Fyse’s Floating Face

The Floating Face May 1st, 2006

Fyse stands at his window, gazing gravely down into the courtyard below. A sizable and hysterical crowd has assembled, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Clinging to one another for support they huddle yet closer, cowering from Fyse’s radiant brilliance. A lithe young lady near the front rips her clothes off in a fit of anguished emotion. “Oh Fyse, lord of all that is disembodied and floating, why have you forsaken us?”

“My children, be not dismayed. Speak thy grievances and The Floating Face shall listen.” A period of muttered consultation follows before a decrepit old man steps forward, clearing his throat.

“My Lord, we are without direction. Your erudite outpourings, with their careful smattering of wit and pithy wisdom, give structure to our dim and pathetic lives.” Murmurs of assent ripple through the congregation. “In times of weakness we turn to the Floating Face, drawing strength to resist the more constructive urges. Without you we are lost!”

“My children, do you remember nothing of my teachings? ‘The way to true sloth comes not from without, but must be drawn from a deep well of inner indolence’ - Book of Sloth, Verse I. Anyway, I’ve been kinda busy with exams of late.”

“Exams?” A feckless youth on the crowd’s periphery looks sceptical. “That’s not very godly. Plus, does any else feel this post is a bit blasphemous?”

“You dare to question me? I could smite you in a second, you know. Besides, they’re for my ‘Post-Graduate Certificate of Study in Advanced Omnipotence’. It’s all this red tape, you know. Time was one could wield absolute cosmic power straight from school, learning on the job. Now it’s all vocational qualifications and targeted learning. Er, what was I saying again?”

“You were threatening to smite me.”

“Ah yes. Cower before me, heathen! In penance you shall recite ten Hail Fyses, then bring me a Futurama DVD and half a dozen donuts. Chocolate icing, mind. Never did hold with sprinkles. Leave my sight at once!”

“But I thought deities were meant to be omnipresent, so how can I…”

“Alright, alright. That’s quite enough from you. Nobody likes a smart arse.” The youth slouches off and Fyse turns to the rest of the crowd. “Loyal disciples, rest assured that I shall return to normal service soon. You are not forgotten, but for now I must return to my desk. I’m not going to reach level 12 of ‘Ultimate Blast Billiards’ standing here, you know.”

And thus Fyse leaves the window, concluding that which will henceforth be known as ‘The Sermon in the Underwear’.

• gallimaufry , university life
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Fyse April 9th, 2006

I obsessively check my site stats, and inevitably people find my humble abode in different ways. Many are friends from college or drama, and there are a few American bloggers who have formed the habit of popping in occasionally for no good reason. Then there are the search engine hits. It’s a bit of a blogging cliché to list them in a post but what the heck, they’re amusing. Here’s a few of the most recent…

• human face pig
• floating objects and odd things happening
• he’s messing with your mind
• who got through the dark materials auditions?
• i know what you do backstage in your little coffins

The hit from that last one is explained by these two posts, but I don’t mind admitting someone actually searching for it scares me a little. Of course, it is now doubly certain that anyone in search of backstage activities in little coffins will be directed to my blog…

Hello. Please take your perversions elsewhere.

• gallimaufry
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Fyse April 6th, 2006

Bing-bong. “Ladies and gentleman, we regret to inform you that due to a bridge strike near Baldock this service will be delayed. The train will stop at the next station and await clearance before proceeding.”

Passenger responses in the carriage are entirely predictable, and adhere furiously to national stereotype. The English appear locked in competition as to who can sigh with the greatest degree of fatalistic resignation. Eyes are rolled and watches examined with great ostentation. A French couple gesticulate in melodramatic fashion. Meanwhile an American in the carriage slams his fist on the table, exclaims ‘God damn!’, and looks ready to ’sue the pants off’ the next railway employee he can lay hands on.

Two minutes later, and good old fashioned British logic is in force as the train stands at Royston station, waiting to proceed. An increasing crowd of confused travellers cluster round resolutely closed doors. Frustrated, they seek help from a nearby fluorescent jacket. “Excuse me, but the doors wont open.”

“I’m afraid that train is the express from Cambridge to King’s Cross.”

“But we want to go to London, and it’s just standing there.”

“Sorry, but it doesn’t stop at this station.” The train eventually pulls away, leaving them variously dumb-struck and apoplectic.

Arriving at their destination the occupants of the carriage filter silently off the train, allowing themselves the occasional exchange of knowing looks, signifying ‘at last’. Adopting the distinctive gait of one who is in a hurry but would never be so indecorous as to run, they remain clumped together as they head toward the underground. The English affect long-suffering stoicism and the American barks into his phone, while the couple examine a guide book with a gallic shrug.

Bing-bong. “Passengers are advised that due to a security alert, all underground services are currently suffering severe delays.”

“GOD DAMN!!”

• gallimaufry
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Fyse March 9th, 2006

For which the phrase ‘an accident waiting to happen’ was surely invented.

• gallimaufry
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The Floating Face February 1st, 2006

You enter a room full of computers and complicated wiring reminiscent of an old fashioned telephone exchange. Along two sides are sound proof booths of a space-age nature, a single window set into each and with heavy doors of unbreakable appearance. The room has a clinical and slightly sadistic atmosphere. Do you (a) allow your friend to shut you in one of the coffin-like booths and perform experiments on you for two hours or (b) run screaming for your life?

You choose (a), ‘allow your friend to shut you in one of the coffin-like booths and perform experiments on you for two hours’. She slams the door closed and you settle into the waiting chair. Before you are three buttons, marked ‘1′, ‘2′ and ‘S’. You immediately begin to stab them at random. Your friend tells you to stop messing around and put the headphones on.

You are required to listen to a series of beeps and decide which one sounds higher, pressing either button 1 or 2. Your friend tells you it’s just like playing a computer game. After brief consideration you find this statement both patronising and an insult to your intelligence. You begin to tell her as much but she cuts off your microphone, reducing your diatribe to a comic mime. Instead, you glare fearsomely at her through the window. She seems irritatingly unperturbed.

Proceedings begin with a warm-up, where little flashing lights indicate whether you correctly picked the higher tone. The sounds are a mixture of different pitches and hisses deliberately introduced to mask parts of the note. After a dozen or so attempts you are convinced the machine is messing with you. Your friend assures you there isn’t really a ‘right’ answer, immediately cutting you off before you have opportunity to retaliate. You resume fearsome glaring.

After two hours the incessant bleeps have entirely addled your brain and you begin to lose your grip. Your friend has been sitting happily reading with her feet on the desk, but she now looks concernedly at the results appearing on her screen. She peers quizzically into the booth, and you stare vacantly back, glazed and deranged. She disappears briefly from the room, and returns with her supervisor. They confer briefly, huddled round the monitor, and look through the window as if expecting to see you foaming at the mouth.

“I think that’s probably enough for today.”, says your friend as she opens the door and releases you into the world once more. “I’ll see you back here on Thursday, right?” You presume this is to allow installation in the cell of padding and a straight-jacket before your next session.

• gallimaufry , university life
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Fyse January 25th, 2006

In the world of Cambridge transport, the bike reigns supreme. Following the grand tradition of fabricating plausible statistics, I can confirm that 90% of students in the city own bikes, of whom 75% use them once or more each day. Lectures for the majority of people (65%) begin at 9.00am, and so it is a busy time. Flowing past two or three abreast, cyclists dominate the road and form an impenetrable barrier. Poor pedestrians wait minutes for a suitable break in traffic, before diving quickly from pavement to pavement. On the shared foot and cycle paths, streams of bikes part around pedestrians in almost biblical fashion, before crashing back in a maelstrom of spoke and handlebar. The natural progression of this uneasy coexistence of foot and wheel? Poor, benighted perambulaters reduced to hand signals any time they want to change direction. When I finally see a pedestrian with brake lights and a crash helmet, I’ll know I’ve really gone through the looking glass…

• gallimaufry , university life
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Fyse January 13th, 2006

I don’t have time at the moment for even a quick-fire update. This is just to say I have loads of posts I want to write, but no time due to exams starting on Monday 16th. I am typically unprepared, and will therefore be performing extremely badly in the tests, but am working hard to avoid complete failure. Perhaps having exams after one term will help boost me into industry for the rest of the year. The fear will still be fresh.

PS Just before I go, I’m intrigued by the random hits to my photo site, showing extended visits from a variety of far flung countries. Someone in Morocco took a long hard look through most of my theatre photos, and I also have fans in Italy and the Czech Republic. None of them came via a search engine. Very strange.

PPS One final point. Check out this crazy art installation. A glorious waste of time even I would have been proud of.

PPPS Friday the 13th. Oooh, spooky…

• gallimaufry , university life
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Fyse December 26th, 2005

Undisputed head chef, yet loathe to delegate, my mother is crouched on the kitchen floor, frantically rearranging oven shelves in an attempt to find room for both turkey and potatoes. Atop the stove, each ring is occupied by a merrily bubbling pot, filling the air with steam and tantalising smells. My brother stands nearby, knife in hand as he carefully trims and butters a slice of bread, moves to add it to the nearby plate, then changes his mind and eats it instead. On the kitchen table stands an apparently inexhaustible pile of brussel sprouts, before which sits my sister, peeling and trimming as if her life depended on it. Straightening from the oven, my mother flicks a concerned glance from the sprouts to the clock before busying herself with a bag of parsnips.

Through the open door floats the sound of banging and the occasional muttered oath. My father is wrestling a reluctant table flap into place, eventually succeeding and opening a chest of drawers to unearth a holly-patterned table cloth. He pauses to survey his handywork. I enter with hands full of cutlery, before returning a minute later clutching wine glasses. Soon the table is fully laid, the festive scene illuminated by watery winter light from the large dining room window.

Outside, the sun shines sporadically through cloud, casting pools of light that rush across the valley and up the opposite headland. The town of Dartmouth is quiet and seemingly relaxed. The river is empty except for a lone craft puttering slowly past, no cars move on the winding roads and the silence is broken only by an occasional seagull, calling loudly as it swoops low over the rooftops. Day wanes and the windows of the town wink into light, casting shimmering reflections that grow more pronounced as darkness falls completely. Back in the kitchen, the oven timer sounds with a harsh tone and the turkey emerges once more from the oven.

This Christmas Dinner, I grossly over-indulged on…

• Smoked salmon with buttered bread, lemon and black pepper
• Roast turkey with roast potatoes, roast parsnips, brussel sprouts with toasted almonds, cranberry sauce, pigs in blankets, gravy, stuffing and bread sauce
• Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, brandy butter and marzipan balls

Probably the best Christmas Dinner I’ve ever had, with each item cooked to perfection by my Mum. The rest of us strived to do all the chopping, peeling and stirring without getting in the way, leaving her as artistic director of operations, doing all the skillful bits. The food was accompanied by large quantities of alcohol, and left us all sprawled and sated in armchairs and sofas. Right now I feel I may never eat again, but perhaps I’ll have worked up an appetite by next year…

• gallimaufry , ranting
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Fyse December 22nd, 2005

It seemed like a very odd suggestion for a meeting place, but my friend assured me all would become clear when I arrived. Leaving Tottenham Court Road tube station I was more than a little sceptical, but it would indeed have been hard to miss. Towering above the busy intersection, a massive statue of the late Queen front man stood astride the entrance to the Dominion Theatre, subtly advertising the show ‘We Will Rock You’. I waited in its shadow and my friends soon arrived, each grinning at the success of such bizarre directions.

About to set off in search of some lunch, I was distracted by a startlingly pretty and somehow familiar woman walking past, a hat pulled low on her head. I looked straight to one of my friends, finding him staring back with an expression of slack-jawed incredulity that exactly matched my own. “Was that who I think it was?”

“Er, yeah. I think so.”

We both gazed in wonder at the retreating figure. Another friend looked confused. “Well, who was it then?” she asked.

“Keira Knightley”, we both replied, transfixed by the street corner round which she had disappeared.

“Oh.” And feeling some further comment was required, “She had a really nice jumper.”

• gallimaufry
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Fyse December 19th, 2005

We can probably all agree that nothing is better on a cold winter’s night than an armchair, a good book and an open fire. (Well perhaps not all of us, but this is my blog and what I say goes.) There is one obvious problem, however. I can spend many a happy hour staring at flames, perhaps occasionally rising to prod at them with a poker. I also enjoy reading, and will remain contentedly immersed in a good book for lengthy periods. But obviously my eyes can only look at one thing at a time. How can I simultaneously indulge both my pyromania and my love of reading, I hear you ask? Audio books! Stephen Fry reads ‘Harry Potter’ far better than I ever could anyway…

• gallimaufry
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