In An Ideal World

Yikes - the new blog is ready!

2011-10-28T20:48:00.003+01:00

Good lord, it's taken long enough!

Hello everyone. I thought I'd let you know that if you are kind enough to visit this blog, I now have a new one which is (tan tan taaa) Where Things Are Mostly Cheerful .

It's a little bit retro and a little bit jolly I hope and there are recipes and everything.

Please come and visit me there and let me know what you think.

Chin chin!

H.Bird xx

Coming Soon...

2011-10-14T19:21:00.001+01:00

I know, I know, this blog is hopelessly neglected. It's a rum do and that's a fact. (You've been watching Downton again haven't you? Ed).

Anyway, this is just to post up that I'm working on a new blog at the moment - one that will actually have stuff on it more than once a year. It's going to have lots Specific Things and A Theme and everything.

I know. Get me!

Hopefully it will be ready in a week or so and I'll put the link up here in case you'd like to take a look at it.

There will, of course, be cake.

Go Vintage? Or Go On A Diet?

2011-06-19T11:40:00.003+01:00

I've decided to jetison this century and go vintage.

Apropo of nothing I'm embracing the '30's. Not Hitler's bit of it obviously, or rationing for that matter (Good Lord: two entire sentences before you mentioned food: well done, Ed) but things like fashion and books and wearing what posh people used to call 'hets'.

It's all rather glamorous and dignified so I think it's My Thing.

I had a bit of a false start when I nearly spent part of my buying a new house money on a 1935 Humber that had been parked up in an episode of Poirot. 'Where would you get it serviced?' asked A Man Who Knows About Cars. 'And they don't take unleaded you know.'

Really? Lawks.

Boring, but a good point. So I decided to set my sights a bit lower and look for a frock.

I emailed my friend Mrs H8 (so called for her fascination with The Most Exciting Of Kings) and told her I was hitting the interweb for outfits to turn me into Wallace Simpson. I knew she'd be keen as Living In The Wrong Decade is one of our best joint peculiarities.

'What do you think?' I wrote, pretending I was using a clickety typewriter rather than a laptop where the spacekeysticksduetosomejam. 'It'll be like being the Queen Mum (the Bonham Carter version, not the real one with the frightening teeth).We can wear hets and everything.'

'Hmm,' she replied. 'I think we're more likely to look like Victoria Wood in one of those dramas where she has a wraparound apron and makes her own lard.'

Mrs H8 can be realistic, if hurtful, at times.

But demmit, she was right. It turns out that due to malnutrition or the absence of Tesco, back in the day no one was fat.

I know. How depressing is that? You can't get any kind of a vintage frock if you have more than a 32 inch chest. And seeing as the last time I had that I had just joined The Brownies, things are looking quite grim.

Instead then, I've had to turn to that old Fatties' Staple - jewellery. It turns out that you can get no end of stuff (Would the correct word be 'tat'? Ed) for very little money. So I'm starting small but going to build up.

I think it's gone rather well.

Until just now, when I happened to see this:

It's only £6,000.

I'll get my coat. And obviously, my het.

Book Review: Pale & Interesting by Atlanta Bartlett & Dave Coote

2011-04-04T21:10:00.006+01:00

You know Jasper Fforde’s Tuesday Next spends loads of time living in books? She’s always having to sort out Heathcliff and stop Japanese tourists from changing the plots? Well, In An Ideal World, I would live in a book by Atlanta Bartlett.

Pale & Interesting is her latest – with Dave Coote. I’m sure Dave is lovely but Atlanta’s the star for me. A few years ago I bought The Relaxed Home by her and ever since then I’ve been painting things white and trying to look whimsical. Honestly, some of my happiest moments have been spent trying to distress a perfectly calm candelabra.

Anyway, the new book was mentioned in Country Homes and Interiors which I was reading as I have delusions of becoming middle class and changing my name to Jocasta. And my friends, it’s a gem! What that woman can’t do with a bit of old sheeting and a jam jar she found in the garden you could write on the back of a stamp.

The whole book is like walking into the world all of us would live in if dogs, children, horses, ribena, old people and marmite didn’t exist.

It's all so lovely. Pages and pages of whiteness and peonies and candles and vintage and silk things and mirrors which have gone all mottled and spooky. Haaaaah, (I just did a big sigh). And just when you think it can’t get any better, she hangs an antique tea dress on the outside of a cupboard and suddenly you’re having tea with the Mitfords and being effortlessly droll.

Can you hear me Atlanta? I WANT THAT TO BE ME!!!

I want to live on page 42 where I will become opulent yet low-key and I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!

I am going to change…

I won’t ever be irritable or get shouty or sweary. I will sit on your elegant day bed which is old but contemporary and I’ll pretend I’m in Paris with a wig so big it has its own mouse.

I will salvage and collect and learn to use the word texture. I will sell the dog and ban red wine at all times.

Of course, there is one down side: I may never read fiction again. I’m just going to look at the pictures in Pale & Interesting and escape to my own world and be winsome and chic.

And I’ll never drop ketchup on anything ever again.

5 lovely big stars ....probably sitting on a mantelpiece by a twig.

Pale & Interesting by Atlanta Bartlett and Dave Coote, Ryland Peters and Small. You can buy it from Amazon here.

Alfred and Henry: Great British Pluck

2011-04-03T00:05:00.000+01:00

Well, it's been an emotional week here at Bird Towers and that's a fact. First it was the last ever episode of The Tudors and as if this wasn't enough, Alfred The Wonder Dog had a special day out at the vets to have his wahoohahs removed.

I don't know which will be missed more. (Speak for yourself mate. Mr A Dog).

Did someone say something? Anyway, happily, I can reassure Alfred's legions of fans (now peaking at 2) that he is doing very well and you wouldn't really know what has happened. (Excuse me, I'd like to lodge a complaint. Mr A V.Cross Dog)

The only difference to the outside world is his new habit of looking doubly tragic when I stop to chat with people I know in the village. Men in particular have taken to ruffling his head like you did to poor children in the olden days, and then going all gruff and emotional at him. Plus, I'm relatively sure I'm now known as Cruella de Ville which wasn't the plan at all.

Anyway, Alfred has been a smashing brave tiger and is going to be fine...even if I have lost all my friends.

And still on the subject of stiff upper lip, back in the real world of Telly, I have to say Henry VIII's last episode was a total damp squib. Apart from Jonathan Rhys's Peanut Butter Cups' hilarious decision to combine the speaking voices of Winston Churchill and Phil out of Eastenders via Dublin, there was nearly nothing much to roar at, at all. I only perked up when the great master Holbein revealed his famous full length portrait of the king. They'd bravely tried to make it look like Our Jonathan but the result was one of those pictures everyone has to go boss eyed at until somebody pretends they can make out a dolphin.

Disappointing.

Mind you, this maverickly bonkers series hasn't entirely let us down. Apparently there's a The Tudors iPhone Game.

I know! What?! Is this what one of our most celebrated monarchs and the founder of the Church of England has become?

Exactly: Angry Birds in Tights.

Alfred my friend, on balance I think your week hasn't been that bad at all.

Brilliant Things for a Very Good Reason

2011-03-18T12:03:00.000Z

I know, I promised lists of Cheerful Things and haven't done one yet. Boo and chiz all round.

However, in lieu (and some) of that, I'm posting about the wonderful Authors For Japan. It's a lovely idea and full of brilliant stuff for writers and readers and, well, people who just love books.

I have used their logo without permission but hopefully (and if you haven't been on there already) you'll click on the link above and have a look.

It's rather exciting. Currently I'm in the lead for my name being used for a character in one of the fabulous Kate Harrison's future books. I know....that's probably as close as I'll get to being published! Wahey!

Of course you can get a bit carried away. A dear friend of mine was considering bidding on a critique for a book she isn't actually writing. See - inspiring!

Absolute fair play to all the authors and experts who have donated their time, books and artwork. Out of truly unimaginable horror, how lovely when people do what they can.

PS: If you want to just donate directly or if you get outbid on something, you can go directly to The Red Cross Japan Tsunami Appeal here.

Coming Soon: Cheerfulness!

2011-03-04T21:17:00.009Z

Yesterday I was reading a blog that listed things to post on your blog. Top of the list was A List. Frankly I thought that was a bit of a cheat.

In a mood I stormed off to watch telly where Lenny Henry was living by an open sewer in Africa. It was awful. They made Angela Rippon live in a slum and I cried. Not about Angela as she was quite cheerful, but about the slum. Obviously no one should have to live like that. (Not even Angela, despite her rubbish skating in this year's Dancing On Ice Prelims). So I cried. Then Lenny cried. Then the man running the sewer cried. And he was the only one that had the right to as the rest of us don't live there.

So, anyway I was ashamed of being cross about The List Debacle and decided to cheer up.

And do a list.

Or if people like them, possibly more. Based on previous quality standards on this blog, they're not likely to be big, funny or clever but I'm going to to my best as I think we need a bit of pluck in These Difficult Times. What do you think? Do let me know won't you?

First off though, don't panic. In case it looks as if I've become almost Americanly positive, obviously I will be providing other far less positive lists.

Yes. Phew wees all round.

For example, I am quite looking forward to Things I Am Disappointed With But Haven't Done Anything About. That could be quite a long one. Also, Observations About The Weather By A Stranger That I Pretend To Be Amazed At In Order To Be Polite. Again, potentially long.

Anyway, I shall try to do my best for morale and seeing as we won't have any libraries, it will, at least, be something to read.

For now though, here is a link to Comic Relief so you don't have to sit in a bucket of baked beans and can just click through and give them some money.

Please do. It's bad enough people have to live in a slum, without them being sent people off of Eastenders who will insist on a hug. Erch.

Thank you!

Beethoven Lives (Part 1)

2011-02-18T16:31:00.009Z

I know: ahhhhhh.

Now, I hope a bit of dog blogging (which we'd better not shorten to 'dogging') isn't going to bore you (do post a comment if it does), but the the first thing I should say is that the one on the left GREW.

Rather A LOT.

Who'd have known? One minute he's the size of a box of Kleenex (and conveniently, just as absorbant), the next, people are grabbing their children and asking me why Fatima Whitbread is wearing a puppy suit?

It's fair to say Alfred Is Large.

Which means that as the admittedly clueless owner of such enormousness, I've started some training.

To be fair, I have been doing my my best. These days it's rare you'll see me leave the house without a large bag of sausage and a variety of whistles. Sometimes I even have the dog with me as well.

(Boom boom.)

(Sorry).

But now I've called in the professionals. (Ed: This is an excuse to talk about Bodie again isn't it? ). (Me: Bum, I've been rumbled). Anyway, a very nice lady is helping. Or more truthfully, a very nice lady is getting the dog to be obedient while I stand there eating the sausage. (I might as well, they'll only go off).

Then I have a go and it's not always as impressive.

So far it's been a rollercoaster. Just like with children, apparently you're supposed to Pro-Actively Ignore bad behaviour. Which usually results in the following:

Trainer (calmly): 'Just ignore him.'
Me (hysterically): 'But he's eating a really big tree.'
Trainer (even more calmly): 'Don't worry it's probably OK.'
Me (about to faint): 'What do you mean probably?'
Dog (slightly worried): 'I think I need to go to the toilet.'

On the other hand, if I manage to get him to do something right we do Positive Something Or Another.

Trainer (looking amazed): 'Blimey. Quick - praise him.'
Me (being British): 'Good effort old sport.'
Trainer (shrieking): 'PRAISE HIM, PRAISE HIM.'
Me (not realising trainer is religious): 'Oh. Right. Er...thank you God?'
Dog (depressed): 'Why did I get the one that's an idiot?'

Oh dear.

I'll let you know if it gets better. Meanwhile, if you need any heavy digging done...Alfred has very cheap rates.

PS: Our trainer is actually fab. And Very. Very. Patient!

Boinggggg...there goes my bodice

2011-02-15T19:14:00.003Z

Cripes!

There I was at Paddington, train delayed and all a bit boring and suddenly I was walking out of WHSmith with A Regency Romance.

As I say. Cripes!

Stap, me....talk about legs akimbo. Yowzah! I don't remember Norah Lofts' heroines (or heroes either) being quite so, er...bendy?

Admittedly, I'm out of touch and base all knowledge of anything post Robin Hood and pre-Downton Abbey (thank goodness - a mention) on the mighty Poldark. Let's be honest, the most heated it ever got then was a quick 'I say Demelze,' followed by a breathless 'Oooh Ross,' and that was that. Jolly fast edit over to someone talking about hunting.

Not any more, I can tell you. He is tall, dark, chisled and Every Woman's Fantasy (despite smelling of lurcher). She is tall, dark and clearly does a lot of Pilates. Either that or she's what we used to call double jointed. Fair play m'lady.

And while we're at it (a poor choice of words. Ed.) what about BBC2's The Tudors which is now at Episode #612 and somewhere around 1972? I'm beginning to think they've gone all 24 and done it in real time.

Our Henry is now fifty but apart from the occasional limp (choice of leg variable), still looks about thirty one. Clearly, the BBC have spend loads of money on the costumes as they're fab. Sadly, it means nothing left for prosthetics apart from some Tipex someone has smeared on his head. Brilliant! Oh and they've made him a bit beardy. BAFTA Best Make Up in the bag then.

I can't wait for this week's episode for further subtle aging. As Henry became horribly obese in later life do look out for a BBC cushion up his jerkin. Wife number six? Brace yourself!

What Do You Mean, Where Were You?

2011-02-11T23:37:00.010Z

You know the last post? The one about getting a puppy and doing a puppy blog that would be made into a Hit Film a bit like 101 Dalmations only with less of a cast? Well, I've been a bit slow off the mark.

And now the ickle guy weighs five stone and smokes twenty B&H's a day. So I've missed the puppy boat by the tiniest margin and will have to bring you up to speed with everything else.

After all, loads has happened. I mean tons. No, really, it's been mad. Well, busy. Busy-ish. Alright, quite slow. Look, nothing has happened at all.

That's clear then. But I'm back for another bash and it's virtually the summer and even though I've missed an entire season of Simon Cowell's shiny teeth to marvel at, I think we can start things off again.

I will be reporting on My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding (the telly programme, not my own personal nuptials), offering deep political insight on world affairs (Egypt has cracked on and jolly well done them; the UK has shut all its libraries, so jolly poor show the toffs etc) and offering culinary tips that put Nigella right in the shade (dunk biscuits in brandy, glue them together with chocolate custard and hey presto it's a pudding).

Now if that's not a renaissance blog for you, then I don't know what is.

Oh - and if there's the slightest opportunity to mention Downton Abbey, you have my very best word that thy will, er, will be done. Oooh look - a picture!

I'd love to know what you think of the blog and do let me know if there are any topics you'd like In An Ideal World to cover. Honestly, it'll be like having your very own Andrew Marr. OK...maybe not quite.

Thanks for visiting and hope to see you again soon.

HBx

There's Been A Bit Of A Lull

2010-08-08T10:11:00.031+01:00

Anyway. First it was 2009 and I did blogging and talked about Things, which meant mostly telly and sometimes peg bags, but mostly telly. Actually almost entirely Robin Hood and X Factor and that one with him out of The Professionals which no one can understand. Rrrrr rrrrr rrrrr rrrrr rr! Yes, Mr Ray Doyle Only In The 1960's. What did he say? Oh, he's doing an accent. I thought it was code.

Then it was 2010 and I moved house and ate Hobnobs and hurt my back and didn't blog about Things at all. Which was poor but I don't think anyone noticed so that's alright. And I didn't run for government on a platform of crisps even though I said I would. Still, Pringles aren't cheap and in these Difficult Times I'd never have lasted the 4 years.

So, it meant Cameron Diaz is nowPrime Minister instead which I'm OK about as I went off the idea of a political career once I realised you don't get to wear hats like Jackie Kennedy any more. Boo.

Now, as an update since then, absolutely nothing has happened so there's no news and they've cancelled Robin Hood so I've nothing to talk about. So, there is no point at all to this post, but just to say here is a picture of a puppy. Ignore the fact he looks like a small bear. Miss De Vil at the puppy farm (kidding...pfff!) has assured me he is definitely a Golden Retriever and will be Offically The Loveliest Thing Ever.

When he arrives here (I'll be going to get him - he's not having to get the bus on his own or anything) I may start doing puppy posts. Naturally, they will become a phenomenon and eventually we'll all enjoy them in a film where Jennifer Anniston wears shorts and remains 32 almost indefinitely. Hmm.

So, back again soon with puppiness - and hopefully having finished first draft of The Book That Never Finishes by then too. (It's like The House At Pooh Corner only less kangaroos).

Crisps though - yum!

Halleluja!

2010-01-14T23:24:00.006Z

I think I've just had a religious experience.

No, not the unwrapping of my new netbook (it's so diddy!) but the jaw dropping moment of TV History when Stephen (Usual Suspects, er... that's it) Baldwin introduced Jordan's Boyfriend Alex to God. And Jesus. And Faith. (Calm down Pricey, it's a belief, not some woman you'll have to bash up at a night club).

Hilarious. In fact, possibly the funniest telly so far this year. And that includes the other night when modest cage fighter Alex announced that seeing as he is no longer in the army he now plans to use his celebrity to end wars and bring peace.

Yes, really. I'm not making this up.

Makes you wish you had Sky Plus though doesn't it? I for one could happily gawk at both incidents again and again and again. Hopefully by the ninth or tenth viewing I would stop going red at the horror though I can't be sure.

I tell you, it's really tested my new year resolution to watch Question Time weekly and not just when someone funny is on. (Actually, you could argue that's pretty much every week anyway). How can I watch Kenneth Clark wearing Terry Wogan's hair when Celebrity(ish) Big Brother is on? It's just so hard to be a brainiac when twelve people I've never heard of are locked in a house and forced to try and do the washing up. In tonight's episode - other than the second coming of God - a grumpy young person refused to do the washing up as it would take her 'like fucking all day' (well it was a spoon and a saucepan - nightmare) while another grumpy young person audaciously ate a corned beef sandwich even though it made Vinnie 'Soccer Hardman' Jones cross.

Dear me - and they say 'Allo 'Allo was a low point.

Anyway, Grumpy Washing Up Young Person is going out with one of the Rolling Stones, which in itself shows a lack of judgement remarkable even by complete and utter nit wit standards. She picked the one that looks even more like a scarecrow than all the others which I appreciate doesn't narrow it down by much but I'm afraid you'll have to do your best on this one.

Of course, the wife he left for the current Mrs Gummidge has already done her reality penance by spending several weeks pre-Christmas being hauled around a dance floor by Brendan with the hair who is From Australia. And inevitably Brendan had been on another reality show himself. They don't do it anymore due to complaints by human rights protestors but it was the one where they all got sent to a desert island with George Best's son until somebody cracked. Well you would, wouldn't you? I'd give myself seven minutes before volunteering to be waterboarded as an alternative.

But maybe I'm just being churlish. Sometimes it's nice to escape from the gigantic QI brain of Stephen Fry and revel in the moment that some bloke who makes a living from being shut in a cage and walloped by another bloke, finds God. Even if he did look faintly uncomfortable having to hold hands with a Baldwin.

But as Steven B himself said, 'Brother, you are about to have the most fun in your life.'

I reckon I already am.

Oh dear, I'm Mr Rusty

2009-11-08T12:59:00.008Z

Good Lord what happened there?

One minute the sun was out, the new peg bag was in full operation and there was everything to live for. The next thing I know it's three months later and I've fallen off the bloggercoaster. A right poor show and that's a fact so apologies all round.

Previously at Bird Towers, I was still recovering from my ordeal at Luton Airport where the lure of a cheap flight to Germany has resulted in me going on holiday with the cast of Shameless. Yikes. Actually, I'm blaming the whole escapade for my eversoquietness over the rest of the summer. I think it was the trauma of being stuck on an aeroplane with a stewardess called Chelsea who was the airline equivalent of Stacey out of X Factor. Her complete bewilderment at how to put on a life vest didn't bode well for a potential emergency. I found that quite offputting, especially as the plane was making very odd noises as if it wanted to go to the toilet.

Speaking of which, there was at least the memorable moment when Chelsea announced over the tannoy that as someone hadn't wanted ketchup there was a spare sachet going if anyone who'd ordered the hamburger was still well enough to want one. Strangely, nobody did, mainly because they all looked too ill to press the 'yes please' button.

I really wish I'd made that last bit up. Believe me I haven't.

The whole experience was summed up when I realised I'd left a book on the plane on the way home. As I'd 'safely' put a Christening card inside it which said I'd renounced the devil and would help my new god daughter be a lovely person I really wanted to find it. I phoned the airline's Lost Property Lady to see if they had it and, after she'd stopped laughing, the lady explained that my book would almost certainly have been thrown away.

"You see, " she said - not unkindly. "Books are rubbish."

Good to be clear there. Put that in your pipe Charles Dickens.

Since then - and of course after a couple of weeks in a dark room - I've been working (boo!), gone on a diet (double boo!) and was forced into some emergency weeding in the garden (total boo plus chiz!). Not much to show for the whole summer I admit. The diet at least, has gone OK, but with the embarrassing side effect of me randomly shouting "Good God, four pounds for a punnet of blueberries - have you all gone insane?" in the middle of Sainsburys. If my Premium Bonds come up before Christmas I'm going to spend the winnings on a bag of fruit from Waitrose.

So anyway, major apologies for the lull from here and it's jolly good to be back. With a full run of reality TV planned for the rest of the year I'm not going to leave the house until January.

And if I manage the next few weeks without mentioning 'Jedward' I'll be absolutely astonished.

Doh! I've blown it already!

I've started so I'll finish

2009-08-01T20:29:00.027+01:00

Ah now, this is a lovely thing what I was tagged in by the fabulous That Girl over at Forty Not Out. That Girl is jolly fine fellow who makes me laugh. Plus she's scared of moths which makes my phobia about frogs look actually quite reasonable and virtually brave. Hurrah!

Anyway, despite still suffering from post traumatic stress over the whole Airport Adventure (see post below), here is my attempt to continue the meme even though I don't know what a meme is but I think it is blogspeak for something cool that the big girls do so I'm going to do it too.

Who is the hottest movie star?

Ooh now. Does telly count? Obviously not. Hmm. Not even a bit? You know, slightly?

Well if that's the case I can only make a pre-emptive strike here. Because surely, if anyone in Hollywood has half a brain it is only a matter of time before Guy of Gisborne is given his own movie franchise?

Nurse - the screens!

Apparently in real life he is actually someone who's not called Guy of Gisborne at all which I think is a detail worth ignoring. And as for them killing him off in Series 3. Well. Consider my licence fee under review.

Apart from your house and your car what is the most expensive item you've ever bought?

A horse box. Which is now handily for sale. I know - look how I've turned a perfectly lovely questionnaire into a marketing opportunity....what a pro.

Said horse box is very wonderful but as I've now decided I have to try to finish the book, I don't actually take the old neddy out much so it's a silliness. I am aiming to sell it and buy 17,000 cakes to get me through the next 60,000 words. I will then become the first ever human hippopotamus to seek publication. Excellent work.

What's your most treasured memory?
My Grandad. The kindest man ever.

What is the best gift you ever received as a child?

My doll's house. Sadly later to become the best ever gift I ever received as a child that my mum gave away to the deaf cubs for their raffle. Imagine my surprise when someone tried to sell me a ticket to win my own house. I was in more than a fury I can tell you. I'm not even deaf.

What's the biggest mistake you've ever made?

I'm not sure telling Lee Hurst one of his own jokes was the cleverest thing ever. He laughed for about an hour and I had to go and stand outside because I thought I might be sick with embarrassment.

Four words to describe yourself.
Hearty. Comforting. Working stock. Oh good - I'm a soup.

What was your highlight or lowlight of 2008?

Being taken into the Prada shop in Venice by the BF and told I could have anything I wanted. He couldn't understand why I was virtually in tears of excitement bless him and then, being a practical fellow, very nearly gave me a heart attack by energetically testing all the zips on the handbags as if he was trying out rucksacks in Millets.

Endearing but half the staff had a seizure.

BF is now ex-BF (I know - no more bags - swizz!) but the bag remains mine - safely in its bag, inside a bag, inside another bag. Another thing that left the boy most bewildered and, being a manly type of chap, not unkindly trying to figure out why on earth you would buy a bag that comes in its own bag?

Favourite film?
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I want that car. And I want to marry someone with the surname Scrumptious.

Tell me one thing I don't know about you.

I own some toilet paper from The White House. (Unused).

If you were a comic book/strip or cartoon character who would you be?

I'd say The Snork Maiden of course but we all know she is real so doesn't count.

Phew - still with me? Hope so.

Thanks again to That Girl and now I'd like to send this on to the following for their delectation and answers because they are all top fellows who I think will have super answers we'll enjoy.

The Johnson Diaries

Spiral Skies

A Quiet Sit Down

This Is Stoke Newington

Spread the joy!

An Easy Way to Travel: Part 1

2009-07-31T14:29:00.013+01:00

Low cost flying. Joyous isn't it?

Now call me a snoot bag but there's something about Luton airport at 4.30 on a Friday morning that makes me want to live in a palace and throw poo at the little people.

I'm alright now though it's taken me fully two weeks to recover and a certain amount of governmental 'talking down' from what felt like an international kidnapping attempt. My fault for not wanting to mortgage the house in order to park the car at Heathrow.

I have to say that my arrival at Luton (aka Borstal Airport) was notable for the fact it immediately gave a real old boost to the demographic profile of the place. I'm not blowing my own trumpet on this one - on struggling through the revolving doors there was a short blast on a kazoo and the local Mayor rushed over shouting 'Quick lads, we've got a posh one' and handed me a commemorative sash. It's not every day you walk through an airport with 'ABC1' written on your front but apparently I was the 25th person to visit since it opened who has worked anywhere other than MacDonalds so everyone was thrilled.

This lovely gesture was of course slightly spoilt when the Mayor realised someone had half inched his ceremonial chain of office but other than that it was rather nice. (It was later found in one of the toilets where someone had left it on account of it clearly wasn't fake so they weren't quite sure what do to with it).

Anyway, I checked in which went ok as everyone else had decided to go to sleep on the floor (nice) so I whipped on through and felt confident my luggage would soon be winging it's way to Hamburg. Naturally I was going to Dortmund but having travelled with this airline before, I didn't want to be too optimistic.

Sitting down for something out of a microwave (don't ask what - I'm not actually sure it was food) I noticed a cheerful hen party walk past. Lovely girls, all about seventeen and wearing vest tops they'd made a smashing effort to personalise. Each person had an encouraging phrase and their name printed on the back which was super. Who says our young people don't make an effort? I thought I'd seen the best one which had 'Ride me Ryan' written on it but I hadn't noticed her friend - the clear winner in terms of clarity of message - who was a personable girl apparently called 'Cum on me Connor'.

I swear to you I am not making this up.

At this stage I wasn't entirely sure I'd make it onto the plane without getting mugged but there we were. I finished my egg and cheese muffin which I'd insanely assumed would involve toasting at some stage (what was I thinking?) and pottered off to the departure area.

Did you know that the initials SB stand for Speedy Boarding? This means that for an extra six pounds, you get a 5 second head start on the rest of the passengers lined up for the hundred metres dash across the runway to the plane. NB: I don't think they actually stop other planes moving while you do it. Of course before you get to this point you have to stand for an hour next to the people in the queue called SA which probably sounds perfectly acceptable. What they don't tell you though is that SA stands for All The Loudest, Shoutiest Children In The World Ever. Who would have thought eh? I was particularly lucky as next to me was a little girl blessed with the ability to have hysterics in English AND German. How proud her parents clearly were as they did absolutely nothing to make the little darling stop screaming. Even though I did my grumpiest, scariest, cross face ever when her mum wasn't looking, I am not kidding when I tell you I was mocked by a three year old.

Quite a low moment actually.

Anyway, six pounds to be 'SB' is six pounds jolly well spent....if you're Linford Christie. If, like me, you're not that quick on your feet, you might as well save your money and use it for a bottle of Arnica at the other end. You'll need it for the bruising.

My goodness, people without numbered seating are fierce aren't they? No wonder we won the War. I swear to God I was overtaken by a woman dressed as Boudica trying to get to a window seat while carrying a suitcase containing a Sperm Whale. Hand luggage constraints? What hand luggage constraints?

Anyway, all was well that ended well. Another eight hours flew by as everyone swiftly got themselves on board and as I sobbed quietly at my terrible mistake, the aeroplane was ready to leave.

Things did not get any better and if the kindly nurses will let me play on the PC again I will tell of the journey itself. Until then my friends, if you are en route to the airport, my sympathies are with you.

I'm going to have my special medicine now.....

I've been learning stuff and everything

2009-07-11T13:19:00.013+01:00

Good morning all. Another lull from Bird HQ here but a better excuse this time as I have been on A Properly Grown Up Writing Course. Steady!

A quick warning though: Please don't expect grammar and spellings and all sorts of business just because of the above. I for one am sure people like Ted Hughes didn't care about details as they were far too busy wearing Interesting Jumpers and Being Deep. Anyway as my literary inspiration comes mostly from N.Molesworth of St Custards I think we're fine. So there. Chiz.

Anyway, the course. What did I learn? Here goes:

1. Be faster off the mark to bagsy doing the crumble on your night to cook.

A schoolboy error I'm afraid. Having eyed up the list earlier I wasn't my usual panther-like self when it came to actually helping. Arriving confidently at the sink a bit late, imagine le culinary horreur when offered the 'don't worry it's easy' alternative of Spinach and Ricotta in Filo Pastry instead.

Yes. Filo Pastry.

'Easy? Are you sure?' I said.

'Yes,' said the nice lady running the course. 'Don't worry, the pastry comes from a packet.'

'Ah right,' I said. 'Do you mean that packet there containing the sheets of gossamer I am supposed to magic into a pie dish? Has Hogwarts opened a food shop?'

It was a fair enough query I feel.

So that went well then. An hour later the dish was 'perfected'. By which I mean manhandled into position with a Pritstick. No one saw though and only a couple of people were actually physically poorly so I filed that one under 'Triumph' and ran away.

2. Try not to steal a lovely best selling novelist's laptop at the end of the course.

Yes I know. Poor form.

Having cheerfully suggested giving two of my fellow pupils a lift to their trains, we had a little bit of a hiccup as we divvied up the luggage only to be left with a rogue laptop bag sitting on its own in the station car park.

'This must be yours.'

'No, I didn't bring one.'

'Oh. Yours then?'

'Not really, no.'

We all backed away as realisation dawned that we were a nanosecond away from probable litigation with Random House.

'That's not a good start to your literary career,' pointed out my new friends as they carefully edged backwards towards the train. Any train. Didn't matter where to. 'Safe journey,' they called, breaking into a fast gallop, 'See you soon.'

Cripes. I tell you, NEVER have I so carefully carried a bag than during the walk to the hotel to take it back to its owner. I've carried children with less concern on more than one occasion. 'Oh I've dropped little Timmy..... No matter, his mother has other children.' This though? Gulp.

Now, street crime isn't exactly rife in the artsy hamlets of Yorkshire but you can't be too careful and as such I think it perfectly reasonable for me to get the first punch in on the little old lady who looked in my direction as I went to cross the road. I would, however, like to take this opportunity to formally apologise and wish her all the best for a speedy recovery. Sorry about that.

3. Be careful what you read out loud in an isolated cottage on a moor to people who don't really know you.

And it had been going so well.

'What do you enjoy writing about?' someone asked kindly.

'Oh - you know - jolly things about stuff that is chipper.' I replied.

'That sounds nice. Well today's exercise is about getting into a lift with someone you're not fond of.'

That sounded fun. Having a lovely time I hoppity skipped back to my room with its lovely view and only a little bit of damp and decided to just glance at my work emails before starting the writing.

Big mistake. Ten minutes later The Muse Had Turned Bad.

'No one can help you,' I read to the group the next morning. 'And you're going to die.'

Oh.

I looked up from my paper, hopeful for some feedback, possibly critical encouragement. Funny really, no one made eye contact. One lady was a bit pale. Another one went to the toilet quite quickly - double locking the door which was odd.

'The email addresses we gave you,' said the tutors a bit later. 'You might find they don't work.'

Oh.

'Spinach filo anyone?' I asked keenly at lunchtime. 'There's some left over from dinner.'

Do you know people can be really picky about leftovers. And after I'd glued it and everything.

Apologies and huge thanks to everyone at Arvon for such a fab week. I made up the bit about the Pritstick I promise. xx

Papa's Got A Brand New Peg Bag

2009-06-23T16:25:00.016+01:00

Cripes, I went all quiet.

There I was, quite enjoying this whole young people's blog world malarky and someone went and got in the way with the real one. Bumso eh?

Sorry I've been off the old radar. After the deep political insight of my last offering I know many people were left feeling palpable excitement at the brink of a New Dawn. Crack on Mr Brown, Ms H.Bird is in the House and bringing in proper policies - with crisps and everything.

And then I went and spoiled it all by saying something stupid like 'oh blimey, I'd better do a spot of work that I get paid for.'

I hate it when that happens, don't you? Don't worry, I'm sure it was just a blip and won't happen again for a while. Phew.

Naturally, since we last spoke, life here at Bird Towers has been packed with Glamorous Events and Free Stuff on a daily basis. Well, to be strictly accurate it hasn't but I think that's called poetic licence. (Not entirely sure that's how you spell 'licence' but we'll push on).

Anyway, as I was saying, absolutely LOADS has been happening so here is a list to bring you up to date. For Ease Of Use I have listed them in order of importance. Hang onto your hats as it's been very busy so there are over two things on the list:

1. I've got a peg bag.

I know - how brilliant is that? Very brilliant, that's what. It's pink and in the shape of a dress like it's for a dolly. It's got strawberries printed on it and it's on a coat hanger and if that isn't enough excitement for you, it holds over 5 pegs as well.

2. I've got a whirly washing line B&Q called An Airer.

Well, after the adrenalin rush brought on by the aforementioned Bag, I thought I'd go bonkers and get the washing line too in order to show the neighbours my pants on a more regular basis. It turns out it's called A Rotary Airer and you can even buy it an anorak for when it's down and it's raining. To be fair I thought that was going over the top a bit because we all get a bit down when it's raining and not everyone always feels better just because they have an anorak so I thought it probably wasn't worth it.

3. I had some proper grown up photos taken.

In a studio with lights and a man who wore socks and no shoes and I don't know what else.

'Hi I'm Pete,' said the nice man with a camera.

'Hello. Should I just call you Bailey?' I said politely, having Read About Photographers.

'Er no, not really,' he offered. 'That's not my name.'

Surly wasn't he?

I took 2 suit jackets and some jumpers with me and weirdly almost all of them made me look fat which just goes to show cameras DO add four stone to you just as Kerry Katona has said in Reveal. As I am also a keen follower of Miss Katona's Iceland Diet which consists of multiple sausage rolls and frozen puddings made from mattresses I think this could also have been a factor.

No irrefutable evidence though on that point so I stocked up on cheese balls at the weekend as usual. They're virtually fruit.

So that's more than enough really. As you can tell I've been rushed off my feet.

I'm off now to pop in some washing. Next time I may tell you about The Day I Got The Linen Basket. Good eh?

What was that noise? Gosh - you mean ALL of you are going to be busy?

Brown Tries To Scare Off New Political Challenger by Smiling at It (see pic below)

2009-06-01T15:00:00.023+01:00

Lawks - what a couple of weeks it has been!

Apologies for being off radar blogwise - I was slowed down by an outbreak of having to do some proper work (I know - ghastly) and - of course - having to devote all my other waking moments to watching a talent show on the telly.

Now of course the dust has settled, the work bit is under control and poor old Susan Boyle has been sent to The Priory. What a difference a fortnight makes.

Well, unless you're an MP of course in which case you're still fiddling about with your expenses rules and hoping you aren't the next one to be caught.

Gordon Brown I understand, has spoken to Simon Cowell (no, I've no idea why either), shown no interest in 200 people lost on a missing aeroplane until he found out some of them were British and still hasn't managed to stop our idiot MPs from spending all our money on birds nests. Or duck ponds. Or bees wax. Or something, I'm not exactly sure what but I do know it isn't helping the economy.

It does make you wonder doesn't it? Sorry young Gordon, but you will not be getting this week's I'm A VG Leader sticker. Calm down David C at the back - you'll get your turn soon enough. Oh - and be careful what you wish for sitting there looking so flipping pleased with yourself. This time next year Sunshine, you'll be wishing you'd taken drugs and gone off to Ibiza like the rest of your classmates.

I digress.

To be fair it's easy to mock when you haven't had a go yourself, so in a shock move earlier today I made An Insightful Comment on Twitter (a first) and announced that the pound has gone up against the dollar due to improvements in the global economy. Good eh? I was rather pleased with this as an entry into the political arena even though my point was that actually this is all very well but it was only at $1.30 when I was in America at Christmas and now I'm not any more I don't think that's fair.

Sadly no one replied or even raised an eyebrow at this example of gross economic mistreatment and global unfairness-ness.

Anyway, I was undeterred and frankly, rather inspired by the thought of a new Deep and Thoughtful Me so I tweeted again and suggested that based on my new found Economic Interest I run for Prime Minister.

Again, not much (approximately zero) reaction.

Honestly, what's wrong with people? I could be an exemplary MP. I've never fiddled my expenses, haven't the first clue about filling in a claim form and only once stole Tipex from an office and that was to give to my friends who worked in Social Services and couldn't afford any of their own.

Moreover (see - I've got all the lingo), I don't really know much about leadership, would sack Margaret Beckett for that terrible hair and have only the most rudimentary grasp of the international arena. (Ie: Most people seem nice, I like the new bloke in America, I wish people would stop killing each other and, er, that's pretty much it really).

Now I'd call that a jolly good platform. Yes?

Anyway, I'm all for it and may give it a go this week what with all the election things going on on Thursday. It's supposed to be a nice day so my plan is to go and stand outside the voting station, give people lollies and ask them if they'd like to live in a place where people are happy and the hospitals don't all smell of wee.

I think it's a winner. I'm going to make Simon Cowell Chancellor, Stephen Fry Speaker and Sir Joanna Lumley in charge of everything else. Meanwhile I'll wear the nice shoes I've just got off eBay, travel around the world making friends with everybody and send all the greedy bankers to work down the salt mines. Just because I can.

Come on - surely you're with me?

Haven't got a running slogan yet but will be working on it pronto. Early suggestion of "Henrietta Bird's Giving Out Free Crisps If You Vote For Her" has been vetoed on account of so far I've got £4.90 in the campaign kitty and you can only get three tubes of Pringles for that so I'm on a bit of a budget.

'Budget'? Look at me I've already gone fiscal!

Anyway, vote for me. Seriously. I'm a better bet than that Esther Rantzen and I won't go doing anything funny with a carrot either.

Huzzah!

2009-05-18T17:46:00.025+01:00

Big cheers all round that it's now the long weekend which is top news. I'm tired!

It's been a blimmin long week and not much time for anything bloggy which is why I've rudely not said a proper thank you to lovely Nora Johnson who cheered up a grim Monday this week by giving Bird HQ here a One Lovely Blogger Award. It's on the wall of course - up there on the right - look - see? That's mine that is - whoop!

The award is for recently discovered blogs and thanks to Nora the week here in the bunker got off to a crackerjack start. It also means a vg opportunity to list 10 blogs here that I've found recently which I think should be read by the whole planet (if they aren't already) and I think you will like not least because they are tons more fun and less moany than this one.

Chiz!

So, here's my list of Definitely Go And Read Them Now Blogs. Oh - and in honour of Judy from Richard and Judy falling out of her dress so spectacularly that time (and surviving getting, er, helped back into it by that creepy bloke who used to be on Blue Peter), I'm awarding myself an additional Judy Has A Bra Malfunction Award.

Yes, Captain Thicky here can't work out how to do links in posts so I've done a special list over there on the right so you can go to them pronto.

Ladies and genulmenn, please go clickity click to alphabetically listed great loveliness at:

A Quiet Sit Down

Auntie Gwen's Diary

Cupcake Bakeshop (but not if you're on a diet)

Dirty Sparkle!

Forty Not Out

Joanna Pearce Photography

Looking Fab In Your 40's

Spiral Skies

The H Factor

Uh Oh Spaghettios

They're all lovely though I fear you'll never come back again after a mooch through some proper quality blogging. Grrr.

Ah well, I'll always have our memories and of course, my Susan Boyle scrap book. Cooool!

Have a happy Bank Holiday everyone.

Waterloo? More like The 100 Years War...

2009-05-17T14:02:00.015+01:00

So...did you watch it then? Come on, it's just a simple guilty pleasure, only without the 'pleasure' bit and admittedly, pretty much a clear sign of being tragic. But I'm not the only one out on the limb here so I'm making a stand as a big old saddo that watched the whole thing.

My excuse is that my Lovely Best Friend said 'Come round and watch the Eurovision' which was kindly and since none of my other friends said 'Come round and hang out with Guy of Gisborne from TV's Robin Hood, plus there'll be snacks', it seemed the best offer going.

Some hours later when we were taking it in turns to talk each other in from the ledge, I did of course, question this decision.

Granted, I got a lovely dinner out of the evening and a year of feeling smug that we have Duncan James From Blue to read some numbers out on the telly rather than a total mentalist like the rest of Europe. But I also drove home everso carefully as I didn't want watching four hours of cat poo to be my final night out should I get killed in a car crash.

Let's be honest, our entry was rubbish and it was only because poor old Jade (unfortunate name) was frogmarched (even more unfortunate phrase) around Europe on a four month PR tour that meant we got any more votes than we usually do.

'Jade's been working her socks off,' fabulous and loyal Graham Norton confirmed as Jade came on stage with legs weighing two ounces and her terror of Sir Andrew Lord Website obvious to everyone watching. That she managed to carry a note (mostly) as well as stare like a rabbit in headlights for three minutes was something of an achievement. I don't think Leona Lewis will be losing much sleep.

Meanwhile, Lord Andrew was fantastic and I loved him which is something I never thought I'd say, least of all on the internet and I realise requires an explanation.

Well, I loved him because of the way in which he played the piano to one hundred million viewers with the clear fury of a man screaming at every single one of them 'DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM NITWITS? HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY NOT VOTE FOR ME?'

Brilliant!

And he wouldn't sit in the green room to be filmed with all the other losers which was highly commendable, opting I am sure, for a light dinner of panda cakes covered in diamonds in a room at the Kremlin instead. Good work Lord Webber. You did all that you could for us. (Apart from win, obviously).

Meanwhile, the rest of Europe had done their usual doolally best by fielding a line up of women dressed as hookers and mime artists in gimp masks. Always worth a go, although I quite liked Germany who turned up with Gok off of Fashion Fix singing Minnie The Moocher. I always thought you had to actually write a new song for the Eurovision but apparently not. They were well on for my vote until that Dita Von Trapp woman interrupted doing her usual talent packed routine of Having A Very Small Waist.

Well done dear - we can all have our vital organs removed. Now tell us what it is you actually do?

Of course Iceland tried to spoil everything by sporting a pretty girl who actually did her own singing and even more of a cheat, sang something resembling a proper song. The wiser countries of Europe realised the incredible insurgency of this and voted her into second place, but sadly no one was brave enough to do the right thing

So here we all were then, left with Harry Potter without his glasses pretending to play a fiddle that wasn't plugged in (not that any of the instruments were for the entire evening) and singing a song that was, by anyone not deaf's standards, dreadful.

Frankly me and the Lovely Best Friend were bewildered. Surely we'd missed something? What on earth made it favourite and even more concerning, what an earth made people actually vote? I could only put it down to something subliminal we'd been shouting at the telly too loudly to hear.

Thankfully a note of normality returned as LBF's boyfriend walked in, announcing he was 8 out of 10 drunk and for all that, speaking the only sense of the evening by saying we were bonkers to have watched it in the first place.

'We didn't come last,' I said in our defence. 'We got votes this year and everything, but the Danish spoilt it by singing the hokey cokey and making it all total rubbish'.

'It's Eurovision, you muppet' he replied, not unkindly. 'It's supposed to be rubbish.'

Good point.

After three everybody...."She's a fairytale yeh, even though it hurts....."

Human Lilo Goes To The Library

2009-05-10T19:05:00.023+01:00

No big news here from Bird HQ I'm afraid. All a bit boring currently.

In fact you know you're in trouble when the major news is that today I have spent eight hours drinking water.

This is because I am too fat and a book told me to drink loads of water, eat anything that's been recently slaughtered and shun pasta as it is made by the devil and will kill you.

Apparently, says the book, after some time of doing this (ie The Rest Of Your Life) you will look lovely, be monumentally cheerful and won't even care there's a recession on. Cracking idea, though it does sound a bit boring and doesn't mention cake once apart from at the top of a very long list headed 'Don't'.

Now I am very much aware that even the hint of turning into some sort of diet blog could have everyone switching off in disgust and indeed, droves. (Not that I'm confident 'droves' exactly describes readership levels to start with). Anyway, I just thought I'd mention it. Water, apparently makes you thin. Well I've drunk a litre and a half and I feel like someone's turned me into a paddling pool. Crikey, I can hardly move. And it's not just a one off - they seem really keen that you do this again. Like every day.

Blimey.

Well, I don't mind a bit of bacon and eggs for my breakfast but turning into the human lilo (or possibly even lido) in the name of beauty isn't my idea of a leg up the attractive ladder. I'll keep you posted of course.

The other startling news from this weekend is I went to the library and didn't like it.

I know - literary midget. Well, I did my best but it was quite upsetting. Here as background, are several reasons why I'm not always keen on the library:

No 1. Book Bits. Libraries are full of books that other people have Already Read and therefore you run a very high risk of coming across Book Bits. You know - the unidentifiable pieces of something that might fall out of a book because someone else has read it before you.

Eeek.

Could be a bit of garibaldi. Could be a bit of nasty human in my opinion but there we are. There's a recession on and I can't keep ordering stuff off Amazon willy nilly so I'm willing to try. But I really don't like it.

No 2. The noise level. Or rather the lack of it. I like a quiet sit down as much as the next person but not when it's compulsory. And I find it very difficult to know just how quiet to be if you have to make contact with anyone. Yesterday I politely opened with a sensitive and low key 'Good Morning' to the librarian and she recoiled from me as if I'd come in with a loud hailer. Next time I'm going in dressed as a drum majorette. That'll make her worry.

No 3. Everyone looks a bit anaemic. Lack of sun I think from being inside too much. Either that or they're vampires. I'm always worried someone is going to pass out as my first aid's not as good as it should be.

No 4. At least one person on the Help Desk will still be using neon orange henna. Now come on, we all know that's just wrong. There's usually a hint of Timotei or Patchouli as well if you venture too close and that isn't a great sign either.

No 5. There are always some students.

I think I've made my point.

So, yes, I find the whole thing quite upsetting. As it was the whole trip went badly anyway as when I tried to use the computer it wouldn't let me because I wasn't a member. So I tried to become a member and they made me fill in a form about 10 pages long and full of questions like 'Would you describe yourself as British?' and 'Are you homosexual?'

Well I don't know what that's got to do with my choice of reading and they didn't give any clues as to whether it was a pass/fail scenario so I just said I didn't know to all of it and hoped that would make them quite like me.

After a short interlude where a panel of people with glasses decided if I was acceptable, I must have scraped the right grade as they let me go and sit in the computer area. This was a smashing step forward apart from the fact the pc's were made from wood, the mouse was the size of a shoe box and even though there was no one else in there the computer wouldn't let me book a space until Tuesday.

That went really well then. In a bit of a huff I marched off to Lidl and bought an enormous bar of chocolate which I ate before I'd actually got out of the shop.

So that's why I'm now doing this water thing. Honestly, I won't go on about it...although if anyone needs a human barrage balloon I promise I do charge very good rates.

Oliver Postgate

2009-05-05T17:54:00.011+01:00

No attempt at being big or clever here today, just a quick mention of a proper Great Briton.

I was out of the country a lot in December and didn't hear that the wonderful Oliver Postgate had died. I've just heard about it today and I'm feeling rather sad.

Now I'll sound about a hundred and ten here, but how cool was it to grow up loving The Pogles and The Clangers and Bagpuss? How much better to have them as your friends than to be a five year old in the 2000's getting crushes on nitwits in High School Musical, years before you should be getting crushes on anyone?

Yes I know, I've turned into your granny.

I worked with Oliver Postgate once - doing the marketing on his Bagpuss video. I never met him but we spoke a fair bit on the phone and every time I heard his voice it was like being a little nipper again. I'm sure I was really quite useless at my job as I spent most of my time trying to draw Baby Clanger (I hadn't got any better at that) and happily regressing to a gentler, far lovelier time.

One day, in an attempt to be vaguely on the ball and actually do a bit of work, I asked Oliver if he had any props that we could use for PR.

'Do you still have Bagpuss?' I asked, thinking of a possible photo opportunity.

'Oh yes,' said Mr Postgate in exactly the same voice we grew up listening to on the telly.

'He's in his basket having a sleep.'

Oliver Postgate. A national treasure.

Inspector Big Coat and Some People With No Talent

2009-05-03T21:13:00.032+01:00

Good grief: Anyone seen the new Sunday night 1960's copper drama with Martin Shaw playing Detective Inspector Big Coat?

I must say it's worth tuning in for, if only to marvel at him doing the most extraordinary accent I've ever heard. Well, less of an accent, more of a noise really. Awfully hard to describe but the nearest I can get is can you remember when someone got their dog to say 'Sausages' on the Esther Rantzen show? Well it's rather like that. I've watched ten minutes of it now and haven't the first clue what he's said in any of it.

To be fair I missed the beginning so don't have the firmest grasp of the plot at this stage, but I don't think that matters as most of it seems to be taking place in an interview room where everyone is trying to do acting by being shouty. Luckily, Detective Big Coat isn't joining in because as we all know he did his shouting practice back in the '70's and is now a Proper Actor so Doesn't Have To. (Just don't mention The Professionals as apparently he gets cross about that stuff). Anyway, nothing much seems to have happened apart from the girl out of Eastenders who won Strictly has turned up in a graveyard dressed as Twiggy's grandma.

It's funny how '60's fashion looks so good in the pictures but is incredibly unflattering when you try wearing tweed like that in real life. They've made her wear a hat like a FlowerPot Man too which I do think is just unkind. She looks quite grumpy and I don't blame her in that titfer. Go on love - have a quick bash at a foxtrot over there in the background, that'll perk you up.

Anyway, it's on on a Sunday and goes on for hours so you can't really miss it if you feel like a laugh. (NB I made the 'laugh' bit up - there've been no jokes in it all I'm afraid).

Meanwhile, over at ITV I do believe someone has told the Britain's Got Talent editors to stop being nasty to people we'd usually laugh at. This is a huge shame in my view as that's the best bit. In last night's episode no one was really horrible to anyone which is nice but really quite boring. Let's be honest, loads of the people on there haven't got any talent at all and it's funny to laugh at them because of it.

I know - this probably makes me a social pariah - but if people don't know their own limitations and insist on making king size buffoons of themselves on telly, I think it serves them right. I'm fully aware that I sing like a dog being run over and dance only slightly less elegantly than a tree. Therefore I don't go on telly trying to be Ginger Rogers. (Roy Rodgers, perhaps.)

So last night we sat through a succession of ghastly auditions - child in ill advised leotard the colour of urine, smaller child trying to be a cockernee Oliver while dancing as if he had electrodes stuck down his socks, insane man who thought he was a human saxaphone etc etc - and they weren't even nasty about any of them.

Bunkum.

I blame it all on post-Susan Boyle paranoia. No one wants to look like they're laughing at a Slightly Different Person who then goes onto become more famous than Michelle Obama.

Poor old Simon Cowell - it must be driving him nuts. He can't win either way (well, other than financially, obviously). On the front of today's super Star on Sunday I note that the not overly gifted violinist girl from last night was quoted as saying 'Simon ruined my life' because he suggested she jetison her even less talented friend who couldn't play the piano.

Apparently (and it must be true as it's in the paper) not only are their families now feuding but (brace yourselves) Bad Piano Girl has blocked Average Violin Girl on Facebook.

Dear God, if that doesn't scream Ruined Life I don't know what does.

Detective Martin Big Coat - I apologise unreservedly. Let me time travel to your world. The one that I'm in has clearly gone bonkers.

A Bit of a WHO Ha

2009-04-29T08:50:00.011+01:00

Bong! On News at Ten tonight: In the week where the world stands by for a possible swine flu pandemic, my best friend decides to hold her daughter's birthday party at a pig farm.

Genius.

OK, so it's not in England yet, and apparently the government's bought four packets of aspirin so we shouldn't worry, but it did strike me as faintly amusing in terms of the timing. Fabulous But Maverick Best Friend has only recently moved to The Country and in time honoured tradition has embraced it fully. Apart from finding dead stuff in the garden that is, which isn't quite working for her so lovely husband is on 24/7 standby for flinging dead voles over the hedge and into the neighbours' fishpond.

Anyway, as part of the whole not living in a town thing, 18 six year olds and a group of mums/friends/dads who'd rather be at the football, duly turned up at the Children's Farm Park. My role of course was simply to illicitly feed the God Daughter chocolate, hype all of them into a frenzy and then leave when the crying began.

Actually, I'd highly recommend it - lots of animals so clean they made us lot look scruffy, run by some unfeasibly young people all with the ruddy glow of hard work and probable wind burn. A nice change from the deathly pallor and permanent sulking of the gothic teenagers in Kingston.

First up was the piglet run. "Oooh - piggles," whooped one of the party guests, breaking into an enthusiastic toddle towards Babe House.

"Mummy come back," said her daughter.

"Don't worry, I'll get her," I said putting myself out there as a sensible adult.

"Oooh - piggles," I shrieked two seconds later as a litter of tiny ickle mini pigs snorked around me looking delightful. "Aren't they lovely?" I added, jostling with the other woman to scratch the smallest one's head.

"I've got a handbag like that one," said my Other Fabulous Best Friend who had come up behind me and was watching with a certain amount of cynicism. "Do you think you should let the kids have a play?"

Piggle Woman's face turned to thunder. "It's always about them isn't it?" she hissed with a surprising amount of vitriol. OFBF and I exchanged looks - ooops.

"Sophie - pat the pig," said Angry Piggle and as the child hesitated, added in a voice straight out of a scary movie, "JUST PAT THE DAMN PIG WOULD YOU?"

Yikes. We all held our breath. The child patted the pig. The pig did an oink. The farmer wants a wife. Eee aye adiyo....The whole thing was turning into a very wierd nursery rhyme.

I wondered if there was a coffee shop?

"Lambing Shed," said a Dad next to us to break the tension, then instantly regretted it.

Lambs being born today! said the sign he hadn't clocked fast enough. Oh dear, I thought. This could get tricky.

"Come on Aunty Henrietta," said God Daughter and started to drag me into the shed. I, of course, was looking desperately for her mother while quietly praying, "Please don't let them ask stuff, please don't let them ask stuff." Naturally she was nowhere to be seen and I found myself in the bloody (poor choice of words) lambing shed with two kids that aren't mine and a man I'd only met once at a pub quiz.

"Can you see any entrails?" whispered the Dad, studiously not looking in the direction of any livestock.

"Do we call those 'bits' entrails?" I asked, feeling as if I was on a very peculiar first date and adding with some relief, "We're allright - I don't see anything yukky."

Hmm. May have spoken a bit too soon on that front.

"The baby lamb comes out of its bottom," said a small boy who had quietly joined us. Oh super - just what we needed. Where the hell were all the parents? God Daughter's eyes widened. "Its bottom?"

"Reuben's mother is a social worker," said the Dad by way of an explanation.

"Front bottom," pinpointed the small boy, showing a knowledge of sexual geography I felt would be of excellent use to him in the future.

"But how does it get in there?" The look on God Daughter's face was clearly saying "Have you gone totally mental?"

"The Daddy has a seed and they do a special cuddle."

Cripes, Reuben really was up on all this.

"It's a sperm actually," interrupted Sophie who had recovered from the pig stroking. "And it's all because of some bastard."

Oh great. This really was going well.

The Dad looked at me. We both knew that any second now, someone was going to ask what 'bastard' meant. I for one, was fairly sure no one would accept my planned response of "a lamb with no daddy", which frankly I don't think is entirely accurate anyway.

"Who's ready for ice cream?" I shouted.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee," said the children which I took to mean yes.

"Blimey, that was close," said the Dad. "Do they actually sell ice cream here?"

Not the most obvious sign of solidarity in the face of disaster, though it was a good point.

"And this nice man here is going to find them with you," I said. "Off you go now."

The Dad's face fell. "Best of luck with that then," I added. "If you need any help, I'll be over there with the piggles".

Video Killed The Rodeo Star

2009-04-22T14:45:00.031+01:00

So, now that he's not in Hell's Kitchen Grant Bovey is worried about Anthea Turner coping on the telly without him. Coz of course she's never done telly before.

"Look after her," he said darkly to Marco P-W as if they were off to The Somme. "I promise - as a man - I will," said Marco very seriously because he knows how dreadful two or three days in a studio with some cameras and a cheese board can be.

Anthea meanwhile, sat on the floor and cried.

She is forty eight years old.

Hmm.

"She gets on my tits," muttered Ade Edmonson cheerfully, still on a cookery high as he had just won Marco's competition by making a pilchard sandwich. Now call me churlish but after a week with the Michelin Man you'd rather hope for a bit more production than that wouldn't you? They'll be getting the vol-au-vents in from Bejams next.

"I'm 66" said Linda Evans From Dynasty which was the first thing she's said all week. As that kind of remark wouldn't put her out of place in a queue down The Post Office I look forward to further news of her bunions and the fact that the library closes early on a Thursday. Marco though, thinks she is lovely which is actually fair comment as she does seem everso friendly. Mind you, he also thought she was 30 which in my view is taking being dashing into something of an artform.

Meanwhile, the BBC are running a series where a decent enough toff called Alexandra Tolstoy (no I don't think that's her real name either) goes horse riding with various groups of people who Aren't From Britain. It is important to note the Aren't From Britain element as the general message of the series seems to be that while of course we respect other people's cultures, they're all a bit cruel really aren't they?

It's either an interesting study of different ways of life or just a smugly jingoistic romp around on some neddies.

Anyway, apparently there have been over 100 complaints from people who didn't enjoy watching a team of Siberian herdsmen strangling a pony, bashing it on the head with an axe, stabbing it in the heart and then eating it. Fair do's and I have to admit I felt a bit queer tuning in at that bit as well. Things cheered up in the next episode though when Alexandra went to Spain. Here, there were more lovely ponies who didn't get eaten this time and instead a silly old bull got multiple stab wounds and bled all over the arena before someone killed it and ate it. You didn't even see the killing bit and beef doesn't count anyway so I'm sure viewers were lots happier.

I have to say I haven't watched last night's Horse People yet which is based in Montana and where I understand plucky old toffster has a go at being in a rodeo. I'm quite looking forward to that as I've been to some rodeos and the riders are brave to a point of lunacy. Oh and crucially for the British audience, virtually no animals get killed apart from the riders. Actually, I met a rodeo rider once and he told me he gave up bull riding when his daddy told him he had the courage of a lion and the brain cells of a toadstool. Apparently you do get your head trodden on quite often.

Perhaps instead of showing tonight's episode of The Apprentice they can send Alexandra to watch all the candidates attempt to do a bit of rodeoing themselves. They couldn't possibly be more useless than in all the tasks Sir Alan has set so far. And on the upside we might just see that gormless little twerp Ben get the horrid, sticky end we've been waiting flipping weeks for already. Fingers to crossed position on that one eh?

You're History

2009-04-15T23:06:00.025+01:00

There are, it seems to me, several immutable rules for making history programmes on the telly. And I don't understand most of them.

Rule 1: You must speak in the present tense about people who died 500 years ago. What's all that about then?

"Henry knows the Boleyn girl must die as she has six fingers on one hand and is snogging half the palace. He tells the chap with the axe to take a jolly good swing at her before lunchtime".

Since when did that become ok? You'd think with their PhD's, funny jackets and daunting number of books available on Amazon they'd know a bit more about past participles. Or just the fact that it happened ages ago, Not Today. Come on History Guys, keep up with the times. Oh, and while we're on the subject of delusional:

Rule 2: You must refer to people who died 500 years ago on a first name basis, in fact, as if they were your best friend ever, ever.

"Henry knows Anne must die as the Baby Elizabeth is not a boy and in addition, is ginger."

Let's face it, if you'd just tuned in at that point they could be talking about an episode of Neighbours. Lazy my friends, lazy.

Rule 3: If you're going to dig anything up at all, even if it is just vegetables, you must have Tony Robinson in an anorak shrieking at a sweaty man in a hole who is excited about a bit of brick.

"Henry (we're so close I call him Hank) knows Anne must die as she is totally useless at mixing cement and a wall has just collapsed on Cardinal Wolsey."

Rule 4: A couple of housekeeping points here;

All historians must be posh and if they're from The North it had better be York or at the very least, Leeds as it has a Harvey Nicholls for the pre-production meetings.
All female historians must have long hair and if they don't they can't have a book deal. So there. No moaning at the back, you all know the rules.

And finally:

Rule 5: In all history programmes, someone from the Olden Days must at some point die gruesomely but with no actual evidence to prove it. This is an excellent rule allowing endless conspiracy theories and a mini-series over three nights at Bank Holiday. Suggested ace causes of death:

Being locked in somewhere too small with no air by a Cruel Monk. (Works best for stubborn Protestants).
Having something Made From Iron put on your face until your skin grows round it and you starve. (Women who talk a lot. Stubborn Protestants).

Having something very hot put up your bottom. (Men who talk a lot. Anyone called Edward.)

Being locked in a pyramid alive with a dead Pharoah and lots of other worried people. Actually not that bad if you have the presence of mind to eat all the grub packed in for The After Life. Should take years. (NB: Only really works if Egyptian, as not many opportunities for pyramid incarceration anywhere else.)

Oh, and one last suggestion. Don't ever, ever let Jeremy Paxman have anything to do with it as he may be godlike at scaring politicians but based on that Victorian Arts programme he did recently, is far better off out of the way planning his own gruesome end for Peter Mandelson.

Britain's Got Telly

2009-04-13T08:53:00.028+01:00

Oh my good lordy it's back. Forget the recession, global warming and the fact that almost all of our politicians are behaving like idiots: Britain's Got Talent is back on the telly.

Relax my friends, the world is a wonderful place.

Having Skyplussed Saturday's programme due to an outbreak of social life, last night was a big one - wine, monster Toblerone and by the time I got to the second ad break I'd already had to re-watch some of it twice and was blinking back the tears. Two hours later, I was tired, emotional and running round the cul de sac singing Rule Britannia and graffiti-ing 'Being British Is Ace' all over the neighbours' conservatory.

I tell you, if someone had offered me the King's Shilling I'd have signed up to serve my country right there and then. Because, just when you've nearly forgotten, BGT comes back to remind you that being British can mean being really quite excellent.

Having spent much of the last two weeks in a state of depression because the Americans have Barack and Michelle to inspire them whereas we seem to have, er, no one, it's a beautiful thing to see a prime time show that somehow shows the best (and admittedly, worst) of what we're about. I love this show. I love that in the early rounds - before all the tabloid sob stories - the audience judges entirely on appearance and then entirely on if you cut the mustard. No messing - you're in or you're out. The real star of this show is definitely its audience.

A chubby bloke wanders on stage with his 12 year old lad. They've muttered something about Being Greek and Dancing and it's nice to see a kid who is happy to share a turn with his father but I'm nervous. Dad's going to dance like a Geography teacher, it'll be hideous and the child will take to drugs after merciless (if justifiable) bullying at school. Perhaps someone should stop them? They start playing the Riverdance music, a rubbish voiceover makes the judges cringe and I'm googling the number for Childline. Then from nowhere, the funniest two minutes of the weekend. The Dad is hilarious, all wig and pomposity - spot on Flatley. The Kid's keeping his end up and there isn't a bully to touch him.

The venue goes wild. Four thousand people jump to their feet, the judges are laughing and it's all perfectly fine. Simon's teeth sparkle (possibly with ££ signs). They are through to the next round.

Next up it's a 47 year old spinster who looks about 60 and smiles that she's never been kissed. "That's not an advert," she adds, laughing, and we should know there is more to this than meets the eye. But she looks like Miss Marple and is probably deluded. "Mentalist", I note, reaching for the chocolate. "We smell blood," agrees the audience cheerfully, and then rudely groans when Miss Marple says she aspires to be Elaine Paige.

Now call me a softy, but everything then goes slightly soft focus. The 'funny old spinster' isn't a mentalist. Isn't horrendous and fair play, can sing better than anyone I knock around with. She doesn't miss a note, has cannily picked One of The Sad Ones out of Les Mis so everyone gets a bit teary and then at the end, knowing she's done the grand job that she alone knew she would, marches off stage without waiting for the judges' comments.

God I love an underdog and so does the audience. It's the Glasgow gig and they're on their feet. You have to take your hat off to that. I've been to that venue and they had to stop the show twice as fights kept breaking out in the stalls. Glasgow audiences know what they like and they like this woman. "Yayy" I shout from my sofa, "Yayy for the lady that's never been kissed - shame on us all for not believing in her." Amanda Holden cries. Amanda Holden always cries but somehow this is ok as so do we (although to be fair everyone I know that watches this show does it while drinking heavily to add to the emotion).

Then of course the telly people stop us being all nice and supportive and show a great big line of Really Untalented People, just to prove we aren't all sentimental like the Americans and we know proper rubbish when we see it.

"The problem Andy," says Simon, not unkindly to a 60 year old, "Was that that wasn't dancing. You just sort of stood on the spot and swayed a little bit." Encouraged by this, Andy continues to dance/sway. The audience boos and cheers at the same time. Andy keeps dancing/swaying. He won't get off. It's getting embarrassing. And then Dec comes on, telly perfection, swaying his way across the stage to Andy who vindicated, carries on, only now more enthusiastic then ever. As one, the audience follows suit - 4,000 people swaying or dancing, but really just swaying. Like Andy. The judges give up and roar with laughter. Andy doesn't get through but he is comedy gold.

I seem to have been watching for hours - the show goes on all night. "That was ever so sweet and lovely but sadly rubbish," says Amanda. "OFF!" shouts the audience, having the best night out ever. "Our Youth Worker sent us," say two miserable teenagers who dance like potatoes. "OFF!" shouts the audience, hating people in leotards. A man cuts up some fruit with a chainsaw. A woman with three teeth puts a curse on the judges. Then there is sensitive music and it's an interview with a nice lady who is quite large but used to be a dancer and you know she'll either be Darcey Bussell or the worst one of the night. Will she be good? Will she be catastrophic?

No, she'll be a big old stripper then.

Even though the post-production people have used Britain's Got Talent Union Flags to cover up the considerable bosom activity, you can still a hint of a tassle and only have to watch Piers and Simon's eyes to know she has all the equipment. Proudly, brilliantly, the lady doesn't bother to put her jacket back on for the bit when the judges give their comments, but just stands there, nipples a gogo, living the moment. The audience love it, Amanda calls for an ambulance.

"This show gets better and better and better," says Simon.

I can't argue with that.

Kilos are a Beautiful Thing

2009-04-10T11:12:00.014+01:00

Today hasn't started well. There's a funny smell in the kitchen again and I can only put it down to the fifty year old banana grimly hanging onto life in the fruit bowl. I say Fruit Bowl. That's bigging it up just a bit. I really mean a bowl exactly the same as all the others only with a piece of dead fruit in it.

Anyway, there's a banana in there and I don't think it's long for this world. That's fruit for you in my view. They start out too hard, or green, or possibly poisonous (I made that up) and then you take them home, optimistic that at some point they'll bring themselves to a peak of eatability and be worth the £14.50 you splashed out in Waitrose. For a kilo I might add. Anyone know what a kilo actually looks like? No, me neither. All I know is that kilos mean you've bought too much of something in a supermarket but if you are mad enough to want to weigh yourself, it sounds a lot less than in stones.

Naturally then, the jury is out re whether kilos are ok or not. Bad re fruit, good re weight morale? Discuss.

I had to go to hospital in America at Christmas (stay with me on this, it is relevant I promise) and in an attempt to be European, the doctor (not George Clooney - v.disappointing) bellowed across the ER, "So how much do you weigh - 50/55 kilos?" Clearly he didn't have a clue what this actually meant, or indeed, that we don't actually like or understand kilos in Britain. Well, after the rush of horror at having the words 'weigh' and 'how much do you?' yelled in my direction (AND IN PUBLIC), I did a quick calculation and realised that essentially someone had just shouted "Do you weigh 7 stone 12?".

At me. Who clearly hasn't seen 7 stone 12 since I was about 11. What can I tell you?

I'm not sure who was more hysterical - me or the boyfriend - who looked as if he might wee himself laughing at the idea. (Although that could have been the result of spending six and a half hours in the ER surrounded by people with gun shot wounds and no chocolate machine).

If it hadn't been for the large number of painkillers I'd just noshed down, I'd have been more on my toes and shouted back "Can you say that again in pounds please?". Then more of the other ill people would have heard and been impressed at how thin I am. Instead, I elbowed the BF in the ribs for finding this so ridiculous, and with the barefaced cheek of a woman on a considerable amount of not available over the counter drugs, called back modestly, "Er, 50...55, yes, that's about right".

I tell you, it was one of the most exciting moments of my life. The poor BF meanwhile, was still doubled over with mirth and only sat up properly when a forceful looking nurse approached him brandishing a pair of latex gloves.

So anyway; kilos. Brilliant thing.

Which reminds me, a friend of mine was once rudely asked by the doctor how much she weighed. Obviously she knocked 10 lbs off the truth and was then told she had to lose half a stone. "Only half a stone!" she reported triumphantly over several glasses of wine in our local that evening. Then someone reminded her she'd lied in the first place. "Bummer," she said. "I'm even too fat when I've made it up."

Should have told him in kilos in my view. He'd never have known.

I Look Like A 70's Pop Star

2009-04-08T10:01:00.023+01:00

I look like a Moomintroll.

Actually, to be accurate, I look like the Snork Maiden as my fringe went a bit big last time. It looked nice when it was done and then by the time I got home I looked like Brian Connelly out of The Sweet. I suppose that's better than looking like Brian Conley, who is TV's "It's a puppet" Funnyman but I don't know.

Above is a picture. I look grumpy like Brian does at the moment as well. This is because I realise I resemble either a Moomintroll, a girl Moomintroll, a 70's glam rocker whose liver packed up or a man most noted for shouting.

Now this may imply that today is not a high morale day here at HQ but that would be wrong. The sky is blue, the sun is shining and I can see a man over the road dangling from a rope while he cuts down a tree. I quite liked that tree but am sitting here transfixed as the man could chainsaw his own leg off any minute. I'm no tree doctor but I do think he should switch the thing off when he's not actually using it.

This is peak excitement for suburban Surrey. Tree Man has just shimmied up the side of a house to decapitate something else. Hopefully not himself. It's like having Channel Five on a really big screen in my garden only no Natasha Kaplinski. Or trailers for programmes about people who have twelve giant babies all growing inside each other at once. The television people say it isn't a freak show, it's 'Extraordinary'. I'm not absolutely sure about that.

Meanwhile, my garden is in a massive mood with me. Something about gross neglect throughout the winter I think. Anyway, most of the plants are sulking hugely and refusing to look nice now the sun's out. Some of them have even died on purpose so I have threatened A Trip To The Garden Centre to buy newer, prettier plants and teach them a lesson. This is actually a bad idea as I find garden centres quite frightening, what with things in latin and older people with superhuman strength carrying entire rockeries around in a basket. After about ten minutes I'm hiding by the Koi carps looking like Brian Connolly again only even grumpier.

Anyway, my garden's magnolia tree looks lovely. It has bravely lived through the entire winter and the snow and is my best friend in the garden as it has now bloomed and everything. It is pink which is confusing as Magnolia in the paint world means cream doesn't it? A conundrum. Not to mention a new high risk element for any trip to B&Q.

So now, Tree Man has finished and I haven't seen an ambulance so believe all has ended well. Time for a biscuit at least. Now if next door could only give birth to their own granny that should jazz up the suburbs again for my lunchtime.

A Must For Dog Owners

2009-04-04T15:11:00.031+01:00

I should at this stage admit I have no idea where this post is headed and what we may find when we get there. Naturally, today's blog is another intellectual giant. Or possibly a heffalump. Anyway, it's one of the two.

I have a new all time favourite advert.

Yes, even better than Pierce Brosnan’s L’Oreal ad where he tells you that there’s more to life than making films. Stuff like "Fighting for the causes I believe in…" he says which is lovely, and "Finding time for myself..." which is actually a bit selfish. Then another man interrupts to say that having taut skin is really important too. Oh.

It’s a cruel world in advertising when nice, homely women like Coleen Nolan spend their time eating dreadful frozen food and having to entertain Kerry Katona, while according to L’Oreal, men like Pierce who care about moisturiser go for nice horse rides on the beach, look thoughtfully into thin air and somewhat incongruously, play snooker. Brilliant! You can see it at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14XWoZeuwK0&feature=related. The best bit is when he unnecessarily points into the distance while riding, presumably having spotted a branch of Boots and thus an opportunity for some skin cream.

Frankly I thought this would never be beaten for comedy value and I’m almost sad that it has. But budge over it must. My new favourite is for an equally practical product - niche I admit, but inspiring, nevertheless. So, for anyone thinking of selling anything – look and learn from the following internet ad: You may not know the product so let me introduce you to 'Houndsac'.

Sounds like a German expression of good health doesn't it? 'Atishoo!', 'Ah - Houndsac!' 'Why - danke Herr Schnerzbaum'. Etc.

Well it's not.

Here's the ad. Short, simple and outstanding on so many levels.

A Must For Dog Owners
A clever Bag designed to carry DOG POO and everything else you need!

How hilarious is that?! I swear, I am not making this up. Personally, I particularly like the jaunty exclamation mark at the end telling us, hey guys - stinky things are fun!

You know, there is nothing I don’t admire about this advert. I love the way this isn't any old bag, but a 'clever' one. I have a ludicrously expensive Prada handbag so precious it is kept wrapped in tissue paper, inside a bag, inside another bag, just in case air should ever try to touch it at some point. It is a thing of great beauty of course. But is it clever? No it is not. Is it a 'must have' like the one in this advert? Not really. And most of all, has it been specially designed to carry dog poo like Houndsac has?

I don't think so.

I've spent more than enough time wandering around parks with friends and their dogs where at some point someone furtively turns to their partner and whispers 'did you bring The Bags darling?' followed by loads of accusatory glaring and scrabbling around in the bottom of a pac-a-mac pocket. If nobody comes up with a crumpled Sainsbury's carrier for the required, erm, litter picking, this is usually the cue for a major domestic which lasts the rest of the weekend.

So what greatness it is to invent a re-usable holdall that one delicately carries for all those special dog moments! And, so many questions: Does it fulfil all requirements? (Chihauhau? St Bernard?). Do you get a free scoop?

Hmm.

One last thought - don't you think the most brilliant part of this is the enthusiastic assurance that along with its main use, the bag is designed to also (and I quote) 'carry everything else you need'.

What - all together? Gosh chaps, are you sure?

I just hope the product takes off and they can afford to hire Pierce to do the TV ad. I can just see it now: Him and his skin all handsome on a beach. Just him, his dog and a Houndsac, crinkly, eyed sexiness (Pierce not the dog) as he brandishes the bag at the camera and smiles...

'...Cos you're worth it'.

Spinach is a Dangerous Thing

2009-04-01T14:36:00.009+01:00

Now I know that with G20, mopey old anarchists and Gordon looking more miserable by the hour this isn't exactly a finger on pulse blog, but I've had a most upsetting lunch incident with a box of exploding soup.

Heralded by the microwave's Bing Bong of Doom and then a spirited juggle with a bowl of lava, a good quarter of the kitchen now resembles The Exorcist. It doesn't look good and the smell isn't up to much either. While the packaging says Spinach and Nutmeg, it would appear the Covent Garden Soup Co. is now manufacturing ectoplasm. Who'd have known?

Depressed by the mess, I took the bull by the horns and had a sit down facing the other direction which apart from the smell of burning devil matter, seemed to do the trick. My attention switched to this week's Reveal magazine which reports that Kerry Katona's nose has fallen down and Darryl 'Splash' Hannah is now an advert for wind tunnels. Additionally, Sonya 'I'm fat, no I'm not, yes I am' out of Eastenders now has hair like Charles II.

I know. All this for under a pound!

Anyway, bouyed by this excitement I had a quick look out of the window to spy on the neighbours and was charmed to see a very small, ginger child with very big, ginger hair happily skipping around in the road. Now granted, I live in a cul de sac with minimal traffic during the day but I couldn't help questioning if it was entirely OK for his parents to let him dance quite so gaily in the face of possible death. The poor little fellow already faces years of having 'Oi Copper Knob' shouted at him without his family showing their disappointment at a carrot top in the ranks at this early stage.

And before anyone complains about anti-auburnism, my Grandad was a ginner and as such his parents sent him off to WWI when he was 10. They wouldn't let him in as he was only 3ft 4 but that's not the point. Maybe next time the neighbours want to test the mettle of their little orange soldier I'll just invite them round to open my microwave.

If he survives that then by the look of the kitchen he'll be ready for anything.

Hell's Teeth and Robin Hood

2009-03-31T12:18:00.003+01:00

So, it is Night 3 in the Teeth Whitening House and the gum shield is in. I look vaguely like Ricky Hatton about to go 12 rounds in Las Vegas although I imagine he doesn't do it with a mouth filled with peroxide.

Am not sure what is more upsetting - the fact that I smell of Domestos or that the bleech looks like super glue. Either way I'll be astonished if my teeth are still there in the morning.

It is, of course, pure vanity that has led me down the road of no red wine and no ice cream for the next two weeks. (Both, apparently, result in appalling fiasco - death or even worse, not very white teeth). I read somewhere (probably at the dentist) that People Judge Other People By Their Teeth so if I am going to (a) continue to work through the recession and (b) ever get to snog anyone again, looking like Austin Powers is not entirely ideal.

Actually, it is only us normal British people who still have teeth in traditional British Yellow (Dulux do it for kitchens and bathrooms - you can see it in their colour range). Famous British people have jumped ship and joined the Americans. This weekend, as part of my new obsession with gnashers I noted with some admiration that the bloke playing Friar Tuck on telly in Robin Hood has teeth so white he couldn't have been less fifteenth century if he'd driven through Sherwood Forest in a Ford Fiesta. When I was at school they told us by the time you were 30 back then you were lucky to be alive, let alone have any teeth left at all. Now, according to the BBC, everyone looked like one of the Osmonds.

I rather enjoy Robin Hood. It's like pantomime but with the added attraction of Guy of Gisborne being played by the good looking one who married the Vicar of Dibley and now keeps getting waterboarded in Spooks. I like him and so does my mum. Our combined age? Over 100: A fan base to be proud of!

But more to the point, how are my teeth? I do think - although it could be the light - that they are looking a teeny bit whiter. Not David Hasselhof bright and certainly not Katie Price neon, but a little more cheery than before. Hurrah! As a result I'm afraid it's hold yourself back boys, I'll be doing my Ricky Hatton impression for a little while yet.