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.

Mama

I remember Mama.

3

Phyllis and I have just returned from the cinema having seen Spider-man 3.

The visual effects were outstanding, though the viewer is left feeling somewhat over-stimulated and excited, verging on euphoria. Although the action is staggering, one is given a vague impression that the special effects were imagined first, realised second and then, thirdly, a story was patched together around them.

And the story left a lot to be desired. With a running time of, I think, well over two hours, one might expect a story of depth and intrigue, of betrayal, evil, twists and turns. No. Spider-man 3 tries to be a drama, and a sentimental one at that. It doesn't work. It just doesn't slot in with all the action. What we end up with is an implausible take on Diff'rent Strokes. I don't want to be patronised, I don't want a message, I don't want a moral to chew over. I don't want to think. I just want Spider-man.

Can I have him back, now, please?

I'm not a conspiracy theorist, really, I am not, though I am aware of subliminal messaging. We saw Spider-man race across a giant USA flag. We saw him tell the audience that sometimes choices are difficult, but making the right decision is important. We saw various icons and symbols of Christianity and then we saw Spider-man defeat a giant man, a man made from sand - representing the sands of the Middle East? If it wasn't so terrible, it would be cringe-worthy.

I'm just hoping I've seen something that wasn't there, though, once you've see it, dear reader, it's impossible to ignore.

Something else that was impossible to ignore was Venom, as played by the very delicious Topher Grace. Yum, yum, yum. I'm suddenly a huge fan of his work.

Spider-man 3: 6/10

And so to bed.

Films

I've been tagged, dear reader, by Old Cheeser. Click here to read all about his favourite films. But remember to come back and read about mine!

20 Star Trek: First Contact


Campery in space and the tying up of loose ends, loose ends you didn't know were loose.

19 Memoirs Of A Geisha


No need to give a synopsis as almost the entire planet has seen this film. I adored the cinematography. Beautiful. I was very let down, though, by the number of times and the ways the film strayed from the book. Poor!

18 Rebecca


A man with a secret, a lesbian maid, a näive new wife and a plot with more twists and turns than a mountain railway. This is a fabulous film, made when Lawrence Olivier was as hot as he ever got.

I remember watching this with Mum when I was really far too young to understand all the subtleties. Every time I've seen it since the age of seven, I've learned a little bit more. It's actually better than the book. But that's just my opinion.

17 Donnie Darko


Thriller, sci-fi, horror - all the genres required for perfect viewing. And a hot young actor thrown in for good measure! Draw the curtains, sit back, relax and enjoy this weird masterpeice.

16 Freaky Friday


A children's classic. See how camp Barbara Harris can be with a cigarette.

I first saw this for 20p at my school's film club. I was thrown out of the hall for laughing too loudly and banned from the club for ever.

15 The Crying Game


An unconventional classic mixing sex, sexuality and terrorism. This film made such an impression on me, after watching it all the way through, I re-wound the tape and watched it again. The prisoner scenes are the best.

14 Life Is Sweet


Mike Leigh tells the remarkable story of an unremarkable British family. Alison Steadman, Jim Broadbent and Jane Horrocks (with Nutella) excel. Marxism can be funny.

13 Beautiful Thing


Boy meets boy. A dream? No, it's all real, sometimes horribly real. Jonathan Harvey's best. Tameka Empson (3 Non Blondes) and Linda Henry are the real stars. Their final scene is a show stopper. Are they lezzing off? Or mucking about?

The comedy is first class, and the story, moving. I cry every time I see it.

With songs from Mama Cass to carry the whole affair along, it's a feel-good film, a film that makes one feel good about being gay.

12 The Hours


All three leading ladies (Kidman, Moore, and Streep) kiss another woman at some point during the film. It's quite gay.

11 Powertool


If you thought Prisoner: Cell Block H was camp, this will blow your mind. Basically, Jeff Stryker plays a character who has just been sent to prison. Can't remember the crime. But that's not really the issue. And to be frank, there isn't much of a plot. But there are lots of fabulous 1980s hair-styles and massive cocks!

10 Brokeback Mountain


A timeless love story that just happens to be between two men. I'm surprised that this film actually comes in at #10 in my list, but, on carfeul consideration, it's because I find it difficult to watch. Not because it's badly made or poorly acted, no, but because it's so sad. I think I've seen Brokeback Mountain about five or six times. I have tears in my eyes during much of the film - but I spend the final thirty minutes sobbing, inconsolable.

9 Multiple Maniacs


This black and white movie was John Waters' second feature length film - and what a film! I really did not know what to expect from it on opening up the DVD case for the first time. I'd heard about it, but only vague things such as, "It's really wild," and "I couldn't believe it..." My friend Peter gave it to me as a gift. It's the most fabulous thing he's ever given me.

A travelling freakshow/circus opens in Baltimore. Actual homosexuals kiss and there's a promise of someone eating vomit. Come the end of the show (featuring lesbians!) Lady Divine (Divine) steals from the spectators. Then she kills them.

Divine's boyfriend is worse than Divine. He's having an affair! A local bar-maid, Edith (Massey) reports the treachery to Lady Divine. Divine decides to go to the bar and confront the cheating pair. Sadly, on the way, she gets raped by two young men.

She then decides to go to church. Where she meets Mink (Mink Stole). Mink shows Lady Divine how to use a rosary in a completely new way. Their lesbian sex is interlaced with scenes of religious iconography from inside the church. I love this. It's sheer rebellion.

Come the end, Lady Divine murders her boyfriend and eats his internal organs, but karma comes and bites her on the arse when she gets raped by a giant lobster.

Really, dear reader, who needs drugs when there are movies like this to see?

8 The Exorcist


I saw this on a pirate video some time in the early 1990s. It had been banned on video in the UK for years. I was so upset and scared, that after seeing the film, I read the Bible for a bit, sang The Lord Is My Shepherd out loud, recited The Lord's Prayer and went to bed with the light on. I'm not joking.

Of course, seeing it now, it's almost a joke, but at the time, and in my immaturity, it was the most frightening thing I'd ever seen.

Rumours Of Whores released a song called Cake me in vomit which, dear reader, has an awful lot to do with this nasty film. Check it out.

French and Saunders do a good spoof, too.

I think we're looking at cystitis.

7 Serial Mom


More from John Waters, though this time, no Divine and no Edith Massey. However, we are treated to a fabulous exchange on the telephone between Mink Stole and Kathleen Turner, reminiscent of 1950s soap operas and probably the best telephone conversation ever portrayed on film. I had no idea Kathleen had such a vile mouth - and it's fabulous. I love shocking film, though not shocking for the sake of it. This film's use of shock is, I believe, a reaction to the public's opinions of outlandish murderers such as Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. Turning killings into comedy is pure genius. If done properly. And this was most certainly done imporperly! Turning genius into ingenious!

6 Now, Voyager


The most famous line from this movie was said by the character Charlotte Vale (Bette Davis) to Jerry Durrance (Paul Henreid): "Oh, Jerry don't let's ask for the moon, we have the stars!"

Utterly camp, but not cheesy. Very moving. Beautiful.

5 Life Is Beautiful


Guido Orefice's (played by Roberto Benigni) relationship with his wife and son is played out so beautifully with the kind of comedy most fitting to a tragic comedy, laughing with the characters, not at them. Forget popcorn to accompany this movie. A viewer needs lots and lots of tissues.

And, no! Not because of that, you dirty pig! Because you'll be crying!

4 The Wizard Of Oz


I'm a gay. Of course I love this movie.

3 Polyester


A 1981 John Waters film starring Divine, Tab Hunter, Edith Massey, and Mink Stole. It was filmed in Waters' native Baltimore, Maryland, and features a gimmick called "Odorama", whereby viewers could smell what they saw on screen through "scratch and sniff" cards. Sadly, no such cards came with the DVD. I wasn't born when the film was first released to cinemas.

The film is a satire of suburban life, involving alcoholism, the religious right, adultery, foot fetishism, abortion, and divorce.

Poor Francine Fishpaw. Her husband is a rat, but she'll sniff him out. All with the help of the delightful Cuddles.

Everyone loves Cuddles.

Click here for a clip.

2 Female Trouble


Better than Richard Speck.

1 Meet Me In St Louis


Judy at her finest.

A 1944 romantic musical from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer which tells the story of four sisters living in St. Louis at the time of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition World's Fair in 1904.

It stars Judy Garland, Margaret O'Brien, Mary Astor, Lucille Bremer, Leon Ames, Tom Drake, June Lockhart, and Marjorie Main.

The movie was adapted by Irving Brecher and Fred F. Finklehoffe from a series of short stories by Sally Benson, originally published in The New Yorker magazine and later in the novel 5135 Kensington.

It was directed by Vincente Minnelli, who met his future wife, Judy Garland, on the set. In the film, Garland debuted the standards "The Trolley Song" and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" which were written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane and other several other songs.

The musical score (but not the original songs) were composed by Roger Edens. The song You and I was written by Nacio Herb Brown and Arthur Freed, who was also the producer of the film. Freed also dubbed the singing voice for Leon Ames. Mary Astor's singing voice was dubbed by D. Markas.

Esther and Tootie make a fine double act. They battle it out in the campery stakes, never sure who actually won. It's a film about love, love on so many levels. The love of one's home, romantic love, family love and a love of life.

Laugh, dear reader, and cry.

I'm tagging:

Krafty Bitch
Kapitano
A Novelist
JAG
Dert
Gab
Rand
Conor
Enda
Brighton David
American David
Alan
Brett
Dan
Nomad
Lewis
Brian
Bill
China
Michèle
Zona

What utter fabulousness, my little maid.

13th

Lord above us! It's Friday 13th. Where is Jamie Lee Curtis? I don't really care where she is, frankly, just so long as she's not in my house. Or exposing her breasts.

Why do straight men get off on looking at/touching/tasting boobs? I just don't get it. Or gay men, for that matter, why do they go for other men's nipples or like to have their nipples mucked about with? It's horrible, ticklish and painful. For me, anyway. Of course, there are people who get off on being spanked, tied up or made to dress up as French maids. I have no understanding of that, either. I should have taken psychology at some point or another. I suppose, in Kylie's words, it's never too late. As far as adult education programmes go, though, dear reader, my first intentions are to take courses in photography and pottery. I always fancied fingering something brown. I can see myself, now, like Demi Moore in Ghost, with skank all over my hands - and Patrick Moore between my thighs! Oh, no, not Patrick Moore. Or Patrick Kielty... What's his name...? Ah, Patrick Swayze!

That was not, my little maid, a Freudian slip. I have no desire to have Patrick Moore or Patrick Kielty touch me sensually, aid me at the potter's wheel or lick my nipples.

Nipples make me heave.

Though nipples were on full display this lunch time in Morningside. I went into Caffé Nero for a coffee, piece and bag of crisps. At table, Minge was joined by two ridiculous bints who thought they could think for themselves. And it wasn't cold in there, but both of them had nipples like coat hooks. I don't usually look at women's nipples, but these were difficult to avoid.

Their conversation, however inane an nonsensical, was interesting. It seemed they worked for a charity, though which, I couldn't make out. One of the women claimed that they pay for a certain amount of space in The Daily Record every Tuesday. Some kind of story or report is submitted as if it were actual news. No, really! It's not news at all. Directly or indirectly, these people pay to promote themselves in some shape or form - and it's paid for by The Scottish Executive! I wish I wasn't so shy, I'd have asked them who they were, if they felt no guilt in duping people in believing they were reading a genuine news article when they weren't and how much their so called news stories cost every week.

"We have to be careful what we put in for the next four weeks," said the fat one. "We can't be seen to be supporting The Executive or electioneering."

"Aye," said the glaikit one.

So they understood, then, that people might see through their pretence. But how? I really should have found out who they were, who they represented.

Their constant use of abbreviations and initialisms worried me along with other such things. The worst was BL. The fat one used it several times, the glaikit one seemingly understanding what it meant. Then she interrupted the fat one with, "What's BL?"

"Bottom line."

Why not just say bottom line?

The rest of their conversation was XXX hardcore for the feeble minded. I could tell the fat one was trying to play devil's advocate, but it was a fruitless exercise. The glaikit one simply replied, "Aye," every time.

"Although there aren't many gaelic speakers on the east coast, the Edinburgh café should be bilingual."

"Aye."

"We should use blue ink. Black ink could be seen as racist."

"Aye."

"Did you see G4 broke up? They were all sucking each other off."

"Aye."

When I got home, I did some investigations.

Yes, it seems G4 have broken up. Hurrah or boo-hoo? Je ne sais pas. But anyway...

G4 are no more. They've gone their separate ways. Apparently, they announced this on GMTV seven days ago. It's taken me this long to find out, my lamb. My finger's not really on the pulse any more. Not that there is a pulse. Music as an art form, sadly, is quite dead. These days, it's an industry, as those who work in that field often claim themselves. Tsk.

G4, in their revealing interview, ahem, revealed, ahem, that they were arguing on the road (as opposed to on the coach) and the constant bickering had taken its toll. They could stand it no longer.

The truth, on the other hand is that the chubby one's girlfriend had been sucking the cock of anyone who'd asked, including the gay one. The chubby one didn't like this, or the fact that the gay one thought he could perform oral better than his girlfriend. The blonde one and the arab-looking one became closer and closer, tired of listening to the gay one and the chubby one's constant arguments. The gay one and the chubby one resented the other two pairing up... The two cliques then seemed to declare war on one another, and, well, it's all over. And all because of a BJ.

So the fat bint in Caffé Nero was half right. Surprisingly.

I had a nice time in Morningside, though I had to hide when in Waitrose. Yes, JK was stalking me again. I stood behind the cut flowers and watched her for a bit. She bought cheap sausages and a tin of baked beans. I can't understand it. Those Harry Potter movies must be bringing in the moolah, surely.

While waiting for the bus to take me back home, I had a look at the rail tracks near the former Morningside Sation. I've contacted as many parliamentary and council candidates as I can (there is an election on, dear reader), asking them if they plan on supporting the reinstatement of the south suburban railway. The only people to respond so far are the Lib Dems. The Tories haven't replied, nor have the SNP. I think perhaps the SNP know they don't have a chance in hell in this constituency and the Tories and complaisant.

The Lib Dems say they support the reinstatement of the south suburban railway. Nice, but I wonder why they've done nothing about it during the last four years. They've been in power here in coalition with Scottish Labour for the past eight years. The transport minister, for the last few years, has been a Lib Dem.

So, I'm just about to contact Scottish Labour through their campaign hotline. Let's see if they have the good grace to reply.

Before getting on the bus, a jogger ran past me and two elderly women at the bus stop, knocking the shopping out of one of the old woman's hand. She knew what she'd done, but didn't stop to apologise or help. I'm reminded that joggers are wankers. If you jog, I'm sorry, but it's true. And don't tell me you've never indulged in onanism. I don't believe you.

The har is terrible today, honey. It usually dissipates as the day goes on, burned off by the sun. But not today. It was quite sunny this morning, but then the mist began to billow in, like steam or smoke. It was warm in Morningside with only scattered cloud, but I could see the area of Edinburgh where I live from there, was blanketed in fog or low cloud. By the time I went for the bus to take me home, it was enveloping Morningside, too. JK will be pleased. She likes the har. It gives her inspiration. As does a pack of Carlsberg and a spliff. Allegedly.

Why can't you see that I'm still mad about you? Even though I've found out about you, I'll always stay forever true. And in my heart I will forgive you. I've got so much love to give you. It's never too late, we've still got time. It's never too late, you can still be mine. It's never too late to change your mind, dear reader.

Edinburgh

Ski-tube

Pub

I think, dear reader, I went to more pubs and bars during my last visit to England than I did during the whole of 2006.

Seriously!

The first one was The Brasshouse on Westover Road in Bournemouth. They do a good deal on lunch. But it was slightly chavish. All the barmaids wore massive hoop ear-rings. And you know how the saying goes, the bigger the hoop, the bigger the chav. The chips had to be scanned for stray pubic hairs and cigarette ash.

Much to the annoyance of my Mother, my sister and her daughter spent more time texting and exchanging rude images via bluetooth than chatting. Tsk. Indeed. If my Mum were ever to use the word fucking, it would be to describe mobile telephones and/or their users. Not that she doesn't have one herself. She does. I bought it for her in case she falls over and no-one's around. Or if she's in the middle of no-where with no money for a taxi. Or any other as yet unimagined disaster scenario. So you're guessing she keeps the telephone in her purse, aren't you, hen? Wrong! It stays on top of the bread-making machine. While with my Mother, she asked me to bring the telephone to her, from the kitchen to the living room. She wanted to call her Granddaughter and it's less expensive mobile to mobile. I had to blow the dust off of said device before she could see the screen.

After lunch, my sister returned to work. My niece and I walked into the town centre to have my spectacles repaired, dropping my Mother off at a coffee shop along the way. Poor Mum. She suffers with her back and legs and really cannot walk very far at all.

I was only gone ten minutes. On returning to Mum, I found she was on her third cup of coffee and second fat and sugar free muffin!

Kathy then left us for her home-coming beau, George. Mum and I decided a trip to the cinema was in order. Back to Westover Road and The Number 23.

What a vile little film! What was Jim Carrey thinking? That it was another dire comedy? That hammy acting was de rigeur? That the script was in Braille?

The whole thing was dreadful, trying to mix 1930s styling with children's comics and be highbrow at the same time. Perhaps it is possible, I don't know, but it didn't work here.

Jim plays a dog-catcher. His wife gives him a type written book which she supposedly stumbles upon in a second-hand book shop. He discovers the narrator's life is uncannily like his own... Esoterics and conspiracy theorists will love the proposed ideas about the number 23. Jim's character did. First of all, the viewer thinks it's driving him mad, whereas in actual fact, it's returning him to sanity. The book demands investigation and Jim's character complies. Sadly, the answers are sillier than the questions. After a long and ridiculous explanation of how Jim's character and the book are connected, the viewer finds the number 23 plays no part at all.

What a pile of shit.

Mum's coming up to Edinburgh today for a long weekend. There will positively definitely be no trips to the cinema. But we will go and see Fame The Musical! Exciting! Nice to see men in lycra!