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Friday, June 29, 2007


Political Correctness - we are all familiar with it. We have to be. In a sensitive world of religion, identity, sex, creed, color, age, orientation, profession , class, the list goes on and on. If anyone has seen Blazing Saddles the movie, knows that even though it satires the PC of everything, they would also know that it would be an extreamly difficult and tall order to reproduce the movie or remake it in this day and age. You simply could not make that transition in this era. James Finn Garner first published Politically Correct Bedtime Stories: Modern Tales for Our Life & Times in 1995, he took a look at how ridiculous the political awareness was spinning out of control and satirised it through the medium of fairy tales.

When I first read Politically Correct Bedtime Stories: Modern Tales for Our Life & Times, I didnt know what to expect; I half heartedly believed that what I had bought was going to be slightly funny but perhaps a little enduring with the tweaking. But I became quickly aware just how James Finn Garner has honed Political Correctness into an art.Can you imagine a scenario where Cinderella actually ended up getting along with her sisters-of-step? How would The Three Bears handle Goldilocks being a rogue environmental scientist? Within these pages you can find the answer to these questions and more. This book takes these and other classic fairy tales from our childhood, strips them of offensive (to some people) language, replaces said language with more neutral word choices, for a brand new take on classic stories. Sounds boring? Hardly. With a selection of twenty-two Western European fairy tales enslaved in the shackles of sexism, ageism, anthrocentrism and any other forms of bias he could detect, he has re-worked them ,offering us gems like "The Three Codependent Goats Gruff" and "Sleeping Persun of Better-Than-Average Attractiveness." He uses spellings like "wommon" and "womyn," refers to Hansel and Gretel as "pre-adults" and talks about "three goats who were related as siblings." He carefully specifies that Red Riding Hood's grandmother "was in full physical and mental health and was fully capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult.".Without a doubt Mr Garner is the master of sanitation when it comes to the editing process. I have included 2 stories for examples. If you fancy a reading five or ten minutes before going asleep, this is the perfect bedtime companion - although the temptation would be to read on until the book was finished, please dont you are in danger of guilding the lily with such stories or gorging yourself on two much of a good thing. Savour these stories like exceptionally rich chocolates from a box - too many of them could disagree with you but one at a time will leave you salavating for more.

Politically Correct Three Little Pigs
Once there were 3 little pigs who lived together in mutual respect and in harmony with their environment. Using materials that were indigenous to the area they each built a beautiful house. One pig built a house of straw, one a house of sticks, and one a house of dung, clay and creeper vines shaped into bricks and baked in a small kiln. When they were finished, the pigs were satisfied with their work and settled back to live in peace and self-determination.

But their idyll was soon shattered. One day, along came a big, bad wolf with expansionist ideas. He saw the pigs and grew very hungry in both a physical and ideological sense.

When the pigs saw the wolf, they ran into the house of straw. The wolf ran up to the house and banged on the door, shouting, "Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!"

The pigs shouted back, "Your gunboat tactics hold no fear for pigs defending their homes and culture."

But the wolf wasn't to be denied what he thought was his manifest destiny. So he huffed and puffed and blew down the house of straw. The frightened pigs ran to the house of sticks, with the wolf in hot pursuit. Where the house had stood, other wolves bought up the land and started a banana plantation.

At the house of sticks, the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, "Little, pigs, little pigs, let me in!"

The pigs shouted back, "Go to hell, you carnivorous, imperialistic oppressor!"

At this the wolf huffed and puffed and blew down the house of sticks. The pigs ran to the house of bricks, with the wolf close at their heels. Where the house of sticks had stood, other wolves built a time-share condo resort complex for vacationing wolves, with each unit a fibreglass reconstruction of the house of sticks, as well as native curio shops, snorkelling and dolphin shows.

At the house of bricks, the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, "Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!"

This time in response, the pigs sang songs of solidarity and wrote letters of protest to the United Nations.

By now the wolf was getting angry at the pigs' refusal to see the situation from the carnivore's point of view. So he huffed and puffed, and huffed and puffed, then grabbed his chest and fell over dead from a massive heart attack brought on from eating too many fatty foods.

The three little pigs rejoiced that justice had triumphed and did a little dance around the corpse of the wolf. Their next step was to liberate their homeland. They gathered together a band of other pigs who had been forced off their lands. This new brigade of porcinistas attacked the resort complex with machine-guns and rocket launchers and slaughtered the cruel wolf oppressors, sending a clear signal to the rest of the hemisphere not to meddle in their internal affairs. Then the pigs set up a model socialist democracy with free education, universal health care and affordable housing for everyone. {My note: well it is a fairy tale after all.}

Please note: The wolf in this story was a metaphorical construct. No actual wolves were harmed in the writing of the story.

Little Red Riding Hood - A Politically Correct Fairy Tale


by Jim Garner


There once was a young person named Red Riding Hood who lived with her mother on the edge of a large wood. One day her mother asked her to take a basket of fresh fruit and mineral water to her grandmother's house -- not because this was womyn's work, mind you, but because the deed was generous and helped engender a feeling of community. Furthermore, her grandmother was not sick, but rather was in full physical and mental health and was fully capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult.

So Red Riding Hood set off with her basket of food through the woods. Many people she knew believed that the forest was a foreboding and dangerous place and never set foot in it. Red Riding Hood, however, was confident...

On her way to Grandma's house, Red Riding Hood was accosted by a Wolf, who asked her what was in her basket. She replied, "Some healthful snacks for my grandmother, who is certainly capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult."

The Wolf said, "You know, my dear, it isn't safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone."

Red Riding Hood said, "I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop your own, entirely valid worldview. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way."

Red Riding Hood walked on along the main path. But, because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma's house. He burst into the house and ate Grandma, an entirely valid course of action for a carnivore such as himself. Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist notions of what was masculine or feminine, he put on grandma's nightclothes and crawled into bed.

Red Riding Hood entered the cottage and said, "Grandma, I have brought you some fat-free, sodium-free snacks to salute you in your role of a wise and nurturing matriarch."

From the bed, the Wolf said softly, "Come closer, child, so that I might see you."

Red Riding Hood said, "Oh, I forgot you are as optically challenged as a bat. Grandma, what big eyes you have!"

"They have seen much, and forgiven much, my dear."

"Grandma, what a big nose you have -- only relatively, of course, and certainly attractive in its own way."

"It has smelled much, and forgiven much, my dear."

"Grandma, what big teeth you have!"

The Wolf said, "I am happy with and what I am," and leaped out of bed. He grabbed Red Riding Hood in his claws, intent on devouring her. Red Riding Hood screamed, not out of alarm at the Wolf's apparent tendency toward cross-dressing, but because of his willful invasion of her personal space.

Her screams were heard by a passing woodchopper-person (or log-fuel technician, as he preferred to be called). When he burst into the cottage, he saw the melee and tried to intervene. But as he raised his ax, Red Riding and the Wolf both stopped.

"And what do you think you're doing?" asked Red Riding Hood.

The woodchopper-person blinked and tried to answer, but no words came to him.

"Bursting in here like a Neanderthal, trusting your weapon to do your thinking for you!" she said. "Sexist! Speciesist! How dare you assume that womyn and wolves can't solve their own problems without a man's help!"

When she heard Red Riding Hood's speech, Grandma jumped out of the mouth, took the woodchopper-person's axe, and cut his head off. After this ordeal, Red Riding Hood, Grandma, and the Wolf felt a certain commonality of purpose. They decided to set up an alternative household based on mutual respect and cooperation, and they lived together in the woods happily ever after

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Award pour moi??

I have just been given this
by the so cool its criminal Pool. Im very, nay extreamly pleased at this!

How cool am I??? (it should be noted that she gave me her address earlier this week so I could send her the cash for which I bought at a high price)
Apparently I have to nominate 5 other women for the award but the buck stops at General Catz - she rocks because shes got uber cool musical tastes, speaks her mind and writes about some pretty cool stuff!

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Tuesday, June 26, 2007


Ever since I met Suolas Ive been a wrestling fan. I loathe watching soccer, rugby etc but I did develop a genuine interest in the matches that were screened and not because my boyfriend liked it. I got involved, hissing at my favorite wrestlers nemises and cultivating a primordial bloodlust for some. So today Suolas calls me at work and tell me to check my email in a strange tone, not liking the sound of his voice I demand to know what it is and he basically tells me this; Chris Benoit, the rabid wolverine as he is known is dead - one would expect steroid abuse, heart attack etc from someone in the pro wrestling league yes? The strange and highly upsetting news is far different - it seems like a double murder suicide sceanario. Here is a statement of how the timeline events that took place
- Chris Benoit misses the Smackdown/ECW house show in Beaumont. He informs WWE management that he is flying home due to a family emergency.

- Benoit is not in Houston for Sunday night’s Vengeance PPV. Ahead of the night’s show, several in the company are hopeful that Benoit will return in time for the show but when it becomes evident that he will not be back for the show, WWE’s creative team re-write the planned Chris Benoit vs CM Punk ECW World Title match. With Benoit scheduled to win the ECW title, creative agree on having Johnny Nitro take his place and beat Punk for the title.

- “Curious text messages” were sent by Chris Benoit to several in the company throughout Sunday. The Wrestling Observer reports that Benoit had sent messages to Chavo Guerrero.


- After learning about the text messages sent by Benoit, WWE’s Richard Hering spoke to local authorities, requesting they check Benoit’s home.

- Local authorities check the home of the Benoit family around 2.30pm local time and find the bodies of Chris, his wife Nancy, and son Daniel. Initial evidence leads authorities to believe that Nancy and Daniel were killed at some point during the weekend before Benoit killed himself on Monday.

- World Wrestling Entertainment are informed of the deaths at around 4pm local time in Corpus Christi ahead of a 3-hour live RAW broadcast. Vince McMahon held a meeting with everybody in attendance in the ring to inform them of the tragic news.

- WWE immediately make the call to cancel the live broadcast of RAW. The planned show (which was to be built around the death of the Mr. McMahon character) is cancelled and replaced by a 3-hour tribute show. Fans who bought tickets for the live show are told of the news when arriving at the Arena and turned back.

- ABC News are told by Lt. Tommy Pope that “the instruments of death were located on the scene” and that they are not searching for any suspects from outside the Benoit house.


Ive said this before in another post If youre not happy with your life or its direction - dont take the childrens life or anyone elses for that matter. Is it the fucking vogue now to take out your families as well as oneself now??

Wrestling as basic drama has always been about good versus evil. It has also been about redemption, about human nature writ large, rendered raw. I can remember many times a match where you watched a guy you only as a 'heel' to cross over to the 'face 'side. If Benoit did indeed turn against his own wife and child, It was simple, and required no beautiful Shakespearian poetry to accompany it.. I will refrain to comment on Benoit any further until I know the forensic findings, I have such a lot of respect for the guy and he was in one of my all top five matches. A lot of things irk me about this tragedy and fear some findings will shed a lot of respect for him. I hope my intuition is wrong.

Thursday, June 21, 2007


Books have seen me through the most trying of times. For instance in a time when devestation set up its stall in my life it took 6 books by the same humourous author got me through some of the numbness and pure phsyical pain of it all. Although my now regular friday slot is indicitive that all reviewed are fictions - this is not entirely the case. All the books featured here are from my library, each one significant and special to me. And whilst this authour I speak of writes in a non fiction genre Im sure there are pockets of embelishments that make it borderline fiction..
Tony Hawks (not the skater) is a British comedian and author of this memoir and was drunk when he bet a friend 100 pounds that he could hitchhike around Ireland in a month--taking along a refrigerator. But he kept his bargain, and in the process met an intriguing cast of Irish Characters. During his hobo travels around Aul Eyerland he also became a minor celebrity when he was made the subject of a daily radio feature the annoyingly housewifes favourite here in these Isles known as Gerry Ryan (whom I think is a padantic git). Here recounts his travels and celebrates the culture of helpfulness that made his preposterous journey possible and is determined to prove his friend wrong, Hawks purchases the smallest fridge he can find at the time before the advent of the personal mini fridge and sets off on his mad adventure. I have painstakingly typed out the introduction to the book just to give you the general flavour of what to expect, but be warned dont eat/drink when reading a copy of this in public the humourous moments are fast paced and plenty but they are of the pie in the face variety and catch you unawares. You have been warned.

In 1989 I went to ireland for the first time. I dont know why it had taken so long. Some parts of the world you make a consious effort to visit and others have to wait until fate delivers you there. When the moment arrived for me to set foot in the eEmerald Isle, it was a result of a badly written song. An irish friend from London, Seamus, had urged me to compose a piece for him and his mate Tim to sing at an international song competition which was held each year in his hometown. Qualification for the final , he explained, was a formality provided I agreed to do a twenty minute stand up set for the audience when the judges where out. Seamus wanted to do a humourous song and had asked me to come up with something that would 'set it apart' from the mundane entries. In the event, what would set it apart would be a significant drop in standard.
The song I had written was called ' I wanna have tea with batman'. Now I consider myself to be a good songwriter (in spite of my only commercial success being a one off record called 'stutter rap - by morris minor and the majors) but this song was... how can I put it?... Yes, thats it - poor. To their credit Seamus and Tim conjured up a perfect performance to match it.
In an extraordinary gesture which was at best surreal and at worst embarrassing , they dressed as batman and robin. At least that is what they aimed to do, but a limited costume budget had left them in borrowed tights, miscellaneous lycra and academic robes doubling as capes. They resembled a couple of children entered for a fancy dress competition by uninterested parents. Seamus seemed unconcerned, his theory of comedy being that if you had an outrageous outfit that was enough; and then he announced his master stroke that one of them would carry a teapot and the other a kettle.
One had to admire his courage, for he was performing in front of his hometown and everyone who he had grown up with was there. Friends, family, teachers, shopkeepers barmen, drunks and priest were all rooting for him. If one was going to let oneself down very badly- and Seamus was most definately going to do that- it would be difficult to imagine an assembled throng with which it would have more resonanace.

Seamus and tim took centre stage. The audience responded with an inhalation of breath. For them, there was little to suggest that the two characters before them were supposed to be Batman and Robin, and they were clearly taken aback with the magnificent fusion of colour, tights and kitchen appliances.

I watched from the back , experiencing for the first time a curious blend of wonderment and discomfort, and could see in the faces of both performers that their self belief in the costume selection was ebbing away with each elongated second. Thankfully, from the congregation, astonishment subsided to applause. The conducter caught the eye of our superheros and they nodded to establish themselves as ready. The band struck up. The musical introduction finished, but neither Seamus or tim began singing. The looked accusingly at each other. Paralysed with nerves, one of them missed their cue. Someone near me allowed their head to drop into their hands. Seamus, man of the moment stepped forward and signalled to the conductor to stop the band.Astonishingly the maestro ignored him. He was pretending that he could not see Shea's frantic signals. For gods sake , how bad could his eyesight be ? was it not possible to notice the flapping arms of the caped crusader brandishing a teapot in anger?
The conductor was more focused than most of us could ever hope to be. He had a long evening to get through and he was going to get through it in the shortest available time. Going back and starting again for those who screwed up wasnt on the agenda, even if it was 'good ol sheamus' from down the way. And so with all the abduracy of a first world war general, his head stayed down and the band played on. Time went into statis. I have simply no way of knowing how long it was before Seamus finished his gesticulations , punched Tim and they both began singing. Indeed I cant recall how badly they performed the rest of the song. Who cares? The audience applauded, they won most entertaining act and so began my fascination with Ireland.
Aside from the song contest debacle, there was another incident which made my first trip to Ireland stand out in my mind. On arrival at Dublin airport, I had been met by Sheamus's lifelong friend Kieran and driven to Cavan. As we headed north and discussed Batman and Robin's prospects I noticed a man at the side of the road hitchiking. I looked closer as one does with hitch hikers to make that split second assessment of their appearence to make that split second assesment of their suitablity for travel companionship. This was odd, very odd. He had something along side of him and he was leaning on it. It was a fridge. 'Kieran, was that man hitch hiking with a fridge?' 'oh yeah' there was nothing in Kierans tone of voice to suggest the slightest hint of suprise. I had clearly arrived in a country where qualification for 'eccentric' involved a great deal more than that to which I had become.
Years passed, the anecdote of the fridge was brought up from time to time at dinner parties and one in particular in my friend Kevin’s in Brighton. A vast quantity of wine had been consumed and the atmosphere was, shall we say, lively. Round about midnight those present settled on a short discussion on the merits of the new fridge which had been bought, and then, by a series of turns, our rattled attention was given to the trip Kevin was planning to Ireland. The juxtaposition of the two triggered a triumphal re-mergence of my fridge hitch-hiking story which I relayed to the guests via a long winded collection of badly slurred words. Kevin’s response was unambiguous. ‘Bollocks’ ‘Its not bollocks’ I countered. I had hoped this would see him off but there was more. ‘Yes it is. Nobody could ever get a lift with a fridge’ ‘They could in Ireland , it’s a magical place’ ‘Magical?! So is my arse!’ I let the subject drop. Experience had taught me that someone mentioning how magical their arse was tended not to precede stimulating and considered debate.

When I awoke in the morning, in a physical condition which served as a reminder as to what had taken place the night before, I found a note by my bed:

I herby bet Tony Hawks the sum of one hundred pounds that he cannot hitch hike round the circumference of Ireland, with a fridge within one calendar month. And there was Kevins Signature, and below it , an illegible squiggle, which I took to be mine.

And so the bet was made.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Smooth Sounds

Please feel free to puruse the carefully selected samples of my eclatic tastes of boom box to the side. Merci

Friday, June 15, 2007

FFF Book No 2

I found this book when I was researching an illustrator called ‘Arthur Rackham’ ,
like Bantocks book it was in the wrong place at the right time for me. I checked it out of the library immediately after perusing its pages and squeeled with laughter that night tucked up in bed with the winters low wind growling outside. Theres a lot to be said about the cosiness of a bed and a good read. It makes for a better method of falling asleep than any pill and it makes you forget about the stress’s and strains of the day especially if its entertaining and endorphin boosting like this one. The book begins by explaining that Terry Jones and Brian Froud, during a period of unemployment, had taken up flower arranging at the Institute for the Criminally insane, whilst there they chanced upon a tin box with Quentin Cottingtons journals and two pieces of equipment buried behind the institute. A researcher of little known notoriety -Quinten Cottington - is obsessed about the fetid world of strange stains & mysterious smells and their overall r’aison d’etre. Having a famous sister , Lady Cottington, famous for her ability to communicate with the faery world , such is Quintens ability of communicating with the world of tarnish’s and putrid smells. Quentin's series of experiments discover the corporeal manifestation of stains and smells and as a result establishes that he can talk to them and learns what makes them unique. The stains voices were recorded and their images painted . With Jones & Frouds discovery of the journals and equipment (which consisted of a "Psychic Image Nebulising Generator" and the "Primary Odour Nasalising Gasificator" ) they can reveal the true nature of stains and smells in a very individual existence.
Jones & Froud are reported to have "located and interviewed over seven hundred and eighty stains and odours." in their research for this book. The fantastic artwork is a lyrical as Jones Hillarious words and must be read in all manner of English accents by the reader to ensure the ‘python humour’ of book is not lost whilst Froud lends his artistic wizardry to give a visceral corporealness to each of the olfactory sprites and unclean articles. Each page holds a discovery of species , and it's paired with the entity's image. It begins with Bule Ketty, an unhappy shirt-front stain , Vlad the Inhaler; a smell that lingers in an overripe socky kind of way, and then theres Roddy the Biker, who is the hazy stain one finds on the plexi glass of atm machines . Plunging itself onwards into the world of nasal extrusions, underarm smells , you can even find a type of stain which resides on the asphalt beneath parked cars and trucks that likes to do Elvis impersonations. Strange stains and Mysterious Smells is indeed a riot of dirty madcap fun and it is Jones & Frouds finest hour in their seven year partnership.

Here is a excerpt from the book on one such stain. I have purposely left out the ones I consider ’gems’ for the element of hilarious surprise.

The unnamed Smell sprite Rather surprisingly this is the sprite of joss-sticks. It actually produces some of the pleasantest smells to be found in the World of Olfaction, but it is, nonetheless, an unpleasant little creep. It has a deep knowledge of the nose and an understanding of scent that would make its fortune in the perfumeries of Paris, but it is insufferable rude and has as about as much social grace as a three-month old pizza.
It refers to people who light joss-sticks as "jossers" and affects to despize them as "pathetic hippie left-overs of the Sixties' drugs craze"That's what's wrong with this country," it told us, "it's never recovered from the pinko-socialist disaster of the sex-obsessed cup-cake lovers of pre-Thatcherite confection , What we need is a little more capital punishment and a little less Baked Alaska (a kind of dessert). Give the middle classes and those that aspire to join them something to aim for- like motorised pencil sharpeners or designer buckets- and you'll soon turn the economy into a laundromat worth creaming designer jeans for."
We both decided that we didn't want to hear any more of this politically incomprehensible rubbish and we moved on.

Conclusion? An unsavory read for filthy minds and possesors of dirty laughs

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Fantastic Fictions

When I was 14 I bought a pack of bookplates (see above) for my fledgling book collection. I thought it would be nice to insert something special into the inside of the books that I truly loved and let all who looked inside of them that they where holding something that I was proud to own. Some of the books that I have read I would like to recommend to you. If not for their uniqueness in story and design. Most of these books that will feature in a weekly post are the kind of books that did not come recommended to me. They where ‘finds’. I love these kind of books because there is something about them that feels like unearthed treasure and essentially that is what they are to me. Although the publications have sold in the hundreds and thousands , in the middle of reading such a great read I almost feel like I am privy to some wonderful secret between the author and I, the authors knowing wink perhaps but its an exclusive feeling to which the world of the author has created and quite often tailor made. The escapism redolent with fresh paper or mustiness of yellow dog ears and strained spines. Certainly as my Vintage Mary Engelbreit bookplate says ‘Books fall open, you fall in’.

Griffin & Sabine
An Extraordinary Correspondance
Author Nick Bantock

I had never heard of Nick Bantock before in any context, I was 15 and had just started to correspond with penpals, the internet was a world away then and being a creative sort illustrated my envelopes with watercolors, marbelling and different themes such as 'the mummy envelope' which was made using thick ribbons of cream colored paper for bandages with two red eyes salvaged from a movie magazine peering from the 'bandages', a corset envelope, spider web envelope etc etc. One day , looking for inspiration I was in the bookstore looking up craft books when I found Nick's Book nestled between origami and paper mache books. I picked it up and fell in love with the whole concept and story. Nick was inspired to do the story from his daily visits to the post office each morning. Living on a small island off the canadian coast, the residents would pick up their post and quite often there would be an exotic looking postcard or stamp on the mail and Nick would sigh to himself , curiosity coursing through his veins wondering what was its contents and story was behind such missives. Being an illustrator by trade fired him up for a story and interestingly enough Bantock also drew some inspiration from a poem by Yeats, lines of which are buried in the text or pictures, like clues in a detective story for which I will not disclose for obvious reasons but the story goes a little like this.
Griffin Moss and Sabine Strohem are two artists who live half a world apart. He is an isolated, hesitant English postcard designer who resides in London, while she is a confident illustrator of postage stamps and denizen of the South Seas. A very strange phenomena causes Sabine to contact Griffin- Somehow she knows his art as well as he does, although they have never met;And in an era just prequiling the internet explosion, the two engage in a correspondance that quite quickly turns into sublime love letters, both are unaware that their profound connection will draw them into a surreal realms of madness and love in this 'Extraordinary Correspondence'. The format of this book is integral to the story as with each page contains a post card, or a letter complete with envelope. You remove the letter from the envelope some are 'handwritten' and some typed complete with spelling mistakes and the reader has the delightful, forbidden sensation of reading someone else's mail in otherwords you become the ultimate voyeur. With each page with a postcard ,or the unfolding of each letter, studying the psychology of Griffin's Artwork or the free spirited language of Sabines words, you cannot help but feel that,In a very real sense, Griffin and Sabine exist. This wonderful story is part of a triology and what actually happens is open to interpritation on so many levels. It is beauty, intrique, madness and thought provoking in the realms of personal mythology and will keep you coming back for re-examining to render the story 'finished' as there is a personal conclusion for the reader itself, and you dont get many of them in the literary world.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Observations on a bus

Fingers of sunlight crept through the haze of a sultry morning as I boarded the bus. Beside me on the pavement workmen shovelled hot asphalt and the acrid tendrils of smoke cauterised the back of my throat. Upon seating I quickly checked my belongings , cash, grocery list, cellphone and sms messages. Although the bus ride is only ten minutes at its slowest, the hot summer morning was no incentive to walk it especially when there was mounting crowds in the city with each half hour that passed. A very elegant elderly lady sat across from me, her hair was a faded strawberry blonde and coiffed and was very demure looking for a lady of her mature years. Closing my bag and preparing to disembark a further stop away, a young woman in pharmacy attire stood up to get off, she had a cascade of deep auburn hair. While waiting for the bus to stop the older woman reached across and said ‘you have beautiful hair’ to which the blushed and startled girl replied a polite thank you. The demure woman watched wistfully as the girl skipped off the bus for work . She looked down to her liver spotted hand and pinched the skin back so there were no wrinkles. She released her hand but in her eyes was frustrative sadness . She stared in deep thought and reached for her locket around her neck. Inside the tiny clam frame there seemed to be days of a happier time, when she was in her full bloom and perhaps in love. A quiver came to her lips and the locket was snapped back quickly and composed herself. The next stop was mine. And I left the bus with a sense of foreboding to my twilight years.

Saturday, June 9, 2007

Aucturian Birthday

Ive changed the blog a bit tonight out of boredom and because it needed a spring clean now that its 200 posts later than when I started this blip in the pulse of blogdom. I have to say I really appreciate the people who stop by to read and comment. Ive met some wonderful people here and some I am proud to call friends in the real world context. Now before I get something in my eye I will stop chopsing on and show you these little quiz's Ive been doing because a park bench is more comfortable than my sofa.. (I know I wish this post was of some significance but sure the first post was not very different so lets keep with the tradition?!)

Was last seen laughing at a mafia boss
'What will you last be seen doing?' at QuizGalaxy.com

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

judith --



'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

The Picto-Personality Test

You are a person who is very calm and kind. You go out of your way to help people who need your help.

When alone, you let it all hang out and ignore every social convention.

You are romantic, and when you are with your partner you like to woo them with your imagination.

In the future you will be happy and live richly.

Take this Test at QuizGalaxy.com

Your walk is:
Full of Determination


Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Thursday, June 7, 2007

IF Tag

Ok its my 199th post here and the Shamefully delicious Puss has tagged me with an 'if' meme. On a totally different tangent though, for my 200th post Im open to suggestions to write about so fire away -if you want me to write about any subject, I shall pick it out of a hat! (after 199 posts Im stumped , what can I say?) Okay heres my meme and you can breathe a sigh of relief that Im not tagging anyone with it such is my forte to do so with memes
The IF meme
If I were a beginning, I would be…Dramatic yet silent.
If I were a month, November My birth month, biting, sharp and dark
If I were a time of day, I would be…the second before and after midnight
If I were a planet, I would be…Saturn for the misty ringed ambience and a stormy spot.
If I were a season, I would be…Late Autumn, Ripe and Smouldering.
If I were a sea animal, I would be…A dolphin possibly because the look like they are having (as father ted would call it) tremendous fun.
If I were a direction, I would be…straight ahead.
If I were a piece of furniture, I would be an ornately carved bed, strong and intricate yet soft and comfortably
If I were a sin, I would be…Lust.
If I were a liquid, I would be…Hot Chocolate, sweet enough to be bad for you.
If I were a scare, I would be…a cold hand grab at the back of the knee.
If I were a gem, I would be…A striking deep red Ruby.
If I were a flower/plant, I would be…Night scented Jasmine, since its nocturnal presence is both enigmatic and alluring
If I were a kind of weather, I would be…an all night storm (read into that what you will)
If I were a musical instrument, I would be…cello soulful and deep
If I were an animal, I would be…Any dog in Gary Larsons world
If I were an emotion, I would be…Love - I have my family to thank for that
If I were a vegetable, I would be…Red pepper - diverse enough to be sweet, but oddly savoury
If I were a sound, I would be…Whisper
If I were an element, I would be…H20 I can run hot and cold at the drop of a hat
If I were a car, I would be…A VW Beetle, an original, a classic, curvey and a little kooky
If I were a song, I would be…most likely annoying.
If I were a food, I would be…comforting and sturdy.
If I were a place, I would be…comfy and warm.
If I were a material, I would be…Dark red chenille
If I were a taste, I would be…Rich and no good for you.
If I were a scent, I would be…Musky and Evocative
If I were a religion, I would be…a melting pot of belief systems
If I were a sentence, I would be…be spoken in the latin tongue
If I were a facial expression, I would be…penetrative
If I were a subject in school, I would be…History
If I were a shape, I would be…an co centric circle.

If I were a colour, I would be: Dark Red.
If I were a thing, I would be…in the marvel comics.
If I were a book, I would be…engaging.
If I were an artist, I would be…Seiperi
If I were a collection of poems, I would be…Ogden Nash.
If I were a landmass, I would be…Scotland.
If I were a watch, I would be…an anitque fob watch.
If I were God, I would be…fair
If I were a vowel, I would be… ‘O’ – so versatile, Oh shit, Oh great, Oh oh oh!.
If I were a consonant, I would be… ‘V’ – Not over used and out there on its own.
If I were a theory, I would be…One of the millions out there
If I were a famous person, I would be… Jane Goldman if only for her body and Locks
If I were an item of electronic equipment, I would be…phone - always on call
If I were a movie, I would be… an epic.
If I were a cartoon, I would be… Sylvester the cat
If I were an explorer, I would be…David Attenborough
If I were a scientist, I would be…Blown to smithereens.
If I were a relation, I would be… Mad eccentric old aunty.
If I were a river, I would be… the nile.
If I were intoxication, I would be…drunk 24/7.
If I were alone, I would be…deliberating
If I were a question, I would be…'Will You?'
If I were a habit, I would be…addictive.
If I were in an atom, I would be…explosive.
If I were you, I would be…wondering on my death bed why you wasted such precious time reading my ramblings

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

The Pain of Yesteryear

Today in work I was alone for about five hours. A guy popped into the office to let me know that one of the feral cats from our salvage yard had broken its hind legs and was dragging itself back into the yard. I went to investigate - the german sheperd and timber wolf have been on a hiatus with the boss upsetting sheep in his country retreat so it was vital to track this unfortunate before their imminent arrival. Our yard is a veritable labyrinth for the cats and the sectioned off plot of land that my boss has up for sale is over grown with weeds. This is the section the cat was last seen dragging itself into , in my search I nearly missed my footing and managed to break my fall via some wooden pallets but my left hand was not so fortunate as it went into a bunch of nettles.

The last time I knew pain like this in my left hand was when I had an accident to which I refer to as ‘the day I turned into a cartoon character.’ Briefly what happened was , I had just moved into my flat, which was my grandfathers who had recently died. I was just getting my bearings from the ordeal of having left Leicester, broken spirit in tow and dealing with my wonderful grandfathers death. I had asked my sister over for dinner. I had planned for home made soup and pizza. I called her an hour before she was due to knock off work and since she only worked around the corner from where I lived, told her to give me a call so I knew when to start heating up the soup. The oven was old and rickety but it seemed ok. Little did I know that the pilot light didn’t work very well. The pizza had been in the oven for about 30 minutes on a low heat and the soup was warming on the pan. When I opened the oven door to check the pizza - yep you guessed it a gust of gas came out of the oven, infused itself with the lighted gas from the stove and BANG! Luckily for me, and I do mean luckily I somehow managed to cover my face one hand gloved with an oven mitt the other was not. Whole chunks of my hair was singed badly and I was lucky I had most of that tied back. But the whole back of my left hand was blistered and raw. I remember frantically waving my hands to douse my hair out. I was a mess. I had never felt so utterly helpless and alone in that moment when I looked in the mirror and seen my distressed face, my hair and burned hand. Thankfully it didn’t scar and there for good grace go I it could have been so much worse. But when I look back on the memory I can see any amount of cartoon character scenarios with the oven door/gas explosion scenario…

Getting back to the cat and my buggered hand, I had to nip over to the chemist to get some salve for the nettle burn. Its slowly returning back to itself . I think having my hand in a bucket of ice cold water for an hour helped, as for the cat well Ill keep a watchful eye out for him and hope for the best. But for now Im going to find out what exactly is the function of a nettle sting in the plants ‘greater agenda’ of its existence. I think I have found another item to put into Room 101.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Ah Boris Boris Boris

Boris Johnson is unkempt, bumbling and courts verbal disaster - some also say Boris may be the very last stronghold of political sincerity left in a once-great nation -a bastion of forwardness, integrity and satire. Unafraid to challenge those in the wrong, unafraid to support those under the thumb, and without a positive political reputation to defense, Boris is the vital free agent of British politics. He has been publicly labeled as ''you great, quivering mass of indecision' by Alaister Cambell.
As an avid fan of this sage/ buffoon he has added another great faux pas to his reportoire in the media with an interview in GQ mag - the guy always raises a ghost of a smile when I see a photo of him but this interview shows that he indeed is quintesstially a blundering eccentric buffoon; a character that prehaps woodehouse would have incorporated into his works if indeed he where about and still writing

When reading this on the news text last night I giggled like hell - he is, if anything endearing with media trust and here is an excerpt from the interview
Eccentric Tory MP Boris Johnson is at it again - telling a magazine that cannabis is "jolly nice".

Hot on the heels of controversy over comments that he tried cocaine but it made him sneeze, the MP for Henley told men's mag GQ that he had smoked "quite a few" joints before university and had enjoyed it. But he said that he has now become quite "illiberal," adding "I don't want my kids taking drugs". And in the GQ interview with Piers Morgan he also admits finding Cherie Blair sexually attractive. Asked whether he could imagine having sex with the Prime Minister's wife, he said: "I could, yeah. No, don't put that in! God! Not me."

On an episode of TV show Have I Got News For You, the shadow education minister previously admitted trying cocaine but said none of it went up his nose because he sneezed.

Now Mr Johnson, 42, admits some may have done. He tells Morgan: "I tried it at university and I remember it vividly.

"And it achieved no pharmacological, psychotropic or any other effect on me whatsoever."

Asked whether cocaine went up his nose despite the sneeze, Mr Johnson replied: "It must have done, yes, but it didn't do much for me I can tell you."Asked about cannabis, he told the magazine: "There was a period before university when I had quite a few (cannabis joints). But funnily enough, not much at university.

"It was jolly nice. But apparently it is very different these days - much stronger.

"I've become very illiberal about it. I don't want my kids to take drugs."

The MP, who was sacked from the front bench by ex-leader Michael Howard for lying about an affair, has made a series of high-profile blunders.

He was famously sent to Liverpool to apologise after accusing the city of wallowing in grief over the execution of Iraq hostage Ken Bigley.

He was in hot water again in April after insulting the city of Portsmouth. He told GQ: "I love Norwich. And Portsmouth. And Liverpool. It's all nonsense.

"I said about Portsmouth that there was too much drugs, obesity and underachievement.

"And there is. It's a statistical fact. Why shouldn't I be allowed to say that?

"Then, to top it all some local bloke went on the radio and called me fat."
. I love his sense of self belief and is bewildered that anything he says offends to prove this here are some Boris Johnson glorious quotes-

On Boris Becker
I love tennis with a passion. I challenged Boris Becker to a match once and he said he was up for it but he never called back. I bet I could make him run around.

On Tony Blair

''It is just flipping unbelievable. He is a mixture of Harry Houdini and a greased piglet. He is barely human in his elusiveness. Nailing Blair is like trying to pin jelly to a wall''

On Needless Over-Protection

''Individually, police officers are fantastic, brave people, and so are the paramedics. But when they have to leave people dying because of a Health and Safety Act policy, they must be starting to wonder where things are going''

On Nepotism

''Any seat would be mad not to take him. He's a terrific chap.''- Boris, on his father, Stanley Johnson's plans to become an MP''

On Channel 5 (Five)

''I don't see why people are so snooty about Channel 5. It has some respectable documentaries about the Second World War. It also devotes considerable airtime to investigations into lap dancing, and other related and vital subjects''

On Privatisation

''It is only now, says Blair, that the terrible effects of botched privatisation are being felt on the nation's arteries, just as a heart attack patient spectacularly collapses after eighteen blissful years of eating pork pies''

On Cars and Mobile Phones

''I don't believe that talking on a mobile phone while driving a car is any more dangerous than the many other things that people do with their free hands while driving - nose-picking, reading the paper, studying the A-Z, beating the children, and so on''

On Taxis

''As anyone who has tried using a black cab in London recently will know, it is now cheaper to take a flight from Stansted to the Canaries than it is to go from Highbury to Westminster''

On George W. Bush

''The President is a cross-eyed Texan warmonger, unelected, inarticulate, who epitomises the arrogance of American foreign policy''

On Feral Children

''There are far too many feral children running around [in Islington] because there are far too few police, etc., on our streets''

On Reincarnation and Premiership
''My chances of being PM are about as good as the chances of finding Elvis on Mars, or my being reincarnated as an olive''

Keeping it real - Boris Johnson

Sunday, June 3, 2007

Wonderful & Weird

Its a public holiday here on monday so that means a long weekend quality time with the girls, Ill be back posting on tuesday in the mean time enjoy these, the first is the edge of a hurricane , the others well they just speak for themselves..

Friday, June 1, 2007

Pool of laughter

Reflection Pool and I where on Gtalk today and I told her this joke when I was stumped on something less serious to post about so at her request here is the joke I told..

A priest and nun where in the dessert with a camel - by the second day they had ran out of water and the camel died from dehydration the third day (he didnt get refueled) - the priest low on hope says to the young attractive nun 'yknow we're going to die out here would you give me a dying request?'
' certainly father'replied the nun
'Ive never seen a womans breasts in the flesh can you show me yours before we die' 'of course father' she softly said
she opens up her wimple and shows him a beautiful pair of breasts
'can I have a feel sister?'
'go ahead father can I ask something of you??'
'work away sister' said the priest getting ridgid with excitement
'Ive never seen a penis before can I look and feel yours?'
'no problem - work away' he said throatly
she opens his trousers and it sprang out rock hard and felt it excitedly
'yknow sister if I put this inside you it could bring life'
To which the nun quickly replied -'fuck that! put it in the camel and lets get the fuck out of here!