Regular readers should know the score by now, but for anyone who has found me more recently I am in the process of transferring my back catalogue of blogs from my old site to WordPress, with the intention of eventually winding the old site up for good. This is not just an excuse for recycling old blogs, and I do slip the odd new one in from time to time – especially since joining ‘Monday Club’ – but it does give me time to concentrate on other things I’m meant to be writing. Sadly, having the time doesn’t necessarily mean having the inclination, and procrastinating under-achiever that I am I’m still not knuckling down to it. But I will. Soon. Really, really soon.
This pair of mismatched oldies come from June 2011…
TUT TUT. WHAT A SILLY OLD SOSSIDGE I AM.
I spent most of yesterday writing a short story for a competition I was thinking of entering, and then when giving it the once over today to cheque fer typin errers etc I realised I’d done gone totally overlooked one specific part of the remit! Oh well, ho and hum as they say. I’m sure it will come in handy at some point, and other than the fact that it’s no good for the purpose intended I’m generally pretty pleased with it: it is dark, funny, and unpredictable, which is more than you can say for Lenny Henry…
I’ve had a bit of a mixed old week this week; two days beginning with T and one each of M, W & F (well, only half an F so far, but half an F is better than none at all. Unless you’re allergic to Fs in which case you’re probably better off avoiding them all together. Or should that be better ‘o’ avoiding them all together?). Still, I’ve got two S’s to look forward to yet, so heaven knows what might happen!
More seriously, I have been out meeting people again this week and the more people I meet the more I can’t help but think we’re a rum old lot, really. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging (well I am, but I’m not writing about it so you can’t pull me up on it) – I’m sure other people look at / listen to me and think ‘by ‘eck, he’s one chicken popper short of a boneless bucket’ or whatever – and I’m all for biodiversity and all of that, but there’s no escaping it there are some right funny ol’ feckers out there, ennit?
Izzit? Or izzit me?
Talking of biodiversity, as I was, if you haven’t been watching the very excellent ‘Born to be Different’ on Channel 4 you should have been. A marvellous, unsentimental, non-mawkish documentary series tracking the lives of a group of disabled kids from birth through to the present. This should be required (enforced) viewing for anyone stupid enough to have black-and-white views on issues like in-utero screening and the ‘quality’ of disabled peoples’ lives or wider issues like social opportunity and equality or the evils of eugenics. Probably the best TV series on disability yet made, and impressive not only for showing the resilience of some extraordinary kids without descending into clichés about victimhood, but also for the down to earth and practical responses of all the parents involved too. Bloody hell, Channel 4, you did good!
Two other things I saw on TV that I thought were a step in the right direction this week: there’s an advert for old spice with a black man (shock horror!) in it as the ‘sex object’(though being the ol’ cynic I am I’m guessing that some ad exec will pick up an award for that somewhere along the line which will devalue it), and on DVD I watched the first season of ‘Breaking Bad’, which has a disabled character played by someone (shock horror) with a genuine disability. Neither of those things are things that should be worthy of comment, they should just ‘be’, and hopefully in future will ‘be’ far more regularly, but it was refreshing none the less…
Right – my luvverly son has just got home from skool and is demanding food, water and money with menaces before I turn him back out for scouts, so I’ll leave today’s missive there.
BRIDGET DARCY-JONES’S DIARY
Dunno about other people, but I have a small shelf in my smallest room where I keep a selection of ‘dippable’ books for those occasions when time and motion are a little out of sync and boredom sets in. One such ‘dippable’ is Bridget Jones’s diary, which thanks to its generally short entries and uncomplicated plot lends itself to casual perusal and irregular, if you will excuse the unintentional pun, acquaintance.
Anyhow. I was flipping through said tome t’other day when I happened to notice that it was first published almost twenty years ago, and I got to thinking that even for a social tread-water like Ms Jones time and tide must move forward…
12st 4 (but post-Christmas), alcohol units 43 (but effectively covers whole day as was woken early by insatiable mother achieving orgasm in next bedroom), cigarettes 58, calories 8, 962 (have not counted chocolate Santa given by mother as this proved to be diabetic chocolate purchased at last minute from chemists when she popped in to buy new batteries for her lady massager).
Noon. London: My apartment.
Ugh. The last thing I need today is another of Una Alconbury’s Turkey Curry Buffets, but mother has already promised we will both be attending and my head is too fuzzled to even contemplate the argument that will ensue if I try to wriggle out of it. Horror of horrors, The Bastard is going to be there too with that miserable bitch Pamela and his mother and father – my ex in-laws, the Darcys – because he’s been staying with them over Christmas and they’re close friends of Una and Geoffrey.
Thankfully Oliver is away skiing with a classmate until school reopens, so at least we don’t have to play happy families for his sake. I will snub them all. I could never stand the Darcys anyway and Pamela is a frightful snob who’s too busy looking down her nose to be worthy of my attention. I’ll flirt with The Bastard for a few minutes, just to let him know what he’s missing, but apart from that they can all take a flying leap into Una’s basmati rice ‘n’pea cold collation.
I wonder if The Bastard will be wearing one of those ridiculous jumpers his mother always buys him? Something of an in-joke, but they’ve failed to realise the rest of us stopped laughing years ago.
Mother and I – or should that be mother and me now? I get so confused these days; one never knows quite what’s expected anymore… Let’s see, would I say ‘I’ or ‘me’? Yes. Mother and I went to Les Mis again last night as Philip, her new man (hideous – wears pink shirts and gold accessories and sells cheap jewellery from a small, dark shop that smells of leather and furniture polish) hadn’t seen it and it’s mother’s favourite. I paid for the tickets weeks ago using the card The Bastard gave me for school outing emergencies (they never let me know until Oliver gets home on the Friday before with a permission slip, and I’m certainly not paying for them out of the settlement money), but Philip paid for the champers and the meal beforehand.
I think Philip would have been happy with one of those chicken bucket thingies from the high street, but I took them to this fabulous new Vietnamese fusion place Jude recommended. We had to wait ages for a table and missed the start of the show but it was worth it. Lucky to get in at all, really, they said, without an advance booking, but they managed to squeeze us in because of a last minute cancellation. I was surprised to find a hair in my Gȯi Cua Tȏm Hùm – not what you expect when you’re paying those kind of prices – but the waitress was very apologetic. The manager offered to comp us our whole meal but I told him not to be so silly. I hate making a fuss. Phillip looked annoyed, but I saw him wince so assume mother had corrected him under the table. I really do dislike people who are tight with money. I mean, what’s the point of having it if you don’t enjoy it?
God, he’s just come into the kitchen – best shut down for now. He’s wearing mother’s housecoat, which barely ties around the middle. Gosh, he’s very hairy – like a bear in a baby-doll. Ugh. Something just walked over my grave…