A girl like I has not posted for a while, indeed I am sure it is all my followers can think about. This is because I was either thinking or drinking. May I recommend M and S mulled cider as 'tis very weak but you can feel festive while stringing together a few words coherently. More than can be said for some at my xmas do the other night. There was proper bad behaviour; groping, propositioning, telling management what you really thought of them , although most of this was unintentional-just bawling opinions across the dinner table with no regard for earshot. One guy was 'spoken to'( infer horrid meaning) by the boss, someone else was sent home, there were ejections from the bar we ended up in and no doubt many erections from all the flirting going on. Marvellous evening. Really makes Christmas and will keep us all in gossip until half-term.
Just as it's impossible to have a successful xmas do without scandal, it's impossible to have a xmas without kitsch. I found myself reflecting on this in a grotto in school the other day. Grotto-case in point. One believes that one can achieve a tasteful display of decks all in white and silver (my own fond vision) such as is regularly pored over by myself and Enid in the White Company catalogue. Or is it the The White Company catalogue? But no, naffness just creeps in, a knitted reindeer here, a speaking santa model there, next thing your ma turns up with her musical pie server set to 'Jingle Bells' and you haven't a hope. The image of oneself wafting around a palely shimmering home, in nobbut Jo Malone and cashmere, forever recedes.
Speaking of my mum, there has been a great deal of baffled scoffing at people being impeded by the weather. She's a warchild and spirit of the blitz has never left her. 'Old before their time!' is the cry, upon hearing of some fellow septuagenarian who won't go out in the snow. Now that Older Sister has bought her some sort of elastic treads for her trainers, she's quite frankly unstoppable.
I like snow because it is like living within a film. I have even been known to wear heels in snow like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday. Picturing myself in a movie just about makes up for the weather being all anyone can talk about and as Michael McIntyre pointed out, it makes the TV news, travel, sport and weather all the same. Even better, I feel and have always felt, would be to live in a Musical. Wouldn't it be great to sing a good 'aul belting tune several times daily, to express yoursel and vent your emotions? And you could liven up banalities such as queueing or traffic jams with a big, you know, 'number', chorus, dancing, jumping on cars, sliding on your knees, high kicking as you descend stairs. How has this not happened already?
I saw Wicked in London last weekend and rare as this is, it far surpassed my already overblown expectations. I was awash with emotion from my lofty position, i.e cheap seat, forced to peer furiously through opera glasses, lowering them only to mop up tears of mirth or sympathy for the girl born green and persecuted. I was so starstuck, I went to the stage door afterwards for a bit of stalking, like those peculiar fans who spent thousands going all around the world in pursuit of their idols. I wonder how I have never met any of these people but I'm told they exist. Anyway, I realised that my preferred person was in full bright green make up from our Matinee so probably wouldn't be nipping out the stage door to Subway. What a shame-we could have done a 'number' together in Victoria station...
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Saturday, 4 December 2010
The life of an assassin is not for I
Yes, I have had to abandon all thoughts of becoming a hired killer. It looked all very jolly in Mr. and Mrs. Smith and I considered a career change but I 've just seen The American and realise it wouldn't do.
I am positive I could very easily pull off the amount the of frowning required for the job though. Tom Cruise was extremely irritable in Collateral. George Clooney was awfully cross throughout The American and spoke more or less continuously through gritted teeth, in a monotone. Small wonder, the poor man never got a wink; he was forever sitting bolt upright in bed with gun at the ready , at the merest gust of wind in the night. I would be hysterical by lunchtime on day two.
Only there wouldn't be any lunch. George only had one meal the whole time . This was of course with a kindly priest, due to the Italian setting, and accompanied by Madame Butterfly as background music. He went on a picnic, in fact, with his bird ( this is meant to indicate a yearning for a normal life in Holywood) and there wasn't a Scotch egg or even a limp sandwich in sight. George failed to crack a smile even when the girlfriend stripped off and bathed in the lake. My companion and I were amazed that this actress had required a 'stunt double' - presumably she had agreed not to wear a bra in any scene but the nipples had consequently drooped for the nudey swimming part and someone else's were wheeled in.
This girlfriend had been acquired in the local brothel, naturally. This is what assassins have to resort to; otherwise, sexual partners must be bumped off immediately before the afterglow. Edward Fox started all this in The Day of The Jackal, though judging by his facial expression, it's entirely possible he was merely trying to rid the world of a terrible smell. George was living in a village with a population of 50 or so it seemed , but there was a thriving harem of doe-eyed slappers. At least George got his kit off too. But it matters not a bit how many fake tattoos he got for this role; he is and always will be as suave as Cary Grant and less poncy.
There were several unintentionally funny conversations with George's boss displaying the utter lack of need for greetings and niceties in Holywood. They would start their conversations with a some frowning and breathing and just jump straight in with something like ' How did they find me?' The boss seemed to spend his entire life sitting in a sort of 60's kitchen waiting for the calls. He was never seen contorted, with the phone under his chin, finishing a spot of grouting. Kitty and I started to heckle from our illegal position in the V.I.P seats 'Cheerio now!' 'Toodleoo!'-that sort of thing.
Poor George was desperately trying to retire from being a mercenary and this turns out to be disapproved of to the extent that a very sexy, equally sulky female is dispatched forthwith to murder you. Now we know that we are expected to work these days until we are, what is it, 93? But at least you can expect to leave full time employment without concrete boots on, to sleep with the fishes etc. etc. So I must continue with my present employment-the sex, even with George, would simply not be worth it.
I am positive I could very easily pull off the amount the of frowning required for the job though. Tom Cruise was extremely irritable in Collateral. George Clooney was awfully cross throughout The American and spoke more or less continuously through gritted teeth, in a monotone. Small wonder, the poor man never got a wink; he was forever sitting bolt upright in bed with gun at the ready , at the merest gust of wind in the night. I would be hysterical by lunchtime on day two.
Only there wouldn't be any lunch. George only had one meal the whole time . This was of course with a kindly priest, due to the Italian setting, and accompanied by Madame Butterfly as background music. He went on a picnic, in fact, with his bird ( this is meant to indicate a yearning for a normal life in Holywood) and there wasn't a Scotch egg or even a limp sandwich in sight. George failed to crack a smile even when the girlfriend stripped off and bathed in the lake. My companion and I were amazed that this actress had required a 'stunt double' - presumably she had agreed not to wear a bra in any scene but the nipples had consequently drooped for the nudey swimming part and someone else's were wheeled in.
This girlfriend had been acquired in the local brothel, naturally. This is what assassins have to resort to; otherwise, sexual partners must be bumped off immediately before the afterglow. Edward Fox started all this in The Day of The Jackal, though judging by his facial expression, it's entirely possible he was merely trying to rid the world of a terrible smell. George was living in a village with a population of 50 or so it seemed , but there was a thriving harem of doe-eyed slappers. At least George got his kit off too. But it matters not a bit how many fake tattoos he got for this role; he is and always will be as suave as Cary Grant and less poncy.
There were several unintentionally funny conversations with George's boss displaying the utter lack of need for greetings and niceties in Holywood. They would start their conversations with a some frowning and breathing and just jump straight in with something like ' How did they find me?' The boss seemed to spend his entire life sitting in a sort of 60's kitchen waiting for the calls. He was never seen contorted, with the phone under his chin, finishing a spot of grouting. Kitty and I started to heckle from our illegal position in the V.I.P seats 'Cheerio now!' 'Toodleoo!'-that sort of thing.
Poor George was desperately trying to retire from being a mercenary and this turns out to be disapproved of to the extent that a very sexy, equally sulky female is dispatched forthwith to murder you. Now we know that we are expected to work these days until we are, what is it, 93? But at least you can expect to leave full time employment without concrete boots on, to sleep with the fishes etc. etc. So I must continue with my present employment-the sex, even with George, would simply not be worth it.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Persisting with the listing
It has been enjoyable receiving feedback on 'One's Fashion Firing Squad'; some of it quite defensive, you know, people committed to their fleeces and whatnot. Probably because they're having to wear them in the bath at the moment, as if being filmed in a sort of arctic Big Brother. People dear to me have removed their polo necks before our meetings. Then there are the ones who made welcome suggestions for shooting, as it were. My colleague feels strongly about too short trousers,others felt it criminal to wear heels with combat trousers or clothes with any writing on them. If you could all figure out how to become a follower (I am not sure mesel-but it involves opening a Google account),we could build our list into a FORUM, I tell you. I will return to the clothes, bound to , I feel but I have a new list in mind. It's been bothering me for years.
Things Which Happen in Films and on Telly but Never in Real Life
1. Cooking with a teatowel over your shoulder. Neither I nor the Redhead, who suggested this one, have ever seen this in real life, though Jamie Oliver has one in his jeans' pocket these days. I accumulate at least five sodden, grimy examples when cooking for any more than three but they lurk, reproachfully balled-up, blocking my view of the ingredients and the recipe.
2. Shouting at and being cheeky to medical staff. This was exemplified magnificently by Shirley Maclaine in Terms of Endearment. Even in your average Soap, you get quite a bit of indignation or aggression in the ' I demand a second opinion' line. No-one I know has ever demanded a second opinion. Deference bordering upon creeping obsequiousness is the usual flavour. Very recently a doctor unceremoniously grabbed my injured calf and dug his sausage fingers in-I merely winced and managed a watery smile. (He was a specialist so I had to fight off the urge to address him pointedly as 'Mister'-of course I didn't dare.)
3. Becoming extremely delicate immediately upon the news of a positive pregnancy test. In films, there is always at this point, quite a bit of business with having to sit down and have cushions plumped around you. This is one of my favourite bits in The Way We Were. Real couples however, look at each other and go 'Oh Jesus' and then blame each other for the unprotected sex.
4.Waking up in a hospital bed from a coma or similar and saying 'Where am I ?' Much more likely to be 'You can have the bloody Lucozade but where's that Crunchie gone?
5. Having showers at odd times, such as during an argument, and always immediately putting your face right under the nozzle. If I were to attempt this, I would have a permanent windswept high colour provoking fears about my bloodpressure.
6.Staring at each other at length before first kissing. If you are Meryl Streep, you actually make contact then pull away more than once and come back for a bit of lip-nudging before the proper snog. Now I am not saying everyone always has to be drunk for this moment but there is definitely a sudden,clumsy launch of some sort from which you are lucky to emerge with your original teeth.
7. Worrying about 'appropriate' conduct around babies and toddlers for fear that they understand about sex and all. Sitcoms try to get laughs from this nonsense; people worrying that they cannot have sex while babysitting, for example, even when the kids are asleep. Were this an issue, many people would have remained virgins until their thirties.
8.Never saying Hello and Goodbye, particularly on the phone. This is considered essential in real life and unnecessary on screen. Dallas and Dynasty were the finest examples of the practice, Joan Collins its leading exponent. She was forever arching an eyebrow and slamming down the phone, by way of ending a conversation, before replacing her clip-on earring and lighting a More. Marvellous.
Things Which Happen in Films and on Telly but Never in Real Life
1. Cooking with a teatowel over your shoulder. Neither I nor the Redhead, who suggested this one, have ever seen this in real life, though Jamie Oliver has one in his jeans' pocket these days. I accumulate at least five sodden, grimy examples when cooking for any more than three but they lurk, reproachfully balled-up, blocking my view of the ingredients and the recipe.
2. Shouting at and being cheeky to medical staff. This was exemplified magnificently by Shirley Maclaine in Terms of Endearment. Even in your average Soap, you get quite a bit of indignation or aggression in the ' I demand a second opinion' line. No-one I know has ever demanded a second opinion. Deference bordering upon creeping obsequiousness is the usual flavour. Very recently a doctor unceremoniously grabbed my injured calf and dug his sausage fingers in-I merely winced and managed a watery smile. (He was a specialist so I had to fight off the urge to address him pointedly as 'Mister'-of course I didn't dare.)
3. Becoming extremely delicate immediately upon the news of a positive pregnancy test. In films, there is always at this point, quite a bit of business with having to sit down and have cushions plumped around you. This is one of my favourite bits in The Way We Were. Real couples however, look at each other and go 'Oh Jesus' and then blame each other for the unprotected sex.
4.Waking up in a hospital bed from a coma or similar and saying 'Where am I ?' Much more likely to be 'You can have the bloody Lucozade but where's that Crunchie gone?
5. Having showers at odd times, such as during an argument, and always immediately putting your face right under the nozzle. If I were to attempt this, I would have a permanent windswept high colour provoking fears about my bloodpressure.
6.Staring at each other at length before first kissing. If you are Meryl Streep, you actually make contact then pull away more than once and come back for a bit of lip-nudging before the proper snog. Now I am not saying everyone always has to be drunk for this moment but there is definitely a sudden,clumsy launch of some sort from which you are lucky to emerge with your original teeth.
7. Worrying about 'appropriate' conduct around babies and toddlers for fear that they understand about sex and all. Sitcoms try to get laughs from this nonsense; people worrying that they cannot have sex while babysitting, for example, even when the kids are asleep. Were this an issue, many people would have remained virgins until their thirties.
8.Never saying Hello and Goodbye, particularly on the phone. This is considered essential in real life and unnecessary on screen. Dallas and Dynasty were the finest examples of the practice, Joan Collins its leading exponent. She was forever arching an eyebrow and slamming down the phone, by way of ending a conversation, before replacing her clip-on earring and lighting a More. Marvellous.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
One's fashion firing squad
Oh yes, I 'm way past fashion policing, we are talking taken out and shot here. My inspiration comes from Grazia's 'Style Hunter' pages, purporting to have come across girls in t'street who have style, dontcha know. The winner, every week, is she who most resembles one attempting National Costume, country of origin unspecified. No one cares about National Costume any more, I've noticed. My generation dressed the little naked figures in the Bunty Comic weekly. It all comes screaming back to me when I am expected to admire some gangly bint in scarlet hosiery, pegleg trousers, held up with embroidered braces and a cossack hat
When it comes to celebrities, it becomes very wearing that Kate Moss is considered to be faultlessly cool and chic 'without trying too hard'. I think you will find that we can all pull this off if we look in need of a decent bra and a bath-and-hairwash.
And who is Caroline Seiber? What is the point of her? Although I don't wish to be cruel; she bravely soldiers on, clearly only able to stand on one leg.
One of the latest irritating trends is the slebs wearing next year's spring/summer collection now, in the bleak midwinter. Victoria Beckham is the most prominent exponent of this. Not content with rubbing in the fact that she doesn't have to walk any distance, what with those heels and that bunion, she now doesn't need a coat and goes about in a lurid mango shift. We only know it's november by her new beige skin colour, cultivated to match that Chanel nail varnish no one can get their mitts on any more.
I will now resort to a list-things I hate that are considered desirable by others and not just 'fashionistas'. Please take it that all such new made-up words are unacceptable, by the way.
1. Animal Print of any kind. I can brook no exceptions. It is common. Dolce and Gabbana like it and so does Roberto Cavalli and they too are common.
2. Quilting. Unless on a bedspread. Again no exceptions, even the Chanel handbag.
3. Clothes which can be touted as 'preppy' or ' 50's'. These belong to the smaller-boned, neater-waisted era. Charlotte of Sex and the City relied upon this type of look and although the prettiest, was never thought sartorially enviable. You just knew it was because she was hippy.
4. Polo necks-particularly on very young children. Particularly in white. If you want your baby to look like Edward Heath, I have no sympathy for you.
5. Camouflage. This seems to have had its day, thank god. There was a time when the school gates resembled an army assault course. There's no need for nice middle class mummies to run about like something from The Hurt Locker.
6. Spotty patterns. And bows. Unless you are six. I have two words for you: Minnie Mouse.
7. Riding attire; boots, jodphurs and hacking jackets. Well, if you want to look self-important and annoy people,go ahead. At least the materials are decent.
8. Rugby shirts, polo shirts and fleeces. There's plenty of other stuff that's warm , practical and comfortable in which you will not be mistaken for a small boy or a Blue Peter presenter-before they became sexy.
A final word about crocs. There is no excuse. Plastic with air holes, what can it all mean? There is something amiss if you want to be shod in anything reminiscent of the contraption they put on Hannibal Lecter's face.
When it comes to celebrities, it becomes very wearing that Kate Moss is considered to be faultlessly cool and chic 'without trying too hard'. I think you will find that we can all pull this off if we look in need of a decent bra and a bath-and-hairwash.
And who is Caroline Seiber? What is the point of her? Although I don't wish to be cruel; she bravely soldiers on, clearly only able to stand on one leg.
One of the latest irritating trends is the slebs wearing next year's spring/summer collection now, in the bleak midwinter. Victoria Beckham is the most prominent exponent of this. Not content with rubbing in the fact that she doesn't have to walk any distance, what with those heels and that bunion, she now doesn't need a coat and goes about in a lurid mango shift. We only know it's november by her new beige skin colour, cultivated to match that Chanel nail varnish no one can get their mitts on any more.
I will now resort to a list-things I hate that are considered desirable by others and not just 'fashionistas'. Please take it that all such new made-up words are unacceptable, by the way.
1. Animal Print of any kind. I can brook no exceptions. It is common. Dolce and Gabbana like it and so does Roberto Cavalli and they too are common.
2. Quilting. Unless on a bedspread. Again no exceptions, even the Chanel handbag.
3. Clothes which can be touted as 'preppy' or ' 50's'. These belong to the smaller-boned, neater-waisted era. Charlotte of Sex and the City relied upon this type of look and although the prettiest, was never thought sartorially enviable. You just knew it was because she was hippy.
4. Polo necks-particularly on very young children. Particularly in white. If you want your baby to look like Edward Heath, I have no sympathy for you.
5. Camouflage. This seems to have had its day, thank god. There was a time when the school gates resembled an army assault course. There's no need for nice middle class mummies to run about like something from The Hurt Locker.
6. Spotty patterns. And bows. Unless you are six. I have two words for you: Minnie Mouse.
7. Riding attire; boots, jodphurs and hacking jackets. Well, if you want to look self-important and annoy people,go ahead. At least the materials are decent.
8. Rugby shirts, polo shirts and fleeces. There's plenty of other stuff that's warm , practical and comfortable in which you will not be mistaken for a small boy or a Blue Peter presenter-before they became sexy.
A final word about crocs. There is no excuse. Plastic with air holes, what can it all mean? There is something amiss if you want to be shod in anything reminiscent of the contraption they put on Hannibal Lecter's face.
Monday, 22 November 2010
One's reviews Part three (or the emperor's new apron)
I am further inspired by domesticity and I thought it best to include reviews of things I actually liked. Each include servants, an idea which appeals to one greatly-one was made for a maid. The novel The Help is unique in that everyone I know who has read it, loved it-it is The Shawshank Redemption of the book group society ,with nicer uniforms. It's quite worth reading for the characters' names alone; Aibileen, Minny, Skeeter and I know someone who briefly considered asking the husband to reverse his vasectomy so that she could try to have a baby girl called Mae Mobley.
I think the title has misled the British and many do not at first realise it indicates the maids' viewpoint in the Deep South of the last century. Also it has been called Gone with the Wind, from 'the other side' or similar guff and even though I left out all the Civil War bits when I read Gone with The Wind, it is clear that The Help is much smaller in scale. Nevertheless it is an original and engaging way of telling the story of the Civil Rights Struggle. Scarlett O'Hara's magnificent Mammy,after all, couldn't read or write and seemed pretty happy with her lot especially after Mistah Rhett got her that red taffeta petticoat. Decades on, Aibileen puts in 12-14 hour days doing all the childcare and housework in the white people's homes and she has to get the bloody bus and buy her own uniforms! Like Gone with the Wind, The Help contains a good dose of humour especially the parts that feature Minny whose mistress seem to be a dizzier and sexier version of Marilyn Monroe, if that's possible . Minny is kept secret from the man of the house and some of the Southern white ladies. When you find out the meaning of what she calls 'the Terrible Awful',you will understand.
I am missing what Julian of Ulster Television calls 'Downtown Abbey'. There's no greater contrast than 'I'm A Celebrity...' haggard faces, rats tails for hair, sludge-coloured clothing; puts me in mind of school trips to Ardnabannon. I thought Downton rather pedestrian plotwise but this matters not a jot with the house and clothes to look at and the thought of all those servants and four meals a day. I keep getting the urge to bathe and dress for dinner after an enormous tea. I am thinking of getting someone in just to run baths, make me chocolate pots and call me 'M'lady'.
I think the title has misled the British and many do not at first realise it indicates the maids' viewpoint in the Deep South of the last century. Also it has been called Gone with the Wind, from 'the other side' or similar guff and even though I left out all the Civil War bits when I read Gone with The Wind, it is clear that The Help is much smaller in scale. Nevertheless it is an original and engaging way of telling the story of the Civil Rights Struggle. Scarlett O'Hara's magnificent Mammy,after all, couldn't read or write and seemed pretty happy with her lot especially after Mistah Rhett got her that red taffeta petticoat. Decades on, Aibileen puts in 12-14 hour days doing all the childcare and housework in the white people's homes and she has to get the bloody bus and buy her own uniforms! Like Gone with the Wind, The Help contains a good dose of humour especially the parts that feature Minny whose mistress seem to be a dizzier and sexier version of Marilyn Monroe, if that's possible . Minny is kept secret from the man of the house and some of the Southern white ladies. When you find out the meaning of what she calls 'the Terrible Awful',you will understand.
I am missing what Julian of Ulster Television calls 'Downtown Abbey'. There's no greater contrast than 'I'm A Celebrity...' haggard faces, rats tails for hair, sludge-coloured clothing; puts me in mind of school trips to Ardnabannon. I thought Downton rather pedestrian plotwise but this matters not a jot with the house and clothes to look at and the thought of all those servants and four meals a day. I keep getting the urge to bathe and dress for dinner after an enormous tea. I am thinking of getting someone in just to run baths, make me chocolate pots and call me 'M'lady'.
Friday, 19 November 2010
A slut like I or domestic matters
I refer to poor housekeeping not promiscuity. But give me time. I have had to accept that it is impossible for me to clean windows. I just do not know how it is done, without buying special equipment and I can't see that happening-one is, after all, one. Or I. I also accept that I have never actually succeeded in growing a 'growing herb'. I buy them roughly every ten days, I'd say. They wilt immediately, whether starved or drowned and I have to have coriander on my granola so as not to feel profligate. My sisters have to tell me what has to be 'improved' round the house and my mother cannot enter without casting an eye about and pronouncing 'Ah you see, you would need to oil that lock/wash those curtains/buy a 'companion set'. Is that the thing that sits at the fireplace with at least 3 elements no-one knows how to use? What a swizz. Luckily I am tidy and this makes people believe you are clean and organised. Rather like that old trick of looking busy in work by always carrying a piece of paper about.
I have just had a new washing machine installed. Apparently it's 'piano black' which the fella who brought it claims is 'all the rage'. I did that thing I do where I laughed gaily as if he had been joking which he was not. I then told him we were calling it 'chocolate brown' to match the sink my mother thinks I should replace. I have found that workmen come in only two categories; young, tall and sexy or short, grizzled and hilarious. I have got myself mixed up with both kinds in my life. I did say give me time.
The young one was in the Removal business. He once lifted me up briefly and exclaimed 'God, you're really heavy! And I moved a piano today.' He was one of those youths so tall, he walked sort of leaning backwards. Frankie my teeny tiny builder, on the other hand, claimed my house was 'slanty ' and used to pretend to topple forwards upon entry. One day I came home and there had been an unfortunate turn of events with the electricity. I could hear builder laughter from my driveway. Somehow all the water in the house was live and Frankie had had a tremendous shock washing his hands. That sort of thing was always happening to Frankie. He used to play the piano drunk and just keel off the stool. This resulted in a large hole in the wall as he hit the telly on his way down. When I complained of a strange smell coming from my oven and wood-burning stove, he rang up his very many brothers, who diagnosed 'newness'. I once brought him to the theatre to see Saturday Night Fever and he was practically wearing a dinner suit for the occasion. On came the dancers in skintight red sequinned jumpsuits, which Frankie greatly appreciated and assured me loudly would look good on me. He was very positive that way, when my sister and I used to get drunk with him and sing, he would propose going 'on the road' together as he thought us so talented. He also told my younger sister, who was heavily pregnant at the time that Angela's Ashes wasn't a bit depressing 'apart from all the wee children dying.'
The dinner party was the most memorable. Frankie had performed a full Renaissance Man act-shot and prepared the pheasant, fished for and pickled the herring, grown and picked the apples. He came round in the morning with his Two Fat Ladies cookbook for a lovely consultation about sauces and I made him a tepid, greasy cappucino from my malfunctioning machine. I may have been permitted to knock up dessert. What I definitely do remember is that after the meal, which was delicious, he squinted across the table and announced 'This was all for you'-I can't think where the other guests were, probably arguing about the cds somewhere, just as I can't think what my response was, bar surprise. This greatly amused friends of mine who were well aware Frankie 'had notions'-funny how you often don't see it yourself. I just thought 'unlucky with men, lucky with workmen'-never thought to combine the two.
I do wish Frankie was still with us-he made me laugh so much and there will never be anyone quite like him. What a character, gone too soon.
I have just had a new washing machine installed. Apparently it's 'piano black' which the fella who brought it claims is 'all the rage'. I did that thing I do where I laughed gaily as if he had been joking which he was not. I then told him we were calling it 'chocolate brown' to match the sink my mother thinks I should replace. I have found that workmen come in only two categories; young, tall and sexy or short, grizzled and hilarious. I have got myself mixed up with both kinds in my life. I did say give me time.
The young one was in the Removal business. He once lifted me up briefly and exclaimed 'God, you're really heavy! And I moved a piano today.' He was one of those youths so tall, he walked sort of leaning backwards. Frankie my teeny tiny builder, on the other hand, claimed my house was 'slanty ' and used to pretend to topple forwards upon entry. One day I came home and there had been an unfortunate turn of events with the electricity. I could hear builder laughter from my driveway. Somehow all the water in the house was live and Frankie had had a tremendous shock washing his hands. That sort of thing was always happening to Frankie. He used to play the piano drunk and just keel off the stool. This resulted in a large hole in the wall as he hit the telly on his way down. When I complained of a strange smell coming from my oven and wood-burning stove, he rang up his very many brothers, who diagnosed 'newness'. I once brought him to the theatre to see Saturday Night Fever and he was practically wearing a dinner suit for the occasion. On came the dancers in skintight red sequinned jumpsuits, which Frankie greatly appreciated and assured me loudly would look good on me. He was very positive that way, when my sister and I used to get drunk with him and sing, he would propose going 'on the road' together as he thought us so talented. He also told my younger sister, who was heavily pregnant at the time that Angela's Ashes wasn't a bit depressing 'apart from all the wee children dying.'
The dinner party was the most memorable. Frankie had performed a full Renaissance Man act-shot and prepared the pheasant, fished for and pickled the herring, grown and picked the apples. He came round in the morning with his Two Fat Ladies cookbook for a lovely consultation about sauces and I made him a tepid, greasy cappucino from my malfunctioning machine. I may have been permitted to knock up dessert. What I definitely do remember is that after the meal, which was delicious, he squinted across the table and announced 'This was all for you'-I can't think where the other guests were, probably arguing about the cds somewhere, just as I can't think what my response was, bar surprise. This greatly amused friends of mine who were well aware Frankie 'had notions'-funny how you often don't see it yourself. I just thought 'unlucky with men, lucky with workmen'-never thought to combine the two.
I do wish Frankie was still with us-he made me laugh so much and there will never be anyone quite like him. What a character, gone too soon.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Not a girl like I
Kate Middleton; rail-thin, poised, beaming apple-cheeked and as posh-sounding as a 'middle-class' gel could be. The press are fawning madly, referring to the cruelty of the nickname 'Waity Katie' as if they hadn't made it up and repeated it over and over again. How long before they play 'Hatey Katie'? It will be a while, you can't help but enjoy it all-Diana has been missed.
Speaking of whom, I am officially Not Happy About The Ring. The sentiment I applaud -I found the idea behind its bestowing on Kate very touching. It certainly brought Diana into the forefront of our minds and of the press coverage. But Kate should have her own ring-not a great old-fashioned rock like Diana's sapphire and I say this as a lover of big vulgar stones. It doesn't suit her, it's too large and floral and it is too strongly associated with the fiasco that was Charles and Diana. I am , however, in favour of having the gems reset. This would fulfil Prince William's wish to 'include' his mother and would give Kate the chance to choose something more modern and tasteful. Oh well, she might as well get used to tradition and heritage and all that right away. I hope she makes him get that fluffy hair cut before the wedding. His mother would have.
Speaking of whom, I am officially Not Happy About The Ring. The sentiment I applaud -I found the idea behind its bestowing on Kate very touching. It certainly brought Diana into the forefront of our minds and of the press coverage. But Kate should have her own ring-not a great old-fashioned rock like Diana's sapphire and I say this as a lover of big vulgar stones. It doesn't suit her, it's too large and floral and it is too strongly associated with the fiasco that was Charles and Diana. I am , however, in favour of having the gems reset. This would fulfil Prince William's wish to 'include' his mother and would give Kate the chance to choose something more modern and tasteful. Oh well, she might as well get used to tradition and heritage and all that right away. I hope she makes him get that fluffy hair cut before the wedding. His mother would have.
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
One's reviews or The Emperor's old clothes part two
I do admire Colin Bateman. I also really wanted to like his first play; National Anthem. But I never imagined it would be more or less one of his books, shoved onstage. The theatre was tiny and yet all four charcters yelled throughout and why is it that plays are just that tiny bit embarrassing? This not just because one of the characters wore a Giant Panda suit.This is the sort of thing often called 'surreal' when what is meant is 'I didn't get it'. There was quite a bit in this play I didn't get.
For example,I find that audiences laugh uncontrollably if there is plenty of swearing which is a shame as it masked what were often decent jokes. The ending featuring the new National Anthem was witty and fun and Bateman has a unique feeling for Norn Iron as it is now. Or he did until the 20 year old girl with no memory of the Troubles repeated a mantra of non-violence just before she shot her terrorist father in the head.
For example,I find that audiences laugh uncontrollably if there is plenty of swearing which is a shame as it masked what were often decent jokes. The ending featuring the new National Anthem was witty and fun and Bateman has a unique feeling for Norn Iron as it is now. Or he did until the 20 year old girl with no memory of the Troubles repeated a mantra of non-violence just before she shot her terrorist father in the head.
Monday, 15 November 2010
One's reviews or The Emperor's Old Clothes, part one.
The Milennium Trilogy or The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo ,who played with fire and hornets, but still had a breast enlargement at the start of book two.
I've been trying to fathom the success of these books. I think, firstly, that Milennium is a fancied word. This in spite of my mother's assertion, Christmas 1999, that it is silly and not to 'bother with it'. Mainly, however, its prominence is all the fault of people who don't read and worry about their holidays with no telly. So they ask around, copy other non-readers and panic-buy at airports. They haven't developed their own tastes and so are hoodwinked by this oul' hokum.
For one thing, the books are not well translated. One example ;'She was seriously chilled' which might be said on Radio 1 to describe a relaxed person, not a skinny bird with no access to a nice Aran. Another difficulty is that no matter how many hurdy-gurdy placenames are scattered about, there is no real local colour. Neither do the characters have any character, so to speak. They have open marriages,perverse leanings and quite a bit of uninvolved and athletic Nordic sex ,but no discernible personalities.
The humour is only of the unintentional kind-the painstaking listing of all the protagonists eat and drink becomes funny, even if they did not subsist largely on something styling itself 'Billy's Pan Pizza'. On one day of intense interviewing, Blomkvist had about 17 cups of coffee,no wonder he was awake half the night writing up his notes.
The subject matter is mostly distasteful rather than intriguing ,although it is possible to be carried along by wanting to know who,er, done it. When this is revealed,well, Shaggy and Scooby could have been satisfied with the style and manner of the finale.
I've been trying to fathom the success of these books. I think, firstly, that Milennium is a fancied word. This in spite of my mother's assertion, Christmas 1999, that it is silly and not to 'bother with it'. Mainly, however, its prominence is all the fault of people who don't read and worry about their holidays with no telly. So they ask around, copy other non-readers and panic-buy at airports. They haven't developed their own tastes and so are hoodwinked by this oul' hokum.
For one thing, the books are not well translated. One example ;'She was seriously chilled' which might be said on Radio 1 to describe a relaxed person, not a skinny bird with no access to a nice Aran. Another difficulty is that no matter how many hurdy-gurdy placenames are scattered about, there is no real local colour. Neither do the characters have any character, so to speak. They have open marriages,perverse leanings and quite a bit of uninvolved and athletic Nordic sex ,but no discernible personalities.
The humour is only of the unintentional kind-the painstaking listing of all the protagonists eat and drink becomes funny, even if they did not subsist largely on something styling itself 'Billy's Pan Pizza'. On one day of intense interviewing, Blomkvist had about 17 cups of coffee,no wonder he was awake half the night writing up his notes.
The subject matter is mostly distasteful rather than intriguing ,although it is possible to be carried along by wanting to know who,er, done it. When this is revealed,well, Shaggy and Scooby could have been satisfied with the style and manner of the finale.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Between you and I
According to Liz Jones ; 'All writers betray people' but since, unlike Ms Jones, I prefer people to animals and have no plans to relocate to remote parts of Exmoor, I intend to maintain my loyalties. However, I do hope all my friends, acquaintances and relatives will overlook the shameless pilfering of their best ideas and remarks.
The above title is a case in point. It refers to a New Yorker cartoon whose caption reads 'It's so difficult being a 'between you and me' person in a 'between you and I' world' and was brought to my attention (I almost wrote 'shared') by a good friend whom I will call, for now, the redhead. She lives abroad and does not watch Reality Tv so I have to annoy her by passing on the latest clangers from this week's viewing. Now,it's my theory that hardly any-one wants to listen to anyone else banging on about how tired they are,how busy they are or how they really are health-wise and the same applies to prolonged rants about the poor use of the English language, but I cannot hold back when it comes to Reality TV. Not only has Simon Cowell ceased to be delightfully nasty, always his greatest strength, but I suspect he is solely responsible for the misuse of 'literally', the overuse of 'genius' and by the way, it's not an adjective and the inexplicable 'one hundred and ten percent'. These things catch on , you know. They're all referring to each other on The Apprentice as 'an irritant' which I always thought applied to bleach rather than people. It was started by last week's reject, that ridiculously beautiful Asian woman; this week they were all at it.
Bringing me to my next point-squabbling. We are tuning in to watch people squabble. The x factor judges, the contestants on The Apprentice-this is their main occupation. With the return of I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! tonight, we can add tuning in to watch and listen to people talking behind each other's backs. In poor English. This bothers me a lot more than tuneless singing and tarantula testicles.
The above title is a case in point. It refers to a New Yorker cartoon whose caption reads 'It's so difficult being a 'between you and me' person in a 'between you and I' world' and was brought to my attention (I almost wrote 'shared') by a good friend whom I will call, for now, the redhead. She lives abroad and does not watch Reality Tv so I have to annoy her by passing on the latest clangers from this week's viewing. Now,it's my theory that hardly any-one wants to listen to anyone else banging on about how tired they are,how busy they are or how they really are health-wise and the same applies to prolonged rants about the poor use of the English language, but I cannot hold back when it comes to Reality TV. Not only has Simon Cowell ceased to be delightfully nasty, always his greatest strength, but I suspect he is solely responsible for the misuse of 'literally', the overuse of 'genius' and by the way, it's not an adjective and the inexplicable 'one hundred and ten percent'. These things catch on , you know. They're all referring to each other on The Apprentice as 'an irritant' which I always thought applied to bleach rather than people. It was started by last week's reject, that ridiculously beautiful Asian woman; this week they were all at it.
Bringing me to my next point-squabbling. We are tuning in to watch people squabble. The x factor judges, the contestants on The Apprentice-this is their main occupation. With the return of I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! tonight, we can add tuning in to watch and listen to people talking behind each other's backs. In poor English. This bothers me a lot more than tuneless singing and tarantula testicles.
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