A Surfeit of Squirrels (Tears before bedtime)

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)

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

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

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.

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.

Lost and found

Baffled by the lopsided billowing of your blouse? Confused by the bloody scrap of skin hanging from your chest? Puzzle no more my single-hump-fronted-friend.

I have found your missing breast implant.

It is by the path, nestling in the grass on the opposite side of the road to Matalan, on the Cricklewood Broadway. It’s a bit grubby now, so I’m guessing you must have lost it over the weekend; perhaps you’ve been on a hen-night and a helpful friend tossed it out of the window of your limousine? Well, wipe your crying eyes - if you hurry I’m sure it will still be there.

You can just rinse it off and slip it back in again, no?

A Surfeit of Squirrels (3)

Me: Hey! What do you think you’re doing?
Squirrel: Who me?
Me: Yes, you.
Squirrel: Me? Not that blackbird over there?
Me: No, you. Is that blackbird over there wearing my favourite velvet jacket?
Squirrel: I dunno, is he? Oh, no. He isn’t.
Me: That’s right – he isn’t. And that’s because…?
Squirrel: Erm…
Me: Because you…
Squirrel: Because I am?
Me: Yes, because you are wearing my velvet jacket. My jacket. You have stolen my favourite jacket.
Squirrel: Looks good though, isn’t it?
Me: No.
Squirrel: It does.
Me: Doesn’t.
Squirrel: Come on, don’t be like that, Dude. It does.
Me: It doesn’t.
Squirrel: Looks better on me that it does on you.
Me: Doesn’t.
Squirrel: Does too.
Me: Doesn’t.
Squirrel. Makes you look even more like Harry Potter.
Me: I do not look like Harry Potter.
Squirrel: Yeah, you do.
Me: I can’t possibly, I’m a grown woman.
Squirrel: Short dark hair, glasses, gangly, slightly bewildered looking – you well look like him.
Me: I do not look like Harry Potter.
Squirrel: You’ve even got the scar.
Me: (mumble) That’s not a scar.
Squirrel: What?
Me: I said, that’s not a scar.
Squirrel: What is it then?
Me: (mumble) It’s a spot.
Squirrel: A what?
Me: A spot.
Squirrel: A spot? You’re like, what, thirty or something?

(pause)

Me: I hate you.
Squirrel: Don’t hate the player; hate the game.

Elves in the Night

by Jerome Batson
When William and friends learn of the council’s plan of redevelopment they form an eco-protest group to fight, with surprising consequences.
27 – 29 April 2006
7.30pm
Clerkenwell Theatre, Exmouth Market, London EC1R 4QE [here in fact]
£7 (£5 concessions)
Ticket reservations: 020 7274 4888

My good friend, and fellow table football muppet, Mr Batson’s latest work is bound to be as fabulous as the man himself. Pick up a little culture then discuss it over drinks in Café Kick, almost opposite - what better way to spend an evening can there be? I ask you. I’m going and I rarely leave NW2. You'll come? Hoorah!

Important, but smally fonted: This show is part of a double bill with Daddy's Girl by Yvonne Wickham, directed by Clare Randall. So you could enjoy a veritable extraganza of new theatrical talent - the best kind according to Lady Froosh of Bamboo.

Rejection is a one horse town (sadly).

One of my friends submitted a short story, which I really like, to one of those London café reading outfits that have begun to spring up. They then rejected it – fair enough, it is always a lottery, a really disheartening one at that which is why the Froosh gave up playing that particular game. I only tumble of the wagon occasionally and then regret it horribly. You would think I'd learn, wouldn't you?

Recently G has started to write back after a rejection asking if there is any chance that she could have some feedback. Its a really polite note; please ignore if its a burden but it would really be helpful to me etc etc. Most of the time, of course, nothing comes back but this time her email received a reply.

It was very terse and did use the word ‘shortcoming’; a little harsh and unconstructive as a term but we let him off because the guy was obviously very busy and was just flashing the email back. He didn't do himself or his group any good but there you go - it was ever thus. However, he did make a point, in his single sentence of feedback, which has prompted G to make a couple of changes which make a real difference. But what amazed me was the opening gambit which explained that they don’t do feedback as they don’t get paid and it takes long enough to read the stories never mind entering into commenting on them. Two points on that:

One: Writers who submit stories to them don’t get paid. At all. Even though they charge an entrance fee.
Two: It takes longer to write a story than it does to read one. A lot longer.

This is not his fault, of course. He is right – if an outfit like them did feedback for everyone it would take them longer to process submissions and they wouldn’t be able to showcase as many writers. Although a cynic might say that many of the people running these things are in it to help other writers get better, only to promote themselves, but we Bamboos are not cynical. Not at all.

Anyway, writers can submit story until their keyboards wear out but without feedback – how will they improve? Without improving how will they get showcased?* And without writers to showcase how will our poverty stricken, red-eyed friend carry on promoting his outlet, and himself? His feedback, although only one sentence was useful and G thought about it, agreed, edited and the story improved.

So, what? Firstly, chin up G – the funk of rejection hangs heavily but briefly.

Secondly, for all this talk of a resurgence for the short story it seems to be Rose Tremain, Helen Simpson and William Trevor who are doing all the surging, which means nothing in the real world, only that the rise will be temporary.

Thirdly, it’s the getting feedback and the feeling work develop which is most useful, and most rewarding, everything else is nice but not worth lighting a cigar for.

Don't get me started on short story competitions which don't even respond to unsuccessful submissions - that is just rude and inexcusable. The people that run them don't deserve entries. That would learn them some manners, eh? What? I wouldn't? Oh.

*I know this isn’t how it works – just humour me.

Robin Watch (2)

In which Robin attempts to fit as many people in his studio as he possibly can.

I watched from the spacious comfort of the not-born-yet-baby’s room, getting an excellent view of all the excitement and wrestling with a mamas and papas pilko travel system, which came in a box bigger than Robin’s studio. It was vast. I’m thinking of hiring it out for weddings and bat mizvahs.

Robin could play that game that kids play where you say “I went to the shops and I bought…” except Robin would say “I went to my studio and in it was that lady with a bad hip who lives in the next street, the man who owns the restaurant round the corner, the guy who drives a black cab and nearly ran the Froosh over once, the woman with the twins, that boy who bounces his basketball up and down the damn street at nine on a Sunday morning, three women who all looked kind of the same so must, surely, be related.” Then he’d have to stop for breath or something. “A old man with a stick, that guy from up the road who’s going to Spain to live, for good, my old mate who comes round all the time, that neighbour with the ski jacket with the massive hood and Bill who drives the Merc.” And again with the breath. “That man who was drunk on the tube in a pinstripe suit who amused the Froosh by falling over, the woman with awful hair…..” And so it would go on. And on.

Sadly, the door opens inwards and they couldn’t shut it without decapitating a small child and squashing an old lady, so once they were all in there they had to suffer the stiff breeze which doubtless whipped through the throng.

It better not have been a party, and me with an airing cupboard full of red wine and twiglets.

A Surfeit of Squirrels (2)

Me: Saw you at Highbury last night. Enjoy the game, did you?
Squirrel: Can't remember - I was well tanked.
Me: Yes, I thought that might be the case. You got sent off.
Squirrel: Did I? Must have been a good night. Is this your kebab?

A Surfeit of Squirrels (1)

Squirrel: Listen, Froosh, you know them nuts? The ones you put out for the birds?
Me: Yeah.
Squirrel: Can you put some more out?
Me: Nope.
Squirrel: Dude, go on. You know you want to.
Me: I don’t.
Squirrel: That ain’t fair.
Me: Yeah, it is fair. What happens when I do put nuts out for the birds?
Squirrel: Nothing.
Me: What happens?
Squirrel: Oh. What? You mean me and my mates come and hang off the tree like bats, showing off and all, and chew holes in the red plastic bag thingy?
Me: Yeah, then what?
Squirrel: Then we eat all the nuts?
Me: And what did you do the other day?
Squirrel: Nothing, we went to Bluewater. I’m tellin’ you, man, we did. Ask the Kent constabulary.
Me: What did you do the other day?
Squirrel: We ran off with the whole bag. Even took the bit of plastic clothes line you’d used to hang them up.
Me: Exactly. So no – I’m not putting any nuts out for the birds.
Squirrel: That is a gross injustice, man. Think of the birds, think of the birds.
Me: You think of the birds. I might has well just give you the £2 and be done with it.

(pause)

Squirrel: That works for me.

Later two grey squirrels came and knocked on the kitchen window and accused me of loving their red brethren. They had placards declaring me a communist and everything. Bastards.