Idle Queries Explored Further

(read this first)

Oh my God.

I clicked the "read more" button and ended up staring at this:



And now I'm thinking, not only can it be used as a dildo, but also some kind of home-operatable speculum?

Or what, are you supposed to squeeze and release, using that spring to create resistance? What if bits get trapped?

Thanks, but no thanks.


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Idle Queries

Idle Query Number One:

Why don't pedestrian crossings make noises any more? All the crossings in Manchester seem to have been replaced over the last few years, and most of the new ones are silent. Apart from sone, which are still noisy, which just makes the whole thing extra confusing.

I can't seem to get the hang of looking to see whether the green man has arrived. I press the button, I stand and wait, my attention wanders. I read advertising hoardings, watch birds, wonder vaguely whether the woman walking towards me has a shaved head or just all her hair scraped back, check the pram to see if my baby is still asleep... am I really supposed to stare at a not-yet-green man non-stop? The window of green man opportunity is surprisingly small (only a few seconds), and horribly easy to miss if it doesn't go beep-beep-beep to remind you.

And what are blind people supposed to do? As far as I can see nothing vibrates, and even if it did, what if the blind person couldn't get to the vibratey bit cos other people were in the way?

It's rubbish. I can think of no good explanation, particularly seeing that not all of them are silent, only some. Bring back the noisy ones, I say.

Idle Query Number Two:

Does this work in the way I think it does? Is it, in fact, just a glorified dildo? Maybe a convenient excuse for people who really want to buy dildos but feel more comfortable claiming to have a weak pelvic floor? And is anyone seriously going to use it in the way intended?

Better than a carrot, I suppose...


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Limeral Fun

I've been having lots of fun writing limericks for Lucy Diamond's competition.

You should play too.

As long as yours aren't better than mine.


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Lords of Bastard

The Other 'Alf is a loacal radio DJ and erstwhile music journalist, so we regularly get freebie CDs dropping through the door. They're always accompanied by press releases, most of which follow the usual format and are rather dull, so it's always fun when something more creative slips through the net:

"lords of bastard

www.lordsofbastard.com
www.myspace.com/lordsofbastard

BEEEEEP! Tshhhh, tssssh, burr ba burrrr ba burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

- This is the musical masterstroke that kicks off Lords of Bastard's self titled debut album, Lords of Bastard.

Following tthe planetary success of their single, Off With Their Heads / Kingsize Karma, this release offers more of the same journey through sludge, doom, punk and stoner rock, but this time there are seven more whole songs. As lead singer Mike puts it, "This is an album".

So if you like albums, then this might be for you.

Having played with many excellent touring bands across Scotland, over the past few years, LoB's sound has really developed. There are quieter bits and louder bits, and some bits that seem faster than others but might not be, when drummer Rik was intrerviewed about this recently he said "yes".

As the sleeve would suggest, LoB like their vintage amps turned up to "Big"; this could be what it would sound like if the 1970s were angry at you.

Recorded in Edinburgh by no-one famous, and not featuring Mary J Blige, this heady mix of space weed, dungeons and purple promises to be a trest for fans and a dreadful risk to others.

Available from 8th Sept 2008, in exchange for money, on CD and download."

Sadly I didn't like the music much (not my thing - lots of thrashy bass guitars and people screaming "Aaaaaargh!" a lot), but there you go: You can't have everything.

Today is my birthday and I'm off to the cinema to see The Mist (see if I can frighten the baby out of me), then going swimming. I made a yummy chocolate cake last night. I shall also be eating that.


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Somebody Else's Problem

Speaking of SEPs, I did a terrible thing a few weeks ago.

Felix had a friend round after school. The first thing he does when he gets home from school is demand a snack. Fuck knows where he gets that from. *cough*

So we had a look in the fridge, and his friend spotted some cheese triangles (small cheesy snacks). Felix doesn't like them but his friend scoffed happily away. And after they'd eaten about half of it, they commented that it was kind of wet. And it was then that it occurred to me to check the Use By date. Which was February 2007.

Oops.

So I had a bit of a sniff, and it smelt fine. And those things are packed with preservatives, right? And it had been in the fridge all that time? And... er...

Well, you see, and this is where I do become very ashamed, honest I do, but what I thought was... if they get ill, it won't be me who has to clear up the vomit. And anyway, if I make a fuss I'll only plant the possibility of psychosomatic illness in their head.

So, rather than take the cheese away from them instantly and alert their parents, I let them eat it. And kept quiet.

And spent the next few days worrying they were going to die of food poisoning and it would all be my fault. And wondering whether to dispose of the evidence (remaining cheese triangles, now relegated to the bin) or keep them for the health inspectors. And forgetting to ask my son whether his friend had been in school or not, despite setting myself several reminders ("Ask F: X still alive?") in my phone.

They're not dead, by the way.

So that's all right then.


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Bodily Harm

I've been doing a lot of clearing out lately, and came across an old pair of crutches. Not as old as the being-run-over-by-a-bus incident, but still. Not technically my property.

So I decided to take them somewhere they'd be more useful. Like a hospital, for instance.

But MRI, my local, is big and rambling and has very few parking spaces and precious little useful signage, so I found myself this morning driving around randomly, past a myriad of "NO PARKING" notices and a couple of wheel-clamping buggies, but no orthopaedics department.

I could have parked somewhere remote and wandered around on foot, but I'm nine months' pregnant* and walking / standing / generally being on one's feet are extremely taxing operations, particularly when carrying anything at all other than the several sacks of potatoes strapped to my middle, and especially when I don't know where I'm going or how much further I might have to go.

In the end I found something called the "Adult Rehabilitation Unit." Which may well involve crutches, no? Not only that, but it had an empty disabled parking bay outside. Not that I'm disabled, although I'm sure I could argue the case... but no. Not to a wheel-clamper, I couldn't. So I parked and ran - well OK, waddled a little more quickly than normal - in. No reception, no obvious location for crutches, just a bored-looking nurse and a very old man. And me, suddenly feeling furtive.

I hid the crutches in a doorway, round a corner, where nobody could see me. If challenged, I would say... that I was... er... oh fuck it, look at me, I'm about to give birth! Watch out, my waters are breaking!

Nobody challenged me. I left. My car didn't get clamped. None of the exciting endings, which you were already anticipating, happened.

Or did they? Will we ever know? Did the crutches ever get moved?

Will they stay in that doorway for several weeks, everyone thinking that someone is about to come back and reclaim them, someone who will be reduced to crawling through inhospitable hospital corridors like a dying fish without them?

Will they ever reach a useful home?

Will someone, being rehabilitated in fact from a long prison sentence or maybe a hideous designer-drug addiction and not in any more need of crutches than his or her co-clientele, fall over the crutches and break their neck or even their leg (in which case at least they'll have some perambulatory assistance immediately to hand)?

Will I be traced from CCTV footage and charged with manslaughter, or Wilful Abandonment Of Hospital Property?

I don't know. I don't really care. It's an SEP**.

As long as they don't have CCTV footage.



* This is really bugging me. I want to include an apostrophe in the phrase "nine months' pregnant" but I'm not sure why. The pregnancy doesn't really belong to the months, does it? I know I'm probably wrong. But I can't seem to stop myself.

** Somebody Else's Problem


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Birthday Eclipsingness

It's my birthday on 10th July, but the baby is due on 7th July. Indeed, given that I know when I ovulated and therefore probably when I conceived, I'm pretty sure the baby is actually due on my birthday.

Therefore I've been unable to make any birthday plans, cos I may be heavily-heavily pregnant and awaiting a birth with baited breath, or in labour, or recovering from a terrible birth, or relaxing with a babe in my arms all blissful and happy, or pacing the floor with a baby that won't stop crying... too many variables. Will not compute.

It's a bit sad though.

So can I recruit some of you into putting my birthday into your diaries and coming here on the day to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY! or ringing or texting me if you know me well enough to have my number, or even sending me a card, or doing SOMETHING to remind me that I am a separate person with a birthday all of her own, as well as a mother-to-be?

Thanking you kindly.


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Clare Likes, Too

Best line ever, from Coronation St this evening: "He'd be a typical Taurean if he wasn't a Virgo." I mean, think about it.

But anyway. That's not what this post is about. I decided to do this meme I found on Everything Katy is Electrically Newton's blog, cos I liked the look of it. And I'm s'posed to be doing other stuff.

You have to google the phrase "[your name] likes to" and see what you get. So here is what Clare, apparently, likes to do:

Clare Likes to Share (because she is of a mathematical bent, apparently) (which is true) (the second part, anyway).

Clare likes to barge the Argies off it.

Clare likes to entertain at the drop of a hat.

Clare likes to chew on her clothes.

Clare likes to accept about 8 to 10 students each year, depending on the quality of the applicants.

Clare likes to watch telly and eat chips. She is also a qualified equine massage therapist.

Clare likes to win ribbons (according to the Real Girl of the Year contest) (I guess that is the ultimate in girliness, if you are happy with a ribbon as a prize).

Clare likes to think she can draw.

Clare likes to rant.

Clare likes to work and fix things.

Oh dear, there are more and more of the buggers. I know some of them aren't exactly interesting, they're just... well, true.

Clare likes to describe herself as fast and feminine (oh no she doesn't) (but when they say "fast", do they mean, er, racy? Ah, the days of my youth...).

Clare likes to spend her time having random fun.

Clare likes to eat, she likes to share each tasty treat.

Clare likes to break into dance wherever she is (according to the "Pole Fetish Dance School").

Clare likes to crash cars for jokes.

Clare likes to spend time in her built-in wardrobe.

Clare likes to pretend it’s Bubble Tape in his back pocket.

Clare likes to shoot modern architecture.

OK, OK, I don't know when to stop, so I'll just stop there.

What fun.

Oh and, you know. If you want to do it too, then do.


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Biggering and Biggering

No, not buggering. BIGGERING.

I suspect I'm half-remembering some quote from a Dr Seuss book (have I ever told you how much I love Dr Seuss?) (well I do. I really love Dr Seuss), but I can't remember which book or exactly what the quote was so I'm going to try really hard to stop thinking about it now cos otherwise it'll drive me mad and I'll spend the next two hours hunting through my son's bedroom for Dr Seuss books (we have a lot) and getting sidetracked by tidying his bedroom instead of being sidetracked by writing blog posts, which is what I'm supposed to not be doing instead of what I'm really supposed to be supposed to be doing.

Where was I? Oh yes. I am bigger.

(biggering and biggering... oh damn it, what IS that quote?)

I can still reach the keyboard. But what happens when I can't? I only just can. I've heard people talking about balancing keyboards on bumps but frankly that's just silly, particularly at the rate and ferocity at which I type, and anyway what about my RSI? Huh?

This whole bump-getting-in-the-way thing is actually getting to be quite a pain. Not because I can't reach stuff, cos so far I can always find a way to reach stuff. No. It's literally a pain. The problem is, when you know it has a bit of give in it and you just need to stretch a liiitle bit further to reach the jam or the tea or the drill or the TV remote, then that's what you do. And if someone tries to squeeze past you in the kitchen or in the pub, you end up pushing the bump against the nearest obstacle in attempt to make yourself smaller. Which would all be well and good if it weren't for the fact that it hurts. Not at the time, but afterwards. I have a kind of permanent bruise on the tip of my bump. And sometimes it gives me nasty shooting pains. No no, I'm not in labour. It's not that kind of pain. Although I do wish constipation pains and labour pains weren't so similar. When I had the miscarriage I was convinced it was just a blockage in my tubes, and now every time my poo gets stuck I think I'm heading for premature babyville. Or worse. I do wish I hadn't watched Coronation St over the last couple of weeks (they have a character who up until last week was exactly the same amount of pregnant as me, but then her baby stopped kicking...) (mine is still kicking) (but I am keeping a very hawk-like eye on it).

Well, anyway. I am also hot. Because the weather is hot. Which is all very well, but pregnancy and hotness don't mix, and my hair needs cutting, and I hate hairdressers at the best of times, but I really don't fancy being pregnant in a hair salon. All that sitting about in unsuitable seats. All that chit-chat. Pregnancy makes me very intolerant of shit-chat. It happened last time too. Ooh, that was a typo but I like it. In the last sentence but one, I mean. Or is it but-two? Anyway, my hair is thick and makes me hot.

Of course, given that I am sitting here right now shit-chatting at you in the most brazen fashion imaginable, maybe I better shut up about that.

I'm supposed to be doing other stuff really. I'll go do that instead.

P.S. I made a key lime pie last night. On a whim, because I just happened to be passing a cupboard with a broken door and there was an ancient tin of condensed milk in there (I'm not sure why, I never use condensed milk) (what's it for, anyway?) (apart from making key lime pie, that is) (and why is it sometimes called evaporated milk?) (or are they not the same thing?) and it had a recipe on the side for key lime pie, and I liked the sound of it. So I made it last night. It is YUMMY. I had to freeze most of it though, because I also made a chocolate cake two days ago and all this biggering (oh damnit, what was that book?) makes me bruised.

P.P.S. And I made a fence and a gate and a ramp at the weekend. And they work, and are much less dilapidated than the last fence and gate I made (I have never made a ramp before though) (it is for a dog) (I am proud of it), although perhaps a little lopsided.

But I am supposed to be doing other stuff than this, and I will either go away now and do that instead or find something else to distract me from it.

[wanders off in search of Dr Seuss books]


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Self Storage

I passed a sign for self storage units today, and momentarily misunderstood.

I do like the idea, though, of a place you can go to store yourself. Would it be a small box, I wonder, which you folded yourself into? Or a nice comfy sitting room? Would you take yourself out every now and then, dust yourself off and reminisce for a while before putting yourself back? Maybe you'd only use the facililty temporarily, for when the builders were in and you had nowhere to keep yourself, or if you were getting in the way and people had got fed up of dusting you?

It has gone down in my list of potential ideas for short stories...


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Even Less Cool

NB: don't read this post if you've only just arrived! Read this one first!

No, go away. Like I told you. Shoo. Then come back.

...

I have to own up, cos I'm rubbish at lying and anyway I know you'll all be expressing great consternation for the plight of Heavily Pregnant Lady in Playground Disaster Shock.

It didn't really end like that. I climbed back down again after perching there for ages and enjoying the view.

The rest did happen, though.


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Trying to be Cool

Pregnancy makes you tired. It makes you tired because you have to carry an extra couple of stone around your waist all day. It makes you tired because your body uses all its energy on baby-building and doesn't leave much over for you. It makes you tired because babies hog all the space in your middle and squish your lungs into a smaller space, leaving you out of breath all the time. It makes you tired when it gets you so ill you spend three months in a rocking chair and get really unfit and then can't get back in shape again because pregnancy makes all your body-bits vulnerable in a way which renders all but the lightest exercise inadvisable.

But despite all this, today I found myself in a playground with my son, at the top of a climbing frame and rather pleased with myself and my rediscovered monkeydom.

"You used to like being cool, didn't you?" says Felix.

"Why, am I not cool any more?" says me.

"No, you're too old!"

"Oh."

"Emma* used to like being cool, as well."

"Is she old too then?"

"Oh yes. Anyway she says she stopped trying to be cool cos every time she did, bad things happened to her."

Me: "Oh."

And then I fell off the climbing frame.



*Emma = a friend of ours, who I always think of as young, because she was only 18 when we met her. But that was 13 years ago.


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Ooh, I can get that one...

Help, I can't stop doing this quiz! (via Rachel).

I really wish it didn't have a "Try Again" button...

And oh bloody hell, I've just discovered there are 110 damn questions! Ouch.


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Local Shop For Local People

Him Indoors has written a good article on CiF about our local Netto supermarket.

But what I love about it is the comments. They quickly descend into a discussion of the merits of various supermarkets, which is entertaining in itself. But then this thing happens - which always happens when Ally writes articles for CiF - people (who have previously only seen him as the prolific CiF commenter "AllyF") start exclaiming in surprise at his gender.

Like this:

"I just thought AllyF was a poster who just happened to be able to write better than the rest of us and lived in an oddly similar situation to that of the author [of this article]. I had the whole backstory in my head as well, she was female, married, 2/3 young kids (7 and under) who kept up a blog relating to her everyday experiences, the struggles of raising a family in some of the scariest parts of Manchester and only very occasionally exposing us to her political viewpoints."

and this:

"Yes, I had done much the same as you mention. The children were very vague from my point of view - merely hazy, almost formless blobs playing in the garden, just beyond a glazed back door, leading to a small garden with a rotary washing-line.
AllyF herself was, to be honest, not much more distinct herself. She had slightly curly, blondish hair to her shoulders, but her face was very shadowy and slipped out of view when I attempted to apprehend it by anything other than peripheral (and that imaginary) vision.
What I can say for sure, however, is that I never thought she had a beard. I was most surprised and somewhat disconcerted."

...both of which made me giggle.

When I use gender-non-specific pseudonyms on the internet, people often mistake me for a man. Go figure.


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Cake cake cay ca-cay-cake, yeah

I LIKE CAKE.

Aswell.

Like.


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Swimming Myths

I was reminded of these myths by Petite's recent post about the caca in the eau, and was so struck, as I always am, by the strength of the second one that I have decided it is my public duty to set the world straight.

There is no dye in existence which can indicate the presence of urine in a public swimming pool. There never has been. Really!

Not only that, but you will not die or get stomach cramps or nearly drown if you swim after eating. It's a load of rubbish. It always has been. Yup, that's right, all that time you spent sitting to one side and looking longingly at the sea or the swimming pool... it was wasted time. Food in the stomach of a swimming person does not create cramps.

Why there is no whistle-blowing anti-piss dye.

Why my life was not in danger when I went swimming immediately after lunch yesterday.

And remember, snopes.com is your friend. You can spend happy hours there, happily seeing all your favourite myths elegantly debunked.


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That New Title

I thought Asta had cheated, when she made her guess as to the title of my new book... and got it 100% right. And then Mike got it right too... and neither of them cheated!

It was cheatable, you see. If you do the right Googling, you come up with this link, where my agent announces the sale on his blog. So. Yes. It's called Dance Your Way to Psychic Sex, although titles are very fluid so who knows what will end up on the spine.

My favourite guesses were these:

Honey thought Never Look Sad in Serious Sex.

B thought Clare Says Yay in Twisted Sex (yeah right, I've written a book about my own sex life).

Rob thought Never Seek God in Tantric Sex.

And my absolute fave... oe thought Using Your Hex in Psychic Sex (and other stories).

The rest were just filthy. Wash your mouths out, you disgusting bunch of degenerates. Well, OK, they could have been much filthier. But it is about other stuff, apart from sex...

Guess What?

Rob was asking in the comments what my new book is called, but I'm still coy about telling that until I've signed an English-language deal (as opposed to Germany (yay for Germany)).

I will tell you that it's not called "Xxxx Xxxxxx" any more. It is now called "Xxxxx Xxxx Xxx xx Xxxxxxx Sex".

So, over to you! What do you think it's called? The Xs represent letters, and the capital letters are also accurate. If it were a crossword clue it would be (5, 4, 3, 2, 7, 3), so it has six words in it and I'll tell you for free the last word is Sex. Oh yes, and if you follow this link you'll find a description of the book, which might help to stir your creative juices.

You can have as many guesses as you like, and I'll print the best ones on the blog. If you're one of the privileged few who already knows, no cheating. I'll delete your comment if you do.

Now watch me go red-faced as nobody plays the game...


Update: If you've come to this post late and are wondering why I am asking people to guess the title when I've already announced it... Well. When I wrote this post, I hadn't. Announced it, I mean. But I've edited old posts since then. Just to confuse you all.

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Tis Funny

I just found this (after watching The Big Bang Theory and wondering what was written in small-print on the screen at the end), which has been making me giggle.


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Samson & Delilah

I'm not exactly back... it's just that a snatch of song came into my head just now and try as I might I can't find any reference on Google, and it's puzzling me...

I learnt this song at junior school, in the mid to late 70s. I have no idea where it comes from, but it has the definite feel of something out of a musical. Indeed, it's got distinct Tim Rice / Andrew Lloyd Webber leanings. Was there maybe a musical called Samson and Delilah? I don't know. I'd love it if someone else remembered the song too, or could even tell me where it comes from. Here's what I remember of the lyrics, but I may have mangled them a bit in my ageing memory:

Samson was a hero in the days of old
The spirit of the Lord had made him bold
The muscles on his arms stood out like iron bands...
...and he had big hands.

I do love that last line. It always made me giggle.

So, any ideas?

Update: Hurrah for never throwing anything away. I just had a bit of a hunt about and found the original 30-yr-old typed songsheets from when I was 7 or 8. There are six songs here, all about Samson and Delilah, and the whole lot is entitled "Swingin' Samson". And a bit of Googling reveals it was a "popular cantata for children's groups", by a bloke called Michael Hurd. From here:

"The composer, choral conductor and writer Michael Hurd ... [had a] long-standing association with Novello & Co, who not only published almost all his music, but also his books, and whose history, Vincent Novello & Company, he wrote in 1981. When, in 1983, Novello issued a brochure listing Hurd's works published by them, it ran to 12 pages.

His many commissions came from local societies such as the Havant Symphony Orchestra and Havant and District Schools Music Festival, Southern Orchestral Concerts Society, the Farn-ham Festival, the Petersfield Music Festival, the Stroud Festival and the Hampshire Federation of Women's Institutes. Out of these, Hurd developed an accessible line in popular cantatas for children's groups including Jonah-man Jazz (1966), Swingin'Samson (1972), Hip Hip Horatio (1974), Rooster Rag(1975) and Captain Coram'sKids (1988), which for perhaps 20 years were widely performed."

I wonder if it was commissioned by the Hampshire Confederation of Women's Institutes??


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Misunderstanding?

I hate not knowing stuff and I hate not understanding stuff. I don't like enigmas, I dislike it when people hint at stuff but won't give you any details, I'm almost pathological in my need to always Know What's Going On. It goes a long way to explaining what a terrible nosey parker and gossip I am.

Don't get me wrong, I like puzzles. I like teasing and suspense, as long as it's resolved at some point. I love films and books where you have to work out what's going on. As long as I find out before I leave the cinema / switch the telly off, I'm happy.

This is why I hate those adverts where things aren't explained. This is why I have developed something of a buzzy honey-making stripey creature in the old whimsical headgear department over a certain Twinings advert currently on telly.

I may just be thick or not paying proper attention. This happens. I am a scatter-brain and a bit dim sometimes and occasionally it is my fault. If this is the case and someone can explain it all satisfactorily to me, I will be happy.

So here's the thing: It's Stephen Fry. In some kind of tea cupboard. Drinking coffee. Twinings coffee. And then a younger really-rather-gorgeous man comes in and looks at him suspiciously, and Stephen Fry looks all guilty and hides it behind his back, but finally he has to 'fess up. He is - gasp - drinking coffee, not tea! But then he reveals that it was made by Twinings, and he is forgiven. And then he says something about getting a dog to help with his accounting.

Wtf?

Where are they supposed to be? Why does the younger man care what he's drinking? What context is it that means he may only ever drink tea, and not coffee? What is his relationship with the younger man? Are they lovers? And WHAT THE FUCK HAS A BLOODY DOG GOT TO DO WITH ANYTHING? Not to mention dogs and accounting which have never been two things I've thought of as being connected.

I need it explained. I need it explained now, because otherwise it makes no sense. And I seriously disapprove of things that make no sense. I've been ill this week which means I've spent most of my time in a rocking chair watching telly, and the Twinings conundrum is spoiling my enjoyment of Deal Or No Deal.

Thank you. That is all.


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Kittens!

I have new kittens. Two of them. Little cats. And that's all I'm saying, until I've found a way of blogging about them that isn't either unbearably twee or unbearably mean. I mean to say, for fuck's sake, kittens. I can't do it.

[they're very cute though]


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It Began With a B

I think I might have posted this before, but if I did it was a long time ago.

I've been going through some old files, making lists. I like making lists. I'm currently making a giant list of all the ideas I've ever had for another novel, as well as ideas I've had for random content and for Clever Devices, and characters, and... oh well, let's just say I love lists.

So far I have 238 items in my List of Ideas For Novel III. I might need to narrow it down a bit.

But anyway, while perousing [eek, that thing's just happened where a word stops seeming like a real word, and I can't for the life of me work out how to spell that, or even whether I don't mean some other word entirely] an old file, I came across this, which as I said up there I may have posted before, but what the hell, it's funny. It's an actual real conversation some actual real elderly people had with each other, when they were in different rooms and couldn't quite hear each other, a few years ago.

Bob: “You mean Simon.”

Betty: “What dear?”

Bob: “Simon.”

Betty: “Oh no dear, that’s not the one.”

Bob: “Yes it is. Simon.”

Betty: “No, it began with a B”

Bob: “What?”

Betty: “A B, dear, it began with a B. I know, because he kept bees.”

Bob: “Bees, did you say?”

Betty: “Yes, bees. Bertie, that was his name.”

Bob: “No dear, Simon didn’t keep bees.”

Betty: “I know he didn’t. Simon was the one from the farm. It wasn’t Simon I was talking about.”

Bob: “No, Simon didn’t keep bees. He was the one from the farm dear, do you remember?”

Betty: “Yes, I know that. I’ve known that all along. I was talking about the one with the bees.”

Bob: “Bertie, that’s what he was called, the one with the bees. Fancy you forgetting Bertie’s name. You always used to remember it because it began with a B. Your memory really is getting bad.”


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Nude Cleaners

I just got a message on MySpace from "Manchester Nude Cleaners". Ooh, what a great name for a band I thought, clicking on the link and finding...

"Hey there Clare Sudbery

How fun would it be to hire yourself a sexy nude cleaner for an hour or two...? (Male or female... or even both!)

Just sit back and relax while one of our friendly cleaners not only does all the hard work for you, but offers you up a fun visual treat at the same time.

We clean, wash cars, clean windows and even mow lawns!

It's fun, it's 100% discrete and it's even cheaper than boring REGULAR cleaners; Prices starting at just £15."

Blimey. I'm slightly disappointed. And I keep thinking... but... Manchester Nude Cleaners? I mean, somehow I can imagine this kind of thing happening in America, or Spain, or at a pinch London... but Manchester?

Not sure what that says about my view of my beloved city (not to mention my naivete), but there you go.

All I can think of is the practicalities of trying to clean someone's loo with no clothes on. And I keep thinking of such things as sweaty hairy dangly balls (a phrase an ex of mine used to use if he wanted to, er, cool his ardour - either that or Cyril Smith's underpants)... ugh.

Update: I just found this on their profile: "You will never want to clean yourself again..."


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Text-Based Doggerel

When I get bored on trains, I often write stupid poems and text them to my friend Francis. And I'm always disproportionately pleased with them and have to save them. But my phone is old and decrepit and has limited space for storing such things, and is getting all clogged up with them now, so I'm going to have to delete them.

But I'm rubbish at throwing things away. So I'll store them here instead. Enjoy.

My aunt Jane has blood-red toes.
My aunt Fred has blood-stained clothes.
But uncle Jed
- who stays in bed -
says no-one really knows.


[NB: The next one may well rely on an incorrect pronunciation of "Bicester". I don't know. And I don't really care]

Mr Lister went to Bicester
In a pile of leaves.
He fell in a midden
But certainly didn't
Have intercourse under the eaves.


In elephantiasis city
They sang me this neat little ditty:
When feet get too big,
Just dance out a jig
Then put all your toes in the kitty.


There was a young lady of Porlock
Who mixed up her fret with her forelock.
She tugged on her nose,
Then stubbed on her toes,
And now she's got jam on her door-lock.


Shouting at 4-yr-olds
And thanking God
For turkey
Dinosaurs.


Hmmm, I don't have as many as I thought. I must have put the rest elsewhere. Most likely here on this 'ere blog, in fact. Oh well. Night night.


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One of my Favourite Jokes

Update: You might need to imagine it in a North-of-England accent to make the following joke work...

Q: What do you call a man with a wooden head?
A: Edward

Q: What do you call a man with two wooden heads?
A: Edward Wood

Q: What do you call a man with three wooden heads?
A: Edward Woodward

Q: What do you call a man with four wooden heads?
A: I don't know, but Edward Woodward would.


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Why is my Ear Creaking?

I can't keep mithering the doctor with my ridiculous physical foibles, so I'll mither you lot instead.

My ear keeps creaking!

When I move my jaw, when I massage the skin around my ear, when I move my head... it creaks. And sometimes it clicks.

There seems to be something in there, but whatever it is it's out of reach. Wax would be the obvious choice, I guess.

But what if I'm dying or going deaf? What if that and all the other weird things going on in my body all add up to some rare but fatal disease?

Reassurance or panic-mongering in the comments box, please. Especially if it's anecdotal and/or ill-informed.


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Incompetent Pissers

Lucy Pepper and I have agreed to have a piss-off contest, with a side order of dungarees.

A piss-off contest is a bit like a bake-off, but it doesn't involve us actually pissing, and it sounds funny.

We were chatting about dungarees, you see. And we discovered we've both had similar Unfortunate Pissing Experiences, and then we both got the urge to blog about it, and so both we shall. Both shall we. Shall we both. Whatever.

Now, dungarees are traditionally worn by very specific sub-sections of society. Like interior decorators, toddlers, lesbians, hippies and pregnant women. They are, supposedly, practical. And therefore suitable garments for decorators, toddlers, lesbians, hippies and pregnant women. Well, maybe not the hippies. The hippies only wear them cos they look nice, and feel nice. And it turns out that's the only excuse for wearing them.

The problems come with the pissing, you see. Imagine you are a Small Person and you have a nappy full of piss. Or indeed, poo. Quick! Take it off! Have your bum wiped! Get a fresh one installed! No problem, your mother (or Significant Adult) will be happy to oblige. Unless you're wearing Bloody Dungarees, in which case she will have to remove half your fucking clothes before she even reaches your nappy, at which point - especially if she's in a cramped public space - she'll have given up and buggered off to the bar.

But what about the pregnant laydees? Aren't dungarees good things for them to be wearing? Well yes, they're not bad in the old Bumpy Tummy department, but the thing is, old pregger-legs probably needs the loo. Right now, and then again in five minutes time, and often rather urgently. And what does she find? Bloody dungarees, needing to be undone, at both straps, and outer layers removed first to make way for undoing of said straps, and even if she does manage to make it in time, chances are one of the aforementioned straps is now dangling down the loo, something she won't have noticed until she's pissed all over the bloody thing.

OK then, interior decorators. But they need the loo too! And they are up a ladder, and they keep their tools in the bib at the front! By the time they've carefully put the paint pot somewhere it won't spill, and removed the drips from the brush (by sticking it in the bib) and got to the toilet and undone the straps, they're in a right old rush and have forgotten all about the Fatal Bib Flaw, which is that it only works as a pocket when it is upright, and as soon as the dungarees are undone the bib is no longer upright and the painty brush and half a pound of loose change are rolling around on the closet floor.

"But what about hippies!" I hear you cry. Surely the hippies can enjoy their dungarees? Well maybe they could, if they didn't have the unfortunate habit of going to festivals, and drinking a lot, and needing the loo. In the middle of the night. In the cold. In a tiny little plastic box with wee and poo smeared liberally on every available surface, and them with six jumpers and a poncho on top of their dungarees, all of which must be removed before pissing can be undertaken, all of which have to be put somewhere or held aloft, leaving no hands free to undo the bloody straps, which are in any case only going to end up, along with the bib and most of the trousers, trailing on the floor in a puddle of wee, which may even be their own wee because by the time they've achieved these remarkable feats they're so bursting for the loo they may be able to contain their bodily fluids no longer. And what if they're on acid? Imagine that.

Lesbians are all right though. They never need the loo.

And in my many-and-varied dungaree-wearing Life Situations (i.e. all of them), despite coming up time and again against the many Problems Of Pissing Whilst Wearing Dungarees, I still keep wearing them. Because they're comfy. And they look nice.

Rah.


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Ambition

I had Big Plans for today.

And then I followed this link from Anna's site.

Oh well.

(this one is particularly good)


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Dylan Message Thing

I found a link on Electric Katy's blog to this thing where you get Bob Dylan to send someone a message. I don't know if this link will work, but this is what I sent.

At first I thought that was the point - it's supposed to randomise your message, which makes it all so much more entertaining anyway. Then I realised I just filled it in wrong.

But anyway, it's a great service. I like. And in case the link above doesn't work, here's what Ally received:

DEAR ALLY
VERY
WOULD YOU
TO COME
WITH ME?
I LOVE YOU
MUCH
LIKE
TO THE THEATRE
LYO&S XXX

(I love you much like to the theatre, tee hee)


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See if you can guess what I meant to say...

More "Silly" Stuff

There's more! The posts on this page aren't the only "Silly" posts.

For all posts labelled "Silly" and posted before September 2007, please go here.


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