banality and memeliciousness

First things first and that's a big ol' big up for Stevo Tillotson and his wonderful world of wondrosity. I'm not ashamed to say I think the offerings from the banal pigniverse are the best things ever committed to paper. Well, they're certainly up there with the greats. And procuring aforementioned slabs of delight is now easier. Oh yes.

By which I mean if you like brilliantly funny, touching, skewed works of art with the occasional hint of anthropomorphic social commentary, go visit The Banal Pig and splash some cash. Seriously: they're all amazing! The website's all new and shiny so check it out anyway. (I hope someone's reading this, or I'll feel so foolish ranting at myself when I already own them all and HAVE checked out the website!)

Obviously I have to recommend Ethel Sparrowhawk as your main destination as I co-authored it and all, but that only happened because I love everything Stevo's scribbled. And the new Banal Pig Funnies is all colourful and shiny and my youngest daughter won't let it go coz it's so beautiful and so funny. Just don't tell social services as it is, ahem, a little on the not intended for the younger reader. It's part of her education to become an adult.

BUY BUY BUY. I heartily recommend.

I have a great desire to meme. It's been a while. I need the insight, I always need the insight. Today was a bit horrific at work, I need some escape. I robbed this from that lovely ginger thing, The Evil Clive.

What's the last thing you put in your mouth?
A sliver of pineapple. Did you know pineapple contains enzymes that devour human flesh and pineapple factory workers end up with no fingerprints as a consequence. I always consume it with rum, to be on the safe side.

What does your last text message say?
It was an ADULT declaring interest in a CHILD's book I just found on my shelf at work. What are things coming to?

What was the last song you listened to?
"I'm ok with my decay" oh it'd be absolutely the most heartbreaking six minutes of music if it wasn't followed by "The Warming Sun" which is absolutely the most agonisingly heartbreaking (nearly) six minutes of beautiful, beautiful pain. What a wonderful (approximately) twelve minutes this is. Fetch the tissues, she's about to blurt.

What's your favorite colors?
Grammar!!! Tut. Rich dark purple, rich dark red, rich dark black. And candyfloss pink.

Who do you trust in your life?
No one completely. And certainly not myself.

What name would you change your name to?
Jemima von Schindelberg. It's classy, yet self-ironising and expresses who I am about a million times better than the load of wank my parents saddled me with.

How often do you curse?
I'd never wish harm upon another. I am constantly swearing. Usually in my head seeing as it's deemed inappropriate to use foul language openly in my line of work. Sometimes teachers put their heads inside cupboards to have a swear: education FACT, fact fans.

Do you trust all of your friends?
As I started to say earlier, it's not sensible to trust too much, people are free to change and alter, and I'm a very suspicious and paranoid creature. But I'd leave my valuables unattended, turn my back and tell the truth to a small number of LUCKY folks.

Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?
I think there usually ends up being a reason where unlikely things ultimately make sense to us, but there would be if 'the other' things had happened. So no, but we learn learn learn and grow grow grow from it regardless. Well if we've any sense we do.

Name the things you would NOT tolerate in a relationship?
Right now I'm more at the desperate end of the continuum and this precludes fussiness, really, but trying to tell me what to do, trying to make me feel stupid and having a cock rate quite high on the list of no nos.

Which one of your top friends do you think would make the best prostitute?
ROFL. Like any of us haven't done it for dollars in one way or another. We should really ditch the stigma.

What features do you find most attractive in the opposite sex ?
Musical/artistic talent, evil sense of humour, the ability to talk about music at length is attractive in all people. But define attractive. I don't have to fuck them just coz I enjoy their company, do I?

What is a goal you would like to accomplish in the near future?
Writing the end of year reports without it killing me. Not dying while being tattooed. Two weeks.

If you were to wake up from being in a coma for an extended time who would you want to see first?
Friends. Actually, no, I'd like to see me being tended by competent medical care givers. I'd like to wake up to find The Young Doctors gathered round my bed!

Would you make a good parent?
Hah. Blatesantly not. I'm a terrible parent. Though a friend at work says ALL kids tell their parents they're rubbish, as it's a terribly effective way to wound.

Where was your default picture taken?
At the bus stop.

What does your 11th text say?
'It's a girl...' My friend had a baby!

Its 4 in the morning, your phone rings who do you expect it to be?
Either my mom because it wouldn't especially strike her as an inconvenient thing to disturb a sleeping person, or B because he knows I wouldn't mind.

How is life going for you right now?
Erm, a bit dramatic and scary to be honest.

Who was the last person you talked to on MSN?
Oh it's been a while, but I think it was Claire.

Last words you spoke?
It was paraphrasing what just happened in Scrubs for my daughter who's either hearing impaired, daft or just REALLY REALLY absorbed by baked beans.

Can you play guitar hero?
I am a fucking guitar hero, I don't need no goddamn game!

Do you prefer warm or cold weather?
HOT HOT HOT, though I prefer when the hot weather is combined with not-working and drinking beer in close proximity to water.

What do you currently hear right now?
My jaws munching into crispy, crispy pizza crust, and the saliva on my tongue sizzling in response to the heat of jalapeno. Which is a much funnier word when pronounced JAPPALEENO like an old person.

What do you think your best friend's doing right now?
Who needs to think when you have the internet to stalk them with. Erm, that proved fruitless. Feeling loved, I hope. And eating a balanced diet :-)

Who is your number one person on your friends list?
I'd prefer the question 'on whose list are you the number one friend' as that'd make me feel important. Having said that, I don't really approve of grading one's friends in order of merit. A pool of top ten is much kinder and takes into account that people have different skills and bring different qualities to the table of friendship.

Do you feel like dancing?
Oh fuck yeah. PLEASE TAKE ME DANCING, SOMEONE, ANYONE...

Desperation is SUCH an ugly quality.

How much money do you have on you?
Nada: I blew this week's child support on hookers and cocaine. Only joking, I'm in my house, why would I be carrying money?

Is there someone on your mind that shouldn't be?
Well I'm certainly pondering a certain pair of married legs. The word 'torment' comes to mind.

Do you speak another language other than English?
I impressed myself the other day when I realised I could remember quite a lot of Urdu. By quite a lot, I mean almost none. But I did impress myself. I speak l33t reasonably well, a smattering of Portuguese, a splash of French and if I put in the hours I'll soon (erm) be fluent (LMAO) in Catalan. So long as I can ask for beer, ice cream and the toilet, it'll be fine.

Does florid bullshit count as a language?

What did you do today?
I got fucking lied to by a thieving, knife carrying little...
(calm...
calm...
I didn't break down and cry in front of my class despite really wanting to, THAT's what I did, while offering my children a forum in which to discuss their moral responsibilies, social consequences, fears of violent crime, worries about safety, doubts and so on. )

...REMORSELESS SOCIOPATH! that's what he is. I hope I really am calmer by the next time I have to have him in my classroom.

Did you date anyone this past summer?
Sad face. I'll just say 'it's been a year' and leave it at that.

Who was the last friend in your house?
Beer and Musics!!! or Claire as she's also known.

Is there someone you want to fight?
Moral highground: all the parents who are failing their kids and destroying society. And suddenly I start raining punches on my own head. Apparently when a kid tells her (or his) parent they're rubbish it's not only deeply wounding but also a long lasting pain.

What are you thinking about right now?
Vaseline. My lips are dry.

What were you doing an hour ago?
Washing up. And causing the death of an arachnid that I didn't mean to kill. Sorry Gina the Spider.

Where were you friday night?
GRAMMAR! Preposition, for fuck's sake. Doubleplus tut. Watching inappropriate telly in bed with my daughter. Crying. Drinking. Laughing. Crying. Cuddling. Crying.

Do you wear the seatbelt in the car?
THE seatbelt, is there only one? I'd probably let someone else have it if there's only one, but hold their hand in some illusion of safety. I wouldn't willingly travel without, but I'm almost never in a car and they don't have seatbelts, for some insane reason, on buses.

Has anyone ever mistaken you for someone else?
I was once told I looked like the scary one from bananarama that replaced Siobhan. I've since changed my hair and lipstick. And yes I do remember her name, but I shan't dignify her with a mention. I sound exactly like my mom on the phone. Oh we've been confused many hilarious times.

Next vacation you are going on?
Catalunya with Claire and various dependents. Oh I can't wait, though I will.

Do you like to text or call more?
I'd love to talk in person seeing as I can't be with anyone, ever, coz I'm so unmentionably unlovable, but I'm far too scared of disturbing people and being a nuisance to call when I want a chat. But I'm scared of being a text nuisance too. So I'd like to email more. Hence I email more.

Whats the closest blue object to you?
A small stack of Tesco's 'computers for schools' vouchers. Really should give them in.

Is there anyone you hate?
Sort of, but I'm being unreasonable, stupid, foolish, silly; and hate isn't a jedi concept.

Do you like the color orange?
I can't wear it myself, but yes, I do, a lot.

Where was your last long road trip to?
ROADTRIP??? Well, S drove us out of Brum when we had a teacher training day at a leisure centre a couple of weeks ago. That was a bit roadtrippy. Actually I was a bit of a drag that day, it was a bit of a really ill advised road trip.

Sometimes, do you wish you were someone else?
With someone else, yes. SomeWHERE else, yes. A better version of me, yes. But I'm pretty special, really, so no.

Who did you last talk to on the phone to?
My daughter. She was struggling to find the contact lens solution I'd sent her to town to buy, but by the time I called back she was nearly home. Actually I haven't checked if she bought the right stuff. All I know is she only bought two items in the '3 for 2' dips offer. C'mon, of COURSE we need more hummous.

Where will you be in an hour?
Either in front of the computer, singing tunelessly and marking English books, or soaked in dishwater while washing up in the kitchen OR raiding the drink cupboard, soaking myself in rum.

And yes, I've learned a lot from that.

The Long Awaited Return of...

It's been centuries since I last posted. Seems that way. Now that I'm having a lovely day to myself AND no work tomorrow I may as well attempt a catch up. What else would I be doing? The washing? Writing the script i promised I'd write for drama club? Making a start on writing the fucking reports that no one will even read? Marking the mountain of stupid books I brought home?


I shall start simple. Right now I'm nibbling on leftovers. Gorgeous basilly olives and fried potatoes in sweet chilli raita. Possibly it's a mish mash of flavours that shouldn't go together, but it's making me happy. Salty! Today, being childless for a while, has been a marvellous chilled free for all. Well, free for me, for I am all. Playing other people's music and singing along, then finding I have to turn them down coz I have songs of my own that need to take precedence. Gosh, if I gave myself permission to do this more often I might actually DO something with all my potential. Ha.


Last night I was a grown up. After mojitos, gingery pak choi and a Doctor Who that I don't think was as well executed as it might have been, BB and me made our way into the beautiful fragrant city of Birmingham. Now I enjoyed cooking for a friend, casual as it was, more than much of anything else. And the music was too loud. And the other bar goers were all dressed like fules. And I went home when I felt tired. It's a bad sign that this 'being in my thirties' may well have taken over. Eek.


There was an awful moment while drinking some rather badly made Kir Royales in 1940s Marseille (a highly accordioned Café Rouge) (2008), a question was posed: when we were apprentice alcoholics back in the day, the drink of choice was pints of snakebite and blackcurrant. Sweet and syrupy with the alcohol all but masked. Is the delicate, refined combination of fine fizzy wine and luxurious creme de cassis just the next step up from snakebite and black? If so: eek. There is nothing new under the sun.


The preceding week was a bit up and down, fluctuating between weeping despair and grinning confidence. Having a day off because the school is used as a polling station was excellent. The results of said election were not. I despaired at British fascism this time last year and the year before and that didn't seem to change the voting habits of my neighbours, so I shan't lament at how many votes right wing bastards convinced people to give them this year. It's just too awful. I was a good girl: I rowed and beautiful row on the rowing machine. My muscles really do bring me so much joy. Toward the end of the week I remembered how to cook vegetables and spent quality time with my very much beloved daughters. And then I was a bad girl. I drank far too much, my diet was dominated by the 'pot noodle' and I smoked a cigarette and a half FOR NO GOOD REASON. But I'm really trying to escape the pattern of thinking where I'm labelling myself as good or bad, veering between two unacceptable extremes, as it does seem to be destroying me. I have come to realise I don't want to be destroyed. Two people separately suggested I should take up netball. I'd really, really like to. This would be a fun chance to be active and meet people. I'd really, really like that. We'll see if anything comes of this.


Last weekend was an exhausting trip to the place I'd rather be. Nothing too dramatic, really. Just STOLE a trip on a Thames boat (I didn't mean to) and got BEATEN at air hockey (my arm hurt from carrying a too-heavy bag). Then there were nuts on the Northern Line and an outrageous conversation about the Moon Cup that made a few passersby blush a little. Ha. There was also a bit of DIY, a little aubergine and some ganging up with B's boyfriend to torment him. Again: ha. And then on to karaoke with the best DJ in the world. Yes I am being completely objective. He might be one of my best friends but Bert's skill behind the turntables (laptop: this is 2008, guys!) and mic are better than anybody else in the world ever. Yes. Utterly objective and beyond debate. I was quite pleased with my Walk Away (as made famous by Franz Ferdinand) VERY pleased with my Under The Bridge (made famous by Red Hot Chili Peppers) greatly disappointed by my Walk On By (mfb Dionne Warwick) and actually not fully conscious by the time I lurched into my just-for-fun Walk Like An Egyptian (mfb The Bangles). I'm amazed I got to sing so often, the pub was packed with eager punters desperate to share the song in their hearts. Best of all I had a number of momentous chats with lovely G. It pretty much doesn't matter what you're doing if you've a friend to share it with. There is possibly a nugget of wisdom in that, a nugget I really should absorb and remember.


and finally the long awaited return of...

The toilet self portrait. Hurrah. Be kind, I'm a bit rusty with the old camera.

incoherent ranting

Teachers are greedy beggars who get so much time off that they have no right to ever complain about anything however immoral or unacceptable it might be. It's a vocation, it's a callling, to even ask for payment is pretty much snatching bread from the mouths of children. We might as well just stab them in the eye and piss on their mothers if we're going to plump for industrial action.

Either that or statistics is a refuge of liars and the government are a bunch of flithy statisticians.

I wonder.

This morning the TV news told me that the average teacher gets a salary of £33 000. It compared favourably with the paltry salaries of the police and nurses that the government had provided. Seeing as I swooned and said 'I wish!' I thought I'd make my discontent public. I also figured a little research wouldn't hurt.

Now I know teachers in London get more moneys, and I know once you're into headteachery waters things change, but I'm neither of these things, and the majority of the people protesting today aren't either. I wasn't on strike incidentally, my union aren't protesting at the moment, but I do feel shortchanged if my pay rise for a bloody difficult and demanding job is less than inflation. Because, to quote Spaced, that's not fair.

So the main and upper pay scales for teachers outside of London, according to NASUWT website and assuming I did the right combination of clickings is as follows:
£20,133
£21,726
£23,472
£25,278
£27,270
£29,427 (MPS)


£31,878
£33,060
£34,281 (US)

Which totals 246,525, which divided by nine gives us a WHOPPING average salary of £27, 392 for an AVERAGE teacher if you look at my definition of average.

But it really makes me think, not a pretty sight, I assure you, about what is being counted in government figures? I'll never trust a statistic again. How easy it must be to use a different criteria for the teachers' pay compared to the police or the nurses, to belittle the argument. How simple to manipulate the numbers so you're not technically lying, but you're not exactly painting a fair and true picture either. Not to mention how pathetic it is to try to quieten our complaints by pointing out how badly other vital workers are being rewarded. And they make it sound like pay is a trivial, selfish and petty reason to strike. I became a teacher because I need to earn a living. IT IS A JOB. I work for money. Yes I have job satisfaction and I wouldn't be there if I didn't want to help open doors and allow young people to reach beyond their potential, but I wouldn't be there more if they didn't pay me enough.

And I'm basically happy with my salary and my job, but when the government disses my crew I start to get defensive and examine things, and I'd be doing a truly horrendous job for the children if I only worked the hours I was paid for and only undertook the roles in my job description. Gordon Brown, Mr Scary Eyebrows and that Mr Testicles had better watch their backs. I thought Labour were in charge.

In other news two days of strikes by disgruntled council workers led to me pasting my walls with stimulating celebrations of learning and the children's wonderful work, which is really lovely.

Hmm.

Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant!

And what was so good and so thrilling and so exciting for this chic geek? Why last night's episode of Doctor Who of course. What else could it be?

The first episode was ok. Too much setting up the relationship between Doctor and Donna, a nice quantity of improbable but cute aliens and a delicious twist. I thought the writing was rather weak in places. I was rather hoping the journalist could have just left the building as Matron hit the ground, that would have been a mercy killing, purely because of the crap that came out of her mouth.

BUT THE SECOND EPISODE WAS ELECTRIC. There may be spoilers herein. I can't help myself. And anyone who didn't see it as it was broadcast is an idiot.

So what makes a brilliant episode of Who?

Well:
1) Informative.
And I know I was always a bit of a geek for the classical world but OH I was thrilled by the recreation of Old Pompeii. Or Brand New Pompeii, as it appeared to her inhabitants. And I especially liked the attention to language. Their not having a word for volcano yet; the attempts at Latin sounding Welsh. I'll never (unless I do) forget my first Latin teacher explaining how the pronunciation of Latin is unknown but Oxford and Cambridge have their theories. I was captivated by the challenge, the mystery, the uncertainty. Thank you, Miss Stanley. I like the idea that the biggest and best entertainment programme in the world ever could stimulate an interest in ancient history, or in diagrams of circuitry for that matter, and call me hopelessly Brechtian if you will, but I think art should aim for some sort of education.

2) New. The effect of aliens and disasters on contemporary London is interesting, yes, but I would wager that it was easier to relate to the emotions of the characters and so on despite the lurch in time and space. Isn't that what the Tardis is for. And if so why the hell is so much of current Who so limited. I WANT TO SEE NEW THINGS. Things like history. I hadn't realised this was such a big issue for me, but I'm realising I'm actually rather angry that the production team haven't provided me with more recreations of the past. A bit of the Blitz, a shimmy of Shakespeare, a vial of Victoriana, that rubbish about the Dalekanium or whatever it was. Not enough!

3) Subversive.
Although the episode was set amongst real events, long distant events that really haven't been forgotten (so far), they gave a new gloss. The eruption only being a fixed point in history because the Doctor made it happen. All that 'greater good' debate. Donna the great humanitarian; the Doctor jaded perhaps, able to disconnect, damaged by his own losses. And WHY can't he go back and save Gallifrey? It was lovely to have a new slant on an old tragedy. And why couldn't and why shouldn't they save a few worthy people from the ash? Surely some Pompeiians escaped, surely some were out of town, or got into the hills. But what made the four that the Doctor did whisk out of danger worthy, eh? How does one compare life with life? What difficult issues this raises. Delicious!

4) Credibility.
"Those actors," I sought to impress on young Miss Citrus, "are proper famous!" Phil Davis' stoneface was ace. I yearned for a smile, it couldn't come. Peter Capaldi was just alive. He's got himself a rather special screen presence. I absolutely believed in him. The battle of prophecies flying around the room was super drama. The writing was tight. The relationships between Capaldi's character's family, constrained by a nod to historical accuracy, yet so contemporary, were so relevant and fresh. I know all about teenage girls turning to stone in order to elicit a bit of bandage sympathy. Mother throwing her son's wine away in the presence of the 'marble inspector' was touching. I suppose the Pompeiians would look on psychic paper and believe it to be a little wax tablet? Hmmh?

5) Incredibility.
My modern eyes looked on the Roman polytheism with tender scorn. Silly Romans with their cute superstitions. As if anyone is listening. But within the world of Who there are many things unknown by the simple minded. I'll include myself in 'simple minded'. They believed the mountain rumbled because of gods being angered. My 21st century conceit tutted 'it's a bit of geological unrest'. BUT IT WASN'T, WAS IT! Ok it was aliens and not gods in the traditional sense, but ah-ah, this surely just raises questions and opens the debate about human worship of deities. Oh and I just adored how the Sybilline Sisters communicated with their eye-adorned hands covering their 'real' eyes. They were cute. As Obi-Wan tried to teach us in that other great philosphical and historical documentary, sometimes vision can obscure what's really happening. Who wouldn't sign up and take in the fumes for a costume like that?

But what should we make of again hearing the Doctor mention 'the shadow proclamation'? Twice in two episodes. It's not this series' Bad Wolf is it? Or am I just being too suspicious after the heavy handed Saxonisation of series 'three'.

And Tate's caricatured delivery of about half her lines really grates on me. But, I suppose, people can be irritating in real life, so it's just a hard to bear form of verisimilitude to cast her in a leading role.

And now then Citrus wanted to know where Captain Jack was as she reckons, I can't remember, that he claimed to be in Pompeii on eruption day. He wasn't bragging and lying was he? SUCH a show off that one. And NOW she claims that the Whovian in the Auton episode of Series 'One' had a drawing of Ecclestone's doctor in Pompeii. I'm not nearly geek enough to comment on any of this. Oh it was brilliant, I don't care about this stuff undermining my belief.

I can't wait to watch the repeat tonight because my oldest daughter's a simpleminded idiot who'd rather be off 'socialising' with her 'friends' than curled up on the sofa worshipping geekery. She won't escape that easily.

And my enjoyment was heightened by the sudden realisation I could have a playlist themed to the episode. What joy. Somewhat muted, or was it enhanced, by getting online and finding out my idea had already been done. Not better, not worse; just different.

1) the not really appropriate since the magma didn't really emerge from within the earth in the course of the episode: Ministry's Lava. I think the beautiful repetitive industrial grind is worth this little fudge.
2) utterly appropriate given the sisterly worship: Veruca Salt's Volcano Girls.
3) a lovely touch, I thought, Mastodon's Hand of Stone. That's what happens if you inhale!
4) relating to initial misunderstanding I went for Rocket From The Crypt's When In Rome. They weren't in Rome, they were in Pompeii. Oh the hilarity.
5) if you squirt a teensy bit of lukewarm water at a red hot bundle of molten rock apparently it's enough to destroy the monster, so Marilyn Manson's Rock is Dead seemed appropriate.
6) and when the air is full of ash, cinder and smoke one might think The Sky Is Fallin'. Thanks, Queens of The Stone Age.
7) Cinder and Smoke, Iron & Wine. self explanatory, really.
8) ok there wasn't much in the way of light hearted boogeying, but Disco Dust from Jim Martin seemed to evoke something of the surprise one might feel on being encased in a cast of ash. That's not a reference to DRUGS I hope.
9) of course it wasn't floods of lava that brought death but being Choked on the ash. So naturally I turned to Sons & Daughters for song 9.
10) and finally I shall pay tribute to all that soothsaying with Soulfly's Prophecy. They can be wrong, you know, but only when the future's yet to be confirmed. Or it's a load of mumbo jumbo and nonsense.

The White Album

I am not overly fond of catalogues that drop through my door. The imposition! Trying to raise a few bucks, some chancer pokes his wares through MY letterbox. It's indecent. Partly this is an outrage of 'do I look like the sort of person who would want your tat?' proportions, and partly this is a consequence of traditionally being a bit rubbish at knowing where things are. Oh the letters demanding the return of said catalogue can get nasty. If you wanted to keep it, you shouldn't have shoved it into my house. Finders keepers and it's in the bin now.

I'm always amazed by the range of products. They're so specific. A spray for creating outdoor freshness in that corner underneath your windowsill; a cream to maintain a supple elbow patch; nail varnish especially developed for the needs of the thumbnail; door handle detergent; bra expanders. I've always thought it silly. Although I did once succumb and buy...no, never mind. It annoys me that they seem to invent a product for a job that didn't previously exist. They are creating work for us and making us pay for the privilege. Arse.

Tile Grout Whitener

It was never a priority of mine to have white grouting between my tiles. Perhaps this is my (rather dominant) slovenly side dominating here. Perhaps every decent upstanding citizen strives to not just clean, not just hygienically clean, but shimmeringly clean grouting. But I never saw how it could possibly matter, until.

I want to sell my house. Not today, and not even next year, but FOR SOME UNKNOWN REASON my house is a bit shit. It couldn't be years of sloveliness, could it? So I'm trying to work out where improvements are needed and attempting to make some small changes toward a better tomorrow. I'm all about the better tomorrow. So far it's going well.

Yesterday The Citrus Girl and I started on the not-white-anymore grouting between the tiles in the bathroom. We tried, and made an AMAZING discovery. It would seem you don't need a special expensive solution in an ugly little bottle after all, the magic combination BLEACH AND A SCOURER, when applied with an element of energetic force and a soupcon of washing up liquid, makes the grouting revert and the tiles sparkle! I should write in to Woman's Own and let all the homemakers know about my amazing discovery.

And then this morning, without even having to lift a finger I found dear old Mother Nature had dealt my garden a great favour. SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! Underneath a layer of the cold white stuff even my garden looks delightful. So that's two things off the to do list, providing the grouting doesn't decide to gunge up again, and the snow decides not to melt. Hmm. POSSIBLY I'm avoiding responsibility again. Imbuing all these inanimates with more agency than I'm prepared to accept is probably not the best way to realise my dreams.




There's some frogspawn under there somewhere.



It's The Alps. Outside my kitchen window. What are the chances?

And to balance out all this 'white = good' dominance I shall speak of the joy of the suntan I'm looking forward to, how angry I was when bleachy water made pale streaks on my purple bathroom walls and the delight I experienced when I pulled a nicely browned cauliflower cheese out of the oven. Colour is good.

On not smelling of wee

So, continuing with the theme of omigod I'm so old, now that a week has passed I've built up just enough strength to comment on my experiences at The Thing. I liked The Thing. The Thing was good. There were people buying little comics. Well it looked like they were buying, and I know I was, but it just seemed much busier and better patronised than most of the comic conventions I've attended.

One day the peoples in charge of the expos and conventions will cotton on to the fact that if they advertise the damn things they might get more people attending. More people = more exposure, more money, a better more viable scene, heightened creativity, the merging of different creative worlds and more money. But I have never EVER seen a comic event advertised outside of comic circles (apart from that time in Wolverhampton when Batman was handing out fliers about ten bloody years ago. Ok. I'm a liar.) and if you'll only tell people who are already in the circle of comcidom about events then only existing true believers will ever believe. It annoys me. For once I don't want to keep it all for myself.

So time for a review or two.

First up big shouts for the master of anthropomorphism who doesn't make me want to use an axe in a bad way. It's the Banal Pig. Now I'd proclaim Stevo a genius and a hero even if he didn't bring my scribbles to life. (yes, two dimensional drawings are THE SAME as life. is there really any question about this?) But he does. And Tillotson IS a genius. And my life hasn't been the same since I joined the fanclub. Meaning it's been BETTER. Oh yes. The badge from my fanclub pack went straight onto the strap of my bag, or pride of place as I refer to it; the easy on the eye yet full colour Banal Pig poster has been framed. though I'm yet to find somewhere to hang it; the Banal Pig Completist will go down as my second favourite comic of 2008 and caused horrendous noises to snort out of me as I read it on the tube. I think it was Doctor Octopus diagnosing a case of bus stop willy that caused such mirth, though it might have been Irate Robot's entirely reasonable response to outrageous circumstances. Apologies fellow tube users.

And Stevo's hair was especially good. Friendly, yet skillful. Playful, yet making a point.

But BEST comic of the year would have to go to fellow Banal Pigger Gareth Brookes. Woman Woman is everything I look for in a comic, deceptive yet perceptive. (I'm going to have to stop with the "a statement...yet...another statement" format or this post is going to become mighty tedious mighty soon.) Naive, yet crude. (I'll stop later, not yet though.) With the simplified stick drawings we recognise our shared humanity. Our shared human crapness. The cruelty of gender inequalities, the patronising horror of fluffy-gay loving woman idiots, the impossibility of adequate communication when language and gendering leaves such chasms. It's brillliant and should be read by all.

And Gareth's hair was quite nice, but nothing on Stevo's, sorry.

I should point out that my hair, was, and indeed is, nothing to write home about. Maybe someone should make a comic about the horrors that surely would follow if I were stupid enough to take my hat off.

What next? Well I shall notice quite casually that there are an AWFUL lot of comic related producers who use monkeys and orangutans in their name. How many? As many as Brian hated The Romans. A LOT. And the best of the bunch (of bananas) in my not at all authoritative opinion is Monkeys Might Puke from the charming Sleazy Dan Lester. I purchased The Crap Your Pants Anthology, (full of shit, but in the good way) Junkies In Space (sample quote: "If you go back in time and rape yourself, has a crime been committed?" Wrong IS funny.) and my personal fave, Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Zombies. (Informative, insightful and QUITE LITERALLY very, very funny. How to recognise a zombie: "hello there, are you a zombie at all?" "I'm afraid so, old chap" being evidence that the suspect is NOT a zombie. Though I wouldn't take the presence of zombies in a comic as a guarrantee of readability.) Best of all we are informed that comic reading and/or making is NOT the be all and end all of human existence. No, in fact during the 24 hour production of ...zombies... Sleazy Dan also spent much time with Prince of Persia, Battlestar Galactica and food. Lots of funny on the website, I especially liked the video When A Man Loves A Chicken. Well haven't we all been there?

Dan's hair, erm, was fine.

Deirdre Ruane's Wasted Epiphanies Issue 2 had a pretty cover and only cost a pound. That it contained a variety of mildly thought provoking nuggets was a bonus: I was sold at the pretty! My favourite was The Afterlife (According to my mum) a touching and personal account of how departed dears have a positive effect on the life of a living dear. But I'm easily moved by stuff like that. With a scratchy, casual, hurried, style reminiscent of The Modern Parents in places, this issue is very endearing. I'd like a little more development though. More to the story. It's a lot like sharing tapas with a really hungry friend.

Sorry, I don't remember Deirdre's hair.

Now in spite of very variable artwork and rather dodgy binding, I'll be giving Mal Smith's Left of Centre (issues one and two) a double thumbs up. That's two thumbs for each issue. Loads of lovely (well, violent might be a better word) well paced ideas. A transgendered superhero questing to find what's right in a world where of grey areas and endless debate. Hot, sweaty, sticky girl sex. Guns. Shadows. Diversity and diversions. And the best explanation of Evolution of the Species I've ever read. Possibly the only one, but this one comes with really nice pictures so is BOUND to be the best of all ever. And, surely this can't be, I got both AND A LOVELY PAPER BAG to carry them in, for three quid. Absolutely the best buy of the day.

And Mal's hair was just lovely.

But my ever present screeches of "learn to spell" and "learn to use the apostrophe properly" have been heard rather too frequently during the comic immersion that informed this review. I'm too much of a gentlewoman to point fingers or label specifics. I don't have enough fingers! In one case I convinced myself the inacuracies are, if not intentional necessarily, part of the charm and integral to the message. And I do know that being a grammarian isn't exactly fashionable or necessary to life, and Lard Almighty knows I make more and more (shocking) errors as I slide into old age, but SURELY even the most casual comic maker has access to someone who knows their way around an apostrophe.

I'LL DO IT!!!! JUST ASK ME!!!! I'll read your proof!!!!!

And I bought some other stuff but I can't be bothered to read it and it wouldn't be any good if I started putting half formed ideas on the interweb, now would it?! ? I mean, REALLY! that wouldn't be like me.

Ahem.

Kult of Gard-o

So I'm old, yeah? I tried to get drunk last night and just couldn't be bothered. So I went to bed early. Friday night and I'm tucked up before ten. What is the world coming to? And then I realised I'd missed (that not very good but still I want to watch it programme) Torchwood coz they've messed with the schedule. For the second week in a row. Though to be fair last week I missed the extra episode because of some foreign talent show nonsense. But basically they should have scheduled the series better so they didn't need to cram in the last episodes in order to finish in time for the new season of Who.

My kids are not impressed that Doctor Who is being broadcast at TWENTY past six. They're taking it as some kind of blasphemous sacrilege. On the hour or at half past, fine, but Doctor Who deserves better than the indignity of TWENTY past! I have never heard a silence so complete and reverent than when I played the trailer. I do hope at some point during this series the Doctor espouses the importance of being nice to yer old mum, championing the vital necessity for young people to help out around the house without sulky backchat, campaigning for a better caring treatment for long suffering overworked single parents. They'll listen to him. Mind control. It's a bit like the Hitler Youth or one of those dreadful cults like Scientology or Christianity.

I had a mental dream last night. And true ALL dreams are mental and the events would only be noteworthy if they'd occurred in reality, but still, I shall relate in the hope of gaining insight. So I was in some kind of big venue, backstage, in a big sort of bedroom, trying to (and very nearly successfully) make out with a lovely lady. And with language like that I will be single and unloved for a LONG, LONG TIME. Our intimacy was interrupted because I was needed on stage. Blates. Of course they needed me. So I had to inch across a tiny ridge in the wall, clinging to cracks in the tiles to get from the auditorium to the stage and by some miracle (of laughably small feet probably) I made it. Then me, Bill Oddie and Tim Brooke-Taylor were rushing headfirst down a child's colourful plastic slide, while singing for The Bee Gees. Singing very well, I might add. And while I've always been very fond of The Goodies, I was never keen on the Brothers Gibb. And then I met with Dr Graeme Garden in the wings and gushed about how proud it made me to usurp his position. But by the time I got back to the room of big beds and lovely ladies, it was too late for sex.

What the hell was that all about?

Or did I just have too much sleep?