I am being tricked by looky-likeys. I could have sworn I saw Avon Barksdale from ‘The Wire’ waiting for a bus outside the Brixton Academy today.
I have not had much time this week to work on my epic painting ‘Brad Pitt Helped Jail My Evil Dad’, but no doubt I will get the chance at the weekend, what with it being a Bank Holiday. I was hoping to get something done last night, but I arrived home in a bad mood, having caught my bag in the tube doors on the Northern Line and having to be subsequently rescued by a nice young man with an i-pod.
Instead I made myself a sandwich and the Ugly One and I watched ‘Coronation Street’ again. I should feel more disgusted/enraged/deeply saddened at Eileen’s dad, Colin, who has been found to have had an affair with Eileen’s schoolfriend when she was fourteen, and in the process fathering Fitz’s ex-girlfriend – whose name escapes me. I would normally at this point look it up, but to be honest, I’m finding it hard to care.
I’m more fascinated by Amy Barlow’s creepy monobrow, which is the sort of thing you’d expect to find on a fifty year old Turkish kebab-carver, but not on a six year old girl. In our house, we sit in the dark, hold hands and chant ‘Amy Barlow, Frida Kahlo, Amy Barlow, Frida Kahlo’ over and over again, just to keep the evil away.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Tuesday 19 May 2009
In a retrospective mood, I was leafing through some old writing and came across some drabbles, a drabble being a short story of fifty words or less. I was rather impressed by the following:-
REHABILITATION OF THE DALEKS
It's not on; that Doctor finally defeating the Daleks and sending them all back through time to do Community Service.
There's two moved in on our landing. 'Just you watch!' I said to Sheila, my everloving. 'They'll be coming in all hours, reeking of Duckhams, forever sliding down the stairs, scraping the paint with their nodules.'
I was right.
Sheila won't go out these days. The council offered to send one in as a home help; get her over her phobia. But we won't have it.
Not that we're racist or anything... but... well... you know.. They're different, aren't they?
I used to write a lot about Coronation Street, but I confess to having gone off it of late. It’s become something of a self-parody these days, as if it’s a soap that has become self-aware, and is making ironic jokes about itself.
I’m still compelled to watch Ken and Diedre though, who are acting out some endless Samuel Beckett piece about the imprisoning power of ennui.
Lately Ken has attempted to escape into the arms of Stephanie Beacham, a kind of ageing siren, luring Ken onto her barge with coffee, poached egg on toast and shelves full of Carol Ann Duffy collections.
Ken represents the frustrated intellectual, forever staring into space whilst banging the earpiece of his spectacles on his teeth. He hesitantly suggests to Diedre that they watch a documentary about the heretical Cathars of medieval France, but Diedre would rather watch ‘Celebrity Barmcake Wrestling’ or ‘Manchester’s Stupidest Criminals’.
Ken was recently given the option to sail off with Steph in ‘Utopia’ (yes, that’s what her narrowboat was called) and was all set to go, having packed his worldly goods in a case and left a note for Diedre, but, the pull of Beckett-esque ennui was too strong and he stood on the bridge, holding his case, as Steph sailed off to Harrogate, or whatever passes for Valhallah in the Corrie world. (In Eastenders it’s Leicester).
There is still no sign of God. One would be tempted to think he didn’t exist at all.
REHABILITATION OF THE DALEKS
It's not on; that Doctor finally defeating the Daleks and sending them all back through time to do Community Service.
There's two moved in on our landing. 'Just you watch!' I said to Sheila, my everloving. 'They'll be coming in all hours, reeking of Duckhams, forever sliding down the stairs, scraping the paint with their nodules.'
I was right.
Sheila won't go out these days. The council offered to send one in as a home help; get her over her phobia. But we won't have it.
Not that we're racist or anything... but... well... you know.. They're different, aren't they?
I used to write a lot about Coronation Street, but I confess to having gone off it of late. It’s become something of a self-parody these days, as if it’s a soap that has become self-aware, and is making ironic jokes about itself.
I’m still compelled to watch Ken and Diedre though, who are acting out some endless Samuel Beckett piece about the imprisoning power of ennui.
Lately Ken has attempted to escape into the arms of Stephanie Beacham, a kind of ageing siren, luring Ken onto her barge with coffee, poached egg on toast and shelves full of Carol Ann Duffy collections.
Ken represents the frustrated intellectual, forever staring into space whilst banging the earpiece of his spectacles on his teeth. He hesitantly suggests to Diedre that they watch a documentary about the heretical Cathars of medieval France, but Diedre would rather watch ‘Celebrity Barmcake Wrestling’ or ‘Manchester’s Stupidest Criminals’.
Ken was recently given the option to sail off with Steph in ‘Utopia’ (yes, that’s what her narrowboat was called) and was all set to go, having packed his worldly goods in a case and left a note for Diedre, but, the pull of Beckett-esque ennui was too strong and he stood on the bridge, holding his case, as Steph sailed off to Harrogate, or whatever passes for Valhallah in the Corrie world. (In Eastenders it’s Leicester).
There is still no sign of God. One would be tempted to think he didn’t exist at all.
Monday, 18 May 2009
Monday 18 May 2009
We had The Wise Woman of Wigan, the Ugly One’s cousin Carol and a midwife-cum-karate-expert called Lisa round for our Eurovision dinner. As it was Moscow’s turn to host the annual madness we had Beef Stroganoff with Russian Potato Bread, followed by Russian Chocolate Cheesecake.
There were no mad acts this year, although Germany had a stab at it, with a band fronted by an advert for bad plastic surgery. The poor man, squeezed into silver spandex pants with a face only a german mother could love, which is saying something.
Unaccountably, Norway won. Sung by Woody from Toy Story, the song was a Gilbert O’Sullivan-esque bucket of sentimental reindeer-poo.
I pulled The UK in the sweepstake. Despite the godlike presence of Andrew Lord-Webber, banging his fat fingers on the Russian ivories, we only came fifth, but then, that’s a damn sight better than we’ve done since the end of the last war, or it seems like it anyway.
There were no mad acts this year, although Germany had a stab at it, with a band fronted by an advert for bad plastic surgery. The poor man, squeezed into silver spandex pants with a face only a german mother could love, which is saying something.
Unaccountably, Norway won. Sung by Woody from Toy Story, the song was a Gilbert O’Sullivan-esque bucket of sentimental reindeer-poo.
I pulled The UK in the sweepstake. Despite the godlike presence of Andrew Lord-Webber, banging his fat fingers on the Russian ivories, we only came fifth, but then, that’s a damn sight better than we’ve done since the end of the last war, or it seems like it anyway.
Friday, 15 May 2009
Friday 15 May 2009
A month has passed by as quick and unnoticed as a Peter Andre single release.
I have been busy not only working in the secret government bunker where I have been unaccountably promoted to a position where I now have the power to threaten individual teams with withdrawal of stationery privileges, but also on my epic painting ‘Brad Pitt Helped Jail My Evil Dad’ which is destined to become the 21st Century’s ‘Guernica’.
For those of you unaware of what Guernica may be, it is the facial disease from which Victoria Beckham suffered for many years, and the name of the tribute quilt which Tracy Emin stitched together from sections of anoraks stolen from tramps, and is thought by many to be the single most significant piece of artwork of the Twentieth Century.
The Ugly One and I have also spent an inordinate amount of time watching ‘The Wire’, the shamefully underrated series from the States.
Also... The Apprentice is back. Hoorah! Sir Sid James has fired half of the eejits already, so there’s not a lot I can say about them. This week the teams had to re-brand Margate (rather than re-branding Margaret, one of Sir Sid’s fearsome assistants, which would have been a challenge too far, I suspect) and one team decided to target the Gay market.
Their research seemed to consist of interviewing one pre-op transsexual that Mona found in a bar. ‘I did work on this project,’ she bleated later in the boardroom. ‘I even went out and spoke to a gay person!’ as if this was some kind of personal milestone, despite the fact that she has been living in a house with Howard for the last six weeks.
Sir Sid pointed his fat scary finger and Mona was fired, mainly because she didn’t think there were any gay people in Kent, let alone the house she was living in. She has now moved to Brighton so that she’ll never have to face gay people again.
I have been busy not only working in the secret government bunker where I have been unaccountably promoted to a position where I now have the power to threaten individual teams with withdrawal of stationery privileges, but also on my epic painting ‘Brad Pitt Helped Jail My Evil Dad’ which is destined to become the 21st Century’s ‘Guernica’.
For those of you unaware of what Guernica may be, it is the facial disease from which Victoria Beckham suffered for many years, and the name of the tribute quilt which Tracy Emin stitched together from sections of anoraks stolen from tramps, and is thought by many to be the single most significant piece of artwork of the Twentieth Century.
The Ugly One and I have also spent an inordinate amount of time watching ‘The Wire’, the shamefully underrated series from the States.
Also... The Apprentice is back. Hoorah! Sir Sid James has fired half of the eejits already, so there’s not a lot I can say about them. This week the teams had to re-brand Margate (rather than re-branding Margaret, one of Sir Sid’s fearsome assistants, which would have been a challenge too far, I suspect) and one team decided to target the Gay market.
Their research seemed to consist of interviewing one pre-op transsexual that Mona found in a bar. ‘I did work on this project,’ she bleated later in the boardroom. ‘I even went out and spoke to a gay person!’ as if this was some kind of personal milestone, despite the fact that she has been living in a house with Howard for the last six weeks.
Sir Sid pointed his fat scary finger and Mona was fired, mainly because she didn’t think there were any gay people in Kent, let alone the house she was living in. She has now moved to Brighton so that she’ll never have to face gay people again.
Friday 17 April 2009
Lately I spent some time in Wales, at first in my mother’s back bedroom, sharing the space with a collection of porcelain dolls. They have very judgmental faces, and I suspect they were gazing at me with an accusatory tone during the night.
My brother turned up and ranted in a rather too right-wing way for my liking. I tend to tune out of these family lectures. There was something about sending Polish people back, shooting cats and ‘locking ‘em all up’ but after a while it all kind of blends into one long blah blah blah.
Later in the week I went to stay with my friend Val, her new boyfriend Geraint (who, innocent of my phobia of all things sporty, thought I might enjoy an afternoon watching the football.) and her daughter Holly.
Holly was making a Tudor House, so I volunteered to help. I cut the fronts of two wine boxes, we stuck one on top of the other to make a kind of open-plan two storey building, and I converted one of the cut out handholds in the end of the box into a nice tudor window with sellotape glass.
Then I made Holly design some Tudor wallpaper to decorate the upper floor.
At some point My Little Pony got involved, so she had to build a Tudor stable extension at the side of the house.
It was a very pleasant weekend. We went out for a Chinese meal in a very nice restaurant which I seem to remember being a chip shop back in the day where one could get chips with curry sauce.
We were reminded that we were in Wrexham by a very loud man on his mobile who shouted ‘Aye mate. I’ll see you later. I’m in the Chinky at the moment.’
My brother turned up and ranted in a rather too right-wing way for my liking. I tend to tune out of these family lectures. There was something about sending Polish people back, shooting cats and ‘locking ‘em all up’ but after a while it all kind of blends into one long blah blah blah.
Later in the week I went to stay with my friend Val, her new boyfriend Geraint (who, innocent of my phobia of all things sporty, thought I might enjoy an afternoon watching the football.) and her daughter Holly.
Holly was making a Tudor House, so I volunteered to help. I cut the fronts of two wine boxes, we stuck one on top of the other to make a kind of open-plan two storey building, and I converted one of the cut out handholds in the end of the box into a nice tudor window with sellotape glass.
Then I made Holly design some Tudor wallpaper to decorate the upper floor.
At some point My Little Pony got involved, so she had to build a Tudor stable extension at the side of the house.
It was a very pleasant weekend. We went out for a Chinese meal in a very nice restaurant which I seem to remember being a chip shop back in the day where one could get chips with curry sauce.
We were reminded that we were in Wrexham by a very loud man on his mobile who shouted ‘Aye mate. I’ll see you later. I’m in the Chinky at the moment.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
