The Mighty Ding

The Unforgivable Angel Clare

2008-10-10T21:36:00.001+01:00

I have just finished watching Tess of the D'Urbervilles and cannot believe how relentless it is. I've read the book (twice) and still find it shockingly, hopelessly bleak. It is not the cruel, insatiable Alec D'Urberville who is the villain of the peice, but Angel Clare. And it is not his leaving of Tess which is the betrayal of the book, but his love for her, when he does not have the moral fibre or courage to see it through. That is what leaves me in tears, the inevitable truth that it will be those who love us most that will wound us the worst.

Some people don't like Hardy, because his work is flowery and heavy going, but he is an author that deserves time and effort. His stories may be somewhat fantastical, but the emotional depth is authentic, and he was a man that championed women and the under-priviledged, at a time when to show decency and morality in a "fallen" woman was scandalous.

Career Change

2008-09-11T10:25:00.002+01:00

Oh dear, where did the blogging go??

Anyhoos, Pa Ding has started his prep, and is now on the road to (hopefully) curesville, UK.

And I have been looking at the news, and found this little story:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/7609330.stm

This may be of limited interest to most folks, although I know at least one (ahem Monky) who cares for this kinda stuff. But what made me take notice is that I heard a rumour a while back that this lady once attended the very same school as I. Anyone who knows that school will realise that this probably wasn't the career they were looking for, for one of "their girls". Well HA HA HA is all I can say.

Tick Tock Time

2008-08-14T14:12:00.004+01:00

Papa Ding is coming over tonight, having recently fallen to a new low by forgetting Ma Ding's birthday and then, apparently, accusing her of being overweight. Think he might get away with it, due to his illness, but still ... what an idiot, and poor Ma Ding.

Also suddenly feel very strange about seeing him for the first time since I learnt he's having the TX. It's a subject that I've thought about logically in my head but which I have avoided emotionally. It seems an inevitable cruelty that when time is precious, it is also pre-occupied with anxiety about it running out. These are times to enjoy not endure, and yet they are almost unbearable.

Papa Ding

2008-08-11T16:57:00.003+01:00

It is finally happening. Papa Ding is booked in for his Bone Marrow Transplant, and the next few months are going to be a big ol' fight to conquer the dreaded lurgy. I know too much about the toll of this process to be filled with joy about it, but I also know that this is a potential life-saver, and could well give poor Papa Ding a few more years on this earth, which he surely deserves. And how amazing that a complete stranger should give him this chance. I don't know who they are, what they do, or even what part of the world they live in, but they (probably some ordinary Joe working 9 to 5) could well be saving a life, by donating a few days of their life, and a few stem cells that they don't need in any case. I just wish more people overcame their scaredyness, ignorance (or in some cases pure bad attitude), to sign up for the same thing. How many times in your own lifetime are you handed the opportunity to potentially, and directly, save a person's life? I think (and I thought this before Papa Ding was diagnosed) that I would feel immensely priviledged to be given that opportunity.... I can't do anything directly for Papa Ding, except be around, support, and keep all my fingers and toes crossed. This is going to be a tough time, but a necessary one.

Folk You One and All

2008-08-06T12:42:00.006+01:00

There's been a bit of a gap in the old blogging, mainly for the yearly event that is the Cambridge Folk Festival. Twas a bit rainy but excellent, as always. Luckily we were saved by Mac and Willy bringing a "sitooterie" (Scots for gazebo, apparently, or so a fellow drunken camper informed us). This year's highlights, for me, were:

Chris Woods - http://www.bbc.co.uk/music/release/v4mq/
Back to basics Kent singer-songwriter, bit political, and very profound. Sung a song about pushy parents and teenage suicide that had me and Choc Chip feeling a bit "emotional".

The Imagined Village - http://imaginedvillage.com/
Pretentious sounding collective re-examining "Englishness" through traditional music, that turned out to be crazy genius, and brought the house down on Saturday.

Laura Marling - http://www.lauramarling.com/
Apparently from Reading (originally) which made me feel some big old Berkshire solidarity, but also oh-so-sickeningly-talented-and-only-18. Her styling suggests she might be one of those annoying teenagers that is too cool for school, but her songs are really rather intelligent and beautiful. Also had a band member whose beautiful blue eyes had nearly all of us (boys included) feeling a bit swoony. Yum.

The Cherryholmes - http://cherryholmes.musiccitynetworks.com/
A proper rhinestone-bedecked redneck family band from Nashville... bearded papa, strangely moustachioed sons, unfeasibly glamourous mama and daughters, and some very impressive clog-dancing in unison. What is there not to love!?

And honourable mention to Seth Lakemen, who need only turn up and wave his fiddle about a bit, to make me smile, these days. Top folk totty for the nth year in a row....

Got back home and promptly set off for hospital, where MG was still recuperating having had a "funny turn" following his operation. He is a terrible patient, and seems to have passed out at the mere thought of what they'd done to his broken ankle. When they finally let him out, he vowed never to return, before having a panic attack about a rash he'd developed (not meningitis or septecaemia, me and his female housemate firmly assured him) and then wigged out that he'd got his cast wet and it had "warped" (a couple of drops of water that had clearly had no effect whatsoever) before finally panicking that his foot was swelling up and sticking to his plastercast (also happily untrue). But however bad a patient he is, it does make me rather happy (and immensely more patient than I would normally be) that he was so grateful to see me, and was instantly brightened by a simple thing like a hug. A silly, but rather lovely, man, methinks. He also had me smiling like a Cheshire cat this morning when he said that me being clever was one of the many things he loved about me. For a girl that takes great pride in not being a dumb barbie, he couldn't have hit the spot more sweetly!

Gone Done Broke Himself

2008-07-23T20:56:00.004+01:00

Just as summer gets well into swing, MG has gone done broken his ankle. He was doing something "heroic" during a game of baseball, and got his studs stuck in the ground. The astounding part was, that despite hearing a crack and seeing his foot turn the wrong way, it took him two days to go to hospital (after some gentle persuasion from moiself). So all those summer adventures planned: the boating, the inevitable sinking, and the folking (no pun intended), have had to be put on ice, and MG is now all plastercasted and melancholy. Watching him painfully ascend the stairs, on his knees, and then back down again on his bum, was half hilarious and half tragic. One advantage of being stuck in the house is that MG took the time to teach me Texas Hold 'Em poker, and I now feel the gambling bug a-growing. Don't think I'd ever want to bet real money but it would be nice to start playing with friends, and seeing if I can perfect a cast-iron poker face (unlikely).

The Inner Fat Person

2008-07-16T16:38:00.003+01:00

Oh boy, need to get to bed on time, need to stop getting fat, need to not slouch at my computer like Gollum. Moaned about being fat to MG yesterday, and explained how I was ramping up the cycling to work / swimming (inspired by Troy "swimming the channel"). Wearing the expression of someone walking below an avalanche prone overhang, he gave me his helpful diet tips - basically not eating dinner EVER. Now I'm sure this works very well, but the idea of not eating dinner makes me sad. And the whole notion of being told not to eat dinner by a very skinny person riles the inner fat person in me. He was just trying to be helpful and I did bring up the subject, but my increasingly terse facial expression gave away that he was not required to reply to my mumblings about weight, merely nod sympathetically and tell me how lovely I looked. You would have thought men would have learnt this trick by now, shirley!?!

My Band, My Album

2008-07-08T15:15:00.003+01:00

Future of Identity in the Information Society

presents

FOR A RAMBLING FANCY

"Ironic and profound...or tuneless toss? F.I.I.S have yet again produced an album that confounds categorisation" Ham and High

Something to amuse yourself (idea originally found my me, after random internet trawling, then committed to blogdom by Earth Girl, and then stolen back off her for this blog!):

1 - Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to Random quotations: http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to flickr's "explore the last seven days" http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Conversing with the Outdoor Drinking Club

2008-07-01T21:44:00.004+01:00

SCENE IS SET OUTSIDE SAINSBURY ON STOW HIGH STREET

Drunk: Good evening lady

Me: Er...good evening

Drunk: You from New Zealand? Germany?

Me: Er...no...London

Drunk: You're English! You're well upper class English!

Me: Er right...not really no

Drunk: (in sarcastic tone) YEAH YOU ARE. How's your daddy these days?

Me: (slightly exasperated) He's dead [not true obviously]

Drunk: Oh....bet he left you loads of inheritance though didn't he??

Me: NO

Drunk: (in sudden change of tack, and to snorts of derision from fellow drunk) Do you think I'm attractive?

Me: Er...

Fellow drunk: (half to themselves) When you lose a loved one...yeah when you lose a loved one...my dad's dead too...

Drunk: Because a lot of people say I am very attractive!

Me: Well if people say it, then I suppose it must be true...

Drunk: Yeah, yeah!! I can see that you find me attractive, yeah you're thinking about me and panting ... I can see it!

Me: (to more snorts of derision from fellow drunk) I think you're letting your imagination run away with you there a little

Drunk: (sort of moony eyed) You're a really nice girl. I like your type of girl. Nice and PLAIN.

Me: (rolling eyes) Oh THANK you. That's really something.

FINALLY MANAGE TO UNLOCK MY BIKE

Sickie Cyclist

2008-06-30T13:14:00.002+01:00

I am officially sick of being sick. I finally dragged myself to the doctors today, after a lengthy period of trying to home-cure myself, and have got hold of some drugs (yippee). I now have official paranoia that this is a recurrence of last years health problems (requiring the chop shop), and have fairly well convinced myself that my current symptoms are an early sign of doom, and that I should be carted off to hospital ASAP. However, when I tentatively suggested this to the doc today, he just looked stern, and said "lets not overcomplicate things, shall we?". He is so old, he shuffles stooped into the consulting room, and looks like he might require urgent medical treatment himself at any moment. I find this a little unnerving, as it's not dissimilar to trying to tell all your personal problems to your own grandad.

However, these are but minor things, and otherwise all is well with the world... went to see Naz and Boo at the weekend, which involved lots of looking at wedding photos. Boo just looked GORGEOUS and FLAWLESS and AMAZING in every photo, which made me a little envious. I also saw Dion, for the first time, since he did that asking-me-out-and-then-running-away lark, that frightened blokes are wont to do. He is still Dion, good humoured and completely immoral, and inadvertently reminded me how things do generally work out for the good, in the end. The idea of going out with him now seems pretty ludicrous, when so many better things are on offer.

Bon Jovi Said

2008-06-24T12:15:00.002+01:00

I am accidently listening to Teddy Thompson. He has a song entitled "Bon Jovi Said". Surely any song featuring references to the mulletted soft rock god should be light-hearted, amusing, enjoyable, no?? Alas, Teddy is such a miserable twit, that even this song makes you want to slit your wrists and/or fall into a coma.

CHEER THE FUCK UP.

Also Teddy has a penchant for writing songs about how shit his dad is. Fair enough. But, from my understanding, his dad left the family YEARS AGO. He didn't lose contact. Teddy is now thirty-something and still managing to ramble about it. His dad is also magnanimous enough to play guitar on a lot of the tracks in which Teddy rants about how shit he is. Which surely means he can't be that bad? Of course, I don't know the family situation, but I just want Teddy to shut up about it, and sing something nice for once.... and if you do have to write songs of rage against a unreliable parent, try and be eloquent about it, rather than just whingy. Teddy could look no further than his big gay friend Rufus Wainwright for some pointers.

That said, I do love "Brink of Love" by the Teddster. A truly lovely song.

Candle in the Wind

2008-06-23T17:51:00.003+01:00

Had a lovely weekend, which involved some paper-boating to celebrate the summer solstice. It turned out that we hadn't completely thought through the location, as the particular stretch of the Lea Vallety navigation we chose was a) filled with dubious scum b) pontoonless - making the water out of reach of human hand. Many a poor paper boat and/or tea light carped it, in the resulting drop from bank to river.... but, of the multicoloured flotilla produced by myself, Choc Chip, Romba, Shaggy, Schwesty, Euripides, and MG, a few hardy boats made it down river, flickering prettily in the night. The boat we dedicated to the absent Monky proved the most hardy - still shining brightly as we left, and threatening to set a few (real) boats alight on the way. Eek.

On Sunday, following a a jaunt into the village for a very nice sunday roast, me and MG then tried to set a world record for the longest siesta ever attempted - went for a snooze at 3 pm, emerged at 10pm. The best bit is knowing that you have fuck all to do, and not feeling guilty for a second. Did slightly fuck with my body clock, though, and found myself blinking like a crazy woman in the early hours of this morning.

Still managed to cycle into work, though!! Pat on the back for me. Have decided that it is definitely time to get back on the fitness wagon as a) am getting fat b) potentially have someone to admire my loveliness.... so probably shouldn't let myself go too much.

AM QUITE HAPPY. FRIGHTENING. BOUND TO GO WRONG.

Oh Yes

2008-06-18T13:04:00.002+01:00

If more cheering up is needed, then click on this link:

http://www.readingfc.premiumtv.co.uk/page/Gallery/0,,10306~1326086,00.html

This is like golddust to me ha ha ha.

Not Enough Ginge

2008-06-17T09:25:00.003+01:00

For some reason, am feeling a bit maudlin this morning. So have decided to resurrect that well known pick-me-up of uploading a bit of ginger eye-candy to stare at. Mmm, the lovely Teddy Thompson. You may be a miserable barsteward. You may be looking slightly smirky because there's some dark-eyed beauty standing behind you, being intense. But hey, you are ginge of the top drawer. Yuhum.

Photo Woe

2008-06-15T21:12:00.000+01:00

Can't decide if my inability to upload my holiday piccies onto this blog is because of a) my stupid computer b) my own stupid incompetence c) some other stupid unknown factor? Bahh. I need techie help!

Girl in Need of a Slap

2008-06-12T20:19:00.000+01:00

That would be me. MG took me out again last night, and introduced yet another unexpected facet of loveliness. So, I end up this morning sat at a far off tube station, at 5.45am, looking a little dishevelled, eating a veggie scotch egg for breakfast (yum), and caught somewhere between smugness and panic. I may be in trouble, of a big moon-shaped variety. And I don't mean of the "papa don't preach" variety. Must try to stay positive. But must not care too much. MUST TRY.

Choc Chip has kindly offered to do the slapping honours, should I start to display the signs of pathetic punch-drunk mooniness. I therefore must prepare myself for a big hand shaped mark on my face in the near future! In honour of my life as a dumb inevitable creature, a (newish) poem:

This Familiar

The lambs run from the train and yet,
It cuts this way, through the glen,
Eight times a day. Oh this familiar feeling,
This too familiar thing: as known as the Rogart rain
Or the Finnstown wind. Like an empty resevoir,
My heart; like a morning moor, your skin, I will feel
The trickle, the sweet agony of blood
Returning to a rested limb and,
As sure as the lambs run from the train,
Will my heart fill again.

The African Queen

2008-06-09T12:53:00.003+01:00

So I spent most of this weekend boating with MG. In what must count as one of the most superb impulse purchases of all time, MG (and his housemate) bought themselves a floating caravan... and MG kindly invited me on board as "cabin crew".

I think I can safely say that, after drifting along a leafy river in Surrey, crashing into a lock (MG was driving), getting actually stuck in a lock, sipping Pimms floats endlessly, and many more earthly pleasures beside, that I am now at the MOONY stage with MG. He is little and cute and endured my front-seat driving, general fear of the sun, general fear of speed and gear changes, and super-chavvy shorts (purchased in Primark minutes before he picked me up) with great grace. I also had a "little word" with him about the fact that we had, in my opinion, reached the stage where I expected him to "stick around", which he answered quickly and (most importantly) correctly.

Now, I have that horrible pit-of-stomach feeling, which comes with CARING. I must repeat this mantra to myself "must stay positive, must not fear the worst". Ahhhh.

Where the Sun Doesn't Stop Shining

2008-06-01T21:29:00.003+01:00

The gap in blogging has not been pure laziness. I have just returned from a two-week holiday in the Orkney and Shetland Islands, which was supreme....

The first week (in Orkney) was with Ma 'Ding. It was originally intended to be a bit of a family event, to co-incide with the folk festival, and to spend time with Pa 'Ding, whose health is a bit precarious. Sadly, due to hospital "stuff", Pa 'Ding had to be left behind ,with Schwesty to act as nurse. So me and Ma 'Ding were left to have a week of solid bickering. I knew that this was bound to happen as we have our differences. It's never catastrophic arguments, and I do love her to bits, but I do object to her fussing over stuff - I just wish she'd turn her attention to her more significant and destructive habits, rather than what she eats, how high that hill is, whether it is past her bed time blah blah blah. Unfortunately I do tend to act like a kid around her, and it all gets a bit stupid. Luckily, though, once the music had started, we had something to distract us. And the Orkney Islands themselves are sensational - friendly, packed with great scenery, loads of historic sites (I went inside a neolithic burial chamber wooooo), and I even had an unlikely opportunity to dribble over a handsome young bagpipe player (from a distance obviously).....

Then I went onto the Shetlands alone. It's a different world, the scenery is extremely dramatic, and the people so friendly it's frightening... I couldn't move a step, with my suitcase, without some chap wanting to help. One practically ran the full length of a street to help me up some steps. And once I'd unburdened myself of my hefty luggage, I ended up walking miles and miles and miles. I tried to see some puffins, but unfortunately the afternoon I went onto Hermaness Head was the one iffy-weather day of my holiday, and when the howling gale and mist set in, I did seriously contemplate whether I've ever find my way home. Luckily I thought of lovely big cuddly Ray Mears, and everything seemed to work out! The puffins, however, had wisely run away to find shelter so I never did see them. D'oh.

I also had a weird "spotted". Whilst staying in a converted RAF station on the northern most tip of the northern most inhabited island in the UK (on a level with Greenland) I spotted Nick Berry (Eastenders, Heartbeat...) having dinner with his family! I also got befriended by some local folks (fairly tipsy they were), who bought me endless whiskies, and gave me their address, making me promise that I'd come back, and tell anyone I knew to come to the Shetlands, and stay in their house! That seemed to be the general Shetlands attitude, just bubbling with enthusiasm and helpfulness. I think they're fairly isolated and just pleased to welcome anyone! Other honourable mentions must go to Helga and Janet (retired lesbian?? travellers who I kept bumping into all over the place), Jim the Youth Hostel Warden (who offered me a lift everywhere), the English bloke on the Unst Ferry who invited me on a maiden voyage in his new dinghy (I politely declined, as I was slightly scared), and the bus driver who went on diversion just to drop me at a supermarket (I needed some washing powder), and also the lady who showed me how to spin wool and knit with a knitting belt at the Heritage Centre on Unst (I was unsurprisingly crap!).

And to the endless sunlight, the beautiful sunset on Norwick sands at about 11pm on my final evening on Shetland, and to all the old and evocative ruins (all over Orkney and Shetland) which I spent hours clambering around. If you like a bit of space, are lucky with the weather (I was), and have somebody like-minded with you, I think it would be an immensely romantic place to go for a break.

I will try and post some piccies (I took about a zillion, but am currently missing the upload lead) to prove the loveliness of the Northern Isles though I might have to edit out the many dull and "experimental" ones!

Now, alas, after a mammoth three ferries, two buses, one train, and a ride on the underground (two days travelling in total) it is back to the frickin' grind. Arggggg. Argggggggg. Argggggggggggg.

The Mighty Ding are on the move....

2008-05-11T16:56:00.000+01:00

Downwards, to the Championship. Oh well. They're still my boys!!

Ka-ka-racking it

2008-05-11T16:20:00.000+01:00

Oh my, what a lovely day it is, but I am stuck inside listening to the sick-to-the-stomach-show that is the mighty 'ding's fight to stave off relegation. At the mo, we're doing everything in our power (winning 2-0) to stay up, but we're totally reliant on Fulham NOT winning. Argggg. At the moment it's 0-0 so it's real nerve-wrangling stuff.

Onto other news, though: got dumped by Rocksalt, which is actually a bit of a blessed relief, as was having some mental difficulties coping with the 2-man situation! Plus, although Rocksalt treated me exceedingly well, I think it is fair to say we didn't share a whole lot in common.

Also, have successfully managed to book Cambridge Folk Festival tickets without about six hours of pressing redial - yeh! Which gives me - and Choc Chip, Romba, Schwesty, Troy, Mr and Mrs Pedro + others - a long weekend to look forward to, of Perry-drinking and great music.

Now it all hangs on the 'ding to make or break this day. It's now 3-0!! But that barely matters now. Come of Pompey!!! Come on Bulmershe boy Ashdown (in goal for Pompey)!!

FUCK YOU POMPEY!! FULHAM NOW WINNING. WE NOW NEED TO SCORE A MERE FOUR GOALS TO SURVIVE. I SHALL START MENTALLY PREPARING FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP NOW.

Ahhhhh

Keeping Count

2008-05-06T22:06:00.001+01:00

Oh and for anyone trying to keep count (you've probably actually drifted off to sleep at this point) - Rocksalt was date no. 1 (now four dates down the line), and MG man was date no. 4 (who, despite being petite of stature and having one of the worst jobs in the world, still managed to impress me), and there has been a date no. 5 also, who was a man who had EVERYTHING I could ever dream of, in terms of the lifestyle (life as a rich, part-time country wife beckoned....), but was an utter buffoon. It's actually quite fun, when I think about it, maybe I ought to cheer the fuck up!

May I apologise for the amount of swearing contained in these recent blogs. Poor show.

Bad Conscience

2008-05-06T21:33:00.000+01:00

Oh it's been a bit of a loopy-loo week. Old pa 'Ding has been in and out of hospital, thankfully remaining in fairly good spirits (the view from his room is probably one of the best you'll get in London), and I have also been out and about. All the complications (good and bad) have left me feeling pretty tired, really, though not messed up at all.

Also am experiencing what can only be described as "romance" courtesy of Rocksalt (for I think he may deserve his own blog name now). Rocksalt has taken me out a few times now, paid for my dinner, said nice things about me, and even taken me to see a show on Monday as a surprise. It makes me realise that I have never experienced this old fashioned kind of stuff before (the type of men I've been out with in the past have fallen mainly into two categories: has money but isn't nice; is nice but hasn't any money) and I'm finding it a weird, almost guilty experience. Shaggy and Clam have been trying to counsel me with their "enjoy it while you can" attitude. To be fair, they've not got the best track record when it comes to romance, but I see where they're coming from. It's true, that the way that I met Rocksalt not being very traditional, means I have no idea what attitude he is taking to all this. I almost certainly am not the "only one"...

Which brings me onto another conundrum. Rocksalt is not currently my "only one". A quieter, far more unassuming, fellow took me for a drive and sunday lunch, at the weekend, in his convertible classic sports car (ha ha ha), which was a frighteningly "authentic" motoring experience..... in between trying to remain ladylike with hair and skirt blowing in a hurricane on the north-circular (beautiful scenery ahem), choking on the hot petrol fumes emanating from the overheating engine, and desperately attempting (and failing) to stifle my laughs every time we got stuck at a traffic light, and the poor red slightly rusty MG, shuddered into a badly timed stall, I had a rather superb time. Now, having never been this popular before, and not wanting to count my chickens before they're hatched, I have no idea WHAT THE FUCK TO DO!! Shaggy and Clam are all "take advantage". But I'm all feeling guilty, like I should make a choice. I am not, after all, in an episode of Sex and the City, so this does not feel like correct behaviour to me. And yet what the fuck is internet dating for, but for such stupidity??

Wait ages for one bus to come along and then....... I will probably fall into the road and get run down by three in a row. Grrrreaaatt.

Posh Nosh and more

2008-04-27T10:05:00.002+01:00

Dates - had a couple more, one was alright but was more like an evening with a pal, and the other was with a very short man, who defied all my prejudice about stature by winning me over by the end of the evening. However, he was very difficult to read, so don't know if that is going anywhere. Oh and have second date with the first date today, if that makes sense. Urg I'm exhausted.

Happily, did do something a bit different on Friday, going for some posh nosh with Troy at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. We spent a lot of money, despite having a special deal (it's all in the drinks!!), but the portions were generous and the service impeccable. They didn't treat you like scum that had just walked in off the street, which is excellent, as the last semi-posh place I went to for food, we had to wait about ten hours between courses, and there was not so much as an apology for keeping us waiting....

Troy was looking very glamorous, though was half-crippling herself with some lovely shoes! I'm still trying to persuade Troy to get some babies (and I don't encourage many people to do that) as she would be brilliant at that lark... I think it will happen, and then I can be the evil (not real) auntie 'Ding!

Oh and got sunstroke yesterday going on an NT trip. Typical. First sign of summer and, despite sensible hat wearing and all, had to spend the evening lying in a darkened room! Bahhh.

Date in the Diary Part Deux

2008-04-21T13:00:00.002+01:00

Hmmm, am I going to turn this blog into a dating diary? Hopefully not... it's not my aim anyway. But seeing as I have nought else to talk about at the moment:

I went on another date with a different fellow. This was less successful. I was treading the toy boy route, and discovered it to be not altogether to my taste. He was a really sweet lad, and another total gent, but just waaaay too enthusiastic and touchy-feely. Schwesty jokingly asked whether I'd ever thought I'd see the day when a 25-year old was too young??! But alas, it has come, and my old, cynical bones won't stand for youthful, keen people any more!! So I've had to give him the old heave-ho (which even after one date was really difficult - showing how pathetic I am and how long a time it's been since I've ever had a choice on such matters!)

And oh my, I've just received a text from date number one wanting to go out tonight, which given that I'm (in a world first for my anti-social self) already going out Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday this week, is a bit much.... I might die. Hmmm, I'll have to postpone him. Oh this popularity lark, better enjoy it while it lasts! Don't worry I'll be back to my usual bored and lonesome self soon enough....

Date in the Diary

2008-04-16T11:56:00.002+01:00

I know that there are some people keen to know what an internet date is like: well now I know! It is not too bad actually. Bit nerve-racking but not embarrassing , and for the first time in ages (or possibly ever) I was wined and dined by someone with enough money to slap down the cashola without a second thought, which (although I am not money obsessed) is actually a rather nice feeling. My date was a courteous 30-something shipping agent, who spent twelve years at sea, but now works in the big bucks world of moving oil and the like across the globe. He talked rather a lot about his work, but as the evening progressed, I realised that this was probably just nerves, and he chilled out a bit and the topic widened. I'm not counting my chickens but it was really enjoyable, and I hope a sign of the "standard" (terrible term) of fellas selling their ware to lonely dames on the tinterweb....

Too close to the sun...

2008-04-13T18:46:00.002+01:00

Have just returned from a wet and cold London marathon with Choc Chip and (before that) a splendid night out with Monky, Choc Chip and the Swiss Miss. Monky was wearing her most outrageous rubber dress, which only someone with a blimmin fabulous figure (as Monky has) could get away with...

We got home, a few cocktails later, and managed to catch the end of "Solaris" with George Clooney. Was reminded of what a very beautiful and meditative film this is... unrushed, beautiful music, subtle performances, and (for once) a sex scene that lingers on the curves of a naked male rather than female. Must watch in full again....

Have just had the cheekiest cat waltz into the house to try and eat Da Bobster's food (again). The cheekiness is natural, I suppose, but the fact that after being manhandled out of the house no less than three times in three minutes, that he marches back in and hides under the table, to try and have another go ... well what a little git!! And he is definitely no stray. He is a very well fed kittie. Bahhhh!!

Motherless Child

2008-04-08T12:53:00.002+01:00

I spent Sunday evening at the local folk club with Shaggy, listening to an "illustrated talk on the life and songs of Paul Robeson". I didn't know too much about Robeson except he sang "Ol' Man River" and was a serious actooooorrrr, at a time when being black and a serious actooooorrrrr didn't really compute. It was quite an amateurish talk by a tubby shantyman type with a banjo, but was nonetheless an interesting education on a man who was the equal of any (he was a talented lawyer, athlete, actor and singer) but who was scandalously shackled by a system that just couldn't see past his skin colour. Eventually he found himself even sidelined by the Civils Rights movement because of his rather naive involvement with Soviet communism (at a time when that wasn't the done thing)...

It turns out that he thought a great deal of Britain, which although far from perfect in the race stakes, was not segregated, and gave him the opportunity to play Othello at Stratford for a full five years. Unfortunately it was also in Britain where he was treated with unbelievably excessive amounts of ECT for depression, which left him a shadow of his previous self. The shantyman chap played various excerpts from Robeson's songs and speeches, throughout his lifetime. If you have not heard his singing, he has the most insanely low-deep voice, which has a resonance that could pitchfork your heart. The first song played was perhaps the one that got to me most - Sometimes I Feel (Like a Motherless Child) - an old negro spiritual:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCImJbG-OcI

A brilliant man, who also managed to have affairs with absolutely every woman he ever met. Respect and more respect due!

Backstabarama

2008-04-05T11:52:00.004+01:00

I recently regaled Monky with some work woes which were making me anxious, and after said discussion, I came away knowing I HAD to do something. So, having already spoken informally with both my boss, and her boss, about my concerns about a certain member of staff, I finally committed something to writing - stating exactly how incompetent I thought she was. It was hard to do, and I tried to word it as constructively as I could ("not sure she is coping with the workload blah blah blah") and to my absolute shock yesterday ...

she got sacked! I'm pretty certain that my bosses must have already had complaints (probably from hospitals) but it still came as a mighty surprise. I work at a place where you would have to stick a pencil in your boss' eye, shouting "you c**t", to get the sack, so the mistakes already made must have been serious. I guess my letter was the final nail in the coffin. I'm not going to pretend I felt sad, I just felt f**king relieved, when my boss told me. Last week, I came the nearest I have ever come to a full-on anxiety attack, with quite scary palpitations and nausea, just THINKING about what my incompetent colleague was doing. And yesterday as my boss and her boss finally looked through all her files, in her vacated office, I felt a weight lift, because I knew I would no longer be part of a team that might kill someone out of pure incompetence.

I have a little bit of respect now for my bosses, but still think that they are at least partially to blame for employing this person in the first place. She was an internal candidate (among about 6 others applying from within) and it was to the absolute astonishment of EVERYONE when she got the job, above others who were clearly much better candidates. I don't like to play the race card but a cynical part of me wonders if her background gave her a helping hand, and her employment had something to do with creating a more "diverse" team. I say that only because I cannot think of a single other reason which would have made her seem suitable for the position... and sadly she was a perfectly pleasant person, supporting a young child, and losing her job will be a real blow. They have offered her a position lower down, if she wishes to take it, but it would be a brave person to do that having been sacked. So from having a job she could do just fine, she is probably now going to find herself struggling to get by - and all because of a super-shit decision by management in the first place.

So, after a slightly dramatic day (which also involved a fire in our office that fooked our server, and an emergency trip by me to central london to hand a brown envelope of cash to a stranded colleague) I fell into the local pub exhausted. C.I.Der and GingerCnut were on hilarious form, as usual, though Shaggy is still having serious personal woes. C.I.Der is fond of a party, and soon enough her and Shaggy were having their own little party, away from other onlookers and involving vices of a non-alcoholic and "high class" nature. I was slightly pissed at her and Shaggy - not least because Shaggy's excuse for this is that it "relaxes her before she goes home, and how I'd understand if I was as stressed as her" . I do understand the stress thing, but I think self-medicating against anxiety is about as disastrous an attempt at a healing process as you're likely to find. C.I.Der is a seasoned party animal but with a stable life. Shaggy is not. With Shaggy a car-crash was already on the cards, but now I find myself praying it involves a broken bumper and not a total f**king write-off.

Viewing Men as Sex Objects....

2008-03-31T13:43:00.003+01:00

... is completely acceptable in this case. Oh Roque. May I spend many more hours giggling childishly with Monky, as we admire your wanton loveliness. Sigh.

Late Nighter

2008-03-25T00:47:00.002Z

Rescued what could have been an entirely wasted bank holiday weekend by going to the Natural History Museum with Troy, to look at the Wildlife Photography of the Year exhibition. Was very very very busy, of course, but totally worth it. There was one photo by Chris Packham. Hubba!! Then we went to see "Lars and the Real Girl"which was a completely unexpected treasure. I kinda thought a film about a loner falling in love with a sex doll might be full of cheap laughs, but it was actually very sweet. You had to slightly suspend your disbelief but, if you went with the flow, it was hugely moving, and I had to hold back the old tears on more than one occasion. Strongly recommended!

Troy was very good company, of course, and we discussed the usual old subjects: our attempts at adult learning, and the wonderful world of singledom. I mentioned the fact that I have embarked (very tentatively) on the murky world of internet dating. It came about as I whiled away yet another dull weekend, and decided that I couldn't just let life pass me by any longer...

The result was frankly frightening, as I suddenly started getting "winks" from all sorts of interesting characters. Clearly "fresh meat" (Troy's term but very apt) get a lot of attention, when they register, from all the undoudtedly disreputable characters that hang out on these sites hoping for cheap sex. Still, once I'd got over the panic of various weird faces and profiles popping up and haranguing me, I started to enjoy gawping at some of the odd bods who had taken an interest. I have put a reasonably pleasant but true-to-life photo of myself on my profile (no make-up, glasses on etc) as I think people might as well see me as I am, but some blokes clearly don't have any quality control on their own profiles ... I mean they don't seem to mind that their photos make them look like serial killers!! Is there seriously any need for extreme close-ups of crumply old faces, or your eyes pointing in different directions, or wearing dark glasses and a wig?!? And no, I am not going to respond to a 49-year calling himself BIGBOIJESUS#1 or some such crap. Ha ha ha ha ha.

As I trawled through the ranks of winking romeos, I realised that my absolute worst nightmare would be sombody I knew finding my personal ad or, in fact, vice versa. Just as this horrible thought crossed my mind, I practically choked on my bass shandy as I noticed that someone had just winked at me, giving their location as a VERY SMALL village which is home to practically the entirety of my mother's family. There was no photo on the profile, only a username which had heavy metal leanings. That certain members of my mother's family (married, quite a close blood relative, but of exactly the right age) are quite into heavy metal and live in said VERY SMALL village suddenly made me feel quite sick. It is perfectly possible that it is some random person who is unknown and unrelated to me but I did have the very queasy thought that one of my cousins might be trying to pull me, or take the piss out of me, on the internet. I am sure it is a coincidence but with no photo to prove it, I might never know... the curious part of me wants to email this person to find out for sure, but the sensible part of me knows that that is a very stupid plan. Either I would accidently embark on incestuous internet flirting, or I would let on to a stranger from my family's village that I'm a loner dredging for a date over the internet, news that I've no doubt would spread faster than wildfire to my entire family via the village grapevine, much to their great amusement and my humiliation.

Oh dear. I might regret this! But I'll let you know.... anyway it is really past my bedtime, and suck suck suck I have to go to work tomorrow. Oh well.

Thursday's Child

2008-03-23T12:13:00.000Z

Bassers crematorium is miles out of town, and the weather was blowy and bleak for my granddad's funeral. Having felt quite fine about the whole thing in the immediate days after his death, I found my mood deteriorating, on the day of his funeral, the nearer I got to my parent's place. When my Uncle Reiki starting chatting to me about how he knew granddad was in a better place, the emotions really started to set in. I believe what he says (in a completely different sense from him) but it is more the stirring of old memories that sets me off, when people do readings, and recall anecdotes about the departed and how, even if you had no personal involvement in the recollections, you get a sense of the richness of the most ordinary of lives. I realise I knew next to nothing about the quiet, unassuming old man that was being laid to rest.

As for the extended family, the old Cowes didn't fail in their ability to engage in a petty and tasteless argument, even at the burial of the family patriarch. The disagreement centred over my grandmother who has quite advanced dementia, and who the majority of the siblings did not want at the funeral. It was less about her potential distress at the burial of her husband of 60-years, and more about whether she might create a scene and be difficult. My Uncle Reiki, however, who has distanced himself from the entire family because of the bitterness and pettiness, and zenophobic attitude they have to his non-British partner, was adamant that she had the right to come, something which my mother supported. So, against the wishes of the other siblings, they brought her to the service and wake. Naturally, this resulted in certain people clustering together, muttering, bitching and actually refusing to talk to their own kin over the grave sin of letting a wife be present at the burial of her husband. These are the same people that practically circled like vultures over my grandparent's house, when they were put into care, to make sure that they got the best of the spoils, taking away possessions from people that were/are still living, with a quite contemptable zealotry. it was extremely upsetting for my mother, who is sensitive to things anyway, and Uncle Reiki (who is more zen about this family breach) admitted that he was "ashamed" by his own family, after the event.

For the record, my grandmother was wonderful, chatty with old friends, respectful and quiet during the service, and after my mother read out a beautiful poem that she had written about my granddad, she took mum's hand and said "thank you, that was lovely" with absolute lucidity. I hardly need to mention the irony of a Alzheimers-ravaged 80-something having more dignity than some of her own offspring...

I do think it is a shame, though, that I find it so immensely difficult to engage with my extended family. Our little branch has always been a little bit "outside" of the family, as we grew up in a different town from most of them, and took different paths (in terms of education and career). However, I know that these are my blood and that we share a lot in common, and ought to get on better. The truth is, however, that certain bitter and beligerant characters make me indifferent to trying, and that any small attempts to chat with various cousins is usually met with a look of shock and awe that I would even bother coming over.

Thank the lord for your family, and then curse them.

An Old Bull in Winter

2008-03-18T18:28:00.002Z

Well things have happened. My granddad died last Thursday and although I am sad that I did not know him better (the visits were too seldom and he was not a talkative man) I think he died as one should, having had all his children with him in the last few days, and not alone when the end finally came.

Spent a lovely weekend with Choc Chip on lake Windermere living out my National Trust fantasy in a beautiful cottage on the lake shore. We tried to cripple outselves on a walk that I wrongly guestimated at around 8 miles, but turned into about 15 by the time we dragged out sorry arses home. Visited a couple of NT properties - one a lovely dark yeoman's house hidden in the hills above the lake, another a gloopy brown square of 17th/20th century uber-richness, manned by about 100 pensioner stewards determined to make sure that you visited every fucking corner in the exact order they demanded. It houses one of the best art collections in the UK but I like to browse these things in the order I wish to, and at whatever pace I wish to, and got a little annoyed by the sheep herding. I personally think they were suspicious of me and Choc Chip because we're under the age of 80 and don't wear tweed.

Now have had to face work which has made me feel leaden with apathy. The upcoming funeral and general slog of the next few months on the personal front have imbued me with mindless pity. The fact that an attempt at delapidation (which I have done many times before without ill effect) has left me with the face of an adolescent glue sniffer has in no way improved my mood. BAAAAA.

Threadbare (notes on my class)

2008-03-07T12:06:00.003Z

I love my embroidery class, more and more because it is attended by a bunch of hilarious, gossiping and friendly eccentrics. Sometimes it is utter chaos, and if that sounds like an exaggeration, believe me it is not.

Bag Lady is a former senior nurse with bipolar, who produces sample after sample of crude bold designs but has no idea how to mount or organise them in a sketch book, and labours into each lesson carrying about five bags and her kitchen sink, muttering about how the stress is bringing her out in cold sores, and what an old twit her husband is.
Blackbird is a quiet, enduring rock of good sense, whose esquisite, delicate work hides years as a punk loving anarchist, and who was over-the-moon to receive a vintage parka for her recent 40-something birthday.
Tintin is a sweet old lady who spent 20 years stuck in her home suffering agoraphobia, tempted out lately only by the embroidery class. She is wryly accepting of her husband's 30-year affair, grateful for the occasional lifts her gives her when she does leave the confine of her own four walls.
Jack is a wonderful, self-depracating chef, who married a younger man, refused to have children, and declares herself staunchly catholic and pro-life, whilst also admitting (without so much as a blink) that "of course" she had two abortions when she was young because her parents would have gone wild if they'd found out she was pregnant. She is reeling from the news that her husband has had just been disgnosed with inoperable cancer of the oesophagus, and admits to secretly asking her priest to say prayers for him (her husband is strongly no-faith) whilst warning his parents (Jehovah's Witnesses) that they shouldn't try and exert their beliefs on him just because he is dying. I have no doubt that she will look after him well, if in her own peculiar and brusque manner, as he endures his final months.
Seashell is a vulnerable epileptic, who was beaten so badly by her ex-husband that she was partially blinded, and left with the mental age of a nine-year-old (according to the courts). He also kidnapped their children, who were eventually put in care because she was no longer deemed fit to look after them, due to her injuries. Once an artist, she now lives in a bedsit with a full time carer, and embroiders intense, painstaking and rich embroideries (against the wishes of the doctors) even though she can barely make out the colours, and her weak eyes get further strained. She was born to Muslim parents in Belfast, and was delivered by a British soldier, who laid down his arms when he found her mother in labour. Her birth-story sounds like a fairytale (and may well be) but her life is so extraordinary that you just can't rule it out. She can be both moody and gregarious and heartbreaking.
Hornsey is a creative Caribbean spirit, whose only vice is men and smoking like a trooper, and who is at the heart of all things arty, creating community craft groups, and fashioning amazing designs out of paperclips, rubber bands, any, in fact, that she finds lying about her house.

And finally my teacher, Mrs. Essex, who is the life and soul of the class - chaotic, dyslexic, fun and irreverant. She refuses to do any exercise (despite the constant badgering from Jack), curses her children lovingly, and gently encourages everybody to push themselves, to ignore traditional boundaries, and to enjoy themselves. She doesn't think the Embroider's Guild would have her, because she is too "common" and remembers saving her pennies as a child to get pie and mash from Le Manzes in Walthamstow.

It is difficult not to love each and everyone of them. And, for that reason, I thought I'd dedicate this blog entry to them. If I feel gloomy or bored or cynical about the world, they always remind me of why it doesn't have to be. Which is really rather lovely.

Crisis of Faith

2008-03-05T17:57:00.003Z

Finished "God is not Great" on the train this morning, convinced myself (with the pathetic warm glow of someone who things they're being really rebellious when no-one actually gives a shit) that I was getting evil stares from all the religious nutnuts sitting near me...

I am genuinely wondering if I should give up Christmas....? I understand that it is no longer really a faith based event for most people in the UK but, if anything, it has become something worse ... an act of worship to the god of consumerism. It also happens to be a nice break in the heart of the dark midwinter and an opportunity to connect with your family (love 'em or loath 'em it's nearly always the right thing to do). But maybe next Christmas I'll strip it back to it's pagan basics, abandon the giving and recieving of gifts, offer a small sacrifice maybe of time or money, and, for once, do the right thing by my conscience...

I've offered to send my copy of "God is not Great" to an old friend (with whom I've lost contact over things said and done, or more accurately not said and not done) because it reminded me of a conversation we once had where I realised that we shared exactly the same views and pecularities on this very subject, and I rather enjoyed that fleeting connection. It didn't prove a very special connection I soon discovered, and I question (rather gloomily) if they'll even reply to my offer. At times like this I wonder how I reached this place where I feel so HUNGRY (capitals very much on purpose) for an intellectual and spiritual connection with people. If that sounds dreamy bullshit, then so be it, but I don't know how long I can trudge through this life without meeting a soul (my few lovely friends excepted of course) who even begin to understand how much I want to know and feel and learn and wonder and not find that thirst weird, uppity or desperate. I remember going to a small gig with an ex many years ago, and getting completely caught up in the music, and dancing and enjoying myself. He said how much he liked me when I let myself be myself. I went on, being young and rather cold, to treat him in a pretty unforgiveable manner. But however much that was not destined to be, I will never forget how much those words meant to be, and how much I would like that to be true again.

God is not Great

2008-03-03T09:08:00.003Z

Am currently obsessively reading this book by Christopher Hitchens (I've been waiting impatiently until it has come out in paperback for cheapness purposes). Of course the old chap is preaching to the converted in my case, but it is such a pleasure to read something scholarly, witty (and unapologetic) that confirms that my world view is not heretic but actually quite sensible. And I'm happy to say that Hitchens doesn't hold back on putting the boot into Islam as well as Christianity, Buddism and any other kind of religious shenanigans that anyone dare care to mention.

Freedom of thought is the one human right that you can never truly take away from anyone, despite the best efforts of zealots and tyrants everywhere, and it is an incredible shame that so many people simply choose to hand their minds over to the petty rules and regulations of world religions and (more importantly) the leaders of these religions. I would never ask or expect anyone to give up their faith or stop believing in whatever deity it is they think is the big pie in the sky, because their own thoughts on the meaning of life are theirs by right ... but I do feel the world can only be a poorer place for those who act under it's illusionary jurisdiction.

I have prayed (or had the urge to pray) to God as an adult, but on those rare occasions I was acutely aware that it was my weakness pushing me to it. When my Granddad was taken seriously ill I remember wandering the streets of Belfast looking for a Church of Ireland church to say a prayer in (the fact that I wasn't comfortable in churches of another denomination says enough by itself really...). I never found that church or said that prayer, but the time I spent trooping through the empty Sunday streets of Sandy Row and Shankhill, just thinking, was enough to restore me. The other times I have prayed have been in those magnificent, thumping periods of despair that follow someone (often *ahem* yourself) letting you down, and consequently all your rational thoughts abandon you. I am happy to declare that, my Granddad did recover (as have I) proving absolutely fuck all really.

If God did exist, I would hope he wouldn't single out my prayers out for answering anyway. I mean, come on, has he nothing better to do than solve a bit of petty, temporary heartbreak and the everyday reality of living and dying?? As for the supposed comfort of the afterlife, if the Christian (or indeed Islamic / Judaic big fella) is really in existence, as the holy books describe him, I wonder if I (as a heathen who has somehow managed to get good morals despite myself) would actually want to take my place in his misogynistic / violent / mind-numbing / sycophantic dictatorship of heaven? Perhaps hell and old Nick have something better to offer me??? The assumptions made by the big religions are simply outstanding and often dense.

I prefer to think that when I die I am simply absorbed, as matter, back into the world from which I was born, and live on as a tiny little part of this amazing big and beautiful unknown universe.... that is an afterlife worth taking part in surely?

Comma

2008-02-25T13:34:00.002Z

Oh dear, the blogging has rather gone to pot. But to fill in the gaps, a little poem:

Written on the Back of St. Anthony's

You must have hit the rails pretty hard;
They're bent into a stack of Bishop's hats,
And I don't know why I panic now, knowing,
Too well, the length of it. But when I look up there,
There are no stars, only aeroplanes circling
With a constant blink blink, rising and falling
In a circle of certain mundane beauty, but what
A heartless sight, those flickers in a thick matt sky,
Because there is no such place as far away, in love,
And yet, from here, I can find no place further.

Minor worries of late: am I addicted to commas?? Will the Mighty 'ding ever be mighty again?! And will Eduardo's foot ever be properly connected to his leg again??? Ugggg.

Minus plusses: going to see Isla St. Clair at the local Folk club. She was like the lovely music teacher I never had - I've never quite forgiven the pompous old twat that demanded I go up and play something on the piano, despite my protestations that I couldn't play it. "Yes even you can play something" he said (to the assembled class) after I plonked my hand down on the note G). If this humiliation was meant to encourage me to a career in music, it sadly failed - and then, of course, the lovely Man Eyken is playing at the ol' Folk club in May. Something which makes me happier than it really should do! And I've also just finished watching Pride and Prejudice for the erm about 6th time, and it still the most lovely thing ever to be shown on TV. Sigh.

Reconstruction

2008-01-28T13:13:00.000Z

Had a most pleasing weekend, with Monky coming to Lahndan Town to do lunch and exhibitionism (Seduced at the Barbican to be precise):

http://www.barbican.org.uk/artgallery/event-detail.asp?ID=5625

Our general attitude to sex is still so strange, even in a world where you can't walk 10 feet without having it waved about in front of your face (as it were), and both me and Monky found ourselves amused by the overly reverential tone of the Barbican masses. I'm sure a wind chime shaped like a knob with wings was intended to be funny after all ... surely.

We also marvelled at the rampant egotism of Jeff Coons, made up like a 14-year old with a foundation habit, shagging his faux porn-star wife and pulling all the nauseus fake ecstacy faces which apparently constitute good sex these days. Luckily this was neatly balanced by a beautiful set of photographic diaries by Nan Goldin, detailing the gentle chaos, intimacy and lack of egotism that form a truer passion and love. Playing out to an extended Bjork song (which I would dearly love to have - called something prayer???) it was enough to give Monky the sniffles, and make my heart glow and melt simultaneously. There was also a video (face and shoulders only) of a woman receiving oral sex, which I found much more .... searching for the word here ... entrancing than I thought possible.

I'm sure standard porn has some interest or use to people, but I've got to think that anyone dedicated to that plasticised and pumped up crap is missing a trick. Most of the exhibition was curious rather than the kind of stuff to make you want to run off and do anything wicked, but there were definitely a couple of installations that made me wish for something better in my own life. Me and Monky went for lunch afterwards and discussed the disappointment of being that kind of girl without that kind of man, how meeting nobody "like-minded" in such a long time turns you into an unrecognisable creature (the cynical hard-shelled kind) who on those seldom occasion where hope appears, finds themselves acting the opposite way to how they truly feel. Monky ordered a big pot of mussels, and I confronted my fear of the shell fish, and discovered - shock horror - that they're actually rather tasty. I then proceeded to steal as many as I could off her plate, which she endured with Monky-like poise.

I also went to see Sweeney Todd with Johnny Depp and co. in, which was quite entertaining, though felt a bit too theatrical to be altogether my taste. Also Alan Rickman (who I feel torn over - deep voiced genius or creepy old man???) wore a pair of trousers that frankly gave me the heeby-jeebies. Me and Schwesty also discovered the most god-forsaken bus stop in London (and I've waited around in some veritable crap-holes in my life). Even though there were two of us, and we were later joined by some fairly harmless looking Chinese chaps, it felt as if we were in a Crimewatch reconstruction (imagine standing by the side of the IDR in the dark waiting to hitch a lift from a serial killer). It was a bus stop so terrible, I started to feel as if I wanted to take everybody I had ever known there, just to share in the experience of primal despair that it conjured in my mind. When the bus finally appeared things didn't really improve. We were sat behind a guy prattling away in another language (Turkish perhaps??) who you could just tell from his mannerisms was a wife-beating prick. He spent the whole time berating a very thin, meek looking blond with a baby, which finally ended in him throwing a bottle of juice over her (and anybody in the vicinity) just as we were stepping off the bus. We were both very glad that journey was over, and in that English sort of way, left her to her fate - grateful for not existing in that twilight London world where taking your baby for a ride on the bus at 11pm, with your scum bag boyfriend, is normal life.

Put a Hat on It

2008-01-21T12:08:00.000Z

It seems that January is the cruellest month (not April, Mr Eliot) as misfortune follows misfortune , and we can all feel rightly anxious about what the new year will bring. Choc Chip has taken a physical and emotional tumble, Monky stays gorgeous but lonesome, and Withnail has fallen off his bike and busted his leg... and I just, well, worry about things and continue to sing to myself at work and on the street. I only hope all my friends and family find this year exceeds their lowly expectations. But just in case you too are feeling unable to crack a smile today, Monky kindly supplied me with the above pic, of a Reading FC fashion victim. Step forward Stephen Hunt. I had to do some "media training" on Friday, which involved being interviewed on camera, and then watching myself back. I cannot tell you how terrible and ugly and wrong I looked. But I still looked better than this. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. What an unmitigated but loveable twat this man is.

The Back of my Mind

2008-01-16T13:41:00.000Z

I am still alive. I'm just extremely rubbish at blogging ... even though I spend most of the time walking around to an inner narrative, which I have pretensions to being quite interesting! What I need is some wifi voice recognition software, so I can transfer all my random thoughts to the web without so much as a press of a button. And also for it to be socially acceptable to talk to myself without being deemed a nutter.

The one flaw would be that this would become the longest most rambling blog ever committed to webdom, and that people would discover the extend to which my mind is occupied by thoughts of Reading FC, and fantasies involving becoming a bohemian country wife / WAG / booker prize winning novelist combo. I am actually shaking my head as I write this, because that is quite BAD I know.

Getting in the Way of Control

2008-01-02T17:08:00.000Z

A number of things have made me feel, in the last few days, as if I'm not entirely in control of life anymore. I have always been a grounded, level-headed sort of person, but my head is buzzing with a new insecurity about the future, and the anxiety transfers into the body and becomes a flutter in your stomach, a constant nag that follows you about like your own shadow. Tonight I'm going to visit my dad in hospital and tomorrow I'll take him home.

New Years resolution: to not let 2008 break me.

Christmas Survived

2007-12-28T12:51:00.000Z

Am back at work, having successfully survived the Crimble break down in Devon with the family. Given that me ol' pops isn't in the best of health, I was determined to make the best of it, though the usual instincts of turning back into a 12-year-old and bickering incessantly with all family members soon hit in. This is usually caused by my mum's anti-logic, which fuelled by the ample amounts of booze she consumes, can turn into a flat denial of the facts. This can be amusing or irritating depending on what kind of mood you're in, but is usually fairly harmless in the scheme of things. Love 'em I certainly do but can I live with them for more than a few days - nej nej nej.

Dartmouth was a gem, as expected. Previously Lyme Regis has always been the place of choice for a family Christmas and is much beloved in the 'Ding household, but since the early days (when it was a slightly abandoned, slightly crumbling little quirk on the Dorset coast) it has now become rammed, over-priced, and is currently being held up by monumental sea defences, and I fear that some of that old charm has drifted out to sea along with the the collapsing cliffs. Dartmouth, on the other hand, still remains quite seasonal, and is full of lots of weird and wonderful winding steps and alleys and eccentricities. I could have spent days just wandering around, scouting out the oddities, and reading all the plaques, benches and inscriptions. Part of me still imagines I might end up living in a coastal town like this, but the realist tells me that all the important components of the South-West dream are missing - money, a job, and someone to entertain me on a quiet day. Never mind eh, live in hope!

A Christmas Carol

2007-12-19T13:41:00.000Z

Spent last weekend busying myself in the 'Ding, firstly by attending a most accomplished Christmas party held by Choc Chip, Romba and Monky, where I ate enough cheese and drank enough Bucks Fizz to fell a rhinocerous, and then on to Bassers to visit my Grandparents in their various homes.

I found my Granddad very unwell, only semi-coherent and weak. It was upsetting, and even my mum, who has witnessed some all-time lows with her parents, found it very emotional. I sat and held his hand awhile, and was completely at a loss as to how to comfort him. Having good reason to fear for my own family's health, right now, it reminded me of how unbearable the process of dying can be. I'm hoping my granddad will recover from this bout of illness, but in the long run, we must all try and prepare for the losses that will inevitably come in the years to come.

Me, Monky and Shaggy are in agreement that it is foolish not to talk about death and your final wishes. Some people find it squeamish, but the fear of it should be reserved for when you meet it face to face. I'd ideally like a viking burial, or alternatively a gigantic pagan funeral pyre. But on the probability that there'd be some Health and Safety directive banning this, I'd settle for my ashes being cast adrift, on the ocean, in a margerine tub, and to be remembered every year by a ceremonial procession of paper boats floating down the river.

On a happier note, I found Grandma to be in good spirits (unusual) and her new home very very plush. It didn't have that smell and that atmosphere that most old people's homes have, and they were having a Christmas party which involved a brass band and carol singing. It was a relief to be able to heartily belt out a few classics with no self-conciousness whatsoever, given that most of the residents have no idea who you are or even what day of the week it is.... strangely people who can remember little of their own lives can still recall songs and sing and clap along. As the band played "Silent Night" I found myself on the verge of tears. It was beautiful and sad, and made me instantly grateful for all I had, and frightened about the things I might never have, or lose. But by the time me and Grandma had finished belting out a truly tuneless version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, I had completely recovered my composure and was actually having a rather good time. Dare I say it, I was actually feeling some CHRISTMAS SPIRIT!!

It also made me think that I really should do some voluntary work with the elderly. It might be difficult but it must also be worth it. There are at least two residents in my Granddad's home who I want to adopt (Sidney and Dot), and Dot never has any visitors, even though she is an absolute diamond, with a glint in her eye that suggests a lifetime of adventure. Which reminds me (whilst I am full of good thoughts) I just LOVE the Salvation Army, and I think a Christmas donation might be going their way this year....

Ordinary World

2007-12-09T14:28:00.000Z

Well, finally got all my bits and bobs back together, after my handbag robbing. Managed to replace my simcard, and get my old number back (yeh) although am still without the actual phone to put it in! It's quite lucky that I have an innocent looking face as my old sim card had been owned by various members of my family, and was registered under my mum's name, with my sister's date of birth, and the security password was the name of my rabbit that died about eight years ago! I proved basically incapable of answering any of the questions asked of me, but looking like a sad victim of crime, the man in the phone shop agreed to get me my old number back anyway heh heh heh. I borrowed a work phone to check the simcard and then got three phone calls in a row for a bloke called "Christophe". I presume Christophe, the utter cnut, is the new owner of my stolen phone. I tried to subtly invagle some more information from the people on the end of the line, but they clammed up faster than you could say "you thieving bint" and by the time I'd determined that I was going to launch into a curse-strewn tirade against the next person ringing me, the phonecalls stopped. Boooooo. Hope you enjoyed your hot goods, Christophe, and that it doesn't bother your conscious that they were robbed off me!

As for this weekend, it started with some disappointment. Was expecting a visit from Withnail, which I was thoroughly looking forward to. But all my various means of trying to get hold of him (having lost his contact number to that f**kwit Christophe) failed, and he didn't turn up in any case. My only logical route of getting his number (as Withnail doesn't have regular internet access) was to email Foe and ask him. Foe, with whom my relationship is somewhat interesting, singularly failed to reply to either of my emails. I am fairly certain he must be away, rather than deliberately causing me bother, but he couldn't have chosen a worse time to be off the radar. Right up to Saturday morning, I had a haunting feeling that Withnail might have booked flights but not been able to contact me, although given that any logical person would read their snail mail and find some internet access, to check their emails, in that situation, I can only conclude that Withnail was never coming, and in his own rather endearingly vague fashion just forgot to tell me. If I had the techie knowledge, here, I would paste in a little smiley with rolling eyes.

However, weekend definitely improved as the 'Ding match I had planned to miss, I got to go to, and low and behold we beat Liverpool 3-1. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Shallow it may be but a good footie result has the ability to improve my mood tenfold, and I walked away from the Mad Stad feeling very pleased about the world, and my place in it. In the winter months, when there is barely enough light to keep your brain functioning, and your bed is cold and lonely, it seems the world wants to make you ordinary.

Well, Christophe, you are probably quite ordinary. The thieving bitch who stole my bag, you are definitely ordinary. But fuck you all, I will never be ordinary!!

Soggy Bottom

2007-12-03T20:24:00.000Z

Arrived at work today and was delighted stroke bemused to find the place entirely broken. Courtesy of a leaky radiator gushing water under my boss' floor, some rather important cable to the server had frizzled itself, and every gadget (even the phones) had died. As the IT and Facilities bods looked stressed and puzzled, everybody else sat around chatting, making cups of tea and playing solitaire. But lest I could wallow too much in the comfort of doing fuck all, it suddenly occurred to me that I had loads of very urgent stuff to do. So I ended up walking to the local hospital and borrowing all their equipment for the most of the day, which essentially meant perching myself by a fax and getting steadily grumpier as the stupid thing beeped at me incessantly. I then came back to the office to discover everybody else was being sent home but having still a little work to do I stayed long enough for them to fix the problem and then be about the only person left in the building to answer the bluddy phone (at this point ringing off the hook).

YABBER YABBER YABBER I HAVE THIS PROBLEM YABBER YABBER YABBER I HAVE THAT PROBLEM YABBER YABBER YABBER ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Crime Statistic #52738394405

2007-12-02T16:08:00.000Z

Spent a lovely evening out yesterday eve (dressed as Amelia Earhart) to celebrate young Monky's 27th year. My outfit was rather splendid, and with my home made jodphurs and rubber flying helmet I was a sight to behold. Unfortunately my inability to keep continuous watch on my handbag (a faux pas any Londoner should be ashamed of) resulted in me becoming a crime statistic, as my emptied out bag ended up unceremoniously dumped down the ladies toilet in the 'Ding's Iguana Bar. Given that the villain must have been a lady, and that there were only about 20 people in the bar at the time, no doubt I'd looked at the little shit earlier in the evening. For her troubles, she got £30 cash, an elderly phone with about £5 credit on, and a free train ticket to London. For my troubles, I've spent all fucking evening and day phoning various people to get replacements for all the cards I've lost (including my dad's 'Ding season ticket oops) and will probably be £80 down by the end of it. On the off-chance the heartless crim might listen to my voicemail, I left a message saying "You are an utter utter c**t and I hope you get run down by a bus and your intenstines are spread all over the road". This made me feel better, for a short while.

For all the shit, the staff at the Iguana Bar were absolutely brilliant, particularly the big chunky bouncers, one of whom got rather overexcited ("bruv, let's put out a patch, let's look at the CCTV now, they could still be here..."). Sadly it was all a bit late for that, but they looked after their 'first official crime' victim very well indeed, as did Monky and Choc Chip who supplied me with wads of cash and sympathy, and fed me with a delishusssshhh kebabish come the end of the evening. I must admit, I laid awake obsessing about becoming a Jodie Foster-style vigilante, and about how the villainess might be spending my Boots and Nectar cards on a shopping bender... none of which thankfully has proved true (there's still an opportunity to become a knife wielding maniac however...).

Still, never mind. Moral of this story - be streetwise, and also that ANYONE anywhere who steals someone else's possessions is a low-life worthless cnut. Bahhhhhhh. And also, if you're some trendy little teenage girl trying to push her way past me, as I try to get OFF a tube train, remember that that person you're trying to push past most rudely might recently have been robbed, so don't be surprised when she says to you sternly "EXCUSE ME, DO NOT TRY TO GET ON THIS TRAIN UNTIL I GET OFF IT!!". And even better, if you're her mother, don't tut at me because your own daughter has the manners of a five year old. Mainly, because I am already in quite a bad mood, but also because I am ten times a better human being than you, and have the manners to show it...

And that ladies and gentleman is the end of this week's rant!

The Legs Akimbo Theatre Company

2007-11-24T11:46:00.000Z

Had very nice drinkies with Troy last night, and she made me promise to update my blog a bit more regularly. Must do better. I, in exchange, told her to foster a house full of children, and become the modern day Mother Theresa that she is surely destined to be... she said "maybe".

All is well at Cutthroat Cottage, aside from the fact that the radiator in my bedroom (which I temporarily had removed from the wall for decorating) is still disconnected, and my down duvet is the only thing saving me from hypothermia on a nightly basis. Each morning is a mighty challenge, as the first little gust of icy-cold air slips under the duvet, and I face the horrific run from warm bed to freezing bathroom, with the bottom of the bath cold enough almost to take the skin off your feet. Ahhhhh. Must finish redecorating. Must do better.

Otherwise the usual old shenanigans. Went to the docs for the routine poking and prodding that all femmes have to endure. Yet again (they must see my careworn, antipathetic face and say "oh she'll agree") there was a student nurse who wanted to also take a look. I am truly beyond caring, these days, but there was something faintly amusing about the innocent and interested look on the trainee nurse's face, as the gaggle leaned closer, and exchanged a long list of interesting facts about down there. I now know many an interesting anecdote about legs akimbo which I won't list here for the sake of propriety!

Also went to a 70's night in honour of Burnley's 30th birthday. It was at a "proper club" with "proper people" wot probably go "proper clubbing" quite often, and aren't ashamed by the fact that their haircut is assymetric and their air rather aloof. Was quite good fun, apart from me and Shaggy discovering (again) that married men seem to be the most persistant. I'd lost my good humour completely by the end, when I managed to get the guy who'd bought me a drink and flirted for England, to admit that he had wify and two children tucked up at home in Liverpool. Nice. "I'm only flirting" he protested, as if my disapproval was an act of monstrous prudity. I'm sure Mrs Dog-on-heat would agree with you there, mate! Also froze my buttocks off, wandering round a deserted London bridge trying to get home, in not much more than bright orange tunic and leggings. Even had to resort to letting a slightly ropey (straight-off-the-boat) Aussie giving me an extended hug, so as not to succomb to exposure. He clearly thought his luck had come, but luckily so had mine, and my nightbus finally appeared. In a scene not entirely alike "Atonement" I jumped onto said bus, as he shouted "No, don't go yet!!". Tragic it wasn't exactly. But I did feel a tad guilty...

Lone Five Star State

2007-11-09T15:57:00.000Z

Have been out-of-the-loop awhile thanks to a wee trip to Beijing, no less. Volunteered myself for a bit of international diplomacy, ended up giving a speech and being filmed, and thankfully did not trigger world war three... I must admit, I have some amazing experiences, and am very lucky with my work. Wish I had an opportunity to share these great times with someone, though :-(

I ended up staying in a five star hotel for a couple of days (unintended bonus of being double booked). Brillig. I will almost certainly never stay in such luxury again, unless that rich husband I'm destined to have, appears from the mist, and sweeps me off my feet (hmmmmm).

Beijing makes London look like a fragrant oasis of calm and beauty. Cut through-and-through with multi-lane roads, barely an historic building in sight, and an ever-present acrid smell in the air, it was a little chaotic but never less than interesting. The shopping is cheap but you have to be able to cope with people hawking stuff at every corner, and shouting in your ear constantly. "Hey beautiful lady, you want a bag??? Cheap price, lady, nice bag!!". I could have come home armed with every knock-off and delightful thing I ever dreamed off, but got so exhausted by the shouting, haggling, and pressure, that I returned with next to nothing instead. Got a nice hat, which sadly got a bit mangled on the journey back, and some bright yellow silk, though.

The Forbidden City, however, comes strongly recommended. A day, at least, is needed to wander through the vast grounds and palaces. The Emperor undoubtedly had it good. He practically had a palace (laced in gold) for every mood he found himself in. "Hmmm, I'm feeling a little bit hungry, I think I'll go and lay down in the "Temple of Contemplating How Many Courses I will Have in my Next Meal" and be fed grapes by ten eunuchs wearing hats made out of pearl".

Meant to go to the Great Wall (which is said to take your breath away) but sadly the jet lag did for me, and I slept in too late, on the day I intended to go. Boooo. Still can't complain, was a most interesting trip.... my stomach even survived the frankly VILE food that was on offer. Found a veggie restaurant that served all kinds of fake meat, all of which tasted like deep-fried cardboard, and was served lunch by my hosts, and was too polite not to eat the offal(???), jellied eels(????) and brains(????) that they threw heartily onto my plate. At one point, the director said "Have more, otherwise when you get back to England, you will be too thin, and they will think we haven't fed you enough". Bless. Cue a desperate attempt to stop the gag reflex.

Anyways better go. Work to do and all that!! Might post some photos if I can get my IT geek head on....

Horse and Hounds

2007-10-24T20:15:00.000+01:00

Oops, I haven't blogged for a while. Have been sort of busy, but also quite bored. Schwesty has buggered off to Sardinia, lucky sod, so I've been left at home to lounge on the sofa with the Bobster, and practise my sexy Cody from neighbours voice (courtesy of a bit of a throat bug).

Went to see War Horse at the National Theatre t'other day. Very moving. Give me a horse (even a puppet one), give me the lovely Man Eyken lurking at the edge of the stage singing tragic folk songs, put in a bit of WWI and plenty of needless suffering, and you've got me sniffling like a child that's let go of their shiny helium balloon (I'm still haunted by the Newbury show helium balloon disaster of circa 1985). I thoroughly recommend.

Had a stupid notion today, that I wanted a penpal. I've only had one penpal, and he spent most of the time begging for money, which facilitated my quitting of him pretty quickly. But how does one go about getting a penpal that is above the age of 12, and isn't some dirty old man who's going to fill your inbox with his filthmongery, and who you just know has fat sticky fingers? Ugg. Had a boyfriend once with a predeliction for that lark. Now I can talk dirty given the right occasion, and a bit of subtle naughtiness is just fine by me. But out and out filth on a regular basis, when you have to read it in front of your workmates and keep a poker face. Fraid it just don't float my boat.

Talking of which, spent Saturday night with the Swiss Miss and McLaren in Tonbridge, during which me, Choc Chip and Romba witnessed some dogging in a Waitrose carpark. How nice. People's personal sexual quirks, I take no issue with, but those (and usually they're unattractive middle aged parental types) who get their kicks inflicting the sight of their pasty bums on all and sundry - PLEASE DON'T. YOU MAKE ME FEEL QUITE SICK. Admittedly it was a little bit humorous at the time. But still, I can't be doing with exhibitionsim, when the unfortunate witness hasn't consented!

I sure know how to live...

2007-10-08T15:17:00.000+01:00

I have spent the past weekend doing useful things, like fixing my bike up for winter, buying household essentials, watching lots of most excellent sport on TV (England beating the whinging Aussies ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, Lewis Hamilton not beating the Spanish Twatador Alonso booooooo, and the Mighty 'Ding beating an entirely useless Derby 1-0 woo-hoo), together with taking in re-runs of "Who Do You Think You Are". I simply love these programmes. I never thought I'd find myself crying in sympathy with Carol Vorderman, or indeed Jeremy Paxman (I have now cried three times at his episode...and find myself loving the Sally Army more than I thought possible) but it really gets you in the guts.

I only roused myself once for socialising, by taking a trip down to the Folk Club with Shaggy and Mr. Shaggy to see a "classical banjo" player. It was a slightly odd instrument, that produced a sound not dissimilar to something you might hear in the court of King Henry VIII. Most of the tunes were turn-of-the-century ragtime stuff though, so it was a odd but quite compelling combo ... found myself getting a little dreamy as usual. Live music always makes me feel uber-happy / uber-nostalgic / uber-lonely all at once. We sat next to a smelly old man who kept trying to crush Mr Shaggy with his electric wheelchair, and whose carer appeared to fall into a coma about half way through the gig. Whilst I hope I don't become a smelly old person, if I have to, I hope I become a smelly old person that still goes out, and has a bit of fun....

Doggy Style

2007-10-01T13:01:00.000+01:00

Well hello there. I am now 27 years old. Which is very old indeed. But to be honest I've passed the point of panic. That happened at approx. 25 years I believe.

Had a super trip to Walthamstow dogs to celebrate. It was a great night and everyone seemed to have lots of fun. I came out with a profit of about £8 which is pretty darn good I think, and paid for my lovely Sunday lunch the following day with Monky and Mr and Mrs Shaggy. This was despite my final bet of the night being scuppered by the chosen dog getting rather "amorous" with a fellow competitor! Cheeky beggar....

As I sat on the back of the bus home, with a plastic glass of cheap red wine still in my hand, I felt very very happy indeed. And, if you can overcome the general orange colour, there's a lot to be said for "old-school Londoners" who turned out to be a very friendly, polite bunch of folk. I enjoyed the cheeky winks, doors being held open, and all that business. We're all a bit up our own arses sometimes and it's a nice reminder of what a load of old bollox that is.

It was lovely seeing Bems and the whole crowd out again. I just hope Shaggy is okay, as she's having a very hard time at the mo, and I could tell the evening was a bit of an endurance test for her. I find it weird, if not a little distasteful, that men seem to be swarming like flies around her at present. She is gorgeous and intelligent, so that's not such a surprise, but it seems to be even more so since she's become very vulnerable. Perhaps this is written with a tinge of jealousy, I admit. I just find myself wondering YET AGAIN why being independent and "strong" makes you feel like such a freak when it comes to many men??

Ahhh well ... that's just another one of those eternal questions....

Video Nasty

2007-09-24T12:35:00.000+01:00

This weekend finally brought a win for the Mighty 'Ding (a last minute smash and grab job on the Latics) and the news that a certain Leroy Lita has been dropped from the squad. Wonder why? Well it did mysteriously co-incide with a story in the News of the World that Mr Lita had decided to film himself on his mobile phone whilst "hanging out the back" of some unknown female, something he then decided to send to some of his Reading FC buddies, one of whom seems to have passed it on, etc etc. And so Leroy ends up with his "sex face" splashed in the papers for all to see.

Now personally I think a man's private life doesn't affect his ability to play football, so I'm not advocating Leroy Lita getting dropped.... that said, this episode does just make me want to shake my head and despair. Any guy that films himself smirking and winking in the act is quite obviously a prize twat. Any guy that films himself smirking and winking, just so he can show off his conquest to his imbecile mates, is a prize twat who deserves his ugly face printed in the papers for all to see. But what of this woman?

I assume, unless she is deaf, dumb and blind, that she knew what he was doing. I am also assuming that Lita is not her long-term beau. Both of these being assumed, I ask the question WHY??? Are you STUPID as well as completely lacking in SELF RESPECT. I guess I'm ready to judge women more harshly, because I feel they represent my gender, but really!!!! Any woman that knowingly consents to sex being recorded (by any means) had better be sure that her partner is trustworthy. Or will you literally do anything to please, because you are one of the many pathetic, tarty bints that you see staggering about like drunken barbie-dolls every Saturday night??

Mr Lita clearly has little respect for women. But then how are we supposed to get respect from men, when we seem to have so little respect for ourselves? In this "You Tube" culture, it seems everyone's game for humiliating each other on film. Well, if ANY bloke ever attempted the same stunt on me, he'd find that mobile phone wedged down his throat, and his nuts turned inside out.

Orthodox Jew Mow-Down

2007-09-18T11:03:00.000+01:00

As a (just about) dedicated cyclist I have the priviledge of cycling through Stamford Hill every morning and evening, which is a very Orthodox Jewish area. I am not casting racial aspersions here (merely cultural ones) but in Stamford Hill bad Orthodox Jew drivers of the world unite. Jeesus, don't worry about signalling people, or in fact stopping and parking in the middle of the road, or noticing a cyclist in a bright yellow bib cycling directly in front of you. One bearded chap, in particular, seems to have it in for me. This fellow, in his huge silver Volvo, has tried to mow me down on two seperate occasions: once by overtaking me as I was myself overtaking a line of parked cars, and simply pushing me off the road when he (surprise surprise) didn't have enough space. Secondly, overtaking me, and then immediately turning left as if I didn't exist. Luckily I'm not a speedy cyclist otherwise I'd be being peeled off the side of his car as we speak. So silver Volvo-driving Orthodox jew man, if you're wondering why there's a luminescent yellow, red-faced, cursing, gesticulating freak in your mirrors (as if you'd ever look in those, eh?) it's me, and I'm just a tiny bit peeved that you seem intent on trying to kill me!!!!

On the plus side, cycling does appear to be making me fitter (I have an 18 mile round trip each day) if not, sadly, thinner. Also I have started partaking in cycle flirting, which is quite fun. A lovely creature said a cheery "morning" to me yesterday, as I crossed the canal. As I cycled on, I decided to turn my head to get another cheeky look at him, unfortunately losing control of my steering, and veering off the path, as I did. Luckily I wasn't on the road and in the path of a bendy bus, otherwise I could have suffered a self-inflicted cycle flirting-related death.

Also I have been doing some cycling celeb spotting: Simon Pegg (I think) in Finsbury Park, also on a bike and looking very fit (in the toned sense) and John Alford (druggy London Burning idiot) who was in Hampstead, shouting at someone on his phone in a loud cockney-style voice.

Da Bobster Has Arrived

2007-09-14T13:36:00.000+01:00

After enduring a bit of a nightmare journey home (involving a small box, a very noisy train, and lots of rocking from side to side) Da Bobster has finally arrived at Cutthroat Cottage. He's lubbelly, very affectionate, and likes headbutting and rolling around. Am very pleased. Can now discuss cat stuff with ZZTop at work, who since adopting two youngsters from the same cat shelter a few months back, has been obsessed with the little beggars...

Other pleasing news: Man Eyken has turned into a thesp! He's soon to appear as "songman" in War Horse at the National Theatre. It's about a lad who goes looking for his horse, which has been requisitioned during the Great War. Sounds like my cup of tea. Sounds like my cup of tea with two tea bags and a fine selection of biscuits. Theatreland here I come!!

http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/?lid=23070

Kitty's A-Coming

2007-09-09T15:35:00.000+01:00

Just making a few final preparations for the arrival of "Uncle Bob" or "Da Bobster" (undecided) who we picked out at the cat shelter on Saturday. He's a cheeky, friendly looking black-and-white chap whose previous owner had to go into a residential home. Labelled as being "from East London" we are going to take him back to his spiritual home.

Also went to see "Atonement" this weekend. Keira Knightly and James McAvoy in a tale of thwarted love in 1930s England, all clipped tones and pained looks - an absolute tear-jerker. Even if you can't bear going to watch the film (note the top marks in every film review I've read so far despite the scornful dismissal by Shaggy and Didcot) read the book by Ian McEwen, which is superb. I read the book first and still thoroughly enjoyed (in a crying sort of fashion) the film. McAvoy (particularly in the incredible war scenes) just breaks your heart. What a face... I feel a McAvoy night coming on!

McMumblechops

2007-09-05T13:42:00.000+01:00

Went to see the super-fantastic Lau yesterday at Bush Hall in Shepherds Bush. A very ornate little venue, with little tables set out in a most sophisticated fashion. Lau are quite my favourite thing at the moment but am trying not to wear out their CD. Schwesty got a bit dribbly over Kris Drever (who is a class-A mumbler of songs, though this matters little unless you actually want to know the words) and I tried to clap in the middle of a song which was a bit embarrassing. Couldn't beat the shame of MRS OBLIVIOUS, though, who chatted very loudly in a very small venue (50 people maybe) during a quiet encore. In a very English way she was met with a group glare that could burn a hole through a concrete wall.

Only down-side: the journey home. I am not a right wing idiot but bare with me whilst I call the striking tube workers what they really are: WORK SHY POWER HUNGRY TOSSERS. Six buses and two and a half hours to get home was really not that fun, and all so that the beloved strikers could be assured of something which they'd already been assured of by their new and already over-generous employer TFL. I wait for the next strike which'll doubtless be over the fact that they're actually required to WORK for their wage, rather than sit on their fat orange-jacketed arses.

People Dropping Dead or Trying To

2007-08-29T12:00:00.000+01:00

Listened to the Mighty 'Ding overcome the stoical (but thankfully goal-shy) Swansea yesterday in the League Cup ... and also heard across the radio waves that the Nottingham Forest v. Leicester match was abandoned at half time, due to one of Leicester's players (Clive Clark) suffering two heart failures during the break (he's still alive thank goodness). This comes on the back of a 22-year-old Sevilla player collapsing during a match and dying shortly afterwards (again from heart failure), along with a 16-year-old Walsall youth player suffering the same fate during training but a few weeks back. What is going on? Is this proof that being uber-fit is actually bad for you???

I find the Tour de France pretty grotesque for this reason. When you watch a 20-something cyclist ascending the Pyranees, literally foaming at the mouth from the effort, I'm not so much impressed as freaked out. Why put your body through that? And marathon runners??? How is pushing your body so hard, that you morph from a normal person into a string bean, actually good? It seems like a weird kind of masochism to me. Now I know football is not quite on the same level but these days footballers do seem to be pushing themselves ever harder. Is this the payback??

On a similar note I heard that Owen Wilson (a former favourite of your truly) is currently hospitalised, having tried to kill himself. Oh lordi. Money and talent and fame don't get you nothing but heartache. Getting super-fit just gets you dead. Suddenly being a slightly chubby nobody seems a very cosy thing indeed!

Wide Open Space

2007-08-25T18:52:00.000+01:00

The Mighty 'Ding lost today so we won't talk of them. Instead I will mention Staff Day which took place yesterday. You spend the morning listening to lectures (not too taxing thank god as was nursing monster hangover due to the Swiss Miss and a jug of Long Island Ice Tea. Ugg) followed by an afternoon on Hampstead Heath. I've said this before but Hampstead Heath rocks. Nice weather, lie back, stuff your nosh hole with free food and wine, and just enjoy the company. Still have a slight hangover mind.

Also you may have noticed I've made a few wee changes to the layout of the blog and whilst looking for a suitable piccie for my profile, I found the place I would most like to live in. I came across this ruined church a few years back in Belfast. But if you want to read its sad tale click here: www.cavehill.freeuk.com/campaigner.htm.

Chances of me ever living in a place like this (and thus probably featuring on "Grand Designs") are, I realise, very very low. But I can dream. Cavehill and the surrounding country park is absolutely one of my favourite places. If you're ever in Belfast, you must take a look...

Today I Will Be Mostly...

2007-08-22T13:47:00.000+01:00

Cleaning out the work coffee filter and bringing it back to life, so I never have to be not wired again. And telling people to go and see "The Bourne Ultimatum" because it's bluddy marvellous.

Suddenly...

2007-08-20T21:42:00.000+01:00

When I am "accidently" browsing the internet, I discover that there is no longer a dearth of Leonardo Nascimento de Araujo piccies. Most are still rubbish but here's one to make me smile. I need a little cheer. Today was so dull I nearly fell into a trance. I hate boredom. I am full of better things than boredom. I browsed some jobs on the internet today but they were BORING.

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT WHINGE WHINGE WHINGE EDIT EDIT EDIT BLAH BLAH EDIT WHINGE WHINGE RANT RANT

Looking at the lovely Leonardo might well help. Ooooooh yes it does. Goodo.

Mexican Man in Pants

2007-08-19T19:57:00.000+01:00

Am just recovering from the first (should I make it an annual event??) Gael Garcia Bernal night. Mmmmm mmmm mmmm and a hubba hubba hubba etc. Three GGB films in a row, accompanied by much cheese and booze. The belly is feeling a little worse for wear now but never mind.

First off was Amores Perros. Very good, very long, very hardcore, and might inspire a personal vow never to go to Mexico City (unless it's full of GGB lookalikes). GGB very hot, got quite injured at one point. Top marks.

Then onto Dot the I, a truly stupid Brit film made bearable only by the presence of the Mexican hottie. Almost in the category of so bad it was good. Scripting, acting, everything, very very stupid. GGB still very hot though, and sporting a very mysterious/attractive half Brit/half Brazilian accent.

Finally El Crimen Del Padre Amaro which I had been looking forward too much. Not since that bloke out of Thornbirds (maybe) and "Father Fit" in Sunset Beach has there been a hotter priest doing bad things on the small screen. GGB donned the dog collar and looked lovely doing it. Although it was quite perturbing seeming him play such an irredeemable character.

As someone who thinks ALL religion is a nonsense I would like to say that I would seriously consider converting to Catholicism if GGB was the local priest. Especially if he was offering the special "bible" classes Father Amaro was offering!!

A lil message to Bems, who couldn't make it to GGB night, and said that she thought GGB was a "little too pig-faced" for her liking. I respect your right to individual taste. But that is poor judgement!! And Monky I am looking forward to your "The Rock" night. He may be a terrible actor, but sometimes that just isn't important!

Finally. just to rectify my lack of "Ding" talk lately, the mighty ones got their first win of the season yesterday (1-0 over Everton). Lurch (Bikey) and the Evil Leprechaun (Hunt) were on sparkling form, and it saw the return of the much missed Bobby Convey. And can't forget to mention Mr Hahnemann, who Monky might be interested to know has "written" a book:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Marcus-Hahnemanns-Premiership-Diary-Hahnemann/dp/190544933X/ref=pd_sxp_f_r/026-3821088-7713212

My God, it's even got a topless picture of him on the front. Ugg.

DIY Carnage

2007-08-09T13:56:00.000+01:00

Everything covered in paint. Smell of turps everywhere. Skin and hair manky. I still hate decorating. Am still nowhere near finishing.

Note to self: never attempt to strip a door with several layers of paint on. One full bottle of stripper won't suffice. Door will be left looking like shite. Bedroom will be left looking like battlefield. Smell also very bad.

Should I Watch....

2007-08-08T13:01:00.000+01:00

"Malcolm and Barbara: Love's Farewell" on ITV tonight?

http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/malcolmandbarbara/index.htm

I think I am going to, though I know that this is going to be immensely grim viewing. My grandparents both have dementia, and recently have been taken out of their home, following a long and humiliating struggle to live independently, and together. This weekend I will visit them for the first time in a long time, and I will have to gather my courage for this. But as Ma Ding can bear witness to it's so important to know what you're getting into, when you start caring for relatives with this disease. The stress of it can break a family up. Ma Ding had to preside over the dividing of their belongings a few days ago (everyone apparently forgot that it also happened to be Ma Ding's birthday, and instead it dissolved into unsavoury scrapping and sniping). What a way to say goodbye to the family home, eh? Here's praying that the future for this generation holds something better. Best to get prepared for the worst though...

Recovery Time (Another Boring Installment).

2007-08-08T12:31:00.000+01:00

Being officially sick is no bad thing. Not properly sick, just officially sick you understand. Though can't say my days off have been super relaxing. Trouble is with time off is there's just so many things to do. And deciding to redecorate my bedroom seemed such a good idea.

Ma Ding came over to assist the last couple of days, with the stripping down and preparing of the walls, telling me on the phone how she would not be allowing me to do anything strenuous. However her sympathy pretty much ran out when she saw I was fine, and when Schwesty gave her the low down on how I'd spent a fair part of my recovery lying in Regent's Park drinking cider, and jigging around to the (as always marvellous) Seth Lakeman (a word to Shaggy who visited me over the weekend, who is having a shitty time at the mo, and who survived my company, my frankly awful Spinach Frittata - grit in your omelette is not a sign of a good chef I hear - and the baffling entertainment we offered, with ever good heart).

HOWEVER NOW I AM ON MY OWN, I AM SICK OF ALL THE DUST AND NOT BEING ABLE TO GET TO MY CLOTHES WITHOUT UPSETTING AN INCH THICK LAYER OF GRIME, OF NOT HAVING AN ACCESSIBLE BED, AND WORST OF ALL, HAVING GOT NOWHERE NEAR FINISHING, WITH ALL ASSISTANCE HAVING GONE HOME / GONE ON HOLIDAY. ARGGGGGGGG. IT LOOKS LIKE A DERELICT HOSPITAL.

Am currently trying to persuade myself to continue sanding before going down the shops to buy some samplers. Oh but it will be beautiful (better than the wonderful pink and yellow colour scheme of the previous owner). This is what I am telling myself. Over and over again. Reckon I've got at least another day or so of hard graft before it's even ready for the final finish. And that's completely ignoring the bare, untreated, rough as shit, floorboards.

Post-Op Update

2007-08-03T18:01:00.001+01:00

Well hurrah I am back home following my visit to the chop-shop, and already indecently bored. Once the soreness subsides I must not waste my two weeks off (sadly the four weeks promised has been downgraded boo!). Anyway here is my lovely (and rather long) review of abdominal surgery:

Anaesthesia is cool. They didn't ask me to count backwards like they did last time, though, which was very disappointing. Instead, they suddenly remembered that they hadn't yet consented me for the op, so with my mind already starting to go a bit woo-hoo, I scribbled where they pointed and then blacked out.

When I woke up in recovery I had a nice male nurse chatting to me. I then inexlicably burst into tears. He looked suitably concerned, and asked if it was the pain. In fact it was just anaesthesia related lunacy. But you can't beat a good non-sensical weep every so often, so as they wheeled me to the "Stepdown" ward, I had a good sob and then got over myself. How at this point I staved off the sickness I do not know, because for the next few hours all I could think about was how I was just about to spew, and that they'd not given me a spew-pot. Schwesty then appeared with grapes and jam doughnuts, having wandered the corridors aimlessly for a good while, as did a man with the most unappetising plate of Macaroni Cheese EVER. And then, after feeling grim for a bit longer, and seemingly sweating out the drugs, I finally came out the other side of the mist, and felt rather better, nibbling on some grapes, and feeling sympathy for the lady opposite, who appeared to be in rather a worse state.

The doc then came round, and explained what they'd done, and showed me some actual photos from my operation, which were simultaneously gross and brilliant. If you've never seen your insides, I wouldn't overly recommend it. They're not pretty. However I was in agreement with the doc that they looked better after the surgery than before it, which was ultimately the aim I suppose. So having gathered my wits, my clothes, and my spirits, I was allowed home. The half hour taxi journey was slightly challenging, and all the spew that had threatened earlier, made an appearance pretty much as soon as I got home. Ugg. But then I happily lay myself down on the sofa, watched shite TV, and poked my belly gingerly (the doc said they'd put lots of liquid in it, to stop everything "sticking together" and that I wasn't to be concerned if it made squishy sounds for a day or so).

I had to change one dressing this morning, which I found was a bit of an ordeal, because I discovered that they'd made one of the incisions in my beloved belly button, and now it looks a bit maimed!! What is also odd, is that when I cough or laugh, not only does it hurt, but it also feels like my insides might pop out of the newly created holes. Now that would be disturbing if it happened...

But things that are definitely cool about surgery... two weeks off work. Yes!!!! And also knowing that you've got lots of lovely friends who care about you. Thanks esp. to Monky, who had no such support from me when she went through surgery a few years back.... only one person remains notable in their silence. I just hope for their sake that it's not a sign of a personal crisis, but rather just thoughtlessness, cos I would gladly hear from them again and rebreak the ice.

Two-Bit News

2007-08-01T22:28:00.000+01:00

Well, just when the day couldn't get any better, the hospital rang up to tell me that a slot for surgery had come up for tomorrow and could I make it in? Talk about short bleeding notice. I asked the nice lady how long it would take to recover, and she said four weeks. Apologies for all the italics here but I was a little shocked. I thought a day or two of whimpering on the sofa ought to be sufficient. So I broke the news to my work colleagues who were suitably sympathetic, but will surely be cursing my name tomorrow when they see the stack of half done work I've left them to do. Luckily my boss is on holiday so I didn't have to witness a nervous break down in progress. Oh dear. What timing.

I'm not the sort to get nervous about going under the knife, but the thought of staying overnight in hospital doesn't fill me with joy either. I know too much about the way they're run these days to rest truly easy. But such is life, and some prodding and poking is essential to stop the innards falling apart. And the time off work. Now that has got to be a good thing ... Mrs Pedro has already been discussing the daytime TV schedule with me, to make sure I don't waste any precious hour that could be spent watching a repeat of ER or Deal or No Deal.

The biggest worry has to be that I've got a front row ticket for Seth Lakeman this coming Sunday. I'm sure I will be well enough (I WILL be well enough) but possibly I won't be able to jig along as merrily as I would wish to. Poor show. But I can be comforted by the good news that the Devon Nerd Boy will be supported by none other than Mr Teddy Thompson for his autumn tour. Two "folk" idols one night. Bluddy brilliant!

Now off to pack my little bag of jim-jams and pants and other essential things, and to begin my fast. Blurggghh. I wonder if anyone will bring me grapes. Naz offered but I put him off by telling him I was having my eye removed. He's a little squeamish...

Another Year, Another Fock Festival

2007-07-31T13:54:00.000+01:00

Well howdy lads. Am just returned from the Cambridge Folk Festival, and SIGH back at work. But for the mo (my lunch break) I'll do my fock fest review and revel in the memories:

Me, Choc Chip and Schwesty (joined by Ma and Pa Ding and X and Y on the Saturday) tripped down the road on Thursday, pitched our dayglo tents, and sat in the (mostly) sun drinking litres and litres of cider. Happy days. As usual there was a great array of acts I've never heard of, to delight my ears, and this is my best selection:

Fanfare Ciocarlia - not something I'd ever listen to in the comfort of my own home, but great fun live. An 11-man Romanian Gypsy brass band who I can best describe as being like all your disreputable (and slightly chubby) uncles let loose drunk with trumpets and horns. Best known for their version of "Born to be Wild" at the end of Borat the Movie...
Shooglenifty - a rather brilliant bunch of Scots who combine traditional tunes with contemporary dance rhythms and general strangeness. Headed up by a bloke on a fiddle that looks like a tramp, dances like a weirdo, and who you might well cross the street to avoid in normal life. But well worth a listen.
Newton Faulkner - A dreadlocked ging-boy much beloved by the teenage Ra-Ras of the South West, and a brilliant guitarist who even manages to make the theme tune to Baywatch sound mighty fine. His voice is not exactly offensive either, but you half wish he wouldn't bother with that lark, and just let the "plucking" do the talking.
Rachel Unthank and the Winterset - Geordie lasses singing traditional Geordie songs, and keeping it sweet and simple. Lovely dubbly.
Martha Tilston and the Woods - excellent singer, with a lot of her own material, including a song called "Artificial Me" which'll make any office-dweller feel melancholy with empathy.
The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Just catch 'em if you can. Brilliant and hilarious. Definitely the most entertaining set of the weekend...
Seasick Steve - He's actually a hobo. He actually does swig large quantities of Jack Daniels as he plays. He actually looks like he might die on stage at any moment. But really good fun, and a must for anyone who loves a bit of proper southern-style Geeeeeetar...
Haugaard and Hoirup - a rather sweet Danish duo, one baby-faced, one chubby, who play traditional Danish tunes. Very chilled, and relaxing, and altogether pleasant to the ears.
Bellowhead - High camp weirdness, involving fiddles, brass, wind up toys and car horns, and traditional English folk songs and tunes to boot. What the hell it'd sound like on a CD I have no clue, but live, it's enough to get even the grumpiest jigging with joy...

Oh there's too many. Anyways join the camp next year or be a fool!!!!

Frick. Have to work now. Arg.

The Rant is Back

2007-07-24T22:30:00.000+01:00

The blog is back!! It’s been awhile, for many reasons:

Work arg
Stress arg
Holiday yeh
Apathy arg

But now I am back on this planet, and feeling social again, so I shall restart the blog with a short thought on Clare Forlani (**RANT** C.S.I New York. Stupid Brit bint. Plummy. Wooden as fuck and with a smug pout that just begs for one in the kisser **RANT**) and some mundane musing on Formula One….

I often wonder why I should like watching a bunch of rich young idiots driving too fast round a track in souped up go-karts, especially when I really don’t like cars at all. But I do. So there. And the race last Saturday at the Nurberg Ring was really very entertaining. Rain, beautiful, rain. It may be flooding us to buggery, but boy does it make F1 more interesting.

Best of all, though, was the advert for Mercedes in one of the breaks. Now you probably have to like F1 to appreciate this but hell it made me chuckle (a lot):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-AQGohc3zI

Not least cos it features me old fave Mika Hakkinen. I can’t explain my love of this man, especially as he seems to permanently sport the look of an uncle who’s just about to embarrass you at a family party. But I reckon the adoration was probably cemented when he mucked up a race a few years back, and sat by the track crying (got me, me being a saddo of a high degree) and also his dry wit, which I’ve missed a lot since he departed the F1 circus. Favourite quote so far:

Jean Alesi: Going through Eau Rouge is like having an orgasm.
Interviewer: Mika, Jean described us that going through Eau Rouge flat out is like having an orgasm.
Mika Hakkinen: Nah ... Jean is probably just sh**ting his pants and mixing up those feelings.

These Are Just Some of My Favourite Things...

2007-06-01T22:15:00.000+01:00

Nicky Shorey playing a FULL 90 minutes against Brazil. Solid. Unspectacular. Hardly put a foot wrong. Gotta love that boy - £25,000 from the Orient!!

Leonardo. I just can't help it. This man is the most attractive BBC pundit since...er...I'm not sure there ever has been an attractive BBC pundit (unless you count housewive's favourite Alan Hansen!). But even if there has been, this Brazilian lovely would beat their pasty arses hands down. Simply yummer. Hubber. Etc. And no don't try and google his image. No photo even remotely does him justice (trust me I've tried!!).

Hey Bitch-Cake Face

2007-05-30T14:14:00.000+01:00

After my "tired and emotional" day yesterday, I am still feeling somewhat crabby, but not the monster that once was. Mr and Mrs Pedro, it turns out, are battered and bruised. They were sat in the back of a camper van, without seatbelts, when a tyre blew out on the motorway. In what sounds like a nasty nasty scary thing, the van went up on two wheels, before flipping completely, sending them all into a jumble. Luckily the van was well cushioned, otherwise things could have been so much worse. But they still spent several hours in l'hopital and are now pondering how to get their shaken selves back to blighty. So my bad mood towards Pedro was (as I always knew) very unjustified. Though still don't want to do his fandangoing work!!

One good thing (if it can be called that) to come out of massive grumpiness is a sudden urge to write stuff, darling..... hence a new entry in poetryblog after a long absence of creative thought. And "Let it Go" is not inspired by me, me, me like things usually are, but a whole lotta of everybody and everything. Hope yooo like.

Tired and Emotional...

2007-05-30T00:19:00.000+01:00

Here we go again. Spent all my morning and most of the afternoon down the beloved Central Middlesex Hospital. They never fail to see me at least one and a half hours later than my appointment, only to tell me nothing new. This time the doctor wrote me a prescription, and sent me to the pharmacy to wait another half hour. My only comfort at this point was that I wouldn’t have to pay for these particular pills. Except that after a couple of questions from the pharmacist, money was indeed asked for. “Er what??” says I. The lady explains that as they are not being prescribed for their primary purpose, I have to pay the full charge. “Okay” says I (rather indignantly) “If I tell you that they are also for contraception do I still have to pay??” Anyway I leave the darned place not so much rueing the £6.85 now missing from my purse but rather the indignity. Yes my life is as barren as the Sahara, but does it have to be rubbed in my face, by taxing me for the double whammy of being ill and without sex. Thank you very much world!

Then arrive at work and find that some kind of tsunami has swept a hundred patient files into it, and all over my desk and into huge piles, for good measure. And there I am feeling subhuman, and I have precisely three hours left in the day to do three days worth of work. What follows involves swearing and cursing and wanting to weep in public. And all this knowing that I have a close friend in serious need of a place to lean, so I spend several hours after work not winding down but listening to someone’s true heartbreak, only interrupted by a text (sent accidentally it seems) from Mr and Mrs Pedro. They’ve crashed their van in France, not just crashed it but rolled it over, and ended up in hospital. And the worst thing is, all I can think is: Pedro’s not going to be back in work tomorrow, how the fuck can I manage all his work?? It seems from what little information I can glean, that there are no serious injuries, but it (and my reaction to it) is still pretty shitty.

And now back home, I am mulling over all sorts of things. I watched the Great Gatsby yesterday; possibly my favourite ever novel, and this adaptation (with Toby Stephens) possibly the best of the three so far made… but it’s not exactly the most uplifting of tales is it? The characters are full of longing, but too clumsy and too careless, to ever achieve what they wish for. Foe sent me an email today, rather out of the blue, and made me feel very careless indeed. There’s nothing like a few truisms to bring out the maudlin in me. Monky called me “bloody” and “stubborn” a few weeks ago. I can’t decide whether it’s a point of pride, or a chronic flaw. But I do know that when I’m feeling vulnerable I get mighty prickly. Today is a mighty prickly day. Today I feel ever so ever so prickly indeed.

Minus the Smoke and the Flames

2007-05-22T12:04:00.000+01:00

Am feeling slightly less emotive about the old sailing ship today, now they've doused her down, and surveyed the damage. She's not exactly pretty, but apparently there's more of her left than they'd originally hoped, and part of the hull, most of the interior fittings, and her masts and sails, were elsewhere, so presumably with a bit of T.L.C she can be rebuilt once more. Also, I'm happy to report that the famous figure head - a luscious lady with her tits out - was also away from the action, and Shaggy assures me that happily the collection of figureheads, that I remember so fondly, were also AWOL.

"Cutty Sark" means a short shirt or undergarment, apparently, but the ship is probably named after the witch in the poem Tam O' Shanter (by Robbie Burns). Which brings me along nicely to a few articles I've read lately, saying paganism and witch craft are now massively rising in popularity, particularly among young ladeez, who no doubt appreciate it's respect for the feminine (absent in nearly all the modern incarnations of the world religions) and of course the earth itself. Which is good news for me, seeing as I proudly wrote "pagan" in the last census. Not sure I'm ready to move into the whole witchcraft thing just yet, but there's nothing wrong with worshipping mother earth. All the rest of you folks, still railing to the big fella above, and poring over the archaic texts of yester year, no offense, but I think you're just wasting your time...!

Cutty Sark ~3

2007-05-22T12:03:00.001+01:00

Cutty Sark ~2

2007-05-22T12:01:00.000+01:00

Cutty Sark ~1

2007-05-22T12:00:00.001+01:00

The Cutty Sark

2007-05-21T09:13:00.000+01:00

Currently on fire apparently. Presuming this is the work of arsonists (and it usually is) congratulations you ignorant tossers!! Not only my favourite all time London (and possibly British) manmade landmark, but the oldest surviving tea-clipper in the world. Well it was until a few hours ago. GRRRRRRRRRRR. Apparently there were significant parts of it that weren't present, as they were being renovated. But presumably not enough to put the thing back together again in all its former glory. I wonder if the collection of weird and wonderful dredged up figure-heads that used to be in the hold, are gone. Probably.

Hmmm, it's a bit strange isn't it, just as the West Pier in Brighton got the go ahead for a multi-million pound restoration, it goes up in flames. Just as the Cutty Sark's super expensive put-it-in-a-glass-bubble makeover starts, it goes up in flames. Maybe these things aren't the work of little fuckers, but a group of renegade right-wingers, voicing their anger at too much public spending!! As a theory I realise I haven't thought it through too well, but I'm sticking with it!!

Now, let me wallow in my bad baaaaaad mood.

Hen Weekend (A.K.A Yooo slaaaaaaggggggs)

2007-05-14T11:44:00.000+01:00

Just returned from a hen weekend in Brighton town. Despite the above title, the assembled company were not your average shrieking barbie-doll bints, but a fine mixture of Norn Irish and English city high-fliers, mother-in-law, and...er...me. I admit I was looking forward to it like a baseball bat to the face, but there is a certain advantage to being a pessimist. Sometimes, you're pleasantly surprised....

Brighton was lovely, very pretty and vibrant. Our hotel was on the seafront overlooking the shell of the West Pier. Helped by the blustery (more like gale-force) weather and dark skies, and my own penchant for staring with wonderment at old architecture, I found myself slightly moved by its decline. Quite how someone thought fit to douse it in petrol is beyond me. But I suppose there is something to be said for leaving certain things to decline. Decay can be beautiful. It's just a shame that it couldn't be left to rot slowly, rather than condemned in one big ball of flames. And definitely wish I'd bothered seeing it before it slipped into the sea. Anyhoos, here's a piccie of the old girl when she was most of the way to falling down...

There's something to be said for the East Pier and its tackarama, though was most disappointed that it was too windy to go on the upside down rollercoaster. Then again, having settled for a lesser ride, that simply span me around very high up, and creaked and jerked around like it was just about to dismantle itself, I probably should thank my lucky stars I didn't get to ride it...

Anyway, back to work and all that. Bah. Cycled in today for the first time. TFL journey planner told me it would take 48 minutes. In fact it took me 2 hours!! And I didn't even stop at the fricking hills. Though I did go round Finsbury Park approximately ten times before I found the right road, so maybe that explains it.....

Bank Holiday Bender (in more than one sense...)

2007-05-08T09:52:00.000+01:00

Proving how elderly I am becoming the nearer I get to thirty, I closed my eyes on the train this morning, and it felt like a ship. And all because I went on a bit of a bender on Sunday evening. Uggg. However, despite drinking too much and sleeping too little, I had a throughly good weekend. Went home to the 'ding on Friday, and had a very lovely dins courtesy of Monky, who psychoanalysed me and the world around us, most successfully. Went to the footie, watched the mighty ones go down in a most unmighty way to relegated Watford, but still felt warm in my heart. What a bonza season! Now I have to find some other weekend amusement until the football comes round again in August. Argggg. Then on Sunday evening Choc Chip and Schwesty joined me for a folk bender in Islington.

Started off with a barn dance (!) which although I stayed well away from, looked seriously quite fun. Then Man Eyken and band played.... as usual blimmin marvellous. Followed by some slightly odd (and definitely in no way German) people playing really not-very-German tunes, but dressed as Bavarians. Hmmm. Finally it was boogieing until the early hours to a Congalese band. It was at this juncture that, merried up on wine, I had to radically reassess my school girl crush on Man Eyken. Man Eyken was also boogieing, and as usual being lovely and friendly with all those around him. But particularly "friendly" with the big-haired, camp-as-you-like compere for the evening. Total GAYDAR failure on my part. But I guess that's what schoolgirl crushes are meant to be. Totally unrealistic!!

Eventually, with the world around me swaying, we got the night-bus back, and had an (only when you're drunk) loud, hysterical conversation about how we'd missed the gayness of Mr Van Eyken. I also proceeded to try to fall off my seat (whilst gesticulating wildly), only to be rescued by an embarrassed looking young black man, who promptly moved, lest all the gay-talk disturbed him from his music any further... it was finally decided by Choc Chip (after I started cursing my nearly-new and nearly-newly-rubbish mobile phone) that I have superhuman "breaking" skills. One look at a peice of technology, and it's bust. One girlie sigh in the direction of a handsome fellow, and he's a bender. Which is not to suggest that gay men are broken, but as Choc Chip helpfully summed it up "they are broken to the opposite sex". D'oh!

And yesterday. Well uck. Sickie sickie sickie sick sick. Sigh.

Soooo Bored I Tell Thee...

2007-05-01T16:54:00.000+01:00

Here's some info about the bloke that wrote "The Drover's Boy". Credited as the man that introduced Rolf Harris to "Two Little Boys" and thus clearly a genius:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Egan

Have also tracked down the writer of "Still is the Memory Green in my Mind" (to give it its full title) and doesn't he look like a proper folkie, bless 'im:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Rosselson

It Goes Like This...

2007-05-01T00:05:00.000+01:00

Just come back from a pleasant evening down the pub with Didcot, watching the mighty ‘ding kick some Geordie arse 1-0. And wouldn’t you know it, but it was my favourite ging who scored (step forward Dave Kitson!).

You may have gathered my mood has improved somewhat since Saturday night / Sunday morning, in keeping with my current manic disposition. Going to listen to some live music always revives me, and a first trip to Walthamstow folk club, to hear Nancy Kerr and James Fagan proved just the tonic. The duo were superb as always. And a lovely little venue. Perhaps because I was feeling delicate (but I’m pretty sure it was just the quality of music) a couple of the songs really hit me in the guts: “The Drover’s Boy”, an Australian song recording the ills of colonial racism through a tender little love story, and the mesmerising “Still is the Memory”, a song that seamlessly combines the themes of a nuclear holocaust and falling in love! As Nancy Kerr pointed out, the two don’t always feel too dissimilar....! I’ve been searching out the lyrics on the internet, with not much luck, so will have to get my hands on the CD, and do some force feeding to people!

I needed to be in a better mood as it happened. I’ve finally got round to booking my flights to Naz and Boo’s wedding (of which the joy of not getting a plus one on the invitation is still coursing through my veins) and on a whim decided to book flights to Belfast one day earlier, so I could spend a little time there. Why oh why do I do this? Assuming I have friends is the best way to prove I have none. Foolishly I asked Foe whether I could borrow a floor for the night, rather nonchalantly assuming that this would not be a problem, and that he might even quite like entertaining me for the evening. Nope. Apparently his moving house now (April) will mean he can’t lend me a floor in…. July. I asked Didcot’s opinion as to how I should react to this. He suggested resending the email with an insertion after “I won’t be offended if you can’t” to the order of [WHEN I SAID THIS I WAS ACTUALLY JOKING. I WILL BE OFFENDED!!]. Or perhaps just turning up at his house, and pretending I never read his email at all…. instead I shall just go along with being slightly morose, and wondering why I bothered.

If Foe does happen to read this, enjoy your new moustache. My being miffed is most probably a compliment. As I’m sure you’re aware blah blah blah etc.

Disconnection

2007-04-29T06:58:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of my computer disconnecting itself from the internet, and it being inexplicably impossible to cut and paste stuff off blogger(???) you have thankfully been saved from one almighty tipsy whinge-a-thon. I'll condense it however for your pleasure:

Gone to big "do". Looked pretty. Despaired because no one gave a shit.
Evaluated various loved up couples who I sat with, and wondered how fawning, needyness, irrational fear of sirloin steaks, etc blah blah blah could be thought of as attractive qualities.
Developed dog-in-the-manger envy problems over Easyjet Boy's skirt chasing. After a glass or two of wine, interrogated him in a not entirely sensible fashion. Concluded that this probably did not make me a more attractive prospect.
Danced with TheCroydenMassive till my feet fell off. Thought about how much I'll miss him when he's left.
Looked in the mirror (perhaps too many times) and contrary to usual, thought I looked hot. Wondered how only a man wearing yellow braces agreed with this.
Sat in the too long taxi journey home feeling blue about pretty much everything and everyone. Mulled over the dream I had on Friday night, where I realised I was made of food and was rotting (sounds sort of funny, but actually wasn't).

You get the picture? Same old same old folks.

Ouch.

2007-04-23T11:08:00.000+01:00

Two things to report from this weekend:

The Man Eyken gig on Saturday night. Lovely. Very lovely. Very very folkie. Basically in a room above a pub near Euston, where a folk club meet every week, and do their own tunes. He was without his band, but as always smiled his way through the performance, like he was enjoying every minute of it, and swapping between a melodeon, a guitar and even at one point a recorder... which sent my mind spinning back to the horror of learning recorder at school, how very useless I was, and then back to the present, and wondering whether it is really really wrong to find a grown man playing a recorder attractive (probably)??? Schwesty and Choc Chip were on good form, goading me endlessly, for my adoration of the red-DMed one. But they know what I mean... all in all a very good night. We even managed to cope with a true Irish odd-ball, who accosted us as we wandered back to the tube station afterwards. He declared loudly that Man Eyken sent him to sleep, that he was boring and sang everything in too low a key, that it wasn't true folk, that at least the people that had sung before him (including one warbling woman who had to stop half way through her song because she was in the wrong key!!) showed some spirit. We indulged him a little, finally agreeing to disagree. But he insisted on stalking us all the way back to the station, and then into the tunnels, accompanied by a strangely silent wife/partner (probably embarrassed into submission), saying that we must be groupies, asking us whether the woman who so enthusiastically introduced Man Eyken was his mum?!! We finally lost him on the Victoria line thank God. A very strange and very simple man methinks.

Then on Sunday went paintballing with Mr and Mrs Pedro and Troy. Shooting people is bad. And also quite fun. Though if you could see my poor battered body (nice red welt marks on both arse-cheeks, proving my ample behind is just too tempting a target), then you'd also understand it hurts!! I proved a braver soul than I thought. At one point finding myself alone half way up the "battlefield" while the rest of my team fecked off and retreated! Gits. The volley of shots that then headed my way, courtesy of the gang of evil children on the opposing team, probably would have finished me off, had I not been behind a very handy net... prize for best injuries probably went to Mr and Mrs Pedro, though, who both got shot from point blank range by some chav tossers, before one of the games had even started. Cue screaming, swearing, and Pedro doing a big man act. When Burnley learnt of this story, he asked me whether me or Troy had at any point smirked during this incident. To which I faithfully answered - what moi???!! Mr and Mrs Pedro are still attached at the hip, and still blinded by love (blinded to the entire outside world that is..). Oh well, one day they'll learn. When they grow up. Oh no, hang on, they are grown up.

Beardy-Weirdy

2007-04-18T23:51:00.000+01:00

I'm watching Ray Lamontagne of the BBC4 sessions, and finding it all a little dreary. He hides behind a rather bushy beard, and rasps his way through his super-serious repertoire, as if we should all care a great deal more than we probably do...

Schwesty says she's suspicious of over-bearded men. Have to concur. What are they trying to hide?? Not that beards are completely out of the question. A well groomed beardyness can look rather dapper on a bloke, as TheCroydonMassive will no doubt testify (since a drink related face mashing incident he started growing fluff as he understandably didn't have the mental strength to shave over raw skin but upon gingery beard growth discovered a special love of chin-stroking and now post-healing can't bear to dispose of it...). And of course let me not forget the beloved-bearded-one Foe, whose email account gave me an electronic reminder of his existence today by bouncing an old email back to me several times over, and filling up my inbox. I emailed Foe to tell him of this little incident and got a suitably short reply about busyness and thesis' and study. Foe still makes me smile. Which he very probably shouldn't.

Oh my Lord and God...

2007-04-17T11:17:00.000+01:00

I have completely got lax on doing my embroidery, and now, with the end of my course looming, I realise that I have two samples to finish and two projects to start. Let alone all the write-ups that I've failed to do all term. Argggg!!! There is actually not enough time in the day to do what I need to do. I have even developed a sore index finger from frantic sewing. Maybe if I claim I'm a finger cripple they might give me an extension????

This Country Life

2007-04-09T21:29:00.000+01:00

Am returned from a couple of days at the olds. Quite pleasant if you don't count the continual needling of me old pa by me old ma. How he doesn't rise to the bait I'll never know. Gave me slightly frightening visions of how much I'm like my mother. It's been pointed out more than once that I take a deal too much pleasure finding faults in others. Uck. Not proud of it, but seems hard to curb.

Resolve was strongly tested today as I took a daytrip with Ma and my little cousins to a point-to-point meeting at a big country estate near Bassers. The bigger cousin is quite well behaved, but the littler one is a whinger of absolutely huge proportions. She's been through a great deal in her life, so it's no surprise, but she was driving me round the bend, whinging if she had to walk ten yards, whinging if she had to eat the sandwiches she chose for herself (!!), generally moaning at every given opportunity. Must never have children. They drive me crazy.

Also found myself surrounded by masses of Countryside Alliance types. Sent me into a kind of moral quandary. To detest rich people is just as pathetic as detesting poor people, and yet I couldn't help feeling nauseous at the sight of so many rugby shirts, tweed jackets, and pastel jumpers slung across shoulders. And don't even start me on the women. All wonderfully thin. All wonderfully blond. And all wonderfully horsey. Uck. I realise that the future of much of the English countryside is in their hands, and that these people do genuinely care about, and understand, the land, but there is also something really objectionable about the Countryside Alliance. Being (for the most part) extremely right-wing doesn't help. Not least because it alienates many many more left-thinking urbanites who might otherwise be on their side. Also the basic failure to understand that the causing of unneccessary suffering to a living being is a moral problem that many people will never overcome. I am just as aware as anyone that the preservation of big swathes of wildlife-rich countryside rides on the hunts that look after them, and that logically this does outweigh the wrongs of hunting. But this does not mean I will ever find it okay. The rural community must evolve, should have evolved, and their failure to do so is as inexcusable as any ignorance of the part of townies. Most of these richies are inheritors of this land. They are priviledged. If they feel that us ignorant plebs are ripping apart their country traditions, they should perhaps try to be a little more inclusive.

That is all.

Easter Blurgh

2007-04-07T11:46:00.000+01:00

Why do I find it impossible to get out of bed at the weekend?? All my merry plans for my days off fade under the warm temptation of my duvet. I must really never ever live by myself. Much as I value my independence, I think I'd end up spending all day in bed, with occasional trips out for the necessities. And I would spend so much time eating junk, that it'd reach the point where I wouldn't be able to get out of bed, because I'd have turned into a gigantic ball of lard. Uck.

Having said that I did manage to spend a fair amount of time yesterday shopping (managed to barter the price down on a cake tin - the first time in my life - made me strangely proud) and baking a rather fine cake which I plan to feed to TheCroydonMassive, and then continuing to build my rustic table in the garden. Felt slightly hampered by my neighbours having a dinner with guests outside, as kept panicking that I was being too noisy. But in the end it was the mini-neighbour that caused all the noise, when she got grumpy, and started bawling. Then double-hampered myself by forgetting to put my work-gloves on, and letting the saw slip down on my finger, slicing a nice bit of skin off. Uck.

Still, must make better use of weekends. Will go out. Will have a life. Etc.

Good Vibrations

2007-04-04T13:19:00.000+01:00

Easter (and a four-day weekend) is coming!! Brillig.

Looking back over the past week, not much exciting has happened, though I did experience a curious incident on the bus back from the 'Nham on Sunday (having watched the beloved 'ding losing 1-0). I was sat on the top deck, minding my own business, when a most strange feeling came over me, and I realised that the vibrations of the bus were in unison with my own heartbeat. Basically, for a few seconds, I shared a resonance with the engine (which feels weird I tell you), the logical conclusion being that, for a short time, the bus and I were one!! Schwesty, of course, doesn't believe me, and thinks I was having some kind of palpitation. I prefer to think of myself as part-human, part-machine.

Up the Spout

2007-03-29T23:47:00.000+01:00

Not literally obviously. I'm talking bout my blogging, which has been abandoned of late in favour of stressing out, flying off, feeling sick, getting drunk, lazing on my sofa, thinking bout the world. So here's the latest low-down:

Cutthroat Cottage grand opening went plenty well. Discovered that drinking vats of Bucks Fizz does not leave you with a hideous hangover (unlike G & T eh schwesty?!). Also discovered that despite Libdem's best efforts, lighting a BBQ with firelighters right next to the house in windy conditions, will not burn the place down (even if the flames do seem rather too high for comfort).
Found out Helsinki is a very quiet capital. Fair dos, it was out-of-season, but chilled would not even cover it. I wondered round of the evening, wondering where everybody had buggered off to. There were nightclubs and bars evident, but all with darkened windows, so you could not tell if they were rammed or empty. And there was a lot of clean clean blue air, and stark, functional modern architecture. I liked it, against my better judgement. It was very relaxing, and I liked staring at the big cranes, and huge Talinn-line boat moored in an iced-over harbour. Oh, and the men are more than averagely cute. Mostly dirty blonds, with sharp features. And despite their reputation for Northern-reserve, the Finnish are a very pleasant and friendly folk....
Proved spending five hours in re-circulated air does make you ill. Currently feel very snoddy, very insomniac, and very tired. But glad that the working week is over, and looking forward to my massage tomorrow, and lunch with Choc Chip and Bems. Bring it one please...

So that's about it really. Probably should get me some sleep. But the night-owl in me, has got the better of my judgement. Oh well.

Helsinki or Bust

2007-03-21T21:26:00.000Z

Blogging has taken second place to everything the last couple of weeks. A lot of work, tooooo much work, but finally there is light at the end of the tunnel. Have Friday off, then Cutthroat Cottage is opening its doors for a lil house-warming, then off on Monday to Helsinki to pick up some life-giving gunk.

I've always had a notion for going to Finland, though I've no idea what it has to offer. Maybe they're all like Kimi Raikkonen - strong, silent monotone types. No doubt all I'll get to see of it is the inside of a hotel room, and the inside of a hospital. But when it's all paid for who can complain??

Plus April is looking like a fine month for gigging. Currently planned is:

21st April - Tim Van Eyken at the Cellar Upstairs
29th April - Nancy Kerr and James Fagan at Walthamstow Folk Club

Am feeling quite pleased with my little Walthamstow patch at the mo, and quite neighbourly and grown-up. Was invited to a Neighourhood Watch meeting on Tuesday. Was feeling very unenthusiastic about it really (imagining that it would be populated by middle-aged men getting worked-up about graffiti) but actually it was nice to meet a few neighbours, and they all seemed quite normal, even if most of the meeting was spent trying to shout above the enthusiastic foot-tapping of Flamenco dancers in the studio above.

And today spent several hours pummelling strands of wool and making my first ever piece of felt. It was an amazing feeling (strange though it seems) to make a piece of fabric from scratch. Bluddy hard work, and quite messy, but today I have been mostly adoring my 10' by 10' piece of blue and green fuzz, and wondering what other wonders I can make with my own hands....

Tables and Chairs and Sparrows and Hares

2007-03-13T12:18:00.000Z

Haven't blogged for a while. Been snowed under. Have had a tension headache since the end of last week, which is finally easing, though me shoulders are up near me ears, they're so tight. Luckily Choc Chip and Bems have persuaded me to go to the spa, and I'm gonna get me a very expensive massage. Don't really have the money to throw around, but sometimes you just need to do something nice for yourself, otherwise you'll be miserable...

Don't think the shoulder thing has been helped by my attempts to build my own table using things I found in the garden. Having barely any carpentry skills, and barely any carpentry tools, it's been quite hard. However, I'm hoping that I might be able to pass off the finished product as "rustic" (i.e. gaping holes, bent nails, and wonky legs).

In the meantime, I shall hum little tunes about sparrows and hares, to try and oust "(I've Had) the Time of my Life" which has inexplicably been buzzing around my head all morning. A more inappropriate song for work I cannot think of!

Train Spot of the Week ~1

2007-03-06T17:21:00.000Z

A big fat rough-looking (in a workman sort of way) white bloke giving a saucy wink to a pretty young Asian lad on the train. Returned with a rather lovely smile. Ahhhhhh

In on a Saturday Night (Looking at the Lunar Eclipse)

2007-03-03T22:53:00.000Z

This is perfectly normal for moi (not the eclipse part mind). Going out on Saturdays is for social butterflies, and people with energy. Possibly. Plus you can't beat sitting in and watching MOTD. Though maybe not everyone would concur.

Had a lovely Satur-day though. The olds dropped by, and we went for a Tapas lunch in Stow Village. Yum. Then went on a London walk from Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace. There's a lot of surprisingly pleasant walks through the stinky big city. And this fairly gentle amble was along a disused railway line. Sort of wished I'd had my wellies on, as this had become one long mud-pit thanks to the abundant rain of the last few days, but was really enjoyable nonetheless. There's even an abandoned station at one point, near Crouch End. The trainspotter in me enjoyed getting up onto the derelict platform, and shouting "boop boop" at the top of my voice. Reminded me of Gort station in Galway, which I visited some years ago. At that stage it was much more intact (rails and signal box still present) and this made it even more eerie. As you stood on the rails, you wondered if one more locomotive might be charging down the line towards you...and there it's easy to imagine all the great literary figures that might once have graced the platform - W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, Sean O'Casey, George Bernard Shaw all peering into the distance, to see when their train might arrive...

Having been raised (by "green" parents) to catch public transport wherever possible (and we did go absolutely everywhere on the train) I am very sentimental towards this kind of travel. Unless I really really need to get somewhere on time, and British Transport is failing me miserably, I positively enjoy catching a bus, or taking a train. I also feel very creative at these times. I think it is because you can sit back, look out the window (or at your fellow passengers) and see anything and everything. A sombre example of this was on Wednesday evening, when I was passing through Tottenham Hale, at close to midnight. Opposite me, on the bus, was a horribly thin woman. She was swamped in baggy clothes, with skeletal arms poking from the sleeves, and the skin across her face was stretched so tightly, that all you could see was the skull underneath. Compared to her tiny frame, her eyes seemed huge, but she was blinking very slowly, as if even this was an effort. She must have been an anorexic, or very seriously ill in some other way. Simply sitting down was causing her pain, and she was shifting in her seat, grimacing, presumably because her own bones were digging into her. I was trying not to stare, not least because it was bringing me close to tears. She was just going from A to B, reading a book, and doing what millions of people do every day to get home, and yet she was clearly very close to death. I don't think I will ever forget her face.

Oooooooh Brynjar

2007-02-28T00:59:00.000Z

Frigging heck. 0-3 down in the first six minutes!! Head in hands time. Whole stadium bewildered. Then slowly but surely the 'Ding get back on their feet, fix their formation, and start to boss. First Kits with a sneaky little header, then Lita following suit with a excellent header, and finally a frantic last five minutes, before king ging Brynjar launches a pile-driver at the goal. Oh dear god, that shuddering cross-bar will haunt my dreams for days to come...........ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!

All in all, a diabolical performance, and a great performance... my only moan is Seol Ki-Hyeon, who could seriously benefit from knuckling down and accepting his own lack of form as his own fault. I mean not shaking Sir Steve's hand, when you're subbed, is pretty petulant behaviour. The trouble is, he's an easy target, being Korean (my perusing of online fanzines confirms that lazy racism is alive and well amongst my fellow footie cretins), and he also has an unfortunately ponderous gait, which doesn't help claims against him of "not trying hard enough". But all said and done, there's only one way to put two fingers up at your detractors, and that's to prove 'em wrong. If those couple of alleged bad-asses Oster (accidently shooting your team-mate in the eye and ending his career is quite impressive) and Lita (seemed to spend his summer months glassing / being glassed in shitey old Brizzle) can clean up their act, and start commanding the pitch like it's their own, then so can you Seol! Don't let that £1.5 million worth of talent (and talented you undoubtedly are) waste away, cause things just aren't going your way....

N.B. I am obviously transmitting this message to Seol Ki-Hyeon telepathically. Or maybe he reads my blog. Ho hum.

A Cheer-Me-Up King of Ging

2007-02-26T23:18:00.000Z

In honour of last week's FA cup goal, and hopefully in anticipation of tomorrow's FA cup glory (come on the 'Ding!) I present to you Brynjar Gunnarsson. A proper ging and a 'Ding king to boot....

Did a Bad Thing

2007-02-26T17:20:00.000Z

This is a day of inexplicable misery. I wake up and think: actually I don't want to go to work. So I don't. I ring up my boss, and ask for the morning off, which she is fine with. So I lie in bed, feeling over-tired and maudlin, until time runs out, and I must drag myself into the office. Of course, having failed to get in in the morning, I have a huge pile of work to do in half the time once I arrive. But my mind and mood is so feeble, I can barely touch it.

My best guess is that it is hormones - "girl problems" - or something, though these passing moods are so random, I am not sure I can blame it on that. Today I just feel incapable, stupid, hopeless, tired, shaky, weird. Everything is crap. Out in the pub on Friday, I got a passing comment, which kind of shook me up. It was said very casually, and seemed without malice, but it was a reminder of how all the words we cast out there, however innocent or unintentional, bounce off people; that even those things you think will never find their way to certain places do. This is a scary thought. I already obsess too much about past indiscretions, and how all the things I have ever done might have affected people, or could affect me in the future.

In this kind of mood I want to go away, and live on my own island. I want to become a plank of wood. I want no worries. No nothing. No loneliness. No fear. Nobody to hurt. Nobody to hurt me. Nothing. Nada.

Blogging is bad for the health.... I mean did I moan so much before my blog???? (probably but maybe not). Who did I share all my stoopid thoughts with???? And who do I think reads this???? (what's probably most worrying is that people actually do read this shit!!). Fucketty fucketty fuck fuck fuck. And one more fuck for good luck. That is all.

I've Posted this Picture Before But Some Good Things You Just Can't Get Enough of...

2007-02-22T09:26:00.000Z

If it Weren't for that Devon Nerd Boy...

2007-02-21T18:10:00.000Z

I'd be having a much worse day. Thankfully thinking back on last night's gig at the Shepherd's Bush Empire is enough to make any girl (and any fan of good music) smile... I would give you a nice review here, but frankly I can't be arsed, and Schwesty very kindly forwarded me this link, which seems to sum it up all too well:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/music/gig-23353145-details/Seth+Lakeman/gigReview.do?reviewId=23386325

There was one rather marvellous moment, during a virtuoso performance of 'Kitty Jay', when all I could see was his bow bobbing above someone's head, and thanks to the smoke machine (a Seth favourite), it did actually look like he was fiddling so furiously, that he'd set himself on fire!

Embroidery was also pretty funny this morning. My teacher persuaded me to adapt my machine embroidery sample (a rather unintentional football-shaped mess) into a homage to the bad boys of football. I think my class of middle-aged ladies like to humour me, and see what "wacky" crap I can come up with next. Bless 'em.

But this afternoon I was at work, and I have been on the end of some serious cack-handedness, by a senior colleague. I am loathe to 'dob' people in, but my boss is going to get ear-ache tomorrow, when I do just that. As mistakes in my line of business could have very serious consequences, I'm pretty pissed off about the whole affair.

Anyways, gotta go, as the Swiss Miss has rescued me from an evening on the sofa, in favour of a couple of bevvies. I should be out with the lovely Choc-Chip but she was on the end of a serious bout of bad-luck yesterday, which I'm sure she she does not want repeating here. Needless to say - d'oh!!

Gone to 'Nam

2007-02-18T10:39:00.000Z

Spent my Saturday evening down the pub, watching Manure vs. the Mighty 'Ding. It started off scrappy, slowly but surely turning into a good cup tie. I could watch Ronaldo missing that sitter on a loop, and happily (despite the pub being not in 'Ding town) I was clearly not the only one that found it amusing, the place positively ringing with laughter at that point, and plenty of cheering to be heard when the lovely Brynjar put away his header to get the draw....

My Manure supporting companion did not find it quite so entertaining. Ha ha ha ha. Alas the evening took a gradual turn for the worse. I had reluctantly agreed to dins at the home of said companion. I was always on thin ice, as he had previously made his feelings about me clear. I've been equally honest to him, but value his friendship greatly, so thought I should say yes, to prove my point about us being 'cool' with each other. He made a lot of effort. It was nice. But it got to that stage (post a couple of glasses of wine) when I needed to go home. He didn't want me to go. I said I had to. He said he only wanted someone to drink with, for the evening. I said let's not cross any lines. He said what lines?? He did puppy dog eyes. I felt like a heartless bitch. You get the picture. You couldn't wish to meet a lovelier man, a complete gentleman, but am very very determined not to go there, just for the sake of flattering myself. Arrgg.

So I found myself sitting on a bus, faintly drunk, feeling guilty, staring out the window at the delights of a midnight Tottenham (or the 'Nam as I prefer to call it). Tottenham is like heaven and hell. As you admire the grand architecture, and amazing glimpses of an old and untouched London, you are also desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the proper hard-asses that stalk the streets, music booming (no we don't all actually want to listen your shit Hip Hop thanks). You hear every language, and every kind of face, and realise that you are the minority here. This would be by-the-by, if you didn't get the distinct impression you're passing through a kind of ghetto. I wonder how long it will be until the 'Nam gets gentrified, and the ghetto gets pushed somewhere else?

The Best of Times and the Worst of Times

2007-02-15T16:13:00.000Z

Today, in my wisdom, I decided to spring-clean my office. What started off as a minor tidy, became a three-hour military operation. Who would have thought such a small space could hold so much crap?? However all was made well, when I suddenly came upon £20 tucked away in my office drawer.

I simply cannot tell you how much pleasure this small miracle gave me. Oh how I dreamed of what I could do with this forgotten gold-mine. In fact for four whole hours I soaked in the aura of my new-found richness, telling any colleague unlucky enough to pass by of my amazing luck.

Then Disney (jokingly) asked if it actually might belong to petty-cash (seeing as part of my job is to give out cash to couriers). As the colour drained from my face, she laughed "no, it can't be, so and so from Finance would have chased it by now, it must be yours....". But no, something rang true, and suddenly I had visions of a courier who had handed cash back, so Didcot did the "right thing" and rang Finance to find out if their books balanced...

DAMN IT AND BUGGER IT AND FECK IT!!! So the glory of my extra £20 is no longer. Booo and hiss and etc. etc. So yet again I am heading down the pub, and will have to nurse one pint for approximately three hours. Great.

Spadger Tips

2007-02-14T16:07:00.000Z

Firstly, have a laugh at the expense of some folkie people..........

Private Benjamin has very helpfully just pointed out that spadgers don't like coming into gardens without any plants in. Which may explain why the concrete / gravel / rubbish strewn space out back is not an attractive prospect for the little beggars!

What Day Is It??

2007-02-14T11:29:00.000Z

The fact that I had completely forgotten it is Valentine's Day today goes to show how little I expect from it! I am actually feeling fairly contented, and haven't yet tired of the song that is whirling about in my head at the moment (well one line of a song), which I sat listening to at my Old Ma and Pa's place on Sunday morning, as I was sewing up my granddad's trousers, and watching the spadgers (that's dad-speak for sparrows) squabbling outside. I hear it is lame to quote song lyrics (via Choc Chip via Monky), but I don't see the difference from poetry and I do that all the time! It is from an Appalachian / British folk song called 'Come All You Fair and Tender Ladies', and I've been listening to it on the album 'Scalene' by Sandra and Nancy Kerr and James Fagan. It's a really nice album, including some great Australian songs, and the front cover is hilarious - with their multi-coloured woollen outfits, and thoughtful poses, they could not be more stereotypical folkies if they tried!

I wish I were a little sparrow,
And I had wings and I could fly,
I'd fly away to my own false lover,
And when he's talking I'd draw nigh,

But I am not a little sparrow,
I have no wings, nor can I fly,
I'll sit right here, and weep in sorrow,
And try to pass my troubles by.

Talking of which, I love the little spadgers, but no matter what I put out in the garden (peanuts, seeds, bread and the holy grail of spadger-food fat balls) they will not be tempted in.... anyone got any helpful hints??