Playing Dice With Words

Washed, ready for beddybize
cleansed
but deep down, a sooty stop-out

Praying, head bent and sorry
beseeching
but down deep, unrepentant really

Masterminded, words, chess and water
learning
but deep and buried
jovial patting-of-backs partying soul sister

Solitary, night star gazing slug saving
serene
but down deeper, burnt with reckless day star exposure

Holding a gentle old hand
comforting
but under a loose ring of gold, wrath

Singing, miming
make believing drama queen
but inside a screaming bopper who hires invisible dancers

Woman, cake goddess and sink scrubber
pink for girl, blue for boy
but under perfect icing and puddles of disinfectant
a gollywogs lullaby and out-of-bounds vagina

Transparent, bleeding obvious
heart warming buddy
but beneath the halo boiling seething foam

Dignified, stately
knows when and how to speak
but crouching under a tight tongue a guttersnipe

Ladylike, gloves and high panties
knees clamped
but below the lacquered head
a sailor's vocabulary



Gosh that felt good.
Goodnight all.

Debate But With No Broken Ankles

Mr Cameron's eerily spotless complexion out shone the others.
His golden face illuminated like a Fra Angelico painting. He was almost radiant. Make-up is marvellous isn't it? And so is the thought of power.
But it was more than just perfectly applied concealer and a well cut suit, he looked Prime Minister material. At last. Although between you and me I feel that beneath the Bullingham club old sort lies a dirty rough boy who's hiding substances in his draws and an electric guitar in his bike shed.
In comparison milky Cleggy looked like a young sandal wearing teacher giving hope to kids in an inner city school. He means well does Clegg but there's something vegetarian about him, something weedy and worthy. I'm sure he means well but he's young and foolish and obviously isn't listening to the likes of Mrs Duffy and millions of others...His amnesty ideas surely doing damage to the man who would be prince..

Stouty Browny acted, but the gruff, moody, surly man was never far away. His terrible smile at the end making me wonder if he was really fit for high office. To hold power one must grab an audience by the throat and then kiss and lick it. Brown is not a licker. He doesn't know how to please neither does he leave punters wanting, clapping and then wanting more, unlike the very smooth Mr Blair, whose acting ability was second to none.

I think the Labour party have a hell of a task ahead not only trying to convince me and others that they deserve my X but they also need to decide whether or not to keep Mr Brown.. Methinks that whatever the outcome of the General Election men and woman behind the scenes are plotting to gag and bag Mr Brown. Gag and bag remember where you heard it first. And if that does come to pass I feel this blog will bulge with posts about possible replacements.

But back to the programme.
It was a good show, David Dimblebum holding court with the dusty panache of a magistrate. The audience were too well behaved though for my liking I've always wanted to see a bit more cut and thrust from LIVE debates. You know the kind of thing, like when John Wilkes Booth leapt onto the stage breaking his ankle...
I wouldn't want anyone important to get hurt but the idea of one of the electorate losing their rag due to Mr Brown's policies would be televised political theatre at its best.

So to sum up:
Last night...
Mr Cameron seemed to have taken something, possibly 100 mg of Brown's Bigot gaffe. He was a new man last night.
Mr Clegg had probably sipped a glass of kelp tea.
And Mr Brown was sore with self-inflicted thrashings.

I loved it.

Today Eco Man Nick was in Leicester talking to a bunch of students. Cool.
Miserablist Gordon was in Hockley unveiling ludicrous posters. I stood still, teacup in hand wondering which Aide came up with the idea. The posters of desperation.I hated them.
Meanwhile Nice Dave crouched down in front of a load of kids. They don't know you David I said. Go chat up their mums.

In other news....I see Fulham F.C. are doing well. My mum used to clean their offices you know.
and
I spoke to a man engaged in drain pipe analysis.

Zachary

I know I know he's an amphibian.
Taxonomy isn't my strong point.
But he is gorgeous in his froggy way...

Zach and Gordon

I've named him Zachary.
It was love at first bite.
He was in a charity shop sitting on a shelf behind a teapot looking thoroughly out of sorts so I kind of took pity on him.
He's the latest stray to be given sanctuary in the bungalow.
And he's the way I like my males; on his belly head resting in hands gazing up at me.
He is a Lizard. And as I eased him up and towards the till one of his nails or whatever its called got embedded in the fleshy bit of my thumb.
Zach is wooden and green and is, as I speak, laying by the kettle.

Pic on it's way, probably tomorrow.
I have to unload my bag now, rustle up something quick and tasty to eat (tuna pasta) and then I must sit down to watch Brown get himself out of trouble...
I wonder how he's feeling.
Bit like Zach I suppose, stiff.

Abandon All Hope...

Just seen Gordon Brown on t.v.
He was smiling. A smile so fake it was painful to behold. And as he stood outside Gillian Duffy's home I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Tonight when he closes his door and the noise of the press and bloggers mercifully recede, he'll be able to share his pain with his wife.

He is, from what I've read and heard, a passionate man with a quick temper and penchant for flying phones. Tonight I expect he'll need to take stock, a deep breath and then find a way through his political Gehenna.

Hell comes in many forms. And for the politician the unguarded moment, the off the cuff remark can send the unwary candidate into their own infernal circle.
I wonder how he'll sleep.

Tomorrow night he faces the third and final Leaders' debate and for that he'll need to perform his political theatre. As an accomplished actor would know the mask must not slip.
It's all in the eyes and smiles Mr Brown but yours scream of insincerity.

God Who Let That Woman In Here?

Thank God this blog isn't mic'd up! (Poor old Gordo)
What a stream of gutter filth you would hear.

i.e.

"Get that rotten cat out of here"
"Are you still here?"
"Look at that flipping paper peeling"
"That was a disaster WASN'T IT?"
"Where's the bloody delete button?"
"I hate this blog."
"DO SOMETHING!"
"Turn off the phones I am out for the rest of the YEAR."
"I'm in a bit of a mood so scoot or die."
"Why do I BOTHER""
"What's the point of blogging/living/shopping/voting?"
"Tell them to go away I am not interested in double triple or quadruple glazing"
"I am so enamoured with him that I want to throw myself at his feet and suck his toes"
"I HATE HIM"
"I look awful"
"Don't I look wonderful darling?"
"I prefer bad weather it fits with my personality"
"Oh I'd love to live somewhere hot"
"God I hate it when no-one comments"
"Oh look a comment, I love you all"
"Why do I insist on having this blasted mirror in the office?"
"I look gorgeous when I pose this way"
"Who's that at the door now?"
"Is he here yet;)"
"I hate that handbag get rid of it"
"Have you emptied the bin, if not why not?"
"You know darn well why I blog, it's cheap therapy"
"GET OUT"
"WHY AM I DOING THIS?"


I see Gordo's put his foot in it.
Silly Scot.
A man not in tune with the punters, especially Mrs Duffy, poor old thing. I've always known politicians are two faced but to have a swipe was unnecessary. Immigration wasn't her main point yet the petulant P.M. branded the pensioner and life long Labour supporter a bigot. We all get ratty but he should be savvy enough to know how a radio microphone works.
Just because he's in his armoured saloon doesn't mean the wireless waves hit a brick wall.
In other words he's guilty of technical naivete.
And that poses the question. What on earth were his media advisors doing when the broadcasters requested that he be rigged with a radio microphone?

Tomorrow night's Leaders' debate should be worth rushing home to...


Cooking tonight:
Cottage pie
Ice cream and cake

So Exciting!

With a bout of fine weather come bouts of inspiration and optimism. And the recent weather has had my heart a-bubbling in its cage.
No fewer than half a dozen exciting things are currently wrestling for position in my head.
And here they are.

1. The General Election.
A day and night when political groupies like me have a love-in with men in suits and swingometers. Needless to say I'll be zapping my remote from the BBC to Sky and back again. I love the hype, chat and what-ifs on the day, but most of all I adore the morning after when I tentatively switch on to find out if I'm in the red or feeling blue. Or, heaven forbid, swimming through a ghastly unworkable sludge of blue, red and yellow.. Talking of things being unworkable I see Cleggy is banging his smooth fists on his eco- friendly wooden table table saying he wouldn't work with a Brown controlled government. Ooooh!..... I think Mr Clegg is getting above his station, must be all the paparazzi following his every move and the thought that he could be the man who, come the 7th May, holds the nation's wealth and health in his tender unused hands. And I'm the Queen of Sheba.

2. The Eurovision Song Contest.
A pizza filled night when I sit cross legged waving my little flag whilst puzzling over the bonkersness of our fellow Europeans. They think that by singing a queer song in a bad outfit they'll somehow impress the judges. Sometimes they do and they win but I'm hoping that our Josh, our kid, with his homely good looks and great voice will melt the iron hearts of the judging panels. You never know they might even take pity on us if we have a new fella in Downing Street...

3. The Final of American Idol.
Providing Crystal Bowersox is in it. Last week the young woman with the 100 year old soul sang some gospel and, reaching the end, cried. That my dears is what I like. A stunningly pretty girl with golden pipes and heart to match. No-one else in this rather disappointing season of A.I. comes close to Mama Bowersox. Aaron is a kid who, like Crystal, is old before his time, and if Crystal doesn't win I hope he does.
Talking of 'talent shows' I watched Britain's Got Talent and fell in love again, (that's twice in one week) the man is called Christopher. He sang like a man trapped by his parents and his job as an accountant. And as he broke into 'Maria' (lucky girl) my blood ran cold and hot his voice so sweet, so controlled, so filthily rich. I adored him. He of course went through to the next round...

4. Wimbledon.
Green grass, an electronic roof and Rafael Nadal. Heady afternoons where I might sip on a Pimms whilst my grass turns brown due to a hosepipe ban. I love the summer. The summer is my time to shine, mostly on the face where my nose sticks out like a giant strawberry. I love the summer. Hot days filled with green salad, and if I'm flushed, an avocado. Nights where the bed linen is shoved away likewise a snoozing Monty and where each and every morning I vow to put on sun protector nonsense grade nuclear and short socks. But instead I roll down the road getting scorched and wincing as the skin on my little toes gets rubbed away. Protection, protection all sensible gals should use protection.

5. And most importantly of all the start of the 2010 World Cup in South Africa.
I will not allow anything or anyone to interfere with me on any day when England is playing. Please take note now. If you turn up with presents or even promises you will not be allowed access to the bungalow. The beautiful game comes first.

6. My birthday.
I will be 54 not 18. And I can honestly say that being six years away from sixty doesn't bother me one jot.
I don't know what I'll be doing on the day, someone somewhere might have a little surprise planned but even if I'm left alone without even a card or box of Maltesers I will put on a brave face. I'll not fear the extra year, nor the fact that I'm a year nearer the grave, not even the idea that I'm edging towards younger men. And as I study my face looking for extra lines I'll refuse to be blighted by thoughts that it's only men with sticks and hair issues who want me. So on the 28th June (note the date) I will gladly take in all manner of gifts (you know the address) and gaily celebrate my very special day by laughing my stockings off!
(Do not turn up without texting me first alright?)

And on that gloriously subtle note I must say bye bye.

Today looks like it could be a good one.


Ta ta!