Let it snow, let it snow, let it...erm...shine?

The first time I woke up this morning (late as usual, after another night of not sleeping terribly well), I was joyfully informed that I should "have a look out the window - we've had two inches of snow!" I dutifully obliged, and was nearly blinded by the dazzling white glare bouncing back at me from the pretty white rooftops. Snow-days are one of the few occasions when my bedroom acquires a pleasant view - as Portsmouth always looks nicer when you can't see half of it. (Due to the encroachment of modern commerce on the older domestic builds, this 18th centuary property now overlooks several retail outlets and a car-park - so I feel can insult the local industrial landscape without reproach.)

Anyway, the second time I awoke I found that every trace of snow had melted, and the sun was shining a brighter shade of gold than we saw all last summer. In my first few drowsy moments I did briefly wonder if I had indeed finally slept through an entire season, and skipped directly from Winter to Summer - bypassing both Spring and, more importantly, my birthday! Realising that would be a ridiculously lengthy slumber - even for me - I simply wearily checked my voicemail. I vaguely remembered smothering my mobile with a pillow when strains of The Smiths 'Stop Me' threatened to interrupt my dreams.

It does concern me that I take such little notice of alarms and ringtones when I'm tired. I envision myself silencing the smoke alarm by lobbing a stiletto at it, and not comprehending the urgency of the situation until I become uncomfortably warm. Even then, it probably wouldn't be the primal instinct for sensing danger that would wake me, but irritation at the thought of someone smoking in the house. Either that, or I'd rise to pointedly put on some loud music to muffle the noise being made by dilligent firemen, trying to prevent the catastrophy that undoubtedly ensues when a terrace catches fire. Then curiosity would get the better of me, and I'd have to find out what was going on outside (not because I'm shamelessly nosey) - but so as not to offend the memory of the generations of curtain twitchers who have inhabited these houses over the years!

While I was sleeping a friend of mine had been at Russell Brand's first American gig, at the Paul G Gleeson Theatre in Los Angeles. It's only a 90-seater so a really good chance to see the fella without bracing the massive crush of insane 'fangirls' that reportedly cause a bit of mayhem at some of the UK gigs now he's so famous. (Or should that be infamous, given the subject?!) The real reason I have struggled not to be emerald with envy at my friend is because Morrissey was there! In that tiny little room - and he wasled past her three times. Of course, one can't pester the sulkiest Mancunian to have ever lived - so there's no chance of an autograph. I can only imagine the Medusa-rivalling, withering look one would recieve if they dared take a photograph too! But to be watching Brand's first solo American show, in such a small venue, with Stephen Patrick Morrissey would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience - even if the miserable-Manc is as untouchable as Brand is avaliable! Still, I'll have to spend a lot of time chanting "must not be jealous, I'd hate LA anyay" to counteract the covotousness that surges at my missing Morrissey! Especially as I won't be going to the O2 wirless festival on 4th July when Morrissey is headlining. His only UK Summer gig too! Of course - would have been good to see Russell Brand's gig too - apparently he went down a storm - which is good news, as no one was sure how an effette (and curiously bouffanted), Englishman would be wecomed by Uncle Sam!

Wonder if the image-obsessed land-of-cosmetic-surgery would take quite so warmly to Alan Carr? I'm sure he could use the holiday after the diabollically shite piece of tawdry programming that was Non-Entity Ding Dong. Maybe I should start a petition to ave the camp, buck-toothed, bespectacled boy sent? ...Actually, I think deliberately sending him to gig over there probably contravenes Amnesty International's guidelines regarding 'bullying in the workplace.'

I probably should have mentioned that Pompey won the Semi-Final of some cup-or-other yesterday. If we win, it'll be the first time since 1939. That's supposed to be motivational - but personally I don't think it exactly inspires confidence. Dad's pleased that we're going to be playing Cardiff because their manager used to work for Southampton, and he reckons the additional animosity will give our supporters cheers' the edge. This is why I don't follow football. Not only do you have to remember who plays for who, and what that means for who will play against who - but you're expected to instantly recall who they played for previously, and what that will mean for the japanese goldfish living in the pocket of Gazza's favourite jeans.

It would be easier to play chess with sheep than it is to follow ye olde soccer - and I say that as someone who neither plays chess, nor knows any sheep who would willingly substitute rooks and pawns. So actually sheep-chess would be pretty complex...but I'd still rather play that than watch football.

I think I'm improving with this blog-thing. Tonight it only descended into madness. The last few have also started there.