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I'm gutted. The telephone started to ring just before 22:00. I went to answer it, but it wasn't in the cradle.
Shit!
Where was it?
We had a crank call earlier on in the evening. Phyllis had answered it and, in disgust, simply sat down on the sofa and put the telephone on the floor, out of sight. I had to ask him where it was. The telephone had long since stopped ringing.
I dialed 1471 and, indeed, there was a message. My best friend, Alan, had called from Dubai. How special was that? And all I got was voicemail.
I'm gutted.
Alan, if you're reading this, I'm so sorry.
Other than that, it had been quite a pleasant evening. We had Mushroom Stroganoff for dinner, followed by tiramisu:
I follow Delia Smith's recipe, but amend it slightly, adding a wee tub of cream (142 ml/5 fl oz - unbeaten) to the mascarpone and substituting Amaretto for Rum.
We watched TV... I was gutted to find Sarah Beeny wasn't on at all. But, oh joy of joys, Kim and Aggie were back, finding filth in the nation's hospitals. I just adore Kim Woodburn. She's as camp as Christmas, as sweet as your Mother, obsessed with nookie, flirts with men (gay and straight), loves to put the duster round for you, has immaculate hair and sports the most fabulous make-up since Cleopatra experimented with eyeliner.
After a bit of telly, I carried on with my scarf. I'm quite pleased with it, though haven't got as much length as I would have hoped (the story of my life). The gold thread must weigh heavier than the reg and green, as I ran out of gold long before the red was used up. When the gold was done, I started on the green. When I'm done with the green, I shall have to go out and buy another ball of wool and another ball of gold thread. I'd like the end product to be at least a third longer than it will be if I simply stop when the green runs out.
So, that was my evening. I missed out on a brief period of fabulous in the middle of what would normally have been pretty dull.
Oh, and Phyllis went to bed early complaining of a bad stomach! Could it be the raw egg? Doubt it. I'd be feeling ill, too, and I'm as right as rain.
I hope he'll feel better in the morning. I'm accompanying him to Newton Stewart. I've never been there before. Britt Ekland might have described it as dismal, but hey, perhaps she wasn't smacked off her face that day or licking cocaine off of Rod Stewart's dick? My friend Peter was born there - so it must be fabulous.
I will take my camera with me tomorrow - so be prepared for Minge's bad photography.
Ten things I'm not looking forward to about being old:
1 I'll say, "...young people today..." a lot.
2 I'll have to get a shawl.
3 I'll feel the cold.
4 I'll tell young girls that they look like sluts.
5 I'll ask young boys if they're girls or boys.
6 I won't be ashamed of the photograph in my bus pass.
7 I'll watch Countryfile.
8 I'll look at polyester dresses and mumble, "That's nice."
9 I'll hit people in the face with my walking stick.
10 I'll piss myself all the time.
We had Tiramisu for our dessert this evening.
I made it this morning.
I just want to make something clear, dear reader:
If it were legal and I were free to do so, I would marry Tiramisu, rub it all over my face and have its babies.
And I'd eat the children.
Tom Cruise is nuts!
Click here for absolute proof, dear reader.
He jumps on couches.
He's an expert on PND.
He's nuts.
My blog of the day, dear reader, is Hamster's Wheel.
Why?
Because there are photographs of men's bottoms, the guy lives in London and is quite candid.
It's fabulous.
What's your blog of the day?
Do you actively search for interesting blogs? Or are you forever hitting the "next blog" button?
I'm bi-blogual. I do both.
An anchorwoman's chat on CNN has been accidentally broadcast during a speach by George W Bush, prompting the TV network to apologise.
She said her sister-in-law was a control freak and she was very lucky with her husband.
Click here to read the full story.
It sounds hilarious - but really, is this so terrible that CNN needs to make a public apology? It's not like her boob popped out, is it!?
Are the Americans really that uptight? Or does the news media simply presume they are?
Yay! 20:00, tonight, Channel 4 - Property Ladder!
Unmissable!
I just adore this show.
Sarah Beeny (usually pregnant) presents a show where novice propery developers turn something dodgy into something fabulous (most of the time). It's quite predictable. They ignore her sage-like advice, hit huge problems and finish up well over budget, sometimes making a loss, but that's what makes it great telly.
Why do we just adore watching people make complete tits of themselves?
The clatter of the mail falling through my letter box used to be exciting. I used to get a lot of interesting post having been part of a penpal scheme in the language lab at school and swapping Friendship Books. But with the birth of the internet and email, came the death of interesting letters and packets.
So you can imagine my joy, dear reader, on receiving a London postcard from Brian and a Detroit Lakes greetings card from Brett.
Oh, joy of joys. Something fabulous and from fabulous people. My beau also got a parcel this morning. I wonder what it could be?
A day without junk mail and no bills. What a lovely start to the day.
I've updated my Rumours Of Whores download post, dear reader.
It would seem there was a problem in grabbing the files; a password needed. No longer a problem! Hopefully!
Go back to the original entry to download or click here.
One hundred things I'd like to do:
1 Visit Minnesota
2 Have lunch with Dan Cruikshank
3 Grow a full head of hair
4 Publish a successful novel
5 Cross the equator on foot
6 Get to #1 in the singles charts with Rumours Of Whores
7 Visit Peru
8 Visit Brasil
9 Rid the world of all spiders
10 Go into outer space
11 Be a muscle-mary
12 Be disgracefully rich
13 Have a private jet
14 Learn to fly a helicopter
15 Be more proficient in crochet
16 Be more proficient in knitting
17 Learn to play the piano
18 Be closer to my friends
19 Not be so nervous
20 Be more forgiving
21 Learn HTML
22 Live somewhere warmer
23 Drive a Shinkansen
24 Clone my dogs
25 Eat healthily
26 Learn to drive a car
27 Stop biting my nails
28 Stop picking my nose
29 Hug more people
30 More people hug me
31 More hugs from the people who do hug me
32 Smoke weed
33 Clone myself
34 Buy a very expensive knitting machine
35 Practice my German
36 Practice my French
37 Practice my Spanish
38 Learn Dutch again
39 Find Marie Petrová
40 Learn to sing (in tune)
41 Remember people's birthdays
42 Have a farm
43 Grow old without wishing I wasn't growing old
44 Go skiing
45 See The Niagra Falls
46 Be someone's Godfather
47 Have a magic wand
48 Be good at spelling
49 Be able to take good photographs
50 Get a stalker
51 Learn how to speed read
52 Be able to tell people that I love, that I care about them
53 Learn how to darn properly
54 Paint more often
55 Have a part in Doctor Who
56 Have another general anaesthetic
57 Go and see a stage play/musical at least three nights a week
58 Invent a teleportation device
59 Have the ability to bring people back from the dead
60 Visit The Lebanon
61 See a Democrat in The White House
62 See a real Socialist in 10 Downing Street
63 Smoke with gay abandon
64 Be good at chess
65 Pinch children that I dislike
66 Be more candid
67 Write letters by hand
68 Spend more time in bed
69 Learn Esperanto
70 Live in a large stone-built 18th or 19th Century house
71 Go swimming at night
72 Go swimming in the rain
73 Take a road trip
74 Be alone for a whole month
75 Understand who and what I really am
76 Belive in something
77 Be Neil Tennant's best friend
78 Understand why anyone would vote Tory or Republican
79 Go to the moon
80 Sing a duet with Our Glorious Leader
81 Ban chavism
82 Eat more beans
83 Not be so obsessed with food
84 Go back to senior school again
85 Have a time machine
86 Take growth hormones
87 Upset the neighbours
88 Read the Bible from cover to cover
89 Be a flasher
90 Have a day go by without indigestion
91 Plant a forest
92 Have a more butch voice
93 Have my vision corrected
94 Have a home cinema
95 Converse with my dogs
96 Make a kilt
97 Go on the Queen Mary II
98 Take part in a riot
99 Read people's minds
100 Think of 100 interesting things that I'd like to do.
Inspired by Russell Brand and The Crochet Dude, I've decided to crochet myself a scarf for my holiday.
I'm using my favourite colours: red, gold and green. I'm using a standard ball of red, one of green and two of gold. I'm interweaving the red and gold and will crochet with that until the red runs out. Then I'll switch to green and gold, finishing when my green wool runs out.
It's quite exciting. I only started at nine o'clock tonight (or just after) and it's already twelve inches long!
You know, dear reader, there's nothing like twelve inches to brighten your evening when the nights are drawing in.
Here's a fabulous exclusive for you, dear reader.
For a limited time, one hundred downloads or seven days, whichever comes soonest, all Rumours Of Whores works are available for download in their original high quality versions.
Click here to grab them, all nicely compacted in a neat wee folder. Go on, you know you want to.
Then start raving.
Holiday, celebration, come together in every nation.
Seven days from now, dear reader, I'll be in bed, having set my alarm clock for four o'clock. Whether or not I'll be asleep. I can't tell you.
But what I can tell you is this: If you want me to send you a postcard from Japan, please email me privately (you can do so through my profile) with your name and address. If I don't hear from you, I won't send you a card. I'm not being mean, tight or thoughtless, I'm just being Minge. It will just make things easier for me if you let me know, and in good time, please, that you want a card. After all, I might not have your address. Or I might not have you in my new address book. I probably don't. You should see it. There are about five entries in it. Sadly, I've lost my old address book, so have no point of reference from which to copy, or, at least, jog my memory.
Seven days, dear reader, and I'll be gone!
Hurrah!
"Money, tickets, passport. Money, tickets, passport. Money, tickets, passport..."
Click here to read part two, dear reader, or here, to read part one.
...Scarlet came back within a quarter of an hour, already stoned by eating some of the hash cakes and totally drunk from swigging from the bottle of tequila. So off her face was she, that she paid no attention to the fact that not only the key was missing from under the mat, but the front door was wide open.
"Granny! It's me! I've brought you some goodies!"
She then made her way into the dining room, which was now my Mother's bedroom since she was often too drunk to climb the stairs, and found Mr Wolf in the bed, posing as my daughter's Granny.
"Look," said Scarlet, laughing, "I've got fags, booze and dodgy cakes!"
"Yummy," said Mr Wolf. "Come closer so that I might see you. My eyesight is not what is used to be."
"There's nothing wrong with your eyes. You're drunk!"
"Come, get into bed with your old Granny and warm me up. Get the fags out and we'll have a drink. There are two glasses on my bedside cabinet."
Scarlet stripped down to her underwear, got into bed, poured some drinks and lit up a couple of fags.
"My, what big eyes you've got, Grandmother," said Scarlet.
"All the better to see you with," replied Mr Wolf.
"My, what big ears you've got."
"All the better to hear you with."
"My, what big hands you've got."
"All the better to feel you with," replied Mr Wolf, stroking my daughters thighs.
This is when she began to worry and said, "Granny, I'm not lezzing off with you."
Mr Wolf then put his nose to my daughters and licked his lips.
"My, what a big mouth you've got," said Scarlet.
"All the better to eat you with!"
At this point, recounting what had happened, my daughter began to cry and told me he'd eaten her. I told her to be quiet, rest and try to sleep.
The policeman could see the look of worry on my face. My mind had immediately turned to cannibalism.
"Don't worry," said PC Woodman. "It's street talk. The kids, these days say eat me as a euphemism for cunnilingus. Unfortunately, your daughter was sexually assaulted, beaten and raped."
PC Woodman went on to tell me that he'd been passing the cottage on his bicycle when he'd heard screams. He came into my Mother's home to find Mr Wolf raping my daughter. Startled, Mr Wolf took the axe, which my Mother keeps beside her bed in case of intruders and attacked the police officer with it. A fight ensued and in the mêlée, the axe ended up in Mr Wolf's shoulder, disabling him.
My daughter stood and rushed out into the garden.
"Come back!" called PC Woodman.
"I intend to," said my daughter, rummaging through the stones in my Mother's rock garden. She picked up a long stone, similar in size to a housewife's rolling pin and said, "This'll do nicely. See how he likes it."
PC Woodman helped my daughter to hold Mr Wolf down while she inserted the long, slender rock into his bowels, apparently tearing his rectum and going right into his stomach. He was dead within moments.
Scarlet then began calling out for her beloved Granny. She and the policeman heard moans coming from under the floorboards.
"The cellar!" they called out in unison.
My Mother and daughter were taken to hospital and I was called. It was touch and go for a few days, but both pulled through.
Until Scarlet missed her period.
Yes, she was pregnant. That's when it all went a bit tits up. I told her that I would support her in whatever she did and did not sway from this when she told me that she wanted an abortion.
It went horribly wrong - and that's how she ended up in hospital for a second time in as many months. She hemorrhaged, lost loads of blood and was very unwell. A doctor told me she might die.
My Mother and I had made up. I thank my lucky stars that she was there to comfort me.
But Scarlet didn't die. She got well, told Sharon and Tracey to get lost, started going to church and is now engaged to PC Woodman.
My daughter has grown up an awful lot over the past few months. She now tours schools telling children to listen to their Mothers, not to talk to strange men, even when they flirt with you and to steer well clear from the vices of tobacco, drink and drugs. People are not always as they seem.
You'll also be glad to know, dear reader, that they all lived happily ever after.
The countdown to our Japanese holiday begins, dear reader!
Only one week and one day to go!
Eight days from today, we'll be in Copenhagen, en route to Tokyo!
I might have a Danish Pastry!
Click here to read part one, dear reader.
...The policemen kindly took me to the hospital and to my poor daughter. I hardly recognised her bruised and bettered face, but I most certainly recognised that little red riding hood.
"Mum!" she whispered, and began to tell me what happened.
"Ssshhh," I said, all this can wait.
But she persisted.
On her way to Granny's house, in the midst of the wood, she came upon Mr Wolf. After introductions, Mr Wolf asked what a pretty young girl was doing out in the woods on her own.
"You know gay people come here for sex, don't you?" he asked.
"Of course," replied Scarlet. "Some of my best friends are gay. Are you gay?"
"Certainly not! So what are you doing here?"
Scarlet proceeded to tell the shop-keeper that she was on her way to Granny's and pointed to a wee cottage about one hundred yards away.
"Ah, the old drunk!" said Mr Wolf. "How will you get in there? She's bound to be drunk by now."
"Oh, she leaves a key for me under the mat."
"You know, she really likes my hash cakes. Do you want to take her some?"
Thinking mainly of herself, Scarlet accepted Mr Wolf's invitation and, on his command, detoured into the wee village. Armed with his key, she opened the door to his shop, lifted some hash cakes along with two hundred fags and a two litre bottle of tequila.
Meanwhile, Mr Wolf gained entry to my Mother's wee cottage by way of the key under the mat.
"Granny?" he called out.
Already drunk and unable to distinguish a human being from a maggot, my Mother welcomed Mr Wolf with open arms. Within moments, he'd stripped, sexually assaulted, raped and beaten her.
After throwing her into the cellar, he put on her clothing, got into her bed and awaited Scarlet's arrival.
To be continued...
Aren't gay people entitled to the same protection and education from Fire Officers as everyone else, dear reader?
Not according to some firemen in Glasgow. They refused to hand out leaflets during a gay pride march in the city, some citing religious grounds, some claiming it wasn't part of their job.
What next? The alarm goes off at the station. An officer answers the telephone."We have an emergency, for you, Mr Fireman. But don't worry, it's a house in which no gays, blacks, jews, muslims, women or red-haired people live."
"Phew."
It just makes me sick.
Click here for the full story.
Scottish National Party MSP Fergus Ewing said disciplinary action against the men would be "unbelievable."
Minge said, "Anyone voting for this idiot in next year's elections must be out of their minds. He's unbelievable."
I shan't be buying a Fireman calendar ever again. And I'll have no sympathy for them next time they go on strike.
Oh, and check this blog out. It's actually rather good.
My nerves are shattered.
As usual, Sharon and Tracey were causing a scene. They'd come to visit my daughter, Scarlet, in the hospital, with me. I mean, for Christ's sake, she could have been dying. They'd gone out into the corridor and stolen patients' meals from the trolley. Sat at the bottom of Scarlet's bed, they devoured their sausage and mash (with onion gravy) like pigs. Still hungry, they returned to the corridor and raided the trolley once more. They were lucky not to be caught. I told them that they were bad girls (beep beep, toot toot), but, as ever, they ignored me, cramming mashed potato and gravy into their mouths with their bare hands.
Yes, they were lucky. But they were also stupid. Their next stunt was to play the Rolling Stones, at full volume, on Sharon's ghetto blaster.
Security came and threw them out.
When Scarlet woke from the coma, I told her to have nothing to do with Sharon and Tracey ever again. It was having friends like these and their influence which got her into all that trouble in the first place. At least one good thing has come out of all this. Scarlet listens to me now, and pays attention. If only she'd listened to me that fateful morning...
My Mother lived in a small cottage in the woods had been housebound for several years. After being banned from various pubs in the village, she'd taken to drinking at home. Rising at lunch time, by mid-afternoon, she was in a drunken stupor.
She'd ceased cooking for herself (after the chip-pan fire), and probably eating, unless Scarlet was there with her to witness her consuming any food I'd sent over. She refused to allow me into her home as I refused to send her alcohol.
But I couldn't work out why she'd never refused to see Scarlet.
Oh, how, now, I wish I'd sent her some wine, vodka or gin. Because of my blank refusal, she was reliant on Mr Wolf from the village shop to furnish her with booze, at greatly overblown prices. But the question of the price of the booze was the least of her troubles, as it turned out.
Scarlet had known Sharon and Tracey since she started secondary school at the age of eleven. Before that, she'd been a nice girl, always helping me around the house; looking clean, neat and tidy. But that all changed, as I said, six years ago. Sharon and Tracey turned Scarlet into a vain, drug-taking, egotistical, permissive drunk. It began with them braiding her hair and encouraging her to wear make up and ended with them encouraging her to flirt with men she hardly even knew. Sharon and Tracey told my daughter that it was only rape if she said, "No." If she simply said, "Yes," every time, no crime would be committed.
I'll never forget that day. It started, as usual, with me waking at six, preparing breakfast for my daughter and doing the chores around the house. I called Scarlet at eight, knowing full-well that she wouldn't be up for at least another two hours, but call her, I did.
"Please get up! I want you to go round to Granny's with some food and perhaps sweep the stairs before you leave."
Her response?
"Ah, fuck off you miserable old bitch."
I ignored these nasty retorts. It was the drink talking, not my dear daughter.
At about ten o'clock, I could hear stirring up stairs. It would take her at least an hour to get washed, dressed, do her make up and paint her nails. By eleven, I'd done all the chores, got my coat and sat by the back door with my basket, waiting for Scarlet to show her face, so I could remind her to go to her Granny's house before I popped down to the shops. We were right out of Cif and my rubber gloves had a hole in the finger.
She came into the kitchen, stared at me nonchalantly, put one hand on her jutting hip, flicked back her bleached hair and demanded money. I know, I'm a fool, but I gave it to her, with a promise that she would be at Granny's before one o'clock. Any later, and she might be drunk.
"Don't worry," said Scarlet, "she leaves a key for me under the mat."
I'd been gone about three hours. When I returned, I found the carrier-bag of food I'd left for my Mother still on the kitchen table. The doors on my Welsh dresser were wide open. What had she been up to? Three bottles of wine were missing. That bloody bitch! Sharon and Tracey!
I went to hang my coat up and saw my fur coat laid on the floor at the foot of the stairs. At least she had the sense not to wear that. It was given to me when I was sixteen. It was acceptable to wear fur back then. But I did see that my little red riding hood was missing from the coat stand. The cow!
I put the kettle on, sat at the kitchen table and began reading the newspaper, waiting for the water to boil.
A knock at the door...
Two police officers asked me to confirm my name, which I did. They then asked if they could come inside.
"What has she been up to, now?" I asked.
They told me I should sit down. I could feel life draining away from within me. She was dead. I just knew it. I began to cry.
One of the officers put his arm around me and told me that my daughter was in hospital while the other made three cups of tea. Good job I'd just boiled the kettle. But, hey, what cheeky bastards!? They didn't even ask if they could have one themselves, dear reader.
To be continued...
An old man goes to see his Doctor, complaining that he doesn't get the same satisfaction with sex any more.
"How old are you?" asks the Doctor, incredulous.
"Eighty five," replies the old man.
"And how old is your wife?"
"Seventy nine."
"And when did you first notice this?"
The old man scratches his head and responds, "Three times last night and twice this morning."
Hey, lady!
It's Sunday!
That can mean only one thing:
It's Fib Sunday.
If you don't know what's going on or how to play, click here. If you do know what's going on and how to play, let's get stuck in right away.
Last week, the last given topic was Freeview. So, I give:
One
Box:
Channels:
Bounteous.
A cliché, I know -
But there is still nothing to watch.
Next topic: One hit wonders.
Nothing stays the same, does it, dear reader!?
I've just checked with NWA and they confirm that Brian landed at 15:03 local time. He's back in the USA. America never felt so far away.
My good, faithful and long-time friend, Robin is on his way home, too. His plane takes off in a few minutes for Luton Airport. I wonder if he'll see Lorraine Chase?
Before leaving, Tim, Anthony, Phyllis and I went out for a meal with him to the Tusitala Pavilion to say, "Cheerio." It was quite delicious.
Tim and Anthony are off on their holidays to Corsica tomorrow. Of course, on Tuesday week, we're off to Japan.
Everyone's coming and going.
Strangely, before leaving the restaurant, Robin noticed that there were coins in the urinal in the men's toilets. Armed with my trusty camera, I went in to investigate.
Indeed, there the coins were. I waited until the loos were empty and took a photograph. I would have done this before, but might have ended up being arrested.
Why would anyone throw coins into the urinal? A tip for the cleaner? A drunk person mistook it for a one-armed-bandit? Or is it a wee test, to see if we Scots are as mean, tight and mad for money as the wider world believes? So obsessed with cash that we would put our hands into a filthy urinal in order to retreive a few pence?
I'd like to assure you, dear reader. The money is still there. Or, at least, it was when I left.
One last thing, dear reader: it's time for Haiku Saturday. Enjoy.
News from the front:
Our second single is finished! Yay!
Burning Rubber is about sex and travel, Euro style. The b-side is all about being a Gemini.
Click here, dear reader. You know you want to. You can download mp3s and read the, um, imaginative lyrics.
Also, please check out the Rumours Of Whores MySpace site. One of very few that isn't a complete mess.
In fact...
It's fabulous.
Oh, the week in review... It only seems two minutes since I did the last one. Where does all the time go, dear reader?
After a fabulous meal out with Alan, Brian left bonnie Scotland for London. Raquel had a birthday, The Hoff thought it was Christmas, we were glad it was Monday, hats were modelled, Ric compared letters and numbers, Graham brought us The Rose Of Tralee, Kapitano has been getting to know SynthEdit, Harry took a trip to Auld Reekie, Moncrief Speaks gave us Mark (part III), PJS wanted his ninth planet back, Al found it difficult to find an internet café, China revealed her naughty side, Voix told us that she's a really bad Catholic, Phyllis deleted his blog (again) and Zona got all porny.
Seven things on The Fringe...
I've started late this year, dear reader! Yesterday, Robin and I saw:
Last Tuesday
A piece, essentially, about a train crash. What happens when the commuters' routine is derailed by tregedy? Well, not a lot. They were shocked and upset, and expressed that quite well, but the piece lacked structure and cohesion. I'm still baffled as to why and how an injured girl moved about the train, still moving, after it had crashed, and none of the other passengers knew anything had happened to the train. Was it a nod to The Sixth Sense? Were they all dead and didn't know it? Or was there no crash and the girl was a ghost? More questions than answers - and that's where the piece falls down. I can't fault the actors. If only they'd chosen a better (and longer - at only thrity minutes) play to perform.
The "It" Boy
My favourite of the day. An original comic-tragic musical exploring gender and prejudice. Castoffs Youth Theatre Group really excelled an this camp and hilarious vocal masterpiece. Straight boy likes to dress up as a girl. Friends find out. Friends (and girlfriend) drop cross-dresser. Spooks from his mirror come to his aid. Boy saves someone's life. Girlfriend makes up with cross-dresser.
My favourite spook was the hijra, Zarri Banoo. The actor is an icon in the making.
Now, if only John Waters could get hold of this and turn it into a movie...
I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change!
This could have been fabulous. There were some really touching moments, songs sung beautifully, very well acted, constructed quite professionally and the music was to die for. BUT. The venue was terrible. All the seating was on one level and the stage was low. Unless the actors were stood up (and they spent the majority of the time sat on a bench), I could see nothing among a sea of heads. And the seats were hard and uncomfortable. Oh, and someone sat near me kept doing really stinky silent farts. Gross.
One Night At The Caravan Club
We met Gerry, something of a cross between Quentin Crisp and Kenneth Williams, telling his life story through recollection, a rummage through his suitcase and songs.
Quite beautiful, funny and bitter-sweet. He had me whisper in his ear that I loved him. Other members of the audience were taught how to act queer, go cottaging and how to dance with another man.
--
We have three other things to see today, fitting in with my theme of seven. Phew. We start the day quite late, at 1800, with:
Miss Dis'Grace/Diamond Johnny
Grace sacrificed the one thing she inherited - Toni's drag act. Six years later, their son wishes she hadn't.
Then, later:
Murder At The Savoy
A classic whodunnit with song.
Hey Diddle Diddle...
An enchanting new musical dealing with the complexities of living in a world where dreams come true with consequences and cows get lost beyond the moon.
We're in for a fun-filled day, dear reader.
The last seven songs, according to iTunes, that I've played:
Schizophrenic - Rumours Of Whores
Burning Rubber - Rumours Of Whores
Burning Rubber [Dolly Mix] - Rumours Of Whores
Come (And Be A Lesbian) - Rumours Of Whores
So Excited (I Could Vomit) [80s Techno Remix] - Rumours Of Whores
So Excited (I Could Vomit) [Dirty Bitch Radio Edit] - Rumours Of Whores
Disremembrance - Dannii Minogue
Seven items of clothing I'm wearing today:
Gap khakis
Gap polo shirt
2 x M&S brown socks
Next belt
Gap boxer-briefs (size: medium - colour: blue)
H&M green cap
Seven ingredients I like cooking with (though not necessarily in the same dish):
Cream
Eggs
Flour
Vanilla
Chocolate
Asparagus
Artichokes
Seven people I'd like to meet:
Margaret Thatcher
Tony Benn
George Clooney
Huw Edwards
Moira Stuart
Liza Minnelli
Michael Carson
Seven questions:
Whatever happened to Liz Taylor?
Why is television news obsessed with sport?
Why are Britons so against immigration?
Why can't Pluto be a planet?
Why don't I trust the police?
Why do Catholic Priests love young boys?
Why does no-one tell Margaret Beckett that she looks a mess?
What do you suppose is in store for us next week, dear reader?
Somehow. Someday. Somewhere.
Click on the photo. Or here.
Scottish nutjob Rev George Hargreaves has unsuccessfully run for election for parliament, Scottish parliament and European parliament, and his party, the Scottish Christian Party, claiming Christ's Lordship, is fielding candidates in every seat in next year's Scottish elections.How can he afford this?Well, the Rev used to be called George Jackman, and he wrote the gay anthem So Macho for Sinitta, which sold more than a million copies in 1985 and still generates more than ten grand in royalties every month.His political party opposes abortion, euthanasia and embryo research as well as backing anti-abortion pressure group UK Life League, which stages frightening protests outside family planning clinics across Britain.
There's only one thing to do, dear reader: get every TV station and radio station to stop playing the record and 80s compilation albums to stop including it.
What a vile wee man.
Which gay actor was seen enjoying himself in another country last weekend?The star was in the darkroom of hip Berlin fetish bar Mutschmann's, getting fisted according to an onlooker, "by a Spanish-looking guy in his mid-thirties".
FYI: God loves fisting.
Really, dear reader, it's true.
Phyllis and I shall be returning to Japan for a third time next Spring, dear reader.
My clever beau entered a competition in the Metro newspaper a wee while back, launched to publicise Film Four going free-to-air. The first free film they were showing was Lost In Translation, so the prize was a holiday, an homage, if you like, to the film.
We fly direct from London, get to stay in a swanky hotel in Tokyo for five nights and do all the things of note that the lead characters did: the restaurant, the nightclub, the karaoke...! We also get ¥40,000.00 spending money!
I'm so excited, I could vomit.
One thing I'm really excited to see agian, and our second trip to Japan is only a couple of weeks away, is Japanese pet dogs dressed up like dolls. Click here to see some fashions for your pooch.
According to the Celtic Zodiac, I am a Hawthorn.
What are you, dear reader?
Click here to find out.
I'm just in, dear reader, from an afternoon on the fringe. Well, I say an afternoon, I only saw one thing... I met up with my old friend Robin in the city centre and two of his pals, Colin and André. Robin will be staying with me here in Edinburgh until the end of the week. We had a bite to eat; cake for me, salads for the others. Health freaks...!? From there, we made our way to the new town to see Ketzal.
To say it was bizarre would be an understatement. I've been trying to make sense of it, but so far, I cannot.
One could look at it two ways:
1) A bunch of Russians writhe and leap around, sometimes barely clothed, other times in strange costumes. Because they call it art, it is art, and all of life is art, right?
2) A bunch of Russians present a dance as a metephor for life, eveolution and the understanding of onesself as a being and as a species.
The audience is asked, I believe to forget all that it brought into the studio: mind body and spirit and view the piece with no preconceived ideas. Forget what's normal, what's abnormal. See life forms develop, change, become self aware, commit crimes, feel guilt, reproduce, experience jealousy and loss, from birth to death, from ameba to human being.
It really was, however one perceives it, quite fabulous.
I enjoyed the references to crucifiction, paganism, rape and motherhood. I whooped as the chicken like creature, after raping the flower, began to discard its feathers. I collected one at the end of the performance as a momento. Another highlight was the aqua-finale! The stage area was lowermost to the audience and made up of a large rubber sheet with a raised rim. I simply assumed the rim was to remind the dancers of their boundary. It was not. The final scene involved the players tipping over tanks of water into the stage area, vigourously splashing the audience and aquaplaning. Quite fabulous, eding with a beautiful sunset; a large red semi circle raised at the back of the stage and reflecting in the water.
I really enjoyed the music: flower-power meets trance with Russian folk music and Tchaikovsky style peices thrown in for good measure.
I don't think I'll ever really understand what was going on or what it was all about, but watching the piece and attempting to work it out made for quite a thrilling time.
I'm still missing Brian, but spending time with Robin helped to lift my spirits. He'll be in London, now, having the time of his life. And buying more books, no doubt. I feel like a wee bird who's let its chick out to fly. Something akin to Ketzal, I suppose: change, stability, new things and old.
The more I think about the piece, the more I realise this:
One doesn't have to understand everything one sees, but one should at least try, and in an attempt to understand that which one is privy to, one might understand oneself better and appreciate better the things one does understand, the things one has, the things one has lost and the things one has gained. One cannot be stripped of everything. One will always have ones memories.
I treasure my memories - and my memories of Brian's trip here are the gold coins and diamonds in my treasure chest of recollections. They are some of the souvenirs I shall cherish most chiefly until the end of my days.
Want to hear a bunch of Radio 4 presenters and news readers saying, "Crap," dear reader?
Then click here.
Go on, you know you want to.
The story stems from the revelation that our fabulous Deputy PM thinks that George W Bush and his foreign policy are crap. Wo! That's certainly the pot calling the kettle black. When will this idiot resign or get the sack?
Brian left for London this morning. I'm sure he's having a splendid time, and you can, dear reader, keep up to date with his comings and goings on his fabulous blog, Destination Scotland.
How can I explain how I feel? Not sure that I can. I don't feel like someone's died. I know I'll see Brian again. And I think of songs by The Three Degrees and Noel Coward when I type that... No, not a death, but how someone might have felt if someone close to them had emigrated to another continent a century or two ago, long before jet aircraft were ever thought of; both parties wondering when they'll ever see one another again, or indeed, if. But I'm just not thinking the if part.
It was a really sunny morning as Brian's train pulled out of Edinburgh Waverley, and, just as in Christian tradition, on the death of that particular chapter, the skies darkened...
I was very sad indeed.
I then bought myself an almond croissant, a double espresso and ate them en route to Princes Street Gardens. After that, I made my way to the galleries on the mound. Sadly, they didn't open until ten, so I hit the shops, returning to the Royal Scottish Academy around eleven. I paid six pounds to see an exhibition of works by Ron Mueck. I was going to be clever, here, photograph my ticket and upload it within this post, but I can't find the damned thing.
I left it on the kitchen table. Honest.
The tidying up fairy must have been here agian.
The exhibition was beyond fabulous. I adored the man in the boat, having seen him before. New to me were the giant baby and giant woman in bed. I can't say I could appreciate the wild man. Philistine. Check out the Washington Post Gallery - here.
I came home, uploaded my photographs from my camera to the computer, called Blueyonder about my bloody email, did some washing and fell asleep in front of the televison. Later, we ate, Phyllis had a bath and went to bed. And here I am.
I would say my life's returned to boring mode, but not just yet. My good pal Robin is coming up tomorrow for a few days to enjoy the Fringe. I'm looking forward to seeing him. He'll cheer me up.
I must also mention yesterday and how I enjoyed it, trawling the streets of the capital, visiting a museum, some shops and taking a bus tour of the city. It's a day I won't forget and I have Brian to thank for that. He's a fabulous friend. If only he lived nearer. We ended the day in a Chinese restaurant on Castle Street with Phyllis and Rita. What a laugh we had. Read all about it, here.
In other news:
We've received a cease and desist notice from the original Chip Shop Boys' lawyers, hence a third name change in as many weeks. We're now officially Rumours Of Whores. I promise, we won't rechristen ourselves again. Ever.
Watch this space for some exciting Rumours Of Whores news coming up very soon, dear fan.
Also, my iPod is playing up. It's not importing songs from iTunes and I'm teetering on the edge of sanity over it.
And I could do with a fag.
Pft.
I had eighty five emails in my inbox when I last looked. But not one of them I could see. And my mail program refused to download them.
So I called Blueyonder. I was inter-bouncing, apparently. And seemingly, all because my brother had sent some rather large files via email, through my email account, on Saturday. They were too big for him to download, so bounced back to me, and also being too large for me to download (and so many of them!), they've fucked my inbox.
So I just spoke to a rather nice man on the helpdesk. He told me the only way that this can be sorted is if he deletes all the emails waiting for me to download. And while speaking to him, this went up from eighty five to eighty six.
He said he'll send me a confirmation email when all's well, and in his words, "In the next five minutes." That was a quarter of an hour ago. I'm starting to worry.
So, dear reader, if you've emailed me any time after Saturday morning, I haven't received it. Please resend! But perhaps wait a while. I've still not got that bloody confirmation email from Fraser. Yes, by the end of our conversation, we were on first name terms.
I'd rather have not known him at all and got all my emails.
Pft.
This is Brian's last full day in Edinburgh. So much has been going on that I've not been able to sit back and digest the time I've spent with him. It's all been so wonderful, he's been such a joy to hang out with, and now it's all coming to a close without me being able to prepare for it.
I can't believe I've just said hanging out. Those Yanks certainly rub off on wee Minge!
My brother, after chaning his plans several times (without telling me), came up with his wife, child and sister-in-law on Friday. It was quite stressful, but would have been even worse without Brian and Ian's calming influences. My brother, although I love him dearly, has no sense of planning or organisation at all and has a very short fuse. I'd better say no more on the matter or this might turn into a rant.
Brian returned to Edinburgh himself on Saturday and I was so pleased to see my wean.
My brother's sister-in-law was desperate to see Edinburgh's nightlife and so I accompanied them into the city on Saturday night. Brian and Ian graciously looked after their wee bairn while we went on a pub crawl. I felt terrible enough about this as it was. Can you imagine how awful I felt when we returned to find the child had plagued them with an eveing of ugly drama? Isabella vomited on Brian, soaking him from head to toe with baby spew. And we're talking projectile vomiting, here.
I just didn't know what to say, and still don't. I can find no words to express my shame, guilt and remorse.
I accompanied Brian to the Book Festival yesterday and we had a fine old time. We then went for lunch and met up with Ian. The two of them then went on to the Castle and I returned home to let the dogs out for a tiddle. I then returned to the city myself in the early evening after Brian's visit to one of Edinburgh's historical attractions. We went to a New York/Italian restaurant, stuffed our faces and then came home, early(ish) to bed...
And now today.
We've just come back from a visit to a wee chapel just outisde of Edinburgh. Ian and Brian have gone into town and I'm here blogging. I'm just about to make the bed in which my brother and his wife slept last night, them having left this morning. Brian will have his own room again tonight after having slept in with us last night. I hope my snoring didn't keep him awake! I'm off to the dentist now and then will meet up with my buddies after that torturous experience. In a reversal of yesterday's activities, Ian will then return home for a while so the dogs aren't too long without toilet time and then he'll meet up with us again later. We're hoping Alan will make it into the city and come out for a meal with us.
This evening, we're planning on watching Beautiful Thing. It's one of my favourite films of all time and I'm longing to share it with Brian.
Then, off to bed we'll go, the morning will come and Brian will be gone.
I'm very sad about that, dear reader, more sad than perhaps I should say. I wish he could stay a bit longer, perhaps ten or twenty years. Or longer.
Oh, and please excuse my vagueness about his movements. I'm aware that this holiday is very special for him and don't want to steal his thunder by trying to write about his experiences myself, especially before they appear on his blog - Destination Scotland.
XWiz and I are, at this very moment, dear reader, working on a song. I can exclusively reveal, here and now, that it's a euro-pop disco stomper called Burning rubber.
But, Houston, we have a problem:
Neither XWiz nor I know how to pronounce Lo sposerete. It's Italian.
We're guessing it's low sposs urh aytay.
Help! If you can speak Italian, dear reader, or at least advise us on pronunciation, please help us out in the comments section. We'll be very grateful, I can tell you.
Money's short and time is tight, dear reader...
Brian came back. Phew. He's ok.
My brother and his entourage turned up. They've gone to Inverness for the day. Phew.
Yesterday was Haiku Saturday. It's still not too late to play.
Today is Sunday, Fib Sunday. Click here for the rules.
Juggerpix left us, last week, with the topic of cartoons. My response:
Tom
And
Jerry
Always fought
I'd have spent more time
With that lovely woman's black legs
Next topic: online.
Does anyone still wear a hat?
It's been some week, dear reader!
Alan has announced his tour of planet Earth, Raquel has buggered off, it rained at sea, we were taken on a tour of West-central Minnesota (but Reese stole the show), David found he was most like JFK, Ric celebrated, the ever fabulous Brian came to see me, Coffee was sorry, Hildert started posting again, we saw "Graham - The Motion Picture", people were shot, Dino won a prize, I met Lodestone across a crowded blog, Brett went back to the lake, PJS went to see Condi, Amy had an operation (fingers still crossed), we found out that some lizards don't do poos, Al asked that we don't forget about him, we ogled hot priests, I found an interesting food blog, China Blue wondered if anyone had seen her pussy, Michèle's blog went away and came back, it was Fib Sunday, Haiku Saturday and Half Naked Tuesday!
The seven most recent songs I've played, according to iTunes, are:
Run girl, run - Billie Trix
Try it (I'm in love with a married man) - Oh Romeo
I'm so excited (I could vomit) [XWiz dirty bitch radio edit] - Chip Shop Boys
Come (and be a lesbian) [Original version] - Chip Shop Boys
I'm so excited (I could vomit) [Ambient techno remix] - Chip Shop Boys
I love men - Eartha Kitt
Some day I'll find you - Shola Ama/Craig Armstrong
The seven deadly sins are:
Lust
Gluttony
Greed/Avarice
Sloth
Wrath
Envy
and
Pride
Seven long words:
pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism
spectrophotofluorometrically
hepaticocholangiogastrostomy
psychoneuroendocrinological
radioimmunoelectrophoresis
pneumoencephalographically
thyroparathyroidectomized
Seven countries I've visited on holiday:
Portugal
Italy
USA
Canada
Japan
Tunisia
Israel
Seven facts about the number 7:
God rested on the seventh day
Seven comes after six and before eight
7 is arabic in origin
There are seven days in a week
Howard Keel starred in Seven Brides For Seven Brothers
The term seventh heaven comes from the number of heavens in Islamic tradition
The beast in the book of Revelation has seven heads
I have had many pets. Seven of them were:
Rexy
Smudgy
Whisky
Brandy
Billie
Honey
Patsy
What will next week be like, dear reader? Can anyone predict?
XWiz and I are pleased to exclusively reveal the artwork for So excited (I could vomit):
Oh, and remember, fans, the tracks can still be downloaded from the official Chip Shop Boys website.
Notice that it's not actually XWiz and I on the cover of the CD. We are shy and find blatant self promotion quite vulgar.
After a bit of telly, I carried on with my scarf. I'm quite pleased with it, though haven't got as much length as I would have hoped (the story of my life). The gold thread must weigh heavier than the reg and green, as I ran out of gold long before the red was used up. When the gold was done, I started on the green. When I'm done with the green, I shall have to go out and buy another ball of wool and another ball of gold thread. I'd like the end product to be at least a third longer than it will be if I simply stop when the green runs out.
