I’m not a masochist!

It’s so long ago. Or is it? Get depressed. Don’t ask. Get flack full in the face if you do. I’m sitting here listening to Christmas songs. The jingle bells are jingling and the choir (probably the local orphanage for that added effect) is in full voice doing a wonderful job. Don’t snicker. Eleven months of the year have already vanished. I’m only just getting used to the year 2009 by the time I’m comfortable with it we’ll be halfway through 2010. What’s so long ago or not? I'll tell you. A time when my forties still seemed a reasonable way off and now here I am looking forward (a somewhat exaggeration) to the next decade. Blurgh! And don’t give me all that pony about “30 is the new 40” therefore 50 must be the new 40! Not working out how I’d imagined. Does anything ever? Got the blues. Perhaps I should sing them? It might help... yes! Excellent idea. Why don’t I remind myself that’s one other thing I cannot do with any degree of talent or finesse. Bad idea. Can’t stand the looks of horror emanating in my direction from both cats every time I do vocalise. Watching them make a valiant attempt at covering their ears with their paws but don’t ever quite manage it. That’s it. Enough of the aural mince pies and jolly old Crimble. Blues it is. Listening only. I’m not a masochist. I need cheering up. I need a cuddle. I need to clutch something close to my aching bosom...something dear to me... where’d I leave that darling Prada handbag of mine?

Just guff 'n' stuff

Russell Brand. Who is he? (All right, give me a break. I haven’t lived in the UK for four years). Know now though. Going by his looks love child of Jo (she of the same name and hair) and Alice Cooper. Was going to do a piece on him. Won’t now. Don’t want to.

Swearing. Who needs it? Who wants it? Not me. Is it necessary? No. Is it enjoyable? No, absolutely not. Why do it? Don’t know. In my own private Mary Whitehouse campaign, I refuse to watch modern films and programmes in which an unnecessary assault of foul language is to be found. I am on strike. They could at least have the decency to bleep it out.

I am now an avid and proud voyeur of films made between the thirties and seventies. Sticking to early seventies because as the decade progresses things can go a bit pear-shaped. Can be bit of a minefield in the start of the decade. Clockwork Orange? A whole new discovery has been made. My favourite has to be British-made films of the fifties. What have I been missing all these years? Think of it. You could save on your TV licence. You’d need only to buy one for black and white.

I can only end by saying... by Jove, the Brits made some b****y good films, didn’t they?

English lesson. Listen carefully. What do you mean, no? Tough! Did you know, b****y is not actually profanity it’s an adjective. However, still ****** it out in magnanimous attempt to appear erudite... or does that very action defeat the object?

You know what makes a good exercise? Singing. Apparently. Expands your lungs. I used to be a singer in a group, no, really. These days, to the relief of ears everywhere, the nearest I get to a band is that thing you find attached to your waist as in trousers preferably elasticised for that extra comfort and ease of movement. Have no idea why I put that in... talking of bands, I’ve seen the new Take That video. It was their testament to there’s a squeeze going on and we’re right in there with you.

Gary Barlow bashing away at a piano that looked to be made from plywood and orange boxes. His three-day growth was more down and out than designer so he got that right. Mark Owen jumping up and down like he was having a reaction to something possibly his leather jacket which looked two sizes too small. How could he breathe never mind sing? Jason Orange gallantly sporting his I’m-joost-a-working-class-lad-from-oop-North cloth cap and finally, Howard Donald who was laughing hysterically as he drummed along to their latest in a long line of hits. I think he was grinning. It was hard to tell underneath the furry animal straddled across his face.

I like them really in a distant sort of way. Always have.

Mandatory families?

It’s too family-oriented. There are single people and couples out there as well. A huge percentage of the public don’t have children.

They’ve matured moved away or not due to recession and high mortgage repayments or perhaps... wash my mouth out... they don’t exist because public in question never wanted any in the first place. We’re not all Little House on the Prairie. I realise this no doubt puts me in the same bracket as the Antichrist, so shoot me! We do exist and tripping along to Mothercare or Disneyland Paris is not high on my list of ten things to do before I die as much as I rate Donald Duck as one of the best entertainers to come out of America.

With the elderly living longer and the young not being given a chance to get old due to the increase in hoodies and knife-oriented crimes, there’s a huge audience out there whose first thought in the morning is not, “I hope I can make it to nursery school this morning without Ashentella being sick all over the back seat again.” For many, those days have long gone or - were never there in the first place.

Don’t get me wrong. There was a time a few years ago I thought about having a child. Adopting one. A baby girl from China because:
a) I like the Chinese
b) girls appear to be surplus to requirements
c) adopting because I’m into recycling.

Due to my general dithering and worrying thoughts of - would they consider me as a parent due to my ME (I don’t agree with that and it is highly discriminatory but this is [yeuch!] real life) and would I cope due to my ME and being single (more realistic) - I lost out.

It’s the so-called fashionable attitude to children that makes me feel uncomfortable. Why can’t people leave children in general alone to be children, treat them like children (they’re not demigods) and allow them to grow up in their own time? Why do many, under the guise of “we know best” along with the expectation the public must be like-minded, insist on interfering? I mean, assisting. And why is it when confronted by the sight of “precious” in its pushchair with one finger up its nose the other jabbing at it eye bawling its head off because the jabbing finger has ended up in the eye, why is it we’re expected to fall over backwards claiming “how gorgeous!”

Scary. On the other hand... have a well-behaved little ball of fluff or a cute ugly manky-looking mongrel trotting along on the end of its lead and you might get more of a reaction...

Victoria Meldrew at large

I did wonder, to myself, how long I could go without reverting to type.

What’s my latest gripe about?

Book agents.

Which probably isn’t the smartest move in anybody’s book considering my mission of attempting to procure one. To be fair, I don’t refer to ALL agents. I do not blanket bomb. But, how many of you fellow scribblers out there, amateur or professional, unpublished or published, have thought that perhaps agents can and do tend to lord it over us peasants.

Which is strange because without us they wouldn’t have a job. Anyone care to enlighten me or care to share your agent experiences? Maybe we should form a club. Our motto could be, “Everybody is a nobody until they are somebody”. Corny I know, but true. Even JK Rowling wasn’t born with a silver quill in her hand.

Come on, agents! You know who YOU are. Please don’t be so snooty with your nose up in the air. Go out in the rain like that and you’ll drown. And we can’t let that happen.

Can we? No! Absolutely not...

Do you remember when almost no one had even heard of Valentino Rossi...

Motorbikes. Motorbikes are great for Cornwall. Although, my motorbike days are long in the past and best forgotten. Or, so I thought, until a few months ago.

Convinced and determined my biking days were long gone and defunct, it therefore came as a complete shock while flicking through the television channels - as I was not in the mood for Vanish “it really works” commercials - when I came upon the Year 2000 500cc Malaysian World Championship Grand Prix. Now known as MotoGP. Something stirred in my stomach that had nothing to do with the iffy tuna fish I’d eaten the night before. The tuna wasn’t really off. I’m the iffy one. Hazard of ME is that you can’t eat what you want. When you have found something that doesn’t leave you comatose within minutes lasting for the whole day and possibly into the next, do not get excited because by the following month your body will probably be rejecting it.

Motorbikes. Easy. Choose your oil. Any type. Motorbikes don’t get ME. Wow! I watched with eyes wide open. The commentator mentioned something about Kenny Roberts. Kenny Roberts? I heard it as Rogers. Had Lucille finally left him? Impressed at this drastic change of career for the old country and western crooner I had to find out more. Moving Ninja to one side, who couldn’t understand anyone getting excited over something that sounded like a swarm of hungry hornets - I sat back and allowed myself to be totally amazed. I was hooked! Ninja too. Judging by the eventual intensity of her purring or was she simply mimicking the bikes. I can do it too. We’d both found a new hobby. Perhaps it would even knock food off the number one spot? Doubtful.

Eagerly we waited for the Suzuka Grand Prix to be broadcast and by the time it came around, Ninja and I were sitting next to each other on the edge of the couch. Fired up, ready and waiting. I was there. Watching. Waiting. That’s me being fired up. And we waited. Concentration is hard at the best of times but after being told for the fourth time by a girl in a bikini how Michelin tyres are the best, my mind began to wander. Snoring reverberating in my ear told me Ninja had lost the will to live and I began to lament how the Japanese could produce the bikes but seemingly not the riders to go with them. On which planet have I been living these past few years? How deliciously wrong did I turn out to be?

He seemed to lean into the corner with the grace of Nureyev only to come out of it kicking like Bruce Lee. He and his bike were not two separate components. They were one. Moulded together from birth.

Norick Abe. He is sheer poetry in motion.

Okay, I admit it. We’re not talking strictly bikes here. Let’s face it - he’s a babe! He definitely has a quality that sets him apart from his competitors as brilliant as they are. Abe has that special something. Not since the groovy days of Barry Sheene, (a now sadly departed seventies icon) has there been someone who not only rides a mean machine but has the decency to look good as well. Placed at number three in the current standings of the 500cc World Championship Grand Prix, he is 100 per cent dedicated to his art. In Mr Abe’s case, it is art.

What’s he doing these days, I wonder...

UPDATE: Norick Abe died in 2007. I’d like to dedicate this blog to the memory of a talented and decent human being.

Norick Abe - 1975-2007