Froosh Bamboo

From the archives

2006-11-15T10:59:00.000Z

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.

2006-11-13T16:32:00.000Z

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

2006-11-10T17:25:00.000Z

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

2006-11-09T19:30:00.000Z

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

2006-11-07T19:45:00.000Z

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.

Irrepressible.info

2006-10-31T08:12:00.000Z

An Amnesty International appeal, launched on Sunday, is calling on people who use the internet to sign a pledge supporting an end to internet censorship and oppression. Irrepressible.info is a web based campaign seeking the release of a number of prisoners of conscience, people who have been jailed for using the internet to voice their opinions. They are also calling on IT companies like Microsoft, Google and Yahoo to do more to protect people’s right to ‘seek and receive information and to express their peaceful beliefs online without fear or interference’.

People like Shi Tao. A Chinese journalist who is serving 10 years, doing forced labour in terrible conditions in Chishan prison. He emailed an American pro-democracy site about warnings from the Bejing news authority asking news outlet not to cover the anniversary of the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. Shi Tao sent the email from his Yahoo account. A year later he was in court standing trial for ‘illegally providing state secrets to foreign entities’. Evidence provided by Yahoo’s Chinese partner was used to convict him.

Shi Tao’s wife now endures frequent bullying and interrogation by the authorities and her work place is demanding that she seek a divorce. His parents have also been watched and harassed at work and at home.

Although cases in China are currently receiving the highest profile there are similar abuses reported in Tunisia, Israel, Vietnam and Iran.

I am adding a badge to this site to show my support for this campaign. The issues of (real) freedom of speech, oppression and censorship are obvious and important.

But we can not have a two, three or four-tier internet either. I can’t believe that we can have a global economy, that we can force all the negatives of capitalist systems on the world but we can not do the same with the positives. The internet is a great thing and it is important that people are allowed equal access to it. Particularly as it is now bound to progress and development and will increasingly become a mechanism for people to participate in the global market place.

The internet is one of the few media where people, ordinary people, can act, ask and access equally. We should protect that right.

Imagine not being able to stand up and say that you disagree with something your government are doing or saying, that it offends you morally and ethically. Not being able to alert other people to the injustice and violence faced by so many people every day. In the 21st century.

Imagine not being able to say you think Ruth Kelly looks like a lesbian. Yesterday I used this blog as a minor force for evil. Today I restore the balance.

Also, PKblogs provides access to banned blogspot addresses in India, Pakistan, China and Iran.

Verily, it is now thusly

2006-10-27T12:48:00.000Z

The good
Erm….

Oh, wait. This is good. Excellent in fact. I’ve got some merchandise. T-shirts, mug and badges. Shout out to Carol who has the know-how. I’m sure that my regular reader will be shipping a crates worth of gear over. Christmas is coming, reader, Christmas is coming.

The bad
Well, I don’t know about you but I’ve had a shitty week. You know those ones where you think it’s just got to better but somehow it never does? One of those. I’ve given up now.

The BB is teething which means that she is miserable most of the time and we can’t do anything to help her. This is soul destroying in ways I have never experienced before. And there is no sign of teeth yet. It’s just her gums preparing themselves for the horror to come. Teeth. What a ridiculous design flaw. You’d think that we would have improved them through evolution by now. You go through agony grow the first set, which then fall out. Then you get another load which take an immense amount of looking after and cost a fortune. Then they fall out and you have to have pretend teeth that hurt. And don’t even mention wisdom teeth. I don’t have wisdom teeth. I know – you’d think I’d have a mouthful.

I’ve had a headache reaching from behind my eyes, up my whole forehead (temple to temple) over to my crown for five days now. It comes and stays. What do you think? Terminal? I think I’m stressed. I’ve never been stressed before. It’s an interesting, and highly unpleasant, phenomenon. Are there tablets you can take? Does it go away on its own or do I need professional help?

The firework problem is ongoing. The neighbours seem to be taking it in turns to taunt us with their fun incendiary devices. I am toying with the idea of calling the police every time one goes up and telling them I can hear gun shots in the shrieking tones of a panicking woman.

Parsnips gave the BB the wind. Terrible, terrible wind. We all suffered equally though.

The ugly
Also, we’ve had an ‘incident at work’ that it has put my thoughts about veils into sharper focus. Actually they're more thoughts about thoughts about veils since I really don't care either way. I think that many people who would like Britain, or more specifically Eng-er-land, to be white would like people of any different ethnicity to disappear, to not have a voice, or a place in our country. And if they are here then they should be invisible and silent. My issue is that unlike the sari, the turban or the even Buddhist monks’ robes the black shrouding of some Muslim women renders them, for me, invisible and silent. That’s exactly what a minority of people want them to be. So it is like the ouroboros which eats its own tail to sustain its life. But as I said in the comments below there is no place in our society for debate on this subject any more and that is the fault of the media, fundamentalists, racists and the government so I will be quiet now. Sssshhh.

A bit of verbal about veils

2006-10-25T08:54:00.000Z

I am now thoroughly bored with the debate about veils which it seems will never end. If one more damn person asks me what I think about the niqab and hijab I don’t know what I will do but it won’t be pretty or mature.

Before I make a brief, and final, statement I would like to make the following clear:

1. If I were in charge I would ban ALL Religions, even the pretend ones, making it illegal to overtly practise ANY Religion outside your own home. Street preaching would be akin to manslaughter in the eye of my law. Faith would be a private matter.

2. When people start to go on and on about things, any things, I go through four distinct phases. The not really listening because it’s become boring phase, the finding it all quite amusing phase, the this is totally oblivious are you all stupid please be quiet phase and then the holy shit are we still going on about this it’s making me quite angry now phase.

3. I am fundamentally opposed to most Religions on the grounds that they are nearly all inherently homophobic, and none of them seem to find this blatant bigotry unacceptable. Or, in that case of some, ironic.

4. I am fundamentally opposed to most Religions on the grounds that very stupid people are able to use them as an excuse for getting their kicks by killing people, invading countries and generally behaving in ways that would shame the killer chimps of the Mahale Mountains. If a child can’t play with a toy responsibly then a good parent takes away that toy until such a time as said child’s behaviour improves. Same principle should apply.

5. Having said that, although I don’t believe in a God, I believe in believing in one. Or four. Even more if you like.

6. Although I am minded to belive that Religion has very little to do with faith anymore. If it ever did. It has plenty to do with money and power, but not too much to do with faith. Or perhaps that should be Faith.

Anyway, here is that brief, and final, statement:

I am not a huge fan of that black niqab and hijab ensemble you’re wearing. This is because only 7% of communication is verbal.

I’m not concerned that wearing it might be an infringement of your rights as a woman. I’m not worried about what statement about Muslims you are making to the non-Muslim population of Britain.

I just find it very hard to relate to you because, by burying it under swathes of cloth, you are denying me the 93% of communication which I, as a human being, rely on to form any response to our interaction. And I consider learning one of those responses – be that language skills in a classroom or something about you over a latte in a cafe. So, I’m not really bothering to engage 100%, just the 7% which covers being polite in the post office or the supermarket.

Maybe this is sheer laziness on my part. Maybe it’s just that with so many fascinating things in the world and only so many hours in the day, unravelling the thoughts and feelings you’re choosing to hide behind that veil, that you’re choosing to only express 7% of, are simply lower down on my list. And that’s not a reflection on you personally, because that would require some of that other 93%, it's a relfection on me.

There.

Don’t start me on Freedom of Speech. Really. Or Merely the Freedom to Insult People as it’s called nowadays.

Nan-o-ree-mo

2006-10-24T12:37:00.000Z

I have signed up for this years’ National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo as Mork and Mindy nearly said. What on earth has possessed me to do this I shall never know but it is too late now – I am properly enthusiastic about it.

Beginning on 1 November, and not before, I have to write 50,000 words of a novel by 30 November. You can follow my progress here.

Relax – it’s only 1,666.66 words a day. Easy. I can fit that in between a job, a writers' group, a fledgling social life, sleeping, eating, being a better half, blogging and having a five month old baby. I foresee no issues with that.

I’m going to enter into the spirit of the thing and write without too much planning and rocket through a first draft as fast as possible. This is a good way to get me through the tough bit of starting and getting into a draft of a new novel.

You’ll not be able to read anything more than a 10,000 character extract, that’s around 1,600 words. So there will be no out of the blue book deals flying around to over-hype or envy.

Working title: Hot Pursuit.
Genre: Literary fiction, but only because the other options weren’t right and I didn’t want to put Other Genres in case people thought I was writing a cowboy pastiche. Hey, there's an idea.

I’m going to go and introduce myself in the forums shortly. See if I can’t make a complete arse of myself over there as well.

Then I’ll have to rustle up some kind of plot I expect. Oh hang on – literary fiction’s my genre. No plot needed.

Ban them, ban them all

2006-10-23T11:55:00.000Z

I hate fireworks. I’ve never liked them. Loud, banging, burning things. Imagine then the horror of living in north west London this weekend. With a five month old baby.

Bang bang bang bangbangbang.

I popped out on Saturday night, to put the rubbish out you understand not to enjoy myself in a bar, and the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and smoke. The sound of fireworks was constant. There was the thick rumble from very far off in Central London, the nearer more distinguishable boom from out Harrow way and the distinct sounds of individual display in Neasden and Wembley. And the nice people over the back blotted their copy book too.

Bang bangbang pheeeeeeee bang bang bangbangbang bangbang pheeeeeeee pheeeeeee bang bang.

I imagine that’s what the blitz must have been like. With a similar fear of hot things raining down. I hid indoors, under furniture, with my ears full of toilet paper. I will be doing that in the event of war also.

‘If only Diwali was a Muslim festival,’ I said from beneath the coffee table.
‘Why?’ said tD as another £2,000 of money well wasted exploded in a deafening burst of green and red above the garden. She was calmly stretched out on the sofa.
‘Because if it was a Muslim festival they would have banned fireworks by now.’

Pheeeeeeeeee BANG bangbangbang bang bang bang bangbangbangbangbangbang pheeeeeee bang BANG.

And now ‘tis the season of kids throwing fireworks into busy newsagents and the constant sounds of fire engines careering up and down Walm Lane at all hours. Joy.

Fun with solid food

2006-10-19T12:54:00.000Z

I keep finding little smears of pureed organic root vegetable in unexpected places. This is not a usual occurrence. We are weaning. BB is in the 99.8th percentile height wise so we had to start her on baby rice three weeks ago, rather than waiting until the recommended six months, which was a bit stressful bearing in mine that she is not five months old until Sunday. It seems like only five minutes ago I was telling you she was four months old. Tempus fugit, etcetera .

Fortunately she has taken to eating like a happy little duck taking to water. She thinks that feeding is hilarious and enjoys a good chuckle half way through. Particularly if it is a vegetable she likes.

Thoughts on food so far include:

Baby rice is delicious. We are looking forward to moving on to fruit puree so we can have some alongside the rice. This will be like a Muller fruit corner, but without the nasty additives.

Potatoes are not delicious at all. They make us pull a funny face and purse our lips very tightly. We refuse to eat them.

Carrots are excellent. They are very tasty and also our favourite colour. Orange is marvellous and we strongly believe that more things should be orange.

Although sweet potato is orange we are not fooled for a second and can detect that the potato force is strong in this one. Not as bad as actual potato but not winning as many friends as the carrots.

Butternut squash is fantastic. A nice mellow shade of orange and a little bit sweet too. Delicious. Even better than carrots. Squash makes us giggle with delight and also wave our spoon around causing an enormous mess.

Swede is our absolute favourite, despite not being orange. We love the swede beyond all reasonable bounds. If we could eat swede all the live long day we would.

I don’t understand this swede thing. The swede is an evil, evil vegetable. Tastes like... I can’t think what. Hideous. As I say; evil. But she likes it. Next thing she’ll be liking apricots and curly kale. Gruesome. Give me a nice brussel sprout any day.

Never mind, we are doing well with the vegetables. Our doctor, who is also a mother of the gay persuasion, said her daughter would only eat butternut squash.

We do each vegetable in turn for two days and then stare anxiously at BB for any signs of adverse effects of said vegetable. Tomorrow it is parsnip (semi-evil) and then we begin the green vegetables on Sunday – courgette, broccoli and cauliflower. I know cauliflower is white but in our book (I recommend it, but only if you are weaning. It’s probably of limited interest to the general reader) the noble cauli counts as green.

Then, green vegetables dealt with, we can mix different purees together like potato, swede and carrot. This is called a medley. We can also give her fruit puree, as a pudding, or side order at breakfast. You have to do the vegetables first because they are savoury and some babies get hooked on the sweetness in fruit and then won’t eat the nasty swede. I don’t blame them as I am a fan of the sweetness.

Also, we keep the purees frozen in the traditional white ice cube trays. We have about three weeks in advance. They look fantastic all lined up in the freezer. Particularly the courgette which you leave the skin on. They look like little bars of soap. All organic from the nice organic shop on Harlesden Road where the man with the thickest glasses in the world works. Nice man. Blind as a bat.

Podcast # 1

2006-10-18T08:41:00.000Z

J'aime le pain

2006-10-17T12:57:00.000Z

Don’t tell Biroco but the French Market was back at the weekend. And this time it was bigger with added soap and knock off designer hats which were neither trés chic nor very French. Nary a beret in sight. Poor BB is starting her teething and so was not in tip top form but we took her for some fresh air. I forgot the big grown up camera so have resorted to using my mobile pone which only has 17 pixels and save things as bitmap files. I ask you.

Anyway, it was much the same as last time, except busier, and all the youth that had come over from the other side of the bus garage had obviously frightened all the Queens Park ignorati away. My mother would have called them, the youth, Common. Although Sunday is overpriced organic farmers market on Salusbury Road so they, the ignorati, would have all been there; crammed in between the cranberry and rosemary foccacia and the herd of four by four child killing machines. Best place for them.

The market is outside the Library Centre in Willesden Green. They are trying to get more of these events on, the last one was the African Market and Something, which I would have like to have gone to but I was entertaining that day and thus not allowed out.

Aren’t ordinary everyday items fascinating when in a foreign language? Moutard. Marvellous. And some other things to make cassoulet with. Cracking.

You could smell the cheese a mile off. Not a literal mile, a nasal mile. We had some brie and some smoked raclette which is as stinky as I am prepared to get in the cheese department.

And there was hardly any bread left but the mound of biscuits eased the pain. I have accidentally been very funny and clever there. Pain. It’s rude to point out your own haphazard genius, isn’t it? Pain though. Or lack of pain. It’s a good job I’ve got a blog or that would have been wasted. Wasted.

And I thought there was fruit but it was soap. Thankfully I don’t often do fruit so I was spared the embarrassment of taking a huge bit from a lavender and mimosa scented apple. I was a close run thing though. I have been known to fall upon delicious market stalls with an open mouth and a hopeful heart.

This is clearly soap. I do soap daily.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia

2006-10-17T10:41:00.000Z

Imagine I posted this picture on Friday the 13th when I took it. Yes?

I came out of my Shorthand mock exam on Throgmorton Street, round the back of Threadneedle Street, and the Gherkin was either in the process of lifting off, falling down or shrouded in paraskevidekatriaphobia. Either way it was quite a sight. I galloped around the corner to see what was happening but when I got there it had gone.

Of closets and cabinets

2006-10-16T12:29:00.000Z

When reading reports yesterday that Ruth Kelly is dragging her comfortably shod heels over the new gay rights legislation I was again agog at the woman. She really is a most fascinating creature.

It’s much like when I was a kid and my mother, who used to drive around the countryside nursing old people, took me to work with her. One patient had a terrible ulcerated leg. I was left in the living room with the ancient cat but I could see the leg through the crack in the door just on the other side of the hallway. If I shut my eyes and think hard enough I can see it now: all wet and red raw in the middle, yellow crusted around the edge and surrounded by blackening skin. It stretched almost the length of the woman’s calf and was being packed with gauze and sudocrem. I should have looked away but I couldn’t, I had nightmares about it. It was utterly repellent and yet totally fascinating. Like our Mrs Kelly.

When she was made Education Secretary there was great excitement in my house. I didn’t know she was a religious fundamentalist then, I’d only seen her picture in the paper and it had sent my gaydar pinging off the scale. I burst through the front door. ‘They’ve done it,’ I cheered. ‘They put a big old out-lesbian in the Cabinet.’

Of course, they hadn’t and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what we’ve ended up with. But what fascinates me, like an ulcerated leg, is this:

If she actually is a committed and certifiable Catholic cult member, if she really does hold ultra-catholic views on homosexuality and abortion, and if she genuinely is a woman riddled with all that bigotry and intolerance then what on earth is she doing? I don’t mean how can she, in all conscience, be the cabinet minister with the equalities brief, although it’s a very good point. I mean: Why does she present as a lesbian.

It’s the sensible shoes, shipping forecast, house full of cats type lesbian. The one with the standing order for the donkey sanctuary and the cupboard full of herbal teas. The one you don’t see around a lot anymore. Which is a shame; I liked her. But even our Ruth has pegged her as a dying breed and is moving on; having done the Wrong Shade of Lipstick Phase she is doing the Growing Long Hair Phase. The stuff of (a now tattered) text book, next she’ll be adopting a more androgynous look to go with her new patent brogues.

A friend of mine, who is now old and wise, spent many years as a fervently practising catholic even though he knew he was gay; he was having a hard time dealing with it. He converted when he was at university and said that it was great to find a place where everyone and everything around you validated your self loathing. As though he was a bulimic being told that not only is it acceptable to binge and vomit, but everyone else should be encouraged to do it as well. He also said that his self esteem plummented to such a depth that he had to turn the fear and hatred outwards on to other people just get by.

He’s much better now, he has self esteem and self respect and doesn’t need to burden himself with guilt and plead for forgiveness every five minutes. So, there is always hope.

Whilst on the subject; I was flicking through some old book yesterday and was reminded that we have an old law in this country that prevents any Catholic from becoming Prime Minister. Really I said to myself, but I thought the Blairs where Catho….

No, no. You’re right. It’s all far too obvious.

All this was once fields you know

2006-10-12T10:15:00.000Z

My regular reader will know that I grew up in the countryside. The village in which I grew upwards in height but not maturity, or Brixworth as it is known to many, has the oldest Saxon church in England, perhaps even Britain. Romans lived there as well, or they might have rode through Brixworth on the way to Guilsborough or Great Creaton and threw some bathroom tiles out the chariot window as then went. I don’t think it’s possible to know. It has a bookshop and a pottery, a pond (which is in someone’s back garden) and three proper country pubs. As well as a primary school, some shops, a village hall and a little library. Or it did. I haven’t been there for many years. The last time I was there Brixworth had acquired a sprinkling of mini roundabouts and some baffling traffic calming road furniture, particularly on the way to Spratton.

Although it was quite small it never felt like a village. Not a proper English countryside village. I went on holiday to some of those in Dorset and Brixworth wasn’t really on a par. Only two thatched roofs for a start.

I’m sure my fractured sense of community wasn’t helped by my going to school in a different village and then on the edge of town, unlike the rest of the street who all went to the village school and then the local comprehensive en masse. No wonder they threw things at me.

Once we had a street party with fireworks and hot dogs. I’m frightened of fireworks and also I have a thing about the ends of sausages. So that event didn’t really do much to integrate me into village society. And I liked reading. That never went down well. I should have preferred poking dead things with sticks and shouting at the Gypsies.

I am merely that area’s second most famous daughter as Princess Diana grew up near Brixworth and she is a little bit more well known than me. I have been on many a school trip to Althrop House (we locals pronounce it ‘All Thorpe’ by the way), where there is a garden gnome, in the study, under a bell jar. He must not like it under there because every so often he makes a run for it and the staff find him in strange locations. How does he lift up the glass with his little fingers? How does he move his little pottery legs? How does he get off the chest of drawers and open the heavy doors? It’s Magic, they told us. One time I went and the gnome had gone. They hadn’t found him yet and claimed to be deeply worried for his welfare.

They have built all over my village, of course. Looking through my own personal satellite I see that the village has expanded all the way to the controversial bypass. The road perpendicular to my cul-de-sac used to mark one edge of village but now they’ve built almost to the Goat’s Milk House. So called because they sold goat’s milk when I was little. They had a goat, you see. It ate things that were indigestible then vomited on an almost daily basis.

There was also a donkey which sold tomatoes. The tomatoes were guarded by ferocious dogs. One of my nieces thought that donkeys laid tomatoes like chickens laid eggs. To this day I regret that someone put her right.

I’m going to take tD and BB on a pilgrimage there so that I have witnesses when I stand in the middle of a housing estate and shout; ‘I remember when all this was fields.’ Because I do.

You may visit what my village, Brixworth, has become if you like: by going here. It’s almost like being there, believe me. And if you visit virtually at this time of year you’ll be spared the smell of burning stubble. Oh. I forgot. There aren’t any fields any more. The green arrow is pointing to the house opposite and up one from my house. Up as in away from the cul of the cul-de-sac.

If do go visit and you zoom out? That black crippled dragon shape is Pitsford Reservoir (now with added Country Park). Not an ominous Gate To Pandemonium or anything. Although now I come to think of it is is entirely possible.

Lunchtime Randomness

2006-10-11T13:33:00.000Z

High excitement in NW2 this lunchtime. First I spotted a massive puddle which will force me to walk home a Different Way. Although not clear from this picture it spreads the whole way across the road. Imagine.

Man on a Bike, pictured below in fetching yellow, almost rode through the flood but then though better of it. It took him a little while to make his mind up, despite seeing three buses, a black cab and four small hatchbacks almost lost beneath the waves. His name is not Noah, clearly, the big chicken.

And then I spotted a mannequin unicycling across a large picture of Ruby Wax advertising some stupid television programme. I don’t think a reality TV show’s celebrity circus is going to be up to much. Surely it’ll just be a hoard of clowns and no acrobats. Unless it was a Jim Rose circus, then it would make perfect sense. I would have liked to take a better photograph of the mannequin just for you, regular reader, but that would have meant crossing two lanes of motorway bound traffic and dicing with death on the central reservation. As much as I love you we are not at the point in our relationship where that kind of near death experience is acceptable. Yet.

Another observations: the ‘toys’ inside Kinder Eggs are not what they once were. You will have to trust me on this as I have no photographic evidence; I had been forced to return the ‘digital camera’ to the web team by then.

Yar boo sucks

2006-10-10T13:53:00.000Z

I can’t be bothered today. I think I am tired.

I used to get very annoyed with parents when they described their badly behaved offspring as ‘over-tired’. No, I would think to myself, they are just being a little bastard. It’s because they are evil, not because they are over-tired. It turns out that there is such a thing as over-tired. Who knew? BB gets over-tired at tea time when she has only had a 45 minutes power nap in the morning and refused to go to sleep for the rest of the day. Over-tired mainly involves a lot of loud growling noises and bursts of shrill crying. Occasionally there are bouts of kicking followed by some intense wriggling.

I think I am over-tired. I’m going to lie on the floor and make harsh sobbing sounds until someone picks me up and gives me a cuddle.

Crab Apples

2006-10-09T08:29:00.000Z

I went to a new café on Saturday for lunch. There seem to be a number of new little cafes and delicatessens popping up in Kensal Rise at the moment. This is probably because, in the manner of an odorous backed up toilet Queen Park is over spilling into NW10. The most hilarious example of this is the deli/café next to Kensal Rise station which is an ultra moderne glass structure not unlike a very grand bus shelter. It’s full of the very expensive tat that people who think they can cook fill their kitchens with to hide the fact that they don’t know the difference between button and chestnut mushrooms never mind which end of the mushroom brush to apply to them.

Not at all like this monstrosity of middle class disparation (like aspiration but totally without value or meaning being all about money and status rather than anything important) is The Brilliant Kids Café and Art Centre. We fit right in because we have a brilliant kid and is certainly a welcome addition the short list of places you can easily take a baby younger than 6 months old. Also, independent of BB, I am so weary of the gastro pub. I don’t think it has been open for very long but it is cracking, I hope it lasts and doesn’t become one of those good places that is open for five minutes and then closes.

One half of Brilliant Kids is the café where an impossibly posh, yet very hearty, woman cooks in an open kitchen. She whipped tD up some Hollandaise sauce for her Eggs Florentine which tD reported as the best sauce she had ever had (even better than my Mediterranean vegetable pasta sauce apparently, damn it all). I had Shepherd’s Pie and steamed broccoli which was magnificent. It was a huge portion, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to tuck it all away, but when I polished it off it was so lovely I could have eaten it all over again. But this is terribly uncouth, I understand, so I contented myself with just the one portion. It is also very reasonably priced with my homemade, organic and delicious shepherds pie coming in at £6.50.

The Gods of Impending Birthday sorted the weather out so we could sit outside. The garden is a little oasis of peace and tranquillity. Once you have got the buggy beside your table. Up to that point it is an oasis of why in the name of god is this garden covered in posh grey gravel that the wheels won’t work on.

We sat underneath a crab apple tree, an upward glance looking much like this:

Next door is the other half of Brilliant Kids – the Art Centre. They do all kinds of workshops for kids; from music and movement, storytelling to knitting. There is a little club afternoon with a DJ called The Crib, where they can learn street dance, and The Popcorn Club on a Saturday morning where the little angels can watch classic children’s films. They also do children’s parties which I imagine are marvellous but hideously expensive.

And you can leave your heap of car parts outside to lower the tone without paying a penny. Joyous. Did I mention the crab apples?

Improving international relations

2006-10-06T13:11:00.000Z

A Latvian personage that I know, who is a close family friend (on tD’s side) in a way that is far too complicated to go into, is a big economist in Latvia and is often doing crazy things for his job. Why, only last week he was giving a presentation on something complex and financial to a group of terrribly proper and posh people which included the crown prince of Sweden.

Next week he has got another gig which the queen is going to be at. I have trained him up manners wise and, if she speaks to him, he is going to tell her how much he enjoyed her work in Prime Suspect which I have managed to convince him is a new Metropolitan Police initiative.

So, in a couple of weeks when we throw all the Latvian diplomats out of Britain and declare war on all Baltic states you’ll know why. Entirely my fault.

Kindness overwhelms (still) young blogger

2006-10-05T15:10:00.000Z

Crikey, this blogging is a marvellous wheeze. Shortly before nine am I post that I want the new Scissor Sisters CD. At quarter to three I receive a call from reception saying there is a package for me. At five to four I can no longer resist temptation and open package. Inside is the new Scissor Sisters CD and card signed by my most esteemed colleagues.

They are all gorgeous and I thank them. There might even be kisses.

I have just spent the last few minutes trying to think of something else I want but it’s been to no avail as I now feel as though I have everything.

Except a Suitable Coat.

And all I really want is the new Scissor Sisters CD

2006-10-05T08:44:00.000Z

It’s my birthday very very soon. I dread it. This is because for my birthday I have to have an expensive item of clothing, like a pair of shoes or a coat or something, to replace whatever has worn out since the last time said item came up in the birthday cycle. This is not only because we are poor as little hungry, cold and tatty church mice but also because I hate shopping and hate clothes, so have a tiny tiny wardrobe. I don’t hate clothes in the I’d-Prefer-To-Walk-Around-Naked kind of a way. I hate clothes in a What-A-Pointless-Waste-Of-Time-Open-Brackets-And-Also-Newspaper-Print-Close-Brackets-Fashion-Is kind of a way.

How odd then that I should look so hot you’re thinking, aren’t you? Aren’t you?

I’ve now learnt that me and the Saturday Guardian don’t mix so I don't speak from first hand experience, but tD went into a paroxysm of rage a couple of weekends ago when she read in the magazine that one of the female fashion persons had saved up to buy a slender tone machine when she was twelve. Twelve years of age that is. Honestly. If BB saves up for a slender tone machine when she is twelve years of age I will consider myself an abject failure as a parent and I will do myself, BB, tD and the rest of the nascent population a favour and top myself forthwith. And she wrote this herself, like she was proud of it. Bizarre.

Anyway, back to me.

I find myself the proud owner of merely five shirts, eight t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of baggy dark olive green trousers, a pair of fisherman pants, two (and a half) jumpers, a tank top, a cardigan, two suits, a pair of proper shoes, a pair of broken wabis and a pair of Birkenstocks. A green leather jacket, a navy velvet jacket and a bright blue hoodie. And that is all. And underwear obviously, including vests. Also, passable gym kit including same vests and trainers.

Sadly though Birthday /Time To Buy A Coat is upon us. I got away without one last year by Layering-Up but as I am now a responsible parent I’m going to have to stop looking so much like the Artful Dodger and more like Mary Poppins. This means that I will be dragged round a variety of shops trying on coat after coat after coat until one which is deemed Suitable is found. I will then take Suitable Coat back after a week and change it for the first one I saw.

Then we will have the mildest winter in the history of winters and I will be permanently too hot.

And then it will be Christmas. By which time I will have worn out my jeans and will need a new pair. Then there will be recriminations because I have allowed them to drag along the floor at the back and worn them out faster (true).

They also, apparently, wear out faster because I only wash them once a month. They are jeans. They are inherently self cleaning (less true).

On the positive side though (as I am adopting a more sunny approach again this week) it might be all different at The Shops with BB and extensive accessories in tow and I do wash my jeans more regularly as they do get vomited over with more frequency these days. And not by me I hasten to add.

I like watching the whole programme

2006-10-03T13:07:00.000Z

If you watch Spooks on BBC1 and not on BBC 3 I shouldn’t read this post if I were you. Which I’m not and besides that I’m writing it so I can’t help but read it. At least once on the way through.

Anyway, this is a little bit of filler to reiterate that if you don’t know what happens in the episode of Spooks that was on BBC 3 last night at 10.25pm, you may know it as The Episode After The African Summit Episode, and don’t want to know click away. Go here. Or here. But don’t read on.

So. Can you believe it? That they have gotten rid of Ruth, I mean. The bastards. She has gone somewhere mysterious to pine for Harry because she was framed for something complicated and then I missed a bit and something else happened and Hermione Norris’ character whose name escapes me was a bit mean which was quite sexy and then there was a plastic bag on someone’s head and some shouting and now Ruth has gone.

It’s Roz. The Norris character. I’ve remembered. I find her oddly attractive but this is not really relevant. Although I imagine Hermione Norris will be fascinated to learn that I’ve described her as oddly attractive. And thrilled too. Probably very secretly.

The real reason I love Ruth though, and possibly Spooks, is because I had a little play on at Soho Theatre, quite close to London's West End, once upon a time and Nicola Walker, who plays Ruth, was in it. And she was exactly perfect, just how the character played in my head. She seemed like a very nice person as well and even bought me a pint which always goes down well. When I look back on my hideous foray into professional theatre she is the axis of one of only four good experiences. She’s much better looking in real life as well. Rather like me.

I salute you Nicola Walker. With both hands simultaneously.

But I am not so much enamoured of her that I am prepared to watch Touching Evil. Not even the fragrant Walker can scratch the diseased itch that is Robson Green.

Of course, thanks to the BB I never see any television really. I see a little bit of television, the back of the living room door, the carpet in the hallway, the bedroom door handle, the rails of the cot, the BB. All at high speed. Then if I’m lucky I do it all backwards ending in seeing a little bit of television. I attempted to watch Cracker on Sunday and I did see some minutes of it but couldn’t tell you if Robbie Coltrane was in it because I never laid eyes on the chap. I missed the end last night so it’s entirely possible that in the last minute Hary woke up, Ruth stepped out of the shower and it was all a dream.

I fervently hope so.

The Beginner’s Guide to Being a Beginner Blogger by a Beginner

2006-10-02T13:48:00.000Z

100th post. Ha [exclamation mark] That’ll learn all those teachers at school who said I had the attention span of a gnat. A whole hundred posts. Rather than waste it on some frivolous meandering about the mysterious reappearance of my mobile phone or telling you how I found a spider in my mash potato on Friday I shall provide an important public service and blog about blogging.

I am a beginner blogger and a bit helpless, hapless and hopeless. But, being objective, I have happened upon blogs less adept than this one so I’m going to forge ahead with The Beginner’s Guide to Being a Beginner Blogger by a Beginner. I have called upon Flashman Topside to hinder me in this mission, as he wants his own blog and may have some relevant questions. You may listen in as I attempt to share my pearls of wisdom with him. Or shitbits of shite as he called them. Shall we begin?

You’ve had a blog for some months now, how come you are still a beginner?
There are bloggers who are very well respected and very widely read. Note how they have all had blogs for eons and how they have gathered momentum over time. Seven months or so is not long in the world of blog. Although some people have a friend who has a very well respected very widely read blog and then they are all linked up and ready to go by the tenth post. But this is not the case for you as I don’t have a blog of this type and we are not friends. No matter how much your mother would like us to be.

You know that thing about how, if the earth had existed for a only day, life would have appeared in the sea at teatime and dinosaurs would have sat down to watch the ten o’clock news before mysteriously dying out and human beings have only been here for 3 seconds just in time for teleshopping to appear on every channel? Well in blogging terms I appeared in the last blink of an eye. So, I am a beginner blogger rather than a stalwart of the vanguard. And it’s only as you get more people interested in what you are doing that some of the other things become relevant, like managing feed and all that.

Also, I read some of these types of article and actually, thinking back, they weren’t that relevant to the absolute beginner because they were being written from the lofty perspective one acquires when sitting on triple figures visitors a minute and 3,000,000 inbound links. Although the last one I read was very good. And helpful. So there are exceptions. As always.

How do I get a bit of the Internet to call my very own then?
I just have a .blogspot.com at blogger because it is very easy and free. Lots of people on the message board seem to moan about it but I’ve never had any problems. It’s easy and free after all. Well, it’s a little bit taxing and free now I’m in beta but that’s my own fault; I tend to get over excited whenever presented with the word Upgrade. Anyway, you just sign up and then off you go. The Help Directory is very good. I read it all. Twice. If you know about CSS and things then you can really knock yourself out. But if you don’t it doesn’t matter.

The hardest thing is thinking of a name. My mate Crispy gave me mine. If it weren’t for him there wouldn’t be a blog. I'm sure you will join with me in saying thank you to Crispy.

Yeah. Thanks. Now, what am I supposed to put on my blog?
Put what you like on it. I don’t know. I like blogs where people write something about themselves and what they think about things. Although I’m not so interested in the sex blog people, or the people who over share about their emotional traumas or experiences of near death. But that’s just me. Some people, I suppose, find that fascinating and helpful. I expect you’ll end up with a blog similar to the ones you like. There are some specific types of blog, like photo ones or tech ones or ones which just have links to other things. It’s up to you.
What sort of blog do you think I should I have then?
One where there is no footage of you sitting around in your greying underpants shaking your bong wondering how it all fits together so marvellously. That is what YouTube is for, surely? You could be an Internet celebrity.

Oh, yes, because blogging can make you famous, can’t it?
No. It can’t. That is nonsensical. The easiest way to have a novel published is still to write one. Actually, the easiest way to have a novel published is to mention to a friend over dinner that you would like to write a novel, then they will speak to their senior management team at their publishing house and make it happen for you. You might even get it ghostwritten.

Also, while we are on the subject of fame and blogging, you would have to be pretty dense to lose your job because of your blog nowadays. Unless you wanted to, or you were sacked because of some other reason. The bubble has burst on that one, if there ever was a bubble. We must now await the backlash. Also, I would advise you to have a look at the photographs of all the people who have received publicity because of their blogs. None of them are gigantic half man half dog creatures, are they?

None of them are clumsy half woman half street urchin creatures either are they? You can be so hurtful sometimes.
Sorry.

How do you decide what you are going to post and what you aren’t?
There's a fine line between posting and not posting. You could sit around writing and writing, waiting for a great post. But the point is, I think, to post and not worry. The great post will come. Surely? I know, I know – still we wait.

In my day job I have to think about what I’m writing, and my other work, about which I procrastinate so expertly, is very planned and thought out. I like posting first draft stuff here because I don’t get an opportunity to do that anywhere else.

I have three imaginary readers. I try to write for them. I made them up so they are probably a bit odd and willing to indulge me in ways that real people, sadly, aren’t. But it's quite a useful thing to do.

How long should a post be?
Exactly the same length as a piece of string. Not a millimetre more, not a millimetre less. This post is about two metres longer than the piece of string.

How often?
Well, I post quite a lot but I’m thinking of only posting three days a week on the same days. It depends on what you like really. I used to read a blog where the guy only posted once a week but I lost interest. Do you see?

If you are a smoker, or have smoked, or done some other habitual things like always sitting in the same seat on the train or something – you’re probably going to be quite good at blogging regularly.

I supposed it’s important to make sure you’re spelling is right and your blog is not full of silly mistakes, yes?
Oh yes. That’s very important. I always always make sure I never ever make any mistakes silly or otherwise ever ever.

How can I get people to read my marvellous blog?
You can sign up for some directories and ping them. Pingoat is good for this and if you go there it will make everything clearer than I ever could. I get people coming from the Tube map over at London Bloggers and Brit Bloggers (but I haven’t managed to get the code up on the new site yet – sorry). Ask the (pin)goat.

Referring to someone else’s blog and providing a link is a good way of getting yourself out there. And writing about other people’s posts. I did these two things doubled the amount of daily visitors, for a brief time.

Word of warning: I think that it’s important to be genuine about these things though. It would be easy to write something about how, over at the very popular Squashed Birds Smell Bad, Dead Crow has written about road kill. But that’s not something I’m interested in at all. I would just be doing that to link up and get noticed by her and her massive audience. That is not only very mercenary but blatantly obvious. It’s not really in the spirit of the thing.

You can also do nothing but post. Some people arrive here because they’ve searched for something odd. I had a visitor who search for something like art hanging clothes line genitalia and I had about four camel toes. And one carrie anne moss camel toe. As though that would ever happen. I imagine that if you posted something (today) which was about how delegates at the Conservative Party Conference in Bournemouth were able to attend fringe meetings where they could engage in anal sex with dwarves holding axes and large bottles of honey mead, then before proposing any new legislation they can visit a Georgian gimp who would teach them about oral hygiene through the medium of dance and booth tanning; then you might get a few hits.

How can I get people to come back and read me again?
Don’t ask me. I had three or four, or some other similar smallish number, leave comments saying they liked what they were reading. But then they don’t seem to come back again. I miss them but there you are. Maybe I went through a patch of boring posts or maybe they are busy. I don’t know. There are a lot of good blogs out there and only so much time to read them in.

I think it’s more important to make sure that your blog makes you happy and that you post what you like, than it is to have people pour praise upon you or have your hits counter go through the roof. There are few places in life you can just say what you want and no one can interrupt you. At least if you live in my house there are. Very very few. Not even the bathroom.

I did go through the obligatory statistic obsessed faze but we’ve got over that now. Haven’t we? Yes we have. Good. Yes. Good indeed.

All right. Calm down. I heard that you’re supposed to comment a lot on other people’s blogs, is this right?
According to all the other advice about blogging comment box whoring is a good way of getting people to visit your site. I think this is nonsense. Comment box whoring was once a good way of getting people to visit your site but now everyone is wise to it and it doesn’t work anymore.

There was, oh only a couple of weeks ago now, a lot of natter about commenting and should you reply as a matter of courtesy to new readers. I even joined in. Rather rashly. I now have a policy of replying to every comment. Unless it’s hilarious and then I delete it in a fit of jealousy and righteous outrage.

I, of course, don’t really have this problem because I hardly even get any comments and by replying to them all I automatically double the number I get. My, how easy it is to get all obsessed with statistics and popularity again.

I note with horror now that on some sites where I have commented (rarely and again, rashly) my details are remembered for next time. So when I read the comments now there’s every chance I might post a comment by accident. Currently, I’m too scared to read any comments at all. It’s a minefield, I tell you. A minefield.

Okay. Next question. It’s all about the linkage, isn’t it? How do I get lots of people to link to me?
Well, that’s how to get people to your site mostly. Although not totally. I think if people link to you that’s great, and a lovely compliment but you can’t make them do it. I can’t believe that some new bloggers have actually pestered others to get them to link to them. I wouldn’t expect anyone on my blogroll to link back to me just because I’ve linked to them. And vice versa. Although I am meaning to link to Popplestone and can’t because I can’t remember my blogroll password at the moment. Blogroll: another handy doobery dah.

Why are you always on that site meter page and why does it make you cry?
Those little bits of javascript that you can pop into your template so you know how many visitors you getting? Are evil. I would advise against getting one because all you’ll do is spend the whole day looking at your summary page whimpering and wondering why no one is visiting. Is there anything more soul destroying that clicking on ‘Who’s On’ and being told that ‘There have been no visitors to your site in the last hour’? Don't do it.

Anyway. I’m over this now. It’s a stage you have to go through. Like turning off your comments box.

There are stages?
Yes. We’ll do an update at 200 posts.

Okay, I’ll check my diary. What about the competition?
There is no competition. Unless you have a clone who has a blog and posts the same things you do. Otherwise how can you possibly compare?

I read somewhere that there are over 35.3 million blogs online. I think this is a lie because this morning Technorati said I was ranked 337,561 in the blogosphere and if there actually were 35.3 million I’d be somewhere around 35.29 million. Before you start, I love Technorati and will hear no ill of them.

Any more handy hints, oh wise beginner?
My best tip is to say to yourself regularly ‘Woo wee, it’s only a blog.’ And also ignore everything in the papers or on the radio about blogging, unless it is an actual proper blogger talking. Don’t look at other people’s site meters. I never have, I can’t imagine why you would want to, but apparently it can be profoundly upsetting.

If you could start your blog again what would you do differently?
I would post for three months, maybe longer, with no site meter and no comments box for a while. I think that would have profoundly improved the quality of my experience. That's all really. Ever onwards. Etc.

No really, how do I get people to read my blog and how can I get people to come back when they do?
I don’t know. Honestly. Luck?

You’ve put me off now.
Oh no [exclamation mark] don’t be put off. Do persevere. In four years you could have lots of readers and loonygroupies, at least I think that’s what they are called. You could be on the radio, in the paper, all sorts given time. I love having my little corner of the Internet and messing about with it, accidentally deleting it all and having to rescue it. It’s great. It’s much less dangerous than windsurfing after all.

Right, I’m going to start a blog and get loads of attention and be in the paper and on the radio within a year.
Or you could audition for Big Brother. It would take less brain power and far less commitment.

Welcome to blogger beta

2006-09-29T12:15:00.000Z

This must be how Dorothy felt when she, rubbing the bump on her head, opened the door of her house to find herself newly arrived in Munchkinland, at the foot of the yellow brick road.

Yee-ouch.

Better than diggin' a ditch

2006-09-29T09:20:00.000Z

Sad Little Clancy was in such dire need of a wash it was impossible to discern her delicate bronze colour beneath the thick coat of the grime. We found ourselves in such a terrible state of dishevelment that none of the other cars in the street would park near her in case any dirt blew onto them. Poor Sad Little Clancy resembled a little Dickensian street urchin; slightly consumptive and in need of a good scrub.

I took Sad Little Clancy to get some tender loving care at a Hand Wash Establishment. I was tipped off by a friend who put the frighteners on me about the horrors of the modern, violent automatic car wash. Near my old gym, on Cricklewood Lane, is a little garage with a big forecourt. It is teaming with men wielding powerful jet hoses, giant sponges and chamois leathers. There is some debate as to whether they are Russian, Kosovan or Albanian which goes to show how ignorant we are about our East European brethren in NW2.

Well, parked in the queue behind a Mercedes and in front of a Porsche (obviously over from hideous Queens Park) I did wonder whether Sad Little Clancy, as a lowly G reg Nissan Micra, would get any attention. Then when one of those women with long blonde hair and permatans, that men seems to find so attractive, stepped provocatively out of her Mercedes I thought we were there for the duration.

But no. Sad Little Clancy was seized upon like a packet of fags at a health spa. There were six burly Balkanesque types spraying and sponging, washing and waxing and before Sad Little Clancy or I knew where we were she was shiny and bright as a new penny outside and clean and fresh smelling inside.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the man as I gave him £7 which I considered an absolute bargain. I looked over to Blondie’s Mercedes where one despondent little chap was half heartedly dragging a limp sponge across the bonnet of her luxury vehicle.
‘Honestly,’ said the man rolling his eye. ‘Car not even need cleaning. Not like your car. Your car filthy filthy dirty.’

Across the forecourt four of his colleagues were admiring Sad Little Clancy’s rear end with such lip licking delight I felt terrible when I drove her back home and deprived them of her rusty beaten up charms.

Your call may be recorded for training porpoises

2006-09-26T12:16:00.000Z

Well, my attempt to maintain a sunny disposition throughout the whole week has been scuppered and its only Tuesday. We are not even at Wednesday, the Hump of the Week or Thursday, Dreaded Worst Day of the Week Always.

This is the fault of Three Mobile (or 3 Mobile, whichever you like) who are possibly the worse mobile phone company in the, albeit brief, history of mobile phone companies. Without question.*

I am all grumpy about non-UK call centres now, which annoying because I can’t be doing with all that call centre location thinly veiled racism nonsense. It’s not as though British people are not breathtakingly rude and stupid at times. I’m only grumpy about it because it is something to be grumpy about. Like finding someone utterly pestilent and then noticing that they have unfortunate hair and calling them Pube Head when actually just calling them a generically offensive yet comical nickname would do just as well, probably better.

Imagine the horror: on the 8 September my mobile phone packed up. The screen went blank and it refused to respond to my frantic button jabbing. So I executed the ‘pull the plug out’ manoeuvre, the fulcrum about which my IT expertise pivots, by removing the battery and putting it back in again. Then it wouldn’t switch on again. The little tinker.

So I phoned Three. They sent me to a Three stockist to test the phone to see whether the handset or the battery was broken. Why they made me do this I do not know as I had to send both back anyway but this is only infuriating in retrospect. It was the handset. They picked my phone (and battery and charger) up from work the following day and returned it three working days later as promised. Which wass actually five days, but again with retrospect. Gosh, didn’t I sing the praises of Three from the very rooftops? ‘What a marvellous service,’ I sang from the very rooftops whilst skipping. ‘Everyone should have a Three phone. The customer service is exemplary. They are a phone company who cares about the customer. Their call centre is in Mumbai, where they are so helpful and nice. Look at the trees, look at the birds. Sing, praise Hallelujah.’

Then on the 18 September it broke again, in exactly the same way, having worked for a total of five days. So I rang Three and arranged for them to pick it up again the next day. They didn’t. I rang them back and they said they would pick it up the following day. They didn’t. They did manage to pick it up on the third day after I was forced to bellow across the continents at them.

The phone was supposed to come back yesterday. But it never put in an appearance. So, I rang them this morning.

‘I quite understand your irritation,’ said the girl.
‘Where is my phone?’ I said.
‘It is at the repairers still,’ she said.

I listed the reasons why this was unacceptable beginning with the newsflash that my phone has been out of service for 15 days this month and ending with the stunning revelation that no one called me to tell me my phone would not be arriving when they said it would be and this was terribly rude and if there is one thing to destroy my fragile joyfulness its unnecessary rudeness. **

‘And now you will make it all better,’ I said, all calmness now spent of fury. ‘You may speak to your supervisor if you want. I will hold.’
‘I quite understand your irritation,’ the girl said.
‘I am now holding,’ I said.
‘I quite understand your irritation,’ she said.
I sang Windmills of Your Mind to her in my finest Muzak Voice.
‘I am putting you on hold,’ she said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I have already put you on hold. You are the one on hold.’
‘But you are singing to me,’ she said, perplexed.
‘No. I am singing at you. Because you are on hold,’ I said.
‘Hold please.’

I didn’t think she would come back but she did.

Sadly, she only returned to tell me that she would ring me back shortly with a solution to my problem and that she was still very understanding of my irritation. I am waiting for her to call, hunched over my phone twitching and snarling. It has been three hours. By the time I get the phone back I will have forgotten where I put the sim card for safe keeping.

Oh.
My.
God.

Where the hell is the sim card?

And now my fabled lunchtime run will have to be of the bad mood improving type instead of the good mood enhancing type which I much prefer.

Damn you Three mobile, damn you. Also, where the hell is my phone, you Pube Heads?

*Please, gentle reader, do leave me a comment with details of your evil phone company as when I finally escape my contract in 2145 I would like to avoid other evil phone companies. This way we can make the world a nicer place for one and other.

**This paragraph should really begin lower case and then become uppercase growing into an enormous angry red font but I as a Libran I am too aesthetically sensitive for any of that (or am I? I’m not sure. Yes. No. Maybe. Eek.) Also, the whole post should be littered with exclamation marks but I can’t bring myself to do that either. I don’t think my natural merriment would recover ever. Ever.***

*** End of rant.

I don't like insects

2006-09-26T09:17:00.000Z

My regular reader will know that I hate insects to such an extent I think it might well be pathological. I shouldn’t really though, given that I am technically a country girl. I grew up in a small village which was a good half an hour’s drive from town and fifteen minutes from the next small village plagued by all manner of fauna, and flora. Oddly.

But instead of living in an idyllic cottage or other picture postcard village dwelling we lived on a housing estate on the edge of village; a sprawling mess of cul-de-sacs and winding alleys ways encroaching on corn fields which the farmers burnt down in early autumn. So it was a little less rural than you might think.

There are a couple of good things about growing up in the countryside; I know a lot about wildlife, having been harassed by it during my formative years, and I don’t get all dewy eyed when faced with large expanses of grass and gently rolling hills like city types do. I stride forth confidently. That is until one of our insect brethren leaps enthusiastically for my face, intent on scarring me for life or inflicting some worse fate up on me.

This time of year is particularly difficult given the sheer volume of crane flies which find their way into our flat. I researched carefully last night what it is about that disturbs me about them as two if them fitzed up and down the living room wall.

I think it’s the fact that their legs come of so easily.

We are currently plagued by enormous spiders as well. When I took the spider register last night there were a grand total of seventeen spiders spanning more that a centimetre in my house. Many of them at least three centimetres across. And that was only the ones I could see. This doesn't bear thinking about.

Then there are the moths, the woodlice, the earwigs and the snails. I really hate those big fat furry moths as well. I remember when tD and I had only been together for a month at the very most. We were in bed when an enormous hawk-moth came through the window, attracted by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. I was hysterical, properlyhysterical in a most Victorian fashion, and had to be calmed down with brandy. I’m telling you; it flew at me with murder in its huge black eyes.

Apparently they’re more afraid of me than I am of them.

I find that very hard to believe.

I like jazz

2006-09-25T15:24:00.000Z

If a novel is like a portentous symphony and modern journalism is the equivalent of frothy pop then short stories could be three minute blasts of anthemic rock. Surely then, chick lit is the smaltzy ballad and academic papers the yowling of sixties folk. If political speech writing is anaemic boyband harmonising and advertising copywriting five finger pieces for the beginner pianist, then blogging is jazz.

You listen for ages to the doodling, tooting trumpet, squawking and squealing away, seemingly oblivious to everything else. It goes on and on and then all of a sudden there is it; that great sequence. The killer riff. The minutes pass unnoticed.

Then it’s gone again.

And we listen to yet more of the doodling, the tooting, the squawking and squealing, waiting for the next hook to grab us.

Hard knock life

2006-09-25T08:45:00.000Z

I learnt nothing this weekend. So I've either attained omniscience or I'm a cocky little bugger. You decide. I already know because I'm omniscient. That's a clue, people.

I was in a foul mood all week last week. I'm attempting a more sunny disposition this week but not holding out much hope. Look at the weather for a start. I wonder if this week I will be able to whip myself into a towering rage by Thursday and spend Friday in a righteous sulk again. I did enjoy that. Although I did post quite politely with very minimal ranting. Because I'm attempting to be ingratiating, I expect.

I went to bed a half past eight yesterday and didn't allow myself to succumb to the decadent production values the BBC (who I'm still cross with) surely lavished on their adaptation of Jane Eyre. I now regret this as I wanted to check whether the people who cobble together the Guide in the Saturday Guardian were right that Jane Eyre is about a poor orphan who struggles to cope with life at a harsh boarding school (or words to that effect). I thought it was about a governess, a sub-Heathcliffe irritant and a mad woman in the attic. Perhaps la Guardianistas are confusing it with Annie. I can see how you could get Rochester and Daddy Warbucks muddled and think that Miss Hannigan is locked in the attic. I really can. Although technically Annie was in an orphanage. Same thing though, basically.

Never mind, Spooks is on today. I'm loving that they decide to turn it into a comedy for this series.

What else? I'm psyching myself up today as I'm going for a run tomorrow. This is will be highly amusing as I haven't been for a run for two months and I'm going at lunchtime. So I will have to spend the afternoon lying under my desk in the big wide open plan office groaning and panting. Highly irregular for a Tuesday.

Friday round up

2006-09-22T09:33:00.000Z

Introduction
Friday’s post is becoming a bit of a summary covering many of the recent misfortunes to have befallen me, and the triumphs to have caught me unawares. So, although I am in danger of instituting a tradition, I shall crack on with the summary of where I am at or thereabouts for you.

Reading
I have finished the Bullet Trick. Hoorah. I am fully intending to write a measured and thoughtful review to make up for my previous petulance but I have shoved it on the bookshelf and each attempt to pick it up again results in an enormous wave of sorrow crashing down upon me, dashing me against the rocks of righteous indignation and feverish disappointment.

Televisual confusion
I was messing about with my camera last night and so didn’t plonk myself in front of the television until quarter to ten. I popped on BBC 1, even though I am Cross With The BBC At The Moment, and was most confused to find myself watching a docudrama where Tony Blair was extolling his own virtues as a God in a rather angsty fashion. Then, imagine my amazement, he confessed to having killed people and done all kinds of terrible things. Remarkable I thought. Then he, or perhaps it was Gordon or Claire, stuck a knife up through his chin and it made a noise exactly like when you crack Ice Magic with a spoon. At least I think that what happened with the knife and the chin. I have finely honed reflexes for that kind of thing so was already well under the sofa with my fingers over my ears and my thumbs in my eyes singing Yellow Submarine very loudly to avoid any TV gore induced trauma. Anyway, it transpired that it was not actually a sequel to The Deal but the same actor playing Nero, of the Roman Empire. I did wonder about the togas but thought that may be down to some strange Mandleson/ Campbell/ Blair Greco-Roman wrestling tournament. I think Martin Sheen is his name. He’s not related to Gloria Estefan either.

Football
We have discovered that the team that lost the final of the womens’ five-a-side football tournament had reached the final in the three previous years and so now feel less bad about the sound trouncing we received. Although I can’t even begin to talk about the winners yet. Bitches.

Annoying crazy people
The Mad Man Who Lives Up The Road has a new personality to add to the veritable post office queue he has already accumulated. I shall call her Fanny. She is very irritating with an incredibly loud high pitched voice and grave concerns about her job security. She fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack. Perhaps Fanny would perform a little better at work if she didn’t spent most of her time walking up and down my street screeching. I preferred Clive the Librarian. He used to rearrange the shelves in the library and hide the Ruth Rendell’s in the back of the cookery section. I liked him. The library staff liked him less though he meant they had to do some Work. Heaven forfend.

Outrage
I inadvertently left Sad Little Clancy’s door unlocked for three nights and no one stole her, slept in her, pissed in her or threw rubbish in her. I am outraged. The Subaru up the road went like a hot cake. I think I will buy Sad Little Clancy a spoiler and a neon racing stripe.

Most importantly
Bambino Bamboo is four months old today. Happy sortofbirthday [exclamation mark] She’s doing lots of interesting things and being adorable but this is the round up post so there’ll be no more of that.

And there we are. Vaarwel, gentle reader.

Some things are better than others

2006-09-21T11:19:00.000Z

Camels are better than giraffes
Radishes are better than spring onions
Stout is better than bitter
Mittens are better than gloves
Rice is better than noodles
Sarcasm is better than irony
London is better than Paris
Hands are better than feet
Jumpers are better than cardigans
Drinking is better than smoking
Hiccups are better than pins and needles
Snow is better than sand
Sculpture is better than painting
Spiders are better than daddy long legs
Shirts are better than blouses
Football is better than cricket
Triangles are better than tambourines
Tigers are better than lions
Felt tips are better than crayons
Octopus are better than jellyfish
Orange is better than purple
Chairs are better than benches
Tulips are better than daffodils
Salad cream is better than mayonnaise
Belts are better than braces
Winter is better than summer
Letters are better than emails
Cheese is better than chocolate
Silence is better than muttering
Running is better than cycling

We are(n't) the Champions

2006-09-20T10:28:00.000Z

We played football last night, me and sixteen comrades. Or the five-a-side aberration which passes for football in some ill-educated quarters. It was a biggish tournament, all proper with FA trained referees and everything, for charity. Sadly we, being the teams of the unsaid charity, were the only teams not to be in a five-a-side league, play together regularly or have shin pads so you can imagine how it went. I don’t even have any socks long enough to hold up shin pads. Luckily we did all have matching t-shirts which we filched from the Events Team Matching T-shirts Cupboard, so we didn’t look totally like amateurs. Much like amateurs.

We did look totally like amateurs. Which is okay, you know.

The Boys Team lost all their fours matches, but did manage to score twice and we, the Girls Team, lost all our four matches (in the name of equality you understand), and only scored once when our best player converted a penalty.

There was a team of small whippety woman who all had matching shorts as well as proper polyester blend tops with the team name on the front and numbers on the back. We feared them because of the matching shorts. I think they probably won overall. Although by the time the final whistle was blown on that match I was sulking in the back of the car somewhere in Vauxhall. The tournament was in Norbury which is very south of the river and therefore this morning I feel a little virus-y.

When I was a little bit younger I used to be rather good at the old football. The boys used to let me play and everything. Then I played at university and we were quite good. But not five-a-side. Proper grown up football. Last night I remembered why I avoided it.

There’s no opportunity to show off your silky skills in five-a-side as the minute the ball touches your foot all four outfield members of the opposition bear down upon you in the manner of starving wildebeest seizing upon a patch of pampas grass. You can’t hit the ball above head height so no crowd pleasing bending. No dribbling to speak of, no Ronaldinho elastics, no Ronaldo chops, no Rai flicks, no Cruyff turns. No showing off. No fun. I only got one step over in, which came to nought shortly after as three starving wildebeest nipped the ball away and hurtled away with it to bring to score to eight nil. Five-a-side doesn’t really suit my leisurely, it has been said elegant playing style. Also, I don’t like falling over on Astroturf so that’s a good deal of my Portuguese influenced game gone before I’ve put right instep to ball.

Also, there was too much sand on the pitch and they made us play with the wrong balls. Bah.

On the positive side I didn’t get stretchered off as had been predicted and other than a little tightness in my left hamstring I’m totally unscathed. It was, in fact, the boys’ goalkeeper who spent seven hours in A & E (I preferred it when it was called Casualty) getting his fractured wrist set in plaster for six to eight weeks. Who would have thought? I was well up for a couple of weeks in traction too, having sorted out reading material and everything.

On reflect this post should actually read: we played football, I’m not as good as I used to be, I feel bad for letting my team mates down and I hate, hate, hate The Losing. I’m in misery.

You get the gist though, I’m sure.

Insert title here

2006-09-19T13:52:00.000Z

I am terribly busy being both charming and erudite so am unable to magic you up a post today. You may like to provide your own post by using the handy template below. I will be back tomorrow to update you on the charm and the erudition.

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Some things I learnt this weekend

2006-09-18T10:15:00.000Z

Charlie Sheen is not related to Gloria Estefan.

Shouting at the very very top of my voice during arguments in Sainsbury’s about whether there are courgettes in the fridge, insisting there are when I know very well there are not, does not make courgettes magically appear in said fridge.

I am one and a half centimetres shorter than I have been telling people; I am either a liar or a midget of the future.

It is not possible for me too fit through the bathroom window. And it is not quieter for me to attempt this than it is for me to ring the doorbell and ask tD to let me in.

I must not wake the baby when she is napping during the day as it is impossible to get her to go back to sleep and she is grumpiness personified for the rest of the day.

I am not, no matter how fine a point I balance my clutch on, or how little I put in the boot, going to beat the arse-crumb round the corner’s enormous land rover off the lights at the bottom of Walm Lane. Indeed, if I continue in this fashion I will find myself and Sad Little Clancy on the painful side of the broken window of Sarah Teather’s constituency office.

St Elmo’s Fire does not ‘shit all over’ Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. As someone who has never seen St Elmo’s Fire I should cease and desist from making such bold statements in earshot of (surely one of the only) fanatical Matthew Broderick fans.

I am not the kind of woman who can afford to only half pay attention whilst engaging in complex and private hair removal activities.

Police cars are not taxis.

Nice doggie

2006-09-17T18:39:00.000Z

I have never been a woman to get chatted up by strangers (of any gender) in bars. This is something of a tragedy as since a young age I have been accumulating a wealth of scathing put downs and acidic comebacks for just such occasions. So imagine my joy when earlier, whilst enjoying a quiet afternoon pint of Guinness and spending a meaningful hour with a pile of vellum and my favourite quill, an opportunity to use Put-down #12,387 presented himself.

He sidled up to me like an slimy gecko and draped himself, in what I can only imagined was supposed to be a seductive manner, across the chair.
‘You know, I could fulfil your every sexual fantasy,’ he said, issuing forth drunken spittle rich with chardonnay fumes and kettle chip crumbs.
‘How odd,’ I said. ‘You look absolutely nothing like a Great Dane to me.’

The fruitless struggle for a response killed off 134 of his remaining 137 brain cells and, with only his gross motor skills still fully operational, he slithered back over to the bar; a broken man.

Roadside Assistance

2006-09-16T18:30:00.000Z

Poor, poor car. Old, old car. Sad Little Clancy wouldn’t start again and made none of the recognisable noises of illness in which I am expert, so I had to call the AA. Foxy AA lady was not working so I was homestarted by Brooding AA man. He was not so good at soothing my fevered brow and patting my arm in a non-patronising way as Foxy AA Lady is.

SLC: Click.
Me: You see? Just click-y. Not ruuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmm-y.
BAAM: It’s the battery.
Me: The battery?
BAAM: The battery.

He ran through a number of diagnostic procedures and said I would need a new one as the old one was ‘buggered’. I would have to follow behind his van and be led to Lloyds in Edgware who would sell me a new battery (for £61.88) which he would then fit for me by the side of the busy busy with very fast buses four lane road. He plugged the car into something technical and oily and we started it.

SLC: Ruuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmm.
BAAM (getting into van with air of misplaced unconcern): Whatever you do, don’t let it stop running.
Me out loud: Okay. Whatever I do, don’t let it stop running. (pause) Hang on, what happens if I stall it?
[Me in my head: At the fast and frenetic Brent Cross roundabout as I am wont to do regularly.]
BAAM: Don’t. Stall. It.
Me out loud: Don’t? Stall? It?
BAAM: Not unless you want me to jump you in three lanes of rush hour traffic.

I think he meant jump start.

My, there is a world of difference between Brooding AA Man and Foxy AA Lady.

Friday: brought to you by the number 8

2006-09-15T08:31:00.000Z

One
For some reason today I thought it would be appropriate if I just combed my hair with a breeze block, cleaned my teeth with some old dusty flock wallpaper and inflicted myself upon the world. I do apologise for my ramshackle appearance. I truly am a tumbling down former council house in human form.

Two
Someone asked me a very good question earlier. They came up to me and whispered in my ear; ‘Julianne Moore or Carrie Anne Moss?’

Hmmm. How well they know me.

Three
Why has Robin Williams made yet another spooky film, in the manner of One Hour Photo and Insomnia? I know he stopped the comedy when the drugs stopped working and went all sentimental, but spooky? I don’t like it.

Mind you, this could be like the time I got Bob Hoskins and Danny Devito mixed up and had some very trying conversations about The Long Good Friday. Who would I get Robin Williams mixed up with though? Maybe Kathy Bates.

Four
Damn you, Flashman. I wish we’d never mentioned the sex blog thing. Trugnugget says he’ll pay me £100 to post something really graphic as long as it’s true. Minzie says she’ll pay me £200 not to post it. But The Lovely Mrs Tashoka says ‘£500 in [my] pocket and [she’ll] give [me] something to write about to boot. I want to go and hide in the cupboard under the sink with the bleach.

On the other hand we really do need the money.

Five
Three people have asked me if I will please act like a grown up for once and get feed. Feed? Yes, feed. Or fucking feed as it seems to be called in some circles. So, I said; ‘Well, I will have to find out what the etiquette for that is and I will get back to you. Piss Midget.’ When I say ‘find out what the etiquette is’ I of course mean ‘find out what feed is, exactly’.

Six
If I’d known that M&Ms were offering a reward of 2 million M&Ms for the return of The Scream I’d have looked a bit harder. Instead of glancing around the living room briefly and going; ‘tD, have you seen my The Scream? I can’t find it. Have you moved it again?’ like I usually do. If I find out I’d accidentally kicked it under the sofa again I’m going to be livid.

Seven
Please, in the name of all that is decent and clean and lightly perfumed, let me finish The Bullet Trick soon. It is possibly the most tedious book I have ever read in my life and, yes, I have read a Fay Weldon novel in my time. How can you construct a thriller with absolutely no tension whatsoever? And they all said it was a thriller, not me. Also, please stop jumping around like that. Two pages; Berlin back to Glasgow – what is the point of that? Two pages? Besides I have no idea what you are talking about anymore because I am bored. I am on the verge of an exclamation mark and I think I already made it clear how I feel about those pernicious punctuants.

Having spat that, The Cutting Room is a terribly good book, though. I would recommend you read that as it is perhaps my favourite inch of a three foot bookshelf teaming with quality Scottish crime/noir novels.

Seven and a half
Shut up Fay Weldon, or it’s the glue factory for you, my love.

Eight
When I recall who it was that put Windmills of Your Mind in my head they are in for some severe discomfiture. I have never experienced such a complex and distracting earworm in my entire life. And I once had Shine on You Crazy Diamond in there for a week so I know of what I moan. Dang Dang Dang Dowwwww. I’ve had to find out the Windmill lyrics because the doodling noise was driving me insane.

Aw, crappla. Now they’re both in there.

Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never ending or beginning, on an ever-spinning reel, as the images unwind, like the circles that you find, in the Dang Dang Dang of Your Dowwww.

Make it stop.

An Archer's Life for Me?

2006-09-14T09:43:00.000Z

I saw The Weather Man the other day. I enjoyed it but tD kept getting up to do other things which is a sure sign she did not. Mind you, since Bambino Bamboo appeared (most definitely not as if by magic) she’s been scattier than a bag of jazz cats. She probably forgot we were watching it.

Nicolas Cage is fast becoming my Favourite Actor I Think I Don’t Like. He’s really very good in the film, and has a lovely drawly delivery that you think would get annoying but somehow doesn’t. Hope Davis is in it and I always think that if she’s a film it’s a safe bet that watching it won’t be like having hot bricks crammed under your eyelids. It also features a most bizarre performance from Michael Caine as Father of The Weather Man. He’s supposed to be a Big American Man Writer™ and I can’t make up my mind whether he’s brilliant or terrible, what with the odd American version of RP he goes with. It’s really bizarre. I recommend you get The Weather Man out if you can’t think what else to watch. It’s much better than The Inside Man, for example. But your mind probably doesn’t go completely blank every time you step into Blockbusters like mine does, so you don’t need my film tips thank you very much.

Anyway, the point of this is that David Spritz (Cage) takes up archery, to help his daughter who is being called camel-toe at school. It looks very cool. The archery, not the camel-toe. Not even Julianne Moore could carry a camel-toe off. Or could she? Let’s take a moment to think about that, shall we?

Okay. That done I thought I might like to also take up archery:

Me: Hey, I’m thinking I might take up archery. You know, like the Nicholas Cage character in the Weather Man.
tD: The Weather Man? Did we watch that?
Me: Yes. Anyway, archery. What do you think?
tD: What do I think? God. I think that you are the last person, on any planet not just earth, who ought to take up a hobby involving a weapon. You are, after all, the woman who can barely walk down the road without befalling some terrible misfortune involving bruising and grazing and tears. Which need moping up. Often injuring innocent passers-by. It’s only a matter of time before you accidentally assault the health visitor. God. Don’t take up fucking archery. Ever. I will kill you myself. With my bare hands. Just to save myself the trauma of having to visit you in hospital with an arrow sticking out of your chest or some other hideous, hideous near death thing. Please. Don’t. Fucking archery. I can’t believe that you would even say that to me. Archery. God. Fuck. God.
Me; Okay, okay. I promise; no archery.

Although really I’m off to buy a long bow and some big arrows this afternoon. Wheeeeee. I’ll race you to Accident and Emergency. Bags I the ICU bed.

InFrequently Asked Questions

2006-09-13T09:10:00.000Z

Hello, and welcome. I have enlisted the help of Flashman Topside to interview me for my InFrequently Asked Questions. I don’t know Flashman Topside from Adam. Unless Adam is wearing a name badge, then I think even I could work it out.

What is your fantasy Top of the Pops episode (six live appearances and what’s number one)?
Nirvana - A Hazy Shade of Winter
Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield - I Knew Him So Well
The Cure – A Spoonful of Sugar
Madonna – Sympathy for the Devil
Jimi Hendrix – Welcome to the Jungle
They Might Be Giants feat. Patti Smith - Killer Queen

Number one in that particular chart I think would be a David Bowie double A side with Somewhere Over the Rainbow and Unfinished Sympathy.

Is Froosh Bamboo your real name?
Why, yes, it is. Okay, no. A great shame. I might have it changed by deed poll. Although tD would kill me.

Who is tD?
The Divinity is my civil partner. When will we think of a better way of putting that? We’ve been together for so long it makes me seem really old. Even though I’m actually a spring chicken. I think she despairs of my blog and wishes that I would concentrate on writing my next novel or moving the first one out of the bottom drawer so she can fill it with nice brightly coloured stationary. Mmmmm. Maybe I will. She would actually just prefer me to get a job that doesn’t pay voluntary sector wages but then I’d have to work in the private sector. For The Man. Shudder.

So, you are a lady. And tD is a lady. But you have a baby - I’m confused.
By what?

The amount of ladies and lack of a man.
Mmmm?

You’re not prepared to engage with this at all, are you?
Nope. You may like to grow up and join the rest of us in the 21st century.

Okay, moody. Brief autobiography of the Froosh, please.
Born. In Northampton. Grew and grew and grew. Went to school. Realised nobody likes the kid who puts their hand up all the time. Stopped putting hand up. Became smart arsed problem child. Got up one morning made toast for breakfast, burnt toast, saw pattern in scorch mark in shape of Jeanette Winterson’s face, considered this sign, embraced gayness. Ninth birthday. Grew some more. Later, joined youth theatre. Went to university and studied drama, hated it. Moved to London. Did Masters degree in performance studies, hated it. Met tD. Wrote for theatre, hated it. Penny dropped. Adopted zen-like attitude of calm and mellowness and stayed away from theatres. Started novel. Got married. Started blog. Finished novel. Had baby. Put novel in bottom drawer. Wrote this post. Et voila.

You seem to fall over a lot. Are you really that clumsy?
I am an extraordinarily graceful woman. Like a very elegant gazelle. It’s just that some pieces of furniture, some pavements and some pairs of shoes seem to be out to get me. That’s all. Also, sometimes all the blood rushes to my brain and I can’t retain control of some of my limbs. I would rather it was the limbs than the bladder. As my grandmother used to say it’s better to fall over then piss yourself.

Are you another blogger trying to get a book deal?
No, and anyway things like that don’t happen to me or to the overwhelming majority of the billions of pople with blogs. That’s a stupid reason to have a blog. All right, Mr Paxman? Also, why is it not acceptable to just have a blog and be happy with that? I like writing and having a couple of people read it. That is enough. I have a beaten up 1989 Nissan Micra (hello, foxy AA lady) and I have no desire to get a shiny 4x4. It’s that kind of thing. Expect I am in no way saying that my blog is a banger and a book deal is a brand new expensive child killing vehicle. Oh, wait. Maybe I am. I like bangers. Next.

You’ve got all moody again.
Sorry.

So, what’s with the squirrels? Do you hate them?
No. I really like them. They are most entertaining. It also amusing me that one of the Bambino Bamboo’s first word will be probably be an attempt at ‘squirrel’. Skwiiiiil, I expect. I also think that the grey squirrel done kilt them poor widdle wed squirrels argument is bollocks. Humans are the most murderous species on earth so let’s move it out of the glass house, people. The squirrels are more popular than I am. Particularly Bastard. I just don’t get it.

Did they really kill the Prime Minister and replace him with a guy called Hilary?
I’m not allowed to talk about it while the court case is ongoing.

Are you really the world’s worst proof-reader though?
Ph yes.

Your boss has a blog, right?
Oh yes, and if you don’t visit it I’ll get grief. Never mind, I think the ink will be dry on my p45 soon. And don’t call him that, please, it scares me.

Do you really like your job?
I do actually although I think, as with all places of work, the people make it. To be honest I’d rather sit in an impossibly tall ivory tower writing books but I can’t seem to get my finger out of my arse. At least this way I can tell people I’m an editor without technically lying.

Why isn’t this a sex blog? I think I’d like it to be.
I don’t know. I'm too shy. I could tell you about how difficult it is to have sex in the same room as a lightly sleeping two month old baby. And probably immoral. Oh dear, I have never giggled so much in my entire life. Suffice to say we woke her up. See, I’m not good at the sexblogging. I missed the hot girlie action bit out. Also, too much with the giggling. Sorry about that.

What are your five favourite books?
I don’t know. I don’t have five favourite books. I like lots of books. Books are good. I love them. Etc.

You’ve kind of lost interest now, haven’t you?
I think we all have.

Damn. I was enjoying myself.
I’m glad someone was.

Shut up. You're much more grumpy in real life.
Don’t tell me to shut up. It’s my blog.

Sorry.
That’s okay.

Okay.
Okay.

You hang up.
No, you hang up.

No, you hang up.
No you.

You.
On three.

Okay.
One. Two. Thr -.

I hate you, Froosh Bamboo.

Commentary

2006-09-12T10:08:00.000Z

I am new to having my own blog, although I have been reading other people blogs for ages so you’d think I’d have picked up a few tricks along the way. It seems to me that comments are a blessing and a curse. Like a site meter – the crack cocaine of blogging.

Troubled Diva has written about comment box etiquette, namely should you reply to the comment of new commenter as a matter of comment courtesy. You should go and read it, if you haven’t already. I nearly left a comment but then I was sore afraid, cracked under the pressure and ran away making that funny noise I make sometimes.

Someone once moaned because I didn’t reply to their comment and I told them that I don’t really have a policy of replying to them and please could they not give me a hard time because I had a hangover and felt fragile. I often don’t reply because I have very witty and amusing readers and the comment is too damn funny and to reply would be to invite humiliation. Also, I suspect I know most of the people who leave comments for me. I dread welcoming a new commenter and then, a couple of minutes later, hearing a snort of derision from the other end of the office.

Leaving comments is, apparently, a great way for a new blogger to get visitors. It’s practically the number one helpful hint you get when you start out. I think this is called whoring, but I might have gotten confused about that. I imagine the best place to whore yourself about is a good blog that you like reading; a busy one that gets a lot of visitors (who aren’t all good friends of the blogger).

But I think that those established bloggers are scary. Particularly if they are very, very good and have lots of readers and go on the radio. For example. It reminds me of those terrible days at school when I would follow my Dad’s ‘advice’ and introduce myself to some new kids in a futile attempt to make some friends. Invariably, they would look at me for a long, long time and then laugh and point, laugh and point and then laugh some more. So I often click on the leave-a-comment-link and hover over my keyboard and then bottle it. Particularly if there’s an enormous chain of witty, insightful comments from people I’ve actually heard of.

It’s like being in the ladies at China White and not daring to come out of the cubicle because two members of Girls Aloud and the sex slave trafficker one from Bad Girls are trowelling on their makeup at the mirror. Except with more class and better grammar.

Although I’m not speaking from experience, and I did leave a comment at the fabulous Naked Blog, mostly because I got two thousand times more hits than I usually get because [*presumption use of first name alert*] Peter mentioned me on his blog and I was giddy with joy. He did reply to my inane comment and I actually fell over. I sustained some mild chaffing to my elbow but was otherwise unscathed, thank you for asking.

What was my point? Oh yes; I’m too chicken to leave comments most of the time so if I do and I get a ‘hello and welcome’ it’s like the opposite of stealing my lunch money and ripping the badge of my blazer. But your comments box is not all about me, right? My comments box is all about me.

Leave me a comment now or I will be sad.

That dragonfly story

2006-09-11T13:17:00.000Z

The other morning I was walking up to the little roundabout at the top of Park Avenue North, you know the one – just at the entrance to the park up from the clubhouse – not St Paul’s Avenue at all. It was a lovely day and I had taken my cardigan off to better enjoy the pleasant morning sunshine. In the park, just a short hop over the traffic island across the road, joggers and dog walkers were staggering and strolling through the sunshine and shadows. A pity to spoil such a day with a trip to the office, but there you are.

I could hear a sound, like a distant motorbike so I slowed to look both ways. There was no motorbike. I looked up to cross the road safely. Then I saw it.

It was enormous.

It was coming straight for me.

It was obviously a giant killer dragonfly as normal dragonflies don’t have bodies the size footballs and the wing span of a light aircraft. It was olive green in colour, as though it were wearing camouflage gear, and in the time it took me to make these brief observations it had surged closer, in a head on attack.

I stopped and did the sidewalk shimmy. The one I do when approaching I’m someone else on the pavement and I don’t know which way they’re going to move and don’t want to bump into them. In case I catch something. The giant killer dragonfly just adjusted it flight path and headed straight for me.

Five seconds till impact.

Four seconds till impact.

Three seconds till impact.

I hit the ground, my bag spilling, keys tumbling into the gutter. It was still coming for me.

Two seconds till impact.

One second till impact.

...

And then it had gone.

Now, there are two possibilities here:

1. I hallucinated a giant killer dragonfly and over ten assorted joggers and dog walkers saw me hurl myself on to the pavement for no reason at all and lie there flapping my limbs and gums for a minute and a half.

2. A giant killer dragonfly has entered my body somehow and is still inside me buzzing around and around, getting the way of all my major organs preventing them from functioning correctly and working it’s evil metamorphosing power over my feeble human form and then slowly so no one will notice or possibly care I shall become iller and iller and iller until one day I try to get out of bed and find that my legs have joined together in a hideous scaly dragonfly abdomen and my arms have become long wings made of razor wire and I shall be a giant killer dragonfly then and be overcome with the terrible terrible urge to eat my family without favva beans or chianti, fine or otherwise.

Either are too awful to contemplate.

The big dragonfly tease

2006-09-11T10:02:00.000Z

In lieu of the dragonfly story, here is an mp3 of a song Banksy put on those doctored Paris Hilton CDs. You know all about that right? (via kottke)

Verily, it is thusly

2006-09-08T11:48:00.000Z

So. In summary:

The good
My daughter continues to be quite the most remarkable human being I have ever come across. She is making a great new noise which is virtually impossible to spell but goes something like 'Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhoouu uuuuuuuuuummmmmmaaaaaaahhhhhhhoouuuuuu.’ She can sustain it for ages so must have great big lungs, although from the outside her chest cavity appears to be of a normal size.

I can only think of one bad thing and one ugly thing (see below).

Work is not tooooo noxious; an unusual turn of event particularly given it being shit-missed-deadlines-by-days-for-no-good-reason time of the month. My ‘boss’ is on holiday, but I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Much. At all. Oh, okay.

Autumn is almost upon us. I love the autumn, it's much better than that summer nonsense we have to put up with. Specifically, I love days like last Wednesday which, if you recall, was an exemplary example of autumnal fabulousness. Crisp and fresh. Bright sun, sharp shadows. My carbon footprint is tiny tiny, you know. Stop global warming.

I made a spectacular bean curry yesterday and there’s enough left over to feed the entire North Korean army so I’m in for an easy time making the dinner tonight. I’m in charge of the cooking in my house, you see. Scary but true.

It’s Friday. I think that one’s clear, yes?

The bad
My Camper Wabis have finally broken. It's awful - I love them so. The rubber outer shoe is cracked and letting in water. Cricklewood Braodway water too. Shudder. I made the mistake of pulling the orange liner out yesterday and, not to put too fine a point on it, it stank to high heaven of damp foliage. Exactly the way the organic recycling box smelt when I forgot to put it out and it went all warm. The coco foot bed, or whatever is, is almost totally ripped away from the rest of the sock. It was also caked in all sorts of detritus from Gladstone Park and environs. I wondered why they were so uncomfortable. Although I am wearing them as I write this. Poverty ditactes, poor me. Also, please note I have had them long enough to wear them out completely so I’m not one of those evil Queens -park-dwelling-fashion-victim-media-whore-croc-wearing-fly-by-nights.

The ugly
I had a small debate with Cheesy Q which turned a little (okay, a lot) toxic about why I suddenly have a blog given that ‘blogging is so ovah, moron’. Apparently, 'because I want one’ is not an adequate reason and I should have a different, better reason like ‘because I want to be famous like all those other bloggers that were on the radio’ or ‘because I have an ego the size of a planet’. What? The Qs argument fell apart on grounds of logic and basic humanity later in the exchange and I showed no mercy. Let that be a lesson to all and sundry. I shall do as I like. So there.

Right, enough random drivel. Come back for the next installment when I will tell about you all about my encounter with the suicidal giant dragonfly at the top of St Paul Avenue, London, NW2. Heady stuff.

Au revoir.

I wrote this post. Myself.

2006-09-07T14:59:00.000Z

Just when I thought popbitch had gone a bit stale and, besides, was beneath someone with my parental responsibilities they rock up with this awesome blind item:

Which trendy novelist's last two books are rumoured to have been ghost-written?

Please, please, please let it be true and let it be you know who. I’ve crossed my fingers so hard I think the index one snapped.

I’m too scared to look.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (8)

2006-09-06T13:47:00.000Z

Me: What are you doing? (pause) Hey, I said what are you all doing? What’s with the placards and banners?
Squirrel: We are protesting.
Me: What about?
Squirrel: You.
Me: Me?
Squirrel 1: Yeah, you.
Me: Why?
Squirrel 2: Because of your stupid blog.
Me: What about it?
Squirrel 3: Read the banner. Just read the banner.
Me: ‘ Blog more squirels stuff.’ You know you’ve spelt squirrel wrong.
Squirrel 4: You can’t even spell stupid. That’s how stupid you are, ctupid. Ctupid, ctupid. And it was in the title.
Squirrel 5: You've posted loads and not one thing about us. What about us, man. You're only where you are because of us. We made you, and we can break you as well.
Me: I’ve never seen you guys like this before. You’re actually…upset. Rather than just scary and angry.
Squirrel 4: Yeah whatever. Stupid ctupid blog.
Squirrels: Blog more squirels stuff, blog more squirels stuff, blog more squirels stuff, blog more squirels stuff.
Me: Hey, come on. Don’t be like that. I’ll blog some squirrel stuff.
Squirrel 2: You better. ‘Cause if you don’t we’ll tell the Sweeney about the Prime Minister.
Me: You did it, not me.
Squirrel 2: He’s in the boot of your car though, ain’t he? There’s nothing to tie us to the scene of the crime.
Me: I think I liked it better when you were marching and chanting.
Squirrel 2: Get blogging, lanky.

(pause)

Bastard: Madame Froosh? I don’t think your blog is stupid.
Me: Thank you, Bastard. You’re very kind.
Bastard: Give us a kiss then.

(pause)

Me: Ew.

Random question

2006-09-05T09:14:00.000Z

So. Who is funnier?

Darth Vader or David Cameron?

David or Darth, David or Darth? Come on, it's easy.

You got here how?

2006-09-04T12:52:00.000Z

I have a little notepad document called blog (I know, boundless imagination) and in this I put all the things I think I would like to blog about and then can’t be bothered, or forget about or think better of. I like the notepad action because all the other facilities designed to do this are too exciting and I get distracted by all the pretty colours and things to click.

I like to have a little look through blog.txt periodically for ‘inspiration’. I was scrolling through it going ‘oh, that would have been good,’ or ‘oh, I remember that,’ or ‘damn, should have written about that’ and then I came across this:

picture genitalia hanging on clothesline art

Huh?

Almost worth an exclamation mark, I thought.

I pondered this for a while then remembered; someone googled this and arrived here. How bizarre. I’ve never mentioned a washing line never mind engaged in the kind of strange, possibly sordid activity they suggest. I’m too scared to look at the results and see what else is there.

I hope they are not one of my (two? three?) regular readers. How embarrassing. Which one is it? It’s worse than a sex blog or something. When they visit I’ll be all shy and unable to look them in the face. Perverts.

Anyway, the very moment I have finished with this I’m going to open my little notepad page and write ‘Dessert Allsorts’. Because I have got a bag to sample and I will be blogging my verdict if a) I remember and b) they are interesting enough to have a verdict about. They might be a bit ‘meh’. Fingers crossed gentle reader, fingers crossed.

Update (15:22): They are horrible. Horrible to the point where I would described them as evil. Particularly the strawberry pie and strawberry cheesecake ones. Vomitous. I am outraged. Mind you, the smell that greets you as you open the bag is a bit of a giveway. Sadly, I can't think of the words to describe it - only noises I don't know how to spell. That's all. I thank you.

Stupid view, stupid crane

2006-09-01T10:47:00.000Z

I used to live on the sixth floor of a 1930’s block of flats in Cricklewood with views across Gladstone Park to Wembley and beyond. It was a nice flat until it got infested by bedbugs then it was evil. I’m saving the bed bugs story for another time when the huge team of therapists and witch doctors in charge of my recovery say I’m beginning to get over the horrific trauma of the experience. Sometime in 2189, they reckon.

When we moved into said flat The Fat Marmoset told us that we would have excellent views of the new Wembley Stadium. Sure enough the stadium slowly grew up and up above the treetops and we had a great view. I waited with rapt anticipation for the arch to appear. Then one day I noticed a long crane. It was a very long crane indeed. The longest crane I had ever seen.

‘Oh, hoorah,’ I said to everyone. ‘Soon they will put up the arch and we will have a marvellous view and be the envy of everyone. Hoorah. Hoorah.’

Then one evening I was on the 266 bus and looking down a road from the top deck I noticed a new addition to the skyline over Wembley.

They had put up the arch.

Apparently it had been up for ages.

We had, in fact, an excellent view of the side of the arch. Being exactly perpendicular to it we saw only a tall crane-like structure reaching above north west London.

And this is the kind of thing that happens to me all the time. If only we lived at the top of the hill in Roundwood Park – we’d then have this view:

But then we would have to live an a tent I expect, and the Froosh does not do the camping. No way.

Not a book review (mighty long though)

2006-08-31T09:06:00.000Z

I’ve taken the risky step of re-reading a book I loved when I was young and innocent and had hopes for my future. Always a very dangerous thing to do. What would happen if I didn’t like it? Would that mean that all the other books liked then are also rubbish? Would it mean that my taste is a fickle, fickle thing and not to be trusted? Or that when I was a teenager I was a complete muppet? The very thought.

I warmed up for this epic endeavour with a re-read of Sarah Waters’ Affinity which I didn’t like too much the first time round because the end is like being smacked very very hard in the face with a gravel encrusted shovel. And not in a nice way, like the twist halfway through Fingersmith, either. Affinity is a little less painful the second time round, but then most things are.

I’m supposed to be struggling through The Bullet Trick by Louise Welsh and I’m not enjoying it so much that I’m prepared to fully commit to it, but I’m not hating so much that I can dump it and walk away feigning indifference and swearing never to return its calls. So, I’ve put it to one side for a bit...

..And picked up the book in question: Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden. I had to go and buy myself another copy because I lent my careworn original to someone and can’t remember who. I do remember being almost violent in my recommendation of it so they probably took it away from me for my own good.

I first read it when I was about 17. Mainly (by this I mean solely) because it had the words ‘…a young husband and wife who both fall in love with the same woman…’ and when you’re 17 and live in a small village outside a claustrophobic, hicky little town people pass at speed on the M1 those words are rarely found on the back of a book in WHSmiths and therefore to be pounced upon.

So, the other evening I sat myself down, on the floor, in a semi darkened room and tentatively read the first couple of pages. Then I had a glass of wine. I read on. It’s still good.

The relief.

Hemingway worked on it whenever the mood took him (I know that feeling) between 1946 and 1961. I’m sure he would have liked to have worked on it more but he died. Nice excuse Ernesto. So, it’s not finished which lends it a kind of ambiguity that really suits the book. There’s also some controversy about the extent to which is it actually a Hemingway novel, given that the original manuscript was over 1,500 pages long and the book in my hands only has 247 pages, all of them soiled by the publisher’s blue pen. Again, this really works for me. It’s very rough and very lean. It was finally published in 1986, provoking a frenzy of sorts.

There's also a funny story about him appearing with his hair dyed red whilst he was writing it. Just for a couple of days, you understand. He tried it. He didn't like it. Fair enough.

I like to think I am ambivalent about Hemingway, him being so macho and abusive and all, and then I think about what he wrote and find myself going ‘yeah, I like that’ and ‘oh, yes, that’s good too.’ Also, Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises has the most fantastic paragraph in it:

‘The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during the fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling for any action. It was the fiesta and it was on for seven days.’

I’m also a little in love with Lady Brett Ashley. A little. Who am I kidding?

Little baby tree hugger

2006-08-30T09:58:00.000Z

My daughter, who is now 15 weeks old or three months and a bit in old money, is obsessed with trees. Her granny said that 'most babies usually are'. Stupid granny. If she carries on like that she will never be called grandma, no matter how much she hates being called granny. As if my daughter does anything usual – she only does incredibly gifted or stupendously talented. Obviously.

We took her, daughter not granny, to Roundwood Park at the weekend and she gazed up at one tree for ages. She is particularly fond of oak trees for some reason. So, I took a picture of it for her. This was a complicated procedure which involved lying on the ground exactly where she had been in her buggy to get the view right, then wrestling with my conscience to reconcile aesthetic sense with parental responsibility. Neither won in the end – as you can tell from the photo.

Yesterday, she was very unsettled and as it was pouring with rain and we couldn’t go in the garden to look at the real trees, I whipped out the photo.

I spent twenty whole minutes wafting the photo as if in a restful breeze and making a remarkably realistic noise like said breeze rustling leaves peacefully. Nothing. No content sighs, no smiles, no falling asleep. At least there was no grizzling, but still. She’s a tough crowd; my kid.

Then I cracked and went; ‘brrrrrrrr’. With extra spittle and everything.

And for the first time she did it back. (I’d put an exclamation mark here if I weren’t so pathologically opposed to them – imagine one if you like.)

I have not been so excited since she passed her linking ring from one hand to the other and shoved it in her mouth.

‘Well,’ said the Divinity watching from the sofa and being no help. ‘You can certainly tell she’s your daughter.’

‘BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR,’ we said.

But she merely smirked.

Smoking, it's bad for y'all, y'all.

2006-08-29T09:56:00.000Z

Heaven help us all. Trugnugget is giving up smoking. You wouldn’t believe the tantrums. Poor chap is trying all the possibilities. Patches, gum, those funny stick things that look alarmingly like tampon applicators. Sadly, he was using them all at once to speed his kicking the habit– no surprise then when he experienced a tragic nicotine overdose and vomited. He really is quite quite stupid.

I, myself, “gave up smoking” a couple of years ago, (three was it? Can’t remember*) and didn’t use any crutches at all. Just stopped puffing on the old cancer sticks.

I did however find this tally very useful (scroll down almost to the bottom, it’s on the right). I think it the combination of seeing his numbers going up on naked blog, seeing the boggling saving of stopping, and knowing that out there someone else is giving up as well.

I have advised Trugnugget of this and I imagine he is there now, huddled shivering and petulant over his PC counting out pennies and other small change trying to count in the right order above 4. It’s 2 then 3, dear Truggers.

Of course, this good news for Trugnugget’s lungs is bad news for me – who shall I drunkenly bum cigarettes off now*, eh? Who?

*I am the worst ex-smoker that ever was. This is no reflection on the naked blog totaliser which remains, along with the rest of the blog, source of inspiration**.

**Is this a bit creepy? Are three links*** in one post too many? I don’t care.

***Four.

Wandering a way to work

2006-08-10T10:16:00.000Z

There were so many distractions on the way to work this morning. It is a miracle (and also a tragedy) that I managed to get here before dusk.

I remembered that on my route to work I walked past Dennis Nielsen’s house. You know, the one where he strangled his lovers in their sleep and buried them in the garden. Anyway, I meandered along the avenue trying to identify the right house. You would be amazed how many candidates there are. Its possible that some actual live serial killing is going on in some of them as I type. They are going to build some new houses on the tiny tiny patch of waste land at the back near the lock up garages so they’ll have to dig it all up again so the new guard may be discovered sooner than they think. This is one of my big fears – to live in a house and find out, months later, that it was once littered with the corpses of unfortunate murder victims, many of whom suffered hideous torture. I fear that more than the serial killer I think. Dennis Nielsen was a civil servant. Which makes sense really.

I have never, in my whole life, seen so my dogs sniffing each other's arses before. In my whole life. I think today must be national Sniff a Dogs Arse Day in the canine calendar. I was pleased to see that our four legged friends are not subject to the same bigotry and prejudices as we are. There were small dogs and big dogs, black dogs and spotty dogs, shaggy dogs and wiry dogs all sniffing each other with gay (and straight) abandon. I did feel sorry for three dogs whose owner would not let them play with the other dogs. He was one of those Queens Park types that had wandered over to our postcode by mistake – perhaps had a heavy night on the old champers – and he had two of those dogs that look like they have dreadlocks and no eyes and one Irish Wolfhound who looked thoroughly depressed, as any good colonialist whipping dog should. They weren’t to fraternise with the poor people’s dogs for fear they became diseased. Or had fun.

I walked across the playing field/abandoned patch of grass and happened upon a woodpecker. Although the pesky bird insisted on flying off every time I got near it, I persevered and positively identified it as a green woodpecker (picus viridi). Why it was in the middle of a stretch of grass and not moshing half way up a nice tree I’ll never know. Mostly because every time I asked it, it flew away in either terror or disgust.

I inadvertently gathered a large amount of gravel in my turn ups and was forced to stop and clear my jeans of little stones and twigs twice. Then I had trouble folding them back up again so they were even and also so my ankle area didn’t look like a fan of Bronski Beat. Or Bros.

There were no aeroplanes in the sky whatsoever. This is more disorientating than it sounds because the skies of north west London are usually teeming with aircraft, and not just police helicopters. This is because, if you don't know, the police have foiled a terrorist plot and now the horse has bolted they are trying to nail the stable door shut with a bag of marshmallows and a lego pirate figure.

I was cold. You think this would make me quicker. But no. I savour being cold, after being too hot for so long it was a blessed relief. Although now I am finally at work and the air conditioning is on as though it were 103 degrees CELSUSIS outside. I am in fear of hypothermia.

Can you imagine? It's a wonder I'm not still out there somewhere marvelling at it all like some village simpleton.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (7)

2006-08-07T09:38:00.000Z

Me: Could you stop wailing and gnashing like that? I’m trying to concentrate.
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: What’s the matter? Why are you all writhing around on the ground like that?
Squirrel: Where have the trees gone?
Me: The trees?
Squirrel: Those three trees.
Me: The council cut them down.
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: Stop that. Please. It’s horrible.
Squirrel: Why did they do that? Why?
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: I don’t know.
Squirrel: You made them didn’t you? Because you hate us.
Me: No. I liked the trees, I’m sorry they’ve gone. Look on the bright side, eh? You’ve got other trees. Look, that one’s enormous.
Squirrels: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.
Me: Why don’t you write to the council and complain instead of harrassing me?
Squirrel: Because these little little paws have not yet evolved the ability to hold a pen, have they? Stupid.
Me: Can you go and lament in someone’s garden? I’m bored of you now.
Squirrel: That council are out to get us.
Bastard: Dad?
Squirrel: Yes.
Bastard: Is it because you killed the Prime Minister?
Squirrel: Don’t be silly.
Me: It’s alright, little Bastard. Daddy didn’t kill the Prime Minister. I’ve seen him on the television lots and lots.
Squirrel: That’s not the Prime Minister.
Me: Yes it is.
Squirrel: No it isn’t.
Me: It looks like him.
Squirrel: Do you really think the real Prime Minister would have postponed a Caribbean holiday to keep on eye on the crisis in the Middle East? No. He would have buggered off and left Quick Draw McGraw in charge. Wouldn’t he?
Me: Oh. Shit.
Squirrel: Exactly.
Me: Who’s the guy on the telly then?
Squirrel: That’s some homeless guy called Hilary we found in the alleyway. We’re paying him in tequila and crack cocaine. He's a good laugh actually. We're taking him to Spearmint Rhino tomorrow night.
Me: Where's the real Prime Minister then?
Squirrel: We stashed his bloody corpse in the boot of your car.

(pause)

Me: Waaaaaaaaaiiiiiillllllllllll.

Of drawers and other demons

2006-07-31T08:10:00.000Z

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

2006-07-21T10:37:00.000Z

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)

2006-07-21T08:45:00.000Z

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?

2006-07-17T13:00:00.000Z

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)

2006-07-14T07:39:00.000Z

(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?

2006-07-13T13:38:00.000Z

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)

2006-07-12T07:21:00.000Z

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.

2006-07-10T09:32:00.000Z

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

2006-07-07T13:52:00.000Z

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.

2006-07-05T23:09:00.000Z

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

2006-07-05T12:41:00.000Z

Woodlouse: Snigger.

World Cup (Re)Prediction

2006-07-04T11:33:00.000Z

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

2006-07-03T14:31:00.000Z

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.

Froosh Outfitters (since 2006)

2006-06-30T09:28:00.000Z

I’ve decided (wisdom = infinite) that I ought to promote this blog a little bit more. How else am I going to get to give up work and lay around the house all day eating custard cream and plotting the downfall of the squirrels?

So, to this end (mostly the lying around, not the squirrels so much) I have decided to launch a special promotional t-shirt, which will be the first garment in the extensive range of clothing from Froosh Outfitters. I hear tell of other more famous and shiny bloggers who have got all manner of merchandise and paypal accounts, so I will be leaping enthusiastic on that particular bandwagon. Unusual for me – often I find myself lying behind the bandwagon with tyre marks across my chest.

You may buy the t-shirt here, but I have managed to persuade some major outlets to carry it and I’m pleased to say that it’s being pushed really heavily in some shops. I’ve also managed to secure some amazing celebrity sponsorship.

Even more exciting is the Froosh Convention 2006: Bend it like Bamboo which is being held in Gelsenkirchen tomorrow. It’s going to be a really exciting opportunity for people to get together and share their stories about how the Miracle of Froosh ™ has touched their lives.

A Surfeit of (Stealth) Squirrels

2006-06-30T08:36:00.000Z

Squirrels send in crack team on surveillance mission

A Surfeit of Squirrels (5)

2006-06-27T14:11:00.000Z

Squirrel: Froosh?
Me: Yeah?
Squirrel: You appear to have mowed the lawn.
Me: Yep. The grass was knee high. It was time.
Squirrel: Yeah, right, the thing is that I had put some things of mine in the ground and now I can’t find them.
Me: What’s that got to do with me mowing that lawn?
Squirrel: I had a great signposting system going on. You know, stand by ear of corn turn left, take three hoppity jumps to wildly overgrown parsley and turn right, ran at speed toward flowering chives, and so on. Now I can’t find any of my stuff.
Me: I don’t care. The lawn wanted mowing.
Squirrel: Yeah, but what about me? I’ve got a family to support you know.
Me: You can find more nuts, people are always feeding you. Crazy, crazy people.
Squirrel: Who said anything about nuts? I’ve got four high definition televisions, a Mac Powerbook, a box of Gnarls Barkley CDs, a draft of the seventh Harry Potter book, seventeen Louis Vuitton suitcases and a Paul Frank bumbag under here somewhere. Damn you.

Of washing machines and crisps

2006-06-27T10:08:00.000Z

I note with interest that there is a hand wash setting on my washing machine. How can this be?

This is a right wonderworm.* I may have to write to Hotpoint.

It’ll be like the time I wrote to Walker’s asking them how they put the flavour on crisps. This, by the way, is a good way to get vouchers for free crisps. Not a good way, however, to find out how they put the flavour on crisps. I don’t think they knew. Maybe it’s magic. Wheeeeee.

* Like an earworm but, you know, different.

Improving reading and writing in Willesden Green

2006-06-25T08:05:00.000Z

I am a little wary when anything proclaims to be ‘improved’. I remember when milky ways were edible and jammy dodgers were jammy. Monster munch similarly went the way of the wagon wheel – ruined by improvement.

So, imagine my trepidation when I heard that Willesden Green Library Centre was to be improved. What with WGLC being my spiritual home and all. For a few months the library was shrunk and stuffed in a room upstairs and the whole centre was shrouded in scaffolding and plastic whilst men in hard hats beavered away making the fabled improvements.

Then, on the Centre re-opening I wandered down to have a look. And my goodness it looked lovely - all clean and white with bright windows. Much improved by the disappearance of pub/cesspit Gigi’s which has no doubt put several environmental health inspectors out of work.

A couple of weeks later I returned to the shiny centre armed with my library card to find that somewhere in the improvement half the library books had disappeared. Also, those that are there are not resting happily on the shelves in alphabetical order but are slung sulkily around the place as though languishing in an adolescent bedroom.

To be fair, they have improved some things - the DVD collection continues to be impressive though, with a large number of new films including the latest releases. And they aren’t taking up so much space with those nasty foreign art house films anymore. Also, in place of some of those pesky books they have put a section for teenagers to hang around playing video games and shouting. An arcade – in a library.

Now, not content with improving the library, they have decided that they will improve the Willesden Green Writers Group by cutting its funding. Which stands to reason really – with no one reading any books anymore what’s the point in encouraging anyone to write one?

Tragic Tortoise News

2006-06-23T10:43:00.000Z

It is with great sadness that we report the death of Harriet the Giant Galapagos Tortoise. Harriet is, or rather was (sorry), one of the world’s oldest living creatures. At the grand old age of 175 she was older than even Mingus Campbell and Humphrey Littleton.

Harriet will be much missed by zoo keepers at the Australia Zoo where she had lived, in quiet seclusion, for the last 17 years. She had an acute heart attack and passed away peacefully. Her longevity is being putting down to a ‘stress-free life’, much like the one which so benefited the ‘dear old’ queen mother.

Incredibly, DNA tests have shown that Harriet was in all likelihood born in 1830 in the Galapogas Isles, five years before Darwin visited. He brought a number of turtles back to England but Harriet is believed to have come from another island, which Darwin never ventured to, and so was not one of ‘Darwin’s Darlings’. She most probably arrived in Australia as part of her sentence after becoming involved in a hooch smuggling ring and running up considerable gambling debts in the late nineteenth century.

Harriet weighed 23 stone (150kg) and was the size of a dinner table. Keepers are now searching for a giant shoe box, two huge lolly sticks and a large space at the end of the garden.

Cheesy spud bean thing

2006-06-20T10:21:00.000Z

I've a "brilliant" idea - let’s continue the 'what the hell kind of a blog is this' saga by posting…..a recipe. Bear with me, yes?

I’m a big fan of food. Especially the comfort food. Mmmmm.

So, here is a recipe that I feel epitomises comfort food. I found it in a newspaper supplement or something, a while ago. In winter probably. It’s definitely a winter recipe but we’ve probably had our allocation of sunny days for this year so I shall persevere. Also, it okay to feel in need of comfort in the summer, you know. I like to serve it with savoy cabbage, which really does optimise the flatulence.

Put some medium sized potatoes, washed but not peeled, in a pan of boiling water and, erm, boil them until they are all boiled nicely; cooked through with the skin flaring a little. Then burn your poor fingers to bits peeling off the skin. I don’t know why you have to leave them in their skins then go through the agony of removing them but it makes all the difference so just do as you told. Eh? For a change.

Get a baking dish thingy out of the back of the cupboard and wipe the dust out of it with a damp cloth. You know, one of those that’s ceramic and about 25cm by 15 cm, with sides about 6cm high. Mine’s blue on the outside and white on the inside if that helps.

Pour two cans of organic Heinz baked beans into the dish thing. This is where you find out if you’ve got the right size dish. It’s too late if you haven’t but you’ll know for next time. You can use any old beans of course, but as I was saying to Nigella and Jamie just the other day when writing a recipe it's best to use the most pouncy ingredients you can find so people think you are a gourmet. Also, if you mention a household brand that the peasants will have heard of they will think you a Ccook of the People. Did I mention that you should use King Edward potatoes? Or those Egyptian ones from the shop round the corner from my house are nice. Skins are a bit thin though.

Put the evil digit burning potatoes, by now thoroughly swore at and some of which will be a bit like mash (that’s okay), on top of the beans. Spread them out, don’t just sling them all in one corner.

Next, get an enormous piece of strong cheddar (Davidstow) and, if you are me, grate most of it over the potatoes and beans until you have a cholesterol mountain and you can feel you arteries hardening just looking at it. Alternatively, if you are not me, just grate a non-gluttonous layer of cheese across the top of the mixture like any normal person would do.

Season. I like to season with loads of pepper but not much salt, because what with all the cheese I like to avoid salt as too much of it is bad for me.

Stick it in the oven for a while. I like to sit in front of the oven and watch through the glass door as the cheese melts, then bubbles and the potatoes go a little bit crispy on the top edges. If you don’t have a glass door I can’t imagine what you’ll do but I expect it will involve less dribble and drool.

Eat and enjoy.

I’m sorry? What temperature? Erm, I guess gas mark 6 or something. It’s beans, spuds and cheese – how wrong can it go?

Oh.

World Cup Prediction

2006-06-16T13:53:00.000Z

I have consulted with various squirrels, two wooolice and an almost-four-week-old baby and we have rustled up the following prediction for my loyal, and sorely tested, reader(s):

The score in this year's world cup final will be Argentina 4 - 3 Spain.

Also of minor interest, the woodlice advocate England playing in a 3-5-2 formation with Owen's bottom warming the bench rather than the grass in the opposition's penalty box. But then, as those of us who have seen woodlice playing football will testify, they know nothing about the game.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (Revenge is a dish best served cute)

2006-06-06T09:08:00.000Z

Squirrel: Hey Froosh. Where’ve you been? You’ve been very quiet.
Me: I’ve been busy.
Squirrel: Really? Oh, man. You’ve been busy? Doing what. You don’t do anything.
Me: Come here and I will show you.
Squirrel: Seriously? You’re letting me into the house.
Me: Yeah, I’m in a good mood.
Squirrel: You’re not going to put me in that Hannibal Lecter mask even?
Me: Nope. Look at this.
Squirrel: What the hell is that?

(pause)

Squirrel: Aaarrggghh! Help! It’s burning! I can feel the hard, sour crust around my heart melting. Make it stop. Make it stop. It’s too cute.
Me: Yep.
Squirrel: What is it?
Me: It’s a baby.
Squirrel: (runs screaming up horse chestnut at the end of the the garden) Damn you! Damn you!

(pause)

Me: Mwah ha ha ha!

Chickens? Hatched?

2006-05-18T13:09:00.000Z

Arrogant? Arsenal?

Ancient and sacred to many, many

2006-05-17T09:53:00.000Z

Me: Er…Excuse me. What’s going on here?
Woodlice: Greetings.
Me: Never mind that. What are you all doing in my living room?
Woodlouse: Ah. ‘Living Room’? I think you misunderstand.
Me: Have the squirrels put you up to this?
Woodlouse: Squirrel? I have not heard of this creature. Is mythical deity?
Me: They’d like to think so.
Woodlouse: Please. You make tiny misunderstanding.
Me: Misunderstanding?
Woodlouse: Yes. This not ‘Living Room’, this ancient and sacred woodlice site of worship.
Me: And you’re all here to worship?
Woodlice: We are.
Me: I see. And what are they doing?
Woodlouse: The spiders?
Me: Yes.
Woodlouse: This ancient and sacred spider site of worship also.
Me: And the millipedes?
Woodlouse: This ancient and sacred -
Me: Millipede site of worship?
Woodlouse: Ah. You understand us.
Me: All of you have an ancient and sacred site of worship in my living room?
Woodlouse: Yes. ‘Living Room’ much like Jerusalem of insect world.
Me: Excellent.
Woodlouse: Please excuse me. Must join 345,000,000 long queue for bathroom.

(pause)

Me: Excellent.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (Hey!)

2006-05-16T18:05:00.000Z

Hey! That's my sandwich!

Too indecisive for my shuffle

2006-05-16T12:12:00.000Z

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, you probably have – you seem like a clever kind of a person, that I haven’t really decided yet what kind of blog I want this to be. It seems that at the moment I’ve got all the major genres covered (bizarre dialogular squirrel nonsense, nonsensical local news items, what I did at the weekend, photographs, local politics) except technology. Sorry, I mean tech.

So, to remedy that today I shall be telling you all about my ipod shuffle. Won’t that be exciting? Hey, come back. It’s either that or my triumphs on championship manager 06 on my mobile phone.

I have an ipod shuffle because I am far too poor to buy a nano or mini, and therefore I think that they are a waste of money. Do you see how that works? Anyway, I love my shuffle and I don’t mind that it hasn’t got a screen because I’m only going to put it in my pocket and scratch it. Contrary to popular belief you can listen to your songs in album order, if you so desire. You can flick forward and backwards, you can make your own playlists, you can download lots of exciting things from the i-tunes store. Even those lengednary podcasts. I know - wow.

But all of this is largely irrelevant to me because what I like to do is listen to the first seven or eight seconds of a song and then skip to the next one, listen to the first seven or eight seconds of that song and so on until the playlist begins again.

I hear tell of places like last.fm where you can download an instrument, or plugin, named audioscrobbler which send details to the site and compiles a list of tracks you’re listening to. You can even run an api (or something) which could list this information on your blog. How marvellous.

This would be of no use to me because I haven’t listened to a whole song since 2004. I exaggerate of course. The other problem is that a family member, good buddy and part time DJ burnt us some mixdiscs for our wedding and I have them on loop. Which is all fine except that we didn’t get a tracklisting so I have no idea what most of the tracks are called, or who they are by.

Nevertheless, because when I grow up I want to be like the other bloggers, I will blunder on regardless. Here is a list of the songs that I have been listening to in their entirety this week:

Gone, Daddy, Gone: Gnarls Barkley
Happy mambo-hip-hip track: some funky brazilians
That song that goes Well Khhhhello, Khhhhello: no idea, they sound british though
El Manana: Gorillaz, I know that one
Starts with a cough then a woman goes ee poo poo until the versus starts, very sunny sound: a woman, I think she might be portuguese
Chorus goes ‘watching their souls wallow, left you for me, left the room hollow, many will fall, a lot more will follow’: a very good soul-y female rapper
The Nosebleed section: Hilltop Hoods
Gone: Kanye West

Shape up or ship out

2006-05-13T16:37:00.000Z

Armitage Gallswinger has lived in the leafy environs of Willesden Green since 1459. Almost as long as next door neighbour Mimsy St.Jigsaw who had only been resident since 1503. But the pair have been labelled anti social by local residents who had sick and tired of their long running feud.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Henty Boonstack, who lives at number 7. ‘All through the night they scream abuse at each other, some of it very blue indeed. They have been throwing cutlery and other small kitchen items at each other since the fifties.’

Although neither Gallswinger nor St.Jigsaw will admit who is to blame it, it seems that the dispute began sometimes in the summer of 1843 when Gallswinger parked his horse and cart on Mimsy’s grandmother. ‘She shouldn’t have been lying there, no one expects to find an old woman having a nap in the road, do they,’ said Gallswinger.

Mimsy St.Jigsaw tells a different story. On the afternoon in question Mimsy’s grandmother had gone outside to kick a small child who had been throwing cowpats at the family goat, who was elderly and not able to defend itself as other goats might. The small child was, unsurprisingly, very fast and had enormous stamina and the old lady had been forced to chase him up and down the street for a good two hours. She had been almost about to catch him when she tripped on an oversized stag beetle. Moments later she found herself, rather unexpectedly beneath a horse and cart.

‘Poor grandmother,’ said Mimsy, weeping. ‘She passed away later that century.’

Now Boonstack and fellow residents have been ‘forced’ to get the local authorities involved and both St.Jigsaw and Gallswinger will be made to move to a sink estate in the heart of rundown Notting Hill if they do not resolve their issues. Fortunately, this has given them something they can both agree. ‘How awful,’ said Gallswinger. ‘Making someone move to Notting Hill.’ Over the fence came the sound of Mimsy; ‘It’s cruel and unusual, is what it is,’ she bellowed.

Could this be the start of something new?

A Surfeit of Squirrels (4)

2006-05-12T18:50:00.000Z

Squirrel: Whatcha doing?
Me: Nothing.
Squirrel: Whatcha doing?
Me: Nothing.
Squirrel: No really, what are you doing?
Me: Nothing.
Squirrel: Tell me.
Me: Go away.
Squirrel: If you don’t tell me I will just sit here and annoy you for the rest of the day. And you do realise that it’s only ten thirty I mean that’s a lot of annoying, man, I can go on for hours and hours and hours if I have to, I really can and believe me I will make it my sole purpose in life to annoy you I am excellent at bugging peop-
Me: ALL RIGHT! I’LL TELL YOU!
Squirrel: Very well. Am all ears.
Me: I’m cementing these slabs down, on this step here, because when we come out into the garden the slabs wobbles and we can’t have anyone falling with the baby. Okay?
Squirrel: You see, it’s much nicer when we just try to get along isn’t it?
Me: Hmmm.
Squirrel: Aw, come on. You know I love you.
Me: You disgust me.

Two hours later I return to the garden to inspect my handiwork and to make sure the treacherous slabs are stuck down and no longer posing a dire health and safety risk.

Me: What have you done?
Squirrel: What?
Me: What have you done to my step?
Squirrel: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: Look at this.
Squirrel: What? It’s fine.
Me: Fine? There’s a great bump under it. And look, it wobbles even more.

(pause)

Me: What is that?
Squirrel: What?
Me: That lying there. All covering in cement.
Squirrel: Where?
Me: Here, under this slab. What have you buried under here?
Squirrel: Can’t remember. Was it even me? I'm not sure. You know us squirrels, we’re always burying stuff and then can’t remember where we put it.
Me: It’s a….sweet jesus…it’s a dead wood pigeon.

(pause)

Squirrel: What? It looked at me funny.

Save the Mungspleed

2006-05-09T11:57:00.001Z

Trumpty Blaggers, vegetarian butcher and amateur French horn player, will take to the streets of Willesden Green later this month in order to raise awareness of the plight of the Greater Spotted Hungarian Mungspleed. Numbers of this rare creature, once common on local streets, have dipped to a new low of 3.4 this year and Blaggers is not prepared to let the Greater Spotted Hungarian Mungspleed follow the Dodo and the Grey Tipped Traspin into extinction.

‘It saddens me greatly to think that the Mungspleed, the beauteous Mungspleed, may no longer be with us,’ Blaggers said, tears rolling into his greying beard to mingle with the old cream of asparagus soup and cracker crumbs.

Trumpty Blaggers will be recreating the Mungspleeds mating ritual and his daily route will take him from St Gabriel’s Church to the Willesden Bus Garage. ‘I will be sleeping beneath cars rolled up in old newspapers and polystyrene kebab boxes, just like the Mungspleed,’ said Blaggers. The ritual, which is a closely guarded secret until all is revealed during the event, is said to include a blood curdling lament which can cause temporary deafness and a naked Blaggers will be sporting cerise and violet stripes on his ample stomach. ‘Only a few years ago the Mungspleed danced this very route,’ he said. ‘Small children developed post traumatic shock syndrome and old ladies feared their varicose veins would explode. Happy days indeed.’

Blaggers’ display will be repeated once and day Monday to Thursday and twice on Friday during the last full week in May, to coincidence with favourable astral patterns and local engineering works.

Trumpty Blaggers was inspired by humility vortex David Blaine. ‘I love David with all my heart. He is a God,’ said Blaggers. ‘Just like David does; I will be pushing my body to the limits. I’ll not eat anything other than the Mungspleed’s diet of old windscreen wipers and empty yoghurt pots and drink only rain water caught in the feathers of pigeons sitting on the window ledges of second floor flats.’

If you wish to support Trumpty Blaggers then you can email him care of the Depleted Sisters of the Heavenly Order of the Broken Tripods.

New Google Bomb

2006-05-09T11:57:00.000Z

Type 'fuckwit' into Google then hit 'I feel lucky'.
I'm not linking - do it yourself; it'll be more fun.

World Cup Winners?

2006-05-08T13:56:00.000Z

England (provisional) squad:

Robinson, James, Green; G Neville, Campbell, R Ferdinand, Terry, Carragher, A Cole, Bridge; Beckham, Gerrard, Lampard, Carrick, Hargreaves, Jenas, J Cole, Downing, Lennon; Rooney, Owen, Crouch, Walcott*

Am baffled. But in a good way, I think.

*Theo's never played a premiership match. Garth Crooks isn’t happy at all.

Sultan's Elephant : Part 1

2006-05-08T08:07:00.000Z

As I walked from Westminster tube I did wonder how I was going to find the Elephant because the map and itinerary (I never realised elephants were so organised whilst travelling) were a bit vague. And then I turned into Horse Guards Road and there was the distant sound of an incredibly loud live band playing that specific brand of French pop music. I knew I was in the right place. And there were to crowds too, they were a bit of a give away.

I was brave and went on my own. I decided that I would go to the finale as I couldn’t go for long and wanted to make sure that I spent that time well. We are, at Froosh Towers, awaiting the transformation of bump to baby so we don’t like to stray too far from the nest for too long. It turned out to be a great decision.

Just as I arrived at the parade, which was full of people the Little Girl and the Elephant were making their way round the corner from the Mall. I managed to wriggle my way quite near the front as they came past.

It was awesome. It made me feel a bit tearful, actually. There were lots of small children on people’s shoulders (it was the must-have accessory) and I thought I wish I’d seen this when I was a kid and then I realised that it didn’t matter that I wasn’t a kid because it was working the same old magic. It’s nice sometimes to realise that life hasn’t got you trapped in its icy grip quite as tightly as you thought.

Its the Royal Court's fifieth anniversary this year and there are lots of events and galas celebrating fifty years of one of the great british theatres. The Sultan's Elephant goes to show that we, in this country, know nothing about theatre. Timely bit of Arts Council funding there.

Anyway, here are some photos.

And then Elephant squirted water out of its trunk over the crowd and I was so amazed that I forgot to duck like the rest of the crowd and got a bit wet.

See the tiny, tiny people on top of the elephant - that's how big the elephant was. The sultan is the guy in the red hat, I think.

Here's the Elephant, here's his steeple (trunk) look inside and here are the people. That's how it works! I get it. Oh, no actually I don't. Its still amazing.

Sultan's Elephant : Part 2

2006-05-08T07:34:00.000Z

For some reason, my being a muppet I expect, blogger won't let me do this in one continuous post. So, here it the next exciting instalment of Froosh and the Elephant's city break:

She was the hugest Little Girl ever.

The Elephant and the Little (huge) Girl congregated in the parade ground near the rocket. I think the Elephant was a bit sad because it was nearly all over. As we all were. On the balcony, near the windows, there were two dancers, which goes to show how enormous the Elephant was. The music was great too. It was so loud that it was making the ground vibrate with the bass.

The tiny tiny men lowered the Little (huge) Girl in the rocket after they had put her helmet and goggles on. Safety first.

Clunk click every trip

And then the Elephant blew water into the rocket to fuel the Little (huge) Girl on her journey home. Then all this smoke and orange light filled the parade and when they lifted the lid off the rocket – she had gone. We all gasped because it was amazing. Where did she go? I don’t know. That’s the magic of theatre, people.

I crawled through the legs of people thronged ten, even twelve, deep to bring you these pictures of the elephant in repose. Because as every Roy Castle fan knows - dedication's what it takes.

Bye bye Elephant - come back soon. And bring friends, let's make a really huge party of it. You can stay in my garden, the squirrels said its okay.

I found it

2006-05-07T21:34:00.000Z

It was on it's way to visit the London Eye.

Local local elections results

2006-05-05T14:14:00.000Z

Ta-da! The placards do not lie.

Racoons - they say they'll call but they never do.

2006-05-05T13:10:00.000Z

I think Orange picked the wrong animals to go with their talk plans. Firstly, how do dolphins send text messages? They haven’t got any thumbs. Also, the word ‘text’ much like the word ‘party’ isn’t a verb.

I therefore propose:
Squirrel
For the absent-minded
Squirrel is for people who put their phone down and then can’t remember where they left it.

Hyena
For the socially inept and irritating.
Hyena is for people who think the whole train/bus/street/pub/world want to listen to their conversation. When actually the whole train/bus/street/pub/world could cheerfully strangle them with their annoying lanyard.

Peacock
For the vacant poseur.
Peacock is for people who have the latest camera, pda, mp3 phone and can move the satellites over Russia but can’t work out answer it when it starts endlessly chiming Goldfrapp.

Mole
For the older user.
Mole is for people who press the buttons on their handset very slowly and very very hard and for people who have to hold the phone as far away as their arms will allow in order to see those buttons.

Sultan’s Elephant
For those who have the wrong number.
Sultan’s Elephant is for those people who get a lot of calls not really meant for them, not quite wrong numbers but still not actual callers.

Will this weather last?

2006-05-05T08:24:00.000Z

Yesterday we ate dinner in the garden.

Fog index

2006-05-04T13:02:00.000Z

Apparently the Fog Index is a measure of clarity in writing – writing with a high fog index will be difficult to understand; with a score of 50 meaning your writing is unreadable. Clear writing has a fog index of between nine and 12.

To calculate: Take an extract of 100 words, don’t count proper nouns and hyphenated words are one word.

Fog index = (X+Y) x 0.4

X = average number of words per sentence
Y = words with three or more syllables unless they are plural or in a particular tense like ‘achieving’.

Who the hell worked that out?

A tribute

2006-05-02T16:24:00.000Z

To today's oddly addictive, strangely thrilling blog of note

Local elections

2006-05-02T14:33:00.000Z

I am minded to believe that you should vote on local issues in local elections, rather than bloody the nose of the government at the expense of a lot of councillors who want to do a good job for their communities. But sometimes, happily, you can have your political cake and eat it.

Once upon a time the Froosh lived in quite near Queens Park, when it wasn’t the four wheel drive infested nanny exploiting Notting Hill sluice pipe it is now. I rented a flat which was owned by a Labour councillor. Let’s call him Marmoset Jenkins. It was in a house that had been badly converted into two flats. Marmoset owned the whole house.

Although this property was Marmoset's registered address, allowing him to stand in the ward, he didn’t live there. He lived in another ward entirely. Although the property had formally been divided into 2 separate flats, we had our own gas and electricity bills, each flat paid half the council tax bill, which suggested as though all the tenants lived in the same house. How mysterious. How dishonest. How Nu Labour.

So, given that Sarah Teather seems to be doing such a great job, which suggests that she’d do an even better one with the council behind her, I shall vote Lib Dem. Along with most of Willesden Green if the posters in windows and placards in gardens are anything to go by. You could be forgiven for thinking that 'Lib Dem Winning Here' was an extraordinarily busy estate agent.

The Sultan’s Elephant Update

2006-05-02T08:04:00.000Z

Maps Ahoy!

Other enormously informative post with nice picture. And another one.

Thank you for visiting - please sign our visitors book on the way out.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (Tears before bedtime)

2006-04-30T17:26:00.000Z

That's it, you look all cute while I'm taking your picture. Then run off with my camera and fill it with your filth. Twelve adult consenting squirrels indeed.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (4)

2006-04-28T14:37:00.000Z

Me: What’s that you’re humming?
Squirrel: Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh
Me: What is it? It’s really annoying.
Squirrel: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Squirre 2: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Squirrel 1: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Me: Stop it. I’m trying to read.
Squirrels 1 and 2: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Squirrel 3: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Me: Excuse me, could all of you get down off that fence, you’ll break it.
Squirrel 64: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Squirrels 1 – 137: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh
ME: Pack it in now, will you? What is it anyway?
Squirrels 1- 3,793: Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh
Me; Oh my god. That’s the Imperial March isn’t it?
Squirrels 1- 3,793: Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh
Me: Are you trying to intimidate me?
Squirrels 1- 3,793: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh
Me: Go on, get out of it!
Squirrels 1- 3,793: Du-du-du-du-da-da duuuu-duh

(pause)

Me: Okay, what do you what?
Squirrel 248: We want your flat.
Me: No way.
Squirrels 1- 6,812: Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh, Du-du-du-du-da duuuu-duh

They’re still out there now. With their evil Dark Lord Theme. Thousands and thousands of squirrels.

I don’t know what to do. I might give them the flat. They can't have the dishwasher though. No way.

The Sultan’s Elephant

2006-04-27T10:43:00.000Z

Lots of people (when I say ‘lots of’ I mean ‘one or two') seem to find there way here to Froosh Towers by googling ‘sultan’s elephant’. So, in the interest of those thousands (when I say ‘thousands’ I mean ‘unfortunate') visitors, here are some more details:

Thursday 4th May
Prologue: a mysterious arrival (ooh, I wonder what that will be? An elephant I reckon. Or an otter in a costume perhaps)

Friday 5th May
The spectacle begins / Tour
2pm – 3pm, 5pm – 8pm

Saturday 6th May
Sightseeing / A sultan’s welcome
9.30am – 1pm, 3pm – 6pm

Sunday 7th May
Sunday in the city / Finale
11am – 1pm, 3pm – 6pm

The spectacle free theatre extravaganza begins proper on Friday, 5th May. It’ll be in the posh bits of the London where there’s no chance of the elephant getting tagged or finding itself up on a couple of bricks with its feet missing. There’ll be none of that at the Horse Guards Parade in St James’s Park, St James’s, Piccadilly, Haymarket and Trafalgar Square, you know.

You can send in your photos to yourlondon@bbc.co.uk and your mobile photos to 07921 648303. Because they do like that sort of thing at the BBC. They'll be wanting your podcasts as well, once they've mastered the technology. I wonder how many pictures of genitalia they get sent. Don’t send any pictures of anything to me, especially squirrels. I’ve just bought my own camera so will be providing my own photographs as soon as I have deciphered the manual.

Offical site here with maps at the beginning of May

So that I can be a useful source of information, I have signed up for the updates but have only received one updating me as to my updated status re receiving updates. No word on the whereabouts of the elephant.

Quote of the day

2006-04-26T14:08:00.000Z

Mr Williams told the Mirror: "I feel sick. I can't believe the woman I wanted to marry has slept with John Prescott."

I'm with you; Barrie Williams, aged 46, lorry driver of Bordon, Hampshire. I have vomited on your behalf several times today. Then when you went on to describe Potato in human form Prescott as one of the most powerful men in the UK, I got all worried for you. Its obviously been a terrible strain and you've become horribly confused. Shock does that to a man, you know.

Best use of a mobile phone by a lady.

2006-04-26T13:56:00.000Z

Here’s the shortlist for the Orange Prize. Knock yourselves out.

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
Beyond Black by Hilary Mantel
On Beauty by Zadie Smith
The Accidental by Ali Smith
Everyman's Rules for Scientific Living by Carrie Tiffany
The Night Watch by Sarah Waters

Although this tells you everything you need to know:

“Booksellers hail shortlist for £30,000 award”

Go here then; see if I care. Traitor.