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.
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.
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...
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.
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.)
This week it was on the news that some teenagers in America have been punished for their noise violations by being sentenced to listen to Barry Manilow songs. I think this is a bit harsh, but it reminded me that I have had several conversations about noses lately. (Four and a half, actually. How one can have a conversation about half a nose, or half a conversation about a whole one is rather complex and long winded, and it’s probably best you don’t ask.) However, I have disliked my nose for years – most especially since it went a bit weird after being broken. I am not certain that ‘bulbousness’ is a word, but regardless of semantics, it is for its unfortunate bulbousness that I am less than enamoured with my nose.
I'm not the only one of my acquaintances that feels this way (about their nose – if they all felt that way about my nose I'd not admit it here, I’d just sneak off to have it shrunk a bit. Fortunately the generalised olfactory paranoia relates to individual body-image issues, and isn't all focused in my direction.) It seems that disliking one's nose is common to my circle of friends, and this had me wondering why. Do people with issues surrounding their distinctly Roman profile instantly share some subconscious bond, triggered by subtly insecure body language signals? Or is it that people with freakish nasal landscapes naturally congregate together, like all the fat kids at school who sit at one table, whilst all the gingers sit in another (shadier) corner?
Of course, it could just be that I have noticed that body-image issues are commonplace in society in general, and that my micro-study serves to do nothing more than back up the statistics that rhinoplasty is the most often performed elective/cosmetic surgery. (I prefer still to think it's because people who hate their noses send out secret nose-twitching signs; recognised only by other members of the elite, in a clandestine crossover between the Masons and 'Bewitched'.)
The other songs played to the troublesome-teenagers in America are performed by childhood favourite Barney the Dinosaur. I used to think he was alright in a "will never be as good as Sesame Street" sort of a way; but then my sister went overboard in her fanatic appreciation of him, and there are only so many times one can hear those songs without wanting to rip the stuffing out of that big purple dinosaur and let an untidy gerbil nest in it. It is because of the trauma associated with my memories of Barney that I sympathise with the kids who are being forced to listen to him. My other gripe with Barney is that it’s because of him that I came to watch what must surely be classed as The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever.
That film is called Death To Smoochy. I actually shuddered when I typed that. Properly shuddered! That would have been brilliantly timed for dramatic effect if this was a video and not a written blog. I'm glad it's not being filmed though, as I washed my hair half an hour ago and it's still a bit damp, so I look like a drowned rat. …Come to think of it, that's probably why I am shivering. It's not repressed terror, I'm just a bit cold.
I was subjected to this film a few years ago when having a DVD marathon with my friend Tom, and after mentioning my phobia of Barney the Dinosaur he thought I'd like to watch a movie about the twisted backstage goings-on behind the scenes of a show like Barney. Now, there is technically nothing wrong with the film. It has Ed Norton and Robin Williams in it, and is directed by Danny DeVito. But it remains - for me - The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever. It's just too weird. I have tried to block a lot of it out, most especially the fuchsia-coloured rhinoceros "Smoochy," played by the aforementioned Eddie N.
I quite enjoyed the film in some respects, but only in the way people on I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here say they "enjoy" the bush tucker trials where they have to crawl through slime, and then roll in ants and let spiders crawl into their anus whilst they are doused in brandy and set on fire like some icky invertebrate-ridden Christmas pudding, (which not a single one of you will now eat this year. Good. Less chance of me setting anything else on fire when carrying a burning cake then.)
I just found the film very uncomfortable to watch (though I admit that having spiders scrabble into my arse would be worse.) Robin Williams' character "Rainbow Randolph" was a spiteful, bitter, bastard – which is not what I have come to expect from the man who brought the Genie to life with such aplomb in Aladdin – and Ed Norton's was naïve, embarrassing, and well, just a bit mental to be honest. The whole film was a bit mental! I think people who liked the surreal madness of Fight Club might like Death To Smoochy, as it did similar things to my already fragile sanity. I blame movies like that for a lot of the bonkers-randomness that goes on in my head actually.
Here’s a short, funny scene from the film (this doesn't showcase its nightmarish, insanity-provoking potential but I couldn't bring myself to watch other clips of the movie when sat here on my own with no chance of them not just running round and round my head like an evil version of the Moomins, (who I found a bit weird in their non-satanic format; so can only imagine the psychological scarring that could be caused by a malicious remake.)
Death To Smoochy: Get You Off've That Smack:
imdb blurbs for Death To Smoochy:
"Fired in disgrace, kids show host Randolph Smiley finds himself out on the street, while his replacement Sheldon Mopes, finds himself on the fast track to success with a new hit show as the proud purple rhino Smoochy. But things take a turn for the worst when Sheldon finds out that some of the people that he works with, and some he doesn't know he's working for, are all in it for the money. Meanwhile, Randolph is slowly turning insane with his only thoughts focusing on killing Smoochy and getting back to his life of luxury."
"In the cutthroat world of children's television, Rainbow Randolph, the corrupt, costumed star of a popular children's TV show, is fired over a bribery scandal and replaced by squeaky-clean Smoochy, a puffy fascia rhinoceros. As Smoochy catapults to fame - scoring hit ratings and the affections of a jaded network executive Randolph makes the unsuspecting rhino the target of his numerous outrageous attempts to exact revenge and reclaim his status as America's sweetheart."
After other – unrelated – events this week, I also blame my confuzzledness on my father. I'm not crazy; I have just inherited some of his talent for saying the most inappropriate and incredibly stupid thing possible, in any given situation. This week for example, he went to order Nan's new washing machine with his partner Sam (for the sake of clarity I could have said 'girlfriend' there, but I like the fact that some of you will have assumed the words "Dad," "partner," and "Sam," mean some kind of Biblical slash-fiction scenario.) Anyway, they went into the shop (which for the sake of argument we will say was Curry's, though I have no idea which electronics store they actually purchased the appliance from,) and after selecting a couple they liked, decided to take advantage of a sales promotion on an Indesit model. This would have been fine, had the sales clerk not queried the offer, protesting its very existence and denying all knowledge of the promotion. It was at this point that my Dad totally eclipsed all of my own recent ramblings, to commit a faux-par that left him cringing with the same depth of visceral dread that might accompany a viewing of Death To Smoochy, or an hour's exposure to Barry Mannilow.
Now, Dad – who really needs to get his eyes tested, but is too recalcitrant to do so (another trait I intend to henceforth blame on my DNA) – was pretty frazzled after a day working at a very busy time of year, countered the sales clerk's claims that the offer was not valid until the following day by pointing out a large sign on the other side of the shop and exclaiming "It says it is over there. Even I can see that!" to which the clerk replied; "I can't... I'm partially sighted."
It was then – somewhat too late – that Dad and Sam noticed the man's name badge also bore the words 'Please be patient, I am visually impaired.'
That spectacularly surpasses the only stupid thing I said today, and my stupid thing is only considered to be so by other people. I think it makes perfect sense. Well... It makes slightly imperfect sense, but that's sensible enough that I don't feel the need to change. The 'thing' currently the point of reference is that I have left the clock on my DVD player running an hour fast. This sounds a little odd, but I only made it worse when trying to explain to someone why I do so.
The thing is, if I have somewhere to be at a specific time, I need constantly jogging along to keep the motivation I need to not be lazy, and actually make the effort to ensure my life is moving at the correct pace, and in the right direction, to get me where I need to be. I often don't really experience the surge of determination needed until it appears that I am running out of time. Having the clock an hour fast means that I get that little panicked prompt 'not to be late,' early enough that I stand a chance of being on time. This is apparently a little unconventional, but it prevents me from succumbing to lethargy and constant tardiness.
As I typed that I noticed that my DVD Player thinks it is 5:30am. 5:30AM!!! I now want to get offline and go to sleep, despite having checked the alarm-clock and the one on my computer to reassure myself that I have an hour before it reaches that time. It's good motivation to unwind. Honest…
Don't look at me like that. It works. And if you really think it's weird, then from now on don’t blame medication or occasional bouts of misanthropic seclusion for my behaviour: know it is the fault of my paternal genetics and the influence of The Most Disturbing Film In The World, Ever.
Today I have been on an epic mission to de-clutter my living environ by reorganising my quarters to better embrace the principles of feng shui, and delight Laurence Llewellyn Bowen. It has been a long, arduous journey that began at the birth of day, and continued 'til it was, well, about primary-school age. (Okay, so I cleaned out the cupboard under the sink and it took up several morning-hours and one or two afternoon ones.) I also shuffled round stuff that my grandparents – who have lived in this house for 50 years – had stuffed in the back of drawers and forgotten in the deepest, darkest recesses of the pantry.
My grandmother is notorious for not throwing away food that she thinks may still be edible. She also has what she calls a "healthy suspicion of expiry dates." She sees them more as guidelines. In fact she sees the guidelines, and then chooses to pretend they are merely scurrilous rumours about when the food might go off, and by accepting them she would be pandering to gossip. My late grandfather and I used to pick out tins from the back of a stack and challenge each other to guess how many years out of date they were, before throwing them away while she was out. She claims it's because she was born in 1939, during WW2 and because rationing continued into the 50's she was hardwired to never waste ye olde vittles.
Today when clearing out the cupboards, I discovered she had bottles of children's cough syrup that expired in 1992, and some medicated ear drops with my name on which had a warning printed on the prescription label that read; "Discard one month after opening." She'd only kept them a little while longer than recommended. If you can call fourteen bloody years a "little while!" There was also a large can of Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup that was bowed and bulging as all sorts of nasty chemical-y things happened inside of it. It looked about ready to explode, so of course I delicately wrapped it in newspaper and placed it in the wheelie bin gently, didn't I? Well... No. I peered at it warily before removing it from the cupboard rather gingerly Рgrasping it as one might a grizzly, flailing toddler covered in drool Рand then dropped it unceremoniously into a bin liner, right onto a dusty jam-jar with a desiccated daddy-long-legs in it, where it burst open and filled the sack with fermenting tomato cr̬me.
I also discovered this brand new saucepan which was still in its box and was sporting what I thought was "cool retro packaging." It's not: it just really has been sat on the shelf in its box since the 60's when Nan was still working for a local hardware shop called "Light's." I questioned the logic of remembering purchasing a saucepan but never remembering that it was in the cupboard when she needed to use one, and was told to "go and make a cup of tea."
60's Saucepan:
After removing all the tins that were past their sell by date (including a jar of frankfurters that contained enough bacteria to have successfully invaded Poland,) and re-discarding half the tins Nan rescued as "perfectly edible," I had cleared about half the kitchen. I have so far discovered several packets of tea-light candles, nine large boxes of "these will come in handy if there's a power-cut" candles, three soap dishes, seven large bottles of fairy washing up liquid, four and a half china teapots and three stainless steel ones; including one designed to make twenty cups of tea which was last used at a street party for the Queen Elizabeth's jubilee. It had so much dust on it that I'd not like to guess which jubilee – or even which Queen Elizabeth. I suggested giving it to the charity shop, but Nan wanted to keep it "in case we have a family party." I added up all the people in our immediate family, and even including their kids and spouses there's no way we'd need to make 20 cups of tea. Besides which, full up it'd be bloody heavy. Whoever was making the tea in that would e inevitably scald themselves and need rushing to the burns unit. (Which in itself would mean there were two less people who'd be having a brew; further proving my point that we don't need that huge teapot.)
I chucked out about 40 cans of food that were past their expiration dates, and a dead mouse (though I don't know when that expired. I have been watching the first and second series of Bones this week and did poke it with a party cocktail stick to see if I had learned anything about forensic science that might help me determine when the mouse had met its end, but not wanting to get too close in case it stank, and not really knowing enough about rodent pathology to determine if it had rigor mortis, my Quincy Jones moment was scuppered when the cat tried to eat it and nearly set the other mousetrap off.)
Tuppence "helping" me to sort the cupboards:
I also found a box of kids’ toys that had been packed away for years, and which had been favourites of mine when I was very little. There was a little yellow rabbit in the collection which I have seen photographs of myself with in the pram when I was only about the same size as the cat. I also discovered one of a trio of puppets that were given to my sister and I when we were very young and my grandparents dog died. We were too little to understand, and so the powers that be (who in that Orwellian kindergarten-era were pretty much just ‘Nan and Grandad’) decided that we should be fed the "she's gone to live on a farm" tale so many kids are presented with when a parent wishes not to corrupt their children’s innocence with mammalian bereavement. Only in this case, they were well aware that if they told me that the dog had gone to live on a farm I'd want to visit, so they paid me off with Sooty, Sue and Sweep puppets – which were supposedly leaving presents from the dog, but which I suspect were indeed not bought by her at all. That she purchased toys to soften the blow of her departure would be leap enough, but would also involve my believing her to have foretold her own death: and a psychic dog is a little far-fetched even for me.
Rabbit, and 'Sue' puppet in the background to the right:
All in all it was a reasonably productive day, though I still have half of the kitchen to sort and will undoubtedly encounter lots more things that either need dusting down, throwing away, or re-lubricating with a few well aimed squirts of Mr Muscle.
I did take a moment out of my busy cleansing ritual to discuss this weeks’ oddest news items; which comprised of a lingerie model who has not got a navel and finds herself constantly refuting claims she is an alien, and a kitten with two faces. By that I do not mean that it was duplicitous; telling its owner how much it loves the new jingly-ball toy and then slagging off their paltry attempts at entertainment every time it had a check up with the vet – no, I mean it was some sort of freaky conjoined twin-thing, or chimera, and had two distinct faces attached to the one head and body. Because it is a kitten (or would that be because "they are kittens?") it was still cute though, even though its face was mental. It will probably be an ugly cat though.
Double-Headed Kitten:
(Note to anyone who comments to bring me bad news of this kitten's fate: I am aware that mutant animals don't usually live very long, but I am not going to Google it to see if it has gone to live on a farm somewhere, and particularly do not wish for you anti-agriculturalists to tell me there is no farm, and that it's a lie perpetuated by the Vatican to make people more receptive to the panic buying of carrots.)
YouTube link to freaky-cat:
If the kitten hires Max Clifford as its agent, it could probably use its story of a tragic childhood to launch a perfume and take over the Iceland adverts job from Kerry Katona. She was in Atomic Kitten, so they are obviously a company willing to employ increasingly ugly-looking ageing felines of no discernable talent but much publicised personal misfortune.
