From the archives

This post is strictly entre nous. Because if Madame finds out I’ve done this she’ll be mildy irritated. I’ve decided for today I’m going to share with you my favourite Froosh Bamboo post from the archives. 'Of closets and cabinets' is ruled out, and widely read I expect. So, I couldn’t decide between ‘Vouchers for Honours (or squirrels eat Tony Blair)’ or the window on her world post ‘Some things I learnt at the weekend’ or a squirrel post 'A surfeit of Squirrels (3)'.

I think we should start a campaign to bring back the squirrel posts and for that reason the winner of today’s post from the archives is ‘Vouchers for Honours (or squirrels eat Tony Blair) which is also nicely topical still:

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 Crisis in the 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.
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.

Okay. It is brilliant.

It is easy to let people ruin you day, I’m sure we all know that, but it’s also easy to make sure that you have a good day too. I’ve had a lovely day today. I got up early when they weather was still crisp and went for a walk. Then I did a bit of work. I get paid to be e-nosy basically. There is no such thing as anonymity on the internet you know. But this is a subject for another post. Anyway, then I went to my new favourite café – Brilliant Kids in Kensal Rise. I know that Madame has told you all about this, waxing lyrical about how magnificent it is, and took some photographs but I had such a fantastic late breakfast there I thought they deserved another plug. I had the most fantastic Eggs Benedict I have ever eaten. Even better than Penks in Queens Park. I think this is Madame's actual favourite but I can't remember. I will check for you if you want.

The best thing about Brilliant Kids is that you can sit there for hours with a latte and they don’t make you feel like a sex pest. I think I worry about this. A man with my hair has to be concerned about these things.

So, I’d turned down trips there before. There was always something better on the television you see. The food is great, the people who run it are lovely, and it puts you in such a great mood it’ll carry you through the day. It’s worth a trip even if you aren’t local. Even from Penzance I’d come. If you are one of the increasing number of people who arrived here by searching for the café, we really, really recommend it. Turn of this blog and run there, run like the wind.

Don’t tell Froosh I love it. She’ll give me that look and say ‘I told you so.’ Over and over again.

No sex please we're Pablo

I notice that on the full and forceful list of instructions I got from Madame she didn’t write ‘don’t turn FB into a sexblog’. Not a fan of the genre, our Froosh. She didn’t put it on the list I suspect because she knows me so well.

You see I dislike sex. Intensely. I never have any and I never want to have any. This is unusual for a man of my age and vigour. And, if I may be so bold, considerable attractiveness. I find it gruesome. A gross intrusion of my emotional and personal space.

The last sexual encounter I had was a few years ago now. He was on shore leave and lived with his mother. We went back to the mother’s and his single bed had a gay pride flag duvet cover. ‘The action man one is in the wash,’ he said. I didn’t hang around long enough the next morning to find out if he was telling the truth.

I always describe myself as bisexual, if asked. But really I ought to say asexual. I’ve tried this honest approach a couple of times and, believe me, it’s not worth the aggro – how ever accurate it might be. People either think you’ve been abused (I haven’t) or you’re some kind of sex pest on the run for the law (I’m not).

I think this is because our society is so obsessed with sex that people find it unfathomable if someone says they just aren’t interested in it. Not as an activity, not as a concept and certainly not as a marketing ploy.

I haven’t been in marks and sparks since those adverts started up. And since Madame pointed out that the lady who does the announcement on the Bakerloo line does it in the style of the marks and sparks lady I can’t travel from Kilburn Park to Charing Cross without wanting to poke my eyes out. This is not just Maida Vale….

Square eyes

I love television. I will watch anything, I’m not fussy. I only have two rules: no game shows and I’m not allowed to switch it on before six o’clock. I have been known to get round rule 2 by not switching it off. Sort of like drinking yourself sober. Rule 1 I bend because really Strictly Come Dancing is a game show but it’s for charity and it’s reality television as well. Therefore allowed. And come on, Anton du Beke? The man is a god.

Although I can not bear Big Brother. I can manage Celebrity Big Brother, but only if there are no civilians in it. If I want to expose myself to the detritus of humanity I will go to a Wetherspoons pub.

I have been known to turn down a perfectly respectable night on the town for a night in front of the great black teat in the corner of my living room. Flat, wide screen just gagging to reveal all the digital delights. Even a night on the town with Madame.

It is my love of television that makes me so incensed when presented with the shambolic programme making that the (Russell) Brand Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) are so fond of. No to Robin Hood, No to Doctor Who and No, sweet jesus no, to Torchwood. Who is responsible for these aberrations? Do they have no idea? You should put people who actually watch television in charge of making it, not people who only do the job so they can tell people at dinner parties.

They, the BBC, have redeemed themselves slightly by introducing Ros to Spooks – surely everyone loves Hermione – and the miracle hour that is The Amazing Mrs Pritchard. Fabulous. I can’t wait for the DVD.

Channel 4, what ever happened to them? they used to be so special. I mourn for them. I really do. More 4? less 4 more like.

An angel at the table

La Madame Bamboo is currently, how shall we say? Indisposed? Curiously absent? Whatever it is, and you may choose just make it glamorous and mysterious, I have been given the keys to the kingdom and shall be your Guest Editor for the next couple of weeks. Maybe longer, who knows? I may get my feet so far under the table they never see the light of day again. She’ll never get her blog back. Mwah ha ha ha ha.

I make light of a heavy responsibility, of course. I have been left with a set of full and forceful directions. Beginning with ‘don’t annoy my regular reader’ (singular – I don’t believe that, for a minute), moving on to ‘don’t make my regular reader like you better than me' and ending with ‘fuck it up and I’ll kill you’. Nice. And she looks so harmless in actual life. Not real life. It isn’t a real life you know, we are at most merely actual.

Hang on, I’m just checking to see if ‘don’t get all high falutin and philosophical’ is there. No. No, it isn’t. That’s good news then.

Anyway, to summarise: trust you flourish, sorry there’s been no posting and I’ll be back shortly with some devilish distractions for you, most esteemed regular reader.

I've got a label, now I'm off to get myself cartoonificated.