A quick Fiddle

I love the MP’s expenses row.

It is all so marvelously Victorian. And I imagine that give it another turn of the screw in government in another 50 to 100 years time, and we will be doing it all over again.

You see the whole point of our political system is that it is – in essence meritocratic.
Candidates do not stand with slogans that imply that they are just like us – they stand with slogans that imply they are just enough like ‘us’ to be likeable, but essentially better than that really.

If we thought that they really were just Jo Blogs from down the road, you can bet your bottom dollar that they wouldn’t get a single vote. Why? Because Jo Blogs from down the road IS just like you and me - and let’s face it – we are apathetic and lazy.

So we vote people into power, with the belief that they are above the norm, that they alone are fit to be running out country because of some indefinable quality that lifts them above the hoi poloi.

Unfortunately this indefinable quality has turned out to be arrogance. Perhaps confidence does make them more capable of government – yet is also makes them more capable of… well believing themselves more capable of government.

If they are allowed to believe this, then I image they could not for one second believe that taking liberties with expenses was wrong. After all – where it not for them, the whole country would be in chaos.

So when the rich were elected to power because they has money – they used their power to get some more. And now that the ‘worthy’ are elected into power they use their influence to have possessions worthy of them.

I can think of only two solutions either me or Joanna Lumley as an all powerful dictator.

Waiting for the theatre

As I don’t really like eating much in the evenings, I am technically what you would call a ‘cheap date.’ Therefore I feel people should take me to go and do expensive things that do not require food. For example:

Diamond mine shopping
Mink farm purchasing
Couture dress procuring

Etc etc – you get the picture. Just think ‘Santa Baby’ lyrics.

I would however, “make do” with an occasional trip to the theatre, the opera or the ballet. It appears, however, that a distressing number of my acquaintances seem to be going with their ‘family’ and ‘friends’; Snubbing me and my perfect theatre etiquette for some plebs that they may be related to.

The injustice of it all.

It has culminated in a friend going to see Waiting for Godot – yes the one with a least two knights of the realm and actors that are legends in their own time – without me. A play that is made by the actors more than almost any other piece of theatre – acted by Charles Xavier and Magneto, and I am not invited – sniff sniff.

There is nothing to be done – I shall have to watch tv to keep this terrible silence at bay.

A little bit of Bass

Today we are feeling very sorry for oneself. Having weighed up the possibility of going home and not doing all of the much work that needed to be done against dry wretching in the work toilets for the next 3 hours – I decided that coughing up bile would win every time.

But I have found something that made it all go away. Rainbows appear in the sky and a choir of kittens sign halleluiah in perfect 9 part harmony. Chuck Bass will be in London tomorrow.

Yes – I know that he is a fictional character.
No - I don’t know that actor’s real name.

But I just don’t care.

Such is his perfection that angels weep as he passes by. He is an utter bastard, emotionally repressed, has issues with his father, is utterly sublimely beautiful and has loads of money. Could there be a more perfect man?

All i have left to say is Chuck Bass... I'm Louise Nathanson.

A Right Royal...

So Prince Philip has managed to make it to the slightly spurious honor of being the longest reigning ‘consort’ this week. I say spurious, as what I think that this technically makes him ‘biggest sponger’ in the history of our royal family. While the wife goes out and does all the important work, he has pioneered the way for house husbands everywhere.

On the plus side I am glad to see that Prince Philip appears to be rubbing off on the Queen (not like that you sick minded people). The other day at the G20 Phil managed to get in there with a cheeky racist jibe about how impressive it was the Mr. Obama could tell the difference between all the world leaders. This was a fairly classic racist comment by the Prince there and one that is characteristic of the style of his inappropriate comments throughout his reign.

However the Queen, in her more subtle and infinitely regal manner, swiftly delivered the biting phrase ‘why is he so loud?’ about Burlusconi. Something we have all wondered ma’am. Something we have all wondered – camping holiday indeed.

Son of a Mon

How exciting was the Grand National the other day – horses everywhere running very fast as then being shot and turned into glue at the end of it. Short men in brightly coloured vest, so that you can see then clearly and don’t accidently step on them. Women with no class being paraded around the paddock, trotting around in their high heels and showing off their dresses which demonstrated ever so well that money doesn’t buy you a sense of taste or decency.

And then the winner turned out to be a wild card – the real 100: 1 deal. I have decided that this means that I must immediately start betting on things that have a hundred to one shot. Like it not raining the one day in April that I have left my umbrella at home. (man I think I just made a weather joke – I must be ill) It just goes to show that the universe likes a good round number as much as anyone else – none of this unpoetic 7:2 each way shit.

Perhaps I should now therefore be more sympathetic to things that had seemed like the ‘long shot’ beforehand. For example the chance of me not eating all 6 crème eggs on my desk in the next hour and a half and then vomiting heartily in the toilets at work.

Do not stand at my grave an weep

Eddie Izzard - "I'm interested in death - in a morbid sort of way."

Excuse the deeply depressing nature of this - but it seems impossible to escape thinking of our mortality at the moment, with a picture everyday in the papers of someone who is not long for this life. It is a ever present reminder to all of the fragility of life - however since anarchy has yet to take hold, I must surmise that the human condition is still firmly in place.

Realising this and looking at the scenario, it appears to me that the way that we as a nation are dealing with this is by making it into a 'story.' Do we any longer believe that the reality that we see on reality tv or in the papers is truly real? Are we able to watch someone die in front of our faces because we think that at the last minute it will all turn out OK? That behind he scenes it is in fact all a big joke? A PR stunt?

I have always thought of death as the greatest adventure - but this idea is not my own, but first voiced, but the Peter Pan - the boy who never grows old, and has surely one of the strangest relationships with death of any literary character?! However - he will now never be forgotten, and perhaps this is what compels people - like Jade Goody- to act the way that they do. The more infamous their lives, the longer they are spoken of after death. And in this a form of immortality if gained. Comforting thoughts when you know that you end is near. 

In years past rich people would pay monks to pray for them after their death. Granted they believed that this would lessen their time in purgatory, but it was also as a form of remembrance. Their name being read out in church ensured that their parish did not forget them, and hopefully more people would then pray for them. Perhaps now, we still do this, but we have made The Sun our Church and Rupert Murdoch out Priest. Gosh - i think that might be more depressing than actual death! 

Unlucky 13

The story to have elicited the most euphemistic phrases from the paper in a good few weeks has be the hilarious story of the boy of 13 who knocked up his girlfriend. People have taken this as a symbol of a ‘Broken Britain.’ And I for one could not agree more. A 15 year old girl going out with a 13 year old boy? What has the world come to? At fifteen I would rather have been seen dead than dating someone younger than me.

So this wee young lad has been described alternately as “very young looking” and “who is 13 but looks more like 8” and even “barely four feet tall.” All marvelous euphemisms for the fact that no-one can quite believe that he managed to get a girl pregnant. As looking at the lad, he for all the world looks like his balls haven’t quite dropped yet.

It is also rather disturbing that they have called it Maisie – as they may well still watch the eponymous mouse orientated programme.

All Hail

I believe that there are three types of women in life.

1) The type of girl (and she really will always will be called a girl) that men instinctively want to protect. You know the sort – they are usually small, petite and for some reason always bloody brunette. Made to be ‘someone’s girlfriend’ they appear almost incomplete without a man by their side to make sure that life never really gets that stressful for them. One of life’s small yappy type dogs.

2) The one that you marry. While this may initially be a frustrating group to fall in, as often men will take one look at you and have a massive commitment freak out before even one word has been exchanged. This is ultimately a very smug category to occupy. When men start hitting the age where they think that they should actually do something about settling down – you really are quids in, and a proposal a week is probably about standard at this time.

3) The one that you just want to screw. Depending on your mindset, this is either the most fun or the most depressing one of the three. And I would guess that – fitting into this category myself – your mindset changes as often as the wind and it mostly just depends on how horny you are.

I suppose that this could be the modern day equivalent of the maid, the mother and the crone. And they do even bear some resemblance. The first is fragile and often naïve, the second loyal and loveable and the last scary and alone.

Something wicked this way comes…

The mean streets of South Ken

Readers – wish me luck – for tonight I am off to the Valentine’s night at Boujis. This is not just a pretentious London club – this is a valentines night in a pretentious London club. [I have always wanted a sex shop to come out with the slogan – ‘This is not just a porn house – this is an S&M porn house’ – or something else hilarious and to that effect.]

It is of course free for women all evening – naturally. One does not go to these sorts of clubs to pay for ones own drinks. Pang tastes so much better when it's free darling.

However, one does have to put up with the men. Highly bred, and low mannered that they are. One does also have to put up with their almost constant attempts to try and sleep with you. Funny as ineptitude is, there did come a point a few weeks ago when one particular young man tried to chat me up twice in one hour – using the same line. It became less amusing at this point, and I seriously considered becoming a lesbian for a good half an hour.

You never know – with Prince Harry newly single…. I might even get the opportunity to get ineptly chatted up by a member of the royal family. Perhaps I should be mildly racists quite loudly just in case it gets me noticed?

My Bloody Valentine

I have been getting a large number of increasingly frantic requests from journalists looking for 'credit crunch Valentine's buys.' The reason why I image that they are getting increasingly more desperate is that there isn't really anything under a tenner that you could buy your loved one for the most romantic day of the year, that wouldn't result in getting a big slap and a sulking partner because everyone else in the office had been sent a big fuck-off bouquet of flowers and jewelry.

I have therefore come up with a few suggestions that I think will help out all those in need.

Blokes - you are always going to have your classic - knob wrapped in a ribbon. Ribbon these days is relatively cheap, but a quick word of warning not to go for any start colours that may clash with your skin tine, or anything with sparkles. I would suggest a quick pre-purchase check, but I have asked Peter Jones and apparently they frown upon partial nudity in their shops.

Girls - say it with me 'Nothing says I love you like a blowjob.' Alternatively give your boyfriend the gift of certainty, and become 100% sure that you could not get pregnant by having a bit of cheeky bum sex. 

Look out for these handy tips in no publications. My helpful suggestions have been met with stoney silence from all corners. 

Good golly miss molly

I am sure that you have seen all the news/ heard all the news/ witnessed the news as it marches past your offices in disgust of the news – of Carol Thatcher and Gollywog-gate.

What I really really want all this to be about, is an ingenious marketing gimmick from Robinsons, to bring back their ‘Golden Shred’ marmalade. Think about how many pictures of it you have seen recently…
Persuasive as an idea I think.

When I was younger I took great joy in collecting all the little tokens from the side of their jam pots, and have a number of little gollywog badges that I treasured, and still have somewhere in a box of ‘stuff’ that was valued when young. Perhaps this is what Robinsons are again trying to achieve. Whatever the connotations behind the image – it is iconic. Think Che Guevara on a T-shirt. Worn by almost every student ever, and often by those with no real concept of why or what he did with his life in any great detail. The same goes for all those who have Chairman Mao stamped paraphernalia. This man killed many millions of his own people – but hell, he looks great on a lunch-box.

Rant and rail against it if you will, but the image of a gollywog is now iconic, and should Robinsons have wanted to remind people of their brand one of the best ways to ensure maximum coverage could well have been to create news around an iconic image widely associated with their products.
Risky – but still a great idea guys.

We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.

I feel I cannot but write something about the snow over the past few days. If the journalists of every major national newspaper can think that it is worth a few lines, then who am I to say any different. Well – I do secretly think that –
‘Shock – Britain has weather’
is not really news as such. However, spending your day trying to persuade journalists to write about what you want them to write about you do learn a thing or two about what they believe the British public will want to read about. Which is often -sadly - what the British public really will want to read about.

I am sort of at a loss for anything original to say – aren’t we all. Yes – it took me a long time to get to work, yes I was bitter that two of my housemates stayed at home and played in the snow, and yes it did start to look horrible about half an hour after it had landed, and living just of Mile End I think I saw the worst of what it could look like!!

Perhaps all I can think to write about is the fact that there is no news. Only ‘olds’ as Mr Pratchett would have it. It is no shock that the trains didn’t work. People were always going to build little men/ women out of it with often hilarious resemblances to either celebs or genitalia. Yes – it is very cold. Gosh – was it really not this cold for a few years? And someone slightly famous was always going to do something slightly silly – so hats off to David Cameron for getting in there so quickly with his ‘man of the people’ snowball fight.

I would go and die of dyspepsia, but it would be so cliché the very thought fills me with despair. It is said that to appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, one must stand in the cold. To this is say - bugger that for a lark, and remain inside with my paper and my cynicism.

Tis pity she's a whore

To cheat or not to cheat? This no longer appears to be the question. Society seems to have decided for us that adultery is very much to be looked down upon. Should one half of a couple be unfaithful to the other, they become very much the guilty party when the inevitable split up/ ‘issues’ comes – both morally (according to all of their friends) and legally (according to divorce law).
- I should add that I am not a lawyer, and like most things in life the finer points of law escape me – please do not hesitate not to correct me.

Do not misunderstand me – I am neither the recipient of a cheating partner, nor have a just spilt up with someone because I cheated on them. I would hate to be interpreted as bitter – it is so unbecoming in a woman.

In our present time of relative freedom of choice in our partners I believe that the pressure to choice one perfect person, to fall utterly in love and never think of another is completely overwhelming. Now that our notion of a ‘suitable marriage’ is becoming ever more alien, I think that the notion of ‘soul mates’ is slowly replacing it. Are the emotional ties that we create for ourselves in pronouncing one person the other half of ourselves far greater and infinitely more pressurized than any ties that law could bind?

A while ago, a friend had cheated/been unfaithful/ played away etc. and was debating how best to tell him then girlfriend. I listened to other people talk about ‘delicacy’ and phases such as – ‘It meant nothing’ were circulated. I then innocently questioned why he felt like he had to tell her at all, if he thought that she wouldn’t find out?
You’d have thought that I had suggested that Kate Winslet only won an award because she did a holocaust film!

My attitude towards telling your loved one that you have strayed away – is that it is inherently selfish. It will not ever make them feel better. They will not think better of you because you have told them, but less of you for doing it. They will be hurt and humiliated. So why do it? Why hurt the one you love?

I believe it to be nothing more that your misplaced desire to alleviate your own guilt. They say that a problem shared is a problem halved, and by that logic surely a secret shared is a burden halved. You crave forgiveness. You no longer want to feel the way you do, and so you tell your partner in a quest for absolution. You tell because you want to make yourself feel better, even though you know that it will be at their expense.

No action is without consequence, but surely you and you alone should bear the consequences of your own actions.

Hell hath no fury…

5 reasons why never ever to say No to a woman.

1) Resentment will be harbored for far longer than we will be annoyed about not doing the actual activity. (It’s not that we didn’t xyz, but that you didn’t realize how important it was to me.)

2) We will subtly imply over the next week - at least - that the request, what-so-ever it may be, was up there in pure altruistic terms with the wiping out of third world debt and that the only person’s happiness of which we were not thinking was our own.

3) It will be interpreted as a ‘sign’ that you secretly despise us, and all females from the age of 14 up that we know, will think that you are a bastard and suddenly hate you for ‘treating her like that.’

4) Whatever else you may say ‘yes’ to for the next month will not be remembered/ not be what we really wanted. The only thing we ever truly wanted was what you said ‘no’ to.

5) Because anything that we haven’t already got by insinuation and manipulation is probably important enough for you to actually take some notice of.

And because I wanted it!

So far I have tried to avoid turning this blog into a comment on current affairs, as the annoying thing about that is that you both have to have a valid comment on the whole thing, and keep the affairs about which you are writing – well current.

I have however been moved enough to write my tup’pence worth on a particularly juicy scandal that has rocked our tabloid media – and even some of the broadsheets, for shame – over the past day or so. I speak of course about the infamous Brand/Ross prank phone calls.

It appears that the entire English nation has had its sense of humour forcibly removed about the whole situation. Like all good workers I spent my lunchtime on youtube listening to whole shbackle. Personally I thought that it was actually quite entertaining. Even more so when you realize that you are listening to them wittily punning their way into a career black hole.

It is the picture of them in the press that really make me laugh, with them looking like puppies sitting next to a big pile of poo. It is like two little boys who took a joke too far at school, and it turns out that the little girl’s hair that they pulled – has cried to her mum, who has then gone and spoken very severely to the headmaster about it. It turns out that the headmaster is one of these new fangled ones that tries to do things like cancel Christmas as it might be offensive.

So Brand has quit – no great surprise - and they are idiots to let him go, and Ross is suspended without pay. When all they should have done is hit them hard on the nose with a roll of newspaper, and said ‘NO’ in a loud and firm voice.

Have you watered the brains today Igor?

It is official – winter has come to our fair Isle once more. The reason why I am able to proclaim this with such certainty, is that I measure seasons not by the weather (like meteorologists might) not by the clothes I might be wearing (like a fashionista might) and not even by the seasonal holidays that crop up (like… most people) – but by the colour of my skin.

I am by nature a pale person, but there comes a distinct time of year when my skin colour changes from ‘porcelain’ to ‘transparent’. My mum calls it ‘pale and interesting’ whereas everyone else starts to cross themselves as I walk by.

I have tried in vain to make myself look more like a living and breathing person. I buy that moisturiser that they have promised me will gradually tan my face with a subtle and healthy glow, whereas all that has happened so far is that the little bits in between my fingers have turned slightly orange. I liberally apply bronzer to my cheeks in the hope that this will help – but end up looking like I got made-up in the dark. (think Brigit Jones in the last movie at the lawyers do that she went to.)

The other night I went out with a group of female friends and since we are all incredibly vain, the camera was taken along so that we could upload little bits of our soul onto facebook in the vain attempt to try and look popular/ convince the world that we have an amazingly fun social life, really we do, much better than yours anyway…

However – after applying the aforementioned bronzer and thinking that I looked like something approaching normal - the next day, we looked back at the photos. My good god – I look like the ginger one from girls aloud when she is photographed next to the rest of the perma-tanned ones. It has become that time of year again when I fall into the ‘we belong dead’ category.

On the positive side – it gives me a really realistic look for Halloween – on the other hand the mobs turning up at our house with their torches and pitchforks do tend to annoy the landlord.

a sticky situation...

Today we had a brain storm about tuna. Not important. The thing that I wanted to share with you all was that during this storm of brains there were placed upon the table some gummy bears. While on technical grounds I didn’t approve of them being there, as I sure that they were there as some sort of corporate gimmick to try and increase out creativity and bring out our “inner child” so that the thoughts about tuna could really flow, but I largely approved of them in a pure sugary way.

Two of them – whom I have called Mabel and Dennis – are now living on my desk. I did the thing where you make them kiss (by smashing their faces into each other) and then married them in the hope that they would reproduce and I would have lots of tiny baby gummy bears to eat the next day.

This then made me think about what my kids (should I ever deign to have some) would do in a similar situation. Would the gummy bears have got married, or have got pregnant out of gummy wedlock? Would one have been 16 and the other on drugs (raw sugar cane)? Would they both have been of the same sex and had a civil partnership, or even have had a shotgun wedding in Vegas after only meeting 3 days before?

Then I realise that one was green and the other was orange. Did this make it a mixed gummy marriage? Would they be ostracised by other racists gummy bears and forced to hide their love?

All this angst has forced me to come to only one conclusion – that I should eat then forthwith.

Life is a harsh mistress

The other night – I embarrassed myself. I blame Rum, and my parents for giving me genes that are crap at holding alcohol, and peer pressure, and the government, and the fact that shot glasses hold more that one measure of alcohol. And celebrity culture for telling me that binge drinking is cool, and the Alistair Darling for causing a recession and raising the price of food so that I didn’t eat anything before drinking.

I blame English working culture, and the many more hours that we work than other European countries, meaning that I was over tired. It was really the fault of magazines for telling me how many calories there are in alcohol, and making me feel too guilty to eat as well.

I blame the game of ‘Challenge’ and international drink rules. I blame the makers of Captain Morgan’s spiced for making it taste too good and those of Pepsi for providing the mixer. Secretly it is very much the fault of make-up companies who make lip gloss, which encourages girls to drink through a straw and therefore quicker than merely sipping out of a glass. I blame the last person who annoyed me and made me turn to alcohol as a means to drown out the pain, and those who made me laugh meaning that I forgot to pace myself.

I blame the war on terror, and the conflict in the middle east. I blame the fact that I couldn’t get tickets to the new Matthew Borne ballet that I really wanted to go and see, and that I missed seeing Wall-E at the cinemas and feel left behind in contemporary culture. I blame the fact that it was raining when I wanted it fine, and that my hair went all frizzy.

So you see boys and girls – I cannot be held accountable. Or made to clean up the next day…

I WANT ONE...

I have the mind of a three year old. If someone suggests to me that I want something – my levels of resistance are about as strong as a salt wall when it’s raining... Pouring... In the middle of hurricane Ike.

I will automatically want what the other person has ordered in a restaurant. If I have my heart set on sunshine, and someone spoke to me for 2 minutes on snow – I would be climbing into the freezer. The ice-cream I picked will just not be as good as the one the other person chose – and the less said about my choice of men the better…

But today what I really want – is a flying possum. I may have begged my boyfriend to buy me an albino hedgehog last month – but now they are as dead to me. I want the cute little bundle of fur with big eyes that can fly around your house, likes to cling onto your head and neck, and – get this – is so cute that if you leave it on its own too long is gets depressed and dies of loneliness.

I WANT ONE. I don’t care if it violates my tenancy agreement and that my housemates would hate it and then probably sit on it. I am positive that my boss would let me bring it into work during the day, so it didn’t get lonely. It could make the tea at lunch.

It's my Prom and I'll sit if I want to

Last night, feeling very cultural, patriotic and ever so slightly smug that I ‘appreciated classical music’ – I did that Bloody British thing and went to the Proms.

The excitement mounted, and I wished that I had a small flag to wave and shout hurrah – and was promptly told that I couldn’t have one as it was the wrong night and apparently waving a flag is prohibited by law on every other night of the year. I was also banned from humming Pomp and Circumstance – the meaness I hear you cry.

Then the band struck up (yes I know that it’s called an orchestra but you try to come up with something as catchy using the word orchestra – it has no timbre). They launch into the first movement and I stand and listen attentively. At first I am planted squarely on two feet – a no nonsense pose that indicates that I am doing some serious listening. Then after about 5 minutes I move onto one hip…then the other. Then I do that thing where you sort of stick one leg out, cross your arms and try and lean on one of your hip bones. As every other time I have tried to do this – it does not work and I look like I am in pain.

It is at this point that I become acutely aware I was wearing heels.

Next I pretend to lean lovingly on The Boy, while really using him as a prop to try and ensure that the least amount of pressure is spread around my feet. I try and concentrate on the music – and while the Berlin Phil may be the best orchestra in the world, the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the throbbing in my feet. The leaning on the human prop has not worked as he thought I was being affectionate and started to hold my hand, which meant that I had to stand semi-upright again. Foiled.

I look desperately around, trying to see who else is sitting down and if they are either respectable enough looking or in sufficient numbers for me to do likewise. I cannot be the one to cave in and admit that I would be much comfier sitting on the floor. Someone accidently knocks my foot with their heel – so precarious is my balance that I wobble a bit.

I admit defeat – I sit on the floor. It feels great.