Just returned from a blissful, broadband-free break on the Isle of Wight with my best friend, Ms Handbag. The primary reason for our visit was the festival - definite highlights were The Zutons, James and The Police; the less said about Iggy Pop and the Sex Pistols, the better. Overall it was great fun, but Ms H and I are clearly getting a bit crabby in our old age because, boy, did we find plenty to complain about.
The festival itself has got a bit big for its boots. What started out as a fairly small, cool homage to the 70s has inevitably sold out. there were some 80,000 people there this year, meaning that even the simplest trip to the fetid portaloos took at least 30 minutes. At one point we queued for over an hour to get drinks and were quaintly horrified by the amount of rubbish strewn as far as the eye could see. I'm sure this sort of thing didn't used to bother me.
One of our friends who was camping had £200 lifted from the pocket of his jeans as he slept, which is definitely not in the spirit of things. We couldn't even be too smug about our hotel accommodation as on the first night we ended up on the nightbus from hell. It took 90 minutes to go 10 miles up the road, looping interminably around a deceptively small town called Sandown. I honestly don't know how the driver managed to make a short journey so long without driving into the sea. The entire island is only 71 miles (metric folk, go figure) in circumference.
Anyway being the shamelessly fairweather festival goers that we are, Ms H and I had gorgeous rooms in a lovely little B&B on the clifftops of Shanklin, where I inexplicably managed to blow £210 in 20 minutes in the town's one and only decent clothing boutique (oops). We had cooked breakfasts every morning, then retired to the poolside for a couple of hours sunbathing and general hangover recovery time before inevitably heading off and beginning all over again.
On our last night (we stayed on after the festival had ended), even we couldn't face any more alcohol so we stayed vino-free in a lovely old country pub, then returned to the hotel bar to drink decaf coffee and play cards. Good clean family fun, for a change.
We really are getting old.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Hovis Presley
Yesterday I spent a good four hours sitting in traffic. Fucking south circular. The journey to my grandma's house is only 20 miles across London but if I manage it in two hours I feel like Lewis Hamilton. I might as well walk.
Anyway I soon tired of all the music stations (note to London radio stations. Can you please stop playing Timbaland’s stupid track Apologise every ten seconds. Enough already) and turned to the more cerebral Radio 4.
I got there just in time to catch the tail end of a wonderful little documentary about a northern British comedian I had never heard of. Annoyingly I only caught his first name – Hovis. However, I am a journalist, so, determined not to be beaten by the 8000 pages of Google containing mentions of the bread brand, I tracked him down.
And so, dear readers, I present to you, the late, great Hovis Presley. And courtesy of him the most lovely poem I’ve read in a long time:
I rely on you
I rely on you
like a Skoda needs suspension
like the aged need a pension
like a trampoline needs tension
like a bungee jump needs apprehension
I rely on you
like a camera needs a shutter
like a gambler needs a flutter
like a golfer needs a putter
like a buttered scone involves some butter
I rely on you
like an acrobat needs ice cool nerve
like a hairpin needs a drastic curve
like an HGV needs endless derv
like an outside left needs a body swerve
I rely on you
like a handyman needs pliers
like an auctioneer needs buyers
like a laundromat needs driers
like The Good Life needed Richard Briers
I rely on you
like a water vole needs water
like a brick outhouse needs mortar
like a lemming to the slaughter
Ryan's just Ryan without his daughter
I rely on you
© H Presley 1994
Of course after about five minutes of this charmingly obscure little cultural interlude the show ended and Gardeners’ Question Time started. I’m relieved to report that I’m not THAT old. Yet.
Anyway I soon tired of all the music stations (note to London radio stations. Can you please stop playing Timbaland’s stupid track Apologise every ten seconds. Enough already) and turned to the more cerebral Radio 4.
I got there just in time to catch the tail end of a wonderful little documentary about a northern British comedian I had never heard of. Annoyingly I only caught his first name – Hovis. However, I am a journalist, so, determined not to be beaten by the 8000 pages of Google containing mentions of the bread brand, I tracked him down.
And so, dear readers, I present to you, the late, great Hovis Presley. And courtesy of him the most lovely poem I’ve read in a long time:
I rely on you
I rely on you
like a Skoda needs suspension
like the aged need a pension
like a trampoline needs tension
like a bungee jump needs apprehension
I rely on you
like a camera needs a shutter
like a gambler needs a flutter
like a golfer needs a putter
like a buttered scone involves some butter
I rely on you
like an acrobat needs ice cool nerve
like a hairpin needs a drastic curve
like an HGV needs endless derv
like an outside left needs a body swerve
I rely on you
like a handyman needs pliers
like an auctioneer needs buyers
like a laundromat needs driers
like The Good Life needed Richard Briers
I rely on you
like a water vole needs water
like a brick outhouse needs mortar
like a lemming to the slaughter
Ryan's just Ryan without his daughter
I rely on you
© H Presley 1994
Of course after about five minutes of this charmingly obscure little cultural interlude the show ended and Gardeners’ Question Time started. I’m relieved to report that I’m not THAT old. Yet.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
musings in a short skirt
I am accidentally wearing an indecently short skirt in the office today. I'm sure it wasn't quite this small when I put it on this morning. Ah well. It's having a funny effect on my male colleagues. They have all had a good look - some furtively, others less so - and then been completely flustered upon making eye contact and realising that, yes, I did just catch them checking out my legs.
I'm writing a feature about different online identities and I'm almost tempted to 'out' the blog. It annoys me sometimes that I can't own up to it. I tell people that I blog and then go all coy about the blog address. It's been my guilty little pleasure for a long time and I'm not really sure why - after all, I'm a writer, and this is writing, right? But it just feels more open somehow, more candid, this way. I've blogged before about how Zuzula has taken on a life of her own and it would be a shame to take that away now. Besides, I wouldn't be able to brag about my bedroom skills in front of my peers, would I? And I certainly wouldn't be able to slag off my boss. Which wouldn't leave me with a great deal of material.
Anyway I'm not completely hiding my light under the proverbial bushell it seems (whatever a bushell is). According to google stats my little blog had 1500 visitors last month. That is just insane. Rather hilariously, one visitor found me by typing 'being a dissapointment' (sic) into Google. Thanks guys! I mean. Give me some credit. At least I can spell.
If I'd known you were all coming I'd have put the kettle on... I guess you'll have to make do with the short skirt instead.
I'm writing a feature about different online identities and I'm almost tempted to 'out' the blog. It annoys me sometimes that I can't own up to it. I tell people that I blog and then go all coy about the blog address. It's been my guilty little pleasure for a long time and I'm not really sure why - after all, I'm a writer, and this is writing, right? But it just feels more open somehow, more candid, this way. I've blogged before about how Zuzula has taken on a life of her own and it would be a shame to take that away now. Besides, I wouldn't be able to brag about my bedroom skills in front of my peers, would I? And I certainly wouldn't be able to slag off my boss. Which wouldn't leave me with a great deal of material.
Anyway I'm not completely hiding my light under the proverbial bushell it seems (whatever a bushell is). According to google stats my little blog had 1500 visitors last month. That is just insane. Rather hilariously, one visitor found me by typing 'being a dissapointment' (sic) into Google. Thanks guys! I mean. Give me some credit. At least I can spell.
If I'd known you were all coming I'd have put the kettle on... I guess you'll have to make do with the short skirt instead.
Monday, June 2, 2008
domestic bliss
MC and I are now officially living in sin. The big move involved seven car journeys between our respective abodes and the new pad (round of applause to my little Peugeot 206 for being positively tardis-like with the backseats folded down).
The flat is currently in a state of carnage. The only possible explanation is that The Packing Monster shamelessly broke into my old place and replaced all my treasured, beautiful belongings with a pile of useless old tat. Do I really need fairy-shaped biscuit cutters? And why did I bring that old throw which I know has never been the same since my best friend, bless her, accidentally dropped her dinner on it five years ago?
Unfortunately for all concerned the real icing on the cake about the upheaval was that it coincided with the worst bout of PMT I have ever had. I rarely get it, if at all. But Sunday afternoon was a real tantrums and tiaras affair – especially when MC tentatively reminded me that I’d promised we would go to the cinema that evening to see the new Indiana Jones film (hint: don’t bother). Poor MC must have wondered what on earth he’d let himself in for. So I made amends at bedtime by, and I quote, giving him the ‘best’ bj he’s ever had.
*proud*
The flat is currently in a state of carnage. The only possible explanation is that The Packing Monster shamelessly broke into my old place and replaced all my treasured, beautiful belongings with a pile of useless old tat. Do I really need fairy-shaped biscuit cutters? And why did I bring that old throw which I know has never been the same since my best friend, bless her, accidentally dropped her dinner on it five years ago?
Unfortunately for all concerned the real icing on the cake about the upheaval was that it coincided with the worst bout of PMT I have ever had. I rarely get it, if at all. But Sunday afternoon was a real tantrums and tiaras affair – especially when MC tentatively reminded me that I’d promised we would go to the cinema that evening to see the new Indiana Jones film (hint: don’t bother). Poor MC must have wondered what on earth he’d let himself in for. So I made amends at bedtime by, and I quote, giving him the ‘best’ bj he’s ever had.
*proud*
Friday, May 30, 2008
london life
Last night, I had a second interview with a very strange little east london outfit who seem really keen to employ me but have yet to tell me what it is they want me to do. Progress of sorts: they have actually committed to emailing me a job description (which naturally hasn't arrived yet) ahead of our third meeting. I am not holding my breath.
Anyway far more excitingly I then met up with the delectable Peas on Toast for the first time after avidly reading her blog for years. I felt like I'd known her forever and within minutes, we were gossiping away like a pair of fishwives, indignantly waving around large glasses of vino. It was wonderful - and suddenly it was 3am.
Poor Peas exchanged her swanky hotel for my sofa and about 3 hours later headed off for the long journey to work.
I, on the other hand, decided I couldn't face it, and am still here, languishing on Peas' sofa, wondering how long it might feasibly take for, ahem, the boiler to be mended. Perhaps it'll be an all day job....
Anyway far more excitingly I then met up with the delectable Peas on Toast for the first time after avidly reading her blog for years. I felt like I'd known her forever and within minutes, we were gossiping away like a pair of fishwives, indignantly waving around large glasses of vino. It was wonderful - and suddenly it was 3am.
Poor Peas exchanged her swanky hotel for my sofa and about 3 hours later headed off for the long journey to work.
I, on the other hand, decided I couldn't face it, and am still here, languishing on Peas' sofa, wondering how long it might feasibly take for, ahem, the boiler to be mended. Perhaps it'll be an all day job....
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
standing in the way of control
I have written something that I feel strongly about and I have a nasty feeling it may end up costing me my job. The people I wrote in support of love me; the people I wrote about are extremely pissed off. I can and will back up every single word but unfortunately for me the pissed off people are the ones who hold the paystrings. Isn't that just typical? We shall see. I can't really say much more right now, other than it is something I felt could not remain unmentioned. I do not have the support of my editor this time. The moral high ground is proving to be a rather lonely place.
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