Of drawers and other demons

At last. I have finally joined that group of illustrious, glorious writers who have that bad first novel secreted away in the back of a deep dark drawer. It’s been hard work and a long haul but I got there in the end. I knew I could do it.

When I think back over all the hours spent creating two dimensional characters (so tedious and inert that it was a race between them and the reader to see who would succumb to a coma first), gratuitous grandiose descriptions of the minutiae of life (including skirting boards, tile grout, scabs and nasal hair) and dawdling plot development (not a question of what will happen but will something happen) it is with an enormous sense of pride.

Remember the bloodshot eyes, the aching wrists and the protesting brain; drained of imagination and creativity but persevering because practice makes perfect? And there was all that revising, rewriting, revising, rewriting, revising, rewriting and revising again. The hundreds of printer cartridges, the acres of paper, the notebooks, the research, the tragic loss of the favoured pen, the writers’ groups, the feedback, the tantrums.

Oh, the dizzying highs and the crushing lows.

Oh, the humanity.

Oh, the sheer joy of shutting it away in a drawer.

Damn, it feels good to get that one under my belt. I’d burn it but in this weather the whole of NW2 would probably catch light. I suppose this way I always have something to wedge under the leg of wobbly furniture.

If I ever dare take it out of the drawer.

I think I can hear it whispering in the middle of the night, you know.

Get dooced

I noted with mild-to-no interest the debate about Catherine S who got sacked because of her blog, then yesterday my boss said to me ‘Do you wish I didn’t read your blog so you could diss me on it?’

What a twat.

Robin Watch (3)

Yesterday I received this email:

Where’s Robin?

Good question.

Robin has spent most of the hot weather walking around with a pair of saggy shorts hanging perilously below his bare beer belly. He has also been sporting a bit of black string round his ankle which is either a fashion statement or a sign that he belongs to some religious sect I’ve never heard of and don’t care about. As he is very fair he has still to tan, preferring instead a delicate shade of pale cerise.

More interestingly though, he has been engaging in some guerrilla gardening. In the vague vicinity of my flat there is a small car park, which is one of those you find in residential areas where The Youth hang out in the evening kicked rubbish around, and foxes hang out at night kicking rubbish around. This small car park is only remarkable in that it has the most tumbliest down wall of any car park anywhere. I don’t know whether there is a particular (male) driver who keeps bumping into the wall but everyday another part of it is laying across the pavement in a state of disrepair and despair. Then two old Irish blokes come along and argue loudly whilst they fix it. On reflection I think maybe it is the old Irish blokes who knock it do to keep themselves in stout money and also to provide a forum for healthy debate about QPR.

Anyway, inside the car park wall there is a flower bed. It’s much improved recently because Robin has planted sunflowers all along it. They are growing like triffids which is reasonably scary but I’m trying not to worry too much as I can’t believe that even if sunflower did grow to seven foot, uproot themselves and start traipsing around Willesden Green they wouldn’t be too malevolent anyway. So, in a couple of weeks, possibly days, we’ll have nice sunflowers peeping over the top of the wall, or through the hole in the wall, and that will improve the quality of everyone’s lives no end (please note I can’t make that sound anything other than sarcastic, but it’s not meant to be). Robin got his friend Buckethead (they insist this is his name but I'm sure it’s Clifford) from Canada to help by carrying the watering can.

Robin has been guerrilla gardening for a while apparently. He planted daffodils around the bottoms of all the trees along the street, which was very nice. And he, and some friends, made a small community garden a while ago, but the evil fascist council dug it up and caused a small local rebellion.

So, Robin has been very busy. Thank you for emailing, Marvin458. Are you a Martian? I hope so.

Pardon?

I told you, didn't I? You can't believe, sorry I mean, understand a word Tony Blair says. He is honey? You want to do what?

Vouchers for Honours (or squirrels eat Tony Blair)

(The doorbell of Froosh Towers rings. Froosh opens the front door)

Froosh: Hello? Oh dear.
Man: Hello there, happy voter. My name, is, Tony Blair. You might recognise me from, such television shows as; Ant and Dec's Saturday Night Takeaway and Tony and June, where I proved, myself, to be a man, of the people.
Froosh: No. But I do recognise you from such atrocities as the Iraq War and the crisis in NHS where you proved yourself to be a complete twat.

(pause)

Tony Blair: Well. Never mind, that now. Yeah? I would like to; speak to your, daughter. Please.
Froosh: What for?
Tony Blair: Well, I have the offer of, you know, a lifetime for her.
Froosh: And that is?
Tony Blair: I’m aware that; recently, she has come into a bit of money. Right? Yeah?
Froosh: Are you talking about her child trust fund voucher?
Tony Blair: That’s right. Thanks to Gordon. Well, you know, I was thinking that if, she was to give that to me, I would give her a peerage. What do you think? Yeah?
Froosh: A peerage?
Tony Blair: Yeah. Why not?
Froosh: You want her child trust fund voucher and in return you’ll give her a peerage?
Tony Blair: Yeah. What? It’s a win win.
Froosh: So it’s vouchers for honours now is it?
Tony Blair: Yeah, the whole; cash for honours thing? Didn’t really, work out. Poor, Lord, Levy. Terrible business. But. The party or whatever it is, won’t fund, itself. Will it? Do you know what I mean?

(pause)

Froosh: Why can’t you speak properly? It’s virtually impossible to understand anything that you say.
Tony Blair: Whatever. Yeah? Anyway can I speak to your daughter or what? I’m a; busy man, you know. Busy. I’ve got to get back to number ten, Cherie will have finished, warming the toilet seat for me, by, now.
Froosh: No you can’t speak to her.
Tony Blair: So, you don’t want her; to have a peerage, then?
Froosh: No. I don’t.
Tony Blair: I see. Can I have the voucher anyway?
Froosh: I’m closing the door now.
Tony Blair: No, don’t. Please. I need, the money. Cherie wants, me, to buy her some, polo ponies.
Froosh: Get your head out of the way or I’ll shut it in the door.
Tony Blair: You know. Please.
Froosh: No. Are you crying? Jesus, don't cry.
Tony Blair: What about; Leo’s school, fees? Please.
Froosh: No.
Tony Blair: Give me; the voucher. I’m the Prime Minister, you know, you have to; do what I say.
Froosh: I will not hesitate to set the squirrels on you. They haven’t tasted human flesh in a while.
Tony Blair: I’m not, scared, of a couple of; squirrels.
Froosh: That’s fighting talk, you know.
Tony Blair: Bring it, on, yeah?

(A cloud covers the sun as the birds cease their happy chatter. The sound of thousands of tiny footsteps is audible in the distance. It is a sound to chill the blood; menacing and portentous.)

Tony Blair: Oh, dear.
Froosh: You could try offering them a peerage each. There’s more than one way to reform the House of Lords, after all.

What did the lifeboat say to the chapstick?

My "friend" Trugnugget said to me yesterday; ‘Froosh, buddy, tell me your three favourite jokes’. So, I did. He was sorely disappointed in me.

Linda Smith was clearly one of the funniest people ever to grace the planet – her appearances on various Radio 4 panel shows (and the only Room 101 that's been vaguely funny) are invariably evidence of her absolute genius. Even when she was laughing at other people jokes (I’m thinking of the Sandi Toksvig being send condoms on contraception day riff here) she was hilarious. So my first favourite joke has to be (from the News Quiz) “This is Prince Charles and Camilla. Or, as I like to think of them, Rod Hull and Emu.” Although, as I can’t stress enough, everything she said was funny. I miss her.

Secondly, on a recent Deadringers the guy who does the impressions of Menzies Campbell started one of his Campbell sketches (which aren't funny) with the gag “Aren’t high court judges looking young these days?” This made me laugh so hard beer came out of my nose and I hadn’t drunk any for two days.

Also, Humphrey Lyttleton, another person who is just effortlessly hilarious at all times (unless he's playing his trumpet, had a great gag on ‘Sorry I haven’t a clue’ about Una Stubbs, ‘Give us a Clue’ and ‘Fanny by Gaslight’, but I discovered whilst explaining it to Trugnugget that I can’t remember it well enough to communicate it in all its mirthful glory.

Then, the classic – ‘Don’t tell them your name, Pike.’ I hated Dad’s Army but for some reason every time I think of that I chuckle a nice chuckle. A harmless homeguard 1940s chuckle in fact.

Trugnugget didn’t find my re-enactment of these golden moments in comedy funny in the least. I think he was expecting some 'Ostrich walks in a pub' crackers. However, I would like to thank the old Irish bloke who bought me a packet of peanuts in return for my stopping my impression of Mr Mannering which had sadly morphed in Frank Spencer for some reason. I can’t remember why. Also, my eternal gratitude to The Fat Marmoset and Cheesy Q for not throwing darts at me despite all the nasty threats.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (6)

Squirrel: I’ve told you before, haven’t I. Leave the nice Froosh alone. She doesn’t want you lot messing about with all her stuff.
Me: No, I don’t.
Squirrel: They’re all right really, they’re just a bit over tired.
Me: Right.
Squirrel: Funny, isn’t it? You’ve just had a baby. We’ve just had several.
Me: Yes. I’m so pleased for you. Really. Delighted.
Squirrel: Yeah, thanks. They’re a nice bunch. Bit lively but squirrels will be squirrels, eh?
Me: What’s the matter with that one? Why is it doing that with its tail?
Squirrel: What? Shaking and twitching like that, you mean?
Me: Yes. It's scaring me.
Squirrel: Oh, he’s just showing off about something. He’s a bit moody, that one.
Me: I see.
Squirrel: I’ll get him home before he stabs someone.
Me: What’s he called?
Squirrel: Bastard.
Me: Bastard?
Squirrel: Yeah. He’s named after his grandmother.

Market, mais oui.

A (very) little bit of France came to Willesden Green this weekend and parked itself outside the Library Centre, right next to the wall the drunks like to sit on. My, they were in their element - crepes and diamond white all round. I took some photos for those of you unlucky enough to live in places other then Willesden Green. Poor you.

French Market outside library centre, exhibit A. See, told you so.

Onions and garlic. The garlic was not on strings but in nice bunches, so I was foiled in my attempt to hang garlic around my neck and pedal my bicylcle happily up to the bus garage and back. Oh well, at least it saved me from stealing a bicycle.

Flesh.

Sausages. Including ostrich. My friend bought some venison ones so I made her walk five paces behind me. She muttered quite a bit about that I can tell you.

Bread or pain as they say. We were on much safer territory with the baked produce. Especially the biscuits which we all agreed were delicious.

That ends the photo montage - bring back the elephant.

It would be lovely if we could have more of this in Willesden Green. Evil Queens Park, lousy with Orlandos and Jocastas, has a farmers market every Sunday. We need a market. And not one of those like the one outside Argos on Kilburn High Road. I would start a local campaign but last time I tried anything like that the squirrels wrote obscenities on my placards.

I am full of cheese today, and shallots also. I smell a treat. Apparently. People can be so cruel, can’t they?

Startled child

Oh dear. Buy Rebecca Ray's Newfoundland because I kinda liked it, you know, and she sounds a bit down and it's all rainy yet oddly sticky outside and we need to be nicer to each other and I've got a forty a day cough that's scarying the bamboo bambino. Seriously, she's on startle reflex overload.

Also, buy it from a nice independent bookshop and expand warm glow to the nth power.

Is it a plane? Yes, stupid, it is.

I am a fan of the big budget superhero movies, even to the extent that I tolerated Tobey Maguire as Spiderman with a minimum of fuss. But I do take issue with the new Cricklewood Broadway – it is horrifying. Look at him, flying away with that determined look on his face whilst a plane FULL OF INNOCENT PEOPLE plummets earthward. It’s behind you, you pantyhosed pissmidget, behind you. Honestly, it doesn’t instil great confidence in the film where I imagine with will watch him fumbling L-trains off bridges like bars of soap and allowing Lois Lane to slip through his mighty fingers at 20,000 feet.

I would link to the official site but someone obviously thinks there’s not enough pointless flash in the world and it won’t work. Stop with the flash already. So, go here to watch the big butterfingers in the trailer instead. Oops.

World Cup Woodlouse

Woodlouse: Snigger.

World Cup (Re)Prediction

Woodlouse: We owe Froosh heartfelt apology.
Me: Yes?
Woodlouse: We give bad advice to Froosh and make her look like big arse on internet.
Me: I see.
Woodlouse: Comes to woodlice attention that hot tip for football load of old nonsense.
Me: Yes, it was.
Woodlouse: Have good excuse though. Want hear?
Me: Okay.
Woodlouse: Was part of tactic to make your England win. Divert mighty and tragic Froosh jinx to other teams, make them lose. But your England too stupid – also lose. Sense Froosh is watching.
Me: Well, yes.
Woodlouse: So, Woodlice have big conference last night. Decide that Germany will win cup beating Portugalon the penalties. Baby agree. Good, yes? Now Germans definitely not win, Portgual also jinxed.
Me: You know what? They’re not my England.
Woodlouse: Not anymore, huh? You say that last time. You still hopeful sucker though.
Me: That’s not funny.
Woodlouse: Ha ha ha. Laughing with Froosh not at.
Me: I’m not laughing.
Woodlice: You lot not laughed for 40 years. Ha ha ha. Suckers.

Friends forever

I think I can detect a certain fondness here.

If Rooneo has found it in his heart to forgive him - I think we shoud too.