Sexy time with Chicken

Because fucken Facebook is quicker to remove a cat video with a song in it than it is to remove hate- and violence-inciting, racist and extremist groups, I shall upload this incredibly sexy video of Chicken making sweet love to my duvet here and just link to it. 

Thanks, Jamie!

Edinburgh Free Fringe Review: Is he a bit Simon Jay?

Is he a bit Simon Jay is no spring chicken at Great Britain’s fair fringes. It has had previous performances in London, Brighton, Bath, Reading, Oxford and Milton Keynes. And now it’s moved up to bonnie Scotland, like a particularly weird-but-pleasant tingle.

This year’s Edinburgh Free Fringe venue is the Bohemian playground of the Counting House, home of 2013’s marvellous Austentatious. And similar to Austentatious’ downright bonkers improv Austen plays, during the various times I have seen Is he a bit, it has changed, adapted and matured.

Character comedies might be anything but few and far between at the Fringe, and needless to say, I cannot claim to have seen more but a fraction, but this was definitely one of the shows worth coming up for. It’s hard to describe this one: perhaps a wild cocktail of The League of Gentlemen meets Coronation Street on acid, spiced with a pinch of Stephen Fry.

Is he a bit Simon Jay (the character not to be confused with his “puppeteer”, the performer Simon Jay) is the tale of a man of curious biological condition – presented by a floppy claw hand sewn into a jacket draped over a chair, at his own autopsy by Dr Richard Wise, who begins to unravel the mystery of Simon Jay like a morbid Derek Acorah.

Simon Jay’s life spools backwards, revealing his story through the many characters that knew him, loved, hated or love-hated him.  There is his embittered soon-to-be ex-wife Belle, his mouthy chain-smoking tough-love jailbird mother, like a car crash from an EastEnders geriatric gang war, cockney geezer Pete from the Pub (my personal favourite) riddled by his grief for his alien-probed wife Mavis and conspiracy paranoia that caused him to take a gun to his wardrobe, pathological liar creator-of-facts Lee Buxton from the Job Centre, his employer Barry from the sewers, a copper, a priest, a deranged-randy creature called Uncle Terry that somehow strangely rings familiar to most, his tragically deceased sister and even an endearingly stammering Prince Bertie having to deal with a family crisis.

All in all there are 22 characters beautifully distinguished by acting, voices and accents, which culminate in a bizarre, frantic wedding scene in which Simon (the actor) switches between them with a fluid ease, a frantic-comic energy and the humble help of a scarf, which left the audience laughing helplessly. Some might mistake the moments of stabbing satire for crude humour, but it made this here viewer cackle.

Delightful also were the cleverly improvised responses to the noise from the venues next door, providing extra giggles for the audience when it could have easily thrown the performance. Mr Jay knows his role(s) inside out, and he easily charms the pants off his audience.

Is he a bit Simon Jay? is a type of comedy bordering on the surreal that could equally bemuse and bewilder as cause wild hysterics, with an amount of cultural references that tickle older viewers but might easily be lost on the young. Mind, its brief references to sexual deviancy makes it a 14+, anyway. Still, there is plenty of hilarity in it to make it thoroughly enjoyable for a variety of audiences... given that they are willing to let themselves into an experience entirely different from the myriad of bog-standard stand-up the Fringe offers.  Upon first watching it, it evoked a similar reaction in me as my first encounter with The Mighty Boosh did. But the initial “What the fuck am I watching” barrier needs to be broken for full enjoyment and the bonkers embraced in a bear hug, and once achieved, it becomes a thorough delight. 

Simon: "I had a dream about nuclear apocalypse. It was animated!"

Me: "You haven't even seen Barefoot Gen yet."

Simon: "I know!"

Me: "My work here is done!"

Simon: "I was all running around in those burnt circles where the bomb had dropped."

Me: "There'd be more than just a burnt circle. Or less. Depends on how you look at it."

Simon: "And it was all grey."

Me: "Like an East German tower block."

Simon: "Or a Kraftwerk album."

I get up and make us coffee. In the background I hear Noel Coward starting to sing "Don't let's be beastly to the Germans" from Simon's laptop. 

Typical morning at the Jays then. 

Witney's got talent

So this guy wanders into our shop and approaches Sally and me. Needless to say, being all splendid at customer service, we're all ears, expecting him to want a recommendation or something sane like that.
But the man isn't here for books, nosireee. Instead, he asks, looking slightly sheepish, whether we could give our opinion on his singing. He wanted to go to an open mic night, but was shy and wanted to see a public response to his voice on a small scale before he put himself out there.
So obviously he came into a bookshop for that.
I could tell that what was going through Sally's head was an exact carbon copy of the content of mine.
(Whatever you do, don't laugh! Don't make eye contact. Oh shit, this could be the mystery shopper - do make eye contact. But in a strange removed way that does not allow him to enter your soul and throw a mental anchor, prompting him to come back every day. Do the dissociated helpful customer service smile. Pretend all is normal; as long as his dick ain't hanging out, it's fine.)

And because I thought it'd probably cause less aggro and embarassment and because I attract strange people A LOT and should be used to this by now, I agreed to listen.
(Sally, in an astonishingly quiet and inconspicuous way, managed to slither away.)

After much rationalizing and emming and err-ing, he started. And I pricked up my ears, waiting for the inevitable power ballad.
And he goes...

"Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes,
head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes
And eyes and ears and mouth and nose..."

INCLUDING the motions.

You know, when you have to stare and you know it's rude and you can't help it, and you don't know whether to laugh or back off and get the maze out and your every fibre just screams "OMGWTF"

Well, yeah...that.

He stopped and looked at me expectantly. Over his shoulder I could see Sally, staring with wide eyes and barely holding back hysteria. My eyes searched for possible mates of his who might have sent him in on a dare. No joy. I had to conclude he was mental and that it's best not to upset the patient.

"Well", I said, diplomatically. "This might work if they are all really really drunk...?"

And would you believe it, he thanked me and left?

Hell, at least I have met my quota for the month.

On the destruction of the geriatric metanarrative

I always had an inkling I would be a crazy cat lady. Dad predicted from an early age (mine, not his) that I would resemble my grandmother, something which I fought vehemently and yet find more and more applicable with the passing years. Nan stopped at every animal she encountered during her walks around town, making cute noises, and she always had some treats in her pockets for them. It was a source of embarrassment for me when I was young and foolish, but now I am just like that (well, I haven’t arrived at the treats yet, but I am sure I will get there eventually). It’s got to the point that some of my friends point and laugh whenever we watch that Black Books episode when Fran is labelled as “aunt Millicent, who lives in the crooked house with 20 purple cats, and she has sex with them all”.

I defiantly started collecting cows, but the truth is, I bloody adore cats. I don’t mind dogs but cannot abide the sucking up and emotional dependence. Cats are criticised to be fickle and “fuck you” , that they own their masters, but that’s what I like about them. They get what they want and then they go their own way. I wish I was more like that.

Anyways, the splendid year I lived with Kate, I also lived with two cats – a treat in the pet-unfriendly renting market of the UK. Dolby and Theta are old and wonky, but amazing, both in their own ways. They have mannerisms and personalities and cracked me up many a time... especially Theta, the old blind man with a penchant for getting spanked , sitting in impossible spots, nosing and nudging his way under duvets where he would sit purring like a 1920s car motor, and sporting splendid Batman ears and ballet feet. We always imagined him as a bowler-behatted English gentleman who has a sex dungeon and wears fishnets and gimp masks on Saturday nights.

Sometimes I just sit and observe them. And this is what happened one sunny summer afternoon in the garden, something so defining and Theta-esque, I had to write it down.

Theta blindly shuffled around the flowers that grew by the garden path, nosed them, investigated closely, while I watched, with the usual affection and amusement for his wonky antics. He looked like something out of an old ladies’ fantasy, flower-sniffing kittens and the like, the type you see reproduced on cheesy G&Ts greeting cards and who are only ever cute in real life.

Finally he gingerly, ever so carefully, set a paw in the midst of the feathery bush of blossoms that grew by the path, then the other, then finally the last two, blinking, until he stuck out of that floral lump like a feline, short-sighted garden gnome, pretty as a picture. He looked like he was trying to play the trump card in his and Dolby’s never-ceasing battle for my affections. And it nearly worked.

“Awwww Theta, you darling...” I managed to say - but then he lowered his behind ever so slightly and stuck out his tail. And when his ears pulled back into Batman formation and he squinted concentrated into the dusky distance, I knew what was coming. Shattering my granny fantasies, he unceremoniously dropped a huge dump into the virginal blossom crown. I could almost hear them scream like prissy maidens.

With little regard for this violation, he hopped back onto the garden path, blindly located the epicentre of his business and then, in a vain effort which was barely more than a symbolic gesture, he ruffled the flowers around it a little to cover up the deed and then scampered off.

I love that cat. Have I mentioned that?

Black Books's got nothing on him

Just around the corner from where I used to live is this old little bookshop. Just as it should be, in a side street, nothing flashy and high-streety, full of obscure old titles mixed in with your grubby second hand book.
It's been there as long as I've lived here... but what I didn't know until a little while back is that it's actually quite famous. Famous for all the wrong (which, in my book, makes them right!) reasons.
It's because the owner, Rodney, was absolutely bonkers. Some found it endearing, some entertaining, some terrifying. I personally adore a shop run on abuse, it's the ultimate novelty and gives a nice break from the annoying suck-up customer service we've all been violated by at one point or another.

By now I have met quite a few people who had either been served by him (doesn't this give 'serving' a whole new meaning) or worked in the same business. The professionals usually say that Rodney has pissed off quite a few people. He has certainly creeped out a few.

My friend Iain told me about how he was browsing for poetry books one day, and, as he was leafing through a Shelley book, found Rodney peering over his shoulder.
"Shelley, huh!" grumbled Rodney. "Dead, i'n't he? His 'eart's buried in Bournemouth!"

Rodney had a go at me once (which extracted internal squeals of delight from me) for using the word "dissertation": "It's a thesis, goddamnit!"
He also regularly abused his bookshop minion, his "Igor", if you will, that freaky little man who once pretended that the clock integrated into a giant hideous painting (weird paintings was another thing they seemed to sell in there) was his wristwatch.

All in all, Rodney is the antithesis of all that the Waterstone's Get Selling campaign stands for.

However, the younger generation, with a few exceptions, loved and adored him. The man has his own facebook fangroup, for crying out loud!
It even went as far as a team of TV production students filmed a documentary about him.
In case you don't believe me about how equally nuts and endearing Rodney is, watch it.

I saw that bird on "Have I got news for you" and couldn't get over it. I've always been a sucker for parrots, but I am so re-sold again, I want one. Now. Please. Now.

Friday the 13th and the influx of psychopaths

Getting up on a Friday 13^th is a bit of a wary experience at any time, but that we were going to encounter a class A psychopath was something I never expected. As a disclaimer, I need to point out that I have exaggerated nothing in the following description… he really was that intense.

We had barely been open for 30 minutes when this big burly guy wandered in. Late 20s, shoulder-length wispy frazzled hair with a receding hairline, leather jacket, thin wire glasses. When he greeted us, he had a thick Eastern European accent… possibly Russian. I require you, dear reader, to apply this accent to everything he says, to fully appreciate the experience.

He was quite loud in an overcompensating way, and meandered around the shop. “Have you no cards for Valentine’s Day?”

I dutifully pointed him to the shelf.

“The student shop, they have nothing, just five cards, just all about love!” he complained loudly, half to himself, half to us.

“To be fair, mate, it is the holiday of lovers”, I said.

He looked up at me with a wild expression. “I was online, on internet, and there was, for lovers, for friends, for boss! I researched, I’ll go out on computer, I show you print!! I’ll prove it!” For a second he reminded me a bit of Borat, on a massive aggro trip.
”Nah, that’s alright, mate”, I said. “I believe you.”

“They have them on there, for friendship, for teachers!”

“For teachers?” I repeated, incredulously, with a little laugh. “Slightly inappropriate, perhaps?”

“Why not teacher?” he said. He looked dreamily into the distance and quietly mused to himself: “”My teacher… she is very young…”

“erm… ok”, I said, with a slightly panicky grin.

He handed me a card which he stated was “very nice” (the Borat comparison immediately sprang to mind again). I rang it through the till. He wandered off again, looking at more cards, something that irks me in customers, especially if there is a queue behind them (which there wasn’t in this case, but it was still rude – kind of the equivalent to walking out of a room mid-conversation. It irks me as much as customers drumming their fingers while you ring their stuff through. Makes me want to chop them off!! But I digress.). Get on with the transaction, mate!

“My teacher…”, he said again. I looked at the card. It was covered in little hearts, saying “Gorgeous”, “Sexy”, “Kiss me”, “Hug me”.

“If that’s for a teacher, you might want to reconsider”, I said and read it out to him.

“Fuck me??”, he burst out loudly, repeating a misunderstanding. I shrunk back, creeped out, squealing internally. I glanced at Max, who stood behind me on a computer, trying to look busy and not involved by typing frantically, trying really hard not to laugh.

Psycho Boy picked another card. I voided the first transaction and put that card through, instead.

“I will pay you!” he said gravely and pulled out a little velvet bag (where he must keep his booty, surely). He dug out a few coins and threw them at me in a too-wannabe-nonchalant way. “Yes!” he muttered intensely. “Let’s do this, Christopher!”

I gave him change and a receipt. “Thank you!” he said, gracefully (in his own mind).

Then he leaned on the counter. “Have you got 'Lolita'!”

“Erm, no”, I said. “But I can order it for you.”

“You haven’t got 'Lolita'!”, he said, in exaggerated horror.

“No, but we got a lot of other books.”

He looked around and spotted the 'Grindhouse' book, a ‘Making of’ book of ‘Death Proof’ and ‘Planet Terror’. He went to leaf through it. “Quentin Tarantino!”, he said appreciatively. “One day I’ll be as big as him. A filmmaker.”

I suddenly realised who he tried so hard to be. He seemed like someone who had decided to completely reinvent himself as a tough shit guy from an action movie, and would, from now on, only recite bad movie lines. Maybe this whole psycho act was intentional? Except that it was more of an 80s version of a psycho, but possibly perceived by him as the latest psycho chic, as it just had made it over there to Mother Russia.

“Keep this book for me!” he ordered. Then he turned around and wandered towards the exit. “These books have nothing to say!”, he muttered. “But I, Christopher, I do!”

Cackle

Jerry O'Connell does Tom Cruise.



I need to pee now.

To a T

When I was in Berlin this January, I sat on a train at some point, just looking outside, so I didn't have to look at the creepy cockeyed old guy opposite me of whom I had no idea whether he was staring at me or out the window. And while I watched the incredibly depressing scenery of Warschauer Strasse area roll past, I spotted this wall, which was dominated by two graffitis.

FUCK and BLAH.

Funny enough, I have never seen anything that so accurately describes the current German Zeitgeist.

Nightmares Part 2

Moving from ventriloquist dolls straight on to spiders. I've had my share of creepy arachnid experiences, but I have just read a (true) story on Weird Tales that makes me NOT want to go to Japan.
It's the truly magnificient tale of

"The Year of Ninja Spiders"!!!

I am alternating between goosebumps, shudders and hysterical laughter, so you should give it a read, trust me!

And if you're still not creeped out by then, check out the giant "clock spider".
Don't forget to read the comments, too.

Defiance is...

found at the old master's site...

When you're de moon...

What were they thinking???

It's like something out of Modern Toss. Mr Tourette would be proud.

(P.S. For the tourists among you, this shop is in Southampton, in Burgess Road. You'd think after hundreds of people stopping by, crippling themselves with laughter and taking photos, they would have changed the sign, but no...)

Guilty pleasures

Once again, Wil Wheaton, my favourite celebrity of all times, has done it: something I should have done ages ago, which is to write about guilty pleasure films. I was actually wetting myself when I read this (I know - attractive!), not just because he manages to turn The Omega Man and the likes into drinking games which will land you on a drip in hospital, but also because he points out so marvellously what exactly is so cheesy but at the same time sooooooo good about these films. And he actually names almost exactly all my favourite Guilt Trips (which I do own on DVD because they are too good to miss.

Come on, there is nothing like Charlton Heston in 70s movies. I know he can't act for shit, and he is a gun-waving idiot, but nothing makes me giggle/watch in 'passing a car crash'-fascination more than his catchphrases, overacting and having helpless damsels cling to his barrel chest in a desperation that makes feminist tear their hair out.

So yes, have a read of this fantastic review.

ze klick.

I :heart: Banksy

Stella will rip off my head and poop down my neck, but I love this creation by Banksy.

Reasons why Bournemouth Uni will never make it to University Challenge

1) Iain Rowley has left the premises.

2) Uni pub quiz sheet found after said pub quiz:

Texts on a Friday evening

or A slice of British culture

- How are u? It’s poo to get drunk all by yourself. Patty x-

- You do your duty like the rest of us!! Ads X -

Prostitute yourself for charity

Last week was quite a hard week, and Friday night I did some overtime to finish off an account sale (imagine entering six pages of ISBNs, making sure you make no mistake with the amounts and quantities, otherwise you have to start over again and it’s really gonna fuck up your stock. Yes, it sounds as fun as it was! But I was in the zone, man! I was in the zone!).

Needless to say, I needed a good drink, and since we had been sold raffle tickets for children in need, I just thought I pop up to Dylan’s after work, spend my last fiver on booze and see if I won the jackpot. Hah.
Dylan’s was heaving. Loud annoying dance music, butchered remakes of classic 80s songs, lots of girls dressed like 1920s prostitutes (hey, it’s Bournemouth, don’t expect too much!) and a guy who got his head shaved for charity. Or just his head shaved. Fuck knows.
Thankfully I had some proofreading to do, so I sat down on a counter somewhere with my booze and my paperwork. Well into a few pages and near the end of my first glass, this guy comes up to me. “Hey, you alright, you look all lonely and sad.”
“It’s just my face”, I said. “And I am just havin a lonely drink by myself because I’m pathetic like that.”
Well, I thought he was just being nice, so I tried to keep the sarcasm at a minimum. But then he really pulled it off.
“Do you know what’s going on here tonight?”, he said, in a slight sales pitch that made me suspicious. “Naaaah...” I said.
“It’s the Bid for a Date night!”, he said enthusiastically. “And this young friend of mine”, he presented a young chap who perfectly fit into the category of all I despise about Bournemouth boys, “is one of the candidates to be bid for. How would you like a date with him?”
The prostitute smiled like a right smarmy git.
“Oh, so you aren’t trying to be nice, you’re just trying to pimp that guy!”, I said. “Well, thanks a lot!”
“Well?”, the Pimp asked.
"Alright..." I turned to the prostitute. “Go on then, sell yourself!”
Smarmy git in a shirt, gold necklace, boyband-style hair, clearly thinking he is God’s gift, cocked an eyebrow and, with the gesture of an aging, used-up model presenting fake jewellery on QVC, he said smugly “Do I need to?”
“Well, yeah!”, I said, flabbergasted at his narcissism, and he, vastly insulted, cosmo male model hissy-fit-esque, wandered off.
Bournemouth men.
I'll just buy a rabbit. And adopt, after all.

Quote of the day

"There is nothing genius about a chicken taking a poo, even if it is blasé about it."



(Jamie, commenting on my excited outburst about them chickens running around in the Monkeyworld café. I tried to coax one over, and it just gave me a "fuck off" look over the shoulder before it dropped a shit for emphasis. Much to Jamie's consternation, it made me squeal with delight.)