Her: I like his face.
Me: So do I.
Her: Some people just don't have enough face. He has enough face.
Me: Mmm.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Day 83: I Am Chemical
A dear friend (who is very lovely, and has eyes like Minstrels and long brown hair), is emigrating to Australia. She is not a convict, but has to move out tomorrow. We have just spent five hours moving things from her flat to someone else's in Trellick Tower (smells of cabbage), and cleaning. Today, I have:
1. Breathed in some Mr Muscle oven cleaner, twice
2. Accidentally licked a Parazone bleach cube whilst opening it with my teeth
3. Squirted Cillit Bang limescale remover in my face
4. Wiped down my sweaty brow with a Flash bathroom wipe
5. Poured bleach on my foot
6. Got some unspeakably strong kitchen de-greaser in my eye, which made me cry.
Apparently you can do all cleaning ever with a lemon and a pint of brown vinegar, but they didn't have any in the shops.
My neighbour just came down. He is very nice indeed*, and has bought a new mat for the front door and some paint to paint the gate with. I looked at him and said: " What gate? We've got a gate? WHERE? A gate?". I feel a bit weird.
* I wrote a mean post about people like him last night that was lost and then found, but I take it all back so I'm not going to post it. It was shit anyway. Although I do stand by what I said about Lily Allen.
1. Breathed in some Mr Muscle oven cleaner, twice
2. Accidentally licked a Parazone bleach cube whilst opening it with my teeth
3. Squirted Cillit Bang limescale remover in my face
4. Wiped down my sweaty brow with a Flash bathroom wipe
5. Poured bleach on my foot
6. Got some unspeakably strong kitchen de-greaser in my eye, which made me cry.
Apparently you can do all cleaning ever with a lemon and a pint of brown vinegar, but they didn't have any in the shops.
My neighbour just came down. He is very nice indeed*, and has bought a new mat for the front door and some paint to paint the gate with. I looked at him and said: " What gate? We've got a gate? WHERE? A gate?". I feel a bit weird.
* I wrote a mean post about people like him last night that was lost and then found, but I take it all back so I'm not going to post it. It was shit anyway. Although I do stand by what I said about Lily Allen.
Day 83: I Have Lost My Post
They weren't good, so in a way I'm quite happy. There were two of them: a) Piss off, Lily Allen; and b) My Neighbour Is A Twat.
They were there went I went to bed, but have since vanished. I haven't turned them into drafts or anything like that. They're just not there.
I think there is a Thing that is wiping out bad posts on my blog. This is only the beginning. By the time its work is done, there will only be one left (gum/ladygarden incident), and everyone's read that already. Still, there's always Croydon, if only I could bring myself to think about it.
In the meantime, I am going to Notting Hill to move to some plants to Hackney. This blog may not exist by the time I get back, and if the worst happens, well - it's been real, and you're all beautiful, beautiful people. Don't ever forget that, yeah? Reach for the stars. Be who you wanna be. Be YOU. I love you all.
They were there went I went to bed, but have since vanished. I haven't turned them into drafts or anything like that. They're just not there.
I think there is a Thing that is wiping out bad posts on my blog. This is only the beginning. By the time its work is done, there will only be one left (gum/ladygarden incident), and everyone's read that already. Still, there's always Croydon, if only I could bring myself to think about it.
In the meantime, I am going to Notting Hill to move to some plants to Hackney. This blog may not exist by the time I get back, and if the worst happens, well - it's been real, and you're all beautiful, beautiful people. Don't ever forget that, yeah? Reach for the stars. Be who you wanna be. Be YOU. I love you all.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Day 82: I Find The Lollipop People
I didn't stay in bed in the end. I drew my fringe back on with a pencil and went to the gymnasium instead. I walked up stairs and down roads that weren't going anywhere. Then I cycled and rowed nowhere for a bit, and picked up weights and moved them around a bit. I counteracted my exertion by sitting gormlessly in the steam room marvelling at the amount of sweat I produce (and I'm not talking about the sweat that spurts from every part of me in the steam room itself). I am constantly astonished by how much I sweat. According to Anuja-The-Less-Irritating-Since-I-Am-Thinner personal trainer, sweating is no sign of your fitness level; nor is going red in the face. Which is just as well, otherwise I would be technically dead.
Anyway, after two hours spent in Holmes Place Streatham (I found an enormous scab under the rowing machine last week, and someone's snot wiped on the treadmill; otherwise, it's great), I went to Croydon to meet a dear friend for luncheon (of which more later; I simply don't know where to start).
I haven't seen a lollipop lady since I was a tiny tiny child. In fact, as (according to my mother), I have False Memory Syndrome, I wasn't entirely sure they existed at all. But they do, and they are all in West Norwood.
I saw one, and thought, oh look, a Lollipop Lady. She looks nice.
Then I saw this one. (From the front she looks like a marmoset.)That's a bit rum, I thought, but no matter; it is merely a Coincidence.
Then - seconds later - I saw a third, but this time it was a gentleman lollipop lady (I assume they should now be called Lollipop Persons. You can see his lollipop there on the left. I was moving at the time.)I am very, very confused. Do Croydon Council spend all their council tax on Lollipop People? Do the Lollipop People live together in a house, and spend their evenings polishing their lollipops whilst watching public information films? Is there a Lollipop Person Training Course, run every other weekend in West Norwood Town Hall? Do they do practice runs on each other in the carpark?
These and other questions (e.g., why is Andrew Lloyd Weber?), will have to remain unanswered, I am afraid. But let me know if you see a Lollipop Person. I'm still not entirely sure they exist, despite the photographic evidence.
Day 82: I Talk To The Animals
Cat: Miaow.
Me: Get out of my fucking way, you knobber.
Later.
Squirrels: Yak yak yak (squirrel noise)
Me: Shit OFF, you cunts.
Later:
Dog in the street: Woof! Woof! WOOF!
Me: Cock OFF, doghead.
My parents must be so glad they spent all that money on my education.
Me: Get out of my fucking way, you knobber.
Later.
Squirrels: Yak yak yak (squirrel noise)
Me: Shit OFF, you cunts.
Later:
Dog in the street: Woof! Woof! WOOF!
Me: Cock OFF, doghead.
My parents must be so glad they spent all that money on my education.
Day 82: I Am A Guest
Having burnt my fringe off by leaning over the stove last night, I have decided to say in bed today eating very small, slightly sour apples. It is obviously far too dangerous to go outside.
However, much excitement "over at" (I think that's what you say) the weblog of Hot Coffee Girl, who labours under the misapprehension that I am 'sexy' but otherwise seems fairly sensible, despite the fact that she calls me "a real tart" which is strange, for as regular readers will be aware, I have sworn off Gentleman Callers until I can look at myself naked in a full-length mirror without calling the emergency services.
Anyroad up, she wrote from the Americas asking for a "guest post", which I have done. Happily for all concerned, I can therefore lie fearfully in bed all day without worrying about writing my own blog.
Oh, and while you're at it, you should probably go and read Tired Dad. He's awfully good, if a little timid.
However, much excitement "over at" (I think that's what you say) the weblog of Hot Coffee Girl, who labours under the misapprehension that I am 'sexy' but otherwise seems fairly sensible, despite the fact that she calls me "a real tart" which is strange, for as regular readers will be aware, I have sworn off Gentleman Callers until I can look at myself naked in a full-length mirror without calling the emergency services.
Anyroad up, she wrote from the Americas asking for a "guest post", which I have done. Happily for all concerned, I can therefore lie fearfully in bed all day without worrying about writing my own blog.
Oh, and while you're at it, you should probably go and read Tired Dad. He's awfully good, if a little timid.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Day 81: I Go To Waterstone's
Try not to shop in Waterstone's, if you can help it. Every single little fucker that works there is doing an MA in something pointless and thinks that they are far, far too important to work in a shop.
Me: Hello. Have you got A Vicious Circle by Amanda Craig* in stock? I can't see it on the shelf.
Him: (Sighs, barely looks up) Sorry?
Me: A Vicious Circle by Amanda Craig. Have you got it?
Him: (Sighs) Is it on the shelf?
Me: No ... um, could you check to see that it's still in print?
Him: (Sighs, puts his book down, barely looks up) I suppose so.
Me: Thank you. That's very kind of you.
Time passes. A dog barks in the distance. Distant laughter is heard in the Popular Psychology section. I see nothing but books about how to dress, eat, get a man and keep him, 3-for-2 offers on books about single women getting their man, cards with cats on and a book about cake written by an actress. And the new Bill Bryson book in teetering piles up to the moon.
Him: Yeah, it's in print. Do you ... WANT it? (As if I am ordering Mein Kampf)
Me: No. Not anymore.
Ooh, get you, with your stupid MA, your scraggly facial hair and your 'I'm an intellectual' clothes. It takes a rare man to put me off buying shiny shiny books but you, my friend, have done it. And now I am going to drive back to Highgate and go to the weird shop on the corner that sells a disproportionate amount of Freud, books at a price that is as expensive as books can get, has no 3-for-2 offers and no 'staff recommendations' from over-educated fuckwits whose opinions I care nothing about. Then I will have a strange but pleasant small conversation with a woman with Hair who has a dog sleeping on her feet, and an unfeasibly tall man in glasses who likes Nancy Mitford.
* Buy it. It's good.
Me: Hello. Have you got A Vicious Circle by Amanda Craig* in stock? I can't see it on the shelf.
Him: (Sighs, barely looks up) Sorry?
Me: A Vicious Circle by Amanda Craig. Have you got it?
Him: (Sighs) Is it on the shelf?
Me: No ... um, could you check to see that it's still in print?
Him: (Sighs, puts his book down, barely looks up) I suppose so.
Me: Thank you. That's very kind of you.
Time passes. A dog barks in the distance. Distant laughter is heard in the Popular Psychology section. I see nothing but books about how to dress, eat, get a man and keep him, 3-for-2 offers on books about single women getting their man, cards with cats on and a book about cake written by an actress. And the new Bill Bryson book in teetering piles up to the moon.
Him: Yeah, it's in print. Do you ... WANT it? (As if I am ordering Mein Kampf)
Me: No. Not anymore.
Ooh, get you, with your stupid MA, your scraggly facial hair and your 'I'm an intellectual' clothes. It takes a rare man to put me off buying shiny shiny books but you, my friend, have done it. And now I am going to drive back to Highgate and go to the weird shop on the corner that sells a disproportionate amount of Freud, books at a price that is as expensive as books can get, has no 3-for-2 offers and no 'staff recommendations' from over-educated fuckwits whose opinions I care nothing about. Then I will have a strange but pleasant small conversation with a woman with Hair who has a dog sleeping on her feet, and an unfeasibly tall man in glasses who likes Nancy Mitford.
* Buy it. It's good.
Day 81: I Buy Wine In Marks And Spencer
I am buying wine. The young man on the till picks up the bottle, looks at it, then looks at me.
Man on Till: Linda? (Waves bottle of wine at supervisor lady in glasses.)
She glances at me.
Linda: Yes, she's fine, love.
Me: (A slight thrill passes through me.) Were you just checking to see if I was over 21?
Linda: It's the young ones. They can't always tell, you see.
Me: What, that I'm over 21?
Him: I can't always tell, you see. I'm eighteen. You get past a certain point ...
Me: ... what, twenty?
Him: It's obvious now I look, though.
Linda: Yes love, you should look you know, you will be able to tell.
Me: Come on. You could at least PRETEND. For my sake.
Linda: I could, I suppose, but ...
Him: ...Cashback?
Man on Till: Linda? (Waves bottle of wine at supervisor lady in glasses.)
She glances at me.
Linda: Yes, she's fine, love.
Me: (A slight thrill passes through me.) Were you just checking to see if I was over 21?
Linda: It's the young ones. They can't always tell, you see.
Me: What, that I'm over 21?
Him: I can't always tell, you see. I'm eighteen. You get past a certain point ...
Me: ... what, twenty?
Him: It's obvious now I look, though.
Linda: Yes love, you should look you know, you will be able to tell.
Me: Come on. You could at least PRETEND. For my sake.
Linda: I could, I suppose, but ...
Him: ...Cashback?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Day 80: I See A Fox In My House
Why is the cat in the bathroom, squeaking frantically? Is he dying? (Fingers crossed.) Why is the back door banging? What's that rustling noise and that weird tap-tap sound like a phantom dog?
But of course! It isn't the cat, or the wind, or a phantom dog. Naturally, it's a fox, in my sitting room, sitting on its arse, watching telly from behind the door. Which obviously makes sense, what with this being London, and me being in my house.
And I can't be sure, but I think it's the fox who's been in before (what is the lifespan of a fox that lives off the insides of wheely bins?). The same one that watched EastEnders one night a couple of years ago, then stole a (heavy) bag and chewed its handle off in the garden, perhaps?
And no, it's not 'cute'. It's weird.
Coming Soon: There is a rhinoceros in the room.
But of course! It isn't the cat, or the wind, or a phantom dog. Naturally, it's a fox, in my sitting room, sitting on its arse, watching telly from behind the door. Which obviously makes sense, what with this being London, and me being in my house.
And I can't be sure, but I think it's the fox who's been in before (what is the lifespan of a fox that lives off the insides of wheely bins?). The same one that watched EastEnders one night a couple of years ago, then stole a (heavy) bag and chewed its handle off in the garden, perhaps?
And no, it's not 'cute'. It's weird.
Coming Soon: There is a rhinoceros in the room.
Day 80: I Look To The Stars For Guidance
Having been reminded twice today that I am apparently a Libran, I have decided to start reading my horoscope(s). I have many things on my mind: Will I ever get a job and stop worrying about money? Will the squirrels die? Will I be travelling to a far away place sometime soon? Will the cat live beyond its fifteenth birthday, despite my best efforts? Will my parents fill their retirement spending the inheritance on a muskrat farm? And will all drivers of Porsche Cayennes die in a pile-up on the M25?
Let's see what the stars have to say!
Justin Toper, OK! Magazine
The stars give you licence to do just about anything!
I don't know what to do about anything. That's the problem. Oh well.
Dena's Life Stars, Take A Break Magazine
... That feeling of confusion will disappear leaving you plenty to smile about... If two lovers are fighting over you it's time to exit and leave them to it!
Hmm. Better. If only the confusion would go, I wouldn't be reading horoscopes. But I'm not convinced: the last time two lovers faught over me was in a car park in Swansea in 2001.
Bernard Fitzwalter ("He's spot on, you know..."), Chat Magazine
Come on, Bernie. What you got for me?
Amazing what turns up when you're not looking! You could discover something about someone you work with that'll change not just your relationship with them, but everyone else's, too.
As far as I know, I'm not working with anyone at the moment, unless I've missed the point and have in fact been going to an office every day for the last eighty days. Wrong, Bernie. Oh so very wrong.
The Daily Mail
Maybe you are finding it difficult to express your feelings for fear they will not meet a positive response.
Is that just today, or generally?
The Daily Telegraph
With the Sun and Mercury in Libra you are at your most creative, but do not take on more than you can handle, or be over optimistic about money. If you keep your feet on solid ground, you can side step a potential problem, so draw up positive new plans, but do not try to to go too far, too fast. You can solve a recent cash flow problem if you take advice from someone you rely on.
If this is me at my "most creative", I am doomed. And does "optimistic" mean "believe I can pay the mortgage next month"? The lady in the corner shop will be choosing my lottery numbers this weekend, that much I do know.
Shelley Von Strunckel, The Sunday Times
For the past several weeks, you’ve been riding the rapids, along with everybody else. Swiftly changing circumstances and equally powerful changes in the general atmosphere have made it difficult to make plans. This powerful cycle of change is finally coming to a close, and you can begin to look ahead."
If the last several weeks have been riding the rapids, God help me if anything actually happens. But what a relief - if the powerful cycle of change (?) is going to come to a close soon, I will be able to look ahead confidently to another month of watching daytime television and going to the gym. Thanks, Shell!
Russellgrant.com
Anything you tackle at this time should go well. In fact your success at some jobs you take on will exceed your expectations! The more you achieve, the more your confidence will shine. Your high spirits will spread to those around you as you encourage others to try their hand at tasks they've not had the guts to attempt in the past.
But Russell, I'm not doing anything. And if I tried to encourage anyone else to do something, they'd laugh.
Astrology.com
Combine your two favorite things: friends and art. Make some impromptu plans with friends you haven't seen in a while - hit a museum, sculpture garden or gallery crawl. It'll refresh you in all the ways you require.
Hmm. Sounds OK as it goes. Bit poncy, but OK. At least it tells me what to do.
Mystic Meg, The News Of The World
I've got a lot riding on you, baby - remember when we met in 1999 and you asked me to brush your hair?
You need to choose between love that gives you a sense of freedom and acceptance versus a possessive passion. A job or study project that links you with supportive friends helps you shine. Cousins share winning luck. A call from a faraway relative brings good news.
I will return my aunt's phone call (is Devon a long way away?), and see my cousin, who I have been trying to avoid. The first bit sounds OK and I don't understand the rest.
Debbie Frank, The Daily Mirror
Time goes quickly when you're having fun and there's certainly a feeling of life speeding up. Events gather pace now the Moon shifts into expansive Sagittarius and on the whole you feel more positive. You may have to let go of certain activities in order to make way for something new, but that's all par for the course.
Time is going very slowly, and far too fast in very short bursts. I don't think life is speeding up, but I have got an interview next week for a job that doesn't exist. As for the activity, I take it she means watching daytime television and reading 50p novels from the Oxfam Shop on Streatham High Street?
Overall, it seems that if you too are a Libran, things are going to happen to you in the next month. Incredible! Oh, hang on - what this? "Luck takes the colour red." What?
Coming soon: I try my hand at astrology in order to pay the mortgage next month. Call my Starline on 0905 HOROSCOPE to find out more. UK calls cost £89 a minute. Not available in ROI. All calls are recorded.
Day 80: I Watch Daytime Television
One of the enormous benefits of unemployment are the free hours that can be filled watching daytime television. An average day's viewing schedule might look something like this:
"I Can't Raise £200 Out Of The Pikey Shit In My Attic At A Provincial Auction House", BBC1, 10am; repeated at 3pm and 4pm
"I Can't Raise £25 Selling The Pikey Shit In My Attic At A Boot Sale", BBC1, 10.30am; repeated on BBC3 and 4 throughout the week
"Move Out Of Your House For A Day And We Will Decorate It Using Shoddy Workmanship And Home Interior Design Tips Taken Out Of 'Chat' Magazine", usually hosted by Claire "I'm a tapdancer really and used to be in Brookie' Sweeney (known as SWEEN-OOH after a night at the panto in Milton Keynes), and Linda 'Colourblind Chav' Barker, BBC1, 11am
"Move To A Castle In The Country On The Profits From Your Terrace In Wandsworth", BBC2, 4.30pm
"Retire To Marbella On The Profits From Your Semi In Birmingham", Channel 4, 5pm
"Have A Boss-Eyed Colourblind American With Dubious Trousers Round To Inappropriately Redecorate Your Flat", Five, 5pm
"Buy A House You Have Never Seen At Auction, Fail To Have A Survey Done, And Fuck Your Life Up Forever, BBC1, 9.45am (Thursday)
"Drunken Pikey Shoutdown, Featuring Patronising Middle Class Kneeling Host and Free Counselling Round The Back", ITV, 2pm
"Lick This Lie Detector And Tell Me You're The Dad", ITV, 2.30pm
"I Am American And Dysfunctional In A Way You Won't Quite Get", ITV2, 4pm, repeated at 5 and 6pm.
But all this is as nothing compared to ITV's This Morning, because Fern and Phil are on it, and I love them.
Oh Fern Brittain, with your lovely cheeks and kind eyes, married to the handsome chef who loves you as you are. Oh Ferny-Fern, who guests miss when they come in on Friday and get the thin bird with the bob instead.
Fernster The Fern, who can talk about genital warts, bereavement, shepherd's pie and cheap dresses from Tesco in the space of 10 minutes and not sound like an idiot. Fern-Oh, who doesn't care that she's a porker and still wears bikinis; who can cycle across India for charity and not be a celebrity twat about it. And The Phillip Schofield.
Oh Phil, with your grey hair that you stopped dyeing one day, whereupon you became the Grey Fox of all the Grey Foxes. Phil, previous hero of childrens' TV and non-idiot. Philly Phil, with your dimples and kindness.
Together, they are Fern 'n' Phil. I love you, Fern and Phil. I really love you. You make unemployment feel good.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Day 79: I Have Lost Control Of My Faculties
At what point, exactly, do you accept that you have a facial tic and undergo minor neurological surgery? I can't stop winking. Wink wink wink. Like an idiot. Winky-wink-wink-wink. Winketty-wink. The whole time, ceaselessly and without end. I make sure I only do it when I shouldn't, because I enjoy looking like a lascivious Bedlamite. Wink wink. Oh, winky wink-wink.
Times At Which It Is Acceptable To Wink
1. If you are Sid James, Leslie Phillips, Bob Monkhouse or Bruce Forsyth (Foreign Readers - no, you won't understand, but you're not missing much)
2. If you are trying to communicate without words with someone on the other side of the room (but not in a saucy way)
3. If you have something in your eye, e.g. Marmite (me, yesterday morning)
4. If you have just stuck your mascara wand in your eye
5. If someone has poked you in the eye with their finger
6. If you are drunk and showing people what you can do with your face
7. If you are in a meeting and have Done Something Manipulative and they've fallen for it.
Times At Which It Is Not Acceptable To Wink
1. When having parking ticket punched in Sainsbury's in Camden
2. Upon entering the gymnasium, every day
3. When buying petrol in Tesco Express on Brixton Road from a man with one eye
4. When looking at people you do not know in other cars
5. Upon completion of unmentionable cosmetic medical procedures
6. Upon leaving hotels
7. When buying Pork Scratchings in pubs
8. When trying to be saucy.
Wink wink. Aaargh.
Day 79: I Demand An Immediate Ban On Exclamation Marks!
No more. I insist. I can't bear it anymore. This is entirely subjective: I hate exclamation marks in the same way that I hate celery, cucumber, that idiot Jeff who went out with Jade Goody, and the word "pardon".
I know it's illogical. I know they're greatly loved. In Spain you get two, even if one is upside down. I know they're on everything, from packets of food ("Eat Well!"), to pieces of correspondence from the local council ("You may be wondering about the new parking restrictions in your area!"), but it has to stop. Exclamation marks don't even get a mention in The Economist Style Guide which means The Economist doesn't use them, or think they're even worthy of a mention. People who work with copy a lot (journalists and copywriters, for example), call them 'screamers'. Although a lot of those types talk bollocks quite a lot of the time, they're right about that: exclamation marks are the written equivalent of raising your voice at the end of a sentence, shouting, or laughing at your own jokes (which I do a lot, mind you, so I'm hardly one to judge).
They're OK when you're being ironic, but even then their success isn't guaranteed. I know I'm a snob. I know I've probably offended half the people who comment on this blog (and please don't stop). And I'm sorry. But if I see another exclamation mark, I'm going to kill someone! And I'm not joking.
I know it's illogical. I know they're greatly loved. In Spain you get two, even if one is upside down. I know they're on everything, from packets of food ("Eat Well!"), to pieces of correspondence from the local council ("You may be wondering about the new parking restrictions in your area!"), but it has to stop. Exclamation marks don't even get a mention in The Economist Style Guide which means The Economist doesn't use them, or think they're even worthy of a mention. People who work with copy a lot (journalists and copywriters, for example), call them 'screamers'. Although a lot of those types talk bollocks quite a lot of the time, they're right about that: exclamation marks are the written equivalent of raising your voice at the end of a sentence, shouting, or laughing at your own jokes (which I do a lot, mind you, so I'm hardly one to judge).
They're OK when you're being ironic, but even then their success isn't guaranteed. I know I'm a snob. I know I've probably offended half the people who comment on this blog (and please don't stop). And I'm sorry. But if I see another exclamation mark, I'm going to kill someone! And I'm not joking.
Day 79: I Have A Second Unfortunate Encounter With Chewing Gum
"Lightning doesn't strike twice", they say. That isn't true, as we all know: take, for example, of the case of Roy Cleveland Sullivan (1912 – 1983), a forest ranger in Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, who was struck by lightning seven times.
Some years ago, I was taking my weekly shower and tentatively soaping my ladygarden. "What is this?", I thought. Something was wrong. Something sticky, dense and minty fresh, embedded where it should not have been. Some minutes and a pair of scissors later, I extracted a lump of chewing gum. How it got there I will never know.
I know for a fact that I haven't chewed any gum in the house for a few days. I know for a fact that I haven't been lolling around naked smoking a pipe and wriggling around in my speshul typing chair. I haven't been driving naked, or dragging my arse along the pavement like a dog with worms. I haven't been rolling around in bed with a gum-chewing gentleman callers for - well, ever. (If they forget to take their socks off, they usually remember to spit the gum out at least). If there's any gum in my bedroom, it's loose and unchewed in the bottom of a dusty handbag I haven't used for five years. So how come I've just found chewing gum embedded in my ladygarden for the second time?
It's just as well I'm not entertaining gentleman callers at the moment, otherwise I'd be muttering vaguely about pubic topiary being on-trend for Autumn/Winter 2006.
Some years ago, I was taking my weekly shower and tentatively soaping my ladygarden. "What is this?", I thought. Something was wrong. Something sticky, dense and minty fresh, embedded where it should not have been. Some minutes and a pair of scissors later, I extracted a lump of chewing gum. How it got there I will never know.
I know for a fact that I haven't chewed any gum in the house for a few days. I know for a fact that I haven't been lolling around naked smoking a pipe and wriggling around in my speshul typing chair. I haven't been driving naked, or dragging my arse along the pavement like a dog with worms. I haven't been rolling around in bed with a gum-chewing gentleman callers for - well, ever. (If they forget to take their socks off, they usually remember to spit the gum out at least). If there's any gum in my bedroom, it's loose and unchewed in the bottom of a dusty handbag I haven't used for five years. So how come I've just found chewing gum embedded in my ladygarden for the second time?
It's just as well I'm not entertaining gentleman callers at the moment, otherwise I'd be muttering vaguely about pubic topiary being on-trend for Autumn/Winter 2006.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Day 78: I Review My Friends Reunited Profile
I really don't get the point of Friends Reunited. I look at it about once every 3 months, usually when I've had one absinthe too many and think I'm Napoleon. I know all the people I want to know from the olden days, and I there's no-one I wish I'd slept with in 1991, so I'm not angling for a reunion. (In fact I'm definitely not angling for a reunion. The thought makes me feel faint and fumble for my pipe. There's a reason why we didn't keep in touch, although I do wonder what happened to Wendy Platt. She was nice.)
When I still did internet dating, I could weed out the knobbers by a) whether or not they looked me up on Friends Reunited; and b) whether they believed it or not. I actually and literally went on a date once with someone who asked me how the tablecloth business was going. (A knobber, naturellement.) I had no idea what he was talking about, but you will if you read this, the profile that is still loitering on Friends Reunited.
(As I hinted at in the previous piss-poor post, it is still attracting communication from people I wouldn't recognise if they were wearing a sandwich board saying "I am Paul Davies, and we were at university together. I'm the one who you sent an anonymous note to saying 'Deodorant is good, Best wishes, A Friend.'")
"Following my breakdown after leaving York, (1991 - 1992), I left London for Prague and worked for an animation company. We won the 1993 Grand Prix for Best Animation Short at Cannes, which opened up a lot of opportunities for us.
Sadly, however, Paul and I divorced late in the summer of 1993 and I felt it would be better for everyone if I moved back to London. I then met Matt and although we've had a bumpy ride, we've both agreed that an open marriage is possibly the only way we can keep our relationship together - after all, fidelity isn't just about sex.
I spent 1993 - 1998 in Lincoln with Matt where he set up his own animation company. He's now perfected a real-time stop-animation technique that's about to snapped up by a certain Oscar-winning Animator whose first name starts with an N, and who isn't entirely unfamiliar with Wensleydale Cheese. Whilst Matt was setting up Starburst, I worked for Lincolnshire Countrywide, a small advertising agency based about 2 minutes from our house, and ran a number of accounts, mainly those of locally-based businessmen.
In early 1998 Matt left me for a while and I moved back to London, where I am now in deep psychotherapy and working 'behind the scenes' at a local amateur dramatic group - currently working on 'HMS Pinafore' for June 2004, set in pre-Stalinist Russia with costumes by George of Streatham. Matt comes down every other weekend and gets on well with Tim.
Our kids, Leilandii and Durcan, are 5 and 2 and the apple of our eye, although they're currently living with my mother in Fulham. We also have 2 dogs, Curses and Transplant.
Would be great to hear from anyone from the old days. I am running a small business on the side making laminated tablecloths, so would love to hear from any budding (or existing!) textile designers.
Be safe and Happy !!!!!"
Naah. It's as perfect today as it was four years ago. I'll leave it as it is. I'm only in contact about five people who are on it and they all know the dogs are really called Curses and Dialysis, so it's not like I'm being deliberately deceitful.
When I still did internet dating, I could weed out the knobbers by a) whether or not they looked me up on Friends Reunited; and b) whether they believed it or not. I actually and literally went on a date once with someone who asked me how the tablecloth business was going. (A knobber, naturellement.) I had no idea what he was talking about, but you will if you read this, the profile that is still loitering on Friends Reunited.
(As I hinted at in the previous piss-poor post, it is still attracting communication from people I wouldn't recognise if they were wearing a sandwich board saying "I am Paul Davies, and we were at university together. I'm the one who you sent an anonymous note to saying 'Deodorant is good, Best wishes, A Friend.'")
"Following my breakdown after leaving York, (1991 - 1992), I left London for Prague and worked for an animation company. We won the 1993 Grand Prix for Best Animation Short at Cannes, which opened up a lot of opportunities for us.
Sadly, however, Paul and I divorced late in the summer of 1993 and I felt it would be better for everyone if I moved back to London. I then met Matt and although we've had a bumpy ride, we've both agreed that an open marriage is possibly the only way we can keep our relationship together - after all, fidelity isn't just about sex.
I spent 1993 - 1998 in Lincoln with Matt where he set up his own animation company. He's now perfected a real-time stop-animation technique that's about to snapped up by a certain Oscar-winning Animator whose first name starts with an N, and who isn't entirely unfamiliar with Wensleydale Cheese. Whilst Matt was setting up Starburst, I worked for Lincolnshire Countrywide, a small advertising agency based about 2 minutes from our house, and ran a number of accounts, mainly those of locally-based businessmen.
In early 1998 Matt left me for a while and I moved back to London, where I am now in deep psychotherapy and working 'behind the scenes' at a local amateur dramatic group - currently working on 'HMS Pinafore' for June 2004, set in pre-Stalinist Russia with costumes by George of Streatham. Matt comes down every other weekend and gets on well with Tim.
Our kids, Leilandii and Durcan, are 5 and 2 and the apple of our eye, although they're currently living with my mother in Fulham. We also have 2 dogs, Curses and Transplant.
Would be great to hear from anyone from the old days. I am running a small business on the side making laminated tablecloths, so would love to hear from any budding (or existing!) textile designers.
Be safe and Happy !!!!!"
Naah. It's as perfect today as it was four years ago. I'll leave it as it is. I'm only in contact about five people who are on it and they all know the dogs are really called Curses and Dialysis, so it's not like I'm being deliberately deceitful.
Day 78: I Find A Long Lost Relative
You know how it is not working. Most days are spent in Woolworths trying to buy wooden spoons, reading Take A Break, going to the gymnasium (I am considerably thinner now, since you don't ask), making soup, thinking about crisps, thinking about Iceland, failing to finish the Guardian quick crossword for the 78th consecutive day, and trying (vaguely) to get a job. Oh, and thinking about playing the Lottery, what with the chance of getting a massive wedge that I wouldn't have to lift a finger to get (other than putting six little lines in some boxes and trying to remember Monkeymother's birthday).
I also spend witless amounts of time roaming around the magical world of the online. I amuse myself by trying to pick up my neighbours' wireless superhighwaynet: my AirPort is either broken or isn't compatible with the BT Broadband box thing and it makes my head hurt thinking about it, so I'm trying to nick someone else's so I can email people from the cellar. (I have 'JoJo' and 'BigBoy' to choose from, with an occasional appearance by 'KittyGirl'. I think KittyGirl and BigBoy should 'get it on' , and JoJo should take pictures.)
I am increasingly entertained by looking up people I haven't seen for 20 years on Friendsreunited ("I am a physiotherapist living in Richmond with my husband David and our two beautiful children, Melody and Skye", x 30), and then further enhancing my own entirely-made-up profile, which elicits increasingly strange emails from people I was apparently at university with, but can't remember. ("Dear NWM, I was interested to hear your news; are your dogs really called Curses and Transplant?".)
Naturally, I waste astonishing amounts of time putting random things in Google like "Marmite in my eye", "cat ill take him to vet or let him die", "squirrel control" and "ha ha Nelson noise m-peg". And happily, it seems I have no need for those 'trace your ancestor' thingies, for Google Has The Answer.
Today I searched myself (not my self-self, my Non-workingmonkey self), and found that I have a Japanese relative, who is pictured here. What is he doing with his mouth, I hear you cry, and LOOK at his unfeasibly long eyelashes! And doesn't he get chilly in the foothills of Mount Fuji with nowhere to live? Both of these questions are answered if you look at his little Monkey House: an attractive presentation case which explains that he exists to blow bubbles.
Now, you may be wondering why it is that I believe I am related to this particular monkey. The answer is simple. Created to spend an eternity of Monkeydom blowing bubbles (as I was created to smoke a small clay pipe and drink absinthe), he is now Broken, and unable to blow bubbles. Nor do his eyes flash and roll as they should, or his little arms move up and down. He is therefore on the market for only $25.99, and described as nonworking. I'd give him a home if I had a heart, but unfortunately I haven't. And anyway, he's scary.
I also spend witless amounts of time roaming around the magical world of the online. I amuse myself by trying to pick up my neighbours' wireless superhighwaynet: my AirPort is either broken or isn't compatible with the BT Broadband box thing and it makes my head hurt thinking about it, so I'm trying to nick someone else's so I can email people from the cellar. (I have 'JoJo' and 'BigBoy' to choose from, with an occasional appearance by 'KittyGirl'. I think KittyGirl and BigBoy should 'get it on' , and JoJo should take pictures.)
I am increasingly entertained by looking up people I haven't seen for 20 years on Friendsreunited ("I am a physiotherapist living in Richmond with my husband David and our two beautiful children, Melody and Skye", x 30), and then further enhancing my own entirely-made-up profile, which elicits increasingly strange emails from people I was apparently at university with, but can't remember. ("Dear NWM, I was interested to hear your news; are your dogs really called Curses and Transplant?".)
Naturally, I waste astonishing amounts of time putting random things in Google like "Marmite in my eye", "cat ill take him to vet or let him die", "squirrel control" and "ha ha Nelson noise m-peg". And happily, it seems I have no need for those 'trace your ancestor' thingies, for Google Has The Answer.
Today I searched myself (not my self-self, my Non-workingmonkey self), and found that I have a Japanese relative, who is pictured here. What is he doing with his mouth, I hear you cry, and LOOK at his unfeasibly long eyelashes! And doesn't he get chilly in the foothills of Mount Fuji with nowhere to live? Both of these questions are answered if you look at his little Monkey House: an attractive presentation case which explains that he exists to blow bubbles.
Now, you may be wondering why it is that I believe I am related to this particular monkey. The answer is simple. Created to spend an eternity of Monkeydom blowing bubbles (as I was created to smoke a small clay pipe and drink absinthe), he is now Broken, and unable to blow bubbles. Nor do his eyes flash and roll as they should, or his little arms move up and down. He is therefore on the market for only $25.99, and described as nonworking. I'd give him a home if I had a heart, but unfortunately I haven't. And anyway, he's scary.
Day 77: I Couldn't Possibly Comment
And it seems no-one else can either. Is it just me or is the comment thing fucked?
I assume it must be, otherwise the person who spent 75 minutes reading 32 pages of this blog this morning would surely have left a comment saying: "my dear Non-workingmonkey, thank you for filling an hour and a quarter of my time in a way that has made me happy." On the other hand, it might be Rupert Murdoch planning to acquire this centre of blogging excellence, so I shouldn't complain too much.
I wish I were still in Canterbury. It's sunny there, and people are nice to you in shops. You can walk round the entire city in 3.2 seconds; the drink is cheaper; the men are handsome and the company pleasant. In London, it is pouring with rain and full of traffic jams, mainly caused by seventeen year olds in souped-up Peugeot 206es revving like spastics, and fools in 4x4s blocking roads that were designed for two cars of average size. In Woolworth's, a checkout lady broke three tills. In Sainsbury's, a man who smelt of wee dropped yoghurt on my foot and the security guard in New Look accused me of shoplifting. And on telly, ugly pikeys are taking DNA tests to prove that they are not each others' father.
I am going to make chicken soup and Consider My Options.
I assume it must be, otherwise the person who spent 75 minutes reading 32 pages of this blog this morning would surely have left a comment saying: "my dear Non-workingmonkey, thank you for filling an hour and a quarter of my time in a way that has made me happy." On the other hand, it might be Rupert Murdoch planning to acquire this centre of blogging excellence, so I shouldn't complain too much.
I wish I were still in Canterbury. It's sunny there, and people are nice to you in shops. You can walk round the entire city in 3.2 seconds; the drink is cheaper; the men are handsome and the company pleasant. In London, it is pouring with rain and full of traffic jams, mainly caused by seventeen year olds in souped-up Peugeot 206es revving like spastics, and fools in 4x4s blocking roads that were designed for two cars of average size. In Woolworth's, a checkout lady broke three tills. In Sainsbury's, a man who smelt of wee dropped yoghurt on my foot and the security guard in New Look accused me of shoplifting. And on telly, ugly pikeys are taking DNA tests to prove that they are not each others' father.
I am going to make chicken soup and Consider My Options.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Day 76: I Go To Canterbury, And Blame A Toothy Fish For Poor Facial Hair
Regular readers will be aware of the astonishing fact that whenever I go on holiday, however brief, I am bombarded by dioramas featuring models with scabby facial hair. As I only ever go on holiday to France, I was convinced that this was a particularly French disease, and one almost solely confined to the Château d'Ussé in the Loire valley. But no. For the good burghers of Canterbury seem to be unable to see with their eyes when confronted by a man-size model in a small museum.
What has happened to this chap's eyebrows and moustache? (I must apologise for the quality of the photography; I was distracted by sweat running wetly down the back of my neck.)
And look at this poor chap - a WW1 soldier, no less, with a tache made from a caterpillar that has been divested of its internal organs and soaked in Grecian 2000.
The reason for this sorrowful display of facial hair is simple. Had I not been distracted by this cheerful toothy fish swimming purposelessly
in its display case (who looks like no-one I know, but was amusing enough), I might have noticed a donation box in the entrance hall. And had I seen the donation box, I would have slipped in a fiver (enough to buy a pot of Copydex and some badger bristles). But no. Because of this fish, the models in the Buff Regimental Museum will stand proudly, their moustaches and eyebrows falling off, for the rest of eternity.
What has happened to this chap's eyebrows and moustache? (I must apologise for the quality of the photography; I was distracted by sweat running wetly down the back of my neck.)And look at this poor chap - a WW1 soldier, no less, with a tache made from a caterpillar that has been divested of its internal organs and soaked in Grecian 2000.
The reason for this sorrowful display of facial hair is simple. Had I not been distracted by this cheerful toothy fish swimming purposelessly
in its display case (who looks like no-one I know, but was amusing enough), I might have noticed a donation box in the entrance hall. And had I seen the donation box, I would have slipped in a fiver (enough to buy a pot of Copydex and some badger bristles). But no. Because of this fish, the models in the Buff Regimental Museum will stand proudly, their moustaches and eyebrows falling off, for the rest of eternity.
Day 76: I Go To Canterbury, And Have Fun
I have recently returned from a most enjoyable weekend sojourn in Canterbury with the most charming of companions.
Him: I went to the Cathedral this morning.
Me: What did you think?
Him: Well, I was a bit disappointed. It was a bit ... small.
Me: Small? Fuck off. You'll be very disappointed by London. "Yeah, Big Ben's OK, but it's a bit short. And Buckingham Palace, nice, but poky."
Him: Well, compared to French cathedrals.
Me: I see. Our cathedrals aren't big enough for you, then.
Him: But there's some tombs with melted faces. And a museum of moving automata that tells the story of the Canterbury Tales.
Me: "And sodeynly anon this Damyan/Gan pullen up the smok, and in he throng."
Him: What?
Me: Canterbury Tales. It's Middle English. Bollocks really.
Him: (raises eyebrow)
Me: You know giraffes?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Have you ever touched one?
Him: Yep.
Me: Wow. Where?
Him: Um, in a zoo.
Me: How big are their heads? Are they really big?
Him: Yeah. About so big (moves hands apart to demonstrate).
Me: WOW.
Him: I went to the Cathedral this morning.
Me: What did you think?
Him: Well, I was a bit disappointed. It was a bit ... small.
Me: Small? Fuck off. You'll be very disappointed by London. "Yeah, Big Ben's OK, but it's a bit short. And Buckingham Palace, nice, but poky."
Him: Well, compared to French cathedrals.
Me: I see. Our cathedrals aren't big enough for you, then.
Him: But there's some tombs with melted faces. And a museum of moving automata that tells the story of the Canterbury Tales.
Me: "And sodeynly anon this Damyan/Gan pullen up the smok, and in he throng."
Him: What?
Me: Canterbury Tales. It's Middle English. Bollocks really.
Him: (raises eyebrow)
Me: You know giraffes?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Have you ever touched one?
Him: Yep.
Me: Wow. Where?
Him: Um, in a zoo.
Me: How big are their heads? Are they really big?
Him: Yeah. About so big (moves hands apart to demonstrate).
Me: WOW.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Day 75: I Am Getting Old
In preparation for my imminent trip to Canterbury to see the Cathedral and that, I have been in the bathroom looking at my face. I looked at my nose a bit and saw a hair growing out of the inside of it, so pulled it out with tweezers. That only happens to old men, doesn't it?
Friday, September 22, 2006
Day 74: I Am Looking Forward To National Dating Day
I used to do a lot of internet dating. Did it for seven years, on and off. About 1.34m dates, most of which I can't remember. Wrote about it here. Had some relationships. Fell in love, didn't fall in love, fell in love again. Made four very good friends (and with any luck, one more), who I will almost certainly know until I peg it (fifty years to go: a psychic told me I would die when I'm 86, so it must be true). For reasons regular readers will be aware of, I am not sampling the delights of Gentleman Callers until I can look at myself naked in the mirror without calling the emergency services. I can, however, keep my hand in if I want to, because dating services* still offer me temptations that I can barely resist.
Hi Non-workingmonkey
To celebrate National Dating Day on the 24th September, DatingDirect.com is hosting a Celebrity Dream Date Auction.
The charity auction will end on the 1st October at 2pm with all proceeds going to the registered UK charities of each celebrity’s choice.
Start bidding for the chance to date one of our top celebs including Liz McClarnon of Atomic Kitten fame, and the quizmaster
himself, Chris Tarrant.
When the frantic bidding comes to an end, the highest bidder for each celeb will have their dream turned into reality as they go on a date with their chosen celeb.
The location could be anything from a swanky London restaurant, to the set of a popular TV show to sneak a peak ‘behind the scenes’.
Click below to take a look at the stars going under the hammer…
www.datingdirect.com/nationaldatingday.
Liz McClarnon of Atomic Kitten fame a "top celeb"? Chris Tarrant? Misses England, Northern Ireland, Wales and ... Miss Great Britain? Is she better than Miss Wales, Miss Scotland and Miss England? (Anyone who has recently been in contact with British tabloid television and newspapers will understand why I can't even begin to make a gag about Chris Tarrant going on a date; it'll be shit, and everyone will cry a bit.) Oh, and Foreign Readers - only about four of the people that DatingDirect are offering up are 'celebrities' in any form (D-list) in the UK, so you're not missing much.
But most of all, I'm interested in the fact that this Sunday is National Dating Day. Anyone aware of this fact? Are YOU making special preparations to take the One You Love (or would like to have a go on), out for a 'meal'** in a "swanky restaurant"?
And as for me: well, anyone want to take me out? Regardless of my Gentleman Caller Ban, I don't want to be the only person in the country staying in and watching Songs of Praise this Sunday night. If you're in any doubt (having read my superb blog and admired my photograph), I offer you five reasons why I Make A Great Date:
1. Good at swearing
2. Like booze
3. Can pay own way
4. Interesting conversationalist, if you want to talk about squirrels
5. Live within easy reach of all of London's Top Eateries and Stylish Bars.
Come on. You know you want to. And get your skates on, it'll be hell trying to find a table.
* To cut a long story short, the best ones are Match.com and Guardiansoulmates.co.uk, if you're interested. The one that emailed me today is rubbish. Oh, and don't do internet dating if you're mad. It will make you more mad.
** Bad, bad word.
Day 74: I Am Speechless
Here - finally, and for the benefit of those who may not have had the great good fortune to see it before - is a high-quality reproduction of my famous work, "My Two Cats: Stupid Fat Bastard (on left); Dead Cat (on right)".
And here is what Hot Coffee Girl has done. I think you should join in. I don't know why. You just should.
And here is what Hot Coffee Girl has done. I think you should join in. I don't know why. You just should.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Day 73: I Find Oatibix In Streatham
Regular readers will be aware of my recent struggle to find an alleged new product called Oatibix. (Weetabix*, but made of oats.) (I'd link to the original post but I've broken Blogger.) To cut a long story short, I kept seeing tantalising advertising for the splashy-milk-covered-biscuits-of-Oaty-Joy, but couldn't find them in any of the 93 shops I tried (I'm unemployed, remember), and it was surprisingly irritating.
I wrote to the Weetabix Cereal Co (I'm unemployed, remember), and waited for their reply. While I waited, my (now ex-) friend E took it upon herself to increase my frustration by sending me photographs of people eating Oatibix. Pictures like this:
I sent her an email. She replied. I replied to her email replying to mine.
Me: I HATE YOU. (Where did he get them?). I am in tears of Rage and Desire.
E: Am getting some for you. On the Oatibix black market. Oh yes, you will owe me forever.
Me: I am your slave. You feed me Oatibix, I follow you like dog in a slightly sinister Stalker way.
Then she want to Tesco in Broadgate to get some for me, and they weren't there.
Things were looking up yesterday morning though. The postman rang on the doorbell and I thought it was Weetabix sending me a case of Oatibix to apologise for my distress. It wasn't, though, it was a new book from www.moderntoss.com and t-shirt about not working. I was happy for a while, reading the new Modern Toss book. But then I felt sad, because Weetabix hadn't sent me any Oatibix.
Then I checked my email. And lo! Correspondence from Weetabix.com! Were they going to answer all my questions? Would they show appreciation for the letter I had spent some time (c. 8 minutes) writing? Were they going to send me Oatibix in the post to prove they existed? No. They sent me this dreary, patronising drivel, and I went Bang Off Oatibix almost immediately.
Dear Non-Workingmonkey (except I used my real name, obv)
Thank you for your enquiry about Oatibix.
All three of our Oatibix varieties have proved extremely popular and we are doing everything we can to match the high demand for this exciting new range of products.
All the major retailer groups will be taking Oatibix so it could be in Asda, Co op, Morrisons, Sainsburys, Somerfield, Tesco and Waitrose stores in your area very soon.
We must add though, that availability at local level is at the discretion of individual store managers. They determine what products they offer and of course this applies to all commodities; the breakfast cereals and bars we make are but two examples. The final decision on ranges, varieties, etc, really is theirs. It is also true to say the larger outlets will have greater scope and more options than the smaller shops.
Of course, we would be delighted if every store stocked all our products but, unfortunately, this is not the case.
The best advice we can give is to ask the manager(s) of your favourite store(s) to obtain some for you. Other customers may very well feel the same and if asked often enough he or she could be persuaded to do so. After all, they are in business to
meet demand!
I am sorry we are unable to help further but thank you again for taking the time to contact us.
Yours sincerely
Weetabix People
In the old days, when the streets of London were paved with gold and Polos cost 5p a packet, I worked in the advertising and then the marketing. And I know a little bit about this sort of thing. Manufacturers go and talk to retailers. And they say: "we will be spending millions of pounds advertising and marketing this new product; bearing in mind this information, will you stock our product?". And the retailers say yes, and the people see the ads, and go to the shops to buy the products, and everyone is happy.
But I don't think they do things that way at Weetabix. I think they just advertise, randomly, and cross their wheaty fingers and hope that the big shops will stock their products. And when their customers can't find the product that they've seen advertised on the television, Weetabix hope that they will 'ask the manager(s) of [their] favourite store(s) to obtain some' for them.
I spent ages on that letter. I liked to think of the Weetabix People in their offices looking out of the window making pyramids out of Oatibix Bitesize and wondering what to do next, what with there being no product to sell. I thought that if I asked them a sensible question in a nice way and tried to make them laugh a bit, they would write me a nice letter back and maybe send me a box. (That's what we used to do if people made an effort writing in.) But they didn't. They just sent me that rubbish email.
I really did go bang off Oatibix after that. I didn't want them anymore. I thought they would be a mean-minded, humourless type of breakfast-cereal-biscuit, and I didn't want them in my house. (I've got enough to worry about without miserable cereal taking up space in my kitchen cupboard.)
Imagine the irony when I went to Sainsbury's in Streatham this morning. It's closing tonight for three weeks, so they're clearing stock. And what did I see in the cereal aisle? Six boxes of Oatibix. So I bought one.
I brought it home. (Here it is, with two individual Oatibix on a plate, arranged in an attractive still life in my kitchen.) I ate one, with milk, and let half of it go a bit mushy. Wasn't that impressed, as it goes.
* Weird cereal compacted into ovals. Goes soggy in milk. Like Marmite, bananas and custard and orange jelly with tangerine segments for English people: reminds them of their childhoods.
I wrote to the Weetabix Cereal Co (I'm unemployed, remember), and waited for their reply. While I waited, my (now ex-) friend E took it upon herself to increase my frustration by sending me photographs of people eating Oatibix. Pictures like this:
I sent her an email. She replied. I replied to her email replying to mine.
Me: I HATE YOU. (Where did he get them?). I am in tears of Rage and Desire.
E: Am getting some for you. On the Oatibix black market. Oh yes, you will owe me forever.
Me: I am your slave. You feed me Oatibix, I follow you like dog in a slightly sinister Stalker way.
Then she want to Tesco in Broadgate to get some for me, and they weren't there.
Things were looking up yesterday morning though. The postman rang on the doorbell and I thought it was Weetabix sending me a case of Oatibix to apologise for my distress. It wasn't, though, it was a new book from www.moderntoss.com and t-shirt about not working. I was happy for a while, reading the new Modern Toss book. But then I felt sad, because Weetabix hadn't sent me any Oatibix.
Then I checked my email. And lo! Correspondence from Weetabix.com! Were they going to answer all my questions? Would they show appreciation for the letter I had spent some time (c. 8 minutes) writing? Were they going to send me Oatibix in the post to prove they existed? No. They sent me this dreary, patronising drivel, and I went Bang Off Oatibix almost immediately.
Dear Non-Workingmonkey (except I used my real name, obv)
Thank you for your enquiry about Oatibix.
All three of our Oatibix varieties have proved extremely popular and we are doing everything we can to match the high demand for this exciting new range of products.
All the major retailer groups will be taking Oatibix so it could be in Asda, Co op, Morrisons, Sainsburys, Somerfield, Tesco and Waitrose stores in your area very soon.
We must add though, that availability at local level is at the discretion of individual store managers. They determine what products they offer and of course this applies to all commodities; the breakfast cereals and bars we make are but two examples. The final decision on ranges, varieties, etc, really is theirs. It is also true to say the larger outlets will have greater scope and more options than the smaller shops.
Of course, we would be delighted if every store stocked all our products but, unfortunately, this is not the case.
The best advice we can give is to ask the manager(s) of your favourite store(s) to obtain some for you. Other customers may very well feel the same and if asked often enough he or she could be persuaded to do so. After all, they are in business to
meet demand!
I am sorry we are unable to help further but thank you again for taking the time to contact us.
Yours sincerely
Weetabix People
In the old days, when the streets of London were paved with gold and Polos cost 5p a packet, I worked in the advertising and then the marketing. And I know a little bit about this sort of thing. Manufacturers go and talk to retailers. And they say: "we will be spending millions of pounds advertising and marketing this new product; bearing in mind this information, will you stock our product?". And the retailers say yes, and the people see the ads, and go to the shops to buy the products, and everyone is happy.
But I don't think they do things that way at Weetabix. I think they just advertise, randomly, and cross their wheaty fingers and hope that the big shops will stock their products. And when their customers can't find the product that they've seen advertised on the television, Weetabix hope that they will 'ask the manager(s) of [their] favourite store(s) to obtain some' for them.
I spent ages on that letter. I liked to think of the Weetabix People in their offices looking out of the window making pyramids out of Oatibix Bitesize and wondering what to do next, what with there being no product to sell. I thought that if I asked them a sensible question in a nice way and tried to make them laugh a bit, they would write me a nice letter back and maybe send me a box. (That's what we used to do if people made an effort writing in.) But they didn't. They just sent me that rubbish email.
I really did go bang off Oatibix after that. I didn't want them anymore. I thought they would be a mean-minded, humourless type of breakfast-cereal-biscuit, and I didn't want them in my house. (I've got enough to worry about without miserable cereal taking up space in my kitchen cupboard.)
Imagine the irony when I went to Sainsbury's in Streatham this morning. It's closing tonight for three weeks, so they're clearing stock. And what did I see in the cereal aisle? Six boxes of Oatibix. So I bought one.I brought it home. (Here it is, with two individual Oatibix on a plate, arranged in an attractive still life in my kitchen.) I ate one, with milk, and let half of it go a bit mushy. Wasn't that impressed, as it goes.
* Weird cereal compacted into ovals. Goes soggy in milk. Like Marmite, bananas and custard and orange jelly with tangerine segments for English people: reminds them of their childhoods.
Day 73: I Consider Ill-Advised Attempts To Be Down Wid' Da Yoot
Disco Vicar. That's what I'm talking about. The horrible, sinking feeling of watching your local Minister busting some moves at the local church disco. The toe-curling horror of seeing one of your teachers wearing hi-tops at the weekend. Grown-ups dancing, generally. The minute someone white and middle class tries to communicate with young people, it all goes to shit. They think they're "really talking their language". They're not. They're just doing things that mean I can shout THAT'S FUCKING DISCO VICAR THAT IS as the telly/radio/paper/in the street. Examples include:
1. Politicians generally: William Hague in a baseball cap; David Cameron on Desert Island Discs (Radiohead? The Smiths? THE KILLERS?); Tony Blair playing the electronic guitar in public; anyone with the letters "MP" after their name talking about the Arctic Monkeys
2. Prince William doing this very bad thing I show above, and Andrew 'The Twat' Motion (our Poet Laureate, no less), writing a "rap poem" for his 21st birthday
3. The Daily Telegraph sponsoring the Student DJ Awards and the Newquay Surf Festival (which they did - and believe me, I know)
4. Mars Bar advertising with New Order's Blue Monday as the soundtrack (not as puzzling as Leftfield on Cheese Strings, mind you)
5. Tim Westwood
6. Local council advertising that uses graffiti (of sorts) and written patois
7. Most people over the age of 35 who work in creative departments in advertising agencies
8. Middle aged adults trying to take a 'lively interest' in their childrens' music
9. Christians with guitars
10. Christian Rock
11. Use of any of the following words:
- wicked
- cool
- trendy
- track (acceptable if you are 40 or over - just)
Give it up, loves. The only people who know what it's like to be 15 are fifteen-year-olds. No amount of "focus groups" (and ask yourself: what kind of person goes to "focus groups", eh?), is going to help. The massed ranks of the British advertising industry do not understand, and make themselves look like straining cockmonkeys by pretending that they do. Politicians are being given PR advice by callow youths who graduated in Classics from Oxford with a First and went straight into the Civil Service, and The Daily Telegraph is a right-wing broadsheet newspaper read by people who live in Walton-on-Thames and go to the golf club of a Saturday morning, or - rather more accurately - wish they did. What on earth do they know what it's like to be fifteen? When they were teenagers, TV didn't exist.
It has to stop. The safest thing you can do, if you are nearly middle-aged (as I am), is to remember that if you can remember wearing something the first time round (e.g. footless tights, leggings or baggy sweater-dresses), you should avoid it the second time round. That most music is derivative and no, it probably doesn't sound like Nick Drake. Stop trying so hard. As in all things, the minute you try too hard you look like a twat. So stop it. If you do, there's a chance that da yoot might listen to what you have to say.
And on that note, I'm off to listen to Radio 4, read The Guardian and have a cup of tea.
Day 73: I Am Very Easily Pleased
A dog? With its head sticking out of a car window? There is nothing better.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Day 72: I Am Introduced To Lydia Of Purple
My brother sends me an electronic mail from Amsterdam. The mail is empty, other than this:
www.modestapparelchristianclothinglydiaofpurpledressescustomsewing.com
As God is my witness, I'll never go naked again.
www.modestapparelchristianclothinglydiaofpurpledressescustomsewing.com
As God is my witness, I'll never go naked again.
Day 72: I Become A Genuine Scientist
After many minutes of research and many hours of delicate manipulation of my Genuine-Science Generating Tool (TM), I can now exclusively reveal the benefits of eating less and moving around more, complete with arrows that I made myself with my own hands. Please note: this is Genuine Science, and not made up.
If double-clicking on this doesn't work, don't blame me. I'm a scientist, not Bill Gates.
(Thanks to the brilliant Dave Shelton and fellow monkey-aficionado Kav for the technical help. If it looks rubbish, it's nowt to do with them; they just patiently and kindly told me how to grab a thing and make a clothespeg.)
If double-clicking on this doesn't work, don't blame me. I'm a scientist, not Bill Gates.
(Thanks to the brilliant Dave Shelton and fellow monkey-aficionado Kav for the technical help. If it looks rubbish, it's nowt to do with them; they just patiently and kindly told me how to grab a thing and make a clothespeg.)
Day 72: I Cannot Find My Socks
Some time ago, I happened to be in the consulting room of a very ancient, very eminent and very kindly Professor of Psychology. Me: I just want to know the ANSWER. That's all.
Kindly Professor: My dear girl, for many thousands of years man has been trying to find "the answer". If Socrates and Plato couldn't work it out, I very much doubt that you can.
Me: Oh.
Since the dawn of socks, people have been trying to answer the question: "Why, when I wash a pair of socks, does one of them disappear?". Stand-up comedians, Pam Ayres, piss-poor columnists and everyone else, ever, make the same joke. "Ooh! Where do socks go? Are they eaten by the Sock Monster?".
The thing is, I don't find it funny in the slightest. I buy black socks with differently-coloured toes so I can match them up. I buy red socks, blue socks, green socks, orange socks, purple socks and pink socks (but not yellow socks; I hate yellow). I sacrifice my attachment to monochrome when it comes to Matters of Woollen or Cotton Footwear for the simple reason that I literally cannot fucking stand the fact that socks disappear, and I thought (erroneously, it now seems), that colours would help.
I'm not in the mood to make coy little jokes about the naughty Sock Monster that lives under my bed; I do not think that the squirrels come in at night and steal them to make Squirrel Duvets; I do not believe my cat eats them (it would explain his vast size, mind you); there are no Sock Pixies that come in through the water pipe that feeds my washing machine to steal one of a pair so they can watch me go mad. They just disappear. And it doesn't matter if I put them in a little sock washing bag (£2.99 from John Lewis), or clip them together, or slip them into special foot-shaped sock-binders (or any other number of twee-beyond-belief sock-washing accessories): they VANISH INTO THE ETHER.
I have a pile of socks on my bed. I have 23 socks missing their pair. Where are the other 23? What are they doing? Why are they tormenting me? I have bought ten new pairs of socks (£4.99 for 5 from H&M), in the last month but no - now I have only ten socks.
Strangely, the only reliable pair I have has monkeys on. I'd be very interested to know what Plato would have to say about that.
Day 72: I Am Quite Cross About Not Being Bill Gates
It's not like I haven't done anything, but the Thing (of which I offer you a tantalising glimpse above), is a PowerPoint slide. And I can't insert it into Blogger as an image, and if I save it as a GIF, JPEG, ASBO (etc), you can't read it properly when you open it up. The font pixellates or summat.
I am off to Wimbledon to have an unspeakable cosmetic medical procedure administered, but if anyone knows how I can make this thing Happen from a Mac onto Blogger without hurting myself, do let me know. You'll be awfully glad you did.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Day 70: I Offer Some Advice To Friends Of Single People
I am single, as regular readers will know. Next year, I will think about hunting down a Gentleman Caller with my newly-flexible thighs and sensational collarbones. I will then pin him down until he relents, buys me an enormous Georgian rectory in the country and DEMANDS that I spend all day making jam and cake. He will also insist that I listen to Radio 4 all day and have a horse called Kind Horsey and a dog called Dog; for my birthday, he will give me a tiny little spider monkey called Geoff and a penguin, who will have sole rights of access to the second bathroom.
Until then, I have decided that it is Important that people are more sensitive around single people, most of whom don't enjoy being single and feel like spastics when they're at parties with millions of couples arguing and/or holding hands and licking each others' faces.
Do not ask any of the following questions:
"Ooh, aren't you worried about your biological clock ticking?" (Accompanied by random TICK-TOCK sound effects)
"Ooh, doesn't it feel weird when all your friends are married and you're not?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, picky, are we?"
"So, when are you going to settle down?"
"Shouldn't you hurry up and have a baby?"
"Can't you find a husband then?"
"Are you a gay?"
"Are you a COMMITMENT-PHOBE?" (In my experience, these types do not exist. They just didn't want to commit to me.)
"So, you haven't got children because you had a career?" (Answer: no, I had what can loosely be described as a career because I didn't have a family. If I had a family, I would stop working immediately and spend all day changing nappies, weeping and going to coffee mornings with other mothers with whom I have nothing in common, apart from a child. All of these things are better than working.)
Please avoid the following patronising comments which are meant kindly, but only serve to infuriate:
"You've got to love yourself before you can love anyone else"
"It'll happen when you least expect it!"
"A friend of mine had her first child when she was 40!"
"Don't worry - a friend of mine met the love of her life when she was 52. You're 36, you say? Oh well, not long to go."
"But you're still young!"
"You could always freeze some eggs."
(Delivered by a GP about 4 months ago): "If I were you I'd go home and start trying for a baby right now - time's running out!"
These lines aren't funny:
"Always the bridesmaid, never the bride!"
"Aren't you, technically, a spinster?"
"You've got more chance of being kidnapped by aliens than getting married now!"
Under no circumstances should you say the following thing within 200 feet of me. If you do, I will kill you with my hands.
"You see, this is what happens when women want to have it all. They end up with nothing."
On a lighter note, you know being single and living by yourself? It means you can do whatever you like, constantly and the whole time, without having to think of anyone else. Granted, it's lonely sometimes, but if I want to lie in the bath wearing a fez and smoking a small clay pipe at 3 in the morning, I can. So there. (Although I'd rather be in the bath with a Gentleman Caller in a matching fez also smoking a small clay pipe, if I'm honest.)
NB: I do not include the kind of single women who think their cats are babies in this. They need help. If you know any, refer to them to a Freudian psychoanalyst, pronto. The Tavistock Centre can be reached on +44 (020)7435 7111.
Until then, I have decided that it is Important that people are more sensitive around single people, most of whom don't enjoy being single and feel like spastics when they're at parties with millions of couples arguing and/or holding hands and licking each others' faces.
Do not ask any of the following questions:
"Ooh, aren't you worried about your biological clock ticking?" (Accompanied by random TICK-TOCK sound effects)
"Ooh, doesn't it feel weird when all your friends are married and you're not?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, picky, are we?"
"So, when are you going to settle down?"
"Shouldn't you hurry up and have a baby?"
"Can't you find a husband then?"
"Are you a gay?"
"Are you a COMMITMENT-PHOBE?" (In my experience, these types do not exist. They just didn't want to commit to me.)
"So, you haven't got children because you had a career?" (Answer: no, I had what can loosely be described as a career because I didn't have a family. If I had a family, I would stop working immediately and spend all day changing nappies, weeping and going to coffee mornings with other mothers with whom I have nothing in common, apart from a child. All of these things are better than working.)
Please avoid the following patronising comments which are meant kindly, but only serve to infuriate:
"You've got to love yourself before you can love anyone else"
"It'll happen when you least expect it!"
"A friend of mine had her first child when she was 40!"
"Don't worry - a friend of mine met the love of her life when she was 52. You're 36, you say? Oh well, not long to go."
"But you're still young!"
"You could always freeze some eggs."
(Delivered by a GP about 4 months ago): "If I were you I'd go home and start trying for a baby right now - time's running out!"
These lines aren't funny:
"Always the bridesmaid, never the bride!"
"Aren't you, technically, a spinster?"
"You've got more chance of being kidnapped by aliens than getting married now!"
Under no circumstances should you say the following thing within 200 feet of me. If you do, I will kill you with my hands.
"You see, this is what happens when women want to have it all. They end up with nothing."
On a lighter note, you know being single and living by yourself? It means you can do whatever you like, constantly and the whole time, without having to think of anyone else. Granted, it's lonely sometimes, but if I want to lie in the bath wearing a fez and smoking a small clay pipe at 3 in the morning, I can. So there. (Although I'd rather be in the bath with a Gentleman Caller in a matching fez also smoking a small clay pipe, if I'm honest.)
NB: I do not include the kind of single women who think their cats are babies in this. They need help. If you know any, refer to them to a Freudian psychoanalyst, pronto. The Tavistock Centre can be reached on +44 (020)7435 7111.
Day 70: I Am Confused By Bendy Buses
If you have been to That London recently, you will be aware of the Evil that is the Bendy Bus. They are the size of the moon and one bus alone will fill up the whole of Oxford Street, rendering it impassable for even a tiny mouse in a tiny mouse car (or even a flea circus on unicycles). I spend my life rammed between them in tedious traffic on Broadgate. But today I noticed this little sign on the back of one of them and thought about it carefully for a while. If you are behind the bus or have eyes in your head, you will be aware of its immense scale. So who's this sign for? The only explanation I can think of is this:
Transport Planner 1: Right, I think the signage is OK on this one. Is it ready to go, Trevor?
Transport Planner 2: One thing, Graham, one thing. Hold your horses. No need to be hasty.
Transport Planner 1: Yes?
Transport Planner 2: Well, say the spirit incarnation of Evil Knievel is in Broadgate, thinking of doing an 18-bus leap on his motorcycle ...
Transport Planner 1: Go on...
Transport Planner 2: ... well, could get nasty if he thinks it's a little bus.
Transport Planner 1: See what you're saying there. D'ya reckon the Spirit World is metric?
Transport Planner 2: Yes, Graham, I do.
Transport Planner 1: Right. "Warning: This bus is 18 metres long" should do it.
Transport Planner 2: Let's hope so, Trevor! I don't fancy being around if it all goes to shit.
Transport Planner 1: See what you're saying there! Pint?
Transport Planner 2: Well-deserved for good day's work. Mine's a lager top.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Day 69: I Make A Small Suggestion
Read this thing Tired Dad wrote about a mad bloke calling him a cunt. I think you might like it. I know I did.
Day 69: I Like This Shop
This shop in Old Street made me extremely happy today, even though it was closed. It may sell buttons; it may sell buns. I don't know at the moment, but whatever they are Serving-Up is fine by me. I intend to shop there always.
SPECIAL FEATURE: Things I Wish I'd Said, Pt. 4
Eleanor: "Closure" is just an excuse to wear your best dress and try and get back together.
SPECIAL FEATURE: Things I Wish I'd Said, Pt. 3
Liz: Do you know what you are? You are the Prime Minister of talking to people like they're idiots.
SPECIAL FEATURE: Things I Wish I'd Said, Pt. 2
Paul: Well, they were in Wales - which in and of itself is questionable.
SPECIAL FEATURE: Things I Wish I'd Said, Pt. 1
(I don't come well out of this. It was years ago, and back then I could be a beats-all-comers knobend sometimes.)
Me: Thing is Debs, yeah, he's GREAT, and - and you won't believe this - HE'S ACTUALLY MORE INTELLIGENT THAN I AM.
Deborah: (In sarcastic Yorkshire accent) Ooh! Hark at Susan Sontag!
Me: Thing is Debs, yeah, he's GREAT, and - and you won't believe this - HE'S ACTUALLY MORE INTELLIGENT THAN I AM.
Deborah: (In sarcastic Yorkshire accent) Ooh! Hark at Susan Sontag!
Day 69: I Make A Discovery
Sensational news! Hangovers have nothing to do with alcohol. I've got a hangover this morning and I haven't had any booooze since Thursday night (2 waite waine spritzers please barman, and make it snappy). Not even a sip of Taittinger last night. Not a sip. Death Ray Fags, granted, but no booze. And this morning, a quite astonishing headache (so bad I can't think of a decent simile*), and a longing for Coca-Cola and Hula-Hoops. Ergo: hangovers are made by the cigarettes, and not The Booze.
A groundbreaking scientific breakthrough, I'm sure you'll agree.
* I have left in this example of top quality cuntiness to prove that I am ill in the head.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Day 69: I Am Weak
I smoked fags. LOADS of them. Really strong ones, like you buy in bars in emergencies at 3 in the morning. But it was 9, in Dalston, and still I smoked. Loads and loads of fags. And I wasn't even drinking, because it was Brixton-to-Dalston and I'm unemployed and can't afford cabs and it takes hours and hours to get there on the tube and train and bus and that, so I drove. With half a burnt birthday cake and two tarts (not that kind) in the boot. Sensible, you know. Grown up. Like you do when you've decided to sort your life out because you find yourself going: "you twat" about lots of things you've been doing for years, and you're nearly 37 and should know better.
And then I stopped to buy some petrol and bought 10 fags in a packet, smoked two very fast, heard some music I've been avoiding by accident, and threw the packet and new lighter I also had to buy out of the window on Tulse Hill. I felt better after that. I reckon that's it now, and as I'm avoiding any situations that might make me want to smoke (e.g. work and gentleman callers), there really is no excuse.
That's that sorted then.
And then I stopped to buy some petrol and bought 10 fags in a packet, smoked two very fast, heard some music I've been avoiding by accident, and threw the packet and new lighter I also had to buy out of the window on Tulse Hill. I felt better after that. I reckon that's it now, and as I'm avoiding any situations that might make me want to smoke (e.g. work and gentleman callers), there really is no excuse.
That's that sorted then.
Day 68: I Am Nearly Producing, And May Be Going To Florida With A New World Cooker
I think the spirals are coming. I just coughed a bit and heard a distant rattling. Still want to smoke though, even cigarettes like this with red paint and batteries in.
No 'good luck, keep going!' comments if you please. I'd like stuff about what comes out of your lungs when you stop smoking, and how you can detect delicate aromas in a cup of Nescaff after three days. The more mucous the better, to be frank.
On a more positive note, and in order to pass time, I have decided to start entering competitions and getting free stuff out of magazines. I have Take A Break, That's Life! and Pick Me Up (which I picked up because it said "60p TRY ME!" on the front, and I was in Woolworths and confused).
But let me be clear: I'm not being like the spastics I was at university with (you know, the ones who wished they'd gone to Oxford). They reckoned that doing a degree meant they were clever. I remember them very clearly going to play Bingo in York and cocking on about how it couldn't be that hard to beat a load of 'old ladies'. To my eternal joy, they came home empty handed*, crying a bit. (Bingo is fucking difficult and I am rubbish at it. It requires a kind of intelligence that I don't have, at all: it's the same as the kind of intelligence you need to be able to read maps and remember things.)
Anyway, I'm not reckoning my chances much, but you never know. I can get £500 for "My Story" in Pick Me Up; as it happens they offer a very good structure for your submission that many modern novelists would do well to pay attention to:
It started like this ...
Then this major event happened ...
It ended like this ...
I could also win a holiday to Florida with Panda Soft Drinks, M&S vouchers, £1,000 for answering a question that goes "in which country did a woman find a bear eating oatmeal in her kitchen?", a New World electric cooker for putting the words "stoat", "gerbil" and "buffalo" in the right place and £20 for picking out a picture of myself from a page of reader photographs. It can't be that hard, can it. Can it?
* One of their number was a man who once asked me if I liked the novels of "Martin Amee". Who? Who? I said over and over, a hundred times. He talked at me as if I were differently abled and finally shouted: "You know, MARTIN AMEE - wrote The Rachel Papers". To my eternal discredit, I replied: "What, and Argent?". Who was the biggest cunt in that exchange?, I ask myself. Sadly, I think I know the answer.
No 'good luck, keep going!' comments if you please. I'd like stuff about what comes out of your lungs when you stop smoking, and how you can detect delicate aromas in a cup of Nescaff after three days. The more mucous the better, to be frank.
On a more positive note, and in order to pass time, I have decided to start entering competitions and getting free stuff out of magazines. I have Take A Break, That's Life! and Pick Me Up (which I picked up because it said "60p TRY ME!" on the front, and I was in Woolworths and confused).
But let me be clear: I'm not being like the spastics I was at university with (you know, the ones who wished they'd gone to Oxford). They reckoned that doing a degree meant they were clever. I remember them very clearly going to play Bingo in York and cocking on about how it couldn't be that hard to beat a load of 'old ladies'. To my eternal joy, they came home empty handed*, crying a bit. (Bingo is fucking difficult and I am rubbish at it. It requires a kind of intelligence that I don't have, at all: it's the same as the kind of intelligence you need to be able to read maps and remember things.)
Anyway, I'm not reckoning my chances much, but you never know. I can get £500 for "My Story" in Pick Me Up; as it happens they offer a very good structure for your submission that many modern novelists would do well to pay attention to:
It started like this ...
Then this major event happened ...
It ended like this ...
I could also win a holiday to Florida with Panda Soft Drinks, M&S vouchers, £1,000 for answering a question that goes "in which country did a woman find a bear eating oatmeal in her kitchen?", a New World electric cooker for putting the words "stoat", "gerbil" and "buffalo" in the right place and £20 for picking out a picture of myself from a page of reader photographs. It can't be that hard, can it. Can it?
* One of their number was a man who once asked me if I liked the novels of "Martin Amee". Who? Who? I said over and over, a hundred times. He talked at me as if I were differently abled and finally shouted: "You know, MARTIN AMEE - wrote The Rachel Papers". To my eternal discredit, I replied: "What, and Argent?". Who was the biggest cunt in that exchange?, I ask myself. Sadly, I think I know the answer.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Day 67: I Complain About Cereal
It's the end of the world. I am spending actual and real time a) looking for cereal; and b) writing letters of complaint to manufacturers when I can't find their cereal in the shops. (Further proof, if I needed it, that I really must find something to fill the time I so obviously have too much of.)Anyway, here's an extract* from a letter I wasted twenty minutes of my life writing this afternoon. It went via some e-mail thing to Consumer Relations at Weetabix Food Co of Kettering, Northamptonshire. (I hope they write back. They may not. But they may.)
Hello
I have a question. Can you help? Here it is:
"Why are you spending all your lovely money on advertising if Oatibix aren't available in the shops?".
...
Usually, I only respond to ads for cleaning products. (Not Cillit Bang though. I don't like the shouting man.) But I watched your ad, and thought: my breakfast prayers are answered. Weetabix! A smashing cereal product that I cannot eat because it is made of wheat ... now made of OATS! Which I CAN eat! Which GENIUS thought of this product? I salute them!
Granted, I'm not doing much at the moment. "Resting" is what it's called if you're an actor. "Not working" is what it's called if you used to do marketing and advertising and stuff, like I used to. So I've got time to go looking for Oatibix.
And I think that's why I'm so sad. I've been to eight ENORMOUS supermarkets looking for them, and my corner shop, and another shop that I thought was a corner shop, but turned out to be a Post Office that smelt of wee and sold string. No Oatibix.
I've been dropping it in to conversation with friends who live in the North (of London), and Scotland, and in the country. "Have you, you know, seen those OATIBIX things? In the shops?". They ask me what they are, and I tell them, and they say "No, but they sound good. Can you get them in London?". "No", I say, and we all fall silent, and feel sad.
...
Will you send me some Oatibix? I don't believe they're real, you see, and that makes me sad because Weetabix would NEVER lie, like John Lewis, M&S, Marmite and Fairy Liquid would never lie.
Help me keep the faith.
With brand-loyal love,
NWM
Have you seen Oatibix anywhere? If you have, my friend the successful published author Dave (read his book, it's good), wants some.
* Yes. It really was that long. The bits I left out contained dark, bad things.
Day 67: I Have Bought Some Inhumane Rodent Traps
And still the squirrels come despite exorcism, local authority pest control and voodoo. They don't actually do much, as it goes, except kill the pretty red squirrels, qwack, spread the bubonic plague and get on my tits, so maybe I should let it go. Still, this morning was Typical:
Fig. 1: Seen out of front window whilst checking electronic mail. Sits still; is joined by Squirrel Friends; runs away qwacking like a duck.
Fig. 2: I move from the front window to the back window (a journey of seconds; this is a one bedroom flat in Brixton, not a 3-bed Barratt Home in Northampton), and see this little fucker nonchalantly scratching his ear.
Coming Soon: EPISODE ONE: I awake to find my flat carpeted with squirrels that have found their way in via the chimney pot. EPISODE TWO: I invite friends and family round for luncheon. Opening the oven to remove the hearty stew I have prepared from seasonal vegetables and cheap cuts of meat, I find a nesting Squirrel Family, including Mama, Papa and five Baby Squirrels. My luncheon is delayed; the RSPCA arrive; I am arrested on a charge of animal cruelty.
Fig. 1: Seen out of front window whilst checking electronic mail. Sits still; is joined by Squirrel Friends; runs away qwacking like a duck.
Fig. 2: I move from the front window to the back window (a journey of seconds; this is a one bedroom flat in Brixton, not a 3-bed Barratt Home in Northampton), and see this little fucker nonchalantly scratching his ear.Coming Soon: EPISODE ONE: I awake to find my flat carpeted with squirrels that have found their way in via the chimney pot. EPISODE TWO: I invite friends and family round for luncheon. Opening the oven to remove the hearty stew I have prepared from seasonal vegetables and cheap cuts of meat, I find a nesting Squirrel Family, including Mama, Papa and five Baby Squirrels. My luncheon is delayed; the RSPCA arrive; I am arrested on a charge of animal cruelty.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Day 67: I Am STILL waiting for Curschmann's Spirals
No tobacco of any kind for twenty-four hours, despite the dirty, glorious temptation of a packet of small cigarillos in the public bar this evening. On a sadder note, still no sign of Curschmann's Spirals. I want to cough and produce* some of the "thick, tenacious mucous plugs", but nothing's happening. Instead, I shall just have to look at another photograph of one of the little beauties, and hope that mine will be as pretty.
Right. That's enough about non-smoking until the spirals come up, at which point I will take photographs and post them on here. Are you as excited as I am? I bet you are, you little tinkers.
* "Produce" is an extremely bad word, particularly when almost next to the words "mucous" and "plugs".
Day 66: I Am Waiting For Curschmann's Spirals
I am not going to re-name this blog "Non-Smokingmonkey" as we shall all die of boredom (if the fags and sherry don't get us first), but EXTRAORDINARY news reaches me via my imaginary friend Johnnyboy, the French Canadian vet. Apparently (and he has two Imaginary MScs, so he must be right), the grey spiral things in the shape of lung-y bits that (according to my brother), come flying out of your gob like phlegm-encased missiles when you give up smoking are called Curschmann's Spirals. Don't look it up on Google*; you'll be sick on your hands - it's a bit grim, to be frank. (You may have to read words like mucous and plugs next to each other, making mucous plugs**.)
Anyroad up, here's a picture of them/it/one of them. Pretty, isn't it/aren't they? (Imaginary Vet Friend, please clarify). Must say I can't wait. Apparently horses get them when they have heaves. Whatever they are.
Cough.
* I refuse to say "Google it"; I'm sure Google isn't a verb. Come to think of it, I don't think "e-mail" is either. And it's 10 items or fewer, not ten items or less. Honestly.
** Once we start down this route, we are Lost. Moist, moistened lips, moist gusset, soiled linen, thinly sliced, damp - you know where I'm going. Down Bad Word Avenue, that's where.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Day 65: I Am Giving Up Smoking
In three minutes.
Enough already. It never suited me, like being fat didn't (doesn't) suit me. And I smell, and cough, and may die, and all the other stuff you see on the ads on the telly.
I suppose it's like being fat, or drinking too much, or filling your face with coke every day, or sleeping with people you don't like much because you're lonely; common sense doesn't work. You only stop when you think to yourself, as you are doing whatever thing it is you do that may kill you or make you mad, "you fucking twat".
And anyway, my brother says that after you've stopped smoking for a few weeks weird shit comes out of your lungs, like grey spirals in the shape of your lung-y bits. And I'm not missing that for all the fags in China.
Cough.
Enough already. It never suited me, like being fat didn't (doesn't) suit me. And I smell, and cough, and may die, and all the other stuff you see on the ads on the telly.
I suppose it's like being fat, or drinking too much, or filling your face with coke every day, or sleeping with people you don't like much because you're lonely; common sense doesn't work. You only stop when you think to yourself, as you are doing whatever thing it is you do that may kill you or make you mad, "you fucking twat".
And anyway, my brother says that after you've stopped smoking for a few weeks weird shit comes out of your lungs, like grey spirals in the shape of your lung-y bits. And I'm not missing that for all the fags in China.
Cough.
Day 65: I Provide Further Evidence That My Surviving Cat Is Both Fat, And Stupid.
Good choice of reading matter, mind you.
Day 65: I Hear News Of My Cats (One Dead, One Fat) From Across The Ocean
One night, many moons ago, I dined with my brother, his lady and their friends Dylan and Chiara (as breathlessly European and glamorous as they sound - they own a boat! On the canal! For leisure purposes only!), in my brother's fashionable apartment in the not-capital of The Netherlands, Amsterdam.
Over a dinner of chicken (40 Euro each from the organic market), and chocolate cake (10 Euro a slice, also from the organic market), I tried to describe the multi-dimensional horrors visited upon me every day by the two frankly retarded cats I adopted one night when I was drunk.
Anyway, sometimes words don't come easy to me, so I drew them instead. My brother spat his chicken out, and Dylan asked if he could keep the drawing which is (if I say so myself), quite astonishingly accurate. Luckily for the world of feline art, Dylan had the picture scanned and it was returned to me in electronic form - making it all the easier to share with the world.
And it seems that this picture now has an international audience. My friend in Cleveland, Hot Coffee Girl (and man, is she HOT!), found the drawing amongst the other splendid Works in my flickr thing down there on the right, and wanted to share it with the friends and visitors that congregate daily around her splendid blog.
For this, I will always thank her: for I like to think of Dead Cat admiring my artwork in Hot Coffee Girl's special feature in heaven. And if I know that cat, he'll be expressing his pleasure by inserting his head into the open mouths of sleeping angels, as he once did to me all those months ago on the sofa in my flat in Brixton.
Over a dinner of chicken (40 Euro each from the organic market), and chocolate cake (10 Euro a slice, also from the organic market), I tried to describe the multi-dimensional horrors visited upon me every day by the two frankly retarded cats I adopted one night when I was drunk.
Anyway, sometimes words don't come easy to me, so I drew them instead. My brother spat his chicken out, and Dylan asked if he could keep the drawing which is (if I say so myself), quite astonishingly accurate. Luckily for the world of feline art, Dylan had the picture scanned and it was returned to me in electronic form - making it all the easier to share with the world.
And it seems that this picture now has an international audience. My friend in Cleveland, Hot Coffee Girl (and man, is she HOT!), found the drawing amongst the other splendid Works in my flickr thing down there on the right, and wanted to share it with the friends and visitors that congregate daily around her splendid blog.
For this, I will always thank her: for I like to think of Dead Cat admiring my artwork in Hot Coffee Girl's special feature in heaven. And if I know that cat, he'll be expressing his pleasure by inserting his head into the open mouths of sleeping angels, as he once did to me all those months ago on the sofa in my flat in Brixton.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Day 64: I Really Have Had Quite Enough Of Bad Manners On Public Highways
Twats in 4x4s
I have Spoken Of This Before, but to sum it up perfectly: I am driving. I misjudge a traffic light and find myself in the unusual position of blocking access to a side road. Very vexing. I look to the right to apologise, and see a hard-faced 48 year old bimbo in a fucking Range Rover (in Putney?) pulling a sour face and shaking her head.
I lower my window, and say "Sorry!". Her face falls. She doesn't know what to say in the face of someone being polite. I drive off.
Drivers of Porsche Cayennes
At what point in your life, exactly, do you wake up of a morning and think: "I know what I need! A Porsche 4x4!". I can tell you when: when you turn into a cunt. Your cuntiness will be further demonstrated by the fact that you will wear sunglasses in all weathers, act like King of the Fucking Road, and live somewhere vile like Henley-upon-Thames, where your brainless bimbo of a wife will drive your dribbling fuckwits of children to over-priced, academically dubious private schools in the morning, and spend the rest of the afternoon with her interior designer adding another 12 layers of 'swags' to the drawing room curtains.
You will always go to the Bahamas for your holidays, and you will wear soft-soled nubuck moccasins and drink expensive Cognac in enormous balloon glasses whilst pulling on a cigar the size of my arm. And you will be called Graham, and you will be rude to people in shops, always.
White Van Drivers
Actually, I quite like them. They are what they are, and they are only on the roads between 8 and 9am, 1 and 2pm, and 4 and 5pm. Also, white van drivers always say 'thank you' when you let them out, usually by sticking their thumb out of the window. They are also the drivers most likely to catch my eye in a traffic jam and grin. Same with black cab drivers, who do an excellent "you will now let me out, but you will like yourself for doing it" sharp single-movement wave. Excellent.
Buses
"Hello. I am a bus driver. When I am not driving very fast and then braking suddenly so everyone falls over, I am indicating late and pulling out fast, causing near fatal heart attacks in drivers of small cars. When I have finished doing that I will, by using my secret psychic bus driver powers, communicate with other bus drivers and box you in on all sides. Then you will die of fright."
On the other hand, the odd nice bus driver makes up for it: they say thank you by either doing a thumbs-up out of the window, or (and this makes me nearly explode with excitement), flashing their tail lights. Hoorah!
The twelve people who found themselves unable to say "thank you" to me today when I let them out
I open doors for people, and give up my seat to old or pregnant people on buses. I help people carry buggies up and down stairs, and carry old ladies' shopping. Not because I am particularly nice, because I don't think about it: I was trained well when I was a small child, and it is a reflex. (I also think what my maternal grandmother would think if I didn't.)
On the road, I let people in or out if it is a sensible thing to do and will not cause any danger. I say "thank you" when people let me in or out (I flash my lights at night, and do a firm wave during the day), and I am invariably the one who pulls over when it's narrow road and there's only room for one. Today, the following festival of fuckwits pissed me RIGHT off by failing to even look at me when I let them out, let alone thank me:
3 x 4x4 drivers: one in Streatham, and two outside Channing Girls' School in Highgate.
4 x boy racers in souped up motors playing something like MC Biggy Pants on their sub-woofers
1 x bloke in Porsche Cayenne
1 x bloke in 8-series (did I read that right?) BMW
1 x blind woman driving a convertible Mercedes
1 x driver of terrifying articulated lorry
1 x knobend in convertible Audi TT.
I see a pattern emerging. Pointlessly expensive car = contains twat. Simple, isn't it.
Pedestrians
Tips for pedestrians:
1. Acknowlege the car that has stopped for you at a pedestrian crossing. Do not walk across as slowly as possible eating a sandwich.
2. Cross the road at a pedestrian crossing. Do not wander across it randomly and at your pleasure, causing a minor accident on Streatham Hill.
Cyclists
Tips for cyclists:
1. Use lights at night. Otherwise I will kill you.
2. Do not swoop terrifyingly between moving traffic, otherwise you will die.
3. Do not bang bonnets in a threatening manner. The man in the car is bigger than you, and will kill you.
4. Wear a helmet. Someone is going to try and murder you soon, what with the lack of lights, swooping and bonnet-bashing, and it may just prevent permanent brain damage.
5. DO NOT FUCKING CYCLE ON FUCKING PAVEMENTS.
And now I need to look at a photograph of a muppet driving to cheer myself up. Luckily, I have one to hand:
I have Spoken Of This Before, but to sum it up perfectly: I am driving. I misjudge a traffic light and find myself in the unusual position of blocking access to a side road. Very vexing. I look to the right to apologise, and see a hard-faced 48 year old bimbo in a fucking Range Rover (in Putney?) pulling a sour face and shaking her head.
I lower my window, and say "Sorry!". Her face falls. She doesn't know what to say in the face of someone being polite. I drive off.
Drivers of Porsche Cayennes
At what point in your life, exactly, do you wake up of a morning and think: "I know what I need! A Porsche 4x4!". I can tell you when: when you turn into a cunt. Your cuntiness will be further demonstrated by the fact that you will wear sunglasses in all weathers, act like King of the Fucking Road, and live somewhere vile like Henley-upon-Thames, where your brainless bimbo of a wife will drive your dribbling fuckwits of children to over-priced, academically dubious private schools in the morning, and spend the rest of the afternoon with her interior designer adding another 12 layers of 'swags' to the drawing room curtains.
You will always go to the Bahamas for your holidays, and you will wear soft-soled nubuck moccasins and drink expensive Cognac in enormous balloon glasses whilst pulling on a cigar the size of my arm. And you will be called Graham, and you will be rude to people in shops, always.
White Van Drivers
Actually, I quite like them. They are what they are, and they are only on the roads between 8 and 9am, 1 and 2pm, and 4 and 5pm. Also, white van drivers always say 'thank you' when you let them out, usually by sticking their thumb out of the window. They are also the drivers most likely to catch my eye in a traffic jam and grin. Same with black cab drivers, who do an excellent "you will now let me out, but you will like yourself for doing it" sharp single-movement wave. Excellent.
Buses
"Hello. I am a bus driver. When I am not driving very fast and then braking suddenly so everyone falls over, I am indicating late and pulling out fast, causing near fatal heart attacks in drivers of small cars. When I have finished doing that I will, by using my secret psychic bus driver powers, communicate with other bus drivers and box you in on all sides. Then you will die of fright."
On the other hand, the odd nice bus driver makes up for it: they say thank you by either doing a thumbs-up out of the window, or (and this makes me nearly explode with excitement), flashing their tail lights. Hoorah!
The twelve people who found themselves unable to say "thank you" to me today when I let them out
I open doors for people, and give up my seat to old or pregnant people on buses. I help people carry buggies up and down stairs, and carry old ladies' shopping. Not because I am particularly nice, because I don't think about it: I was trained well when I was a small child, and it is a reflex. (I also think what my maternal grandmother would think if I didn't.)
On the road, I let people in or out if it is a sensible thing to do and will not cause any danger. I say "thank you" when people let me in or out (I flash my lights at night, and do a firm wave during the day), and I am invariably the one who pulls over when it's narrow road and there's only room for one. Today, the following festival of fuckwits pissed me RIGHT off by failing to even look at me when I let them out, let alone thank me:
3 x 4x4 drivers: one in Streatham, and two outside Channing Girls' School in Highgate.
4 x boy racers in souped up motors playing something like MC Biggy Pants on their sub-woofers
1 x bloke in Porsche Cayenne
1 x bloke in 8-series (did I read that right?) BMW
1 x blind woman driving a convertible Mercedes
1 x driver of terrifying articulated lorry
1 x knobend in convertible Audi TT.
I see a pattern emerging. Pointlessly expensive car = contains twat. Simple, isn't it.
Pedestrians
Tips for pedestrians:
1. Acknowlege the car that has stopped for you at a pedestrian crossing. Do not walk across as slowly as possible eating a sandwich.
2. Cross the road at a pedestrian crossing. Do not wander across it randomly and at your pleasure, causing a minor accident on Streatham Hill.
Cyclists
Tips for cyclists:
1. Use lights at night. Otherwise I will kill you.
2. Do not swoop terrifyingly between moving traffic, otherwise you will die.
3. Do not bang bonnets in a threatening manner. The man in the car is bigger than you, and will kill you.
4. Wear a helmet. Someone is going to try and murder you soon, what with the lack of lights, swooping and bonnet-bashing, and it may just prevent permanent brain damage.
5. DO NOT FUCKING CYCLE ON FUCKING PAVEMENTS.
And now I need to look at a photograph of a muppet driving to cheer myself up. Luckily, I have one to hand:
Day 64: I Am Delighted To Offer A New Feature
Look! On the right! A Flickr thing! I am terribly excited, and have to lie down and breathe deeply every time I think of it. I have a paper bag and some smelling salts to hand should it all become unmanageably thrilling.
Anyway, I have 'uploaded' (I believe this is the correct expression, but do let me know if I'm wrong), some photographs of my family (including Monkeymother, and my French cousin, Le Singe Qui Ne Travail Pas). I have also included for your viewing pleasure a drawing of my two cats (including the dead one), some typical English people at play, Bertie Bassett and his family (including the cat and kittens), and the birthday cake I would like.
Do let me know if there's anything you'd particularly like to see. I have thousands of photographs, all of them awful. And if you want to have a look at this collection, just click on the thingy there on the right. Do have fun, won't you? I have.
Anyway, I have 'uploaded' (I believe this is the correct expression, but do let me know if I'm wrong), some photographs of my family (including Monkeymother, and my French cousin, Le Singe Qui Ne Travail Pas). I have also included for your viewing pleasure a drawing of my two cats (including the dead one), some typical English people at play, Bertie Bassett and his family (including the cat and kittens), and the birthday cake I would like.
Do let me know if there's anything you'd particularly like to see. I have thousands of photographs, all of them awful. And if you want to have a look at this collection, just click on the thingy there on the right. Do have fun, won't you? I have.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Day 63: I Am De-wonked
I am wonky. I list to the left, and sometimes I topple over unexpectedly like an end-of-pier musical hall act. But it was a dangerous collision with the loving arms of the Tread-O-Meter, followed a couple of days later by a surprising and painful crash into a wall, that finally sent me to Putney to see a chiropractor. Now, this particular chiropractor is Magical, and he works in the Palace of Magic, and he has Magical Hands. He also makes me blush, because he is tall, handsome, kind, gentle and calm, and has enormous hands, all qualities that I admire in a gentleman. He is also Australian.
He shook my hand.
Me: I'm wonky.
Him: Wonky?
Me: Yeah. I sort of list to the left. Sometimes I fall over and even if I know it's coming, I can't stop it.
Him: Right.
Me: I'm not sure if it's in my head or real though. I might have a strange skelington.
Him: Skelington?
Me: Sorry. SkeleTON.
On his strange Chiropractor Bed of Magic, he did some tiny things with the touch of a delicate fairy. Magical things that didn't make sense (apart from the bit when the Bed of Magic disappeared in the middle, and then came back).
We talked a little of my new exercise regime. He smiled beatifically, and prescribed long walks and the avoidance of aubergines. Then I ran down the road a bit in a straight line without falling over. I am not exaggerating when I say it felt, just for a second, like I was flying. That's Magic, that is.
Day 63: I Have A Visitor From Europe
"I think of myself as European", I once said out loud in the offices of The Daily Telegraph. How we laughed. I want Euros in my wallet, not pounds. As it is not the done thing to discuss politics, money or religion in polite company, I won't go in to any more detail; suffice to say the whole subject makes me jolly cross.
So you'll just have to imagine the joy I felt when today's cursory glance at Site Meter* revealed (amongst the details of my other 1.2m daily visitors), a solitary 'Europe', illustrated with the brave flag you see here.
European Visitor, I salute you.
* Tireddad, don't start.
Day 63: I Provide A Product Warning
See this? Lovely stuff, with marketing that is (for once) accurate: it is indeed "like being caught naked in a hail storm of Mint Imperials", although possibly a little less painful, as Mint Imperials weigh quite a lot. (For our foreign friends, Mint Imperials are peppermint sweets, and are another reason why all British people over the age of 35 have false teeth.) I often enjoy the invigorating tingle of Original Source, and apply it liberally to my capacious buttocks in the gym shower whilst singing snatches from West End musicals. Today, however, I had a bit of a start. All I'm saying is: don't let the stuff near your ladyparts.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Day 62: I Try To Explain Why I Think About Horses When I Eat Squeaky Beans
I had some supper and undercooked the green beans. As usual, they made me think of horses.It started at some point between 1978 and 1982, when we lived in Paris. I was a child (I don't know if I was sweet or not; my parents don't talk about it much, so I would guess I was Strange), who liked ponies a lot even though we lived in a flat in a city. I would spend entire afternoons with my friend Sara doing pretend gymkhanas with Britain's horses. If you had the black stallion you were in with a chance: he was unpredictable, but brilliant. But your best chance was the little grey mare, who was very reliable and had a lovely temperament.
We read Pony magazine and went on a riding holiday, where our night out was a trip to Perth to see Clash of the Titans, starring Harry Hamblin out of LA Law in a loincloth and a rubbish animatronic Cerberus. It was good. I went to Scotland a lot and cycled 8 miles uphill every day for two months to spend an hour catching a very fat Highland pony called Ewan, who I rode for twenty minutes before I had to freewheel home to my Granny. Then I had two accidents, one of which involved a badly bruised coccyx, and the other a bird, a rearing horse, concussion, and a night in hospital, from which I was woken by Monkeymother bearing strawberries. I didn't ride much after that, but I still liked horses. (I still do. I'd like one one day: a big bay with a kind face and soft muzzle who likes Polo mints and carrots, called Kind Horsey. That would be good.)
Anyway, I digress. In Paris there were meat shops that had big gold model horse's heads stuck outside them. I was very sad when I found out they sold horse meat; I couldn't understand how anyone could eat a bit of a horse, because horses were nice to people and let them ride them, even if they were a bit naughty sometimes. And then one night we went out to dinner and a friend of my father's ate raw mince with an egg on, and told me it was horse. He was fibbing, but I was horrified.
I've never really recovered. I shy away from inappropriately raw things. I despise raw celery and green peppers, but that's not the point: I'm talking about things that should be cooked more than they are, served up as if there's nothing amiss. (I don't like me red meat well done, mind you. And yes, I know it's hypocritical to not eat horses but eat cows, pigs and sheep.) Phlegmy boiled eggs. Seared tuna, which makes me gag. I should really love sushi, what with being an ex-media twat from London, but I don't. Weirdness of clammy cold rice and raw tuna. No. No. And pasta: nothing more disgusting than overcooked pasta apart from, perhaps, undercooked wholemeal spaghetti, the combination of twig and facepack.
Vegetables are slightly more complicated. British people who fancy themselves as 'foodies' (trans: twat with a cookbook), bang on and on about how ghastly overcooked vegetables are. But it is these people who, in their desperation not to look like pikeys at their rubbish dinner parties in Fulham, serve crunchy potatoes, broccoli of wood, and beans that squeak when you bite them. I cook green beans properly most of the time, unless my new neighbour comes down and gives me wine.
The thing is, I can't properly explain why I think about horses when I eat undercooked green beans. I've tried, and I get it, but I'm not sure I can explain it. There's some sort of connection there, somewhere, but it is as it is. Whenever I see a jersey, I think about the way someone once showed me how to put on a duvet cover. Vogel's bread makes me think of the Beatles. The Telegraph is Edinburgh in 1985; red lipstick, thick black headbands; all cats are Chiswick, and fax machines are Irish squirrels. But most importantly, and most regularly, squeaky beans are horses.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Day 61: I Think About Work (Again)
Sometimes, I lie in bed and think: "I know, I'll be one of them 'writers'. I like writing, it's good; it makes me happier than anything else, ever, apart from gentleman callers and eating crisps".
Unfortunately, I think that means I have to write something. I've got a sort of idea for a thing, and I often enjoy an excellent fantasy in which The Guardian phone up and beg me to write witty little pieces about squirrels and phlegm (i.e. like I do now, except good); sometimes I even talk about an idea I've had for a novel, even if it does make me sound like a knob.
I do try: I go on special missions to Borders to buy The Writer's Handbook 2007 and fuck-awful things called How To Write A Novel. But when I get home, they sit fatly on my bookshelf muttering "I told you she had no right to buy us", whilst I lie on the sofa smoking a pipe and reading £2.99 novels from Sainsbury's. And every day I write my blog.
But I don't think writing a blog makes you a 'writer'. (I've never been sure what qualifies you as a writer though; do you get a badge and a certificate from somewhere? Do you have to write well?) Not that that's really the point; the truth is that if I didn't write my blog every day, I'd be cracking open the sherry by 10 o'clock and dwelling on the fact that I might be unemployable.
When I stopped working 61 days ago, it was good. I needed some time to sort myself out, and I needed proper time - not pissy little weeks off taking work phone calls and being stalked by a TwatBerry. But it's been over two months now, and the novelty's worn off. If I 'forgot' the original point of this blog - which was to write about what it's like not-working - it's because I didn't always enjoy it. There was so much about work that I hated (doing what I'm told, being in the same place every day, being civil to fuckwits), but there were bits I liked too (having money, having something to do, seeing other people). More to the point, being by myself all day with nothing to do was starting to make me go weird.
So I think it's time to get a job. Except I don't really want to. And I sort of really do. Be good if The Guardian got on the blower, though: apparently they really like stories about squirrels and phlegm, and I've got loads of those already.
Unfortunately, I think that means I have to write something. I've got a sort of idea for a thing, and I often enjoy an excellent fantasy in which The Guardian phone up and beg me to write witty little pieces about squirrels and phlegm (i.e. like I do now, except good); sometimes I even talk about an idea I've had for a novel, even if it does make me sound like a knob.
I do try: I go on special missions to Borders to buy The Writer's Handbook 2007 and fuck-awful things called How To Write A Novel. But when I get home, they sit fatly on my bookshelf muttering "I told you she had no right to buy us", whilst I lie on the sofa smoking a pipe and reading £2.99 novels from Sainsbury's. And every day I write my blog.
But I don't think writing a blog makes you a 'writer'. (I've never been sure what qualifies you as a writer though; do you get a badge and a certificate from somewhere? Do you have to write well?) Not that that's really the point; the truth is that if I didn't write my blog every day, I'd be cracking open the sherry by 10 o'clock and dwelling on the fact that I might be unemployable.
When I stopped working 61 days ago, it was good. I needed some time to sort myself out, and I needed proper time - not pissy little weeks off taking work phone calls and being stalked by a TwatBerry. But it's been over two months now, and the novelty's worn off. If I 'forgot' the original point of this blog - which was to write about what it's like not-working - it's because I didn't always enjoy it. There was so much about work that I hated (doing what I'm told, being in the same place every day, being civil to fuckwits), but there were bits I liked too (having money, having something to do, seeing other people). More to the point, being by myself all day with nothing to do was starting to make me go weird.
So I think it's time to get a job. Except I don't really want to. And I sort of really do. Be good if The Guardian got on the blower, though: apparently they really like stories about squirrels and phlegm, and I've got loads of those already.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Day 60: I See A Helicopter
My mother often tells me I suffer from false memory syndrome. Not always fair, to be frank, but I am very attached to a story I tell if I'm trying to make people think I'm clever. It's not particularly complicated; I just say: "well THAT'S all well and good, but MY first word was HELICOPPER". When I see it written down, it is patently untrue. But I really and truly believe it, even if I did make it up in my head.We hear helicopters going overhead in Brixton quite a lot (millionaires going to Harrods, I think), but I've never seen one parked up in the street. But I did the other day, just before the roundabout with the church on at the bottom of Brixton Hill. And as I walked past it I said: "Oh! Look! There's a helicopper!", out loud, with my mouth, in the street, to myself, and some people heard.
Hey ho.
Day 60: I Am Guilty Of Plagiarism
I'm afraid I'm terribly busy reading a book about Shackleton, which is so good I can't possibly be disturbed. Luckily, however, my Spies have sent me tidings of a story so good I'm just going run it in its original glory:
"A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.
They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.
"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.
Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat.
"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".
Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.
"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper."
You can find the original story here, in the unlikely event that you don't believe me. (It's from the BBC, so it must be true.)
I have thoughtfully included the handy map that ran on bbc.co.uk, just in case you want to go and see Mr Tombe and his ladygoat for yourself.
"A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.
They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.
"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.
Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat.
"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".
Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.
"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper."
You can find the original story here, in the unlikely event that you don't believe me. (It's from the BBC, so it must be true.)
I have thoughtfully included the handy map that ran on bbc.co.uk, just in case you want to go and see Mr Tombe and his ladygoat for yourself.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Day 59: I Do Not Understand Fashion
Don't get me wrong. I like a nice frock as much as the next person. I was a model when I was about one, for a blackcurrant drink that was later found to be single-handedly responsible for the fact that all British people over the age of 35 have false teeth. Mary Quant came into a toyshop I worked in when I was 16 and told me not to forget I was pretty, and that I would age well as I had a "strong look". (And yes, her hair really IS like that, and I now look nothing like I did 20 years ago.) I even did some Fat Bird modelling in my younger days, before my face went on holiday to Tunisia and decided to retire there with two twenty-one year old Moroccan boys called Aziz.As a fat bastard of some years standing, my choice of what to wear has been relatively straightforward, if not a little limited. In the morning, I open my wardrobe, rub my eyes and ask myself a simple question: Shall I wear a wrap dress over trousers: yes, or no? If "yes", I am dressed. If "no", I am sitting on the sofa in grey jersey trousers and a t-shirt with a monkey on.
Nevertheless, I do read a magazine or two, if only to pass time and get myself in training for the day the phone rings and someone asks me to become a cultural commentator, and I'm already dreaming of witty little Vivienne Westwood frocks for my best friend's wedding. Problem is, I have no idea what they're talking about, those magazines. I've got a couple of 'fashion' pals who say things like "pieces", "palette" and "asymmetrical stripe", and I can sort of follow that. But pick up Grazia or Vogue and you will be lost. Unless, that is, you are fashionable.
Now, let's see how fashionable you are with a special Thursday afternoon treat: Non-workingmonkey's Fashion Quiz.
Will an egg shape skirt add interest to your wardrobe?
a. yes
b. no
c. poached
Is a T-shirt an important transitional piece?
a. what?
b. yes, and it's a fun way to buy into the new glossy goth trend
c. I've been a man for twenty years.
How do I energise my winter wardrobe?
a. with a subtle flash or a bold statement
b. with black leather
c. by taking your coat to the dry cleaner and buying some new tights.
Please describe, in no more than 20 words, the difference between the following types of bag:
a. tote
b. clutch
c. bucket.
Please translate ONE of these TWO passages from Fashion to British English:
"The New Smart is everything party girls are not. It is grown-up, pared-down, purposeful, brave and authoritative, and it goes to work - proper work, not pole-dancing."
"The simple but luxurious ideal is a big motivation for the designers of the New Smart. They are aware of the bad rap fashion has for built-in obsolescence - there is an effort to design pieces that have value beyond the flash of a brand name."
What is "a bold quiff"?
a. the ultimate rebellious beauty statement
b. Morrissey's hair
c. a rare bird from Madagascar.
How do I strengthen and tone my body for this season's new* slimline silhouette?
a. eat less and move around more
b. eat cake
c. use Active Isolated Stretching, pioneered by Chris Watts - a technique that combines postural realignment with a series of stretches that boost energy and improve flexibility.
*New?
I've got no idea what the answers are, mind you, but have a pop - it might be fun.
Next Week: "Spot The Pointless Cockmonkey", featuring Anna Wintour's sunglasses, Tony Parsons and the cast of Hollyoaks.
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