Gone

Excited

I'm so excited, I could vomit, dear reader!

Yesterday, Phyllis and I shopped until we dropped. Shirts, polo tops, trousers, shorts - and a camera (early birthday present)! With only a few more things to buy, I think we can start packing tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Then we shall be ready for the off. The land of the rising sun awaits.

This trip is less a holiday, more a metamorphosis. On leaving the UK, I shall be twenty eight years old. On my return, I shall be twenty seven! On leaving the UK, my bathroom with be vile with dusky pink hues. On my return, it will be white with funky, iridescent accent colours. On leaving the UK, I shall be eleven stones and ten pounds. On my return, I shall weigh at least thirteen.

Change, my dear.

I have so much to look forward to. I'll be seeing Alan, Junya and their puppies! I'll be staying in the Park Hyatt, Tokyo! I'll be going to an oxygen bar! I'll be going to Disneyland, Tokyo! I'll be visiting the Harajuku girls! I'll be getting drunk in an izakaya! I'll be getting a bum wash! I'll be having tea with the Emperor! I'll be eating tofu! I'll be drinking green tea!

I wonder if anyone will show me their manko this time? I've been exposed to at least one on my previous visits. I've also seen masturbation, a man on the street with his cock out and a woman sat on the bog having a shit. These, my little maid, are the highlights for me. I hope I have similar things to report on my return.

I love Japan. As I've often said, it's as close as I'll ever get to visiting another world. I love the V signs the locals make with their fingers when having a photograph taken, their shyness, the giggles of embarrassment with teeth masked by hands, the funky fashions, the streets free of chewing-gum and rubbish, the Shinto temples, the dogs in fancy dress, the art, the music (especially J-Pop) and the tiny school children who love to say, "Hello, how are you?"

Such utter fabulousness.

Oh and Frankfurt am Main en route where I'll hopefully be buying Reflections and The art of love. Interestingly, Sandra's first ever single was Japan ist weit (Japan is far). Click here to hear it (there is no video) on You Tube.

I'm waiting in the darkness. Every heartbeat is an SOS.

Missing the start of Big Brother, however, is not fabulous. I'm hoping and praying I'll be able to see the first seven days of material via 4OD/Virgin Media on my return, along with The Family Of Blood.

Sad, I know.

Come on and Fib Sunday

People can't understand it.

I had a dream about the Queen last night. She was really upset, begging me to be her friend. She said she had none and that Tony Blair had betrayed her trust. Furthermore, she claimed he hated her. She said she was going to kill him.

"There are guns in the palace," she said.

Poor woman. All that money and still she's as miserable as sin. And she is, dear reader. How often do you see her smile? And her blank, unexpressive face is hardly that. She looks like she's just been told to eat a dog shit.

You can be rich in paradise.

Money can't and won't bring us happiness. A cliché, I know, but the best things in life are free. Shopping for a designer ball gown is all well and good, but there's no joy to be had with no friends at the ball. Eating at a fancy restaurant might well be fabulous, but eating chateaubriand at a table for one is hell on a plate.

Happiness is just a state of mind, but a state only achieved with the help of friends. Perhaps that's why I'm so obsessed with Big Brother. They become my friends for the Summer.

I'm zipping up my boots, my little maid, going back to my roots, my Fib Sunday roots.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, hen, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. If Fibs don't interest you, check out this nice painting.

In brief:

1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...

A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:

One
Small,
Precise,
Poetic,
Spiraling mixture:
Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

Last week, Ken Monteith left us with Up here for thinking; down there for dancing. My dancin' 'n' boozin' response:

Up
Down
And all
Around me
I look to the clouds
Think how great hell is for dancing

Next topic:

Touch me.

Haikoleme

Traditional.

Some weeks ago, while shopping in Waitrose, I bought two bottles of Fentimans pop. One, dandelion and burdock, the other, cola. Not average beverages, though, dear reader! These are apparently olde worlde versions of their post modern selves. The dandelion and burdock is actually brewed, for Christ's sake! Ok, so the amount of alcohol therein is negligible. So much so, I'd imagine anyone might have to drink two hundred pints before getting even slightly merry. Of course, by that point, all the sugar consumes will have resulted in some dreadful medical nightmare, being slightly merry might actually be a help.

Full-sugar drinks scare me, my little maid. Fat doesn't, but sugar does. I avoid it at all costs. Artificial sweeteners can replace sugar without any ill effects. I'm yet to find a fat free alternative to any of my favourite foods that's at least edible. Flyte? I'd rather die.

The cola and dandelion and burdock sat in my refridgerator for at least two weeks, if not three, maybe four. Today, in the midst of my vile cold, I decided to try one. Cola! I was hoping for a new taste sensation, something fabulous. I thought I'd be comparing this drink to Coca Cola, the way some people compare fillet steak to Spam.

It was nothing special.

Full of aches and pains, I sat, drinking my cola, and watched Brokeback Mountain while Ian did some more back-breaking work in the front garden.

My head is in some state, packed with snot. It's killing me.

The evening was taken up with television: Human Nature, which, I think, is the best Doctor Who episode ever made, Doctor Who Confidential, the final thirty minutes of Brokeback Mountain, some extended advert on Channel 4 and now blogger, looking to see if there are any new Haikus and completing Ric's meme.

The rules:

Post a similar entry to this one and add a link back to the person who tagged you.

List five reasons why you blog about the things you blog on your blog.

Choose your five tag victims and tag them nicely.

Write a comment on their blog letting them know that you tagged them.

1. I have nothing better to do.
2. I adore the interaction.
3. Philosophical issues stir me.
4. I don't eat breakfast (if I did, scarily, I might actually write about it).
5. I'm obsessed with poo.

I'm tagging Alan, Alan, Voix, Brian and Lost Boy.

I, though, am breaking the rules and informing no-one that they've been tagged. I'm a rebel today.

I thank you.

Anger

I never get angry. Well, that's actually a lie. I do, but hardly ever. I can count the number of times I've raised my voice on one hand and recall all incidents.

Anger is a massive problem. Modern life, as well as being rubbish, is full of frustration and losing ones temper is, however uncomfortable we might be with the notion, quite normal.

"Really?" I hear you cry, dear reader.

Yes. There are very obvious links between behaviour and emotion. A negative surprise provokes anger in us: "I can't believe you just did that!"

Strange, that in a world so full of supposed order and expected events, we continue to be surprised. So why the surprise? Because we are, by and large, optimists. We don't arm ourselves with negative expectation, but positive.

Anger is not irrational. Reacting to a surprise is quite reasonable. But with a prepared mind, prepared for every nasty surprise we can imagine, the element of surprise is gone. The rational product of surprise is extreme emotion. A person walking into a surprise birthday party will scream. A person walking into a room full of butchered bodies will scream. Take surprise out of the equation and events are simply accepted as they happen.

We are too optimistic, too hopeful. We imagine everyone behind the wheel of a car will drive well. When they don't, we toot our horns, wave a fist or shout, "Wanker!" We imagine all writers understand the basics of spelling, punctuation, sentence construction and grammar. When they don't, we write vicious letters to The Times. We imagine all chefs know how to season food. When eating a poke of fish and chips and the fryer's been mean with the salt, we sigh, tut and go back to the chippy to demand more salt. We are optimists. A pessimist would expect to get carved up on the roads, to see sentences such as There going to get they're money if thier lucky. A pessimist would expect their fish supper to come without salt and vinegar - and thereby have nothing to get angry about. A pessimist isn't going to expect Superman to come and rescue the kitten stuck in a tree, isn't going to expect the trains will run on time, isn't going to expect the cheque's in the post.

When we get angry, there's an element of surprise, self-pity and injustice. Spelling mistakes, under-salted food and bad driving are neither unfair nor surprising. They are quite predictable. One who gets angry over such things simply has false expectations of the world.

Be more pessimistic!

Accept that we can very often do nothing about the things that do make us angry. Letting go of our inner control freak will do us no end of good. Meg learned this. Mary did not. Meg never pulls on the lead. She simply walks beside me. Mary, however, does pull. She cannot make the world conform to her wishes. In order to maximise happiness, Meg walks beside me, the lead is slack. She knows that in order to be happy, she has to follow a direction she doesn't want to take rather than going her own way and strangling herself on the lead. And of course, we humans are also kept on a lead, metaphorically speaking. Long enough to have some freedom but not long enough to allow us to do whatever we want. Pull against it and we, too, will end up strangled and still going where we don't want to go.

Of course, dogs don't have the power of reasoning. We do. We might not be able to change events, but we can change our attitude to them.

We might imagine we're free, but we're not. As a pessimist, I accept that. I don't get upset over it and don't get angry. And that's what makes me happy.

Do the right thing, my little maid. Expect your emails to go unanswered, expect to get food poisoning today and expect your employer to demote you. Don't get angry. Become a pessimist and be happy.

Turf

Jardin

Some photographs, dear reader, from a very recent trip to the Royal Botanic Garden here in Edinburgh. I love looking up into the canopies of trees. I feel like a squirrel in doing so. Not the common grey, I could never be common, no, but a red! Dandy! Elusive!! Enigmatic!!! And with a passion for nuts.

Rani

Fans of Doctor Who may or may not have heard it rumoured that The Rani (as originally played by Kate O'Mara) was to return in the most recent episode, 42, this time played by Michelle Collins. Sadly, The Rani failed to appear and Michelle was wasted in the programme portraying a silly woman who refuelled with diesel instead of four star. Miss Collins (no relation to my beloved Joan) could have been put to much better use. She's a very versatile actress, keen, fabulous, pretty, funny and a bit of a hag. Oh, and she's a good singer! Check out Sunburn and Mardi Gras!

And then, after receiving an email from Brian, I got to thinking... If The Rani was to make a return, who should play her?

Tracey Emin would bring artistic sensibilities to the part. The Rani's scientific experiments would be written up like poems and the sketches would sell for hundreds of thousands of pounds!

Madonna might not be the best actress on the planet, but if The Rani were to reappear in the 2007 Christmas special and Our Glorious Leader got the part, she'd be appearing with Kylie Minogue. Can you imagine how many gay men would have a sci-fi orgasm over that?

We all need to eat, dear reader, even in outer space, in the time vortex, in disused quarries! Nigella Lawson's Rani would be fabulous. Never again would The Doctor and his companion have to eat something like chicken. They could have yellow split pea and frankfurter soup! And Nigella can camp it up with the best of them, and suffocate her enemies with her gigantic breasts!

Joan Bakewell would, as Kate O'Mara did, mix intelligence with sexiness. The thinking man's crumpet. The thinking dyke's crumpet, too.

Julie Goodyear will not only bring her unique brand of campery to the part, but also a sense of panto, reminiscent of the original series. The fans will adore it. Plus, soap opera experience will please Russell T Davies who's turned Doctor Who into East Enders In Space.

Intergalactic domination hardly ever goes well and The Rani often ended up with egg on her face. Anne Kirkbride would be fabulous as The Rani, especially if she gets to use her catch phrase, "Ooh, I've made such a fool of meself, Ken."

Queen Elizabeth II could apply her military might and tap into her experience as Canada's commander in chief. Oh, and rani does mean queen in Hindi.

Barbra Streisand would be fabulous saying, "Die, you fucker." And then scratching a defenseless man's face with her long nails.

Debbie Reynolds would be marvellous for two reasons. About ninety nine per cent of Doctor Who fans are gay. They would love her. The second reason, she could get sci-fi coaching from her daughter, Princess Leia!

Annie Lennox is my final choice. A headbutting Scot with spikey hair would be a fabulous regenerated incarnaion for my favourite Doctor Who villain.

One thing, though, I'd hope Kate would take part in the show for a regeneration scene. My biggest upset about The Doctor's return was not seeing the eighth become the ninth. If I had to choose just one of my fantasy Ranis to play the part, it would have to be...

...Anne Kirkbride! She'd be totally hardcore.

Crime

A story of cime. And no punishment.

Jeremy Clarkson should be well used to criticism; there's a lot to criticise. He's a dreadful right wing Tory, dresses like a middle class numpty from the late 1980s and writes for The Sun.

He also claims to be a champion for the honest, decent thinking people of this country and abhors political correctness.

People who claim to hate the PC society we live in today often create labels for themselves such as people's champion in order to facilitate their mouths as spouts for xenophobia, racism and other forms of hatred.

"Oh, he's not bad, just speaking up for the moral majority," his allied kin might claim.

Similarly, his supporters, in positions of being able to punish him for broadcasting his filth, take no action.

The Top Gear host described a vehicle on the BBC Two show last July as being "very ginger beer", taken to be rhyming slang for the term queer. Ofcom have since criticised him for his actions, though state the matter is now resolved because the BBC had already warned the production team not to repeat this behaviour. And only five complaints were made. Do you think, my love, that the sort of person who'd find this performance offensive would be watching Top Gear?

So Clarkson goes unpunished.

Imagine, dear reader, if the CPS made a statement, in 1981: We will not be taking this case to trial as the matter is now resolved. The police have warned Peter Sutcliffe not to kill again.

Of course, the BBC are more concerned with viewing figures than anything else. Criticising Clarkson, punishing him or forcing him to make a public apology would be a mistake in their eyes. His viewers, similarly dull, stupid and laddish would disassociate themselves from such a man and, instead, tune in to other programmes presented by other irresponsible idiots, the unsophisticated and those with macho, more primitive minds and outlooks.

Last year, he was cleared of making a racist slur about Germany because this was adjudged to be amusing rather than offensive.

Portugal

I remember our holiday to Portugal, dear reader. 2003. The fuckwits. The beautiful weather. The bronzed bodies. The Iberian men. The custardy desserts.



The Lisbon Metro is a fabulous service. Trains were frequent and immaculate. Also, the route plan is easy to understand, contrasting wildly with Tokyo's which blows my tiny mind.


I'm not a Status Quo fan, though Quo or no Quo, it was margarita time. I wasn't a smoker back then, though intoxication was usually followed with a fag.


Lisbon is a beautiful city. Very clean and the people are friendly. One slightly odd fact... I was offered hashish on several occasions while making my way from one end of the above street the the other. I presume it was the drug, though cannot be sure.


The fatter of the two fuckwits liked to pose in as camp a way as possible. Curiously, he wasn't out to his parents and when on the telephone to friends or work colleagues, he strutted around the place like a neanderthal and took his voice down by at least three octaves.


The beaches on the Algarve coast were to die for. The sand was clean and soft underfoot. The sea was clear, though dreadfully cold. I'm sure, not much warmer than the English Channel, if at all. Not a big deal for Minge, though, and all I'm really used to.

What I wasn't used to, though, was being stung by a weever-fish! The bastard! My leg swelled up like a zeppelin and I was in absolute agony. Thankfully, a seaside first aider came to my rescue. A gorgeous Portuguese man, beautifully tanned, sun-kissed hair and a package to make Jeff Stryker's look tiny.


Our trip to Lisbon was a huge relief for us, affording us time away from the fuckwits whom we'd left behind in Vilar Do Golf, Quinta Do Lago. Portugal's capital and its environs exuded beauty, history and delicious food. We visited castles, markets, went shopping, ate the most beautiful meals and got tipsy on local booze. A waiter, tempting me with his liquor in a restaurant, offered me a free taste of the local liqueur. "It's like you," he said, "sweet, but strong."


Lisbon, I thought, was like a European San Francisco. A suspension bridge, trams and homosexuals. Fabulous!


I wish the UK was as outward-looking as Portugal and as proud of our explorative past as the Portuguese. I wish the British Isles enjoyed a warm climate. I wish my country was a republic. I wish we had the Euro. I think I should move to Portugal!


Our return from Lisbon, thankfully, only meant a short stay on the southern coast of the country, not because we hated the Algarve, no, but because the fuckwits made us tense and anxious.

There are many things I'd like to forget about that holiday, my love, but I shall never forget our day in Silves, our visit to Pena Palace or our drive through the empty country roads to and from Lisbon.

I can't believe Fib Sunday

What will we do when the money's gone, hen? I'm not asking Cher for another loan. She charges 49.9% typical APR.

Thank God I've got Fib Sunday to take my mind off of my corporate and financial worries. A life in the workhouse now beckons.

Shit.

And double shit.

Did Oliver get bummed in there?

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, hen, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. If Fibs don't interest you, check out this nice painting.

In brief:

1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...

A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:

One
Small,
Precise,
Poetic,
Spiraling mixture:
Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

Last week, Ian Thorpe left us with the topic of the sound of a clock. My perfectly timed response:

Tick
tock
tick tock
tick tock tick
tock tick tock tick tock
Time goes by so slowly, my love.

Next topic:

It's over.

Banku

Saturdays are often outrageous, dear reader, and possibly my favourite day of the week. Having said that, though, Thursdays are good, too. On Thursdays, I scatter almonds all over the floor, douse myself in honey and then roll around in the nuts. Just before lunch, the local arab community comes to my house and licks me clean.

This Saturday, mes amis, was better than even the most gluttonous of Thursdays. Phyllis and I drove down into the heart of The Borders to see my pseudo-brother-in-law play his trombone. I was impressed with the size of his instrument and how readily he was prepared to slide it in and out. Can you imagine my surprise, my little maid, when he offered to show me his bell-end?

Oh, darling, what a fabulous way to spend Haiku Saturday!

Oh, and just when I thought it wasn't possible, it got better! On my return home, I sat down to watch the most recent episode of Doctor Who, 42. All thanks to the BBC and Virgin's watch again service!

I was so excited, I nearly puked!

Wedding

I remember Rachel's wedding, dear reader. The Summer of 2000.

Having lived with Russell for a while, he and my cousin's daughter got maried. It was the saddest wedding I'd ever been to. Only days prior to the wedding, Rachel's brother, out with Russell on some kind of stag party, died. Some kind of allergic reaction to alcohol. Toxicity. Something like that. A few pints of lager and a shot of vodka. That's all it took.

The wedding went ahead as planned, though they still had the funeral to look forward to.

It was so unfair - and even now, seeing people blind drunk, Rachel and her family must look and wonder. Why Richard? Why then? Hadn't he suffered enough?

And he had. Born with a cleft palate and hare lip, every year of his short life meant another operation. Just when they'd come to a natural end, just when it's found happiness with a girlfriend in St Helens, he was taken from the world.