Day 445: I Offer Some Advice To Concert-Goers

I return, exhausted, from seeing a lady called Bat For Lashes perform at a 'venue' in Canada's fashionable Montréal.

In her band were three young women, all of whom will be completing their 'A' Levels at Cheltenham Ladies' College next summer; they played their many instruments impassively, but with enormous skill. Upstairs, a 'house club' played some 'banging choons'. The lady kept on singing.

Still. I digress. Lurking in the middle of the crowd (of approximately one hundred) I was reminded, yet again, of matters of 'gig etiquette'.

Tall people

Do us all a favour and fuck off to the back of the room, particularly if it is small and on one level (rather than at a gradient like, for e.g., Brixton Academy)

Do not wear a hat. It adds another foot to your height. It also makes you look like a cock.

Do not dance by swaying like a drunken sunflower.

Short people

Whatever Randy Newman said, you are OK by me. Do by all means slip up the front so you can see, but do not (I beg you!) pipe on so. (E.g. "Can I get through please thank you I can't quite see ha ha ha ha".)

Talking

Usually, people go to music concerts to listen to music. They do not want to hear you talking. If you want to talk, go outside where, with any luck, you will be run over by a renegade bus that has been hijacked by pesky teens.

Strangely, last night the only culprits were some English people who were talking about, in no particular order:

- the Spitting Image puppet of Norman Lamont
- where to get a smaller-fit cockring
- Canadian beer
- whether the music was "good" or not.*

Talking is particularly bad when you are 5 feet from the chanteuse who will be able to hear you talking about her in the following style:

"Yeah, I know what you mean, Mike, but I'd definitely have a go, mate, wouldn't you?"

Pushing

No.

Dancing

Dance into me and I will slap you.

Drinking

For the gentlemen

If you are going to carry pints of lager beer through the crowd over your head whilst going "excuse me excuse me sorry sorry sorry don't move sorry", please be aware that a) if you tell me not to move, I will move; and b) if you spill the beer on me, I will poke you in the eyes with my two fingers.

For the ladies

If you are short and pushing through in a passive-aggressive way whilst carrying many drinks for your fuckwitted friends (in order to then stand in a circle talking about who said what to whom whilst Bjork is doing Come To Me), I will set your GHD-straightened hair on fire.

Yes.



* Really, this is the worst. If you do not like it, leave. Also, you have no right to an opinion unless you are St John of the Peel, and he is dead, which is very sad (still).

You are particularly not allowed to have an opinion if:

- You are Paul Morley, Paul Ross, Tim "Dad's A Bishop, Westsiiiiiiiiide" Westwood or Tony Parsons
- You have just 'discovered' James Morrisson and Paulo Nutini
- You have seen/are going to see The Police this year.

Day 442: I Think About My First Week In Canada And Compare It To Blighty

So far, so good! I have left behind London (England, United Kingdom), and have moved to a village spread across some hills in Québec.

It may sound like I am a long way from anyone who is human, but in fact where I live is 45 minutes' drive from downtown Montréal - exactly the same amount of time it takes you to get from Islington to London's Fashionable West End (except with coyotes).

But I digress. It is quite new still, but this does not mean I am not constantly (favourably!) comparing Canada to Britain every waking minute. Here are my conclusions so far:

Shopping

In England it is rubbish. All the shops are identical and everything is expensive, even sweets. On the other hand there is some good stuff, e.g. Hula-Hoops and PG Tips. Still, I am not that worried as I have smuggled in some important foodstuffs* and the shops here make up for it one million times.

It is perhaps to my (non-working) benefit that the nearest shop is five miles away, but sometimes there is a bus (if I can find the timetable) that takes you to the supermarket and giant North American pharmacy and the state-owned wine shop, which is called SAQ.

(Interesting Fact:Despite being Frenchified, French Canadia's wine is bought and sold by THE STATE and the state has A MONOPOLY so getting your drink in is a bit like going to, for e.g., the job centre or applying for a parking permit, except with easi-carry wine boxes.)

Even better, if you have a pathologist with a car to hand, you can get in the car, drive for a bit and go to shops (on massive shed-shop-estates by 'Highways'), that sell nothing but packs of Sharpie pens in rainbow packs of 68. If you go to the arts and craft shop next door you will discover crafts you did not know existed, and give serious thought to perhaps making some plant holders out of string, coloured foam board (and "Foamie") characters, setting the lot in perspex, framing it and setting it on a hand-rendered papier-mâché plinth.

(There are boutiques and shit in Montréal but I have already seen them and they are like boutiques everywhere, despite the fact that it is nice to know they are there. NB: the best small shops are in Amsterdam, bar none. If you want some tips, please write in.)

Conclusion: I do not miss English shops.

Local people

I do not know anyone in the village yet and probably never will, as they probably make good use of the 10-cap "Baseball Cap Rack" that you can buy in the local shop for $10, and many of them have eyes that point in different directions.

But this is not to say I am not trying; there is a 'Spaghetti Dinner' being held in the village hall soon, but for some reason the pathologist with whom I live will not commit to going! (He is very unreasonable, and I suspect will start beating me soon.)

In London on the other hand I have lived in the same street for 9 years and know Mike on the left (who thinks I am called Sue, but is a lovely chap and keeps an eye out for me), Twatboy, my cretinous upstairs neighbour, and the rotating lesbian couple four doors down. They are nice but that is not a very good tally for 9 years, and I am very sociable and friendly (not like a prostitute is sociable and friendly though.)

Conclusion: I do not miss my neighbours in London.

Space

There is a lot of space in Canada and not much in England.

Conclusion: It is more roomy here, and therefore better if you like running about the place, big horizons, clouds that make you go OOH, and the sense that if you wanted to not see anyone else, you could quite easily get way. That is because there are about 100 square miles for every person and Canada and only 2 square feet for every person in Britain.

House Space And Amenities

I go for long walks in the morning and think about the centralised-system vacuum cleaner a lot, which plugs into a hole in the wall, has six different heads and a hose that is at least 20ft long. I love it. (And they have Swiffers in the New World too, which has put my mind at rest, I have to say!).

When I am not thinking about the vacuum cleaner, I am looking for things to wash and/or tumble dry in the gigantic, efficent, quiet, pleasing and fast washing machine (and tumble drier). There are more cupboards than I need for the jam I will make, and a cellar that you could fit at least forty people into; it has a wide staircase and capacious trunk freezers.

In London, my tiny washing machine takes 4 days to wash something and even then it smells like hamsters. I have no room for a tumble drier, and my garden is the size of the swimming pool here. It is a pain in the arse to keep clean and I fall over things in it the whole time.

Conclusion: Those north Americans know a thing or two about household appliances, and have more room (on the whole, unless they live in New York City!)

Wildlife

In the mornings there are fields and trees out of the window and I go for walks and people wave, or drive past. I saw a skunk in the road last night, a black squirrel out of the window this morning and every day I hear tree frogs and crickets. ("What's that fucking racket?", I screamed, the first night of my arrival.) I also saw lots of gigantic caterpillars that look like pipe cleaners, but brown and black and like they had eaten a giant Wotsit.

In London there is a fox that watches telly with me sometimes, a retarded cat and some fucking annoying squirrels that TwatBoy upstairs feeds with his bare hands. Idiot.

Conclusion: In Canada they also have ponies, cows, sheep etc but in addition to and on top of that they have beavers, mooses, skunks, racoons, chipmunks, bears, wolves, tree frogs, coyotes, big crickets, hummingbirds, etc etc. No competition, frankly.

TV, radio, papers, etc

We do not have TV as TV here is rubbish apparently (I know for a fact that is not true by the way but have not let on yet). My argument for getting it is that I have to get a job (in advertising) and that I cannot possibly have a job (in advertising) and not know what the advertisements are (on the television). This is a very convincing argument, don't you think?

(In fact I have no intention of looking for a job, and propose instead to lie about on the sofa and watch Canadian and/or American daytime TV, which is the best - bar none. Also I heard on CBC Radio today that they have Dragons' Den Canadian-style starting soon, and was so excited that I was a bit sick in my mouth.)

The sad truth is that I am really missing British telly. I would give my right arm for a copy of The Observer on Sunday, The Telegraph on Saturday and The Guardian every day except the shit days when it's all education and/or social worker stuff. I can get Radio 4 on my computer but the time is all wrong (I want The Today Programme when I am eating my toast, not The World At One.)

Conclusion: I miss the British media. This makes me sound like a twat. I do not care, not one jot!

(Also I have been listening to CBC all day and if I told you what the five main stories were you would not believe me. And if you heard the jingle they play all day over and over you would have killed yourself, and I do not want you dead.)

Friends

My friends are not here, and I am here. This is a pain in the arse. But it is OK because I am very shallow and will make new ones, and will forget about the old ones.

Family

I do not like to talk about them in polite company so I will move on.

Living Circumstances

I do not miss living by myself, because now I live with a chap I am fond of. It is really good and I recommend it to everyone - a new idea, I realise, but one that I think will catch on!

Work

I do not like working, as regular readers will be aware, although I must find work.

Conclusion: hard to do in a new country but not insurmountable.

In overall conclusion: I think it will be OK!


* Nairn's rough oatcakes, PG Tips, Gentleman's Relish (which I don't even like), giant jar of Marmite. Sad but true. Any parcels containing rough oatcakes and copies of English newspaper weekend magazines gratefully received.

Day 441: I Set A Picture Quiz

The days pass, and still I remain distracted by my new project - an international database of traffic light people.

Sadly, however, I am fairly certain that not everyone (as surprising as it may seem!), shares my passion. And so, to cater to the (special) needs of this (very small) group, I have created a picture quiz based on what I have seen since I arrived in French Canadia last Thursday.

Ready? Let's go!

Picture Question 1

(Don't forget - look at the picture carefully before you answer!)







Picture Question 2

When I saw the following poster by the 'highway' in Canada, I opened my mouth. "Who is ....?", I started, before falling into a sudden horrified silence.

My companion (a rather hunky pathologist!) turned to me and helped finish my sentence. "Frigo Maytag?"

"Yes", I muttered, looking out of the window.









Picture Question 3

Day 440: I Am More Interested In Something Else

This is an image from my new web-blog, which is much better than this one. (It is more interactive, for example, and has not, as yet, featured the word 'cock'.)

I started it yesterday and people are already submitting their pictures. I have no doubt that it will soon be creating quite a lot of interest and chitter-chatter in media circles, and no wonder: it is really very good indeed. In fact, I am quite convinced that there soon will be a metaphorical giant snowball of traffic light people hurtling down the internet, gathering breathless fans in its wake.

Thinking ahead a month or two, I also see that my new (excellent) web-blog may also answer the question of whether or not I will need a job in Canada, for (if things go according to plan!), I will soon be spending all my time posting up pictures of traffic light people from (for e.g.) Helsinki, and will not have time to work. This, if you needed it, is yet another reason to flood my inbox (as it were!) with your photographs of traffic light people.

Talking of Helsinki, I am particularly interested in traffic light people from the following places:

- Helsinki
- Amsterdam
- Bedford
- Paris
- New York (City)
- Washington D.C.
- Rome
- Marrakech
- Cardiff
- Perth (Scotland)
- Perth (Australia)
- London
- Tokyo
- Beijing
- Vancouver
- Scotland (all)
- Wales (all)
- Ireland (all)
- Moscow
- Alaska (plus all the other States*)

(And obviously also Finland and Denmark.) But that is just the tip of the iceberg. I am sure there are many countries that I haven't even heard of (e.g. Swaziland or Lithuania); countries that you perhaps live in and would like to see featured.

So - come on over! We've having a really good time over at Traffic Light People Of The World - and there's enough room for everyone!


* unless there's a federal law that states that traffic light people across the USA should all be identical, in which case one traffic light person from (for example) Utah could be used to represent the entire country.

Day 439: I Launch An International Search For Pictures Of Little Tiny People Attached To Traffic Lights

I have long been fascinated by the little men (attached to traffic lights) that tell you when you can cross the road.

For example, here is the pleasingly chunky-thighed little man who tells you that it is OK to cross the road in certain parts of Montreal:


















I really like him. He looks like he might actually be real; he is sort of meaty. And he is very different to my memory of the traffic light men in (for e.g.) London or Amsterdam.

But more to the point, he has set me to thinking: what would happen if I built a bank of photographs of little traffic light men from all around the world? I tell you would happen: people would be really interested and it would be brilliant, possibly starting an "international craze" (a bit like for e.g. Facebook or celebrating birthdays).

And here's the good news, readers! So convinced am I that this idea is the beginning of something huge that I have taken the liberty of setting up a web-blog.

It is called Traffic Light People Of The World. If you would like to contribute to it please let me know; otherwise, I urge you to run into the street (looking out for oncoming traffic!) at your earliest convenience, photograph your (local) little traffic light man (or lady!), and send him to me forthwith.

Come on everyone! Let's get busy one time! (With our digital photographs of little traffic light people.)


* He looks like this elsewhere in Montreal, except in focus:

Day 438: I Become Acquainted With The Customs Of (French) Canadia

When one is trying to learn the customs of a new country (in my case, French Canadia, having come from the dank streets of South London), ordering a breakfast that contains an egg or two may teach you an awful lot - and jolly quickly, too!

Let me show you what I mean by using examples. (This is what scientists do. I think their lives must be hard, particularly when you consider the fact that anyone who is not a scientist is making it up.)

Example One

On 3rd December 2006, I ordered a mushroom omelette for breakfast in Montreal. When the plate came, it came with usual things (i.e. the omelette itself and some hot buttered toast*), which was nice. However, there was something else on the plate; something that should not be on the same plate as an omelette. And that thing was a fruit salad composed of fruits including melon, banana and pineapple, spewed over the plate like fructose-rich vomit.

"What is that doing there?", I whispered to my companion (a rather 'hunky' pathologist!), pointing a tremulous finger at a slice of melon the size of my own face.

"Well, see, you get fruit salad with breakfast here", he replied, chewing his man-toast and wiggling his eyebrows. "So, that's your fruit salad".

There was not much I could say to that, although to this day I cannot and will not recommend an omelette that has sat next to a seeping pineapple.

Example Two

This morning (23 September 2007), I ordered a mushroom and ham omelette for breakfast. I did not flinch at the fruit on the plate; in fact, I ate it (but after I had eaten the omelette).

It was all going quite well until I looked at my companion (a rather 'hunky' pathologist!), and then looked at his breakfast. He was eating a breakfast of ham, scrambled egg and pancake, which seemed reasonable enough; but then he picked up a flask of maple syrup and poured it over his scrambled egg.

"What are you doing?", I squeaked, thinking I had moved 3,300 miles to live with a killer.

"It's egg, ham and pancakes, but with maple syrup on it, see", he murmured, pouring another pint of sugar tree-juice across his man-ham.

"Is it NORMAL? I mean, is NORMAL to pour maple syrup on scrambled eggs?", I replied, barely able to look him in the eye.

He looked at me, eyes full of love and pity, and considered my question. "Well, it's not normal; it's a bit special. But it is within the range of acceptable behaviours, yes."

Whatever next!



* Ghastly expression; close relative of:

- fresh fruit salad
- crusty white loaf
- freshly baked wholemeal bap
- meal
- selection
- freshly milled black pepper
- crusted
- generously buttered
- moist
- pan-fried
- piping hot
- anal seepage

Day 437: I Am Officially In Canada

Yes. It is official. I am in Canada. I have in fact been here for two days, but it was only last night that I felt able to type it out officially with my tiny little monkey hands; for it was last night that dear Suzie*, mended my web-blog by putting on the new Canadian-themed title-head information-banner (plus pic).

In the new Canadian-themed title-head information-banner (plus pic), you will see the name of this web-blog ("Non-workingmonkey"), plus a picture of me (Non-workingmonkey) dressed for success (Canadian style, as depicted by Dave Shelton). I think it is really good, and I hope you like it too.

All that remains to be seen is what is going to happen next. After all, last week I lived in Brixton in London**, with many friends, jobs available had I wanted to work (which I did not), a flat near a shop, and easy access to rough oatcakes.

Now I live an hour's walk from the shop, and must find a job and make some friends. It is like starting completely all over again, right from the beginning.

But this is as nothing. The facts of my circumstances are mere facts. Infer nothing from my tone, for the simple truth is that I have made the right decision.

Here, I am in daily contact with a French-Canadian pathologist of whom I am fond (despite his tendency to cut his own hair and leave the clippings in the lavatory bowl), and this makes me happy in a way that still surprises me when I am thinking about something else.

Also, I like it here, and I like almost all the Canadians I have ever met, very much (apart from one I used to work for, and Conrad Black. Plus I do not want to listen to the music of Celine Dion).

I think it is going to be good. Either way, I think it will be interesting, which means - dare I even THINK it! - that this weblog may finally become interesting. Fingers crossed, eh?



* whose patience and kindness stopped my salty tears of frustration and restored the beaming smile to my simple face

** England, UK - the one with the red buses, black cabs and people dressed head to toe in buttons shouting "up the apples and pears, me old china!"

Day 434: I Review My Portrait In Preparation For My Removal To The Colonies

The times they are a-changing, as Bob Dylan once atonally droned, for tomorrow - as regular readers cannot fail to have noticed - I move to Canada, where I shall be spending 'quality time' with a French Canadian veterinary research pathologist who cuts his own hair and did very well in the French Canadian version of "Jeopardy".

And this can mean only one thing: this web-log must be refreshed a bit; updated visually (as it were) to reflect the change in my circumstances. (In addition to that, from 19.45 Canada time tomorrow, it will not say that I live in Brixton, London; it will say something totally different!).

However, I cannot introduce my "new look" without giving you a bit of context. So settle down - perhaps with a small glass of sweet sherry and a bowl of playing-card motif cheese nibbles - and come with me on an artistic journey.

The (Other) Artist

As an artist myself, I derive a base, almost animalistic satisfaction from collaboration with other artists. (I should add that this kind of collaboration has, in the past, yielded very positive results - unless you count the incident with Will Self and the cockring.)

My collaborator on this web-blog (which I also see as an artwork of sorts) is Dave Shelton. In truth, he only person I trust to take my true likeness. He is a gentleman as well as an artist, and unerringly captures my very essence, time after time.

The Early Years: Relaxed, But Alert

In the beginning was my profile picture. In it, you can see me in my customary pose: comfortably seated in an armchair, fez perched at a jaunty angle, small clay pipe balanced delicately in my mouth, packet of (plain) Hula-Hoops in hand, and glass of absinthe within easy reach.


























The Early Years: Industrious, But Relaxed

But there is - as regular readers will know - another side to me. Sometimes I work, particularly at writing this web-log. (Don't thank me. I know you love it. But it's always nice to be told - so don't hesitate to send appreciative letters and/or presents in boxes. Either is fine.)

In portrait that follows, you can clearly see me at my desk. As ever, my small clay pipe is stuffed in the corner of my mouth and my fez perches perilously on my ever-industrious brain - but as I am trying to concentrate you will see a cup of tea where you would normally see absinthe. On the screen of my laptop is a squirrel, an animal for which I feel nothing but contempt.
























Middle Period: The New Puritan

Neither Dave nor I could have foreseen my mother, MonkeyMother, suddenly getting all modest on our arses (which is a bit rich if you consider the circumstances of my birth and the vodka bottles 'hidden' under the sink.)

Concerned that my picture depicted me as naked as the day I was born, she would not rest until Dave covered me up; in response, Dave developed an excellent solution, called "Figgy".


























International Fame

No comment to make here, other than to show you how Dave's talent allows him to capture my essence whether I am on a donkey or in an armchair. As you will see in this particularly fine work, my fez has been replaced by a beret. That is because I am in France. Also, the absinthe is replaced by creme de menthe. A 'classy touch', I am sure you will agree!



















New Continents

But what now? Where will mine and Dave's artistic journey take us next? To Canada, is the answer - or more specifically, French Canada, also known as Quebec!

Dave has been working on my new portrait for some weeks now. In conjuction with the self-haircutting pathologist, we have developed a 'new look', including:

- a beaver (national animal of Canada, and a personal favourite of mine)
- a squirrel (prevalent in North America; annoying)
- the Canadian flag
- the symbol of Quebec
- a warm hat
- special glove-socks for my cold monkey toes
- a warm overcoat
- a glass of tawny port (they drink this as an aperitif in Canadia!)

Here is the 'work in progress":


























Good isn't it! But is it as good as the final one? No it is not! Here is the final one:

































Present Day: An Artistic Dilemma

How can I do this beautiful image justice? How can I show it to the world on my web-blog? Imagines spin through my mind; images of a new banner along the top; a new - yes, a new - sort of header-y thing. But how?








This is an actual fact. It was designed by a man called Ray Larabie (who is from Ottawa) 1997 and it is amusing without being Comic Sans. In addition, it has a really good name that is also apposite.

The question is: how do I turn Dave's finest picture into a banner along the top of my blog? (I have some really good ideas and help, thanks to a friend - but Blogger is refusing to do what it is told!)

Here is the work-in-progress in my head. (In some circles they might call it a "visual brief"). It is not very good.











In fact, perhaps the font is not very good. Or is it good? I do not think so, but the pressure to properly show the world the picture of me enjoying my new life in the colonies is skewing my artistic judgement!

Help me, sweet readers. Help me.

***UPDATE

It is better now:









And yet still it will not upload, and nor can I make the file of a high enough resolution. (I have the elements; I just don't know how to make it super using nothing but Powerpoint, a half-dead Mac, no Photoshop, new Blogger and a persistent and distressing refusal on its part to upload what I want it to.)

If anyone can help, I will weep with gratitude. It feels wrong to be here in the Canadia (which I am, and it is grate!), without my new pioneering portrait in place at the head of this masterful web-blog.

(Thank you for the comments and help and advice, all of which have been good, useful and right - I just couldn't do it.)

Day 434: I Intend To Start The Day As I Mean To Go On

Day 434: I Say Goodbye To London In Preparation For My Imminent Departure For French Canadia

There was a bit of crying (and not just in our pants) in Charlotte Street, and some sticking of heads out of the back of a black cab shouting, "At least I'm ALLOWED to fucking hate it, it's MINE, I was BORN here", as we whipped over Westminster Bridge*. It was quite sad, but not that sad.

It looked a bit like this:





















And like this:


























A bit more water spurted out of my eyes uncontrollably (which I do not like; it is extremely annoying and makes my lips swell, for some reason), and then we came back and put this on and did bad dancing:




I think we woke up my cretinous upstairs neighbour Twatboy, so I felt better for a while. But I am tired now and want to be in Quebec, lying still and warm.


* I don't like Wordsworth. He annoys me. He had stupid hair and spent too much time wandering around the Lake District pointing things out (e.g. hosts of daffodils) with his walking stick whilst trying not to have inappropriate thoughts about his sister Dorothy.

Anyway, this poem about Westminster Bridge in the early morning. (If you go to the London Eye, they have it up on the wall but break it weirdly, so it doesn't make sense.) It is still exactly what it is like, and it goes like this:


Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

It would be pretty perfect if it wasn't for the "ne'er" and the exclamation marks. I hate that shit.

Day 433: I Have Broken My Blog

Well, sort of. I have tried to update the template and it has gone a bit upside down.

On the other hand, it's only the sidebar fluff; the consistently excellent content that makes up the body of work known as "the archive" is, happily, intact - in fact, thanks to the new 'drop down menu' that I have put on, is awfully easy to have a look at.

(Have a go, if you like; this time last year, for example, this blog was quite good. It's been downhill ever since.)

I shall return when the sidebar is not broken anymore.

Pip pip!

NWM

P.S. If you have disappeared from the links list and would like to be reinstated, please let me know (in privit if you like).

Day 433: I Offer My Readers Some Excellent Advice

If you get up from your restless bed to slurp down some sleeping pills, do not accidentally swallow someone else's Dulco-Lax instead.

Day 433: I Watch A Commercial

"You're English. You're supposed to join the WI* and live in a village and be a judge in flower shows. You were made to be here. You can't just go off and live in Canada."

"That is all well and good, friend", I burble in response. "But I don't really want to live here anymore. And anyway, I am fond of someone who lives in Canada and I would like to see him more often."

It is true. I don't want to live here, and I am fond of someone in Canada. I still like lots of English things though: the people I like, Hula-Hoops and commercials for Marmite** with Paddington Bear in them, for example:



My imminent departure is obviously making me sentimental: I always hated Paddington Bear.


* For foreign readers: the WI is the Womens' Institute. Their website cocks on about 'modern opportunities for today's women', when in fact the WI is about:

- dusty village halls
- talks from semi-famous people about weird shit, e.g. fossils and/or the Himalayas
- baking
- the country
- flowers in the church

** Once again, for foreign readers: Marmite is the elixir of youth. There are very few foreigners who like it. The ones who do are usually found to have pioneering spirits and a palate of steel.

Day 432: I Invent And Play A New Game

I have invented a new game. It is called “Who’s The Cunt Now?”, and you play it with traffic wardens. The rules are terribly simple; as far as I’m aware, if you need a residents’ parking permit, you qualify to play. I’m addicted!

How To Play

Take your residents’ parking permit. Do not put it in the windscreen; instead, display it prominently on the dashboard.

When the residents’ parking restrictions are in place, sit at a window where you can see your car (and traffic wardens). In my case, I sit at my desk (which is placed in the window so I can alternate sending electronic mail to my imaginary friends with staring at the street), between 10am and midday.

What will happen is this.

Traffic wardens will drive past your car and look for your permit. They will not see it in the window, so they will stop suddenly and park their traffic warden car.

One of them will sit in the driver’s seat whilst the other one gets out, re-adjusts their cap, and marches towards your car with their camera and little ticket machine.

Just as they get near your car and begin to raise their camera, open the window and shout “IT’S ON THE DASHBOARD”.

If you are really lucky, the one with the camera and little ticket machine will look at the permit, look at you, shake their head, look really fucked off, march back to their car, get in it and drive off.

You can ‘pep it up’ a bit by laughing, a lot, out of the window and shouting: “If you need a pound* that badly, I’ll give it to you”. You get an extra point if one gives you the evil eye as they drive off; if you get the evil eye from both of them, you get two points.



* As far as I am aware, this is the commission a (Lambeth) traffic warden gets for every ticket they give out.

Day 430: I Identify A New Career

Regular readers will by now be stultifyingly aware that, next Thursday, I shall get on an aeroplane and fly to Montreal. There - for a while at least - I will sleep in the same bed night after night*, make jam, try and plan out a book and be nice to a self-haircutting veterinary pathologist. I am really looking forward to it.

But this bliss will not last forever, for I will at some point have to work again. I have been worried about it, I must confess; I do not particularly enjoy doing what I have done before, as it is fairly pointless and often frustrating (other people are involved, you see, including other people who are idiots).

Happily, however, I think I have found the answer! Last night, my oldest friend and I were in the street in Glasgow walking to the pub. "Look at that!", she mumbled, pointing at a shop. "That's good."

It is true. It was good, very good. Here is what we saw:

























I have been so inspired by what we saw last night that I have decided to make plates for a job in Canada.

There are many reasons why I think this would be a good thing for me to do:

1. Cheap to produce (inexpensive raw materials; low overheads)
2. Little or no skill required
3. Market already really big and will never get any smaller.

In fact, I have been so inspired that I have already made a start. I think it's going really well, but judge for yourself: this is a mock-up of what one of my plates could look like:



















If you would like to order a real one (that I will do with paint), then please email me at nonworkingmonkey@mac.com with a photograph of you and your special friend (or whoever else you would like me to put on it).

It is £60 for a side-plate, and £200 for a dinner plate. Mugs are £45 each. As a special introductory offer, I am 'throwing in' (no pun intended!) a pair of matching eggcups, one bearing the face of Pierre Trudeau, and the other Celine Dion.


* By July this year, I had slept in 34 different beds. I am still counting. (I am not a floozy, no no. There is only one person I have shared a bed with since 23 September 2006, and I rather hope that I will be sharing beds with him on 23 September 2008 and for a long time after that.)

Day 429: I Ride Upon An Aeroplane To Glasgow

I am on the aeroplane to Glasgow. I am feeling sick, and dreaming of fresh laundry and clothes that are hanging up and not in a suitcase. I go into a trance as I think about ironing, and wonder if you can buy lavender ironing water in Canada.

But I am interrupted. A man behind me is doing the crossword in Puzzle Twat Weekly. He is using the help and mind of his ladywife.

Man: What's this one, love? 'Funeral poem, five letters.' 'E' something...

Wife: Effigy?

Man: Yes. E.F.I.G.Y.

Silence falls. He scratches out the five letters with the pencil he is clutching in his tiny stubby fist. Without looking, I know his tongue is sticking out a bit.

Man: There we are.

Wife: Well done, love.

Day 428: I Return From Wales

Children are unspeakably dull unless you are their parent, grandparent or godparent. "Children say the funniest things!", squeaks the television programme. "No they don't", you mutter in response, sucking on your gin; "they really don't. They are dull, and high-maintenance, and need attention".

I am the godmother of a child who is not yet three. She recognises me, and accepts the fact that I hold her upside down by the ankles and give her fingers of toast with jam on. She is, therefore, amusing. Particularly when she talks about me.

Small child: Is she going back to London? (Points at me with her small-child arm and finger of jammy toast.)

Father of small child: Yes, and then she is going to Montreal. So every time you see an aeroplane, it might be her, going to Montreal.

Small child: Her, in the sky? (Pause) In the sky? But she will come back.

So sure is she that I am coming back that she wanders off singing her own version of Spiderman. (It is really good: "Spiderman, Spiderman, has big shoes and a boat".) Her mother and I look at the floor and then say goodbye using only the power of the wave (we cannot look at each other for fear we may weep), and I drive 300 miles back to London.

Day 425: I Lose My Post On The Way To Wales

I have just written a really great post containing at least six good pictures, 45 statistics and the word "cockring", but it has disappeared. It is a great shame, for tomorrow I am going to Wales and as everyone knows, there is no internet in Wales.

I shall be back at the weekend (unless I find a place where they have piped in the internet from England or Scotland).

Pip pip!

NWM

Day 424: I Call A Stranger A Twat

It is true, I am disgruntled. I am living out of suitcases and fed up, and have (to my shame) snapped at at least three people today, none of whom deserve it.

But I have just been to the shop (and the postbox) and there, tested to the limits of my very patience. I have been very rude to a complete stranger, and I am almost certain that I would have been as rude to him even if I had been in a really really good mood.

At the postbox I stuff my (very small) parcel into the slot of the postbox. It goes in with a squish. In the (very small) parcel is a book that I am sending to Canadia that I think will amuse someone I am fond of. It is not worth much, but it is apposite and charming, and I would like it to get there.

A man is watching me. He is tall and broad and gingery-blonde. He has an insufferably annoying face, and is leaning in the door of the shop with his arms crossed, shaking his head.

Him: You'll be lucky if that gets there.

The parcel plops into the post box.

Me: Sorry?

Him: You'll be lucky if that gets there. Parcels in the Post Office (points at tiny shut Post Office); letters in the box (points at post box).

Me: (Eyes narrowed) What?

Him: Yes. And I should know. I work for the Royal Mail.

Silence. It is as if he has just announced that he has won the Nobel Prize for Smugfuckery. He puffs up, uncrosses and re-crosses his arms, chuckles* and shakes his head.

Me: Well why the fuck didn't you tell me that before I put in in the box, you twat?

Him: There's no need to be rude. I'm only trying to help.

Me: Oh, just cock off.


I have cheered up now.



* Quite the most ghastly word, but exactly what he was doing.

Day 424: I Find An Old Newspaper Cutting

Day 423: I Am Not Sure Whether To Laugh Or Cry

I am clearing out my flat! I have been here for nine years, and have accumulated many mountains of things.

I must clear some space, because my friend S (who is living here while I try out Canada), has nowhere to put her collection of Wade's Whimsies (she has a collection of over 10,000), and despite having spent a week clearing things out last year, there are still dusty cupboards full of nonsense that seem to endlessly expand.

This clearing and sifting and sorting is both very entertaining and very sad, for even if you are happier than you have ever been (for lots of reasons, and not just ones of pathology), old love letters and photographs and birthday cards from dead grandparents still hurt a little bit.

But I digress and become maudlin and yet - curses! There's more! I have found a thing that I made when I was a very tiny child, possibly no more than 6. It is a school project (in the form of a plain exercise book with things stuck in it) about Horses, and it is really quite good (as well as being informative). But it has confused me, I must confess.

























Is it happy? Is it sad? Perhaps it is not so sad; after all, it is not too late - maybe one day I will have a horse, particularly as soon I am leaving London (no room for horses) for Canada (lots of room for horses, and puppies).

Giddy up!


(If you would like to see more of my very early juvenilia, "Horses by Lucy" (c. 1974/5), please let me know - there's more where this came from, including a really good drawing of a bridle and an excellent two-colour plate, "The Points Of The Horse".)



UPDATE!

Due to overwhelming demand (from one person), I will now reveal (for the first time) more pages from my previously unseen juvenilia, "Horses by Lucy".

If you do not know exactly what horses are, you would do well to read this:



























If you are not sure which bit of a horse goes where, you might like this. Note: I remember tracing the horse, but the writing is all mine.




















Here is some early evidence of my political sensibilities. They did not develop much further.
























If I was going to adopt a horse from an Unwanted Horse Centre, I would show them this drawing to demonstrate that I understood exactly what horses need to be clean, dry and happy.

(I am not sure why the sun is red, but I am not going to argue with my tiny, enchanting self; I am sure I had my reasons.)

























Coming Next: "Spanish Costume", c. 1983, aged 13. Here's an extract to whet your greedy appetites:

"The Spaniards loved extravagance, yet had simple tastes in foods. They were sensual people although highly religious and these contrasting aspects brought about clothes of great luxury but comparative simplicity of line."

Holy shit. Can you wait? I know I can't, and I wrote it!

Day 423: I Spend The Afternoon In London And Learn Many Interesting Facts

It is quite extraordinary! Look what I have learnt in only one afternoon (and evening). It may be something to do with the fact that in London, English is the language that most people speak, and I am English so able to easily communicate with everyone.

Still, you have to admit. This is quite a tally:

Snack Food Is Good For You

Fuck me backwards and call me Delilah. Hula Hoops? Wholegrain Hula Hoops? They must be good for me, particularly as there is "55% less saturated fat" (55% less than what? A whale's arse?), and they are NEW. (And the packaging is brown-ish). I am weeping hot tears of joy.*



















Endymion Is Not Endymion

I thought it was pronounced Endymion. According to all cab drivers ever and all of the people in my street, it is "En-Dee-MY-on". After 9 years, no amount of cocking on about Keats is going to prove me right.

Cockney Is In Fact A Derigatory of Cocnai, spelt C.O.C.N.A.I.

I have no comment to make. I merely report, verbatim, what the cabbie said earlier.


I Must Have Children

I am at the dentist. My teeth have been cleaned by my gay-but-not dentist; the weird bleeding gum by my right canine (grr) has been treated with antibiotic gel; the broken filling has been mended (with no anaesthetic. No need. Truth.) I am paying.

The gay-but-not receptionist and I talk for a bit. Then he says something strange.

"A child would be proud to have you as a mother. You are full of energy and life, and slightly dangerous, like you will do anything at any time. You must have children."

This is an awfully nice thing to have said, despite being desperately embarrassing and weird. I buy some toothpaste and leave, feeling dangerous. Tonight, I shall floss thoroughly and use my new paste.

In Germany, They Search Your Handbags In Supermarkets

But apparently only in Heidelberg.

Astonishingly, And Despite What I Have Been Told All My Life, Ian Dury Was Not A Twat

I was given "I Believe" today. It is very good in a weird way (despite the moonshine sparkles in the hair and the painful bit of guitar). Fact.

Claire Sweeney And Paul Ross Are More Important Than The Prime Minister And Richard And Judy

I am confused by this as I definitely think that Richard and Judy are more important than Claire Sweeney, but according to the Indian restaurant near my friends in Kennington (who live in an air conditioning factory), that is not true.














I am not sure how Clare Sweeney (known as "Sweene-Oh" in some circles) knows about the regularity of her local Indian, but who I am to judge?

EDF Are Fools

Also a fact.

As Are British Gas

Another fact.

Foxtons The Estate Agents Are Fucking Awful, Inappropriately Over-Familiar, Over-Priced And Frankly Just Knobs

I defy you to argue.

Lists In Blog Posts Are Quite Boring

Also a fact.




* Thank you to LW for this kind gift.

Day 422: I Think About Cock

It is little wonder that I am happy again, for I - Non-workingmonkey - am now back in my natural state: one of literal non-workingness.

It has been over week since I left my last job, and to my delight I am now completely recovered from the ill-effects of working (exhaustion, depression, refusal to see that there is in fact any point in living any more, hives, insomnia, alcoholism). My heart soars when I think of it!

The state of literal non-workingness also means that I have:

a. Lots of time

Which is excellent, despite the fact that I have:

b. Cock-all money.

Still, no matter. My good humour is returned. I am back to normal. I do not have to pretend I like people I don't like, and I do not have to do anything I do not find interesting. (Both of these things break my spirit. I am not, for once, exaggerating for comic effect. It is the absolute truth.)

I am also now - to my delight and, I am sure, yours - strong enough to cast my mind back a week to my leaving party. The photograph you see below is of the cake with which I was presented. It was fashioned by hand by the two ladies on reception, adorned with eight profiterole testes (which, of course, burst forth thick cream when opened), and coated in Lindt chocolate.

(If you are not sure what it is, look carefully: you will see a description of what it is written in sugar balls upon its glistening shaft. I have to confess I wasn't sure, and was very grateful for the clear labelling!)
















I was surprised, I must say. I do not see myself as a lover of cock-jokes, nor am I the sort of woman who goes to Ann Summers and laughs until her "crochless panties" split to her coccyx. I do not find male strippers funny, and nor do I go "phwoar" when I see a sweaty fireman. And yet my colleagues (of which more later) insisted on filling my evening with cock after cock.

For example, my leaving present was a URL. It is the name of the book I am definitely going to write, and is called www.whoownstheyes.com. Upon the holding page (which, to my delight, redirects to this exact blog), you will see another cock joke, with a picture of a cock; moreover, it is a cock joke that implies that I talk about cock a lot, which in fact I do not.

I asked my colleagues a bit about the cock thing. I wondered, you see. I was surprised they chose this thing about me, when there are so many other things that are more obvious (my beauty, my charm, my tiny little monkey hands, my pipe, my fez, my affection for scarves and Canadians). But they explained to me that apparently I say "cock" in various forms almost the whole time, incessantly and without end. Phrases I have been known to use include (apparently!):

- cocking hell
- cockmonkeys
- cockhead
- cocking fuckbrains
- cock, cock, cockitty cock
- fucking cockhead
- cretinous cock
- cockbiscuits
- "I have never heard so much cock in my life"
- "He is a cock"
- "She is a cock"
- "They are all cocks"

So that is OK then.

Some the people I worked with (in America you call them 'co-workers' which implies some kind of co-operative behaviour, and is therefore - in my experience - rather inaccurate) were alright, as it happens, although I cannot pretend I miss it at all (because I don't).

And so, in honour of most of my ex-colleagues (the ones that were not idiots), I leave you with this film in the hope of starting (on their behalf), a new craze. It has been explained to me like this (by another Swede; this is verbatim):

"There is a new trend raising to the surface and it is called Hatting. A extreme sport where you “hat” (toss a hat) to another “hatter” to catch the hat on his head, much like Harry Nilsson triangular toss:.

Watch it for yourself! You may like it. And you may know what "Harry Nilsson triangular toss" means. I don't.

Day 421: I Reconsider My Negative Preconceptions About Owning A Bale Of Hay

In the country not much happens if you are not going to work. For example, I am staying in a village, and definitely not much is happening. Today a dog came in and another dog lost its collar. The 93 year old poet across the courtyard asked us for tea but we didn't go. We walked to the pub for lunch, had some lunch, and walked back with the vicar's daughters.

The fish man came; this afternoon I sat on a chinz sofa reading OK!, looking things up on the internet and sorting out things like dentists' appointments and ground rent. At about four o'clock I ate a crumpet and touched some raspberries. (Talking of raspberries, I am still confused by OK!, which appears to be full of moon-faced trolls with one grade 'E' GSCE, fake tits, orange skin and a boyfriend who looks like a petty criminal, wearing frocks that look as if they were made for a low-rent transvestite.)

And yet despite the fact that there is not much going on I am cursed, for I am exciting and therefore attract excitement (much in the same way that I attract flies, fleas, cockroaches, beggars, lost tourists and terrace-building pathologists). Only yesterday, for example, I was looking at photographs of a cretin who wants to be Victoria Beckham (but in fact looks like a twopenny whore), when the door flew open.

"Do you want to come and see my bale?", shouted T. "It is really good. I made the farmer leave it behind but I paid him for it."

We walked out of the house and round the corner and up a hill. It was a nice evening, the kind of evening you only really get in England (or, more specifically, the bits of England that no-one can really afford to live in anymore unless they are millionaires with helicopters), but I still thought a trip to a bale was quite a rubbish thing to do.

As it happened the bale was quite good. It looks like this:










If you sit on it on your bottom and you look down the hill you see this:








It looks quite boring but really it is quite pretty, and it is a very good view to look at on a warm evening when you are about to move to Canada for three months and then probably up to and including forever, and are happy about it but also sad about some things.

It is also better than a field that looks like this:




Especially when you walk through it on the way to the pub and the bullocks (who look quite nice when they are not moving) start following you quite quickly.




* one of my loyal readers wrote to ask if they could rent it, but I cannot find the email! In response: possibly, next March, but it may be quite expensive.

Day 419: I Count My Beavers

At lunch earlier today* in an Italian restaurant in London's fashionable West End of London, I heard quite the most astonishing tale.

The father of one of my companions eloped (at the tender age of nineteen) with the daughter of the British Ambassador to Canada; apparently they paddled away together down the Orinoco river in a canoe. ("I didn't know the Orinoco was a river. I thought it was a Womble.") Apparently they were apprehended just before the wedding ceremony itself and, as far as anyone knows, there was no issue.

So excited have I been by this story that my thoughts have turned again and again to Canada. I have, for example, been inspired to count my beavers; having checked and checked again, it seems that I have three!

Here they are:



Here is Orinoco the Womble:







And here is the Orinoco River:









And finally, for no reason at all: here is a rum-looking hound with crossed eyes.






















* with two enchanting companions! One of them is the descendant of a man who once owned exactly a million acres of Western Canada; the other one is immensely tall, drinks Chablis before rough fup-bal games, and can do instant mathematics in his head! They are great.

Day 418: I Have Cheered Up A Bit, And Launch A New Feature

I have worked out the root of my filthy mood and headache! I have not had any coffee since Saturday. I have put that right with one pint of espresso, and am now back to normal. So normal in fact that I am thinking of really good interactive ideas for my web-log, and also twats I have met.

Suddenly I am back in Amsterdam, in a bar, in February, with my brother, having a conversation with a man with very stupid hair.

Me/my brother: Where do you live?
Him: Williamsburg. It's like the Shoreditch of New York.

Silence.

Me/My brother: The Shoreditch of New York?
Him: Yeah.

We do not know what to say. It is possible that this man is in fact King Twatty of the Twats.

Me/My brother: Do you miss England then?
Him: No. I love English things. I just don't want to live there.

My brother and I ("Cunting hell, did you see his cunting hair? Cunt.") thought that the man with the hair was a fool, but we agreed about the English things. It is true, you see: England is full of lots of very excellent English things, and some English people (the ones who are not twats) are really very excellent. (For example, I am an English person and I am excellent. I am also self-deprecating, which is a feature of the English that makes them excellent.)

To celebrate the return of my good mood and my ability to see the good things in England (Marmite, Radio 4, the fact that we really ARE very funny and usually quite nice), I have decided to launch a new Special Theme. It is called "Top Tips".

Inspired by Asta, who commented on my last miserable post, I would like to start with her own (excellent) tip for deterring the Moth, and look forward to having any other ones that my loyal readers (and new fans) might like to send in. I will then make them into a special permanent feature in the sidebar and it will be really good!

Moth Repellent from Asta

"Try scented soaps in plastic bags with little vents cut in for the smell to fill the container. Then you can pick a scent that you won't mind wearing."

Isn't it good?

Grease On Porous Wood (Me. Can't remember where I got it from.)

Mix a paste from Meths and talcum powder. Let it dry. Chip it off. It will have taken out the mark. Fact. (You will also be off your tits, but never mind.)

(If you want to take grease out of cotton and linen, rub on a bit of washing up liquid before putting it in the washing machine. It will work. Fact.)

Sausage Cooking (from a magazine on a train c. 1988)

"Boil your sausages before grilling or frying - and you'll cut your cooking time in half!"

I would rather eat my own eyes than do this, but if you have ever worried about how long your sausages take to cook, this may help. (Interestingly, apparently sausagemeat actually cooks through in under 5 minutes, but I am not entirely sure I believe that.)

Come on then! What you got? Show me! A packet of cedar mothballs for the winner (If I can find them anywhere).

Day 418: I Am Back In London, And It Appears To Be Broken

"The good news is we are fifteen minutes early!", shouts the KLM aeroplane captain as we begin our descent into Heathrow. "The bad news is, we cannot land for another forty-five minutes".

"For fuck's sake", says my neighbour. He is an idiot in a cheap suit who has eaten all of his stupid lunch in a box and sucked up two small bottles of wine. His other main hobby has been being sarcastic with the air steward lady who has been - as they always are on KLM - like a perfect robotlady in shoes you could run for a bus in.

He slams shut his stupid management book (which is not as good as the one I will write), and catches my eye. "Fucking typical, isn't it? It all works until you get to fucking Britain".

As swearing is the occupation of Princes and Kings, I find his chit-chat entertaining, but I am too tired to argue, or even say any words to him; these are strange times, and my mind and heart are elsewhere. There is also no point in arguing, because I know he is right.

Going Through Customs

Four desks, six hundred people: an hour and a half to get off a plane and into a cab.

Getting a Cab

Heathrow to Barnes. £35. His is moving to New Zealand. He cannot stand Britain another minute.

Him: What do you think of all the blacks ?
Me: What, the All Blacks? Dunno. I don't much about rugby.
Him: No, all the blacks.

Buying A Residents' Parking Permit

It costs me £60 to park outside my flat (which is mine) for six months, and takes two hours to pay for the bit of paper that says it is OK for me to park outside my flat (which is mine), on a road in a borough in which I pay about £70 a month in council tax. If I do not buy it, my car will be removed and sent to Peckham, which is on the Moon.

There is a new place to go to get the bits of paper though! It is called "Brixton Customer Centre". It is all very New Labour 2001, and the computers don't work. There are three times as many people working there as there are 'customers', except they are not really working. One of them is trying on sunglasses.

On the walls, there are photographs of people smiling outside their council houses or lying in the grass outside the London Eye. They do not look like me or anyone I have ever seen in Lambeth.

Buying Stuff In M&S

I am stuck at the check-out for twenty minutes because an insufferable woman has her "party food" order confused! Twelve "smoked salmon bites" cost exactly the same as six filo prawn parcels and six mini-hamburgers, apparently, but only if you say the prices out loud to the people on the till like they are retarded.

I wish she could afford to live in Battersea.

Getting The Bus

£2? For bus that moves in the same borough, let alone the same city? (That is about $4 in the America or the Canadia, or about 3 Euros, which will get you from Amsterdam to the moon and back.)

People Talking On Their Mobile Telephones Very Loudly

If you live a country where you do not understand the language (e.g. the Netherlands) or have to tune in to understand it (e.g. France or Quebec), life is good. When you are in a country where you hear everything whether you want to or not, it is very bad and makes you want to die.

Money

EVERYTHING is expensive. There is nothing in Britain that is cheaper than it is in another country, apart from when you go to hospital, where you can get free blood poisoning. I have really looked today for something that is cheap but there is nothing at all that is cheaper than Amsterdam or France or Canada, apart from The Guardian, and I'm not sure that even that's worth it anymore.

Mothballs

Ten shops. No mothballs. I am not entirely sure that five out of the ten shops even knew what mothballs were.

Going To The Doctor

I am not even ill, but I need to have some things looked at the doctor, who is mad. But somehow, despite being at the doctor at the right time, I have missed my appointment. This is worrying and depressing, all at once.

Whilst all this goes on, I am spending entire days in my plush Brixton apartment clearing things out. A friend (and her many boxes) is living here, but she cannot empty her boxes until I empty my cupboards and drawers and cellar. But emptying is difficult when negotiating boxes, and the cat - who is unfortunately not yet dead - keeps sitting on the things I am clearing out. I am tired and cross and do not want to be here, even though I know it will all be worth it in the end.

But what is this? An 'instant message' on Skype! It is my (English) friend Simon, who lives in Vancouver. That is in Canadia, which is the place where I am going three weeks to live for three months (and then possibly up to and including the rest of my life).

Me: Do you miss England ever?
Simon: Never. Ever. And you can get Radio 4 on your computer. What else do you need?

I feel unaccountably cheerful now, and will soon be telephoning British Airways to see if can change my flight. I see no reason why I should not leave the country tomorrow.

Day 417: I Am Back In Britain

I am in shock! It is really bad!