So tonight I'm supposed to be doing some useful stuff - you know, ironing, cooking, studying, the tasks that make you feel like you've 'done something' with your time, even if it is just to flush it down the Toilet of Chore, along with your youth and enthusiasm - but of course I didn't end up doing that. I ended up watching telly all night and now that it's time for bed, I feel bad that I didn't do something a bit more constructive.
But it wasn't all fun and frivolity. Oh no. Yes, I watched Masterchef Australia and actually got a bit breathless about whether or not their panna cottas were going to turn out okay. Yes, I watched Pineapple Dance Studio and laughed at the irritating wannabe pop star when he was told that his band was okay, but he sucked. But I paid my dues - I actually sat through a bit of The Chancellors Debate.
The title was a tad misleading, as I discovered when I tuned in expecting to see Alistair Darling go up against chancellors plucked from history - say, the postholders from 1972 and 1754. But that wasn't quite the format. Sure, Darling was there and so were his amazing beetling brows that make him look like he's wearing a hat made of cotton wool. But there had been no time-travelling jiggery pokery, in fact it was all rather mundane, which is not what you expect from a politics show at all. The other two goons were fake chancellors - one guy who might, admittedly, become chancellor in May and an old chap who's got more chance of finding a willy in a boob factory.
Well, I say I 'tuned in', it was more a case of whatever had been on previously coming to an end and the Chancellors Debate kind of arriving in my life. Anyway, in an attempt to take the impending governmental raffle seriously, I watched it. For a bit. But it was all just too unsettling and weird and removed from anything resembling real life. Darling just stood there beetling and reminding me oddly of Mr Spoon off of Button Moon, while George Osborne just did what George Osborne does - spoke and moved in an authentic human manner, yet still managed to freak everyone out, like those eerily advanced Japanese humanoid robots that look like they'd sweep your floor, then murder you in your bed with the broom handle. As for the Lib Dem chap, he couldn't have shrieked 'token' more vociferously if he'd come dressed as a poker chip.
So anyway, I tried. I directed my eyes at the telly. I left my ears wide open and let stuff come in through them. I instructed my brain to stop scratching its arse and make connections based on what was being shouted at it. But it was just impossible. Because nobody, NOBODY knows what they're talking about. Not even they know what they're talking about, nor the presenter, nor the people in the audience. The reason the country's economy is such a huge steaming pile of crud is because no one ever knew what they were talking about to begin with, yet no one had the gumption to admit it. And that's how politics works. It's a massive case of the Emperor's new clothes, as made by George at Asda. Everyone talks hot air, a load of guffy gas that is somehow transformed into solids by everyone else's wishful thinking.
Well, they can keep it. It's not important or anything. And anyway, Road Wars is on. Yeah, a policeman kicking a druggy in the head, yeah! There's real politics for you.
Monday 29 March 2010
Thursday 25 March 2010
Here Comes The Bride...And Her Fat Friend
So, my old trout of a sister has finally found a man dumb enough, ugly enough and desperate enough to take her up the aisle. Hooray for that.
Only joking - my sister is a slender and stunning creature with a beautiful face and a fabulous personality. The bossiness she practised on me when we were kids has translated into ambition and drive; the stubborn belief that she knew better than anyone else has softened into a desire to make people happy. Of course, she has her faults like anyone else, but my sister is generally one of life's good eggs and she deserved to find another good egg. Together, they will make a mighty fine omelette.
All this happiness is particularly well-deserved, as a few years ago she took the enormously difficult decision to leave a 10-year relationship. To the outsider, there was nothing to herald the split and much shock greeted the announcement, not least by her ex. But she no longer loved him and knew that they had grown apart, so she took the mammoth step of going it alone after a decade with one man. I admired her for that - so many women cannot bring themselves to face the truth or if they do, they cannot find the guts to do anything about it.
Anyway, all that hooey aside - the important thing about this is that I am to be Chief and Only Bridesmaid and can therefore expect to be shoehorned into some sort of satin condom in October. (Well, actually, as I'm already married, I have the rather less seductive title of Matron of Honour, but as that makes me feel about 56, I refuse to acknowledge it.) I've already been poured into a few candidates and regretted all those custard pies I've eaten recently, but the search for the perfect bridesmaid's dress is not over yet. More humiliation awaits at the hands of stubborn zips, gaping boob tubes and supposed size 10s that silently condemn me with their refusal to accommodate my ample arse.
Which means one thing and one thing only - a regime of diet and exercise will have to be embarked upon, and sharpish. This is not an enormous concern in itself, as I am not an entirely slovenly person. But the forms of exercise I enjoy and partake of on a regular basis without too much effort - country walks, gardening and the exercise of love (narf narf) - just won't wash when it comes to turning my backside into a Kylie-esque rubber ball. The supermodel results I'm after require a significant amount of time, inconvenience and disruption to my normal routine, none of which sits well with my dedication to having a good time, all the time.
I suppose there is nothing for it but to just grit my teeth, break out the jogging bottoms and get on with it. Or hope that Rubenesque figures and gigantic, tyre-hiding dresses are in fashion come the autumn. Or that we've all died in a nuclear holocaust. You never know your luck...
Only joking - my sister is a slender and stunning creature with a beautiful face and a fabulous personality. The bossiness she practised on me when we were kids has translated into ambition and drive; the stubborn belief that she knew better than anyone else has softened into a desire to make people happy. Of course, she has her faults like anyone else, but my sister is generally one of life's good eggs and she deserved to find another good egg. Together, they will make a mighty fine omelette.
All this happiness is particularly well-deserved, as a few years ago she took the enormously difficult decision to leave a 10-year relationship. To the outsider, there was nothing to herald the split and much shock greeted the announcement, not least by her ex. But she no longer loved him and knew that they had grown apart, so she took the mammoth step of going it alone after a decade with one man. I admired her for that - so many women cannot bring themselves to face the truth or if they do, they cannot find the guts to do anything about it.
Anyway, all that hooey aside - the important thing about this is that I am to be Chief and Only Bridesmaid and can therefore expect to be shoehorned into some sort of satin condom in October. (Well, actually, as I'm already married, I have the rather less seductive title of Matron of Honour, but as that makes me feel about 56, I refuse to acknowledge it.) I've already been poured into a few candidates and regretted all those custard pies I've eaten recently, but the search for the perfect bridesmaid's dress is not over yet. More humiliation awaits at the hands of stubborn zips, gaping boob tubes and supposed size 10s that silently condemn me with their refusal to accommodate my ample arse.
Which means one thing and one thing only - a regime of diet and exercise will have to be embarked upon, and sharpish. This is not an enormous concern in itself, as I am not an entirely slovenly person. But the forms of exercise I enjoy and partake of on a regular basis without too much effort - country walks, gardening and the exercise of love (narf narf) - just won't wash when it comes to turning my backside into a Kylie-esque rubber ball. The supermodel results I'm after require a significant amount of time, inconvenience and disruption to my normal routine, none of which sits well with my dedication to having a good time, all the time.
I suppose there is nothing for it but to just grit my teeth, break out the jogging bottoms and get on with it. Or hope that Rubenesque figures and gigantic, tyre-hiding dresses are in fashion come the autumn. Or that we've all died in a nuclear holocaust. You never know your luck...
Sunday 21 March 2010
PG Is The Tops
In times of trouble, we all have something we can turn to for solace. In the absence of a good friend or loved one to ease their bruised heart, most people have a Plan B - something that can be relied upon to relieve sorrow and stress or at least help them to throw a cloth over it for a while.
For some, a good walk in the bracing fresh air helps to clear their mind and blow away some of the crud. Others find relief in a litre bottle of Lambrini, particularly if they get to avoid the empty calories by spewing it all up again later. Both these approaches have their merits and I've indulged in them myself - fortunately, the former far more often than the latter.
But when life just feels like poo on a stick and all I want to do is tear a hole in the space-time continuum, so I can step into a more appealing existence - perhaps as the royal bottom-wiper to Emperor Caligula or something cushy like that - there is only one place where I will find true relief. And it's on my bookshelf, under 'W'.
That's right - by harking back about a hundred years to the work of a man who appeared to have been utterly detached from reality, I find a welcome salve for most of Life's more forcible pokes to the eye. PG Wodehouse's world of ill-fated engagements, policemen's helmets and young men in spats is long gone and probably never really existed at all, but it is a world into which I can at least temporarily disappear and feel utterly at home.
I first discovered the medicinal quality of Plum's work when I was about 12. Having succeeded in skiving off school for the day, I suddenly realised that I was going to catch it when my parents got home and could therefore look forward to a less than rewarding day of excruciating anxiety. Abruptly robbed of my guilt-free leisure, I roamed the house nervously, searching for a way to fend off the constant feeling of impending doom.
Flicking impatiently through a few crusty old books in the bookshelf, mostly refugees from my deceased grandfather's den, I opened one which described an exchange between a privileged young man and his valet. Emerging from his bed sheets with a cracking headache, it became apparent that this chap had got absolutely hammered the night before and that his valet was going to sort it all out with one magical restorative, while quoting a little poetry about Autumn's mellow fruitfulness. I laughed. I goggled at the audacity of it, the turn of phrase, the upper-class slang that added about 150 words to my vocabulary overnight. And I felt, suddenly, better.
The book was a 1941 imprint of The Code of the Woosters by PG Wodehouse and I don't think I'm overstating the case when I say that it changed my life. That original volume sits on a shelf above me right now, next to my burgeoning collection of 'touch and you die' new special edition Wodehouses, having practically shredded countless paperbacks in the years since that first unlikely encounter.
Many years later, when I'd had a particularly discomforting experience at work on a Friday and spent the entire weekend alone, dreading the confrontations that Monday might bring, I turned to Wodehouse yet again. Spending most of the weekend watching the entire five series of Jeeves & Wooster on DVD might sound like a shameful waste of time and it probably was, but it was the only thing that lifted me out of my gloom and took me somewhere nice for a while.
Of course the television series could not quite capture the magic of Wodehouse's prose, even though it achieved a measure of success in pinning down his sparkling dialogue. But Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry achieved a real rarity in TV adaptations - they brought their own delights to the roles and to this day, I cannot think of another pair of actors who could have brought these utterly loveable characters to life with such panache.
Although his stories might be considered light and vacuous now - in fact, they were even in Wodehouse's day by some quarters - I cannot express my absolute and utter love for his work. Which makes me a tremendous ass, but I simply retort 'says you!' and skip off for a couple of stiff ones before heading out under the big blue to toil among God's spiffing creations. Pip pip.
For some, a good walk in the bracing fresh air helps to clear their mind and blow away some of the crud. Others find relief in a litre bottle of Lambrini, particularly if they get to avoid the empty calories by spewing it all up again later. Both these approaches have their merits and I've indulged in them myself - fortunately, the former far more often than the latter.
But when life just feels like poo on a stick and all I want to do is tear a hole in the space-time continuum, so I can step into a more appealing existence - perhaps as the royal bottom-wiper to Emperor Caligula or something cushy like that - there is only one place where I will find true relief. And it's on my bookshelf, under 'W'.
That's right - by harking back about a hundred years to the work of a man who appeared to have been utterly detached from reality, I find a welcome salve for most of Life's more forcible pokes to the eye. PG Wodehouse's world of ill-fated engagements, policemen's helmets and young men in spats is long gone and probably never really existed at all, but it is a world into which I can at least temporarily disappear and feel utterly at home.
I first discovered the medicinal quality of Plum's work when I was about 12. Having succeeded in skiving off school for the day, I suddenly realised that I was going to catch it when my parents got home and could therefore look forward to a less than rewarding day of excruciating anxiety. Abruptly robbed of my guilt-free leisure, I roamed the house nervously, searching for a way to fend off the constant feeling of impending doom.
Flicking impatiently through a few crusty old books in the bookshelf, mostly refugees from my deceased grandfather's den, I opened one which described an exchange between a privileged young man and his valet. Emerging from his bed sheets with a cracking headache, it became apparent that this chap had got absolutely hammered the night before and that his valet was going to sort it all out with one magical restorative, while quoting a little poetry about Autumn's mellow fruitfulness. I laughed. I goggled at the audacity of it, the turn of phrase, the upper-class slang that added about 150 words to my vocabulary overnight. And I felt, suddenly, better.
The book was a 1941 imprint of The Code of the Woosters by PG Wodehouse and I don't think I'm overstating the case when I say that it changed my life. That original volume sits on a shelf above me right now, next to my burgeoning collection of 'touch and you die' new special edition Wodehouses, having practically shredded countless paperbacks in the years since that first unlikely encounter.
Many years later, when I'd had a particularly discomforting experience at work on a Friday and spent the entire weekend alone, dreading the confrontations that Monday might bring, I turned to Wodehouse yet again. Spending most of the weekend watching the entire five series of Jeeves & Wooster on DVD might sound like a shameful waste of time and it probably was, but it was the only thing that lifted me out of my gloom and took me somewhere nice for a while.
Of course the television series could not quite capture the magic of Wodehouse's prose, even though it achieved a measure of success in pinning down his sparkling dialogue. But Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry achieved a real rarity in TV adaptations - they brought their own delights to the roles and to this day, I cannot think of another pair of actors who could have brought these utterly loveable characters to life with such panache.
Although his stories might be considered light and vacuous now - in fact, they were even in Wodehouse's day by some quarters - I cannot express my absolute and utter love for his work. Which makes me a tremendous ass, but I simply retort 'says you!' and skip off for a couple of stiff ones before heading out under the big blue to toil among God's spiffing creations. Pip pip.
Tuesday 2 March 2010
In Praise of Adventure
As a kid, I was something of a tomboy. Not an overly masculine child - I never sported a bowl haircut or boys' shoes, like some girls I knew - but I knew the value of a good hedge den. Throughout my childhood I vowed that I would never, ever carry a handbag, on the grounds that they clearly hindered the process of having adventures, and my interests revolved more around watching films, making treasure maps and running around the countryside than playing with dolls or braiding hair.
I was a latecomer to make-up and fashion and even once those elements of female life had been acknowledged, it took me the best part of fifteen years to 'find myself' as self-help gurus would say. Having experimented unsuccessfully with various styles, I finally came to realise that neither the hippy boho look, nor the lycra-clad chav persona was for me.
Although my budget tends to restrict the expression of my innate fashion sense, I think it's fair to say that style-wise, I should really be living in the 40s. The ladylike trends, flattering yet demure tailoring and those fabulous shoes would have suited me down to the ground. The fashions, and indeed lifestyle, of the 21st century is sorely lacking in romance and chivalry, to my mind, something which causes me almost daily consternation.
Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that although I'm a reasonably feminine person, I wasn't always like that and I have never harboured desires to be a domestic goddess. I don't think any women do really. You do occasionally come across these strange creatures whose only wish, from the moment they drop out of the womb, is to start filling their own with little Johnnies and Janes. They dream of nothing more than becoming a mum, feathering the nest and mastering the art of the novelty birthday cake.
Now I am not for one moment slating that point of view. I admire anyone with such drive, for any avenue of life. But I think those sorts of women are actually quite rare; that most of us probably imagined for ourselves something rather more exotic than the role of the average wife / girlfriend / mother.
I'm sure I'm not alone in sometimes wondering where that female Indiana Jones went, the one who would have been trekking across the Andes from the age of eight, were it not for that pesky 'being a minor' thing. When I'm balling socks or trudging through the aisles of Tesco, wondering whether to go for own brand toilet roll or splash out on Andrex (if you'll excuse the pun), it does cross one's mind to speculate on when all the adventures might be starting.
Of course I am not immune to the charms of home-making. After all, your home is your ultimate retreat from the world. If your little sanctuary is tainted, either in a physical or emotional sense, you may as well give up on getting through this life in one piece. I take a passing interest in decoration and have recently vowed to tackle one of my largest failings (of which there are many), my utter hopelessness in the kitchen. While I stand no chance whatsoever of suddenly morphing into Nigella - those breasts would be a fabulous start - it is surely the mark of the grown-up to be able to produce at least one edible dish.
But though I'm getting unexpected joy from whisking egg whites, jointing chickens and anxiously manipulating the pasta machine, it sometimes feels like I'm missing the point somewhat. Don't get me wrong - I have a wonderful life and I'm very grateful for all that I have. Indeed, many people insist that your family is the greatest journey of discovery on which you will ever embark. And I do not suggest that the 'where did all the possibilities go' syndrome is exclusive to women. It's just that sometimes I feel like life could do with a little 'je ne sais quo' and I'm sure I'm not alone.
So let us down tools, people. Lay down that iron, throw away the wooden spoon, kick the lawnmower to the curb. Rise up, my friends - let the adventures begin.
I was a latecomer to make-up and fashion and even once those elements of female life had been acknowledged, it took me the best part of fifteen years to 'find myself' as self-help gurus would say. Having experimented unsuccessfully with various styles, I finally came to realise that neither the hippy boho look, nor the lycra-clad chav persona was for me.
Although my budget tends to restrict the expression of my innate fashion sense, I think it's fair to say that style-wise, I should really be living in the 40s. The ladylike trends, flattering yet demure tailoring and those fabulous shoes would have suited me down to the ground. The fashions, and indeed lifestyle, of the 21st century is sorely lacking in romance and chivalry, to my mind, something which causes me almost daily consternation.
Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that although I'm a reasonably feminine person, I wasn't always like that and I have never harboured desires to be a domestic goddess. I don't think any women do really. You do occasionally come across these strange creatures whose only wish, from the moment they drop out of the womb, is to start filling their own with little Johnnies and Janes. They dream of nothing more than becoming a mum, feathering the nest and mastering the art of the novelty birthday cake.
Now I am not for one moment slating that point of view. I admire anyone with such drive, for any avenue of life. But I think those sorts of women are actually quite rare; that most of us probably imagined for ourselves something rather more exotic than the role of the average wife / girlfriend / mother.
I'm sure I'm not alone in sometimes wondering where that female Indiana Jones went, the one who would have been trekking across the Andes from the age of eight, were it not for that pesky 'being a minor' thing. When I'm balling socks or trudging through the aisles of Tesco, wondering whether to go for own brand toilet roll or splash out on Andrex (if you'll excuse the pun), it does cross one's mind to speculate on when all the adventures might be starting.
Of course I am not immune to the charms of home-making. After all, your home is your ultimate retreat from the world. If your little sanctuary is tainted, either in a physical or emotional sense, you may as well give up on getting through this life in one piece. I take a passing interest in decoration and have recently vowed to tackle one of my largest failings (of which there are many), my utter hopelessness in the kitchen. While I stand no chance whatsoever of suddenly morphing into Nigella - those breasts would be a fabulous start - it is surely the mark of the grown-up to be able to produce at least one edible dish.
But though I'm getting unexpected joy from whisking egg whites, jointing chickens and anxiously manipulating the pasta machine, it sometimes feels like I'm missing the point somewhat. Don't get me wrong - I have a wonderful life and I'm very grateful for all that I have. Indeed, many people insist that your family is the greatest journey of discovery on which you will ever embark. And I do not suggest that the 'where did all the possibilities go' syndrome is exclusive to women. It's just that sometimes I feel like life could do with a little 'je ne sais quo' and I'm sure I'm not alone.
So let us down tools, people. Lay down that iron, throw away the wooden spoon, kick the lawnmower to the curb. Rise up, my friends - let the adventures begin.
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