Bloody Bono. He flies off his bike in Central Park, breaking numerous bonos bones in his body and face and still has the work ethic to write a 6000 word 'Little Book of A Big Year: Bono's A to Z of 2014'. Most people would be satisfied with feeling sorry for yourself while scoffing morphine jelly but not Bono, he writes a little book, plus a few songs and probably most of a Spiderman II musical.
I've just finished reading Bono's little book and it's quite good. He says at the start, "you shouldn't have time to read this," but unlike Bono I am a high level procrastinator who can always find time to fit 6000 words of delay into my day. After I finished I felt guilty. Twice. First because I'd spent half an hour reading Bono's 6000 words when I should have been typing six of my own and second, even though Bono had every excuse in the world not to write, he wrote. He wrote lots. And if Bono can write a little book while the blood of Irish virgins is being pumped into him, the least I can do is write a blog post.
Bono's little book is a bit like those group letters people used to send around Christmas 30 years ago when Bono was screaming, "Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you!" They usually had a hand-written salutation and maybe a wee written message at the bottom like 'Hope you have a great year but not as great as mine,' and in-between there were two pages of photocopied text telling people they hardly knew about all the amazing bloody things they achieved over the year and all the amazing bloody places they visited and how bloody clever their kids were and how bloody proud they were of all the amazing bloody things their bloody kids bloody achieved over the year and how bloody much they love bloody Apple and Jimmy Kimmel and Kanye West. Chain-letters were essentially a periodic analogue version of Facebook, which I'm not on anymore, just in case any of you have the hump with me thinking I've de-friended you. I haven't de-friended you, I've de-friended the world.
The cat is meowing at me. One moment...
Poor thing. It's 36 degrees at the moment (96.8 for North American readers), and she's all hot and bothered. Possibly. It could also be a subtle ruse to get early tuna and if that's the case she's played me like a fishy fiddle. She's got her own evaporative cooler in her room so I suspect she's just trying it on. Her evaporative cooler is cool and looks a bit like a 70's Dr. Who villain.
Anyway, I gave Facebook the old heave-ho a few months ago and haven't missed it a jot. Except on my birthday when Facebook didn't tell people it was my birthday and nobody knew it was my birthday and nobody sent me a message on Facebook to wish me happy birthday. If Facebook had a function where it could remain dormant like a volcano and suddenly come to life for one day every year to spew hot molten messages of birthday love at my face before going to sleep again I may still be on it. If anyone reading knows Mark Zuckerberg they should have a word to him. Not that anybody will be reading as now I can't promote my blog on Facebook.
I don't do new year's resolutions but if I did I'd resolve to write two blog posts a week for all of 2015. I'd also resolve to get my legs tanned by natural means. I went swimming in Chiltern on Xmas day in nothing but boxers, borrowed shorts and water, and two days later my milky white skin woke up like a volcano and spewed hot molten messages of itchy red rash everywhere. Polymorphous Light Eruption or PMLE possibly. They've settled down now to a delicate shade of puce. It will mean the end of the official 'Greg Cooper Comedy Legs (c) 1973' and God knows, those legs saved me during many hell mingles and gigs, but I'm ready to move on. I am more than my white legs. I am a puce man. I am a puce man. I am the walrus.
I've just finished reading Bono's little book and it's quite good. He says at the start, "you shouldn't have time to read this," but unlike Bono I am a high level procrastinator who can always find time to fit 6000 words of delay into my day. After I finished I felt guilty. Twice. First because I'd spent half an hour reading Bono's 6000 words when I should have been typing six of my own and second, even though Bono had every excuse in the world not to write, he wrote. He wrote lots. And if Bono can write a little book while the blood of Irish virgins is being pumped into him, the least I can do is write a blog post.
Bono's little book is a bit like those group letters people used to send around Christmas 30 years ago when Bono was screaming, "Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you!" They usually had a hand-written salutation and maybe a wee written message at the bottom like 'Hope you have a great year but not as great as mine,' and in-between there were two pages of photocopied text telling people they hardly knew about all the amazing bloody things they achieved over the year and all the amazing bloody places they visited and how bloody clever their kids were and how bloody proud they were of all the amazing bloody things their bloody kids bloody achieved over the year and how bloody much they love bloody Apple and Jimmy Kimmel and Kanye West. Chain-letters were essentially a periodic analogue version of Facebook, which I'm not on anymore, just in case any of you have the hump with me thinking I've de-friended you. I haven't de-friended you, I've de-friended the world.
The cat is meowing at me. One moment...
Poor thing. It's 36 degrees at the moment (96.8 for North American readers), and she's all hot and bothered. Possibly. It could also be a subtle ruse to get early tuna and if that's the case she's played me like a fishy fiddle. She's got her own evaporative cooler in her room so I suspect she's just trying it on. Her evaporative cooler is cool and looks a bit like a 70's Dr. Who villain.
 |
| Evaporate! Evaporate! |
Anyway, I gave Facebook the old heave-ho a few months ago and haven't missed it a jot. Except on my birthday when Facebook didn't tell people it was my birthday and nobody knew it was my birthday and nobody sent me a message on Facebook to wish me happy birthday. If Facebook had a function where it could remain dormant like a volcano and suddenly come to life for one day every year to spew hot molten messages of birthday love at my face before going to sleep again I may still be on it. If anyone reading knows Mark Zuckerberg they should have a word to him. Not that anybody will be reading as now I can't promote my blog on Facebook.
I don't do new year's resolutions but if I did I'd resolve to write two blog posts a week for all of 2015. I'd also resolve to get my legs tanned by natural means. I went swimming in Chiltern on Xmas day in nothing but boxers, borrowed shorts and water, and two days later my milky white skin woke up like a volcano and spewed hot molten messages of itchy red rash everywhere. Polymorphous Light Eruption or PMLE possibly. They've settled down now to a delicate shade of puce. It will mean the end of the official 'Greg Cooper Comedy Legs (c) 1973' and God knows, those legs saved me during many hell mingles and gigs, but I'm ready to move on. I am more than my white legs. I am a puce man. I am a puce man. I am the walrus.
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