Jesus Christ, Sabouter.

It's now two days before my birthday, and people are already trying to muscle in on the celebrations, and take some of the annually-anticipated attention off of me. I say "people" but really it's one in particular.

Jesus. That little sod is determined to steal the spotlight on Friday; getting shops to replace birthday cards with Easter ones, smothering everything with little chicks and daffodils instead of diamonds and roses, and he’s even roped in the Easter Bunny (who I used to have a great deal of fondness for) to help convince children that Good Friday is the day when they get bought chocolates! Tsk. Shameless.

I think I'm going to start trying to rebrand Christmas, and see how he likes it.

Ol' JC isn't the only "superstar" aiming to exploit the fact that everyone has been given time off work to celebrate (for which not a single person has thanked me yet,) as the TV channel Dave are broadcasting the first of three new episodes of Red Dwarf on Friday night. This blatant hijacking of International Kate Day is slightly more acceptable than the other, as I have spent far more hours watching Cat, Rimmer, Lister and Cryten than I ever devoted to watching the free copies of The Easter Story that tend to crash through letterboxes across the land at this time of year.

Now, cheeky as it is of the television schedulers to cling onto the birthday-bandwagon, it seems that their efforts are all too effective. Much to my chagrin, they have successfully brainwashed even those nearest and dearest to me. The best example is that of my grandmother, who turned seventy last month. I decided that - in the midst of a recession, with family visiting over Easter, shopping to do for my father's forthcoming nuptials, and his birthday looming at the end of the month - it would be better to have a quiet birthday at home, and not do anything that required the frivolous spending of cash none of us have. It's not a huge concession, particularly if I am recovering from the trauma of suffering my mother's company during the day, so wasn't something I particularly minded. I'm more annoyed about turning twenty three, as it means I am now of an age equivalent to half the cast of skins, or five and a half Miley Cyrus's.

Anyway, in a last-ditch attempt to muffle the cries of "aww, you can't stay in on your birthday!" that I was hearing from every quarter, I suggested to my grandmother that we rally a small family gathering for drinks in our local on Friday, as it wouldn't be too expensive a night if it were limited to a few of us, and they do cheap food if people fancy it. Now, I expected her to be overjoyed at the thought of recognising the twenty-third anniversary of the moment she became a grandmother, (or at least pretend not to be haunted by the memory,) but the conversation went as follows:

Me: "The Red are doing 2 for 1 on meals, so we could always take everyone up there? Will be nice to get everyone together."
Nan: "That would be nice, but... Can we do it on Saturday instead?"
Me: "Why? I was really hoping we'd do it on Friday night, as it's my birthday!"
Nan: "I know it is, but it clashes with Eastenders."

Now, I took far more offence at this than I should have because my ego never has reacted well to anything that threatens to deflate it. It's actually very funny, and reminds me of a feature on a radio show I used to listen to. Many of you will know of it because of the press-coverage devoted to its death throes, but before it suffered its own grandparent debacle, Russell Brand and his co-host Matt Morgan devoted a section of the programme to "nanecdotes." These were charming or amusing anecdotes sent in by listeners about their elderly relatives, and the pair always riffed and elaborated on their audiences’ tales superbly. I can't help but imagine them adopting their little-old-lady voices for the sound-byte "Oh I know it's your birthday dear, but it clashes with my programme on the tellybox." I hope the Daily Mail are happy with themselves. They have denied a grandmother her dream of stardom! …I'm not particularly sure she ever did dream of being on the wireless - her biggest aspiration seems to have been to own a monkey, which she never attained - but I'm pretty certain that had I emailed a national radio station about her, then she would, at the very least, have forgiven me eventually.

As it happens, now Dad is planning to cook Sunday dinner for us all, which probably requires several days’ fortification for anyway. My preparation for said Bush-tucker Trial has been inspired wholly by the (awful) film Snakes On A Plane, where the pretty Spanish girl coats her mouth with olive oil to prevent the poison from entering her bloodstream when she sucks the poison out of her fellow passengers’ wounds. I forgot to buy the olive oil when I was in Tesco’s yesterday – and to be honest in Portsmouth it’s not easy to find extra-virgin anything – but there are some cod-liver oil tablets in the cupboard we give the dog, so failing all else we can dose up on those before Sunday teatime. I just hope Peggy Mitchell appreciates it!

At this juncture it is probably polite to wish you Happy Easter, but I’d prefer to hope you have a marvellous International Kate Day. I urge you to you go forth and continue the trend. Think of it as a task on The Apprentice; it’s us against the church team! Greet your friends, neighbours, colleagues and random strangers with my egotistic salutation, so we get the brand out there. Come on – Christ has his own little cult to run his PR for him, I don’t even have Max Clifford! (Though he does have an opening on his client list now, so I might offer the poor bloke some work.) With your loyalty and devotion we can’t fail!

…but if Jade digs herself up over the weekend, I’ll be really fed up.


That 80's blanket is so retro-chic right now. I wasn't just "on-trend" - I was two whole decades ahead of my time.
10th April ftw.

Mischief and Mayhem

Well it's April Fools Day 2009, and I'm already bored enough to have just typed "Google" into Google, on the off-chance that someone out there in cyberspace had set it up to display an error message saying I'd broken the internet. If I worked for Google, then on the 1st April I don't think I could pass up the chance to subvert the well known myth that asking Google to search for itself will cause a catastrophic breakdown in communications. No one who types "Google" into Google actually expects anything heinous to occur, but the opportunity to give someone a bit of a shock would be too much to resist for one such as myself. I think I'd like to set up a page which - instead of returning "Results 1 - 10 of about 2,640,000,000" - would feature a briefly displayed warning message, before settling on a humorous image like this: (the Superpoke application error screen, which made me chuckle when I inadvertently broke Facebook.)



Of course, such seasonal tom-foolery isn't restricted to bored, insomniac twentysomethings (though there's a lot of that about this-morning), and I don't doubt that each of you will stumble across a prank or two over the course of today. Whether you realise it or not is another matter!

My favourite of the japes I have come across already today are two faux newspaper stories. The first is a Guardian article embracing the new social networking phenomenon "Twitter" - which for the uninitiated amongst you is a string of 140 character "status updates" - a bit like Facebook without the cacophony of colourful photo's, applications and groups.

Link: Guardian Twitter Article

I was particularly tickled by the suggestion that they are currently transcribing their back-catalogue of newsworthy moments in history to make them suitable for the Twitter format.

Major stories already completed include:

"1832 Reform Act gives voting rights to one in five adult males yay!!!"
"OMG Hitler invades Poland, allies declare war see tinyurl.com/b5x6e for more"
"JFK assassin8d @ Dallas, def. heard second gunshot from grassy knoll WTF?"

Some of the best examples of the Guardian's "Twitter archive" are:

Highlights from the Guardian's Twitterised news archive

1927
OMG first successful transatlantic air flight wow, pretty cool! Boring day
otherwise *sigh*

1940
W Churchill giving speech NOW - "we shall fight on the beaches ... we shall never surrender" check YouTube later for the rest

1961
Listening 2 new band "The Beatles"

1989
Berlin Wall falls! Majority view of Twitterers = it's a historic moment! What do you think??? Have your say

1997
RT@mohammedalfayed: FYI NeilHamilton, Harrods boss offering £££ 4 questions in House of Commons! Check it out


I also like the equally current photo-shopped images of Home Secretary Jacqui Smith - who has this last week been embroiled in a ludicrously over-inflated (possibly a bad choice of words) sex-scandal, after her husband purchased two pornographic movies on pay-per-view and accidentally claimed the tenner back on expenses with the rest of their bills. His dalliance with deviance isn't an issue I feel requires public attention - it's obvious the cost of them was in all likelihood not added to their business expenses deliberately. I was more disgusted that he'd pay a couple of quid to watch Oceans 13 - twice - and that he'd pay to watch the interminable "Surf's Up" at all.

Today's photographs depict Ms Smith leaving the high street staple Anne Summers, laden with carrier bags full of saucy swag.



Both these articles are little more than an amusing distraction, particularly in the current economic climate; which has encouraged the newspapers to do little but incite "panic on the streets of London" in a way only hitherto foretold by the wise and wonderful Morrissey. (Though it always seems cruel to reference him in relation to anything of a sexual nature, it is pertinent in this instance, as Jacqui Smith's husband has discovered just how easy it is to empathise with a man whose genitals were believed to be "little more than a cruel joke." Mind you, looking at his missus, I don't think anyone would castigate him for seeking an alternative punch-line.)

All this mischief making puts me in mind of my favourite faux news story from a few years ago, when scientists announced that they'd discovered a new species of furry shark. Anyone who knew me at the time may well recall just how much I desired that story to be real. So much did I wish it to be true, that I have still never actually looked it up, so that the memory of it might swim fuzzily around in my imagination, untainted by cold, hard, realities.

On a personal note this week, the M.E Clinic informed me that I am their most recalcitrant lab rat, and seem to derive pleasure from being contrary and impossible to categorise. I was determined to take this as a compliment, though they were just as determined to assure me that it wasn't meant as one. I might try and go a little easier on them next week, after all, there are far worse jobs being doled out to unsuspecting rats than their traditional clinical roles. Oh yes, these days rats are at the frontline of more than just medical research.

This little fella - who I must say looks rather snazzy in his little harness (only to be improved if they'd given him miniature aviators to complete the Top Gun style) - has been trained to sniff out landmines because he can run across them without setting them off. I can't help but think that in this picture he looks like he's helping Macauly Culkin out with some ingenious scheme to combat Taliban burglars after all the troops withdraw from Iraq and accidentally leave him behind.

Kofi:


Note, RamboRat is not an April fool, as (possibly) validated for you by this newspaper article from the 31st March. Daily Mirror Article

If it does turn out to be a fabrication, don’t tell me. I wish to forever live in the kind of blissful ignorance that sees a lifetime of furry sharks chasing legions of little scurrying soldiers around the deeper, darker corners of my marvellously meandering mind.

Before I release you from your obligation to stick this blog out to the final full-stop, now it’s April I am officially allowed to start hinting about the fact that it is my birthday in just over a week. Not that I am ever either subtle or tactful in my attention seeking, but I feel that your loyalty in reading through my written ramblings with enough dedication to reach these last lines deserves some reward; so consider this fair and timely warning that I am going to be more insufferable than ever for the next couple of weeks.

On a final and very sad note, a social worker who spent some time working alongside my father in Portsmouth has died this week of an aggressive cancer she was left without time to fight. Some friends of Claire Ramsbottom’s are raising money in her name, and so I am including the link here just in case any of you have some change to spare. To donate, or if you just wish to leave messages of support for her family and the fundraising team who will be doing the Race For Life, please go to: www.justgiving.com/jeffriesnetballteam.

I wish you all a glorious day full of mischief and mayhem, and hope that anyone attending the Stop The War march contains their passions in a peaceful protest. There is no sanity in trying to end violence with violence, though historically it has proven to be human nature to try just that. x

The Missing Link

Today, I was "tagged" in another of the inane Facebook notes that there seem to have been an ever-increasing influx of in recent months. I must admit to occasionally being part of this mindless chain of self-promotion in all its uselessness. I'm attention-seeking enough that whenever I think participation might lead to a handful of amusing answers, I grab my fluffiest knitwear and join the rest of the sheep in bleating my way through "19 of my favourite cornflake-related memories of Wolf from Gladiators."

This most recent quiz assigned numbers to random friends, and paired questions with the numbers. One of the questions assigned to number seven - which was allocated to me - was "If you gave #7 £100, what would they spend it on?" The answer given by my old schoolfriend? "Shoes. I bet she'd spend it on shoes." Now, the idea that I'd spend one-hundered-pounds on shoes when there is art to admire, and theatre to enjoy, and music to be seduced by, and cultures to explore is preposterously vain and shallow! ...It's also true, damn him. (And damn me for being such a vacuous bint.)

I retreated from Facebook after reading that, to watch a coupling of programs on BBC2 about Charles Darwin - if for no other reason than to remind myself that I am little more than a chimp in heels, who is fortunate to have evolved into a creature who can walk upright at all, let alone at a constant 5" incline.

You should know at this point, that I have just spent half an hour on Google trying to find a photo of a monkey in stilettos, and failed dismally. On a similarly anthropomorphic theme, the other thing I have never seen - as I found myself discussing in the far-too-wee-hours of one insomniac morning - is a tortoise in a christmas party hat! My family own a tortoise, but because she had hibernated through every christmas for the better part of a century, I have never had occasion to take a photograph of her in a tissue-paper crown. It's a shame, as she's the right shape for a christmas-cracker party hat to fit the curve of her shell as easily as it does the human head for which it was more likely marketed. I decided to make note of the idea so that I might wait until April when she awakes for the year, and be reminded to contrive a situation whereby I can snap such a picture. Due to an inexplicable lack of notepaper, the memo was scribed onto the side of a banana. (No, I don't know why I chose a banana as my second choice of writing medium, but I like to think that rather than being evidence of some form of mental illness, it is instead proof that Darwin had a bloody good point.)

BANANA


In other news this week, I attended a fabulous comedy night at The Fat Fox in Southsea, and finally saw Trevor Lock perform. Was a brilliant night; though due to my inability to be both impromptu and dazzling, the majority of the audience will forever refer to me as the prostitute in the front row, cementing the "gig-whore" status attributed to me by Ms McEvitt when I bought the tickets last month. If any of you are presented with opportunity to see Trevor live, then I urge you to do so while he is still performing in reasonably intimate venue's. It just won't be the same when he's playing the guildhall and I'm seated so far at the back and in the rafters that I might as well be peering through a skylight.

Disclaimer: Forthcoming gigs may or may not include common brunette hookers. More information available by placing a notice in the free-ads and waiting with a red carnation by your post office box on the first day of the full moon following your advertisment.

A Blond(i) Moment

I think someone is trying to assassinate my dog.

That sounds unlikely, but I have proof. Well, not proof exactly, but evidence that it is probable. Google practically told me someone is trying to poison her. Obviously it couldn't confirm it directly without too much personal risk, but it has strongly suggested that there's only one possibility - and it's not that Hitler's ghost has returned to finish Sally off like he did his own dog, Blondi. Contrary to what the title of this post might lead you to think. (No pun intended.)

It started when Sally, my 9yr old golden retriever, started smelling of garlic. At least - her breath did. We checked her food, and it contains no garlic, and we seldom eat it here (healthy it may be, but if you've ever had to use a bathroom after my father, you'd ban garlic from your world too.) So we couldn't understand where the odour was orginating. After several weeks of this, I finally googled "dog breath, garlic smell" and was lead to the following result:



So you see, the garlicky breath is a legitimate symptom of ARSENIC POISONING!

As this pongy-phenomenon began soon after Sam began bringing Sally dog-chews every day, I think it's perfectly plausible to assume that my stepmother is trying to assassinate my dog.

Either that, or our neighbours are feeding her garlic to try and freak us out. I like that idea actually. I'd quite like to paint their cat's teeth with glow in the dark paint for the same reason. This desire to unnerve and bemusle is the reason I love this cartoon:



So - on the offchance that it's not Sam, and is in fact a shady organisation like MI5, the Masons, or neighbourhood watch who are trying to assassinate my dog - I am posting my suspicions here, so they know I'm onto them.

In other news, Morrissey's new album officially hits the market tomorrow, so I can finally stop pretending that I haven't already heard the songs illegally.

That's probably not a very good thing to admit when I think MI5 might be listening. (It's all right though, as if they take me to court, I'll tell people what they're doing to my dog.)

I should also use this post to brag for a moment, about the pretty lovely Valentines day flowers Johnny Depp sent me. Now, when I tell people that Johnny Depp sent the rose they give me the same look that I get from them when I tell them that MI5 are forcing my stepmother to poison my dog. Like in that instance, Google provided the answer. The card on the flowers is signed with naught but a question mark, which everyone knows is the sign of the Riddler in the Batman movies, and a quick search online informed me that Depp is to play the riddler in the follow-up to the Oscar Nominated film Batman: The Dark Knight, which got so much attention because Heath Ledger topped himself after being quite good in it.



On the romantic theme, I'd also like to publicly announce my delight at my dad finally choosing a decent wife, and asking Sam to marry him. Now, in lieu of garlic-gate, this might seem like an odd time to be pleased for them, but I still reckon that if she's involved at all then she's only poisoning the dog under duress.

So congratulations to Dave and Sam! It's good to finally see my Daddy with a woman who loves him back as much as he deserves. (And I'm going to keep saying that until my birthday is over, because I'm still hoping that it might earn me enough brownie-points to wangle a decent present - even though he had to pawn me to Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum of curiosities to pay for her ring.)

As you were.

P.S - Review of Russell Brand and Dylan Moran to follow when I eventually get around to it. Both gigs were brilliant, but I might wait until after I've seen Trevor Lock in May. Yes, another comedy gig. I think the frequency of my attendance was best surmised by the following comment:

"Gig whore."
-Ms A McEvitt, Manchester, UK, Zooniverse.

"Laughter Is The Best Medicine" and Other Excuses.

As I haven't posted anything here since before Christmas, I hope you all had enjoyable days, and avoided murdering family members. The "traditional red and green" shouldn't be blood on the Xmas-tree, really, but yuletide often descends into chaos for so many people who are only flung together for that season.

I did some shopping at Gunwharf Quay, a relatively recently redeveloped area of Portsmouth that is the site of the Spinnaker Tower. They'd decorated it very nicely:

Spinnaker Tower:


Gunwharf:


I did receive a not-so-pleasant present amid all the lovely ones this year though. My father - for reasons known only to himself - thought it would be very funny to wrap up a Bisto jar full of sausages, and label it as "property of Southampton General Hospital." The significance of this being that it was surgeons at that hospital who removed my colon, for which a string of cocktail sausages has been substituted in order to breathe new life into the joke that it's in a jar of formaldehyde someplace, being used for medical research as they requested in 2000. Admittedly this did make me giggle on Christmas day, and was even funnier when Dad told me that my sister has actually believed that it was real! It is convincingly disgusting though. I was also glad that we open our presents in the morning, allowing a reasonable amount of time to elapse before we attempted to face Christmas Lunch. I had an email around Christmas time from the my editor at the IA Journal, John, saying they might be reprinting my article as they still get letters where it exists on their website. I should probably post it here but you've all read it so I don't see the need. If they do leaflets with it again I'd like to update it really. I was too young when I wrote it, and it could be improved upon in language if not content. I might leave out comparisons between the large intestine and a string of sausages though. Despite the origins of that analogy coming from a radiographer during my pre-surgery ultrasound, I don't think it's really standard medical terminology.

One day my daddy will buy me a car:


I write this as we are in the middle of some rather stormy weather, so if this blog post is prematurely truncated then please picture the opening scenes from The Wizard Of Oz, and inform the appropriate authorities that I'm not in Kansas anymore. ...Ok, so I never was in Kansas. That would have been a much pithier opening sentence if I did happen to live in Kansas, but I've just Googled it and don't think I'd like it very much. I wouldn't mind a Scottish Terrier dog though (who would, obviously, have to be called Toto.)

I've probably told you before that the dog who played Toto got paid more than the Dwarfs, but I'm telling you again because this is a somewhat of a stream-of-consciousness affair - and my brain is currently streaming thoughts that inquire things like; "In what way do dogs have greater expenses than miniature people" and imagining a scruffy little dog riding in that golf-buggy-scooter thing that Verne 'Mini-Me' Troyer has on the current Celebrity Big Brother. I suppose updated equality laws would prevent him from receiving a lower wage than, say, Wellard the German Shepherd off've Eastenders - but I think I might actually watch CBB if they had Wellard on there. (Wouldn't be the first time a dog had won a reality show, Michelle McManus came first on Pop Idol after all.)

My dog is currently going mental because of the gales outside, whilst I'm just annoyed that it doesn't seem too cold tonight. I've been complaining about being freezing for weeks, but got a letter yesterday from the council saying they will pay me £25 "Cold Weather Allowance" whenever the Met Office tells them it has been freezing or below for several consecutive days. Consequently, I now watch weather reports with the same enthusiasm other people save for the National Lottery. It makes the cold surprisingly tolerable. It seems that for twenty five quid I'm more than willing to wear a jumper. (For fifty, I could probably be persuaded to take it off.)

Speaking of clothes, I have become rather preoccupied with choosing an outfit for the 27th of this month, when some friends and I see Russell Brand at Pompey Guildhall.
I'm excited because I've not seen Russ live before, and it should be a good night. I'm also hoping that - despite wishing for cold every other day of the month to increase my chances of cashing in on the freezing-to-death bonus - it will be warmer on the night of the gig. Mainly because, after auditioning several outfits with an uncompromising intensity that Simon Cowell would be proud of, I have decided upon a rather nice blue-green dress. I will tell you afterwards whether or not pneumonia is a worthwhile price for vanity, but I am thinking I will probably regret it. The plus point is that we will now - hopefully - not have to queue for the gig, as I've arranged for priority seating on the grounds of being all weak and pathetic when it comes to arduous tasks like standing about.

Ten days after the Russell Brand gig, I'm hoping to see Dylan Moran at the same venue. Yes, that's probably a bit soon energy-wise, considering the estimated recovery from seeing Russ. No, the city might not quite have had time to regroup after dealing with the universe-shattering force that is the real-world twinning of Anna and myself for a few days, but it's had fair warning. Maybe I shouldn't be spending so much on gigs this year, but if I keep wishing on the pot of gold at the end of the weather forecast then I won't be too out of pocket. Plus, I hardly ventured out into the world at all for best part of 2007, and some months of 2008, because my weight was still very low and the world doesn't take very kindly to women who look like emaciated greyhounds. (Actually it was worse than that; I looked like an emaciated two legged greyhound. In lipstick and stilettos.)

Youtube clip (of Dylan Moran, not a greyhound in silly shoes.)


I'm looking forward to seeing him, as although his sets are notoriously short - and he always acts as if he doesn't want to be there - the "Oscar Wilde of comedy" has never failed to make me laugh in either DVD, interview or YouTube clip format, so will, I am sure, be very funny as a live act. His rambling irascibility and biting observations stem from one of comedies' darkest hearts, but are always highly amusing. I adored Bernard and Manny in 'Black Books,' the series he filmed with Bill Bailey, and am pleased to have got cheap tickets to see him at the Guildhall.

I've decided on a "sod it" approach to the M.E for the time being. The last few years I've kept "putting things off until I have more energy," but as I accept that 'having more energy' is a long term goal, it is leaving me free to concentrate on smaller - more achievable - niceties instead.

...Which is also my excuse for booking tickets to see Morrissey in the spring. I know, I know, that sounds like a lot, but Russell's gig I booked months and months ago, the Moran one was a last-minute opportunity and they were cheap because he only does a short set, and the Morrissey tickets were a matter of life or death. Really. (Not my life, but someone's would have been endangered.) If I had spent the next few months watching documentaries about his life and career in the run-up to his 50th birthday knowing that I was missing out on the tour, then I might have killed someone so I could go in their place. At the very least I'd have had to befriend and then anonymously maim them, so they gave me the tickets they were too savaged to use, and attend the gig before the police caught up with me. (Note, never let me watch American Psycho again.)

It should be a marvellous gig though, as Anna and I are seeing him in his hometown of Manchester (at the Apollo Theatre) on his birthday!

You are probably all sick of hearing me say that, but I am looking forward to it immensely. It also means I'll be staying with my favourite auntie for a week or two in Wales (though near enough to Chester that I can spend a lot of time shopping - and complaining that if I'd got that part I was up for in Hollyoaks then I'd be able to buy things in the designer shops as well as the outlet stores.)

All of these gigs have a lot of work to do if they wish to live up to the tremendous energy and all-round comedic genius of Tim Minchin's show at the Wedgewood Rooms last year. I'd never seen him before, and in a relatively small venue he proved to be a magnificent presence. I've liked him since I saw him on little snippets of shows from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (whish I'd love to go to one year) and international comedy spots on Paramount comedy channel, but seeing him live was still even better than I expected. I have my friend Tim to thank for the ticket, as I'd not even known Minchin was performing, and was really glad to see the show and meet him after.

"Canvas Bag" and signed Gig Ticket:



The wind appears to be dying down outside now. I'm almost disappointed. I was quite looking forward to seeing my mother's feet sticking out from under a house...

Tiny Tim's Trust Fund

It’s almost five in the morning and I have just finished wrapping parcels to be sent off to people with Xboxes and Nintendo Wii’s. Upon completion I decided to check my email and then go to bed, as at 10:05am tomorrow (well, today now) Radio 2 are airing the first play of Morrissey’s new single and I’ve set an alarm so I might wake up and listen to it. The fact that I will most probably just go right back to sleep again afterwards doesn’t lessen the understanding that I should at least aim to sleep for a few hours before I am due to be alerted of the track’s imminent airtime by a shrilly beeping mobile phone.

Today I was just about to delete another spam message trying to con money out of me by pretending to award me some, when I noticed in the little preview window how disgracefully it was worded. Now, I know I should be offended that there are unscrupulous Scroogeish sorts trying to extricate cash from the already-impoverished, but I am equally – if not a teensy bit more-so – affronted by the fact that I was contacted by such ignorant unprincipled crooks.

I decided to reply. Here are both the original email and my response, copy/pasted as-is:

Original Message

From: "Lady Maggie Stephenson"
To: "undisclosed-recipients:"
Sent: Monday, December 22, 2008 3:14 AM
Subject: Hello

My name is Lady Maggie Stephenson, a widow that was dignosed of having
Cancer.

I was recently informed by my Doctor that i have a few weeks to live.

I have decide to donate the Twenty Million Pounds that i inherited from my
husband to you for charity purpose.

All response to this email should be sent to my Lawyer (Solicitor)
Barrister Herbert Smith of Herbert Smith LLP, through email for further
instructions: barrister_herbertsmith@administrativos.com

Your's Sincerely
Lady Maggie Stephenson.
Manchester, United Kingdom.
------------------------------------

Reply:

From: K S L
To: barrister_herbertsmith@administrativos.com
Sent: Monday, December 22, 2008 4:34 AM
Subject: Re: Hello

I am sorry to hear of your plight - but I am most pained that your condition has so sorely affected your spelling and grammar.

There is a variety of spell-check software available on the internet, but under the circumstances I am pleased to inform you that I can offer you the most effective and up to date personal editing services for a nominal sum. The introductory trial version lasts 28days, which appears to be the package best tailored to suit your needs as you'll be dead after that.

If you are interested in hiring me as an editor for your final weeks - to help you with writing all those goodbye letters and suchlike - then please send £5,000 to my PayPal account (or mail the equivalent value in scratch-cards care of my local post office).

Another option for your genteel consideration is this: if you decide to face death head-on in a Swiss clinic then you may wish to upgrade to our premium service, which includes word.doc templates that will guide you through the step-by-step process of writing a touching, thoughtful suicide note to your dearly beloved friends and family.

For more information please contact me via my company email fuckoffyouilliterateconartisttosser@OED.com

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! (If you make it that far.)

Yours Faithfully,
K S L
-------------------------

Now, while I appreciate that the majority of these scams originate outside of the UK, and therefore often come from countries where English may not be a first language, it doesn’t take five minutes for even a meagrely educated woman like myself to compose a convincingly deceitful letter, so I expect them to put a little more thought into their duplicity when they claim to be descended from some obscure Mancunian nobility. It is after all their business, and the least they should do is take a little pride in their work.

If a little old lady reallymade it her dying wish to bequest me a couple of dozen million in family silver, then I’d expect solicitors to turn up at the house accompanied by the woman herself in a blacked-out Mayback; forced to step around the canine excrement left on the pavement by someone’s flea-ridden pit-bull or doberman, as she totters into my home wearing moderate courts and trailing furs. Her people would enlighten me of her offer while she remained perched on an armchair, ever-faithful to her breeding in the deliberate effort not to notice the cat dribbling on her minks. She might then interject in an effort to explain her reason for choosing me to inherit her wealth - and persuade me that her intentions were genuinely altruistic.

I would not anticipate such an offer to come as an impersonal email from said doddery old dear, with such little care taken in penning the correspondence that it would make my eyes strike upon being subjected to the reading of it.

I’m aware that I probably shouldn’t have replied and will now incur the wrath of every computer virus known to mankind, and that neither Norton or McAfee will forgive me for putting them through their paces in ridding my computer of the worms, Trojans and any other dubiously-named electronic bacterium that will seek to make its home in my computer. I do, however, also happen to be in a slightly irritated mood due to the time and knowledge that I only have a few hours before I will be awoken – by a slightly nobler Mancunian than the fictional one who has so occupied my thoughts tonight.

If they reply I intend to set these villains challenges. I saw it done on television once. They had the people prove they were who they claimed to be by asking them to pose with ridiculous items. I might begin requesting they verify that their offer is not felonious by photographing themselves with a current newspaper, then will move on to things like a fresh trout, a unicycle, or a life-size cardboard cut-out of Anne Widdecombe.

Just in case, I might leave a note with Tracy in the post-office, asking her to forward any suspicious-looking packages. Though as it’s Christmas she’d be doing that anyway: my Auntie Margaret is renowned for sending parcels that require bomb-disposal-squad training to unwrap.

It almost makes me hope to hear back from them instead of Aunt Madge.

Almost.

It's A Wrap For The Clangers

IT'S A WRAP FOR THE CLANGERS.

I've spent most of the last two weeks wrapping parcels to help my father become the next eBay/GAME. Of course, it's not quite like the blokes who invented Wikipedia from a laptop in somebody's shed, as both eBay and GAME already exist, and that lack of original concept is always going to be a hindrance to a business. Still, he seems to be implementing a rather sneaky practice that works on a local level; he's buying every single computer game in the South of England, so that people have no choice but to order them from him. Quite clever really, though as with every one-man bid to take over the world: he has two women helping him. (And with all the traipsing about buying games that Sam has done, if she doesn't get a foot spa for Christmas then he may just be in trouble.)

He's not the only one that may be in trouble. All this exposure to sellotape can't be doing me any good. A report was recently published in science journal 'Nature', that said scientists (well it wouldn't be clowns would it) have discovered that sellotape emits enough radiation to take an x-ray.

"The technical term for the X-Ray phenomenon is something called triboluminescence. As the sticky tape unrolls, the adhesive becomes positively charged, while the plastic tape takes a negative charge.

In a vacuum, this causes an electric field to be generated and 100 milliwatts of X-Rays to be released in a pulse lasting a billionth of a second."

This is vaguely worrying, because in Spiderman Peter Parker is bitten by a radioactive spider and inherits arachnid characteristics. Now, I'm not concerned about becoming a superhuman roll of sellotape – that'd be stupid – but I find it really difficult to sleep if there's too much light in a room, so don't think it'd help my insomnia if I was to glow in the dark. (Don't tell me radiation doesn't glow, either, because I've seen the trailer to The Simpsons - and on there it does - which is good enough for me.) The only benefit to being a superhuman anything would be the Catwoman-esque leather catsuit. Not that there's much opportunity to wear one unless a person is either a hells angel or a Dominatrix, and I can't drive. (And I'd be a shit dominatrix; I feel guilty ordering the dog to do as she's told.)


X-Rays from Sellotape

The main reason we have all been so frantically wrapping parcels is that the month is hurtling unstoppably towards Christmas. I haven't done a single bit of my shopping yet, have no decorations up, and haven't made a Christmas card list yet – let alone started writing any. I have begun panicking over what to buy people though. I am atrocious at buying presents people will like. I tend to have wildly grandiose ideas of what I want to buy them when I first try and think of something, then due to the constraints of time, money, charm, influence, logic and importation law have to settle for something far less magnificent. Trouble is by then anything else seems unfortunately tawdry in comparison to the "ideal present," and I find myself on Christmas Eve doubting every single thing I bought, and generally feeling as if I have spectacularly failed to get anyone anything they might actually like – which is why I end up apologising profusely as I hand over the gift on Christmas day. The worst bit is being there when people unwrap their present. Ideally I'd put them in a room with a one way mirror, so I can see them feign delight while trying to work out what the object actually is, but they can't see me cringing into myself at the embarrassment of being the madwoman who always gives people crap stuff. If one is going to do that really, then they need to have no self-awareness whatsoever, like my Auntie Margaret, or my Nana Tess. They both give really random and bonkers presents: so bonkers that the opening of their gifts is an event in itself, albeit one that always ends in bemuslement and derision.

Another, slightly more entertaining tradition is sitting down to watch TV on Christmas day once all the presents have been unwrapped, all the food has been eaten, and all the Christmas-cheer has been supped dry. So I was sad to hear this morning of the death of Oliver Postgate – creator of The Clangers, Bagpuss and Ivor The Engine. Now, saddened as I was in a nostalgic momentary-"awww"-then-carry-on-with-life sort of a way, I heard a radio 1 news reporter describe his death as "untimely." At this juncture I should mention that the man was 83, so whilst his death was unfortunate, it can hardly be described as 'untimely.'

Watching old episodes of the clangers I came across this one, which shows the day the Clangers went political. This episode hasn't been shown since the first time it was broadcast, as it has been deemed too controversial to be aired since. Mr Postgate was the grandson of a Labour MP, and this episode was written to coincide with election night in October 1974.

Vote For Froglet!
Clangers episode

In other news, a Chinese woman has gone deaf after getting a little over-amorous with her boyfriend. According to a news website:

"A Chinese woman has partially lost her hearing after her boyfriend ruptured her eardrum during an excessively passionate kiss, reports Reuters.

The woman, who is in her 20s and hails from Zhuhai in southern China’s Guangdong province, went to hospital after completely losing her hearing in her left ear following the overly amorous embrace.

China Daily, citing a report in a local newspaper, quoted a doctor surnamed Li who explained that the kiss had reduced pressure in the woman’s mouth, pulled the eardrum out of place and caused the breakdown of her ear.

The doctor added that the woman’s hearing was likely to return after around two months.

The incident prompted several Chinese newspapers to dispense kissing safety advice. While kissing is normally very safe, doctors urge people to proceed with caution, the China Daily reported."

Health and Safety officers will think their Christmas has come early (okay, not by much.) They'll probably outlaw mistletoe now, on the grounds that it encourages people to indulge in potentially reckless behaviour. Christmas kiss-o-grams will be arrested on suspicion of assault (and not just an assault on good taste.) Katie Perry will probably have to provide police with the name of the girl she kissed, so they can check that she did indeed like it, and still has her full range of auditory senses.

The only slightly reckless thing I've done recently (which I liked a lot, but didn’t involve any snogging on this occasion,) was buy Morrissey tickets for his 2009 50th Birthday tour. It's a little daft because I have no idea whether or not I'll actually be in a position to go -- but I have every intention of being bloody-minded enough to make it happen, so am not too worried. If you think you're sick of me talking about this now, then just wait ‘til next year when his Years of Refusal album is launched and the birthday celebrations begin in earnest. I will be truly unbearable company by then, but will naturally assume that you have all had fair warning and that I may be as ridiculously overexcited as I like. So, just to warn you, Anna and I will (hopefully) be going to see Steven Patrick Morrissey on his 50th birthday 22nd May 2009 at the Manchester Apollo.

If only he didn't look quite so much like a paedophile on the new album cover. At least I won't be tempted to lay out any cash on a t-shirt. (Though the new stylistic font on the logo will doubtless grace many a tattooed Mancunian die-hard fan's bodyart in the coming year - as it's all nice and swirly.)