The Dick Mallet

My days of blogging have come to a sorry end, dear reader. To celebrate, I hereby finish with my beloved Sunday Mallet, daughter of Fib Sunday, cousin to Haiku Saturday.

Families are funny things.

The last edition of the Sunday Mallet began several weeks ago. Japanesewhispers left us with cock. The first word which came to mind: dick.

Please, my lamb. Play on.

The Sunday Mallet

I came back (back, back, etc), dear reader, from my hiatus and state of limbo.

While away in England, Northern Ireland and Eire, I had much time to think.  More about that later, but first, thoughts about the matter at hand and what's to be done with an interactive Sunday. Holidays always seem to remind me of Mallett's Mallet, seemingly because I often find myself getting up earlier while away on holiday than I do at home.  As a boy, weekdays meant staying in bed as long as possible before getting up for school.  Weekends and school holidays meant getting up early to watch children's TV.

Wacaday was a wild part of my childhood and teenage years and it's with great reverence that I put my own spin on the show with The Sunday Mallet.  I did toy with the idea of Minge's Mallet, but narcissism can be oh so horrid.

So, how to play...  Much as we did with Fib Sunday, though this time there shall be no fibs, just simple rounds of word association.  Yes, The Sunday Mallet is a word association game.  No need for suggesting topics and so forth.  I shall presently come up with a word.  In the comments section, a player should provide the first word that pops into his or her mind.  The next player, on seeing said word, should provide the first word that they think of and so on.  Repeat, repeat, repeat.

So, the first ever word of The Sunday Mallet shall be jubilation.

Birthday

Fib Sunday is gone. It is no more. It is done.

Dead.

Trying to break out from the chains of my comfort blanket into a brave new world, I abandon the old and look to the new. Being a creature of habit, though, I am eager maintain a theme for Sundays and seek out a new one. I'll have decided by next week. Come back then, if you do so wish, Sunday girl, Sunday boy.

Ian Thorpe, though, was the last person to submit a Fib and new topic (a lack of understanding in people from other times). In his honour, I offer, without suggestion of a new topic (for Fib Sunday is dead - did I mention that?):

Back;
Back.
Further.
Further back.
Going back in time.
Grasp feathered birds; not of metal.

Moving on...

Although I hate to admit it, I am thirty five years old, dear reader. As I move, in the Biblical sense, into the second half of my life, not only do I look old, I feel old. Though on the day of my birthday, I felt young, youthful and lithe.

It began, as usual, after rising, washing and dressing, with breakfast. Though not in our usual haunt, a bakery. No. My birthday breakfast was taken in our hotel, the Park Hyatt, Tokyo. I've never paid twenty five pounds for a poached egg on toast before, but I do think it was worth every penny. Well, every ¥en. You see, my little maid, Ian and I were not only paying for the food, but for the view and to experience life how the other half live it.

Intimidated, perhaps, by the surroundings, the millionaries and the staring eyes of the former axis powers, I resisted the buffet table until prompted to do so by our caring waitress. As Jack was baffled by which pieces of cutlery to use and when, I had no idea at which point during the proceedings to go and grab as many pastries, cakes and fine delicacies as possible. My Mother gave me some very good advice when I was a young man and I've always lived by it.

"If you don't know what to do," she said, "do nothing and wait until you do know."

Fine advice indeed - and it works well in all situations, even this one. Unsure when to act, I decided to sit tight and wait. After a gentle and diplomatic prod from our waitress, I knew when the time was right and went for it.

And shit, did I go for it! Not wanting to seem or look greedy and constantly repeating the mantra quality, not quantity, I brought as much back to the table as appeared reasonable. Though in doing so, through nervousness, I'm sure, I made a massive fuck-up. In attempting to transport some cream cheese from a bowl via a spoon to my plate, Minge ended up, with extreme force, splattering a load of white muck all over the floor.

Shit!

What would the millionaires do? What would the former axis powers do? What would I do?

Reverting to type, skivvy type, I got down on my knees and attempted to pick said splat up. Though, now, what to do with it? I checked to see if anyone was looking before wiping the white goo on the corner of the table before returning with my fine fair to Ian where my poached eggs on toast were waiting.

Breakfast over, we headed off to Yoyogi Park. On the agenda: The Meiji Shrine, the museums and the Harajuku girls!

Shinto, a uniquely Japanese religion, is principally based on the worship of spirits, nature and ancestors resulting in a reverence of wisdom, beauty and peace, all easily felt and tangible inside Shinto shrines and temples. More concerned with the here and now than an afterlife, a respect for life itself fills the hearts and minds of devotees, even the simplest of curious tourists like me.

I have a great admiration for Shintoism and wonder what the world would be like if it were the leading universal religion instead of the horror of the Abrahamic blief systems the world is, depending on ones viewpoint, either cursed or blessed with. Of course, Shinto did not stop Japan's aggression during the course of World War II, so perhaps it wouldn't be such a different place. Having said that, I must repeat my notions of joy and peace as felt during my visits to the holier places in Japan, both Shinto and Buddhist and am reminded of my opinion that religions are often hijacked, their peaceful intentions replaced with hatred and used as banners of war.

But that's a whole other debate, my lamb.

Before leaving the shrine, both Phyllis and I wrote out a prayer on a wooden tablet and hung it about a sacred tree. I hope God or at least someone was listening or can read my plea.

On leaving, we, at first, thought we were quite fortunate to see a wedding procession. Fortune had nothing to do with it, however. As soon as one was over, another began. The Meiji Shrine, it was apparent, is THE place to get married. Also, babies are brought for a blessing and prayers offered for the dead. A good place to visit on my birthday, then - and I did pray that I would one day return.

From the shrine itself, we walked through the park to the Meiji Treasure Museum, stopping en route for a drink from the vending machines which seem to be omnipresent in Japan. Small, with only a few articles on display, all having belonged to the Emperor Meiji or his wife. He looked a proper bruiser, she, something like a primordial dwarf. I know I shouldn't, but I have a morbid curiosity and wondered how and indeed if they had sexual relations. My mind's workings went into overtime and I imagined Meiji's penis being as big as his wife.

An annexe, found elsewhere in the park, was filled with nineteenth Century royal garb, totty shoes and fans. It also provided welcome eating facilities where Phyllis and I gobbled up two huge bowls of ramen. Very little Japanese cuisine was on offer, oddly, in such a Japanese place. Everyone around and about us seemed to be stuffing corndogs and hamburgers into their tiny mouths, swiftly followed by whippy ice-cream.

Lunch over with, we proceeded to another area of Yoyogi Park to visit my adored Harajuku girls (and boys). Their look, whether it be the classis Gothic Lolita or Visual kei, never ceases to make my heart race. If I lived in Tokyo, I am sure I'd be there in Harajuku every Sunday aftenoon, perhaps in a wedding dress and kinky boots. Probably bought at Innocent World.

We were offered and gladly accepted free hugs. Japanese teddy boys danced. Victorian costumes were worn. What a fabulous atmosphere. Add to that the live music, the food stalls, the selling of bizarre old calculators, cables and 1980s computer game consoles and Harajuku was alive with all that's strange, all that's fabulous.

The only thing to stop me from living out the rest of my life with the Harajuku girls was the impending arrival of Alan and Junya at our hotel. Read about the day from Alan's perspective here. And there are some great shots of our meal to behold, too!

But I'm jumping ahead of myself...

We met Alan and Junya in our hotel room during the latter half of the afternoon. At five o'clock, we headed up to the New York bar for a round of early drinks, the beginning of my birthday celebrations. Avoiding my boozing comfort blanket, a delicious Margarita, instead, I opted for a cherry cocktail, made with a traditional japanese cherry liqueur, sake and, I believe something else. What, though, I can't remember. But I can remember how delicious it was! Alan and Junya presented me with a fabulous book, Watching The English by Kate Fox. We had a blast. Really, a wonderfully happy time. I glanced over to where Bill Murray sat in Lost In Translation and was tempted to go and sit there, too. After all, it was my birthday. I felt a bit silly, though, so stayed put.

Next, the Ninja restaurant and my birthday meal, another kind and fabulous gift to me from Alan and Junya. I've never been to a theme restaurant before and didn't really know what to expect. Good job. Expect the unexpected. A lady met us from the door and escorted us along some kind of labyrinth to our table, many scares along the way. Once seated in near darkness, Alan and Junya helped us decide how to order from the menu. A huge benefit to us, I can tell you, my love. What I didn't know, was the number of different courses (all of which can be seen, in detail, on Alan's blog entry about my birthday) we were about to consume! Beginning with Lobster Tofu and, some two hours later, maybe more, ending up with delicious desserts. No! I lie! The meal did not end with desserts, no! We were treated to a private magic show by a Ninja! He made coins appear and disappear and then delighted us with card tricks, allowing me to keep the ace of spades, the card I'd chosen from the deck. What a wonderful treat for wee Minge.

On leaving, we were yet again escorted out of the building, this time by a slighty more direct route and waved off, literally until we were out of sight, by the same woman who'd greeted us hours before.

The night was not over yet, however. A return trip to the New York Bar at the Park Hyatt was absolutely necessary. At five o'clock, during our first visit, poor Alan had been refused entry on account of his sandals. Not any rough old sandals, you understand, but high fashion footwear. Why, I can't imagine, as on our return, we were joined in the bar by several scruffy old geezers in shell suits accompanied, quite obviously, by rent boys. High class hookers, the lads may have been, their clients were definitely low class.

I close my eyes and count Fib Sunday

I had a strange dream last night. I was island hopping in the Caribbean. A boat took me to one port on an island, a bus to another and then a boat to the next island and so on. At least five times. All along the way, I saw people, people from my past. No-one from my present. Only people with whom I no longer have any contact. One of these people was an ex-boyfriend. As with all the others, I could see him, but he could not see me. Almost looking through me. He looked up, almost aware someone or something was there, but unable to detect me. Like I was a ghost.

I woke up bewildered and was about to ask Ian if he ever dreams about former boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers - but thought better of it. I used to let the past annoy and frustrate me, but no longer. I simply close my eyes and count to ten.

Fib Sunday, this week is brought to you by the number 69 and the letters S, H, I and T. Oh, and the inspiration is courtesy of Marc Almond and Sarah Cracknell, chiefly from the duet as heard on Marc's latest album, Stardom Road. I adore it. Essentially, it's a covers album and one of the tracks is Strangers in the night. On my first listen, I thought the recording quite self-indulgent, but rapidly, I began to see the light. Checking out the lyrics, you too, dear reader, will see that the song sung by an outragous queer like Almond turns the entire thing on its head and into an ode to trolling. Anyone who's ever cruised Hampstead Heath, by day or by night, will be able to relate, quite well, to Strangers in the night, relate to it as they've never done before.

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, FiL left us with the topic of Missing one's calling. My introspective response:

Some
Care.
You care
About me;
But not so much that
You'd give me up for the Priesthood.

Next topic:

To ten.

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.

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.

Dancing Fib Sunday

I voke ap zis mornink, dia reedah, viz a slaitlih zore het. Oh, I don't have to keep up my vile impression of a Serbian lesbian anymore.

To celebrate Eurovision, Phyllis and I drank the champagne we were going to take to Alan's house on Friday, until he forgot he'd invited us to his homecoming party, that is! He should have been blonde!

It may be this, it may be that, but Eurovision is still wildly entertainling, even with the block/political voting and the rubbish we send year in, year out. Images of last night, will, I'm sure, haunt me for all eternity.

I'm quite disappointed. Verka Serduchka's Dancing lasha tumbai was pipped to the post by Marija Serifovic. Still, Phyllis was pleased; it was his favourite. The UK came second from last with nineteen points. For a while, it looked like Scooch were coming home with nul points again. Oddly, Malta awarded us a maximum of twelve! Was the entire Maltese population stoned last night? I've done my fair share of moaning about Scooch over the past few weeks, but the song has grown on me and we were remarkably better than some of the other trash featured last night in the East European Song Contest.

Some major fixes have to be implemented before Eurovision 2008, my love. The voting system has to be seriously amended and we have to stop sending has beens and wannabes. I'd suggest a regional contest, perhaps splitting the EBU countries into six regions (western, mediterranean, central, Scandanavia, eastern and non-European) with each region sending their top scoring three or four acts. I think it sounds like a good idea.

Phyllis and I both downloaded the score card from the BBC website last night. Using the traditional Eurovision scoring system, my results were:

Ukraine 12
Slovenia 10
Turkey 8
Georgia 7
Hungary 6
Serbia 5
Bulgaria 4
Finland 3
Germany 2
Romania 1

One might see my scores and claim any arguments concerning political/block voting are blown out of the water as many of my favourites are from Eastern Europe. No. Because most of my favourite acts were eliminated in the semi-final on Thursday which resulted in ten entrants from the former Soviet block et al. Losing Denmark was a travesty.

Before moving on to matters at hand, just a few words about each entry from last night:

Bosnia & Herzegovina - Dull.
Spain - Remember No Mercy?
Belarus - Vulgar accent and not Donna Summer.
Ireland - The poor woman couldn't sing for toffee.
Finland - Nice basque!
FYR Macedonia - Ridiculous.
Slovenia - Opera and lights!
Hungary - A tribute to Billie Ray Martin.
Lithuania - Shadow theatre.
Greece - A Ricky Martin rip-off.
Georgia - Björkish.
Sweden - Love grows where my Rosemary goes.
France - Ça plane pour moi.
Latvia - Il Divo.
Russia - A Slavic Girls Aloud.
Germany - Harry Connick Jnr on cabbage.
Serbia - Poison dwarf. Funky little dyke. Melanie Skubich. One half of Abbott and Costello.
Ukraine - Timmy Mallett on acid.
UK - Camp with delicious double entendres. Love Russ' big cock/package.
Romania - Fabulously ethnic.
Bulgaria - Would win if she could sing.
Turkey - Mr Claypole!
Armenia - Dull shit.
Moldova - Clothes from Empire Stores.

What a shame, my love. And to think, if we'd sent Cyndi, we'd have won.

Oh, and I think I saw Thomas on the telly last night. Sat in the same row as the ridiculous bint in pink were two outrageous gays waving Australian flags. Could they have been Thomas and the gay divorcee?

And so, to the real reason for a blog entry on a Sunday: Fib Sunday! Hurrah!

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, hen, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Hei!

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, Brian left us with the topic of Worshipping Ganesha whilst eating earwax-filled chocolate cupcakes and allowing Mama Cass to give you a full frontal massage using flaming maracas, a punctured inner tube, and a moon rock that was given to her by Neil Armstrong when they had that fling at the chateau in Zurich the summer of '70. No, really.

My response:

Hi
Cass!
Rub here.
Hindu chants...
Make me hungry for:
Spain, cycling, Switzerland and space.

Next topic:

Lasha tumbai.

Have yourself a merry Fib Sunday

Once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore, we find ourselves in the midst of Fib Sunday, dear reader.

This is actually the second time I've tried to cast Fib Sunday into cyberspace today, my little maid. On my first attempt, clicking the publish button resulted in the appearance of the spinning beachball of death, all thanks to the instability of the Netscape browser and their refusal to develop a new version for we Mac users. The wankers. I would have called them a bunch of cunts, but I think the C word is a bit strong for a Sunday, don't you agree, my love?

Tip for today: click on the save as draft button with every sentence you type, darling.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, hen, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Please ask permission from the bill payer.

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, in the turmoils of self-doubt, Matty (the last man standing) was unsure whether to offer his own topic of Skeeter Davis or to continue with Kapitano's Pump up the volume. Unlike Alex Salmond, I have the moral authority to do what the hell I like, so am combining the two:

In
tune;
Future...
...and the past:
MARRS and Skeeter sang,
"It ended when you said goodbye."

Next topic:

Little Christmas.

The people's flag is Fib Sunday

Same sex partnerships, dear reader, and welcome to Fib Sunday!

And what a fabulous Sunday it is. Well, it was. I'm just in the door, mon amour, after a wee trip up North. Blazing sun, temperatures in the twenties and scenery to die for. Back in Edinburgh - low cloud, mist and decidedly chilly.

Makes even the most optimistic of people consider suicide. Yes, I know! What do I know...?

Fib Sunday is late, yes, and I'm a whole twenty four hours late in playing Haiku Saturday. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please forgive me. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know, please don't...

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. They're really sweet and with no bitter aftertaste!

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, Phyllis left us with same as Brian's. Now, does this mean same as Brian's is the topic or is the topic the one as left by Brian previously...?

Frump Friedkin and the greasy doughnuts that ate a hole in the chocolate covered tarpaulin hiding Brad Pitt's frozen banana hammock.

Brad!
No!
Stop it!
Banana...
...takes the greasy rings.
Not Frump's brown length, undercover.

Next topic:

Deepest red.

George

Happy Saint George’s day, dear reader!

And what a day! People in England will be wearing red roses on their lapels, flying the Cross of St George from every available flagpole and singing Jerusalem in Churches from Berwick Upon Tweed to Penzance.

But is that a true picture? How is St George’s day really celebrated in England, if at all? And if not, why not?

When I was a boy, which wasn’t that long ago, my little maid, England’s national day passed largely unobserved. No mention on the television news, nor in the press and not once did I ever exchange a, “Happy Saint George’s Day!” with a fellow Englishman.

Today, Royal Mail are issuing a set of stamps to celebrate England and Saint George. In Coventry, a re-enactment of the mythical slaying of the dragon is taking place. Tameside in Greater Manchester will look like a set for Doctor Who with the whole of Ashton town centre transformed into a mediaeval village. Visitors might wonder if they’ve been travelling in time.

So, the celebration of Saint George, bridegroom of Jesus, is gaining momentum, but by no means is it celebrated with the vigour, enthusiasm and sheer joy as other national patron Saints. Take Saint Patrick for example. The population of the entire planet is Irish on 17th March. People get drunk on Guinness (brewed in Dublin). Festivities in Dublin go on so long, it’s no longer a day but a festival, lasting almost a week. But it’s not just a day for revelry, there’s a serious edge, too, as demonstrated by Irish politicians who travel the world to promote and celebrate their country, their Saint and their Irishness. In England, Patrick is celebrated with much ardour, parades and festivals taking place all over the country. This year, one hundred and fifty thousand people turned out for Saint Patrick’s parade in Birmingham concluding nine days of festivities. But that’s as nothing. In comparison with the United States of America! Eight million people turn out to watch the Saint Patrick’s Day parade in New York City and the lights on top of the Empire State Building turn green – as does a river in Chicago!

Saint George's Day festivities in London are muted and won’t last beyond the night. Tony Blair will not be in Washington talking up England and Saint George. There will be no parade in New York City and the river in Chicago will not run red.

But why?

Perhaps the English should take a leaf out of Ashton’s book and go back in time…

England, with her historical record, might be embarrassed in celebrating her national day with a soldier, often depicted in battle armour, plunging his sword into an animal, blood spewing abundantly. Add to this the scourge of the skinheads on the terraces waving the flag of St George, the BNP’s use of nationalistic symbols, St George's Cross standing for England's attempts to overrun other countries by force and the fact that the man might not have even existed and all the English might want to do is cringe.

Oppressed minorities, when given the freedom to do so, enjoy celebrating their identity and often, with gusto. The Scots need not feel any shame in being represented by Saint Andrew, friend of Christ himself, and a man not known for killing, but being killed – and by Romans nonetheless! Aligning himself with minorities early on, St Andrew reputedly drew a saltire in the sky over modern day Scotland. The Pictish King (either Óengus mac Fergusa or Óengus II) declared that Saint Andrew was watching over them and if they won their battle, he would make Andrew their patron Saint. They did, and he is.

Until 1348, Saint Edward The Confessor was England’s patron Saint, the country’s only canonised monarch. Perhaps it’s time to move away from England’s shameful past and bloodthirsty patron Saint and a return to Edward the Confessor, man of peace, man of God, known to be able to heal the sick by touch and to have performed other miracles.

English people have always felt pride in their Englishness and from 1707, felt pride in their Britishness. With nationalism in Scotland on the increase, England should no longer feel ashamed in celebrating her national day. They are not letting Britain down by celebrating their Englishness, to the contrary, they are proving that difference works. As with the European Union, a collection of very different people can come together and still retain their individuality.

Vivre le différence, England and Saint Edward the Confessor!

Incidentally, although the date remains factually unproven, it is believed that this is also the day on which William Shakespeare came kicking and screaming into the world. Sadly, it’s also the day on which he died. How English can you get, my bird? I don't mean dying on your birthday, I just mean having Shakespeare born on England's national day. Yesterday, on the eve of Saint George’s day, I alluded to The Bard in Fib Sunday. Check it out! Fib Sunday is not a day, nor a state of mind, but a way of life, my love.

Goodbye Fib Sunday

She knows if she touches it, she'll break it, dear reader.

I wish that I was married
And all my work was done
Living with my ma-in-law
And sleeping with her son

Bubble and squeak, mon amour. And welcome to Fib Sunday.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Or if poetry's not your bag, try this, a gallery of men in kilts. It's really quite fabulous.

Oh, and by the way, I've recently learned to count to ten. Look:

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. So confident am I, I'm thinking of resitting GCSE/standard grade maths. But not before I've mastered eleven to one hundred. It's the teens, they get me every time. Why can't it be oneteen, twoteen, threeteen...?

I might write to The Queen and complain. She's a good girl and loves the common people, always taking their side. You know, the lowly ranks, the Baronets and Life Peers.

Hark at me, veering from the subject at hand, my little maid! Fib Sunday...

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, Matty finished off proceedings with a poem about Anne Murray. Sadly, he didn't leave a new topic. The last person to do that was Anjou Wu with quality or quantity?

My superior and abundant response:

This
time
I know
it's for real.
Stories of our lives:
Lots of small cocks or one big one?

Next topic:

Cruel world!

A stranger in Fib Sunday

Bonjour!

I'm being fooled, here, dear reader. The calendar says it's April, but the thermometer says it's July. It's hotter here than it is in Malawi! Something to be excited about.

Of course, excitement soon turns to depression when we remember the power of karma. Four stomachs, one heart is no more.

For every good thing in the world, there's a bad. I know, it stinks, doesn't it, hen.

Still, we've always the sunshine and the joy of Fib Sunday to take our minds off of other more sorrowful things. And there are other blog games to be played, too, dear reader, if you do so desire. There's Haiku Saturday and Remember that one time...? to name but two.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Or here if you want to do something just as fabulous and play Bubbels.

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 time, Brian left us with the topic of I hate to tell you this but that's not tea you just drank. I hereby excrete the following:

Heard
the
kettle...
She drank it.
Just biding my time
to see the health effects of piss.

Next topic:

My place.

The grandest lady in the Fib Sunday

Can you read my mind?

Yibol shickey, milley unt scrubbely. Me screwbah noaow. Nogowe. Wee.

And welcome, mes amis, to this Easter edition of the Fib that is Sunday. The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun when you read my mind.

I thought it might be a nice idea to pop out to one of Edinburgh's many art galleries this afternoon. Or perhaps jump off from the top of the Scott Monument.

I don't mind if you don't mind, dear reader.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. They are the best set of instructions on the internet. No, really. Well, apart from the Catholic guide to sitting on a gentleman's face. But that's another story.

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 time, Brian left us with the topic of Minge hikes up Ben Nevis. My exhausted and blistered response:

One
foot
in front
of the next?
One hundred thousand
See Minge be a tit on The Ben.

Next topic:

Easter parade.

More Fib Sunday

Sunday is the day of rest, dear reader. But I cannot rest. I have to work out why Russell shiTforbrains Davies is so obsessed with recycling themes, characters, names and stories in his work. It used to be interesting, now it's plain annoying.

But, oh, what better way to take my mind off this vile little man than Fib Sunday?

There is no other way. Well, there's putting my tongue in a plug socket, but it's a waste of electricity, quite frankly.

Incidentally, this is the last ever Fib Sunday. More to the point, my last ever blog entry. Ever. I'm tired of it, to be honest. It takes up a lot of my time, time that should be spent living, not talking about living.

So that's it.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. They are quite fabulous, even if I say so myself.

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 time, Brian left us with the topic of a fly on the wall overhears a conversation between Edina Monsoon and Andy Warhol. My stylised yet overweight response:

"Uh
oh -
Andy!"
Said Eddie,
"I'm on a tin can?"
"Yeah," said Warhol. "Beans. Buddhist beans."

Next topic:

1st April 2007

A rockin' Fib Sunday

Can we get together? I really want to be with you. Come on, check it out with me. I hope you feel the same way, too.

If it's bitter at the start, then it's sweeter in the end.

Bom dia, grüß Gott and all that... Oh, and welcome to the world of Fib Sunday, dear reader! And what a day! The powers that be meddled with time (and The Doctor was not involved) in the night. I feel like the victim of a sci-fi horror novel. Guests in my home would have found me, at the ungodly hour of 10:40, sat around in my bra and pants. I thought it was 09:40. BST is a vile travesty of all that is strange about the United Kingdom. I feel like taking my bag of hammers to it.

Nothing stays the same, honey. Click here to read a story about the end of time. No, really.

I heard she drove the silvery sports car along the empty streets last night.

But I digress...

Having messed around with creating cinematic fabulousness last evening, folding pants and thoughts for the day (alright, it was only bloody You Tube), it's time to move from lowbrow to highbrow (I can dream, can't I?). From nonsensical campery to Fib Sunday, my little maid.

Don't mess around.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. You'll thank me for it later.

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 time, Brian left us with the topic of the funniest song you've ever heard. My melodic yet humourous response:

Dim
All
The lights
When they play
That strange chicken song
None shall see me piss with laughter

Next topic:

...good way.

Success has made a failure of Fib Sunday

Would you risk it for a biscuit?

Bonjour, dear reader, and welcome to Fib Sunday! It's been a while, but now der tag der poesie is back! Back!! Back!!! Etc.

Oh, and not only is today Fib Sunday, but it's also Mother's day. Well, it is here in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Braun Independent. Beautiful hair. Any time. Anywhere.

If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. Go on. Quick, while no-one's looking. It'll be our little secret.

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 time, Brian left us with the topic of Croatoan. My fictional yet scientific response:

Pa!
Down...
In death -
There is life!
Abortions will end
With the gnashing of croc's teeth. Balls!

Next topic:

Our home.

II

I'm going to England tomorrow, for a little over two weeks. Exciting! Nice to cross the border! I might even get to meet Krafty Bitch, who is Bristol bound!

Welcome, dear reader, to Window On Your World II.

For the original, please click here to see what happened and here to see how it all began.

This time, hen, the time and date for photographs is Sunday 4th March 2007 at 17:00 GMT. And, times are not local on this occasion! To work out when 17:00 GMT is where you are, my darling, try clicking here, here or here. Go on, you know you want to! For example, 17:00 GMT on 4th March will be 12:00 (midday) on 4th March in Indianapolis, 20:00 (8pm) on 4th March in Kuwait and 02:00 (2am) on 5th March in Tokyo.

So... Please take a photograph of whatever you see before you on Sunday 4th March 2007 at 5pm/17:00 GMT and email it to me. Feel free to add any information you like, what the picture shows, what you were doing at the time, where you are, whether it's typical or atypical of where you are or what you do at 17:00 GMT on a Sunday (if, indeed, it is still Sunday with you at 17:00 GMT on Sunday 4th March). Anything. It's up to you. One thing: Please put Window On Your World in the subject line. That would be very helpful.

All images will be uploaded to my blog some time during the first week of my return from Bournemouth. I'm back here in Edinburgh on 12th March. Should be exciting!

Go on. Take my advice and take part. You know you want to!

We largely have David to thank for Window On Your World II, my lamb, who suggested this:

Hey, since you have global readership, have you thought about having the shoots be done at exactly the same time? For example, ask all of us to take a picture of what we are all doing at 1700 GMT, UTC, Zulu--whatever the hell you call it. So you would take a picture of what you are doing at five in the afternoon. I would take a picture of what I am doing at 12pm Eastern Standard Time. Brian, Brett, Herb, and .25 Life Crisis Kid would take a picture of what they are doing at 11am Central Standard Time. At least, I believe that there is a 5/6 hour difference between us.

In other news, I'm having difficulty deciding who did the best version of Santa Maria: Samantha Fox or Tatjana. Who do you think comes off best, my little maid? I must admit to being more drawn to Samantha.

Also, there will be no new edition of Fib Sunday until my return from England. Dom was going to do it, but he's busy boning a soldier just now. Meanwhile, continue playing with the last episode, if you'd like, by clicking here.

Go on. Go on. Go on.

The first time ever I saw Fib Sunday

Happy new year, dear reader. Never thought I'd feel this way and I've got to say that I just don't get it.

Heute is Fib Sunday, my love, not just the first day of the Chinese year. If you don't know what's going on or indeed what Fib Sunday is, click here to read the original instructions. Go on, you know you want to.

Go on!

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 time, Brian left us with the topic of Oscar Wilde. My response (with hard labour):

Boys,
Boys,
Go now.
Oscar's dead.
Please tell all your friends:
He could not take the Eucharist.

Next topic:

North Carolina

Try it (I'm in love with Fib Sunday)

I think of you each day. I think of you at night. Do you think about me, darling, when you make love to your wife?

Phyllis and I are just back from the lakes. It was fabulous. I'm going to sort out the thousands of photographs we took, upload them to my computer and blog about the funkiest of weekends tomorrow.

Not only is today Fib Sunday, but it's also Window On Your World day. Depending on your global location, 5pm/17:00 has either passed or is looming. Please take part and remember to email your photograph to me, dear reader, at your earliest convenience. I hope to get all the images online by the middle of next week.

But back to today, Fib Sunday:

If you don't know what's going on or indeed what Fib Sunday is, click here to read the original instructions. Go on, you know you want to.

Go on!

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 time, Kapitano left us with the topic of Boom Bang-a-bang. My rockin' response:

Loud
in
my ear:
Lulu shouts.
Please sing instead, hen.
Don't boom! Chirp! Bang - and then we're done!

Next topic:

Living out a fantasy!

Sunday

Ian and I took a trip to Fife on Sunday. While the Fib Sunday fans were beavering away, Ian and I were on the beach in Elie having fun with the dogs before going on to Anstruther for the best fish and chips in Scotland.

My dear daughters love the beach. As you can see by the photograph of Meg, dear reader, they were knackered on their return home.

Once we're free of Winter and Spring has sprung (though it feels quite Spring-like today, dear reader), we're going to take Ian's Father and Aunt to Anstruther for a fish supper and a trip to the Isle Of May. Lots to look forward to.

Fuck the poll tax.