And then with a scarlet flourish
I left him
bloodied without heart
his timorous wailings despicable
like the cries of a shot predator
Smiling with slanted bit lips
I dismissed him
to the four bleached corners of his room
his weeping well-earned loneliness
kindling for my fire
Deepening my artificial resolve
I buried him
alone without God or ceremony
his corrosive well-executed witchcraft
burnt to cinders on my lonely altar.
Monday, 31 May 2010
Grubby Plot
The glue on my hedgehog is seeping out somewhat.
The beak on my small plaster cockerel needs polishing.
My large pots are standing idle.
My porcelain pig is somewhat mildewed, bit green around the trotters.
My pottery frogs are silent, they must have a human in their throat.
Cheerio!
The beak on my small plaster cockerel needs polishing.
My large pots are standing idle.
My porcelain pig is somewhat mildewed, bit green around the trotters.
My pottery frogs are silent, they must have a human in their throat.
Cheerio!
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Quick Report...England 2 Japan 1
Many thanks to Japan's Tulio who gave the game to England with two own goals.
Frank Lampard missed a penalty after stuttering before his kick. Capello though insisted afterwards that Lampard will still be Penalty Man in the World Cup...
Rooney was for me Man of The Match, his energetic runs and passionate floorings left the others looking like Sunday players in Witham.
We did see a blaze of his infamous temper though and that is something even Maestro Capello can't curb. I liked it, I want to see Wayne red faced and like a boy with tuppence in his pocket and hunger in his heart. No amount of millions can get rid of the dirt from under his finger nails. He reminds me of Gazza. Wildly talented with ammo in his brain and boots.
We struggled in the first half, allowing Japan to score after only six minutes. I dropped a carrot. I expect the boys were out of sorts and a little on edge knowing that the boss was making notes about who and who not would be on the plane.
Their anxiety showed. It was a game played by fidgety men.
Halfway through the tension on the pitch made its way to the bosses bench when Capello and Japan's manager gesticulated in an unfriendly fashion. Arm waving is the one sure fire way for managers to express their feelings. I was more than happy to see Fabio turn blue because he is a spirited animated man. A man with beautifully cut suits who doesn't mind them getting splattered with raindrops. He doesn't use an umbrella.
If England are to do well in the World Cup Capello will need, in the next ten days, to talk to his squad using every English word in his warm vocabulary.
We need to come out against the USA knowing we can win, knowing we can serve up delicious platters of succulent football, if we don't the Press and I will have their hearts for starters.
Goodnight.
Frank Lampard missed a penalty after stuttering before his kick. Capello though insisted afterwards that Lampard will still be Penalty Man in the World Cup...
Rooney was for me Man of The Match, his energetic runs and passionate floorings left the others looking like Sunday players in Witham.
We did see a blaze of his infamous temper though and that is something even Maestro Capello can't curb. I liked it, I want to see Wayne red faced and like a boy with tuppence in his pocket and hunger in his heart. No amount of millions can get rid of the dirt from under his finger nails. He reminds me of Gazza. Wildly talented with ammo in his brain and boots.
We struggled in the first half, allowing Japan to score after only six minutes. I dropped a carrot. I expect the boys were out of sorts and a little on edge knowing that the boss was making notes about who and who not would be on the plane.
Their anxiety showed. It was a game played by fidgety men.
Halfway through the tension on the pitch made its way to the bosses bench when Capello and Japan's manager gesticulated in an unfriendly fashion. Arm waving is the one sure fire way for managers to express their feelings. I was more than happy to see Fabio turn blue because he is a spirited animated man. A man with beautifully cut suits who doesn't mind them getting splattered with raindrops. He doesn't use an umbrella.
If England are to do well in the World Cup Capello will need, in the next ten days, to talk to his squad using every English word in his warm vocabulary.
We need to come out against the USA knowing we can win, knowing we can serve up delicious platters of succulent football, if we don't the Press and I will have their hearts for starters.
Goodnight.
KICK OFF!
England v. Japan
Today
ITV 12:50
Kick Off 13:15
Graz, Austria
According to reports Japan are rather good, even being likened to the mighty Brazil. I really don't need to know that when I'm eating toast.
But I and millions of other England followers will have to wait and see...Again.
I'm up and ready and in a state of high excitement and my sacred Sunday lunch
is being manoeuvred round the lads. AND the World Cup hasn't even officially begun...
THIS is what life is like for a lady fan.
Was I attending my toilette first thing this morning, was I checking the news, was I keeping an eye on old people? No! I was not. I was arranging my Sunday afternoon around 12 fit men. No change there then!
But seriously I am known for being the perfect woman who dedicates her life to family and nature but when Capello's men are up early and ready for a fight then so is their greatest fan:)
Being fitted in today:
Lunch.
*The UK lost the Eurovulsion Song Contest being hammered by the Germans and just about everyone else. Young Josh was lost on stage, his performance not tacky enough for our European 'neighbours'. We'll be back next year but will I?
As I look at my watch there are only 50 minutes to go....So now I must drape my body in my giant England flag and see to the carrots...
Ta ta!
Today
ITV 12:50
Kick Off 13:15
Graz, Austria
According to reports Japan are rather good, even being likened to the mighty Brazil. I really don't need to know that when I'm eating toast.
But I and millions of other England followers will have to wait and see...Again.
I'm up and ready and in a state of high excitement and my sacred Sunday lunch
is being manoeuvred round the lads. AND the World Cup hasn't even officially begun...
THIS is what life is like for a lady fan.
Was I attending my toilette first thing this morning, was I checking the news, was I keeping an eye on old people? No! I was not. I was arranging my Sunday afternoon around 12 fit men. No change there then!
But seriously I am known for being the perfect woman who dedicates her life to family and nature but when Capello's men are up early and ready for a fight then so is their greatest fan:)
Being fitted in today:
Lunch.
*The UK lost the Eurovulsion Song Contest being hammered by the Germans and just about everyone else. Young Josh was lost on stage, his performance not tacky enough for our European 'neighbours'. We'll be back next year but will I?
As I look at my watch there are only 50 minutes to go....So now I must drape my body in my giant England flag and see to the carrots...
Ta ta!
Saturday, 29 May 2010
:) Must just have a word before I get settled...
No compost, suddenly went off of lettuce, but did get a simple big buttoned phone for the old dears.
Phoned mum whilst she was peeling a couple of boiled eggs for dad,"Does it work?" she asked.
Bless her heart...
Dad came on and said he was in his dressing gown. Lazy tripehound.
I drifted off today daydreaming about boats, must be the Dunkirk ceremonies taking place, all the little boats and their captains risking their lives to save their fellow man. Always stops me in my tracks when I see brave souls. As our national anthem was played old and young military men saluted. 70 years ago a boat (could have been a ferry from the Isle of Man) on its way to haul troops away from the beaches of Dunkirk, was hit and sunk and today its anchor was raised from the sea bed. First time it's had light shine upon it since. It will be displayed in a museum in Douglas, Isle of Man.
Have decided not to watch Eurovulsion tonight, reason being my ever growing inability to concentrate on anything for longer than thirty minutes, and Eurononsense is on for over three hours... Can't see me tolerating garish outfits and bad songs for that long, after all, if I wanted that, I'd go to the Dog and Duck on Karaoke night.
No thank you, I'll do something else which will, without doubt, be classy and full to the gods with the voices of angels.
Britain's Got Talent:)
My pizza is large and bubbling.
Ta ta!
Phoned mum whilst she was peeling a couple of boiled eggs for dad,"Does it work?" she asked.
Bless her heart...
Dad came on and said he was in his dressing gown. Lazy tripehound.
I drifted off today daydreaming about boats, must be the Dunkirk ceremonies taking place, all the little boats and their captains risking their lives to save their fellow man. Always stops me in my tracks when I see brave souls. As our national anthem was played old and young military men saluted. 70 years ago a boat (could have been a ferry from the Isle of Man) on its way to haul troops away from the beaches of Dunkirk, was hit and sunk and today its anchor was raised from the sea bed. First time it's had light shine upon it since. It will be displayed in a museum in Douglas, Isle of Man.
Have decided not to watch Eurovulsion tonight, reason being my ever growing inability to concentrate on anything for longer than thirty minutes, and Eurononsense is on for over three hours... Can't see me tolerating garish outfits and bad songs for that long, after all, if I wanted that, I'd go to the Dog and Duck on Karaoke night.
No thank you, I'll do something else which will, without doubt, be classy and full to the gods with the voices of angels.
Britain's Got Talent:)
My pizza is large and bubbling.
Ta ta!
Today
Compost for lettuce growing. Probably local garden centre. Good wide open space and only half a minute away!
Pizza. Making of. Simple rustic affair which Mama Corleone would make. No frilly pineapple. Just thick and uneven and dripping in slivered melting garlic.
Telephone for the old dears. Their ancient push button no longer pushes. They are unable to push when requested to do so. Frustration is bad for duffers.
Eurovision BBC1 20:00. To see Josh belt for the UK in Oslo. Great kid, Pete Waterman song....
Scratching my head over American Idol...Crystal lost out to Lee. She was cool though. Expected nothing else from the gracious busker.
Attaching flag to car.
Ta ta!
Pizza. Making of. Simple rustic affair which Mama Corleone would make. No frilly pineapple. Just thick and uneven and dripping in slivered melting garlic.
Telephone for the old dears. Their ancient push button no longer pushes. They are unable to push when requested to do so. Frustration is bad for duffers.
Eurovision BBC1 20:00. To see Josh belt for the UK in Oslo. Great kid, Pete Waterman song....
Scratching my head over American Idol...Crystal lost out to Lee. She was cool though. Expected nothing else from the gracious busker.
Attaching flag to car.
Ta ta!
Friday, 28 May 2010
A Lady's Work. A Few Delicate Thoughts.
After doing the grocery run I indulged in a lightening tuna salad then took out my Swiss Army knife. This excellent tool was needed to dissemble a horrible white bookcase which has seen better days. It is now in bits:) I don't think I ever truly took to it, after all I'm more of an Ash or Pine girl.
Having wild womanly moments is quite normal for me. My madcap ideas usually coming in the afternoon, today was no exception. But why I ask myself does it always include the heaving or dismantling of heavy stuff? Why can't I just flick a feather duster around like normal goddesses, why do I insist on doing man's work?
Because that's what I've always done. Man's work doesn't bother me in the slightest. Once I even took down a tree, and I do mean tree, it wasn't some piddling bush.
But that was then this is now, and now I'm in a red raged flutter (find out why later on) because I'm wilting, annoyed, and desperately in need of a cup of tea and and a digestive biscuit.
Friday's shouldn't be about screwdrivers Fridays should be about top hats and dancing.
Cooking tonight in a ladylike manner:
Fish Pie made with small amounts of salmon and medium amounts of cod and smoked haddock these fine sea dwellers will be topped with a sour cream mashed potato.
For pud, banana with butterscotch sauce and ice cream.
Before gathering together this good food I need to think deeply (yeah right) about an offer I've had...
My old employer, the king with two artificial hips and rusty crown, has offered me my old job back. I saw him waddle up my path and thought 'Oh no, now what'.....He didn't ring my bell, preferring to put a letter through my letterbox. Inside on thick beige paper was his ridiculous blue and old gold crest which reminded me just how silly he was. In this contrite tome he said he'd had a mental and physical hiatus and has lost four stone and that I (me, Gloria) really did enjoy working for him!!!
No mention of money however. Typical.
The super happy cats were mentioned alongside his diabetes, his new bathroom and the re-arrangement of Tupperware boxes.
The unbelievable gall of the man...
The sun is out and I'm fresh faced:)
And if I could do anything RIGHT NOW, it would be to jump into a car, any car, and be taken to a reputable ale house for a tinkling cider cup. I'd sit outside in the sun wearing a sparkling necklace tiptapping my tiny feet on a man of some substance. Then back in the jag or car of equal splendour for the quick zip to a curry emporium. The Masoom in Shoebury do a very fair Butter Chicken. I like this establishment because they once gave me a blue mug;)
Now fish:)
Ta ta!
Having wild womanly moments is quite normal for me. My madcap ideas usually coming in the afternoon, today was no exception. But why I ask myself does it always include the heaving or dismantling of heavy stuff? Why can't I just flick a feather duster around like normal goddesses, why do I insist on doing man's work?
Because that's what I've always done. Man's work doesn't bother me in the slightest. Once I even took down a tree, and I do mean tree, it wasn't some piddling bush.
But that was then this is now, and now I'm in a red raged flutter (find out why later on) because I'm wilting, annoyed, and desperately in need of a cup of tea and and a digestive biscuit.
Friday's shouldn't be about screwdrivers Fridays should be about top hats and dancing.
Cooking tonight in a ladylike manner:
Fish Pie made with small amounts of salmon and medium amounts of cod and smoked haddock these fine sea dwellers will be topped with a sour cream mashed potato.
For pud, banana with butterscotch sauce and ice cream.
Before gathering together this good food I need to think deeply (yeah right) about an offer I've had...
My old employer, the king with two artificial hips and rusty crown, has offered me my old job back. I saw him waddle up my path and thought 'Oh no, now what'.....He didn't ring my bell, preferring to put a letter through my letterbox. Inside on thick beige paper was his ridiculous blue and old gold crest which reminded me just how silly he was. In this contrite tome he said he'd had a mental and physical hiatus and has lost four stone and that I (me, Gloria) really did enjoy working for him!!!
No mention of money however. Typical.
The super happy cats were mentioned alongside his diabetes, his new bathroom and the re-arrangement of Tupperware boxes.
The unbelievable gall of the man...
The sun is out and I'm fresh faced:)
And if I could do anything RIGHT NOW, it would be to jump into a car, any car, and be taken to a reputable ale house for a tinkling cider cup. I'd sit outside in the sun wearing a sparkling necklace tiptapping my tiny feet on a man of some substance. Then back in the jag or car of equal splendour for the quick zip to a curry emporium. The Masoom in Shoebury do a very fair Butter Chicken. I like this establishment because they once gave me a blue mug;)
Now fish:)
Ta ta!
Thursday, 27 May 2010
My Darling Dragonfly. Poem.
As you in princely clothes
dart and cut through the summer air
I, the dowdy, am not footloose, am lame, so stand stock still in your fragrant food factory
looking on
but you gallant and energetic swoop, dip and flow
then,
lingering for a small eternity,
fill the space between the knotted weedy borders
with your sweet odour
the scent of the lion-hearted
Plucky, you sling your blue body to the top of the tree
and like a dark-haired sunny boy unleashes animal power
to stream back down the bark
like a shower of diamonds in search of a chain
only to soar again around the parsley bush
then, in a lovely act of solitude,
your spirit spurts
up up up fearing no-one
and, knowing nought,
you dance dance dance
you, my brave flying gem, make giants
like me
bow.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
My Beautiful Prince or Orthetrum coerulescens
Monty was transfixed.
Still.
With one paw poised...
Over something on the conservatory floor...
So I slowly went in and went down.
A slight, fragile, slender baby dragonfly sat on a stain.
I was also transfixed..
I have never seen a baby dragonfly before, seen an adult but this thing, this delicate inch of shimmering cobalt blue had me in the palm of his hand.
Fearing Monty would do what comes naturally I quickly and without further hesitation picked up a booklet (gardening tips for beginners) which was on the floor by a bag of dirt.
And acting swiftly so as not to terrify the creature, I slid the aforementioned booklet gently and confidently under the wafer thin sparkling gem.
Monty wasn't bothered.
Shooing the cat into the kitchen I unlocked the back door and sat the tender fly in a corner by some crumbling brickwork
Being a lover of babies especially ones dressed in a Prince's finery I found it hard to pull myself away.Then I put myself in his unworldly clothes and thought of his sensitivities and what it must feel like being transported around by a giant.
I came inside.
And got my phone.
Making sure Monty was well out of the way I tiptoed back outside...
And he was still there in the corner in the dust. I whispered hello, bent down and took his photo. Again and again and again.
They are not the greatest photos ever taken, can't do that on a mobile, but as soon as I can I'll upload them, or at least the best of the three.
Beautiful...
Still.
With one paw poised...
Over something on the conservatory floor...
So I slowly went in and went down.
A slight, fragile, slender baby dragonfly sat on a stain.
I was also transfixed..
I have never seen a baby dragonfly before, seen an adult but this thing, this delicate inch of shimmering cobalt blue had me in the palm of his hand.
Fearing Monty would do what comes naturally I quickly and without further hesitation picked up a booklet (gardening tips for beginners) which was on the floor by a bag of dirt.
And acting swiftly so as not to terrify the creature, I slid the aforementioned booklet gently and confidently under the wafer thin sparkling gem.
Monty wasn't bothered.
Shooing the cat into the kitchen I unlocked the back door and sat the tender fly in a corner by some crumbling brickwork
Being a lover of babies especially ones dressed in a Prince's finery I found it hard to pull myself away.Then I put myself in his unworldly clothes and thought of his sensitivities and what it must feel like being transported around by a giant.
I came inside.
And got my phone.
Making sure Monty was well out of the way I tiptoed back outside...
And he was still there in the corner in the dust. I whispered hello, bent down and took his photo. Again and again and again.
They are not the greatest photos ever taken, can't do that on a mobile, but as soon as I can I'll upload them, or at least the best of the three.
Beautiful...
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Want To See My Muscles?
Exhilarating is the only word for it.
Not only have I mowed through the forest in my side garden I've put down two further bags of gravel, dressed it with a veritable zoo of animals and birdies and placed Zachary the frog on a tree stump.
He loves it.
When I dragged the mower out I stopped for a sec and wondered if I should start, if you know what I mean. But as soon as the first mighty hills of grass fell and I saw a clearing it gave me the impetus to carry on! So carry on I did...
Now I can hang out my unmentionables without grass tickling my screaming knees!
I don't know if the birds love me or just see me as the pint pot lady with a seemingly endless supply of grub BUT I was not alone in my work.
A pair of grey Essex pigeons called Ron and Elaine got themselves comfortable on the feeder never turning a hair when I trundled up and down and along with machines and ornaments. Cocky I thought. Very cocky indeed. And then a blackbird danced a jaunty jig under the Japanese maple whilst I watered the carrots. I sooooo loved his company.
All I needed was a cat or two to turn up and I would have had the makings of Gloria's Ark:)
I soldiered on not stopping once for refreshment because if I'd have sat myself down on the step that would have been it, I'd have had a book out and a nice cup of tea and all my good works would have stopped. No doubt about it John.
More...
I'd made a space by some bush/tree I don't know the name of and thought how perfect it would be if I stuck a couple of chairs and old table down for those times when I rest....
So over to the dumpy bit by the garage where I found two decent garden chairs (not my first choice but they were free so...) and within seconds I'd wetted them with soapy water and plopped them down. Table? I needed a table. The enormous table that matches the chairs is in the conservatory so that wasn't coming out, took an age to get in!
The only table I could use was the one that the birds used to use...I scrubbed it, bubbled it up with bleach, rinsed it thoroughly and now it's squashed in between the horrible chairs but at least there's somewhere for old Glo to park her tea pot.
What else?
So after two hours of man graft, gritted toes (shoes got a split in the sole) and tiny tiny hole in my thumb, (Nature getting her own back) I mounted my cracking step in a majestic manner and gazed at my Wonky Wonderland:)
I've hung a truly beautiful Zen type windchime from the t.v. aeriel:)
Ta ta!
Not only have I mowed through the forest in my side garden I've put down two further bags of gravel, dressed it with a veritable zoo of animals and birdies and placed Zachary the frog on a tree stump.
He loves it.
When I dragged the mower out I stopped for a sec and wondered if I should start, if you know what I mean. But as soon as the first mighty hills of grass fell and I saw a clearing it gave me the impetus to carry on! So carry on I did...
Now I can hang out my unmentionables without grass tickling my screaming knees!
I don't know if the birds love me or just see me as the pint pot lady with a seemingly endless supply of grub BUT I was not alone in my work.
A pair of grey Essex pigeons called Ron and Elaine got themselves comfortable on the feeder never turning a hair when I trundled up and down and along with machines and ornaments. Cocky I thought. Very cocky indeed. And then a blackbird danced a jaunty jig under the Japanese maple whilst I watered the carrots. I sooooo loved his company.
All I needed was a cat or two to turn up and I would have had the makings of Gloria's Ark:)
I soldiered on not stopping once for refreshment because if I'd have sat myself down on the step that would have been it, I'd have had a book out and a nice cup of tea and all my good works would have stopped. No doubt about it John.
More...
I'd made a space by some bush/tree I don't know the name of and thought how perfect it would be if I stuck a couple of chairs and old table down for those times when I rest....
So over to the dumpy bit by the garage where I found two decent garden chairs (not my first choice but they were free so...) and within seconds I'd wetted them with soapy water and plopped them down. Table? I needed a table. The enormous table that matches the chairs is in the conservatory so that wasn't coming out, took an age to get in!
The only table I could use was the one that the birds used to use...I scrubbed it, bubbled it up with bleach, rinsed it thoroughly and now it's squashed in between the horrible chairs but at least there's somewhere for old Glo to park her tea pot.
What else?
So after two hours of man graft, gritted toes (shoes got a split in the sole) and tiny tiny hole in my thumb, (Nature getting her own back) I mounted my cracking step in a majestic manner and gazed at my Wonky Wonderland:)
I've hung a truly beautiful Zen type windchime from the t.v. aeriel:)
Ta ta!
To mow or not to mow?
Well having just fought my way through a mini jungle to claim the washing back methinks it's time for Glo to mow.
But before I do, I have to pop a Herb and Onion round into the oven. This homely looking bread will accompany the Sausagemeat pasta I'm having tonight.
It looks and smells gorgeous, only hope it tastes as good as it looks.
Now gloves, shoes and baseball cap on.... and mower out :(
Well having just fought my way through a mini jungle to claim the washing back methinks it's time for Glo to mow.
But before I do, I have to pop a Herb and Onion round into the oven. This homely looking bread will accompany the Sausagemeat pasta I'm having tonight.
It looks and smells gorgeous, only hope it tastes as good as it looks.
Now gloves, shoes and baseball cap on.... and mower out :(
WINNING ISN'T ENOUGH SAY THE KNOCKERS
Paul Gascoigne was right.
People, so called 'fans' of the England football team DO want us to lose.
Even after winning 3-1 there were still fans and commentators saying it wasn't good enough. Ok, we didn't thrash them them 55-0, but the name of the game is WINNING and we did that. We won. There is no higher achievement than beating the opposition. We do that occasionally. We did it last night. If the men on the pitch intoxicate me with their effortless ball skills then I'd be happy but I'd rather them be as dull as ditch water and WIN. I think the frail hearts of Englishmen can't hack it any more, unless we're 20-0 in front by half time then we've failed! If you can't stand the mud boys get off the pitch. Football is man's game. Er....
I suppose losing makes for better newspaper headlines, makes for red hot phone calls to talk shows and gives the England bashers plenty of ammunition. If we lose then we can all have a go at the lads lacklustre performance and Capello's leadership but for heaven's sake let praise ring out when we WIN! DING DING!!!
Last night we listened to the match whilst shoving the late night lettuce around (John arriving home way past his usual time, blasted trains) and after each England Goal I leapt up because I want my team to WIN. I do not get some kind of sick pleasure out of kicking the England team, even when they play poorly, being a true supporter is like being head over heels in love with a bad'un. You know he/she drives you to despair but you stick with him/her because, for Christ's sake, you love 'em.
You don't support only when they please, you stand alongside them when they fail miserably. That's love folks!
Anyway after getting indigestion (me) we retired to the front room to listen to listen to the rest of the game, and when Mexico slammed one in I shivered. Don't do this to me boys I said, my colourful imagination taking me to places I didn't wish to go. Been there, got the t-shirt, got the war wounds. I didn't need a kicking from another 'little team' who surprised us all by their sweet passes and unbelievable success in the Group of death. Blah blah whatever....
It's true to say that every time, and I've blogged about this before, that every time England get ahead, even by two or three goals, I'm still nervous.
Something ignites the hearts of lowly teams when playing England, don't know what it is, but when the minnows score they take that as a green light to ram a few more in. It didn't happen last night though and so I went to bed with MONTY and slept easily...
This morning I'm thinking about my other current love....
Crystal Bowersox, 24 year old American woman with dreadlocks and imperfect teeth.
You know there are performers, who, without any falsies or whitening or smooth talk manage to make you feel uncomfortable in their presence. She is one such gal.
Her amazing voice is almost too perfect, she's not a Mariah Carey or screamer of that ilk, Bowersox has more than a voice she bleeds when her pipes open.
Watching her singing last week on American Idol, made me wonder what has happened in her young life to enable her to belt so effortlessly.
And then I realized she's just blessed with great vocals and she's poor. And she doesn't give a damn what you or I think. She also has sense of humour borne out of not giving a hoot about regular baths.
Been busking for God knows how long and God knows where, she has a child, has a toothless wild haired old dad who looks like he swears by the bible and just swears. Her exuberant boyfriend looks like her friend as well as the father to her child. I expect they sit on the floor counting money from a cookie jar. Not for long....
If she wins this thing, I hope the money guys don't try to change her. They will of course. It always happens. A cute waitress with a flat chest, bad hair and yeee haaaa country in her blood did well a few years back
and when she appeared on American Idol as a guest she was unrecognizable. Gone was beer swilling po' girl working for 5$ an hour and hello to the augmented wine sipping Sindy doll.
I hope Crystal uses her voice not just to entertain but to hang on to what makes her so beautiful, her dirt.
Rant over.
I'm sitting in a dark blind covered room in my dressing gown wondering about bread and sausage.
I'm also thinking about Sunday 30th May when England play another friendly little team. Japan.
Could be worth a para or two...
Ta ta!
Monday, 24 May 2010
Whilst I Wait For The Umpteenth Kettle To Boil...
England v. Mexico
Wembley
Radio 5 Live
Tonight
20:00
BE THERE!
Talking of screaming...
11 days till the start of the World Cup....
The lamp post has toppled over so I've drilled it into the back garden by the giant butterfly using a hammer and washing-up brush.
This time it will not fail!
Ta ta!
Wembley
Radio 5 Live
Tonight
20:00
BE THERE!
Talking of screaming...
11 days till the start of the World Cup....
The lamp post has toppled over so I've drilled it into the back garden by the giant butterfly using a hammer and washing-up brush.
This time it will not fail!
Ta ta!
Bee Watch: Light Hearted Poetry
I saw a bee but it didn't see me
so I watched as it hovered
Up and around making that sound
the fat little bee dived
from flower to leaf
up top to beneath
I watched the stinger dance
His graceful darts
and swooping moves
like brush strokes in the air
Then
Stopped frozen
he set himself tight just hanging there
ecstatic wings a-whipping
I saw a bee but he didn't see me
and if he had he'd have seen
a sweet smelling female
with nothing on
cemented over the sink
so I watched as it hovered
Up and around making that sound
the fat little bee dived
from flower to leaf
up top to beneath
I watched the stinger dance
His graceful darts
and swooping moves
like brush strokes in the air
Then
Stopped frozen
he set himself tight just hanging there
ecstatic wings a-whipping
I saw a bee but he didn't see me
and if he had he'd have seen
a sweet smelling female
with nothing on
cemented over the sink
Lamp post to the rescue
Went for a walk this morning to try and clear my head.
"Hiya sweetheart" the familiar local man yelled from across the road, his crippling disabilities made almost invisible by his large Aussie corky hat and cheerful manner.
"Hello darling" I waved, my sunglasses hiding unmade up eyes. Fell last night into a familiar dark place and this morning, after a dozen bran flakes, I knew I had to step outside. So on auto-pilot, I went to the charity shop by the bakers.
Where I bought a black sparkling dress, white blouse and lamp post style bird feeder. It's about 6 or 7ft tall and a little warped in the middle section but as I trundled home with it there was that old familiar feeling of excitement, only this excitement was watered down, but I drank from it anyway.
After having a cuppa I spent ages trying to get the lamp post in the ground. Would it stand up right? Would it heck? My front garden is slopy with undulations all over the place so wherever I stuck the post in, it leant to the left or right bending this way and that, a touch of rust in its middle not helping...
Then I had an idea..
Dragging a giant plant pot from around the corner I loaded it up with dirt and then twisted and turned the lamp post in till it stood kind of ok. It's resting, leaning, hanging on for dear life alongside a tallish pink flowering tree where sparrows hang out. I hope they find it satisfactory.
Standing back, hands on shorts, I admired the awful kitsch thing. I love it x
(Hope it doesn't get too windy)
Now food...Probably a sandwich and kit kat and more tea.
Being put together tonight:
Corned Beef
Green salad
Crusty garlic bread
Vanilla ice Cream with strawberry sauce
By the way I had my hair cut on Saturday I now look like a Pixie with the hump:)!!!
"Hiya sweetheart" the familiar local man yelled from across the road, his crippling disabilities made almost invisible by his large Aussie corky hat and cheerful manner.
"Hello darling" I waved, my sunglasses hiding unmade up eyes. Fell last night into a familiar dark place and this morning, after a dozen bran flakes, I knew I had to step outside. So on auto-pilot, I went to the charity shop by the bakers.
Where I bought a black sparkling dress, white blouse and lamp post style bird feeder. It's about 6 or 7ft tall and a little warped in the middle section but as I trundled home with it there was that old familiar feeling of excitement, only this excitement was watered down, but I drank from it anyway.
After having a cuppa I spent ages trying to get the lamp post in the ground. Would it stand up right? Would it heck? My front garden is slopy with undulations all over the place so wherever I stuck the post in, it leant to the left or right bending this way and that, a touch of rust in its middle not helping...
Then I had an idea..
Dragging a giant plant pot from around the corner I loaded it up with dirt and then twisted and turned the lamp post in till it stood kind of ok. It's resting, leaning, hanging on for dear life alongside a tallish pink flowering tree where sparrows hang out. I hope they find it satisfactory.
Standing back, hands on shorts, I admired the awful kitsch thing. I love it x
(Hope it doesn't get too windy)
Now food...Probably a sandwich and kit kat and more tea.
Being put together tonight:
Corned Beef
Green salad
Crusty garlic bread
Vanilla ice Cream with strawberry sauce
By the way I had my hair cut on Saturday I now look like a Pixie with the hump:)!!!
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Big Fish
Silver threads of the genius weave chaotic patterns through your mind
they screw and spew fantastical motifs
catapulting ideas so beyond the understanding of mortals and cripples
that their brightness simply blinds
leaving us your lovers to tentatively touch the kerb
You are an artist of all schools
But my cracked lights are dim
almost fraudulent compared to yours
my brushstrokes graffiti
aberrations of art
I love you
Your ideas intricate akin to palm patterns on a master's hands
but my hands are useless
good for writing books of I love yous
I am a sweet-smelling freak in a gelid polar puddle
a queer silent fish hoping to swim into your sea
but voiceless halting
all I can do is wander to you
craning up through your glossy waters
gaping like a dying fish
I bubble my last smile
I love you.
they screw and spew fantastical motifs
catapulting ideas so beyond the understanding of mortals and cripples
that their brightness simply blinds
leaving us your lovers to tentatively touch the kerb
You are an artist of all schools
But my cracked lights are dim
almost fraudulent compared to yours
my brushstrokes graffiti
aberrations of art
I love you
Your ideas intricate akin to palm patterns on a master's hands
but my hands are useless
good for writing books of I love yous
I am a sweet-smelling freak in a gelid polar puddle
a queer silent fish hoping to swim into your sea
but voiceless halting
all I can do is wander to you
craning up through your glossy waters
gaping like a dying fish
I bubble my last smile
I love you.
South of the Border!
I've had a wonderful sleep and am raring to fiddle with my pots.
Fiddling with kitchenalia and gardenalia is just what the doc ordered and I ALWAYS follow medical advice. (mostly)
My first duty is to lug in the washing from the garden. It's been al fresco for nearly 24 hours. Do you think it's dry?
After that, some porky worky will be marinated in all kinds of deelish stuff because tonight I'm having a Mexican. ¡ARRIBA!
I LOVE SATURDAYS!!!
I hope your Saturday is super too X
TA TA!
Friday, 21 May 2010
Untitled Unwashed
Crikey what's this I thought as Monty shredded my feet. I'm feeling a little warm in the body area. Must have left the blanket on warp factor 9.
Idiot features.
No need to get in a lather.
Just a turnabout in the weather.
And try as I might I couldn't eat my bran flakes in a shady kitchen so I potted along to the front room of balmyness and ate them there.
Monty lay like an ebony draught excluder his furry bits made magnificent by enormous shafts of sunlight. He made a very good footstool.
Branflakes embedded in teeth I mused about today.............
The garden needs a-doing. baby weeds popping up through my useless membrane. Grass awash with pretty weeds, all highly lovely but so unloved by most. Had a sudden inclination (oh God no) to allow a patch of lawn to grown into a mental meadow.
I wonder if the Minestrone will be enough. Certainly put enough in it. Almost peeping out the top of my chubby tureen.
Cheese scone round. When to make and bake. Whilst listening to Desert Island Discs or watching Jeremy Kyle. Reminds me. I dashed into Somerfields late last night in my baseball cap and ethnic skirt to buy pure mature cheddar. I think someone called the manager.
My knees are playing up.
Is George and Mildred on ITV3 today? The lovable sex obsessed Yootha Joyce annoying long toe-nailed pickled onion obsessed Brian whatsisname. She wanted sex, she got pickling vinegar and nail clippers. Murphy....Brian Murphy
I squinted at the dust on the windows, sucked in my balloon tum, thought about night time cake and was glad it was/is Friday.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Wore my cap whilst...
Making a banana trifle.
Watching 'Infamous Assassinations' on 'Yesterday'.
Making a chocolate fudge cake.
Googling cholesterol.
Making 3pts Minestrone soup.
Watching recorded 'Cracker'. Coltrane is excellent as the shrink. Bit large, but a nice cushion.
Looking in my drawers for women's accoutrements.
Drinking three cups of coffee in quick succession with my feet on a pouffe. Unknown for me to drink so much cof in one go. Not unknown for my legs to be outstretched in the afternoon.
Pulling my eyelids down looking at veins.
Amazing Facts #72
Hand flat on table then twist arm so that the middle bit faces out. Sick making but a good party piece.
Secret Obsessions #1
Denzel Washington swearing.
In the secret files #57
The shortest time I ever stayed at a job was 3 hours.
Ta ta!
Watching 'Infamous Assassinations' on 'Yesterday'.
Making a chocolate fudge cake.
Googling cholesterol.
Making 3pts Minestrone soup.
Watching recorded 'Cracker'. Coltrane is excellent as the shrink. Bit large, but a nice cushion.
Looking in my drawers for women's accoutrements.
Drinking three cups of coffee in quick succession with my feet on a pouffe. Unknown for me to drink so much cof in one go. Not unknown for my legs to be outstretched in the afternoon.
Pulling my eyelids down looking at veins.
Amazing Facts #72
Hand flat on table then twist arm so that the middle bit faces out. Sick making but a good party piece.
Secret Obsessions #1
Denzel Washington swearing.
In the secret files #57
The shortest time I ever stayed at a job was 3 hours.
Ta ta!
Lady England
In a couple of weeks England play their first game in the World Cup. It's against the U.S.A and already I'm flying the flag. On my head.
Yes my dear friends Glo goes patriotic but won't be joining the E.D.L. that would be a flag too far even for this most passionate England supporter.
The flag I'm referring to is a baseball cap in the colours of St George (foreign) . I saw it as I made my way to the pet section in the Factory shoppe. I knew that apart from bird seed that there cap would be in my basket.
So as I was leaving the shop I placed the great flag upon my tiny bonce whilst having a quick look around for any stray Scots then I jumped into my motor to continue my shopping experience at Sainsbury's.
I dawdled.
No-one, not even white van man, dared tailgate me because they could see that I was the type of lady driver that downs a pint of wallop and smacks my thighs at a jolly good goal.
I did look lovely.
White drop earrings, white blouse, red and white cap, red lipstick and old thug jeans.
Oh and kitten sunglasses. Stare at me I dare ya!
Cooking tonight:
Salmon salad
Mini trifles.
Yes my dear friends Glo goes patriotic but won't be joining the E.D.L. that would be a flag too far even for this most passionate England supporter.
The flag I'm referring to is a baseball cap in the colours of St George (foreign) . I saw it as I made my way to the pet section in the Factory shoppe. I knew that apart from bird seed that there cap would be in my basket.
So as I was leaving the shop I placed the great flag upon my tiny bonce whilst having a quick look around for any stray Scots then I jumped into my motor to continue my shopping experience at Sainsbury's.
I dawdled.
No-one, not even white van man, dared tailgate me because they could see that I was the type of lady driver that downs a pint of wallop and smacks my thighs at a jolly good goal.
I did look lovely.
White drop earrings, white blouse, red and white cap, red lipstick and old thug jeans.
Oh and kitten sunglasses. Stare at me I dare ya!
Cooking tonight:
Salmon salad
Mini trifles.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Monday, 17 May 2010
Hester Wardle:Poem
I love receiving gifts, especially from ghosts.
The poem below was, I believe, a gift.
It wrote like a tap.
I love it.
Thanks Hester...
Hester Wardle
mistress of the house
a house alive with sunflowers
and nothing else
walks softly with scissors
Over there by the clock
by the clock without a beat
lies a mound of blue bound manuals
bought when Wardle's coins flowed
Manuals with elaborate pictures
drawn by men in London and Bath
one signed 'with love and appreciation'
name indecipherable
'1871'
And on this mound of manuals
sits propped a lonely lady doll
her auburn hair ratted entwisted* and quarrelling with bugs
runs alive
swarming her broken back
and
ribbons, once lilac and smooth, now
ripple through the little nest
The doll's porcelain face was, many years ago, awash with Hester's fingermarks
but now
now at the houses* end
rests like one of Father's unwanted monuments
cracked, shot and beggarly
yet as a stick of sunlight shoots through another split in the whey-faced wall
it shows up a hint
a living hint
of a milky tear set like stone in dolly's squashed eyes
Tilly Tilly was once adored...
Hester with snapping scissors in hands
and webs on her skirts
sits.
There are deliberate grammatical errors in this...
*'houses'. I don't know why, but it felt right.
Entwisted is an archaic word.
The poem below was, I believe, a gift.
It wrote like a tap.
I love it.
Thanks Hester...
Hester Wardle
mistress of the house
a house alive with sunflowers
and nothing else
walks softly with scissors
Over there by the clock
by the clock without a beat
lies a mound of blue bound manuals
bought when Wardle's coins flowed
Manuals with elaborate pictures
drawn by men in London and Bath
one signed 'with love and appreciation'
name indecipherable
'1871'
And on this mound of manuals
sits propped a lonely lady doll
her auburn hair ratted entwisted* and quarrelling with bugs
runs alive
swarming her broken back
and
ribbons, once lilac and smooth, now
ripple through the little nest
The doll's porcelain face was, many years ago, awash with Hester's fingermarks
but now
now at the houses* end
rests like one of Father's unwanted monuments
cracked, shot and beggarly
yet as a stick of sunlight shoots through another split in the whey-faced wall
it shows up a hint
a living hint
of a milky tear set like stone in dolly's squashed eyes
Tilly Tilly was once adored...
Hester with snapping scissors in hands
and webs on her skirts
sits.
There are deliberate grammatical errors in this...
*'houses'. I don't know why, but it felt right.
Entwisted is an archaic word.
Cooking Milipedes
3 x large loaves of bread.
12 x Chocolate Chip Fairy Cakes
1 x Strawberry and Cream Swiss Roll
12 x Sultana and Apricot Rock Cakes.
One of the loaves and all of the sweet goodies are for mum and dad. It's mum's birthday tomorrow so I thought a basket of homebaked treats would please her.
I've just caught David Milipede announcing his intention to run for Leader, and I'm still unsure as to what he is.
His mantra was one of 'out with Blairism and Brownism and in with Milipedeism.' He voice was soothing to the point of numbness, but underneath the scrubbing brush hair was a man much older than his years. Very old fashioned in a way. He didn't smile neither did he gesticulate much, there was of course the occasional hands-coming-together but all in all he was sober in his approach. He will not set the floor alight. But politics isn't always about barnstorming rhetoric, whooping and teeth it's about what politicians are elected for... delivering the goods.
This election will be thrashed out over the summer and I will love it, so what with the election, Wimbledon AND the World Cup your blogging old Glo will have her work cut out!
On a personal note just to prove that this blog isn't all about me....Mr Horsehound, bless his heart, suggested that he'd like to exhibit a selection of photographs celebrating me getting older.......
He now eats through a straw.
I will however give this artistic project some serious thought, you can be sure that if it goes ahead no Vaseline or tarting up will be used in production of these great pics.
I am nearly 54.
Every cry line, every worry line has been brought about by being a sensitive lady. I don't do bottling it up.
Be it emotions or pears.
Now a movie and one of mum's buns:)
Ta ta!
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Blues Won. Portsmouth Didn't.
When Drogba scored he ran around crossing himself like a missionary on fire.
I very much doubt if God, in all his wisdom, gives a hoot about the beautiful game, let alone Chelsea.
I very much doubt if God, in all his wisdom, gives a hoot about the beautiful game, let alone Chelsea.
Milibundian News.....
While the bread rises and my towels dry, I must just have a word about the Labour leadership election.
I see The Brothers From The Slopes of The Great Milibundan will be competing against each other for the job.
Young Ed and old David will I fear cause havoc around the family's breakfast table.
If it were a Man Contest Mr Ed Milibundian would win by a short hair cut, his brother being a tad too ugly. But this is not a beauty Man contest it is a fight to go down in history as the Man who re-kindled the ailing Labour Party thereby stuffing the Tories and their Glory Boys.
It should all be spiffing fun"
A fellow, who might enter through the back passage, is Ex-Commie Mr Jon (I don't need an H) Cruddas.
A man with a decent enough boat-race but crippling credentials. It would, I feel, be a turn about too radical for the new Labour party. He ran for Deputy P.M quite a while ago but got merrily kicked in the hooter by Ms. Harriet Harpy.
I will though be supporting this lush bloke on account of my predilection for bad boys!
Another man who, with the help of electrocution lessons became Home Secretary, has ruled himself OUT of the running. But Alan (I could get it for you wholesale) Johnson was, in his youth, a vicious hard headed Union man but with the help of a decent tailor, could easily stand at the despatch box duffing up Cameron.
He smiles very broadly when asked about all this and I get the feeling he'll be backing one of the Milibundian Bros. He will not be supporting Jon Cruddas. I would though.
Very little time now before the Footie so with that in mind I'll reach for my new Horn and canter along the flowered hallway to the dug out.
Cheerio!!!
I see The Brothers From The Slopes of The Great Milibundan will be competing against each other for the job.
Young Ed and old David will I fear cause havoc around the family's breakfast table.
If it were a Man Contest Mr Ed Milibundian would win by a short hair cut, his brother being a tad too ugly. But this is not a beauty Man contest it is a fight to go down in history as the Man who re-kindled the ailing Labour Party thereby stuffing the Tories and their Glory Boys.
It should all be spiffing fun"
A fellow, who might enter through the back passage, is Ex-Commie Mr Jon (I don't need an H) Cruddas.
A man with a decent enough boat-race but crippling credentials. It would, I feel, be a turn about too radical for the new Labour party. He ran for Deputy P.M quite a while ago but got merrily kicked in the hooter by Ms. Harriet Harpy.
I will though be supporting this lush bloke on account of my predilection for bad boys!
Another man who, with the help of electrocution lessons became Home Secretary, has ruled himself OUT of the running. But Alan (I could get it for you wholesale) Johnson was, in his youth, a vicious hard headed Union man but with the help of a decent tailor, could easily stand at the despatch box duffing up Cameron.
He smiles very broadly when asked about all this and I get the feeling he'll be backing one of the Milibundian Bros. He will not be supporting Jon Cruddas. I would though.
Very little time now before the Footie so with that in mind I'll reach for my new Horn and canter along the flowered hallway to the dug out.
Cheerio!!!
SILKY SKILLS!
I'm up early!
Ready for the Cup Final!
And I'm in exclamation mode!
After a nifty dribble to the shops for a box of tissues I'll be on the bench, kitted out, watching Pompey sort out The Blues!
Get in there my son!
And if anyone gives me a studs up tackle, my timely kick will be well placed. Sweet!
In the back of the Wok tonight:
A bit of pork. With no metatarsal bone.
A big round one rolling out of the onion bag.
And carrots.
At the end of the day John, as long as the lads play a good game, I'll be well pleased!
Ta Ta!
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Rape. Poem
Been a smashing day!
Made some bread and a great big Apple cake.
Watched Dave's first Cabinet meeting.
Watched Crimson Tide eating Raspberry Ruffles.
Stroked my Monty.
Wrote a poem...
Eric, Ern and Bud
I can't comment on the news because I've not checked in. Yet.
But watching C & C at yesterday's press call reminded me of a bad double act. Possibly showing in Worthing.
The spiteful press guy who reminded the planet that Cammi once called Cleggy a 'joke' set the scene...
In mock shock and outrage Clegg saddened up and stormed off...Then in a ghastly attempt at acting, Cameron begged him to come back.
Eric and Ern they ain't.
I cannot see the pair of forty somethings sitting up in bed together discussing Cleggys new book wot he wrote.
And as for Cam chasing after the ladies wearing Wellington boots. I don't think so...He's more of a rubber mac man.
I am so uneasy about this pact, this coming-together of disparate souls, this pick-up on Downing Street.
Talking of pick-ups...I dreamt that Ms Sarah (Queen of the Empire) Tether landed the job of Mother of The Nation. She will, believe me, be plotting Nick's downfall. The tiny vicious ruthlessly ambitious M.P. is waiting for Clegg to slip up, then she, all 3ft 8ins of her, will, with yellow sceptre in hand, take root in Downing Street.
I'm not all that keen on her.
But what about Theresa (Look at my shoes) May becoming burdened with the almighty job of Home Sec. Blow that. I've studied the fashion queen and apart from her head teacher looks and
out-of-hours clothes, she's really quite unremarkable. But what do I know? For all I know she might have a dungeon.
Michael Gove has been given Education.
In all my life I've never seen a creepier politician. If any Vent acts on the south coast mislay the dummies, just stick an arm up Gove and problemo solvedo.
That's enough vitriol for this morning I'm a Woman with Work to do.
But before I make a loaf I must fess up about what I did last night. For those of you who think I'm nothing more than a hard faced scribbler, you're in for a great big surprise.
After tenderly eating 5 Cream Crackers I watched 'The Abyss' and although it has a great story and marines and oil workers and rats, the bit which tore me to shreds, which had me reaching for a banana was when our Hero, BUD, who was laying Christ-like on the sea shelf and dying, took the outstretched gelatinous hand of a SEA ALIEN.
I CRIED. God, how I cried.
I love Aliens who Care.
Ta Ta!
But watching C & C at yesterday's press call reminded me of a bad double act. Possibly showing in Worthing.
The spiteful press guy who reminded the planet that Cammi once called Cleggy a 'joke' set the scene...
In mock shock and outrage Clegg saddened up and stormed off...Then in a ghastly attempt at acting, Cameron begged him to come back.
Eric and Ern they ain't.
I cannot see the pair of forty somethings sitting up in bed together discussing Cleggys new book wot he wrote.
And as for Cam chasing after the ladies wearing Wellington boots. I don't think so...He's more of a rubber mac man.
I am so uneasy about this pact, this coming-together of disparate souls, this pick-up on Downing Street.
Talking of pick-ups...I dreamt that Ms Sarah (Queen of the Empire) Tether landed the job of Mother of The Nation. She will, believe me, be plotting Nick's downfall. The tiny vicious ruthlessly ambitious M.P. is waiting for Clegg to slip up, then she, all 3ft 8ins of her, will, with yellow sceptre in hand, take root in Downing Street.
I'm not all that keen on her.
But what about Theresa (Look at my shoes) May becoming burdened with the almighty job of Home Sec. Blow that. I've studied the fashion queen and apart from her head teacher looks and
out-of-hours clothes, she's really quite unremarkable. But what do I know? For all I know she might have a dungeon.
Michael Gove has been given Education.
In all my life I've never seen a creepier politician. If any Vent acts on the south coast mislay the dummies, just stick an arm up Gove and problemo solvedo.
That's enough vitriol for this morning I'm a Woman with Work to do.
But before I make a loaf I must fess up about what I did last night. For those of you who think I'm nothing more than a hard faced scribbler, you're in for a great big surprise.
After tenderly eating 5 Cream Crackers I watched 'The Abyss' and although it has a great story and marines and oil workers and rats, the bit which tore me to shreds, which had me reaching for a banana was when our Hero, BUD, who was laying Christ-like on the sea shelf and dying, took the outstretched gelatinous hand of a SEA ALIEN.
I CRIED. God, how I cried.
I love Aliens who Care.
Ta Ta!
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Vice President Clegg
He certainly looked the part.
Very smooth, clean and with the faintest whiff of Americana about him. But that's where the similarity ends.
As he stood beside Cameron I sat still in disbelief. Never ever in a zillion years did I expect to see a Lib Dem Deputy Prime Minister standing alongside his Conservative boss in the back garden of Downing Street.
I know I've mentioned this before but this meeting of minds has me and I expect a few million others reaching for the chill pills. A homely, earth loving, tree kissing Lib Dem leader and his senior party members* snuggling up at night with the self-proclaimed Nasty party. I'm in a tizz and no mistake.
I've heard great men like Max (I haven't changed my spectacles for thirty years) Hastings say the love-in won't last. And he could be right. I mean the Conservatives are known for ripping the heads off of sparrows thay are not known for putting bandages on the broken legs of badgers. But maybe I'm being a little harsh on the Blues so I'll stand back, give the guys some time, and at the end of say a year, re-assess this marriage for power.
One never knows, they could grow to adore each others little ways.
"Gove! Go slice me another Liberal".....
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Eating and Doing Tonight:
Cream Crackers, water and The Abyss:)
I am good.
Ta Ta!
*I got in a state of high sexual excitement when I clocked Lib Dem David Laws (Chief Secretary to the Treasury) ooozing along Downing Street. His rolling swagger and packed pockets had me wondering if he was related, albeit in a tiny way, to the current James Bond, Mr Daniel Craig.
I'm 53.
Very smooth, clean and with the faintest whiff of Americana about him. But that's where the similarity ends.
As he stood beside Cameron I sat still in disbelief. Never ever in a zillion years did I expect to see a Lib Dem Deputy Prime Minister standing alongside his Conservative boss in the back garden of Downing Street.
I know I've mentioned this before but this meeting of minds has me and I expect a few million others reaching for the chill pills. A homely, earth loving, tree kissing Lib Dem leader and his senior party members* snuggling up at night with the self-proclaimed Nasty party. I'm in a tizz and no mistake.
I've heard great men like Max (I haven't changed my spectacles for thirty years) Hastings say the love-in won't last. And he could be right. I mean the Conservatives are known for ripping the heads off of sparrows thay are not known for putting bandages on the broken legs of badgers. But maybe I'm being a little harsh on the Blues so I'll stand back, give the guys some time, and at the end of say a year, re-assess this marriage for power.
One never knows, they could grow to adore each others little ways.
"Gove! Go slice me another Liberal".....
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Eating and Doing Tonight:
Cream Crackers, water and The Abyss:)
I am good.
Ta Ta!
*I got in a state of high sexual excitement when I clocked Lib Dem David Laws (Chief Secretary to the Treasury) ooozing along Downing Street. His rolling swagger and packed pockets had me wondering if he was related, albeit in a tiny way, to the current James Bond, Mr Daniel Craig.
I'm 53.
David and Nicholas
Columbine and Harlequin in the Palace of dreams.
More like two frisky colts in a stable of muck.
And so it goes on.
The actor's scripts may change, but they're all dressed in the same sickly garb.
The election for a new Labour party leader will be grist for my blogging mill.
A mix of old and young darlings will be up for the job. But only one gal. The ever present Harriet Harman. I can't remember a time when she wasn't in my face. I even know that she likes a Cottage loaf stuffed with minced meat, old family recipe apparently. I know this because it turned up in a book about famous people and what they like to eat! Famous!
Ms Harman is famous for being married to Jack Dromy. And for being around a long time and for being a woman and not for anything else. Although bitching out of the way, she did do well as a stand in for the late Mr Brown at PMQ's. But leadership/Prime Ministerial material? No.
I can't see a lady whose married to a Union man and who comes from a posh background and who enjoys a nice meat and bread pie ever jiggling the keys to Number 10.
But then again...
I just saw Mr Clegg aka Columbine waving a limp wrist outside the aforementioned Number 10.
His manner was one of disbelief. Yes Cleggy, you rotten turncoat, you've wriggled your way into a decent little job and there you are arm in arm with the Boy Wonder. AND YOU CAN'T BELIEVE IT!
Well neither can the rest of the country matey.
The struggle for the Labour leadership will be fought between clean boys...The Milliband Brothers, Ed Balls and, if they decide they want to dirty it up, Mr Jon Cruddas.
Meanwhile a broken but dignified man leaves for the hills. I think that the history books will paint a kinder picture of Gordon Brown.
Now I have to get to work on my floor.
Ta ta!
More like two frisky colts in a stable of muck.
And so it goes on.
The actor's scripts may change, but they're all dressed in the same sickly garb.
The election for a new Labour party leader will be grist for my blogging mill.
A mix of old and young darlings will be up for the job. But only one gal. The ever present Harriet Harman. I can't remember a time when she wasn't in my face. I even know that she likes a Cottage loaf stuffed with minced meat, old family recipe apparently. I know this because it turned up in a book about famous people and what they like to eat! Famous!
Ms Harman is famous for being married to Jack Dromy. And for being around a long time and for being a woman and not for anything else. Although bitching out of the way, she did do well as a stand in for the late Mr Brown at PMQ's. But leadership/Prime Ministerial material? No.
I can't see a lady whose married to a Union man and who comes from a posh background and who enjoys a nice meat and bread pie ever jiggling the keys to Number 10.
But then again...
I just saw Mr Clegg aka Columbine waving a limp wrist outside the aforementioned Number 10.
His manner was one of disbelief. Yes Cleggy, you rotten turncoat, you've wriggled your way into a decent little job and there you are arm in arm with the Boy Wonder. AND YOU CAN'T BELIEVE IT!
Well neither can the rest of the country matey.
The struggle for the Labour leadership will be fought between clean boys...The Milliband Brothers, Ed Balls and, if they decide they want to dirty it up, Mr Jon Cruddas.
Meanwhile a broken but dignified man leaves for the hills. I think that the history books will paint a kinder picture of Gordon Brown.
Now I have to get to work on my floor.
Ta ta!
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Men
Being a sometimes spontaneous character and often given to bouts of mild madness I threw on a pair of old jeans this morning and bopped down to Southend. No paddling in the pretty water though this was a trip to bolster the cupboards.
Anyway after giving a rather pleasant young man all my money I returned to the car park, loaded the boot and was then approached by two ghastly foreigners. They wanted to know if my car needed a clean. I decided to play with them...
"WHAT" I shouted
"Clean your car" the little swarthy ones repeated
"I'm SORRY WHAT" I said shutting the boot ever so delicately
"Do you want your car cleaned Madam" said the bigger sweatier one
Suddenly I was back in old India or somewhere like that where the little chaps knew their place.
The two Lithuanians or Poles or some other European sorts knew that I was a woman, albeit a small poor one, who demanded the utmost respect. Bless their scavenging hearts. I played no more and left with a loud cheery No Thank You.
My England balls swaying in the wind.
On the way home I was chased, nay threatened, by a pratt in a Mondeo. I played with him also...
My game being the game of calmness under fire.
Little dick didn't have his way with me.
Now I'm back in the bungalow with the BBC blaring in the kitchen and a sausage in the pan...
I will, this afternoon, after attending my bits, pleasure myself with the Beebs political editor Nick Robinson.
He is a man who reminds me of an old school teacher I had, a robust red faced chap with halitosis and a no hair. Mr Fox his name was, probably dead now but a decent enough fellow. Taught me how to climb a rope and other totally unnecessary skills.
But I digress.
The gut churning panto which is being played out in the Palace of Westminster and other less salubrious joints is turning into nail biting edge-of-the seat telly.
I can't get enough of the comings and goings. Nick Clegg has a nice little house in Putney. Mr Cameron's frontage needs a trim and the net in Number 10 needs shredding.
And now I'm going all womanly....
When I saw Mr Brown making his statement yesterday outside his home, I felt sorry for him. He spoke, I think, for the first time without a splinter in his throat, without performance. He was dignified. It must knife him to his core to have to leave the job he waited so long to get but Mr Brown is like a lion with a carcass he isn't going to let up till he's satisfied.
And his satisfaction might come in the form of twisted bloodied success whereby Labour gnaw out a pact with the Liberal Democrats.
Nick Clegg, if he decides to kiss Labour and stop fumbling in the back row with Cameron, will, I think, feel the full steaming pus filled wrath of the Conservatives. He will be a dead man.
And Cameron might not come off lightly either. Old Tory sorts might just think he's not fit for purpose and ditch him for someone less smooth and fit.
It's not all about jumpers and trainers Dave.
People need to see fat and helmets too.
Sausage now.
Ta ta!
Anyway after giving a rather pleasant young man all my money I returned to the car park, loaded the boot and was then approached by two ghastly foreigners. They wanted to know if my car needed a clean. I decided to play with them...
"WHAT" I shouted
"Clean your car" the little swarthy ones repeated
"I'm SORRY WHAT" I said shutting the boot ever so delicately
"Do you want your car cleaned Madam" said the bigger sweatier one
Suddenly I was back in old India or somewhere like that where the little chaps knew their place.
The two Lithuanians or Poles or some other European sorts knew that I was a woman, albeit a small poor one, who demanded the utmost respect. Bless their scavenging hearts. I played no more and left with a loud cheery No Thank You.
My England balls swaying in the wind.
On the way home I was chased, nay threatened, by a pratt in a Mondeo. I played with him also...
My game being the game of calmness under fire.
Little dick didn't have his way with me.
Now I'm back in the bungalow with the BBC blaring in the kitchen and a sausage in the pan...
I will, this afternoon, after attending my bits, pleasure myself with the Beebs political editor Nick Robinson.
He is a man who reminds me of an old school teacher I had, a robust red faced chap with halitosis and a no hair. Mr Fox his name was, probably dead now but a decent enough fellow. Taught me how to climb a rope and other totally unnecessary skills.
But I digress.
The gut churning panto which is being played out in the Palace of Westminster and other less salubrious joints is turning into nail biting edge-of-the seat telly.
I can't get enough of the comings and goings. Nick Clegg has a nice little house in Putney. Mr Cameron's frontage needs a trim and the net in Number 10 needs shredding.
And now I'm going all womanly....
When I saw Mr Brown making his statement yesterday outside his home, I felt sorry for him. He spoke, I think, for the first time without a splinter in his throat, without performance. He was dignified. It must knife him to his core to have to leave the job he waited so long to get but Mr Brown is like a lion with a carcass he isn't going to let up till he's satisfied.
And his satisfaction might come in the form of twisted bloodied success whereby Labour gnaw out a pact with the Liberal Democrats.
Nick Clegg, if he decides to kiss Labour and stop fumbling in the back row with Cameron, will, I think, feel the full steaming pus filled wrath of the Conservatives. He will be a dead man.
And Cameron might not come off lightly either. Old Tory sorts might just think he's not fit for purpose and ditch him for someone less smooth and fit.
It's not all about jumpers and trainers Dave.
People need to see fat and helmets too.
Sausage now.
Ta ta!
Monday, 10 May 2010
Loss
I wonder if Gordon Brown dreamt as I dreamt last night, that's assuming he slept at all.
My dream was one of loss, a loss so overpowering that my gut instinct was, on waking, to speak out thereby laying myself open to either re-assurance or ridicule.
I expect Gordon doesn't need to sleep though to be ravaged by such raw rancid emotions. His every waking hour must be taunted by fear. Fear of losing his position and fear of his beloved Party being out of government for a generation.
The sickly long winded chit chats between Cameron and Clegg must have the Prime Minister bent double with frustration and grief not to mention rage. He must wonder how C&C would ever be able to maintain a working relationship given they are diametrically opposed on many issues. Opposites attract so the saying goes but a marriage of convenience never really works. The cracks will begin to appear immediately, probably after their first kiss, and one or both of them will wonder why they ever got hitched in the first place. Power my dears Power. That's why you signed on the dotted line.
Meanwhile Gordon shuffles around in the night like an injured animal, his much wanted sleep interrupted by hazy fading pictures of him in his youth, when ideals shone and his night times were filled with hope.
But now the grizzled Scot is being kicked along like road-kill by a deluge of rejection and, perhaps the most unpalatable sight of all, the excrutiating spectacle of his natural allies, the Lib Dems becoming intoxicated and raped behind a veil of blue.
After this most debilitating spectacle ends I hope that all the leaders sleep well and that none of them dream of loss.
For to spend your night dreaming of loss is to make nightmares of your day...
My dream was one of loss, a loss so overpowering that my gut instinct was, on waking, to speak out thereby laying myself open to either re-assurance or ridicule.
I expect Gordon doesn't need to sleep though to be ravaged by such raw rancid emotions. His every waking hour must be taunted by fear. Fear of losing his position and fear of his beloved Party being out of government for a generation.
The sickly long winded chit chats between Cameron and Clegg must have the Prime Minister bent double with frustration and grief not to mention rage. He must wonder how C&C would ever be able to maintain a working relationship given they are diametrically opposed on many issues. Opposites attract so the saying goes but a marriage of convenience never really works. The cracks will begin to appear immediately, probably after their first kiss, and one or both of them will wonder why they ever got hitched in the first place. Power my dears Power. That's why you signed on the dotted line.
Meanwhile Gordon shuffles around in the night like an injured animal, his much wanted sleep interrupted by hazy fading pictures of him in his youth, when ideals shone and his night times were filled with hope.
But now the grizzled Scot is being kicked along like road-kill by a deluge of rejection and, perhaps the most unpalatable sight of all, the excrutiating spectacle of his natural allies, the Lib Dems becoming intoxicated and raped behind a veil of blue.
After this most debilitating spectacle ends I hope that all the leaders sleep well and that none of them dream of loss.
For to spend your night dreaming of loss is to make nightmares of your day...
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Cream. Pink. Black. And Dick.
Not red, yellow or blue.
Although I am doing extreme somersaults over the outcome of the General Election they are nothing compared to the delicious contortions I'm doing now!
BECAUSE.....
I dashed out this morning and fell upon three WONDERFUL things.
1.
A Barabara Wiggns pink leather bound notebook...House of Fraser £36.99. Not where I shop matey. I bought mine in Friends of Lions charity shop for £1... Hard breathing...
2.
A cream Leather Tococa Hobo bag. Original price God knows. But it's gorgeous. I paid £8.
and
3.
A dazzling black ankle-length dominatrix P.V.C. skirt with two silver-coloured buckles and thigh-length slit. Rapid heart beat ensued. Cost £1.25. The lady who served me thought it was a bag. Bless her heart.
After nearly collapsing with joy I went along the road and bought another curled up sleeping wooden puss. Priceless.
SO what with the goodies AND the election hullabaloo....I'm ecstatic!
Pic above is of Dick the hedgehog. A gift from my Joan.
Ta ta!
Friday, 7 May 2010
EXCLAMATION DAY!
WHAT!
Hung parliament!
So much for staying up half the night!
Well...till half past ten!
But as soon as my tired old bonce came up for air that telly was ON!
First to the Beeb where Sir Dimbledom looked AWFUL!
Then straight over to Sky where Daks man Kermit O'Murnighan was clearly suffering the effects of downing 18 pints of RED BULL..!
What a laugh!
Feeling this was all too too exciting I decided to drag my numb arse into the kitchen to make a nice cup of tea!
Sipping on it like it was liquid sex I continued watching what can only be called the most thrilling election in 40 odd years.
I must say though that shots of a deflated Mr Clegg made for sad viewing. Never has a politician looked so stuffed.
Mr Cameron however, standing upon the podium of victory, looked very smug.
Current P.M. Mr Brown slid out of his big black car and popped back indoors no doubt ready to make numerous phone calls...
Lord 'Faustus' Mandelson entertained by curling and twirling his top lip in a devilish manner. Methinks the most oleaginous character in Brit politics has something charmless up his gaily coloured sleeve. Like a new boss or something!
Meanwhile Laura 'I'm in for promotion' Kuenssberg nearly exploded whilst on the pavement outside number 10. She does get so excited. Love the girl but wish she'd do something about her hair. Bit of lift needed Laur!
Back to last night and me and my tea.
Watching Adam 'Mr Spock has nothing on me' Boulton had your favourite blogger polishing her spex. Me wondered whether the telly needed adjusting or whether the chicken had been too over soyed because the handsome Boulton looked even more handsome. Bit like a movie star in fact. All shiny smooth and RICH! The fact that his EYEBROWS are reaching for other planets just doesn't matter.
How long would it take for me to get to Osterly I thought!
Ho Hum.....! Monty gets a rub instead!
But back to the important stuff...
What the heck is happennig right now in Downing Street, in Milbank and in Holland & Barratt where the Lib Dems congregate? I just don't know.
I bet there are Granita style pacts being wickedly put together, many backs being scratched, numerous juicy jobs being offered on stained platters and begrudging multi-coloured promises being made...
This election has ignited unbelievable interest in politics and the terrifying spectacle of indignant voters being turned away from closed polling stations is unprecedented.
What have the television debates unleashed?!
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Pre-Supper Post
Today's Love Quote by Pearl Bailey has inspired me...
I need MORE:
Bread Flour. Sacks preferably. Getting through 1kg every other day. Homemade bread has rocked my world. Emphasis on rock.
Tickles. An effective form of therapy. Pills can't compete with screaming lung bursting giggles.
Pebbles: Back garden looking half-cocked. On account of only getting five bags. And would you believe bits of weed are popping up through the membraned pebbles. Membrane indeed!
John Humphrys. Give God his own show and I don't mean another Mastermind type thing I mean give him a Paxo like vehicle where he can shred politicos intestines live on BBC 2.
Humph Slaughters Michael Gove In Studio Carnage. Yeah!
Peas. Always running out.
I need FEWER:
Boyfriends. Utter numpties in a goddess's world.
Mad cap ideas. Pebbles.
I need less:
Chocolate. White Belgian. Max I've eaten in one sitting...6 squares. I have incredible will power.
Deep Fried Onion Rings: Artery attack missiles.
Laziness. God do I have to. It can wait. Not now not ever. It really can wait you know. YOU do it.
Tantrums. On Sunday afternoons. I blame plummeting blood sugar levels/old age/being spoilt/laziness/hormones/wanting my own way
Showers Am beginning to prune in all areas.
Car activity. Swinging England balls are so distracting when doing 30 max.
Worry. About money. The old dears. The England football team. Not being able to dance non-stop for twenty minutes like I did at 18. The Antarctic. Elephant tusks. Peeling exterior walls. Disappearing Tigers. Peeling interior ceilings. Disappearing Gorillas. Prescription prices. Snails. Elderly lovers. My country. My volcanic libido. My teeth:)
Frying Tonight:
Very Sweet and Not Very Sour Chicken with cucumber, pineapple and carrot.
Very Fried rice with bacon, red onion and egg.
Four Large Spring Rolls. Dipped in Chilli and Tomato sauce.
Water. (I don't imbibe)
Chocolate.
Ta ta!
I need MORE:
Bread Flour. Sacks preferably. Getting through 1kg every other day. Homemade bread has rocked my world. Emphasis on rock.
Tickles. An effective form of therapy. Pills can't compete with screaming lung bursting giggles.
Pebbles: Back garden looking half-cocked. On account of only getting five bags. And would you believe bits of weed are popping up through the membraned pebbles. Membrane indeed!
John Humphrys. Give God his own show and I don't mean another Mastermind type thing I mean give him a Paxo like vehicle where he can shred politicos intestines live on BBC 2.
Humph Slaughters Michael Gove In Studio Carnage. Yeah!
Peas. Always running out.
I need FEWER:
Boyfriends. Utter numpties in a goddess's world.
Mad cap ideas. Pebbles.
I need less:
Chocolate. White Belgian. Max I've eaten in one sitting...6 squares. I have incredible will power.
Deep Fried Onion Rings: Artery attack missiles.
Laziness. God do I have to. It can wait. Not now not ever. It really can wait you know. YOU do it.
Tantrums. On Sunday afternoons. I blame plummeting blood sugar levels/old age/being spoilt/laziness/hormones/wanting my own way
Showers Am beginning to prune in all areas.
Car activity. Swinging England balls are so distracting when doing 30 max.
Worry. About money. The old dears. The England football team. Not being able to dance non-stop for twenty minutes like I did at 18. The Antarctic. Elephant tusks. Peeling exterior walls. Disappearing Tigers. Peeling interior ceilings. Disappearing Gorillas. Prescription prices. Snails. Elderly lovers. My country. My volcanic libido. My teeth:)
Frying Tonight:
Very Sweet and Not Very Sour Chicken with cucumber, pineapple and carrot.
Very Fried rice with bacon, red onion and egg.
Four Large Spring Rolls. Dipped in Chilli and Tomato sauce.
Water. (I don't imbibe)
Chocolate.
Ta ta!
Grin
What a fabulous morning!
So in love with the sun I am (syntax malfunction) that instead of taking the motor I dilly dallied along to cast my vote.
Afterwards, with my yellow and red bag a-swinging I patted my way down many roads to Joan and the charity shop just by the car wash.
To say she was pleased to see me is an understatement, after telling me off for my absences she hugged me so tight my glasses went awry.
Lovely old girl is Joan, salt of the earth and all that but the reason I like her sooo much is that she knocks money off my purchases.
And today was no different.
50p off a realistic hedgehog and a £1 off the other item.
The other item being one of my most favourite things on earth a blue and white striped Cornish Ware jug and although I already have three this one will stand out on account of it's size. It's enormous.
I paid up, left Joan grinning and went outside
And as I dithered outside I pondered whether or not to buy a wildly over-priced green pepper in rat bag Somerfields. Sense overcame me and I didn't.
I dilly dallied home stopping only once to answer my neighbours question...
"It's such a beautiful day Brian, I thought I'd leave the car alone"
(Lazy old turnip basher...)
Monty tried to make a break for it when I opened the door, so I shoved him with my bag and he torpedoed down the hall.
My jug and Dick the hedgehog are in the middle of the kitchen table and I'm content.
Don't laugh I mean it!
Ta ta!
So in love with the sun I am (syntax malfunction) that instead of taking the motor I dilly dallied along to cast my vote.
Afterwards, with my yellow and red bag a-swinging I patted my way down many roads to Joan and the charity shop just by the car wash.
To say she was pleased to see me is an understatement, after telling me off for my absences she hugged me so tight my glasses went awry.
Lovely old girl is Joan, salt of the earth and all that but the reason I like her sooo much is that she knocks money off my purchases.
And today was no different.
50p off a realistic hedgehog and a £1 off the other item.
The other item being one of my most favourite things on earth a blue and white striped Cornish Ware jug and although I already have three this one will stand out on account of it's size. It's enormous.
I paid up, left Joan grinning and went outside
And as I dithered outside I pondered whether or not to buy a wildly over-priced green pepper in rat bag Somerfields. Sense overcame me and I didn't.
I dilly dallied home stopping only once to answer my neighbours question...
"It's such a beautiful day Brian, I thought I'd leave the car alone"
(Lazy old turnip basher...)
Monty tried to make a break for it when I opened the door, so I shoved him with my bag and he torpedoed down the hall.
My jug and Dick the hedgehog are in the middle of the kitchen table and I'm content.
Don't laugh I mean it!
Ta ta!
Ummmm...
It's sunny and I have a lot to do and I don't know where to start.
I'm all in a dither.
I might risk the pollack.
I'm all in a dither.
I might risk the pollack.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Election Eve
No snow on the ground, no sherry by the fire, no nuts in my hand but Whizzo! I am so excited...
No gifts wrapped in gay paper, no giggle juice, no ice men with carrots rammed in their faces but Oh my Lord I am so excited.
No warblers with mitts outstretched, no cat felled trees, no runny noses, no knee high boots but Whooppee! I am so excited.
No lights that-go-a-flickering, no tinsel in the bath, no kissing in halls, no dangling balls. But Wowee I am so excited
Father Brown, Daddy Cameron and Pop Clegg are no doubt biting their nails in anticipation of what us the good and trusty folk of Britain will leave in their sacks...
If I was to give a present to Gordo it would be:
Charm lessons.
An engraved reminder saying that the Labour party was formed by trade unionists, workers and socialists to make sure that the British parliament represented people who the Tories and others ignored.
An afternoon with me whereby we could talk about when I met Arthur Latham. Who made Neil Nicknock look like Lord Ashcroft.
A train ticket to anywhere. Name it Gordon and you've got it.
Coco Pops. Porridge sings like a bagpipe whereas Coco pops do a strip.
A hearing aid.
For David:
A glamorous week in social housing with no money and dose of fear.
Nits.
A bike with no pump.
A date with me with no expenses paid to Simpsons in the Strand. I'd eat him under the table matey.
A black short sleeved shirt. No roll ups here sunshine.
A bottle of Ear wax remover.
For Nick:
A kick.
A nice pork chop.
A Union Jack.
An evening with me and my liver.
A pat on the back.
A fresh pair of ears.
Cooking tonight:
I've ditched the Pollack in favour of a steak and for pud a concoction...Chocolate, nuts, cream, I just don't know.
Now get out there you trusty folk of Britain and X in a new government.
Three Cheers for Guy Fawkes
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!
Ta ta!
No gifts wrapped in gay paper, no giggle juice, no ice men with carrots rammed in their faces but Oh my Lord I am so excited.
No warblers with mitts outstretched, no cat felled trees, no runny noses, no knee high boots but Whooppee! I am so excited.
No lights that-go-a-flickering, no tinsel in the bath, no kissing in halls, no dangling balls. But Wowee I am so excited
Father Brown, Daddy Cameron and Pop Clegg are no doubt biting their nails in anticipation of what us the good and trusty folk of Britain will leave in their sacks...
If I was to give a present to Gordo it would be:
Charm lessons.
An engraved reminder saying that the Labour party was formed by trade unionists, workers and socialists to make sure that the British parliament represented people who the Tories and others ignored.
An afternoon with me whereby we could talk about when I met Arthur Latham. Who made Neil Nicknock look like Lord Ashcroft.
A train ticket to anywhere. Name it Gordon and you've got it.
Coco Pops. Porridge sings like a bagpipe whereas Coco pops do a strip.
A hearing aid.
For David:
A glamorous week in social housing with no money and dose of fear.
Nits.
A bike with no pump.
A date with me with no expenses paid to Simpsons in the Strand. I'd eat him under the table matey.
A black short sleeved shirt. No roll ups here sunshine.
A bottle of Ear wax remover.
For Nick:
A kick.
A nice pork chop.
A Union Jack.
An evening with me and my liver.
A pat on the back.
A fresh pair of ears.
Cooking tonight:
I've ditched the Pollack in favour of a steak and for pud a concoction...Chocolate, nuts, cream, I just don't know.
Now get out there you trusty folk of Britain and X in a new government.
Three Cheers for Guy Fawkes
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!
Ta ta!
I Know Which One I'm Gonna Eat!
Today, thank heavens, is the last day of the great banana debate and I for one am bendily pleased.
On the Today programme Mr Humphrys talked to very very ordinary voters and they all said that the televised rows were great for democracy. I concur. I feel this could be the beginning, nay the re-birth of British politics. But hopefully we won't be skinned alive by references to bananas.
David 'look at my rolled up sleeves' Cameron went without sleep last night because he cruised around through the night trying to pick up a dithering voter.
Meanwhile...
Nick ' Gillette Man' Clegg went to sleep as did Gordon 'It's all about fiscals not pecs' Brown.
I very much doubt they slept near to each other.
What a story that would make.
'Old Scot jumps Young Vegan in midnight pact'.
In other news.....
My shopping bill has blown up.
I blame them all.
Cooking tonight:
Pollacks.
I Am Not A Banana. But I Like Playing With Them.
David Cameron could be a banana.
Michael Gove is probably a closet banana.
Gordon 'I have a large hand' Brown packs a big banana.
Nick 'My middle name is Kumquat' Clegg secretly hides bananas.
The Conservative Party and others are obviously watching American Idol where the very blonde babe loving Ms Ellen De Generes is obsessed with banana. Er...Howz zat work then?
I love banana.
But am not not one.
Yet I have spent a lot of time coming up with ideas what to do with one or two.
Usually involves sprays.
My understanding of the word banana is that it's a slightly mushy derogatory term used to describe people who are bonkers. Or ideas so off the tree that they could be deemed to be so absurd as to be plain daft.
On several occasions recently, mainly when addressing ordinary voters, Mr Cameron has made reference to bananas. For instance: If he takes a particular course, he will indeed be a banana. Likewise on the esteemed Today programme Mr Michael 'I'm well into bananas' Gove also slid his tongue over the 'B' word when attempting to maul the BBC's attack melon Mr John 'I eat coal' Humphrys. Gove lost.
The current obsession with the bent fruit is giving me the pip.
But I love bananas.
I blame banana hating Ms De Generes.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
The imperfect end to an imperfect day.
Tony 'kiss my feet' Blair turning up to help out his old adversary Gordon 'I've endured hardships too' Brown.
That was it as far as Glo was concerned. Off went BBC News. I couldn't stand another minute of hand shakes.
I sat down.
After sitting like an artists model for five minutes, I put a loaf in the oven and made a sausage and apple casserole.
I will not be blogging any more today.
I am exhausted, not with Brown or bread but with trying.
Ta ta!
Tony 'kiss my feet' Blair turning up to help out his old adversary Gordon 'I've endured hardships too' Brown.
That was it as far as Glo was concerned. Off went BBC News. I couldn't stand another minute of hand shakes.
I sat down.
After sitting like an artists model for five minutes, I put a loaf in the oven and made a sausage and apple casserole.
I will not be blogging any more today.
I am exhausted, not with Brown or bread but with trying.
Ta ta!
Rant
I don't know about Gordon Brown being the worst Prime Minister the country has ever had but he's certainly the worst actor.
His ASDA performance a few minutes ago had me almost wishing for Blair. At least he knew how to put on a show.
Brown kept on asking the same question when faced with a mum and babe in tow. "How old is he?" He nauseated
Would have been much more impressed if he'd asked something more interesting like "Do you know who the father is?"
The giggling gaggle of shoppers surrounding our leader made me want to vomit. There was though a chink of brightness in the shape of an elderly lady (yep another one) who held aloft a copy of The Sun praising Cameron. I like it!
He then moved with some difficulty through a blowzy block of inarticulate ordinary voters till he came to yet another ordinary voter. He then turned up the grin machine to mark 10 asking the minimum wage lass how long her shift was. She, bless her, was inaudible,The picture however made much more noise... It was a caption editors dream...Gordo under banner saying Take Away.
He looked so ill at ease I wondered how much more fakery he can raise and how much more I can take.
He flounders and stutters and with that slapped on smile edges ever closer to the door of all supermarkets and hopefully the shiny door of Number 10.
He cannot, however fit he is, maintain this ludicrous act for much longer. I know all politicians tell us what we want to hear but some of them a la Blair for example managed to make it entertaining, Coco Brown does not.
He's embarrassing.
Some men are born leaders with the gift of the gab, others are only fit to sit behind a heavy duty desk.
I feel waterlogged when watching him as if I'm gurgling and drowning in his bleakness, whereas Blair sustained his million watt brightness then after bringing on an illegal war sauntered off to the bank.
I am, as you can see, not in the best of moods, in fact I'm lethal.
I feel repressed. My creative side swallowed up in bread dough, my need for expression curbed due to the bloody ironing and my natural born talent for humour swallowed by intense seriousness.
Bugger.
But fear not I'll be back after I've watched the news.
His ASDA performance a few minutes ago had me almost wishing for Blair. At least he knew how to put on a show.
Brown kept on asking the same question when faced with a mum and babe in tow. "How old is he?" He nauseated
Would have been much more impressed if he'd asked something more interesting like "Do you know who the father is?"
The giggling gaggle of shoppers surrounding our leader made me want to vomit. There was though a chink of brightness in the shape of an elderly lady (yep another one) who held aloft a copy of The Sun praising Cameron. I like it!
He then moved with some difficulty through a blowzy block of inarticulate ordinary voters till he came to yet another ordinary voter. He then turned up the grin machine to mark 10 asking the minimum wage lass how long her shift was. She, bless her, was inaudible,The picture however made much more noise... It was a caption editors dream...Gordo under banner saying Take Away.
He looked so ill at ease I wondered how much more fakery he can raise and how much more I can take.
He flounders and stutters and with that slapped on smile edges ever closer to the door of all supermarkets and hopefully the shiny door of Number 10.
He cannot, however fit he is, maintain this ludicrous act for much longer. I know all politicians tell us what we want to hear but some of them a la Blair for example managed to make it entertaining, Coco Brown does not.
He's embarrassing.
Some men are born leaders with the gift of the gab, others are only fit to sit behind a heavy duty desk.
I feel waterlogged when watching him as if I'm gurgling and drowning in his bleakness, whereas Blair sustained his million watt brightness then after bringing on an illegal war sauntered off to the bank.
I am, as you can see, not in the best of moods, in fact I'm lethal.
I feel repressed. My creative side swallowed up in bread dough, my need for expression curbed due to the bloody ironing and my natural born talent for humour swallowed by intense seriousness.
Bugger.
But fear not I'll be back after I've watched the news.
Letter To Ian Curtis
Dear Ian,
Bloody awful isn't it?
Being a poet.
The reason I've sent this is because your work and performances touched me. Touched me? Bit soft and girly. But watching you on YouTube showed me what I've missed.
You're probably wondering what YouTube is. Unless of course wherever you are has internet connection. Anyway YouTube can be found on a computer it's a place where bloggers (don't even ask) like me find poets like you. Type in Joy Division and up you come. Click a mouse (!) and I'm watching you and your mates beat out Love Will Tear Us Apart.
But what brought about this search was 'Control' a bio-pic about YOU! (See amazing pic above) It was made with the help of Natalie and Deborah and showed me, the Neanderthal, what I'd missed.
I suppose at this juncture it would be best to explain that I have always been a black music lover. The only poet/rocker I listened to was Bowie, like you yourself did. I remember buying Hunky Dory and thinking I was a dangerous tea drinking rebel in a purple tie-dye t-shirt Oh God how right I was. Tea drinking part anyway. Rebel? Only in so far as how I dress. You should see the nonentities round here.
I wrote poetry even then, 16 in '72. Most of it being self-indulgent nonsense about loneliness and gods, the colour of souls and being different. Being different on a housing estate in 1970's London was not easy. So I drifted back from school listened to Bowie in my red and blue room and wrote wrote wrote. I was also fascinated by suicidee's.
You hit the scene a few years later. '76? Right?
Oh that reminds me I liked the thought of you as a bleary eyed, artistic miserablist working in the labour exchange. You obviously had a brain as well as an artists soul. Work scared the hell out of me, although I did do a bit in a glue factory. You too 'worked' in a factory where you daydreamed all day. :) Emoticom Ian
But I digress.
I must tell you more about the film...
The guy who portrayed you was a handsome young actor called Sam Riley. And handsome is an understatement, the really weird thing was his resemblance of you, separated at birth perhaps? But there's something much more spooky....tell you later....About you and the Belgian girl Annike.
Sam Riley had greasy flat hair, same stiff torso but with maniacal arm waving, same mic sucking and wet shirts. Good God man what was that all about?
I remember wondering what exactly you ate. Couldn't have been much because you were as thin as your mic stand. Why are creatives damaged and skeletal?
You may be wondering about the significant others.
Your wife Deborah was played by fabulous actress Samantha Morton whose depiction had me choking, so painful was it. I especially went to mush when you and her kissed on a grassy hillside overlooking Macclesfield or wherever it was. To be honest with you Ian, places and times and dates dissolved into nothingness because I was willingly held vice-like by Riley's depiction of you. You would have liked him I'm sure.
The others, the band members and Craig Parkinson's portrayal of Tony Wilson were all gilt on an already perfect film.
It's true to say the film makers loved you.
Let me bring you eerily up to date.
Your real life love affair with Annik Honore has taken on something of the supernatural...Because actor Sam Riley who played you and actress Alexandra Lara who played Annike are now MARRIED and living in Berlin. What do you think of that? When I read it I felt sick. Sick to death of what-should-have-beens...
But that is real life, I'm talking about the film and the impact you, as an artist, had on me.
Watching 'Control' had me in tears.
Can you see me smiling? Smiles of distress and you, being a damaged sort, will know what I mean.
Tears I was in. And not at the parts where you perhaps felt most alone. On stage. Walking round the block. Looking at your wife.
But when you looked at shitty nappies on the washing line. When you watched a busy tv screen with some foreign film showing. After all when you decided it was time to die, aloneness, subtitled films and nappies were mere extras in your act.
But Ian I could have killed you at that moment.
"WAIT WAIT this will pass darling". But it didn't.
Torment won.
And off you swung.
If I'd been a bit more hip I might have discovered your music earlier but I have 'Control' and YouTube.
Love
Angela
P.S. I've favourited Shadowplay x
Sunday, 2 May 2010
A Cry Of Poets
"Oh God" said the poets "there's nothing left
'cept man and his temper
'cept us and our grief"
And so with their lives the poets ran
to the hovel of the few
where sluttish ill-groomed scriveners
drew words of every hue
And in this mangy, draggletailed den
our hoard of wordsmiths met
their huddled backs
their punctured hearts
penned dreams when no-one slept.
Angela Norris
'cept man and his temper
'cept us and our grief"
And so with their lives the poets ran
to the hovel of the few
where sluttish ill-groomed scriveners
drew words of every hue
And in this mangy, draggletailed den
our hoard of wordsmiths met
their huddled backs
their punctured hearts
penned dreams when no-one slept.
Angela Norris
About To Do Something Else
I was tapped by my Muse when about to do something ordinary.
She saved me from that.
Already noted down a few lines and now I'm spent. My heart is beating faster than usual, my skin is thin.
Not bothered about the food which is waiting nor the snooker on t.v. Such is the noise.
I'm impatient to carry on but her torrent is gone.
I'm soaked but happy.
She saved me from that.
Already noted down a few lines and now I'm spent. My heart is beating faster than usual, my skin is thin.
Not bothered about the food which is waiting nor the snooker on t.v. Such is the noise.
I'm impatient to carry on but her torrent is gone.
I'm soaked but happy.
Thursday and Counting.........
4 days to go till we, the people, get our chance to pencil Mr Brown out of Downing Street.
39 days to go till we, the England supporters, the most patient of all footie fans, get the chance to cry and sing. More singing than crying I hope.
27 days to go till we, the camp songsters with buckets of popcorn, get our chance to watch the United Kingdom get dozens of douze points in the Eurovision Song Contest.
2 hours to go till I, the most un-fussiest of eaters, have the chance to oooh! and cor! at the sight of a perfectly roasted bird, big jug of gravy and sticky jammy ricey puddingy.
3 hours till I, the most ardent of movie watchers, rent a space on the cat-owned sofa watching something bloody and horrific.
Other things hitting the headlines......
That smarmy John Higgins, the quietest of snooker players is allegedly caught with his greedy mitts in all the pockets.
And there I was cheering him on whenever he played with Ronnie or Ebo or people of that nasty ilk. Never ever again will I trust a man who is too good to be true. Especially when my wonga is depleted. Flipping cheek!
St David of the Cameroon was out yesterday buying pre-ordered broccoli. £3 it cost him. Should have gone to Lidl's.
Yesterday Veganite Clegg sandalled his way around Glastonbury, a place I know very well, (see olde pics) yelling into a mic. I got the distinct impression that he was floundering because his usual excellent oratory. Wasn't. He needs MEAT.
Ta ta!
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Little Things That Go Crunch!
After re-filling the bird feeders I turned around and saw three giant snails munching from a small plate I'd super glued to the windowsill. (I like to think they were a family out on a picnic.)
Being a softie with an inquisitive mind I squelched over my muddy patch to watch them.
One of the snails was sticking his head and neck out (do snails have necks?) anyway he was elongated. Being fascinated I took a closer look...His sticky type body having slithered over the small plate had accrued tiny seeds and flakes of corn, I immediately wondered if he would be ok. Immediately coming to the sensible conclusion that with the snails constant, if slow shuffle, the bird seed would eventually get knocked off.
What fascinated me most were his eyes, tiny beady bright things glistening on grey slippery stalks, seeing all, but in what form? Could he see my green jumper with its frilly white collar and pea sized stain? Could he see my eyes behind my glasses and if he could, did I look monstrous? My hair, I expect, was plain weird.
Was he able to sense that I was not a threat?
Then a slight movement, a wave almost and the snail trudged along completely covering the plate. Was my nosiness upsetting him? I hoped not. But not willing to take a chance I left the slow-coach to nibble and, after satisfying himself, wander God knows where leaving a silvery trace in his wake.
I always try to put myself in the shoes of birds and lubricious things. Shoes? I like that! Bit soppy, but soppy or not, I always consider their feelings, they're without qualifications but not stupid.
To say I panic is not overstating it, I do panic, especially if I think I've caused distress. If the creatures could vocalize their upset I'd be ok, but it's the thought of them being silently anxious which upsets me. If I accidentally crush something I kick myself whilst simultaneously comforting myself with the fact that it was a quick death.
Ok 'nuff of the womanly nonsense...I've got bread to bake and cakes to ice and stuff to watch.
Ta Ta!
P.S. I love it when pigeons land on my fence whenever I'm in the kitchen. I like to think they clock me and associate me with nuts.
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