Rubbish

As the casting director of my life’s drama, this minute I am lying prostrate on my own couch. Sweethearts, loosen my corset, pass me some smelling salts, and a script.

In the wake of rich Nick pickings, and truly generous replies from the rest of you on my beef with censorship,  my fields are now lying bracken. Maybe Captain Tom could get his Wuenschelrute out and find me a fecund source of oil. As an aside: That’s the trouble with script writing: One moment you dream of riding on a hand granade, the next, with a mind of its own, the dialogue becomes all slippery. Was it Eddie Fisher who let his hand hang out of a gondola only to find himself that which Venice’s waterways were full of?

I rarely visit my blog’s dashboard since I don’t need statistics to sustain my happyness. However, whilst contemplating how best to deal with mounting back blog, I idled over there and what do I find under today’s four Top Searches: “Men with heaving bollocks”. No bull. Am resolved that, from now on, I will venture over to dashboard at short intervals. It’ll stop me mid stream, if not mid scream.

Whilst my inner Drama Queen is trying to regain some sort of exposure to the natural world, I have gone all Bambi when he first meets Feline. Bashful. My tongue is tied. Why not write my acceptance speech, as to your  ”praise” heaped on me, first? Rough draft.

Ignoring the trophe handed to me I shall thank my mother for not having aborted me. I will thank Phil and consorts for many things as yet to be detailed, and now Angola lusts after me. The Goth giving me a leg up. My reputation upheld, my wit shot to bits, caustic and all other acid supplies running low, my well in need of refilling, my status as head of mind nunnery in jeopardy.

In Magnus Magnussum’s spirit I have started, not that that”ll finish me. Where there is fire there will be ashes to rise out of.

Talking of which, and to give the star of this week’s show first billing, never trust a man who will not only drop commentators but litter. I am outraged. Pet hate, John Gray? Make that my Hound of Baskerville: http://nickhereandnow.blogspot.com/2012/01/dishonesty.html.

Nick, I ask you: You, the always upright citizen, dropping litter because there are NO recepticles about and you can’t be arsed to take your garbage back home? Let me ask you a question: Who, the fuck, do you think is going to clear up after you? And if you are going to tell me that that is what you pay council tax for I’ll never talk to you again. Come on. I dare you.

U

Vacant occupation

Sweethearts, I’ve lost it.

There is so much I’d like to say, convey. It’s all too much. Spoilt for choice. So let’s just stick with the base.

By no stretch of the imagination do I think I have seen it all. I don’t want to see it all. I like to keep some innocence, some wonderment, the chance of a surprise, intact. You will be caught unawares:  On recommendation of a trusted source I dived into the blog of a big arsehole (you may take this in its literal meaning). Though by all his accounts he does give good head too.  I am not particularly interested in what use people put orifices to: Do what you must, spare me the detail. Though will always pass you a roll of toilet paper should you run out.  So far so boring. Butt (!), and here is the twist, he is bi-sexual yes, really. Talk about a pain in the …., only doubled. An expert. Sweet.

What’s so awful, and please do not spare me your feedback, I can feel urge rising to puncture that guy’s balloon –  badly. And I mean badly. The way he waxes lyrically wants me to punch him.  Naturally, and clinging to remnants of civilized behaviour, I will “internalise” this into one of those many dialogues I hold in my head. Should I ever combust I will have proven my theory that it’s better to let it all hang out than keep it in. Not that I am a candidate for bowel cancer (yet).

Totsy, Phil, if the last sentence leaves you baffled as to its hidden meaning I am more than happy to expand.

U

Prison

BHB drew mildly irritating pink hanky to my castrated bull’s attention.

Which reminds me: Any of you aspiring writers out there, in need to improve your prose, please read Hemingway, particularly “Death in the afternoon” (yes, on bullfighting). Forget the gore, imbibe the prose.

The curse of the cell phone: Called a mobile in the UK, and a handy in German speaking countries. Which tells you all there is to know about the United Nations. What the French call it I only hazard to guess but I dare say they have enough sense to keep them turned off most the time – by necessity if they want to salvage any of their own and their country’s reputation.

I rarely get steamed up involuntarily but the handy cell phone of the averagely mobile has an edge.

For a while I wondered why people were talking to themselves walking down the road.

What can be so urgent, important as to stem the flow of a conversation with the person sitting next, opposite to you, just because the phone rings? Why does a cell phone take precedence over your self being physically present? Why do we always have to be available (even, see Ramana’s recent contribution, on the loo)? How did we survive in pre cell times? How did we make it to the year 2011 when all we started off with were smoke signals in some Teutonian woodland? Not expecting an answer till the next boomerang hit us between the brows – like months later?  Has self importance, a poor bedfellow to urgency,  become our master? Are we incapable of making a decision down aisle 23 whether to buy fusilli or penne (pasta shapes) without confering with whoever has sent us shopping/does the cooking? Keep the noise down, will you? I have my own decisions to make – without participating in your domestics.

Then there is the vacant look. The vacant look is when – right in the middle of some face to face communication – the other will get a call and lose track of what we were talking about. Sure, no probs. Let’s start again wasting my time (and yours, as it happens). Talk about manners. Atrocious comes to mind. I sometimes wonder what they would have made of it in your average 19th/early twentieth setting of a novel: Can you imagine Mr Darcy emerging from the pond, brooding stare, dark locks dripping, damp shirt clinging to his broad chest and then the tune of I don’t know, say, Adam Ant giving him the jingles: “Sorry, Jane. Just need to take this.” Yes, fuck you too. Doesn’t work.

There is only one person (apart from his friends in need to contact me should the shit ever hit the fan when they are out and about) who has my mobile number, and that is my son. For him I will always be contactable (what a word). Everyone else can wait till I am home in the sweet vicinity of my landline.

I won’t go into texting. I don’t text. Texting is a poor excuse for spelling shite. Apple of my eye texts me – spelling immaculate; but that’s only to humour me.  And because he knows that otherwise I will not know what he is talking about; which in turn will yield zero result. Which is why he prefers to call me rather than waste thumb power.

So yes, as you might have gathered, I am not of this handy cell world, particularly when mobile.

U