Monday 26 August 2013

Bank Holiday Monday, Tenpin Bowling and An Audience With Kenneth Williams

It's officially the last Bank Holiday of the year and I'm sitting here typing away whilst listening to Whitney Houston's I Have Nothing for some bizarre reason, maybe it's because it was used as a warm-up exercise at choir a few weeks ago?*  It's very ballady that's for sure and if the neighbours continue to vex me then it's definitely something I could belt out at an intolerable volume near the party wall. 

Anyway, as ever, I digress and maybe it's the scent of next door's creosote making my head go a bit odd, but there you go.  The Earl's obsessed with watching tenpin bowling videos on YouTube and literally cannot wait to visit the bowling alley with his father this week (I tend to avoid such trips as I'm not a huge fan of the sport, detest wearing other people's shoes and worst of all, displaying my shoe size on the back of my heel...)  Pure comedy gold is undoubtedly Mark from Peep Show's prowess of bowling the contents of his weekly shopping along the megabowl lanes in series one.  Comedy geek: yes, of course.

Earlier on I was watching An Audience with Kenneth Williams http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=an+audience+with+kenneth+williams&oq=an+audience+with+kenn&gs_l=youtube.1.0.0.988997.992394.0.994447.21.11.0.10.10.0.177.934.10j1.11.0...0.0...1ac.1.11.youtube.0U_TunGcepMon the pad and it was a huge treat.  I am getting rather obsessed with the concept of raconteurs and how great they are and wish that there were more in showbiz these days.  What I really adore is trying to work out from the audience is who's dead and who isn't and spotting really obscure faces such as Shaw Taylor of Police 5 and Gordon Jackson, although being a huge fan of Upstairs, Downstairs** he remains a deity in my eyes.

* Regular readers will be more than aware that I quit choir at the end of July, return date currently unknown.
**That's the original London Weekend Television show from the 1970s, not the cruddy BBC re-imagining.

Sunday 11 August 2013

My Parents' Bizarre Garden

My parents reside about two miles away from my house in a house which they've lived in since 1973 and ergo, where I grew up.  It's a strange place, but I won't elaborate too much and hopefully admitting that it was built on the same ground where once occurred one of the worst Stone Age massacres in living history won't affect the resale price in the long run, not even in these times of suburban property shortages. 

What my folks really like doing is gardening, but no, not in the traditional trug-wielding way that spiritedly sixtysomethings enjoy, oh no - it's much stranger than that.  Take for example, their Model Village:

Actually, I am quite impressed by it, especially as they bought the concrete models from Whelan's which is a stoneware superstore based on The Isle of Sheppey which they bought plain and painted up themselves.  My favourite thing is their nod to David Icke's theory about the existence of lizard deities, which takes pride of place in the centre of their creation:

Of course, no garden would be complete without a pond and here's a snap of their home for all things piscine and amphibian.  There's a bit of a funny story derived from this, recently their new young male neighbour knocked on the door at 10pm stating that there asking whether the frog in their garden had escaped over the fence from my parents' pond and if so, could they remove it as it was and I quote 'freaking him out by hopping at him' - Mother went to investigate and there was no sign of the small Baron Silas Greenbackesque creature.

They also appreciate Easter Island Moai Statues whom Charlie Brooker once wittily quipped that they closely resembled the former Doctor, Matt Smith:


Of course, it wouldn't be a garden without other random statues scattered around - my personal fave is the enormous squirrel.

My parents also have two cats named Fluffy and Pamela - here's a picture of the former, who is of course, kind of hairy - fluffy even.  Mother and Father didn't name him, they adopted him from a woman who later died of cancer.  Pamela was rescued from a mental patient who threatened to drown her when she was only a tiny kitten and my very own moggie, Tilly was a Cats' Protection League adoption after she was rendered homeless after her owners abandoned her.  I would like to state categorically at this stage that I only own have one cat and a solitary gerbil (named Monica - her tank mates Rachel and Phoebe have both ascended to the great gerbilarium in the sky) as having too many animals around the house is a bit odd and would suit me well if I decided to give up on life completely, thus donning a fleece and hanging around the tramps' benches in town swigging a can of White Lightning and talking gibberish to passers by.  Regular readers will be aware that I don't aspire to such behaviourial traits for another decade at least.

Friday 9 August 2013

My New Campervan Doormat

Hail the iconic camper van....well in doormat form anyway!  Yes, as proudly pictured below, I own one which I purchased from a small shop in Whistable last week and I just couldn't resist its sleek countours and bristly finish:

I think my favourite thing is that it looks like it's jumping out of the hall floor in a kind of 3D way, especially if one is descending the stairs (usually I have my butler carry me down, but he's away in Scunthorpe at the moment).  If asked whether I've ever owned a real-life camper van the answer's no.  As for me, well regular readers will know that I haven't driven a car in years, let alone something much bulkier, but I have always admired them.  I do like the idea of travelling across the US in a Winnebago, but I suppose that will have to be put on hold for quite a few years as The Earl suffers terribly from motion sickness and the act of him throwing up every say, ten miles, would be rather wearing after a while.

I suppose I could hire a driver and run off now, but they'd find me - they always do.

Thursday 1 August 2013

Start Spreading The News

Now, as regular readers are aware from reading my huge array of blogs, I love strange things, so as a result I'm always out there, mobile phone camera in hand, snapping away for inspiration.  Of course, there's nothing better in my eyes than a tacky nightclub, but not having crossed the threshold of such a place since 1999 I feel that I'm ill-equipped to comment.  I was however impressed by the New York, New York night spot which is located on the sea front in Herne Bay:


Do you reckon that Herne Bay is, by association 'the town that never sleeps'?  Personally with the sheer number of pensioners and small dogs around, I very much doubt it, but there's an awful bunch of chavs who reside on one of the seafront properties near the Hampton who play their darn music so loud that I reckon that it can be heard over in Essex.  Maybe I should have packed my high heels, hot pants and danced the night away, but I feel far too old to do so; I never enjoyed going to night venues anyway as they were too loud, I couldn't maintain a decent conversation and quite frankly, I prefer a nice mug of cocoa, a lie down and a good book to keep me company in the evenings. 

Whilst out shopping for a loaf of bread this morning I spied this outside the convenience store:

Now, I must admit that I haven't read the corresponding article, but surely this is much worse than say, the demise of an 'unfriendly pensioner'?  Unfortunately most of the older people I seem to encounter these days tend to be unfriendly, but maybe I'll be like that too in my dotage?  I'm already reading Mother's collection of Saga magazines which date back to 2005/6 which seem to congregate in this bungalow; personally I think that they're OK, but somewhat limited.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I find articles about Des Lynam slightly enticing and finding a suitably adapted bath will be a breeze once I hit the age of 50.  I am already hoping that my husband, The Duke, will be purchasing a pair of slacks, a blazer and a cravat pretty soon as I feel as though this will give him the gravitas he long deserves.