Porky Will Has AIDS

Dear Octopus,

Today we had a birthday party for Pongo, with new housemate Fobbs. The whole thing was a catastrophe of mismanagement; he arrived home early so we had to force him upstairs while we hurriedly lit the candles, which made the cake melt (ruining the immortal phrase 'PORKY WILL HAS AIDS', which Honksy had written beautifully in yellow icing). Despite that, I think he was actually quite surprised, so I suppose that constitutes success, if only on a technicality. I cooked a suitably average dinner.

Songs I've been listening to this week:

1. Yeasayer - Tightrope
2. Aimee Mann - Save Me
3. Smokey Robinson - Don't Know Why

A bit eclectic, maybe. Probably not to your strictly-indie tastes.

Anyway, a belated happy birthday to Pongo. And a word to end the week from Patrick Kavanagh (converted into a folk song I believe by the Dubliners):

'On Grafton Street, in November, we tripped lightly along the ledge,
Of a deep ravine where can be seen, the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts, and I not making hay,
Oh I loved too much, and by such, by such, is happiness thrown away.'

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

(.........)

Dear Octopus,

I'm not going to lie to you, I'm struggling. I didn't have a good day today, at all. And now, come to think of it, it's been a long time since I had one. New York I guess. But that was over a month ago.

I know what you'd say, if you were here. In your sweet, concerned way you'd tell me to pull myself together, that I'm 'better' than this, that it's silly to be self-pitying when there is so much good in the world that I could be part of......and such pious misery, from which I should at least try to keep a sensible distance, and into which I should avoid getting dragged at all costs. And I guess, in parts, you'd be right.

I don't really know what else to say. Sorry. A grim, pessimistic view for a Wednesday evening. Lord knows I could use some of your advice now. Just to hear you say it. But I guess that's not on the cards.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Variety = (Spice x π) / Life

Dear Octopus,


Today I wrote a letter to the chairman of the World Cube Association; an administrative body in the field of Rubik's Cubes. As follows:


Dear Ron,


I hope you can help me. I've always been interested in puzzles and/or challenging board games, and as such recently received a 'Rubik's Cube' as a gift from my friend Clare. After she had explained its primary concepts - and thoroughly twisted / turned it so that none of its faces showed even two tiles of the same colour - I hungrily set my mind to the challenge of restoring it to its original form, with all sides uniform. 


I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the first few days of semi-constant wrestling with both the cube (literally) and my intellectual demons (metaphorically). It's certainly a terrific challenge! But after fifteen days I'm literally no closer to discovering a solution. If anything, the cube looks worse than when I started.


Is there any chance that my cube could be defective? I only ask because I imagine that were it no so I probably would have solved it by now. I've tried to contact the independent retailer from which Clare purchased it in order to obtain a refund, but sadly it is no longer in business, and the premises has now been converted into a novelty pen shop.


Have you ever seen instances of unsolvable cubes before? Are they rare? If so, I'm thinking of selling my now-defunct cube to a local museum. It mostly specialises in paintings, but I hold some influence with the curator (as I once helped his wife obtain a discounted train fare to Ascot Racecourse), so I'm confident of securing a reasonable deal.


I look forward to receiving your views on this mystifying but hopefully intriguing conundrum.


Yours sincerely,

Worryingly he is yet to reply, although it has only been four hours and I presume Ron is based in America. I'll keep you updated.

Nothing else particularly exciting today. Jeremy, Honksy and I had to get the overground in today, as the underground was irrevocably broken due to 'signal failure.' Why are the signals always failing? Who the hell is manufacturing these things, Stevie Wonder? An army of poorly-managed handless schoolchildren with behavioural problems? 

And why has no-one fixed them yet?

I'm not going to lie to you Octopus, it keeps me awake at night. That's partly due to the fact that my now-functioning radiator makes a symphony of gargling noises all the time that there's heat in its tedious metal veins. But the point still stands.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

The Royal Wee

Dear Octopus,


Clare and I are having a discussion about rabies. We just did our Tuesday Rubix Cube Challenge, and she won by a considerable margin. My enjoyment of the rabies discussion is tempered by my frustration at losing the challenge; meaning I really don't know what to feel. Went to the Odeon Leicester Square today to view a client's new 3D TV creative. It was quite good.


The Action Squid family are delighted by the news of the impending royal nuptials. For those of you not in the veritable and hallowed 'know,' said family is as follows:

• Captain Squid. The father. The big dog. Winston Churchill. Reads the Daily Mail
• Vino Squid. The mother. A serene, cake-baking matriarch by morning and hell-raising new-wave hedonist by afternoon, evening, night and parts of the next morning
• Party Squid. The older brother; libertine, adventurer and self-styled 'One Man Party.' Has an excellent collection of paisley ties
• Inky Squid. The rebellious yet laconic younger brother. A patchwork of anachronistic influences (the only man I know to wear a denim jacket with self-stitched leopard print collar, orange rimmed glasses and purple, knee-high Dr. Martin boots)

Quite the middle-class axiom I think you'll agree.


Honksy has said that we are to organise a street party to celebrate the royal wedding next year, including; tea, Union-Jack bunting, cucumber sandwiches and home-made lemonade. I'm tempted to suggest that this more an attempt to recreate the 1950s than it is celebrate Willbur and Katie K, but it's not worth the trouble. We're on a knife-edge with the house-mate situation, so I'm loathe to the idea of rocking the proverbial 'boat.'


Many strangers coming to view the room tonight. I've hidden my collection of Schwarzenegger DVD's.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid

The Flood

Dear Octopus,


An interesting weekend. A little karaoke on Friday, then television for the rest of it. So actually not that interesting at all, now that I've thought about it. Honksy and I consumed a record amount of rocket lollies yesterday....the damp sticks were littered across the coffee table like the broken bodies of Chelsea's destitute players after their crushing humiliation at the hands of a rampant Sunderland. I couldn't get too excited though; Sunderland have always irritated me. I don't really know why.


Songs for this week:

1. Cat Power - Lived In Bars
2. Fanfarlo - Fire Escape
3. Peter Gabriel - Solsbury Hill
4. Fleetwood Mac - Sara
5. Take That - The Flood

Jeremy, Shan, Charlie and I just came back from a strangely dark lunchtime briefing session in Mexico City. Can't wait to get to our new offices. We had a tour on Friday. They're like the building from Minority Report, with a seventh-floor roof terrace covered in long grass like Russell Crowe runs his hand through in Gladiator. Whilst we were out on it Dan pointed out the added bonus that if things get too stressful we can commit suicide far more easily there than from our current second floor home on the Strand.....a depressing sentiment with which I was compelled to agree.

The housemate search has turned into an ABSOLUTELY UNMITIGATED DISASTER. The Welsh saxophonist has blown us out at the last minute, meaning we now have five days to find someone before Belle moves out. My panic and desperation literally knows no limits.

Your terrified friend,

Action Squid

Money Laundering For Impoverished Media Gunslingers

Dear Octopus,

Simon, Clare and I had an interesting discussion this morning regarding money laundering. It's quite a profitable business if you can stick its flagrant illegality, which made me think of potential new techniques for personal - if nefarious - financial advancement.

1. Buy a restaurant and say that people came for dinner when they didn't. It's very difficult to prove that the stock you might say you had bought was spurious, and it wouldn't be too unusual for the majority of custom to be paid in cash. I now think that the kebab shop at the end of my road might be doing this.....it closes at 5.30pm every day. And who wants donner meat and chips with garlic sauce before then?

That actually is my only idea. But it's quite an interesting one.

We appear to have found a new housemate; a musical Welshman. He seems a nice chap, and plays the saxophone. I have often lain on my sofa on a Saturday morning, trying to balance a pen on the bridge my nose, and wished that said action of repetitive and futile endeavour could be accompanied by the opening bars to 'Careless Whisper.' Hopefully he can provide this service. Otherwise he may find his tenure in The House Of The Silver Dragon is brought to an abrupt and untimely conclusion. He is scheduled to move in next Saturday.

Also, headaches are getting much worse. All the time now. Started two weeks ago. Am considering sawing off my head and flushing it down the third floor disabled toilet. Everyone in the office not on my pod is irritating me. Everyone. Don't know if the irritation is causing the headaches, or the headaches are causing the irritation. Either way, something has to give.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Wretched-Tasting Gruel For The Soul

Dear Octopus,

A lunchtime note today, if you'll indulge me. The world of Action Squid has dissolved into outright chaos; work is flying around this messy desk like a colony of bats (yes, that is the correct term), and an increasingly desperate smattering of pink post-it notes is barely managing to list all of the work that needs doing, or all of the people I am yet to call back. A horror story of administrative mismanagement, if anything, and it's not impossible to visualise myself capitulating suddenly to all of this frenzy......then spending the rest of my life dribbling porridge in a rocking chair, listening to Enid Blyton audiobooks and muttering inanely about the escalating price of veal.

That being said, the world would be a sorry place indeed if I didn't have the time to pursue the usual endeavours that I so ritualistically enjoy (euphemistically filed in my diary as 'miscellaneous admin'); namely stealing Laura's pens and replacing them with empty / broken ones of my own, now defunct, signing up Cowboy Dan to the mailing list of the Socialist Workers' Party, exchanging emails with Jim regarding fantasists, psychopaths and serial killers currently in the news (a morbid fascination with the anti-social that I gleaned from my mother), and finally stopping in at the bunker to chat with Alex about football, X Factor, lunch venues and new ideas for cheating our way to professional advancement.

(When I said that I gleaned an interest in psychopaths from my mother...I meant because she's interested in them too. Not because she is one.)

After all of that, work doesn't really get a look-in. I wish I had a pertinent point with which to conclude this long exposition, but at present it eludes me.

In other news, the housemate situation is now dire indeed. Belle leaves for sunnier antipodean climes next weekend, and as yet we are still sans replacement. That - and my faulty radiator - is really starting to keep me awake at night. I'm tempted to say that we should offer the room to Katie Waissel. She could use a 'friend' these days.

As usual I hope you are well, and - as the seasons are so rapidly gravitating towards it - looking forward to Christmas. From the way you once described the annual festivities, I imagine they're quite an affair in your house. Maybe best to ask your mum not to cook those oatmeal cookies that she so loves. They were disgusting.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

The Week In Musical Metaphors

Dear Octopus,

I think that Sunday, being both the first and last day of the week dependent on your preference, is a good day to take stock and talk about the music that is currently defining my meaningless and uninteresting existence. Variety is the spice of life after all, and yesterday's post was so mind-numbingly dull that I worry that the internet may chose to reject it wholesale, and tomorrow I will find it typed on my desk, with a fat red stamp across the text saying 'WORSE THAN SHIT: FUCK OFF,' with a signature from a very humble and apologetic Sir Tim Berners-Lee.

1. Okkervil River: Lost Coastlines. A jaunty tune, if ever there was one. Recommended to me from the extensive musical catalogue of Mr. T Harrison, the foremost authority on emerging aural trends and vaunted custodian of musical history. His recommendations are infinitely superior to mine.
2. The Smiths: This Charming Man. I sang this at full volume today in the shower (still dark). No other reason.
3. Laura Marling: Goodbye England (Covered In Snow). God this is so unbearably depressing. It's superb.
4. Janis Joplin: Piece Of My Heart. I actually prefer the Erma Franklin version, but this reminds me of the record player yesterday, which was a highlight in an otherwise featureless two days.
5. Noisettes: Never Forget You. I love it. It sounds like a classic from forty years ago. One of my favourite songs of the last few months.

Other than that, nothing worth recounting that can't wait until tomorrow. Spent four hours on the book today; first draft will be completed by the end of the month. Just over a year's work, on this iteration. Two on the one before. Don't quite know what to make of it.

Sleep well.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

The Day Of Nothing

Dear Octopus,

It's 9.33pm and I haven't seen anyone all day. An unusual thing, when you think about it. The fireworks on Clapham Common last night were fun; if 'fireworks' were to mean the rest of the evening apart from the actual fireworks. Carrie, Sophie, Jeremy and Lauren came along to the obsessively planned and executed party / gathering at Sarah and Jim's, which certainly made for interesting conversation. What is the technical difference between those two? (A party and gathering I mean....not Sarah and Jim.) Call me a feeble-minded, odious old fool, but sitting around drinking with good friends and having a few laughs now seems much more fun than shivering, soaked, in the queue for Inferno's. Maybe it always was. Anyway, the mulled wine got me quite drunk. I felt very middle class. 

Also, Jeremy and Lauren very kindly gave me a lift home.

Today though, has been different. At one o'clock I found myself in a curiously bohemian idyll, and quite the epitome of weekend pretentiousness. Imagine if you will a portly and self-loathing auteur lying on his sofa smoking a cigarette, reading the selected short stories of Rudyard Kipling with half an eye on a muted Tottenham Hotspur getting brutally and emphatically emasculated by a resurgent Bolton Wanderers. A fresh green tea is steaming idly on the coffee table, and Janis Joplin spins slowly on the record player, with little crackles between tracks. That, essentially, has been my day. There is nothing further to report. No new knowledge has been acquired. No new battles encountered; to be won, or lost. Maybe then the net result isn't so bad.

Of course, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been thinking of you, Octopus. But that, as always, is neither here nor there. I hope you are well, and happy. I hope that you enjoyed Imogen Heap last night. I wonder (seeing as I introduced you to her music) if you thought of me. Probably not.

Anyway, goodnight.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

A Sorry Trick (Played On A Good Friend)

Dear Octopus,

A day curiously bereft of excitement. I found an old Kellogg's trophy from 2007 in the detritus surrounding Caroline's desk, so with feeble attempts at stealth purloined said artifact and relished its celebratory aesthetic whilst talking on the phone to a very nice woman from Smooth Radio. Ultimately though you can get tired of these things quite quickly, so decided to give it to Laura downstairs as a prize for her excellent fancy dress costume at last week's Hallowe'en party. She created faux vomit on her hospital gown by mixing Weetabix with water and then drying it.

Whilst delivering said trophy Laura informed me that she needed help with writing a third-person biography of herself (ie: not an autobiography) for the forthcoming pitch for a high profile fashion retailer. I offered to assist her in said literary endeavours in exchange for my trophy back, as I'd become quite attached to it. She declined.

Hmmmm.

Mostly out of spite for my lost statuette, I drafted the required biography myself (mostly spurious) and sent it onto the appropriate senior management, via the usual channels, so as to imply that Laura had drafted it and I didn't approve. I added a rather pithy post-script that alluded to knowing that the facts in it were all true.

(Names have been deleted for privacy):

Laura is an Account Executive in Client Leadership, working with one of the largest clients in the agency; focusing on key health and beauty brands such as ______.  She has been with the agency for seven months and has already played a key role in planning many of _____’s 2011 campaigns.

Before joining the agency, Laura completed an MSc in Marketing at the University of East Anglia, where she slept with nearly all members of the senior football team (the only exception being the substitute goalkeeper, who missed the Graduate Ball due to a tummy ache). Her hobbies enjoy reading, sculpting and deep sea fly fishing. She’s never caught a haddock but once saw one being eaten by a larger haddock. Such is the way of the sea.

I have heard from the TV buyers on the third floor that she is suitably unimpressed.

In other news, our prospective new housemate didn't turn up last night, rescheduling instead for this evening. Belle bought us a curry by way of compensation. My tikka pathia and Pongo's dhansak were exactly the same. Not sure exactly what that means about either. Honksy is writing a book about a man made of gold.

I heard you're going to see Imogen Heap in concert tomorrow Octopus, through our mutual friend. I wish I were going with you.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

The Maudlin Truth Of Callous Underachievement

Dear Octopus,

Today was a productive day. I'm currently riding the wave of a fairly intense sugar rush, having consumed a fairly sizeable pot of cola cubes, which a disdainful Clare chastised me for at length. I've now agreed to go on the Atkins Diet with her in the new year. Apparently one can eat huge amounts of meat, vegetables and dairy, but no carbohydrates. I wonder if this will work to the desired effect (ie: allowing me to eat cola cubes again).

The fact that my bathroom light is broken, coupled with the now heinous seasonal darkness at all hours of the living day, means that I have not seen myself whilst showering or urinating for nearly a week. Honksy has lent me her camping torch, but it has proven wholly inadequate. It means that I've now had to create an elaborate regime for maintaining personal hygiene, all of which has to be memorised, even down to minute details; such as which tube contains toothpaste and which one is the E45 cream left by the bathroom's previous incumbent, and which I am loathe to have destroyed for fear of government reprisals. The scheme has had some benefits though; I've devised a game called 'shampoo lottery rollover', whereby I regularly buy different varieties of shampoo and then in the darkness of the shower decide which one I'm going to use purely based on smell. I do have a favourite, but as I can't see anything I don't know which one it is. It's quite viscous.

The housemate with whom Honksy so feverishly fell in platonic-lady-love on Monday returns tonight for a second viewing. I hope, for all our sakes, that she accepts. Pongo and I are pleased about the idea of a girl replacing Belle; two men and two women gives a gender balance similar to that of the principle characters in the hit 90's television sitcom 'Friends.' I am, in this instance, a Chandler, if only because I'm definitely not Joey.

My programming idea yesterday wasn't as clever as I first thought. I found out in Cafe Nero.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid

Self-Actualisation For Aspiring Failures

Dear Octopus,

A sad and miserable Tuesday lunchtime. At 12.45pm Jeremy and I disengaged ourselves from the writhing media beast and stalked the takeaway lunch emporiums of Villiers St in search of sustenance, returning soon after with split bento boxes containing chicken janang and teriyaki; high in monosodium glutenate and low in emotional fulfillment. The lingering shadow of yesterday's bratwurst giveaway hangs darkly over the street, the rumbling bass tones of a Bavarian tuba still reverberating the paving stones and temporarily awaking dozing tramps from their grim, medicated reveries. The lunch itself is a drab affair. I sometimes wonder if at the end of time these places will still be vending their salty wares to the cockroaches that scour the earth. Jeremy ate his janang with chopsticks. I ate mine with a fork. The odious, ubiquitous Dan then appeared as if to deliberately comment (not without a certain glib satisfaction, I might add) on how it was allegorical of the difference between us. I had to agree, even though I am more than capable with chopsticks but in this instance just didn't feel like using them.

This morning Clare, Hannah and I visited a production company in Soho Square, where we talked about idents, AFP and Christmas media parties. I think it's fair to say that I am both relishing and fearing the prospect of awkwardly sipping weak cocktails or warm beer with foolhardy sales people, probably in equal measures. I am standing there now: thinking 'another year has slid by. Here we are again.'

Shan is now reading out Tim Vine's one-liners, to which Jeremy and I are laughing.

This afternoon I have meetings, then tonight more viewings. Our search for a fourth housemate continues. Pongo and Honksy have attacked the wearying task of replacing Belle with an enthusiasm and fervour to which I am no longer accustomed. Honksy is a little in love with the girl she saw last night. Their compatibility was instantly evident, on which a rapport of intimacy and pleasantry was immediately built. I worry though that Honksy's relative inexperience in the dark art of searching for new housemates will catch her out, that she'll become too invested, that she won't realise that we are trawling the depths of a deep and meaningless ocean. If only you were here, Octopus.

I have an idea for a television programme that I think can make a client of ours a lot of money.

Your loving friend,

Action Squid