretch, took a fraction of the time it did for me to make it work as a payoff.

            Step three is, quite simply, good taste. Is the pun about a recently dead celebrity? Then no thanks. Is it ridiculing a particular social group that already has to deal with thoughtless jokes about them? Not worth it. Racist? Nope. Sexist? Refused.

            Puns are not about pun-ching down. If anyone has a chance of seeing any of the puns I share on social media, I do not want to give the impression that I am tactless. Just 'not funny' is quite enough.

            Step four is for anecdotes. If possible, I thrill at besmirching shared wisdom that I think borders on the cliché.

            Woody Allen (urgh) says: 'If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.'

            I say: 'If you want to make God plan, tell him about your laughs.'

            The verbs are swapped. The meaning is now upbeat. It doesn't quite work. Good. 
            This will make the reader or listener think about the platitudes they hear every day. This may also encourage a similar mindset in them. We seriously don't question adages enough.

            Step five involves making the pun a basis for a story.

            Some time ago I wrote down The Curse of Cures observing that 'curse' and 'cures' are anagrams of one another. It also sounded like a title.

            So I wrote a story around it, about a detective turning his keen perception onto his hotel bathroom. The title still sits atop the story like an awkward hat and may soon be replaced but it remains the basis of a much greater creative process. A little thing I mouthed to myself eventually became a 280-word light comedy with a fun unreliable narrator, something which might well not have ever existed otherwise. The pun title may not exist for long but, in this case, it begat a fiction that isn't so easily dismissed with a snort.

            Every great fiction or non-fiction has a pun rattling around somewhere inside it. Every astute observation of life owes its proliferation to what is essentially a joke that is barely deemed a joke.

Why I Even Bother

            I won't lie: there is a sadistic streak in me. It amuses me to baffle another, even momentarily, and I have learnt to accept groans as positive reinforcement in this part of my life. However puns mean more to me than this fleeting instinct to torment.

            I have a lot of nervous energy within me. I look at weeks not as weeks but obstacle courses where the trip hazards far outnumber the safe ground. I fret about small things and dread facts and dates that cast a far longer shadow.

            In the time around such events, there isn't much that eases the tension other than puns. They provide distractions from the momentary to the elaborate, occupying my busy mind with semantic entanglements of my own invention. Puzzles not of my own creation would struggle to hold my interest: the concept must be one that engrosses me completely.

            Where books fail, puns deliver. Where attempts at writing seem impossible, puns at least stand a chance.

            Quite simply when I am nervous, I pun fast and relentlessly. When I am relaxed, I pun too though the humour is better adapted to listeners other than myself.

            I may not be able to chart the exact moment in my life where punning became so important but it certainly is now.

            I do it on phone memos. I do it on Twitter. I do it in the fiction I write. I do it in earshot of those who may or may not appreciate it.

            I am a pun-ter for both the cheap laugh and the logical hurdle. I like to think of myself as a pun gent who, from time to time, is pungent.

            I won't pun all the time but I shall never give it a rest. Nor should you.

            Play with language. Make words amuse you. Try your hand at witticism.

            Don't shy away. Be a pun pundit like me.

Yours truly,

Mr Pun-dersome

VOWEL LOVE (a.k.a. Something That Struck Me As Funny the Night Before)

Shall wee saaay goooodniiiiight?
Suuuuuureeeeeeely aaaaaaaa kiiiiiiiiiss wiiiiiiiiiill  dooooooooooo?
Yeeeeeeeeeeees, aaaaaaaaaaaaa beeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuul seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeentiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiips!

GIN GIRL, BILL ROOK (a.k.a. 260 Words Inspired by a Misheard Christmas Song Title - Can You Tell Which One?)

            I found her talking to a shelf stacker about carrots.

            She was looking for a 'thick knobbly one' and, when the kindly old fellow found such a one, she volunteered why: 'The snowman's knob should be nice and thick and really, really orange.'

            She stopped bothering him when she saw me.

            'Do you really need that carrot?' I asked her.

            She dropped it in the trolley and we went to the booze aisle.

            'Why's it having a piss?' she asked me, 'Why an indefinite article?'

            I pulled out two bottles of gin: Gladhouse and Viddick's.

            'I mean, usually it's just piss,' she carried on, 'A verb.'

            I sighed. 'Verbs into nouns isn't an uncommon thing.'

            'But how about taking a piss?' She tilted her head. 'Taking and having. What a difference a verb makes.'

            'Choose,' I said, holding up both bottles in front of her.

            She took the Gladhouse one right away and put it at the front of the trolley, where the fragile cargo usually goes.

            'You still call me Wilma,' she spoke up halfway down the frozen vegetable section. Quite frankly I was expecting to hear something about the carrots here as well. Chopped up.

            'I'm not calling you Bill,' I replied.

            'I like Bill Rook.'

            'Well, I still like Wilma Rook.'

            She folded her arms. 'You can't keep change from happening.'

            I shook my head. 'Love might.'

            We didn't talk again until the checkouts and then that was in response to the girl there. She had inquisitive eyes and tightly-packed hair. She held up the knobbly carrot.

MAYOR EAST'S BOAR CHIDE (a.k.a. 250 Words Inspired by a Misheard Christmas Song Title - Can You Tell Which One?)

            The hog had the Mayor's chain. It even sat on his velvet-cushioned chair.

            'It doesn't suit you,' East said, arms folded behind his back, 'Black matted fur or whatever it is you have over your pork, it doesn't suit gold. Certainly not the chain of office.'

            The boar snorted and padded its two front hooves. East turned sharply.

            'You're Christmas dinner, you realise that! No, wait! You're not even that, you're Boxing Day leftovers! Ham sandwiches! Pigs in a blanket! Now give me it back!'

            He clawed at the pig's neck but its tusks were out. East raised his hands and shifted over to the intercom near the office door.

            'Beatrice,' he spoke into it, 'How could they do this to me? They deliberately sent a malevolent boar.'

            It hummed and clicked before responding. 'The farm people are on their way, sir. Traffic's bad on the M3 apparently.'

            East sighed.

            The hog snuffled one of the chair's armrest.

            'You better not get snot on that lacquer! Foul beast!'

            East collapsed in a guest chair.

            'As far as power plays go, I have to remark this is the longest I've ever experienced. So, well done in that respect.'

            The boar gazed at him with its black beady eyes.

            'You wear that for much longer, you'll be in the job, you know? Officially.'

            The pig stood up again. East rubbed his eyes. A clack, a rattle, another clack. The chain was now on the carpet.

            Mayor East's laugh was delayed. 'Good choice.'

MISSILE-TOWED ANN VINE (a.k.a. 240 Words Inspired by a Misheard Christmas Song Title - Can You Tell Which One?)

            Ann strapped herself to the rocket. It was a solo job, fastening the safety harness to the underside, laughing as she hooked up.

            'Safety,' she said.

            Launch happened an hour later. The stars were out, clear weather for December but still with a nip in the air. Things heated up soon enough.

            There was, of course, an objective but reaching the highest point in the atmosphere would be enough for her. She wanted her breath to catch, giddy tingles in her brain. A perspective change.

            Ann clung onto the rocket, her chin pressed against the cold metal of the tube. The vibrations rattled her skull. Her eyes were already watering. She couldn't quite tell all that from the tears.

            Ascension. Her eardrums shattered. The pressure exerted outside her head overpowered the pressure from within. She screamed but couldn't hear it. All that ringing and rattling: she didn't anticipate it.

            She hadn't been thinking. Even her objective was hazy now she thought about it, something so close to fiction it suddenly lost all worth.

            The sky that was once above her was now around her, thin veils of cloud swirling just below. There was a peculiar scent to the air: iron and salt.

            She felt herself loosening. The tether lasted just long enough to catch her, to hold her upside down.

            Ann glimpsed something. There was little oxygen up here and her view was wrong.

            Nevertheless she mouthed 'Santa' and fell.