Wednesday, February 20, 2008
People...
I am watching the Brit Awards as we speak and I am just short of throwing my Andrex Puppy slippers to ExBoy's huge flatscreen, screaming blue monday - no sorry, murder!
I haven't seen anything as self congratulatory as this shite! Sharon O. acting as your Mum and Best Friend of all things Pop, Ozzy as a bumbling prop to Her side, Fern whatshername being very blonde, Kylie trying out the Ms. D. Harry look and failing (sadly, huh)
Half of the nominees I haven't even heard of and I do take an interest in new sound bites!
Oh!!! David Tennant is on (dr. Who of the Scottish persuasion) I have a soft spot for him. Bear with me.
Midget Minogue just got best international female. Dahlink, if you can't walk in your 5" heels you shouldn't be wearing them; no matter how short you are. Looked ridiculous to be walked to the stage on the hand of that ugly bouncer. Ms. Harry would have rather died... I rest my case!
Who the f. is Leona Lewis? Just googled it.. won X factor... no wonder I didn't know. Sounds like a cross between Mariah Carey (puke violently) and Whitney Houston (more puke) with the same dramatic movements and the warbling of the voice. Where are those flippin' suicide bombers when you bleedin' need them!!! Gawd!
Next on... James Nesbitt???? Poor woman's George Clooney (as named by AA Gill)? Good actor but what is he doing there handing a trophy to Kate Nash - Kate bloody Nash... AAAAAAAARGH! for what? The fakest accent in pop? Singing several seconds off rhythm?
Crikey, this is dire, folks. Amy Winehouse… now, I like her voice – but she looks like her stick insect non existent arse has swallowed the cork of the organic (obviously) vodka bottle after snorting Charlie's line and the beehive looks in need of some serious DDT treatment. And by feck, she dances (or wiggles more to the point) to another drummer all together. Good shoes, I'll grant her! But again, why wear them if you can't stand in them, girlfriend?
Take That (self professed hardest working band of all? WHEN? When I wasn't watching?), some good acts (tongue firmly wedged in cheek)… but … what's the point? I don't get it, apart from the Arctic Monkeys being blind drunk and taking the piss out of those arrived (James thingy, Blur, country gent, cheese – some pointers spring to mind). Why am I watching this crap?
What happened to the likes of Jarvis Cocker mooning Janet Jackson's Tit? Or was that her brother? What's the difference anyway! Those were the days.
So… what's the piece the resistance you think? Paul "I just got rid off a Millstone" Mcbleedin' Cartney ! Shoot me now? Please? You'd be doing me a favour… I'll pay. Seriously!
(still spitting venom as we speak)
And I held back – just so you know. Last Night of the Effing Brits with awards thrown in for good measure and justification, sponsored by some credit card… Coming to think of it, might be reason to send mine back (the credit card)!
Eurgh, piss off corporate twats!
Spit, spit, spit,…!
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Dances with Black Dogs
Monday, February 11, 2008
current mood: exhausted
My Friendly Horde,
All is not well at Duck Towers.
I am lost in the depths of my own navel, again, I'm afraid.
It is a beautiful day and all I mustered was get up, get the Sunday Times and wash the windows – inside and out.
My view is clear now, clean from the recent rains and backsplash from the window boxes. It looks like spring has arrived in the grounds. Snowdrops and daffs are out, the 3legged Cat came for a staggering visit and I also – shock, horror - cleaned up 4 enormous dog turds from the lawn… If I find out who lets their best friend foul here, I will personally deliver it back through their mailbox. Rest assured!!! Maybe I need a bit more of this anti social behaviour; it wakes my inner raging bitch – like the yobby lowlife that nicked my mobile phone off the desk in the Gallery. Rage that makes me feel like I am alive.
Because, my friends, I've been a bit "Dancing with Black Dogs" of late.
First, it was the run up to Christmas, but that was counteracted by a holiday back in the home country. Once back, the "warm and wanted" effect wore and it slowly crept back up on me. The bummed birthday didn't help.
Loneliness is a bit of a drag.
If I didn't have the Gallery weekends, weeks could pass without speaking to a real person (telephone calls excluded, for obvious reasons). I play music very loudly to drown out the sound of silence, moving images on the tele as pretend company, virtual friends as plasters for a battered ego...
When people ask you how you are, they don't really want to hear the truth.
And frankly, who can blame them, nobody wants to hear doom and gloom. I'm sick of it myself. Finding yourself back on the shelf at the tender middle age of 45 is a bitter pill to swallow. But it's not just the rejection thing; it's also my own stupidity of having put me into this vulnerable position in the first place. To have build my life around 1 person for nearly 12 years was asking for trouble, no? Eggs and basket spring to mind.
Excuse me your honour, but isn't that a description of marriage? Well yes, stupid girl... only you were never elevated to marital status, were you?
I rest my case. Result: 12 years and nothing to show for it but scars... magnificent they might be; they won't pay the rent! So I'm stuck at the crossroad of boulevards of broken dreams and quite lost.
And the crossroads I'm facing are daunting, to the extend of complete paralysis: which ever choice I make, it has to be the right one; there's no time left to make more mistakes.
Does that make any sense? Rabbit caught in the headlights to use another cliché.
At this moment there's no energy left more than getting through the day.
Inertia veni vidi et vici.
I want to give myself a kick up the back side but it requests a yoga movement I haven't mastered yet. It might help if I started taking yoga lessons of course.
This complete lack of Va Va Voom in myself pisses me off no end, but even that is not enough to kick start a change. Doctor suggested Happy Pills… they didn't agree with me last time so I'm sticking to the herbal remedy for now, telling myself there's far worse in the world.
The ticking of the clock wakes me up at the impossibly early hours of the morning to dance with the Black Dog. Staving off panic, curling into a ball, rocking.
To go back (to Belgium) or not to go back, to go back or not to go back, to go back... to go back ... to fail, to fail, to fail again... until the blissful oblivion of sleep claims me back.
Needless to say I wake up rather tired from all that dancing.
current mood: exhausted
My Friendly Horde,
All is not well at Duck Towers.
I am lost in the depths of my own navel, again, I'm afraid.
It is a beautiful day and all I mustered was get up, get the Sunday Times and wash the windows – inside and out.
My view is clear now, clean from the recent rains and backsplash from the window boxes. It looks like spring has arrived in the grounds. Snowdrops and daffs are out, the 3legged Cat came for a staggering visit and I also – shock, horror - cleaned up 4 enormous dog turds from the lawn… If I find out who lets their best friend foul here, I will personally deliver it back through their mailbox. Rest assured!!! Maybe I need a bit more of this anti social behaviour; it wakes my inner raging bitch – like the yobby lowlife that nicked my mobile phone off the desk in the Gallery. Rage that makes me feel like I am alive.
Because, my friends, I've been a bit "Dancing with Black Dogs" of late.
First, it was the run up to Christmas, but that was counteracted by a holiday back in the home country. Once back, the "warm and wanted" effect wore and it slowly crept back up on me. The bummed birthday didn't help.
Loneliness is a bit of a drag.
If I didn't have the Gallery weekends, weeks could pass without speaking to a real person (telephone calls excluded, for obvious reasons). I play music very loudly to drown out the sound of silence, moving images on the tele as pretend company, virtual friends as plasters for a battered ego...
When people ask you how you are, they don't really want to hear the truth.
And frankly, who can blame them, nobody wants to hear doom and gloom. I'm sick of it myself. Finding yourself back on the shelf at the tender middle age of 45 is a bitter pill to swallow. But it's not just the rejection thing; it's also my own stupidity of having put me into this vulnerable position in the first place. To have build my life around 1 person for nearly 12 years was asking for trouble, no? Eggs and basket spring to mind.
Excuse me your honour, but isn't that a description of marriage? Well yes, stupid girl... only you were never elevated to marital status, were you?
I rest my case. Result: 12 years and nothing to show for it but scars... magnificent they might be; they won't pay the rent! So I'm stuck at the crossroad of boulevards of broken dreams and quite lost.
And the crossroads I'm facing are daunting, to the extend of complete paralysis: which ever choice I make, it has to be the right one; there's no time left to make more mistakes.
Does that make any sense? Rabbit caught in the headlights to use another cliché.
At this moment there's no energy left more than getting through the day.
Inertia veni vidi et vici.
I want to give myself a kick up the back side but it requests a yoga movement I haven't mastered yet. It might help if I started taking yoga lessons of course.
This complete lack of Va Va Voom in myself pisses me off no end, but even that is not enough to kick start a change. Doctor suggested Happy Pills… they didn't agree with me last time so I'm sticking to the herbal remedy for now, telling myself there's far worse in the world.
The ticking of the clock wakes me up at the impossibly early hours of the morning to dance with the Black Dog. Staving off panic, curling into a ball, rocking.
To go back (to Belgium) or not to go back, to go back or not to go back, to go back... to go back ... to fail, to fail, to fail again... until the blissful oblivion of sleep claims me back.
Needless to say I wake up rather tired from all that dancing.
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