Well fancy seeing you here...

Hello and welcome to the rambling rollercoaster of useless ponderings, strung together in what the internet calls a "blog," and the voices call a waste of everyone elses time.

Please check your sanity at the door (along with your dignity, logic, principles, good taste and prejudices against daftness.)

"I am here to seduce you into a love of life; to help you to become a little more poetic; to help you die to the mundane and to the ordinary so that the extraordinary explodes in your life." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

Wednesday, 7 May 2008

Itsy Bitsy Lesbian Sherlock Holmes Insanity

Today my mother asked me an odd question. What she began to say was: "Are you...? Oh, well it doesn't matter." Intrigued, I pressed her further, but she was still reluctant to complete her inquiry.

I thought: this is it - I have been single for so long that my mother is going to ask me if I'm a lesbian!

Part of me was tempted to say yes, and see how she'd react (despite the fact that I'd have to work quite hard to make anyone believe anything of the sort.) It might have been worth attempting a bluff, just for the experience - and I really would be interested from a sociological/psychological standpoint as to how she'd handle that information. Is she as liberal as she professes, or would I 'out' her as a hypocrite? It's quite cruel of me to imagine testing her for nothing more than my own amusement, but I still think it would be an interesting experiment.

Turns out it wasn't that at all, but was even more unusual. She eventually asked me, with slightly exaggerated gravity, "Do you think you might be...a comedian?" She asked as if being "a comedian" is innate: or in they way you might probe whether or not someone was schizophrenic. (Though that could get complicated, because who would you ask? I have enough trouble putting a name to a face, without having to try and remember what all the voices are called.)

My response to the question "[am I] a comedian" was simply, "No, this nose just makes me look like a clown." Apparently she was being serious, and expected me to answer in a similar manner. This was a flaw in her musings, I feel. How can you ask someone if they have a potential for comedy, and still expect a serious discussion? More often people will say something like "You belong on the stage," which is sounds less peculiar, though maybe only because I am now so familiar with it. I suppose I should be flattered that people think I am funny on purpose - when the truth is a little less managed, and a lot more accidental.

I don't think she left the conversation particularly satisfied. I am led to believe that she would prefer a slightly more conventional daughter (she has onealready, wanting me to be typically mundane as well is just greedy.) I don't think that Zara Phillips or Paris Hilton ever begin a conversation with the words "Where have all the bees gone?" and expect everyone to know what they're talking about. My Dad got it immediately, and rebuffed me with a simple; "ask Catherine Tate." I don't think my mother watches Dr Who. Though 56 year-old Irish housewives are not exactly it's core demographic, so I doubt she's any great loss to them.

I have also been told that the charm bracelet I wear most of the time is considered by my friends to be something of an "insanity alert." Apparently is is the "Kate Lawrence equivalent of a diabetic's medi-alert." I am one of those annoyingly passionate persons' who 'talk with their hands,' you see, and the more animated the discussion, the more I gesticulate. Because the bracelet has tinkling, jingling charms on it, they have decided that it works in a similar way to a leper ringing a bell: only I am instead a lunatic with a bracelet. My friends and family have now decided that if I am jingling more than usual then I am "about to say something stupid, bonkers, random, or unnecessary." I would dispute this, if I did not know them to be quite correct.

The "Insanity Alert" bracelet my grandfather bought me.


I'm not really mad: I just get carried away with what I'm thinking. Then I get lost in my own head, and instead of keeping quiet, I continue to describe the journey.

For the second time this week, I had a conversation that included mention of Arthur Conan Doyle. (I think it's because Pompey are in this European Cup qualification thingy, and so anything to do with the football club is currently in the local news. For those who don't know, Conan Doyle played in goal for Portsmouth FC.) Anyway, I said that I always remember Arthur Conan Doyle as "the one who is not Arthur C Clarke." I am told that this is quite odd. It's because their names both begin 'Arthur C' and I get them muddled. I memorise pictures better than information, and I had a set of video's by Arthur C Clarke years ago - and so I remember Arthur Conan Doyle by seeing the two men, then attaching the video's to Arthur C Clarke because they have his name written on the boxes in bold, colourful print. Once he has been discounted, then I remember that Arthur Conan Doyle must be the other one, and he created Sherlock Holmes and The Lost World. That probably doesn't make any sense to anyone, but certainly offers you some explanation of why I am so easily befuddled by my meandering mind.

I did read something today that was both comedic and slightly insane - and for once I didn't write it. This came out of a newspaper. Quoted from (don't judge me) the Daily Mirror:

"MC Timmy Mallet of 'Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini' is back on MC Skepta's spoof video for Rolex Sweep, playing word association game Mallett's Mallet from Wacaday."



This may just be a little bit brilliant. I have linked the video, but have not seen the video myself because my laptop is currently refusing to let me watch video's on youtube (it does this sometimes.) I used to watch Timmy Mallett on Wacaday and haven't seen him on TV for about a decade. He was supremely annoying, but I think that contributed to his success no end. I wasn't as faithful to Wacaday as I should have been though - because I favoured the egregious-yet-charming Roland Rat, who moved to BBC and with whom I was somewhat infatuated when I was four/five. (I shall probably spend all day begging my laptop to work on youtube tomorrow so I can search for clips of RR. I still get embarrassingly pleased when anyone uses the 'ratfans' catchphrase in conversation, and I regret never having had a guinea-pig that I could call Gloria.)

Timmy Mallett.

(Amusingly, on Timmy's website it says that his albums are only available on casette and vinyl!)

Roland Rat Superstar with Samantha Fox (when she had 80's hair, but wasn't quite so...mad.)


I also cut a photograph of a donkey out of the paper today, and pinned it above my desk. It's not just a photo of any old donkey - this one is carrying a huge bundle of leaves, and looks very funny. (I'm quite easily distracted by trivialities.)

"Don't Call Me An Ass."

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