I also have an excellent idea for a round thing to go under cars.

Yesterday, I was messing around on a piano (at which I'm very bad indeed), trying to work out how to do the fingering on Susannah Pearse's and my version of Pachelbel's Canon. Eventually, after a lot of painstaking trial and error, I found that it seemed to help with the doobie doobies if I tried to always play D with my thumb. Indeed, so helpful was this little trick of mine that I thought I'd leave a note for myself on the top of the score, for next time I tried it. So, I went and found a pencil, and prepared to write down my important discovery. Just under the title. Which is... 'Canon in D'.

Ah. So THAT's what that means.

Over my head

Wittgenstein, enjoying a joke.

This is from a memoir of Ludwig Wittgenstein by his former pupil Maurice Drury:

'After tea Johnson played some of Bach's Forty-eight Preludes and Fugues. Wittgenstein told me he admired Johnson's playing. On the way back to Trinity he told me that at one of these afternoons Johnson had played badly, and he knew it himself, but the audience had applauded loudly. This annoyed Johnson, so by way of revenge he gave as an encore the accompaniment only of a Beethoven violin sonata, which of course was meaningless without the violin part. This gesture seemed to please and amuse Wittgenstein.'

Ways in which, had I been there, I would have failed to get the joke which pleased and amused Wittgenstein:

1) I wouldn't have noticed Johnson was playing badly.
2) I wouldn't have noticed the audience were applauding indiscriminatingly.
3) I might have noticed Johnson was annoyed, but I wouldn't have known why.
4) I wouldn't have recognised the Beethoven violin sonata.
5) I might have noticed the piece sounded odd, but I wouldn't have known why, or that it wasn't meant to sound that way.
6) Even if I had understood all of the above... I don't think I'd have realised the choice of the sonata was intended as a rebuke to the audience for clapping the player's previous poor performance too enthusiastically. That seems to me quite a... subtle point.

I suppose what's happening here is I'm coming to the shocking conclusion that Wittgenstein was a cleverer man than I am. And also that I slightly regret not living in a world in which people take their revenge through their selection of Beethoven sonatas. Though, of course, the above shows that quite possibly people around me are doing things like this all the time, and I have simply never had Wittgenstein around to explain them to me.

One kitchen, two fools, six legs.

…Hello. Remember me? Sorry about the tumbleweed, I've been busy writing things. I still am, but I'm going to try to get back into the habit of putting things up here as well.

Recently, I was for a few days looking after my friends' dog, captured here in a typical moment of meditative thoughtfulness:

One of the solemn duties of whoever is lucky enough to be custodian of this large brown idiot is to give him a pill in the morning. He won't eat the pill on its own, so I found the easiest way to get him to take it was to use a dab of butter to stick it to a dog biscuit, and toss him that. I was constructing this cunning pill / biscuit Trojan Horse the other morning, with the dog watching me attentively, when I accidentally dropped the pill. As it rolled off the kitchen counter to the waiting dog below, I called out, instinctively… 'Leave it!'

Yeah, quick thinking, genius. Because it would be terrible if the dog ate the pill before you put it on the biscuit that makes him eat the pill...

Whoops

It has been pointed out by people less stupid than me that I didn't include any instructions about how to actually buy a ticket to see my sketch show. Well, you can buy them on the door, or better yet you can buy them online. I hope you do. Today I wrote a sketch about why, during world war two, the RAF kept a top secret room below Whitehall filled with cats. Coming along on Saturday is literally the only way to find out.

Nailbiter.

Strapline to historical novel I've just seen:

'1804. Napoleon has all of Europe in his sights. Wellington will do anything to stop him. Who will win?'

Well, look, I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone, but if you're taking bets....

Mind you, I'm one to talk. I recently looked up a reference in Julius Caesar; and then hurriedly stopped reading when I saw that Cicero was one of the characters. This is because I have enjoyed the two Robert Harris novels about Cicero, and don't want to find out how things worked out for him under Caesar's rule before the third novel in the trilogy comes out. That's me - so woefully lacking in classical education that I fear spoilers from Shakespeare.

It was next to the corner shop, just opposite the prison.

Today, I walked past a small faded-grandeur Victorian hotel in an out-of-season south coast seaside town, and I genuinely thought to myself 'That would make a really good setting for a sitcom.' Well done me. Now I just need to get it written before some bastard steals the idea.

Wherein beholders do discover everybody's face but their own.

John Bishop is a hugely successful comedian, far more successful than I am. However, I've never seen his act, so I have absolutely no opinion on how good he is. He may well be excellent. All I do know is that there's something about the publicity photo that's everywhere at the moment that has made me take an instinctive- and let me stress totally irrational- dislike to him. This is the photo. 

Inoffensive, cheerfully smiling, rather handsome man, right? I know. But for some reason, I just have this feeling I wouldn't like him. And today, I suddenly realised what it is. It's those stray curls of hair from the back of his head you can see poking out below his ears. That, I'm pretty sure, is the sole reason I've taken against him. Anyway, I realised this, thought about doing a blog about it, and then thought - as you are no doubt doing right now - nah, it's not really worth one. 

Two minutes later, I caught sight of a mirror. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what I look like right now. 

What shall we file this under, I wonder? 'Chronic Lack of Self-Awareness'? 'Subconscious Self-Loathing'? Well, let's be charitable, and simply go for 'Time for a Haircut'.

What kind of an idiot am I?

The place I'm staying at the moment is lovely, but the food and drink is rather expensive. Knowing this, when I went to the bar after dinner just now, I ordered a pineapple juice, thinking it'd be relatively cheap. When it came, it was elaborately dressed up like a cocktail, and came with a large bowl of peanuts. Oh dear, I thought- rightly as it turned out- this isn't going to be cheap at all. I looked at the nuts. I've just had dinner, I'm full, I don't in the least want any nuts. But here they are, and the drink's going to be really expensive... I'd better eat them. I start to eat the nuts. The nuts are covered in chilli powder, which I don't like. My immediate, uncontrolled reaction is to think: 'Great! Things are going my way at last! Now I don't have to eat the nuts I don't want!'

That's the kind of idiot I am.

Things I know are true, but can't quite bring myself to believe.

That the word 'draught' is pronounced 'draft' and not 'drought'. I must have confused the two words early on, and then read 'draught' as 'drought' to myself so many times that, even now, the sentence 'There's a drought coming in under the door' doesn't sound wrong to me. I know it is wrong. But it doesn't sound wrong.

That if today is a Sunday, you can find the date of next Sunday by adding seven to today's date. I mean, of course you can. There are seven days in a week. I know that; that is definitely one of the things I know. But still, when people casually do that calculation - 'let's see, it's the fourteenth today, so next Sunday's the twenty first' - I'm amazed at their confidence. Don't they want to check? For instance, after writing that sentence just now, I checked it.

That if you're in the vanguard, you are at the front of something, not the rear. I know exactly whose fault this misconception is, too: Thomas the Tank Engine's. Because if Thomas taught me anything - and he definitely did - it was that the guard's van is at the back of the train. And clearly being 'in the vanguard' and 'in the guard's van' got fatally confused in my brain at some early stage, and have never been entirely disentangled.

That eyes evolved. Don't get me wrong, I'm quite sure they did. But did they really? Yes, they did, they definitely did. (But not really.) No, seriously, they did. I know that. (But not really.) 

In which I slam my fingers badly in A Little Knowledge.

Just passed a young guy selling poppies at King's Cross tube station, with the words: 'Poppies! Getcher poppies! All profits go to the armed forces!'

Er... no. No no no. To an armed forces charity. That's probably an important difference. I mean, it's not that I'm such a hopeless leftie I don't think we should have an armed forces, or even that they should be adequately funded, but I do think maybe buying a symbolic representation of a Flanders Fields poppy to help get the Royal Tank Regiment a new Challenger 2 might be ever so slightly missing the point.

Or so I thought. The above is what I composed in my head between hearing the guy and getting to my computer, but to my shame I realised I couldn't remember who wrote 'In Flanders Fields'. I assumed, however, that it was one of the Owen / Brooke / Sassoon / Graves gang, and I was absolutely sure - it didn't even occur to me to doubt - that the sentiment was of the 'Dulce Et Decorum Est' variety. Not at all, as I'm sure everyone but me knows. 'In Flanders Fields' is by the Canadian John McCrae, and ends:

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands, we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Those don't sound to me like the words of a man who'd be unhappy if we all chipped in for a tank.

(The tattered remains of my original point still just about stand, though. That's not what we're doing, and I'm glad about that.)

First five things I thought on looking at this portrait in the National Gallery, which basically mean I don't deserve to go there.

* Wow. That horse has a really tiny head.
* Charles I and his horse have the same hair.
* If everyone had a small framed sign saying who they were hung up beside them wherever they went, would that be useful or irritating? It would certainly be good at parties.
* Did Charles pick the horse because it had his hair, or did he get the horse first, and then grow his hair out in order to copy his horse's signature look? Or hasn't he even noticed? I bet the rest of the court has. Van Dyke definitely has.
* Well. I'm hungry.

I also at one point used the phrase 'Slight Disimprovement'.

That was dispiriting. I was just called up by ICM, the pollsters. And it wasn't a boring one about how many holidays I take or how much yoghurt I buy, it was a proper one about general elections and the expenses row. Great! Like everyone else, I've always secretly felt it was a shame that these polls consist entirely of people who aren't me, and that they therefore do not reflect My Important Opinions. Now all that would change! Now My Important Opinions would at last be heard. Bring it on. 

Turns out I don't know anything. 

What they asked: 

'On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to vote in the next general election.'

What I replied:

'Ten'

What I thought before I replied:'

'Oh yeah. I'm Mr Responsible Politically Active Citizen. You're talking to the right guy here, my friend.'

What they asked:

'Do you think the MPs' expenses saga is: a major scandal; serious; regrettable but not serious; irrelevant?' 

What I replied:

'Regrettable but not serious.'

What I thought before I replied:

'Great! I already have an opinion on this! And, by lucky chance, my opinion is totally correct. If only people asked me what I reckon about stuff more often. I'm basically a policy wonk. If I was in the West Wing, I wonder whether Josh or Sam would want to be my friend most?'

What they asked:

'Which party leader do you think has been least affected by the MPs' expenses saga?'

What I said:

'Nick Clegg'

What I thought before I replied: 

'Er... hang on... er... I don't know... none of them, really. I mean all of them. Well, technically I suppose Nick Clegg, in that he's least affected by everything, because we still don't really know who he is. I'll say Nick Clegg.'

What they asked:

'How would the following measures affect the political system: large improvement; slight improvement; no effect, slightly worse, a lot worse. Allowing MPs to vote remotely, via the internet or video link-up?'

What I replied:

'No effect.'

What I thought before I replied:

'Oh God, I've no idea, I've never heard of that suggestion before, I thought you were going to ask me whether I thought constituents should be able to sack their MPs, I know exactly what I think about that, they shouldn't, ironically this is based on my general feeling that constituents are easily-lead opinionated idiots who don't know what they think until someone tells them, a theory I am amply demonstrating right now, well come on, think about it, I suppose it would allow MPs to spend more time in their constituencies, less need for second homes, so I suppose it's a good thing, but there must be all sorts of arguments against it, I just don't know what they are, but I bet if I heard someone explain them I'd agree, also going through the division lobbies is an ancient tradition, and my knee-jerk response is always in favour of keeping traditions, oh I don't know, if this was just a news story I was supposed to be coming up with jokes about for the Now Show it would be easy:  'MPs, videolinks, the internet, not a very wise combination, Jackie Smith's husband, haw haw haw', is hopefully the sort of train of thought I'd reject in favour of something better; but actually deciding, on the hoof, whether it's a good idea or not is just too much for me, I'd better say 'no effect' but that's ridiculous, it's a massive change to the system, the one thing it's definitely not going to have is 'no effect'; but still, this pause has already become embarrassing; it's about to tip over into unsettling, I've got to say something, at least that's sort of neutral.'

I'm an idiot. Take away my vote. 

Oh, and do you remember bendy buses? That takes me back!

Today I opened a book of mine I haven't looked at for a few years, and out fluttered the number 38 bus ticket I had used as a bookmark. And immediately I was hit by a wave of nostalgia - Oh yes! The 38! I used to take that all the time! And just think, the last time I closed this book, I was sitting on the 38, and now here I am. Ah me, where are the snows of yesteryear, etc etc.

The thing is, I still live on the number 38 bus route. I use it all the time. The superficially poignant circumstances - book, creased old ticket, etc - had automatically tripped my nostalgia switch without me stopping to ask whether there was actually anything to be sentimental about.

This happened to me once before - some friends and I were on holiday, and one evening about half way through, one of us put the photos he'd taken so far as a slide-show on his computer. But being a bit arty, he'd turned some of them black and white, and he picked some rather slow wistful classical music to accompany it. And as we watched it, everyone went a bit quiet, and I swear we were all feeling a pang of nostalgia for the holiday we were still on. 

Pairs of people I always confuse with one another, just on the strength of their vaguely similar names.

• Laura Linney - Lindsey Lohan
• Fern Britton - Fearne Cotton
• Sam Rockwell - Dean Stockwell
• Mark Steel - Mark Thomas
• David Thewlis - David Threlfall
• Mick Hucknell - Michael Hutchence
• Toby Litt - Tim Lott
• Annie Lennox - Alice Cooper

Some of these I feel more justified in than others. The two Marks, for instance, are to all intents and purposes the same person - Annie and Alice, I accept, are not. In some cases, such as the Marks or Messrs Litt and Lott, I know there's two of them, but can never remember which wrote / appeared in what. In some cases, I think both people are one of them: I know, for instance, that there's a cosy middle aged TV presenter called Fern, but until I started writing this I'd never really established whether her surname was Britton or Cotton. Google now shows me that Fearne Cotton is a remarkably different kettle of fish. And in other cases, I have until recently thought there was one person, of whose name I was not certain, who had had the careers of both. Excusable, perhaps in the case of the two English actors of similar age called David Th-----; less so in the case of Messrs Hutchence and Hucknell. And positively actionable in the case of Mesdames Linney and Lohan.

Things I would have done differently if I had been at Obama's inauguration.

• If I were the crowd: Not clap a prayer. 
• If I were the BBC's commentator: Not fade down the first three or four minutes of a new composition byJohn Williams played by Yo Yo Ma, Itzhac Perlman and two others I haven't heard of but should have, in order to bring us the urgent breaking news that William Henry Harrison died a month after his inaugural speech. In 1841. And then realise this choice of anecdote is a bit on the ominous side, and bumble on that: '...that won't happen here. But what will happen is that the crowd will look to the 44th president for lyrical words... like music... music as beautiful as we're listening to now.' We're not listening to it, though. We're listening to you. 
• If I were John Williams: Not use the above-mentioned collection of talent to play variations on 'I Am The Lord of the Dance Said He'. Was he under the impression Obama was being inaugurated into the Brownies? Or did he just run out of time?
• If I were Barack Obama: I might have had a bit of a crafty practice of the presidential oath. 
• If I were Aretha Franklin: Bigger bow for my hat. Much bigger.

Good speech, though, wasn't it? 

Why is it that after a year of news and media saturation...

...and as he stands on the brink of becoming the most powerful man in the world, I still occasionally have to do a little mental check as to whether 'Obama' is the president elect's first name or his surname?

Please be seated.

The other day, I was on the tube. It was busy, but not crowded - all the seats taken, one or two standees. I was seated. The tube stopped, and a middle-aged woman got on, and stood near me. And at once, I was thrown into my own private episode of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'. You see, I quite like giving my seat up for people. It's easy, it's courteous, and it makes you feel at once youthful and self-righteous, which is an excellent combination, just ask Joan of Arc. I wish we still had the rule that a man automatically gives up his seat for a lady. But we don't, and so just as I was about to get up, it occurred to me that this woman might not be pleased if I did. She was quite overweight, so it was hard to judge her age- she could have been anywhere between 40 and 55. And if she was only 40, it might be really depressing - 'Oh God, I look so old someone actually offered me their seat on the tube!'. Or worse, what if she thought I was offering her it because she was so overweight? So I stayed sat down (and so did everyone else in the carriage, to be fair), but felt bad about it. Then, at the next stop, salvation. Another woman got on, who was definitely over sixty. Brilliant. I could prove to the first woman that I was the sort of person who gave up my seat to ladies of a certain age, but that her obvious youth and beauty meant she didn't qualify. I sprang to my feet with olde world charm, and the second lady, thanking me prettily, sat down. 

It was at this point that it occurred to me there was another possible interpretation of what I'd just done. Because the first lady was black, and the second was white.  It might be that by sitting stolidly in my seat whilst a black woman stood, and then leaping up the moment a white woman boarded, I had come across as just a little bit... Klansman-y. I looked over to see how the first woman had reacted. And that's when I noticed that she wasn't quite as overweight as I'd thought. She was pregnant.