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British soldiers try not to slip on the cobbles near Edinburgh Castle. The contract to make kilts for the new Royal Regiment of Scotland has been awarded to Scottish firms.
Click here for the full story.
Isn't it a fabulous photograph, dear reader? Click here to see from where I lifted it.
The fabulous author of Moncrief Speaks recently downloaded Dionne Warwick's Heartbreaker and provides his Heartbreaker story. He askes his readership to provide their Heartbreaker stories in return.
I was about nine or ten years old when Heartbreaker was a hit in the UK. I recall it being practically omnipresent. Wherever there was a television or radio, the song could be heard without much of a wait. However, my Father had just walked out on us in 1981. Without money for a television licence, there was no television at home. Well, the television was there. It was just never switched on. In fact, Mum cut the plug off from the flex with pinking shears.
Television was freely available to watch in the house next door. Audrey and Ray had an adult son with Down's Syndrome. He loved pop music and children's television programmes. Audrey invited me in to her home to watch television with her son, Paul. If there was nothing much on to watch, he'd have me read his Look-in Magazine to him or we'd play records on the family record player; part of a posh hi-fi system bought in Westbourne. Something I could only dream of.
Audrey would often tire of listening to the latest pop songs and spin one of her 45s for a break in the constant disco beat Paul and I adored. Barbra Streisand was the usual interruption. Or Barry Manilow (we loved Copacabana). However, this time, Babs and Barry were set aside for Dionne. I remember being sat there, listening to it; Audrey, stood, shoulders swaying left and right. She was smiling broadly. When it was finished, she caught me picking my nose. I was an avid nose-picker back then, dear reader.
"All you do is pick your nose," she said.
I went to her toilet and wiped the bogie on some toilet paper.
I hated her toilet. It always stank of shit and farts. And the bowl was really deep. Deeper than our toilet. Also, the tank was high on the wall with a chain to pull, not low-rise, like our cistern. Audrey's toilet made an awful noise on flushing of which I was scared. I'd open the door, hold the handle on the chain, move as close to the door-way as I could with the handle in my hand, pull and run!
When I came back into the living room, she was queueing up Heartbreaker for a second play. Paul got aggitated half-way through, so she took it off. He would snort, blink and say, "No!" rather loudly.
Paul put his Blondie album back on and we were all happy again. Well, Audrey wasn't. She hated Blondie. Like most people she confused the name of the band with the name of the lead singer. I told her that the singer's name was Debbie Harry. Audrey was sweet, though old-fashioned and didn't take too well to being given information by a child.
"Time for Little House On The Prairie," she said as she switched off the turn-table, Debbie's vocal suddenly getting deep and slurred.
Only queens have umbrellas to match their coats.
News just in...! I have a Chris Hollins update, an email from Tim Hodges
Dear Roy,Thank you for your email. Unfortunately I don't think this particular item is available to watch again. But there is some more information about british cycling athttp://www.britishcycling.org.uk/web/site/BC/bchome/home.aspKind regards,Tim Hodges BBC BreakfastAt least someone took the time to reply to me, even if it was news I didn't want to hear.
For more from Chris, check out this news story: Guide Dog Of The Year 2007. There's a cute photograph of Chris with a puppy.
20 year-old Briceson Bryan from Minnesota has been arrested for stealing a statue of the Virgin Mary from a cemetery and painting it to look like a clown.
You've got to laugh, dear reader.
I've just been searching for pictures of Heather Mills-McCartney for my Leggy! post. I came upon this, a scan of the UK's most read newspaper, The Sun.
This newspaper, the moral voice of the people, standing up for the decent folk of this country, exposes Heather for doing the nasty on film. Dreadful! Tsk! Boo!
Turn to page three of the Sun and one can see a nice lady with her Möpse out. Further on in the publication, one can find adverts for pornography and telephone-sex-lines.
Hypocrite, anyone?
Praise Jesus!
The spectacle of Lady Mucca, amputee, activist, career girl (ahem) and estranged wife of Sir Paul McCartney, shaking a (prosthetic) leg on the USA television show Dancing with the Stars is shaping up to be the American TV hit of the spring.
Nearly 22 million Americans tuned in to watch Mills make a fool of herself. Yes, her wig fell off and her leg fell off along with her kinky boots.
Merle Oberon declined to comment. She's dead.
Bruno Tonioli thinks Heather's nuts. "You're nuts," he said.
Paul's not been watching. Stella has, though. Apparently, she's destroyed seventeen television sets (posh ones, too) by throwing bricks at them.
Tom Bergeron stole said leg after Heather's performance and is now selling it on ebay along with some of Britney's hair (though not hair from her head). He found it in her private portaloo while cleaning. TV doesn't pay so well, dear reader. Heather is very upset and dials 911 every thirty seconds claiming death threats. The police are considering turning her fantasies into reality.
Heather brings out her first studio album next month. It's called Dancing The Hop, so titled after Tom asked Dancing with the Stars producers what Heather could possibly do on the show.
The first single was going to be a cover of Sally Shapiro's I'll be by your side. However, this was recorded before Paul found out Heather was a hooker and fantasist. Watch this space for news of Heather's new single. Soon.
Lord above us! Last night, I decided to have a look at Statcounter to see who had been looking at my blog, what they were looking for and how they got there.
I was appalled!
It seems that the human race is obsessed with sexual deviation! No, really! Readers were enquiring about John Barrowman and his penis, more keenly, asking if it's circumcised or not. Also, lesbians from Cumnock, Minge, Gaydar opening a bar on Frith Street and a general enquiry about a woman paying her nephew to do unspeakable things to her genitals!
Exciting! Nice to indulge in incest.
Is nothing sacred?
Our last full day on the South coast of England meant a trip to historic Portsmouth and the quite futuristic Spinnaker Tower. Avid readers may recall my first trip to said attraction, before Christmas, with Kapitano. Contacting him was problematic. My telephone has a mind of its own. Sometimes it chooses to communicate (with me and with others) and sometimes it does not. Sometimes it changes its mind in the throws of conversation.
The above image was not taken by me. I pinched it from Wikipedia. Although glorious, it's clearly taken by a drunk person. This is Portsmouth, dear reader, not Pisa.
We drove in to Portsmouth from our base in Bournemouth, Mum's house. It didn't take us long to get to the edge of the city, but from that point to the harbour must have taken forty five minutes to an hour, doubling our journey time.
Our first port of call, a delicious little eaterie for lunch!
I say delicious. Although the food was certainly that, it was one of these chain establishments that sets itself up as something unique and authentically this, that and the other. Of course, the only thing it is, is authentically plastic, but that didn't really bother me. I was so damned hungry!
Someone was having a birthday. Not us, sadly. I like birthdays. It's just the growing older I can't stomach.
After lunch, a trip up Spinnaker Tower. Here we are on the first level...
...with a glass floor! Look at that child! Is he brave or mad?
And what about this gorgeous hunk? Again, brave or mad? Mad, I'd say!
Actually, hold that. How about absolutely insane?
Mum managed to hang on to her sanity and kept as far away from the glass floor as she could. Wise decisison.
Next, a trip to the highest level of the tower, the crow's nest.
The view wasn't that much different from the lower levels, but worth it nonetheless, if only to know one had been there.
And then back down to collect Mum, still in her chair, kindly lent to her by the staff at the naff gift shop.
Back on solid ground and outside. Time for an arty shot.
This shop provided a Serial Mom moment. I really had no idea Liz Claiborne existed and, on seeing this shop, I nearly fell off the world.
There's a new(ish) development of shops and housing around the harbour and tower. It's quite fabulous, actually.
Oh, and there's a webcam of note, too. I wondered if it was live at all, or even if the pictures were moving, then, phew, I saw a bird flying around the harbour and someone walking near Spinnaker Tower.
Human beings don't and can't have a monopoly on fun. My wee daughters love a walk and they love a trip to the seaside. So we went to Southsea beach and common.
"Hurrah!" said Meg, "I love it here. Let me hug you."
Mary loves to give a hug, too.
Just along from the castle, I'm reminded of home. The criss cross of aeroplane trails creates a saltire in the sky, the flag of Scotland.
Mum's legs, hips and back are in a very poor state. She stayed in the car while Ian and I walked the pups. On our return, I rewarded her with an ice-cream. She shouldn't really have it being diabetic, but, in her words, a little treat now and again doesn't hurt.
As the sun sank lower in the sky, we decided it was time to drive off.
But not before I'd had a chance to photograph these mental kite fliers.
I'd been looking through old photographs on iPhoto when I came across the above image, dear reader.
I don't seem to have many photographs of Ian and I. I'm either taking a picture of him or he's taking a picture of me. The photographs of him and I together are few and far between, the good ones, even fewer. But this photograph is one of the few that I have that's both good and of Ian and I. Even though I look slightly insane (which I am).
I am very lucky to have Ian in my life. He's the most thoughtful, kind, considerate, loving, supportive, generous, funny, witty, gorgeous and surprising man. And he's beautiful on so many levels. I love him with all my heart and all my soul. Even better than that, he loves me. He's just too good to be true.
Sometimes, when I think about my baby, I ascend into such a state of euphoria, I genuinely believe I'm tripping. My heart starts missing a beat.
Without trying to sound smug, I'm truly confident that my days on this earth will end with Ian. I've never been sure about much in life, but I'm sure about that. What a wonderful sense of security. He's like a beautiful, warm duvet that I can snuggle into and know it's never going to be taken away from me. No, no, never.
So, you should have filled the sick bucket by now... Sorry!
I'd like to share with you, my little maid, three songs which I associate with Ian:
Embraceable you
Dream a little dream of me
and
Lose your way
Each one has a very deep meaning for me.
Which songs do you associate, my lamb, with boyfriends and/or girlfriends, past and present?
Who are you?
Billie Trix.
The phone rings. Who do you want it to be?
My dealer.
When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
Shopping? Grocery store? Cart?
In a social setting, are you more a talker or listener?
That depends, darling, if I've taken uppers or downers.
Do you play Soduku?
The Japanese are kinky. I thought I was kinky, but not as kinky as them.
If abandoned in the wilderness, would you survive?
I taught Lulu how to spear fish! Of course I would fucking survive!
Do you like to ride horses?
I've done a lot of things I should be ashamed of, yes.
Did you ever go to camp as a kid?
I was bor after the bloody war, darling!
Could you date someone with different religious beliefs than you?
I've been on dates with Prince Charles, John Paul II, Charlton Heston, The Dalai Lama, Ross Kemp, Ozzy Osbourne and Sharon Osbourne. Does that answer your question?
Do any songs make you cry?
My biggest hit: Run, girl, run.
Are you continuing your education?
I'm always learning new ways to get off, darling.
Do you know how to shoot a gun?
Peace comes fromt the barrel of one, darling.
If your house was on fire, what would be the first thing that you'd grab?
My bottle of Mao Tse-tung's urine. He gave it to me when I was his lover in the 1970s. It was the only thing I could get to come out of his tiny penis, darling. I've kept it since 1975.
Do you think more about the past, present of the future?
I can't remember much of the 1960s. I know it's a cliché, but I can't, darling. The 70s, yes, but hazy. I have no idea what's going on now. So it must be the fucking future. I predict a new world order. A thousand flowers will bloom where I fall!
What was your favourite children's book?
The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelly.
What colour are your eyes?
Bloodshot.
How tall are you?
1.91 metres. 1.82 metres when not in heels.
Where is your ideal house located?
In San Francisco, darling! All my friends are there, the vile, the beautiful, the erotic, the well-read, the eccentric. And the comatose.
Have you ever taken pictures in a photo-booth?
My photographer is always messing about in my box.
When was the last time you were at Olive Garden?
I haven't seen her in years.
Where was the farthest place you've travelled?
Vietnam. It was a blast.
Do you like mustard?
I'm not into any form of gas.
Do you prefer to sleep or eat?
Neither! At table, séance, in bed, fucking!
Do you look like your mom or dad?
I don't know what dad looks like. Mom didn't know either.
How long does it take you in the shower?
To do what, darling?
Can you do the splits?
Yes, though I must remember to wear my knickers. Yes, like suction cups on a polished marble floor. You get the fucking picture.
What did you do for New Year?
I was over at George W Bush's place. Don't tell anyone. It was always my fantasy to suck off a President. I gave him one of Opa's old oil fields. He was putty in my hands after that. He said he'd give me the moon and stars if I would be his wife. I asked him, then, about Laura. He told me she was a frigid lesbian. At least I'm not frigid.
Do you think The Grudge was scary?
My grudge? Certainly! I could scare Brezhnev, darling!
Do you own a camera-phone?
I own everything, darling!
Was your mom a cheerleader?
Mom loved balls. Mom loved men. Yes.
What's the last letter of your middle name?
You're confusing me.
How many hours of sleep do you get a night?
A night? You mean, you think I sleep at night time? Not during the day? Shut up!
Do you like the Care Bears?
I think so, though I don't think I've ever voted for them.
What do you buy at the movies?
Condoms, lubricant. You know.
Do you know how to play poker?
Poke what? Oh, that? Sure!
Do you wear your seat belt?
Yes, shame Princess Diana never listened to me. Her driver did. He wanted two hundred dollars worth.
What do you wear to sleep?
A little blusher and perhaps some mascara. Oh, lipstick and foundation, too. I'm into mousse these days. It's so light on the skin, I hardly know I'm wearing it!
Anything big ever happen in your home town?
Sure, I was born, darling!
How many meals do you eat a day?
Meals? Eat?
Is your tongue pierced?
Everything has something in it, darling!
Do you always read MySpace bulletins?
And this means...? Nein, Schatz.
Do you like funny or serious people better?
London.
Ever been to LA?
I live there, you stupid man/woman/thing!
Did you eat a cookie today?
What's with this eat thing? Stop it!
Do you use cuss words in other languages?
Fotze!
Do you steal or pay for your music downloads?
Yes!
Do you hate chocolate?
I have no fucking idea who she is. Does she sing or is she a designer? If she's into me, she's fabulous.
What do you and your parents fight about the most?
We don't fight. Mutter ist tot. She was on a day-trip to Chernobyl.
If you could have any job, what would it be?
Rent boy.
Are you easy to get along with?
Yes, I am easy.
What is your favourite time of day?
What is this obsession with daytime? I hate it! Fuck daylight! I want the night!
This meme is pinched from Moncrief Speaks. Click here to read the original.
Now YOU are tagged. Yes, you!
Phyllis and I took a trip into the city centre yesterday. I needed to have my spectacles repaired by the idiots at Vision Express, to send some things off from the Post Office and to buy a sheet.
We arrived on Princes Street at lunch time and headed for Prêt à Manger. We like it there because it's usually chav-free. They're intimidated by things like crayfish, rocket and wasabi.
The lunch itself was nothing out of the ordinary, but the conversation was! Sadly, not my conversation, but this immoral bint who was sat next to me!
If there were such a thing as an Overheard In Edinburgh website, I'd report what I'd heard. The dirty madam. They were dropping Es like smarties. She'd got off with both her boyfriend's parents. One morning, after getting drunk, she woke up spooning with her friend's bloke. He was hard and his todger was in-between the cheeks of her botty. So she spat on her hand and let him in...! She'd used a champagne bottle on herself in a nightclub, right in the middle of the dancefloor. Her landlord had caught her wanking. She knew he was looking so carried on regardless, just for the thrill. She'd found a pound coin in her knickers and had no idea how it got there. Last night, she'd met this bloke after fighting over the same taxi. His cock was so massive, it wouldn't fit in her fanny, so they had a bit of anal instead.
Really.
At least she wasn't boring.
To have such a conversation is one thing, but to conduct it at a volume where everyone around can hear, well, it's a disgrace! Ian thinks they were just out to shock. If they were, they succeeded. Not with me, I was just appalled. But some of the other people in the vicinity must have brought their lunch up.
It seems I missed out on a rare treat this morning. I was contacted by reader Lee Darby who informed me that while I was sound asleep, the delicious Chris Hollins was featured on BBC Breakfast News wearing a skimpy lycra cycling outfit, leaving not much to the imagination.
I checked out what had been going on by clicking my way onto the BBC Breakfast News website. There's a little bit of info on Chris' meeting with some cyclist. Bleary-eyed, I first thought he'd been cycling with Victoria Beckham. Sadly (or thankfully?) it was not, but someone called Victoria Pendleton. She's a lucky bitch. I bet she had to scrape herself off of the saddle after chatting with Chris in his dreamily exposing get-up.
I sent an email to the show asking if they've uploaded the footage anywhere. I've not had a reply. I don't suppose I ever will.
He might not be in lycra, but you can see Chris on the job, so to speak, by clicking here. Warning: the word climax is used.
William Barnes is one of my favourite poets of all time, perhaps my absolute favourite.This, dear reader, is My Orcha’d In Linden Lea:
‘Ithin the woodlands, flow’ry gleaded,By the woak tree’s mossy moot,The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,Now do quiver under voot;An’ birds do whissle over head,An’ water’s bubblen in its bed,An’ there vor me the apple treeDo lean down low in Linden Lea.When leaves that leately wer a-springenNow do feade ‘ithin the copse,An’ painted birds do hush their zingenUp upon the timber’s tops;An’ brown-leav’d fruit’s a-turnen red,In cloudless zunsheen, over head,Wi’ fruit vor me, the apple treeDo lean down low in Linden Lea.Let other vo’k meake money vasterIn the air o’ dark-room’d towns,I don’t dread a peevish measter;Though noo man do heed my frowns,I be free to goo abrode,Or teake agean my hwomeward roadTo where, vor me, the apple treeDo lean down low in Linden Lea.
It's so beautiful, so evocative. When reading it, I can feel the sun beating down on my face, the rustle of the green leaves in the canopy and the twittering birds overhead. I feel like I'm in heaven.
Though I've never spoken the Wessex/Dorset dialect, I did, at one time, speak with a Dorset accent. Hearing or reading such things as My Orcha’d In Linden Lea reminds me, not specifically of another place, but of happy times, carefree and without responsibility. Again, heaven.
Click here, here and here for some interesting articles about William, Dorset voices and UK dialects and accents.
These three ladies, dear reader, are (l-r) Lil, Pat and my Mum. The three of them are firm friends and have been for very many years.
Push, push in the bush.
I often try to work out how their relationships work, what keeps them together, why they're so solid, how they resolve their differences and who's the leader of the gang.
I finally worked out, when down in England last, that my Mum's the leader. How did I work this out? With my Mum saying, "I'm not calling her. She knows where I am..."
There's confidence for you. The leader making her minions sweat. It would be scary, horrid, even, if Mum was conceited about it, if she had a plan or if, dare I say it, she had some kind of personality disorder where she'd only have friends if they were afraid of her. But none of these things can be applied here.
I think, with age and experience, we all realise that constant intervention and rôle playing is not conducive to a good relationship. Things either happen or they don't. People gel or they don't. Fretting and fiddling with the minutiae will have no lasting impact on the greater outcome, that being the friendship and its ability and capacity to last.
One thing, I think, that does keep the three of them together is not a huge list of similarities between them but their differences. They each come from similar socio-economic backgrounds, but the things that really count amidst our human relationships are as different as they could be.
Easygoing types and those seeking an easy life know to always avoid the topics of politics and religion in conversation. Mum and her two friends seem to talk about nothing else. Things get heated, but they never fall out. And the three of them couldn't be more different. Lil's an atheist, Pat's a Roman Catholic and Mum refuses to be labelled. Lil's an extreme left-winger, almost communist, Mum's sometimes so right wing that she scares me (but then she'll come out with something vaguely Marxist) and Pat has no political convictions whatsoever. No topic is ever taboo and no-one ever falls out.
I sometimes think that their relationship is perfect. They don't even have to bother with the hassle of sex.
The proof of the pudding is in the eating - and they've been eating from the same bowl for very many years.
