Still Ill...

In the time following the last blog – which feels like it was written several seasons ago as we've since been reminded that the Earth actually does still revolve around a Sun – I’ve made the long-overdue pilgrimage to Manchester. This is a journey that every Morrissey fan must make at some point in their life, and it is all the better if they can embrace Mr Moz himself on the voyage to this marvellous Mancunian Mecca. (Which, incidentally, now always makes me think about Bingo and not Muslims.) The metaphor still works though, as getting tickets to see Morrissey perform live in his hometown on his birthday was like hitting the jackpot.

That even sounds cliché in my confuzzled cerebrum. You should know that any ramblings I post right now are likely to be adversely influenced by the chest-infection I'm guzzling antibiotics to try and combat. I've been calling it a chest-infection because people started panicking when I told them I had "The Plague." Apart from one friend, who simply asked "which plague?" Which plague?! I have a cough, and almost sneezed last week! It's impossible for this to be anything other than the Original Black Death! …Not the 'New Improved Black Death aka Swine Flu.' Nope, this is a reissue of the previously successful version, with some of the lung-crackles removed and more contemporary artwork.

The latest symptom is auditory hallucinations. I am assuming my experience earlier is a symptom and not something which actually happened, because it's a little too ridiculous for even me to explain away otherwise. I suppose it was my own fault for watching Springwatch on BBC2 this evening – but my bug-befuddled brain thought that cute baby animals wouldn't be as neurologically taxing as, say, the uber-intellectual Eastenders.

While watching the aforementioned animal documentary I lay curled up in bed with a mug of tea, musing that when I was little their new presenter Chris Packham used to be very involved with the junior RSPB (of which I was a member) and used to film nature programs for our local TV station, Meridian. As I sat there – thinking he had gone from being a slightly smarmy young man, to a slightly smarmy fat and middle-aged man – the oddity began. As he discussed an injured swallow with co-presenter Kate Humble, he rather pointedly finished his link with "I wonder, Kate, if that bird is Still Ill?" As "Still Ill" is a Morrissey song title, I thought maybe he was making some sort of joke relating to a previous show or location (as I couldn't think what swallows in general have to do with Manchester). As the show went on, I repeatedly noticed the ageing twitcher dropping still more Morrissey song titles into the show. At various intervals he referred to a wildlife photographer as "This Charming Man" and upon admitting that he once kept wasps in his house (and being asked if he actually has any real friends) he replied, wistfully; "well Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me..."

Now, though I considered all this to be a little weird, I had not yet convinced myself that I was imagining it until I thought I heard him describe some wild polecats as 'Sweet and Tender Hooligans." It is therefore my conclusion that I have Morrissey on the brain, as surely as I harbour the Black Death within my lungs. I know the penicillin will work for the latter, but I think the former may be incurable. Especially after seeing the man perform and taking a trip to Salford Lad's Club, a location close to Morrissey's heart and one featured in several iconic photographs of The Smiths.

The gig itself was amazing, and he is a far more Charming Man than any foxy photographer of BBC employ! Much as it was such an astounding evening that I still almost cannot believe I was lucky enough to be there, I have opined over every detail of that night to far more people than cared to listen, so will simply include a link to some photographs of the night and share this little playlist of video's recorded by various fans also attending the birthday gig.

Morrissey's 50th Photo's



During my sojourn to the North of England, which included a potentially explosive meeting of menaces, I also got to see Adrian Edmondson and the Bad Shepherds; a folk band who play punk songs and are fronted by former Bottom and Young Ones star Ade. They were an entirely different act to his Highness, Sir Steven Patrick of Morrissey, but equally full of quirky, individual brilliance. The band were lovely when we met them, and my father (who came to the gig with his fiancée Sam) snapped a fabulous photo of myself and my non-biological-non-identical twin Anna when we met the erstwhile Vyvyan himself.



At least the return trip from Manchester wasn't too traumatic. It was during one of the hottest days of the year so far, but apart from the generalised melting of passengers in the car, it wasn't quite the combustible heat experienced by my father as he and Sam journeyed from Portsmouth to Newcastle. They travelled to see her son Karl and his fiancée Sian a couple of days before they joined Anna and me for the gig. Both Dad and Sam are smokers, but I doubt dad had imagined just how much (or how literally) he'd end up smoking on that particular day. I probably shouldn't laugh - I mean, it's not really funny. Had it happened after the wedding it would probably have qualified as spousal abuse. After all, Sam did set Dad on fire.

I should probably tell you that it only happened because the cigarette she thought she'd discarded safely was blown back into the car, and unbeknownst to the happy couple, landed in his hair. Unfortunately Dad can't smell, so it wasn't until Sam noticed the acrid scent that he realised he had been set alight. I'm not sure what he was more put out by (aside from the fire extinguisher) – that he had been singed, or that he'd not realised in time to claim it had hurt more than just his bouffant-pride-and-joy.

All in all it has been an eventful few weeks, and is probably no wonder that I have returned collapsed and full of malaise. It's nothing compared to the state of the North as it mourns the loss of my presence, however. I am at least still functioning – but immediately I left the vicinity, Burnley flipped an elected a BNP candidate. ...Some say their tough anti-immigration stance is more about keeping me from returning than an emotional breakdown due to their bereavement. I prefer to think they have turned to the Nazi's because they just don't know how to go on without me. God only knows what they'll do if they hear I have the plague! They might make EvilMcRacist Nick Griffin MEP king of the world or something.

So, shhhhh! No one tell Burnley I'm still ill...

Also in the news, a special friend had a birthday this month, and whilst the relayed antics would make even Scarlet O'Hara blush, it just made me giggle, so thank you for a much-needed laugh! And next time you get an offer like that, say no... For once... Please? (Or at least take some less blurry photo's.) x

Tomorrow's Yesterdays

Today would be my late grandfather's 73rd birthday. I've been contemplating what to write here for a couple of weeks now and as yet am still as clueless as I was then. It's not because I'm short of wonderful memories or amusing anecdotes. On the contrary, if you want the sort of melodramatic, heartbreaking tales of courage, dignity and love that will single-handedly resurrect the economy via sales of Kleenex, then I have several. He starred in many a story during his lifetime, and all who knew him have accounts worthy of retelling.

I just can't decide which to relay here, now, knowing that so many of you are so far removed from the world he inhabited – and have such limited reason to care about the moments I hold dear. I'm also a victim of my appalling memory. It isn't that I forget things – more that they lose themselves in my brain. I'm often moved to liken it to an attic; an overlooked space housing far too much junk, leaving sentimental treasures and the echoes of past lives hidden beneath more trivial pursuits. …Or, as in the case of our own attic, actual Trivial Pursuit. It was a small yellow box with a dinosaur on the side, and 'Trivial Pursuit' scrawled on the lid in a bright red font. This illustrates nicely how my mind provides shelter for so much inconsequential nonsense that it is – understandably – difficult to separate coherent bits of anything else without assistance. No doubt later today will provide opportunity for such discourse, as various members of the family commemorate the date in whichever way comforts them the most.

This year his absence is almost more striking than ever, as (for perhaps the first time since his death) there are clear signs that life's moving forward without him. Over the coming months I'm to be both an aunt and a bridesmaid, as my sister sees fit to breed and my father is getting married. Each of us has – in one way or another – rediscovered our course in the world without the security of the guiding hand he provided, which is as upsetting as it is a welcome relief from the limbo inhabited by the recently-bereaved.

I remember when he died, thinking even then that I couldn't possibly imagine the grander moments in my life occurring without him there to enjoy it, and claim his right to be proud of the adult who emerged from the childhood he so greatly influenced. The goals he set for his final days following the terminal cancer diagnosis were to reach his 70th birthday; celebrate his 50th wedding anniversary; and see-in my 21st. The last of those was the only he didn't quite manage, and is probably the reason my contemplation drifted in the direction it did at the time. Marriage, children – or even just celebrating the legality and chronological-significance of becoming twenty-one – seemed incomprehensible. I couldn't imagine ever welcoming anyone into the family, truly accepting them as "one of us", if they didn't know Grandad. It seemed inconceivable that subsequent generations (and/or members) of the clan would know of him only through the photographs and stories that were the only way my own great-grandfather was brought to life for me.

And yet, here we are, entering what will soon be the third year without him, and those things which appeared to be so impossible are as real and as marvellous as he would have wished them to be. Perhaps the additions to the family never will feel as if they knew him; the important thing is that we did. His strength, loyalty, and humour infused us all. The people who become a part of our world will – unknowingly – reap the rewards of his character (as well as be infuriated by the inherited flaws, which present as various mixtures of vanity [me], determination [Dad], bullish self-assurance [Auntie Sue], and stubbornness [all of us]). The more recent branches of the family tree may never be wholly familiar with the man we loved, but they validate the life he lived and the family he raised with such unswerving dedication because they love the people he made us.

That's an awful lot of nothing for someone who has typed this much and still feels lacking in a place to start, but is – I think – mention enough for today. It won't be too sad a time, because there’s little to be truly mournful of when I know he'd have loved Sam and Lee, and would have adored having the girls around as much as he enjoyed it when we were little. I have no doubt that overall he'd be happy for all of us, so while it’s always an emotional day, it won’t be one filled with too much regret.

Mind you, I also think he would have been the most likely to drop my sister's baby, and the first to make a "third time lucky" joke at Dad's wedding, so maybe it was a good job we had him cremated when we did…


Happy Birthday Grandad.

(Embarrassing photo's courtesy of 1989)

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...