A few weeks ago some boxes were delivered to the house. And in one of them was a puppy! No, I’m kidding. It wasn’t a puppy, it was a really enormous deadly bomb. I’m kidding again. Sorry, I’m trying to spice this story up and I haven’t even started yet.

Anyway, some boxes were delivered, to me, in my house, by a van and a man. The man was driving the van, with the boxes in, and then he delivered them to my door and made me sign a piece of paper. He was a nice man, but I didn’t fancy him. At all. I did let him use my toilet, though. And he made it smelly, the ingrate. One day I’m going to track him down and use his toilet. One day when I need a really big poo. That’ll learn him.

Anyway, the boxes were full of pieces of my life in paper form. Photographs and diaries and college essays and gosh that reminds me of something else I was going to post. I think I mentioned the diaries a few weeks ago. More recently, I’ve been putting photos into albums.

There’s a whole two new Iona albums. One from the holidays I went on there, and one o the two years I worked there. The second contains not so many of the island itself, but many many many of me, due to a bizarre tradition I’ve never understood. People come and go often on Iona. Not just guests, but colleagues and volunteers and visitors. And when they get home, and get their photos developed, they would often send pictures back to you as a present. But wierdly, they would send endless amounts of pictures of the person they were sending the pictures to. Good God, I know what I look like, dolt. It’s you I’m never going to see again.

Quite often, if they were pictures of you WITH someone else, they would have cut the picture IN HALF so that they could SEND THE OTHER HALF TO THE OTHER PERSON IN THE PICTURE. The big bunch of penises. Lovely, wholesome, nut-filled and well-meaning penises, bless’m, but a penis is a penis whatever novelty wig and moustache you put on it, really, isn’t it?

Anyway.

There is also a very full album of pictures I took while studying for a semester in Davis, California. The pictures are great for several reasons.
- Firstly, as I’ve mentioned many many times, I have a very bad memory. Horribly bad, and it upsets me some amount. Pictures help that, because I can see what I’ve been doing, and remember that way.
- Secondly, having these pictures in one place is a good way of reminding myself that I am a very very very bad photographer, and should be kept away from cameras At Whatever Cost.

The main problem is that I always seem to think that I’m a very good photographer, and see things, and try and take arty shots of them, and end up with a triptych of a bench not moving in drizzly weather, close-up out of focus shots of normal lino, or five pictures of no ducks. There have been, by my hand, about 9 billion pictures of the sky, DOING NOTHING.

I am a bad photographer. But was still pleased to find my 200 pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge. We spent several weekends in San Francisco, my friend and I , and every single time we were overwhelmed by the Golden Gate Bridge. Just being near it made us unfeasibly excited. And, of course, we were getting doubles of all photos and sharing them out.

Of course, while standing next to each other both taking pictures, we should have known that we were going to end up with two remarkably similar images (although, of course, mine were always slightly the more rubbish, mysteriously enough). Thus, I ended up with over two hundred pictures of the bridge. From under it in a boat, under it walking, from far away on one side, from far away on another, from far away on the water, from a hill looking down over it, from a plane above it, taken while walking over it, taken while driving over it. If there’s someone out there with more pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge than me, then they either built it, or they’re planning on blowing it up.

Among the pictures - and I think this is my crowing glory - there is a slightly blurred picture of a shop, a building on a street corner. I do remember taking this, which is good, because otherwise I’d be very confused. I don’t know what the shop was, without looking, and I can’t be arsed right now. It might be a dry cleaners. I don’t know.

Anyway. We were driving down Sunset Boulevard, when the man driving the car - John - pointed out ‘Whisky a Go Go’, the club where The Doors were discovered, or something. Well well, I thought, that seems like just the sort of thing a good tourist should take a picture of. So I scrambled for my camera while we were stopped in traffic. Then I took a picture. Then the traffic started moving. I put the camera back on my lap, realising with almost 400-speed film immediacy that while my picture was undoubtbly a well framed and composed one, it didn’t matter, as I hadn’t taken the lens cap off.

Hurredly, I took the lens cap off, and took a picture. A picture of The Corner After The Corner On Which Whisky a Go Go stands. A street corner Which looked quite similar to the one with Whisky a Go Go on it, but different in that it didn’t contain Whisky a Go Go or, in fact, anything you would want to look at, whatsoever.

As pictures go, and I like to think of myself as a pretty unbiased judge of these things, being a general fan of art and all things beautiful and calming to the eye and mind, it’s Fucking Rubbish. Complete bollocks.

Still, it’s in there. Alongside me, drunk and asleep on the toilet (and they said I’d never make it in the tough world of Elvis impersonation…), alongside 9 million pictues of the Golden Gate Bridge, ten shots of the back end of a cable car almost out of shot because I couldn’t find my camera in time, and three pictures of a grey sea off the coast of Northern California. I think we may have seen a whale. Maybe. You cannot, of course, see it in the pictures.

Someone said they liked the content of this site, but asked if I would post more pictures.

a: No.

Fucking. Way. Sweetheart.
Believe me, it’s for the good of us all.

(little.red.contemporary.art.project.no2)

Seen through the window of the bus:

Two scruffy youths, 11-13 years of age, standing outside an undertakers, while smoking and trying to get adult passers-by to buy them fireworks from the shop next door.

I’m wondering if the government put them there as some form of subtle power-of-suggestion public information campaign.

It’s either that or they were art.

Or placed there by some kind of pro-emmigration body. Because I know I suddenly had a whim to move to Canada.

But most likely art.

I choose to go with ‘Socially responsible chav performance art perhaps funded by the Canadian immigration Art Board’.

I’ve always had this theory about pub mirrors.

Or fresh air. Or pub air. Or bus air. Or pub toilet lighting. Or pub lighting. Or, you know, something.

The thing has always been this (or so every sitcom would have us believe):
6.30pm Washing and showering ensues.
7.00om Getting ready to go out begins proper.
7.15pm Getting ready carries on.
7.30pm I’m still getting ready. Do you want me to look good for your friends or what?
7.40pm Do you like this outfit?
7.42pm What about this one. No, not the last one, this one. Do you like this one?
7.47pmWhat about this one? No! This is the same one! You’re not even paying attention. God.
7.51pm Look. Here’s that thing I bought. You like? Do I look fat? No? What, really? You’re lying. Do you fancy my friend? Is that what you’re trying to say?
7.58pm [insert cliche; here]
8.09pm Right, I’m wearing this. I don’t care if you like it. Yes I was wearing it before, don’t pretend you suddenly adore it now. No, I don’t remember you saying it before. Git.
Oh, shut up. Beautiful my arse.
8.14pm Why are you wearing your coat? I still haven’t put any slap on… Stop shouting. Gorgeous without? Well, I don’t remember you saying that when we met. Why not? Well, I may have been wearing it at the time. Look. It’ll take me two minutes…

8.34 Right, I’m ready now. Are you coming or what?
Why is the telly on?
No of course we can’t have sex. Come along…

Fair enough, may have been playing on stereotypes maybe a little. Which is unfair, since none of us conform to those stereotypes. Now, do we?

Anyway.

Point was this:
1) I look nice when I leave the house. 8 mirrors tell me so. I bought them, so they can’t possibly lie to me. That would be a sue-able offence.
2) Forty minutes later, I view myself in the pub mirror, and look bloody awful.

SOMETHING MUST HAVE HAPPENED IN THIS TIME.

When I left the house, I was looking very good, thankyouverymush, I was one of the more attractive people I know. Or I think I’m one of the more attractive people I know. Or I’m one of the more attractive people I think I know. Or something. Anyway.

By the time I reach the pub? The sleek hair is fluffy, the plucked, tamed and combed brows are werewolfesque, the smooth covering of semi-expensive almost-brand make-up has the lovely shifted from movie-star-powder-smooth to the vile psycho-killer-orange-hue-patchy-vile. I suddenly look like all the pictures of myself I’ve ever hated. Double chins everywhere, darling.

If this is a general thing, and I hope it is, pubs should counter this by putting pictures of very very ugly women in their bathrooms. Because we will feel superior. And better. I don’t think I’ve felt superior many times in life. In that pub toilet would be a very good time.

It’s the best plan ever. And it’s only taken up by one North London pub, so far, but I urge you to petition your local to take part.

It’s the ‘Put a munter in the grunter‘ campaign.

The ‘Camden Head‘ has forged the way in the cistern sisterhood, it’s lady of the loo, dog of the dunny, an enormous portrait of music hall star Marie Llloyd. Cameraphone, take over:

John Peel has died.

A familiar and soft voice, and an incredible champion for new music. I know my taste in music would be poorer without John Peel and his evening sessions. And I always wanted to meet him, to be a sort of extra dad. He was like a dad, the same age as my dad, you knew that he was a dad, you could imagine him being dadd-ish. But much much cooler. I can’t think of anyone nicer in broadcasting. This is a sad thing.
Story here, Or here

Apologies for not so much posting, everytime I come online with the intention of writing something I have to spend half an hour deleting spam comments.

By then I’m so spitting angry I can’t be arsed to write anything anymore.

I’ll try harder. But it’s not you, it’s not me, it’s those attention-hungry blood-leeching twathole-covers who, apparently, ‘aren’t doing anything illegal’, just using our webspace for free advertising. I hate them. I hate them.

I’m sorry. Must try harder.

Yeah, anyway, so I went to a preview of the Turner Prize exhibition thing this evening. The utmost annual contemporary art prize for international contemporary art in this country for the last ten years EVER. Or something.

So, what did I think of the preview of the Turner Prize exhibition?

Well, the exhibition is co-sponsored by Gordon’s gin, and the invitation said there were free drinks. On arrival, we recieved two vouchers for drinks. Now, I like contemporary art a lot. I really do. But two vouchers worth one gin and tonic each is not what I call a free bar. You know what I’m saying?

I managed to get four. One extra through charm, and one through stealth. But that’s not the point right now.

The point right now is that in the last few weeks Gordon’s have released two new brands, a distilled gin, or something, which seemed, y’know, pretty ginny but fine, if you like gin. And a ‘Sloe gin’ which is pink. Let me tell you, this pink Gordon’s, it’s a thing to behold. And tastes very very nice. I may not know a lot about gin, readers, but I know what I like.

But that’s not what you want to hear about. I apologise.

Because really, really, modern art is about society, and about the perception of society, and about society’s perception of itself. It’s about how a culture thinks, and breathes , and behaves, and from that perspective, from the perspective of one of the lucky few at a preview Turner Prize viewing this evening, I can tell you, first hand, that people really like cheese straws, a lot.

You see, there were lots of those standy up tables. I mean, I know all tables stand up, they would be quickly discarded if not, I mean the standy uppy tables that you have to stand up at. on each tacle there were olives. Different types of olives, to be sure, and don’t get me wrong, I found the table with kalamata olives on pretty fucking quickly (one gets drawn to some things more than others, and it’s important to trust your instinct, I’ve learnt, in the world of modern art).

On every table in two, they had crisps, and people drifted from one to the other, trying to find a different flavour, although strangely the catering organisers had chosen to mix flavours within each bowl, a decision I can never fully applaud. While people can accept mixed materials in some media, no-one likes coming across a salt and vinegar when they expected cheese and onion. It’s like coming across a David Shrigley in a room full of De Kooning. Yeah! I know! Just so wrong…

So when the cheese straws came out, everyone knew - instictively - that they were right. It must have been terrifying for the waiters. People would see them with a plate full of cheese straws, and a small swarm would form behind them, until they reached a table, and suddenly the swarm would attack, and the waiter was lucky to get out with their lives (if they always did) and by the time the slower members of the roving hunting hungry art pack got to the table, there was nothing but fragments of stick to pick over.

It was a sad site to behold. We, however, picked a spot near a table with gin-tray girls floating nearby, and waited for the cheese straws to come to us. It may have taken more time, but when the cheese straw bounty came, we knew we had been right in waiting. Although the descending cheese-straw-vulture crowd was a mite intimidating.

So, to sum up.
- People like cheese straws
- You’ve really gotta try that pink gin shit.

Also there was some art. Some bits of the art I found extremely interesting, even moving.

The rest was mainly bollocks.

Hating adverts. Loudly. I hate them loudly.

It’s less of a vocation, more of a calling, really. I. hate. (most). adverts. Loudly. And I hate loud adverts the loudest.

I detest the fact that as I’m lying on the sofa, trying to relax, I have to constantly be on my guard, because if an advert break suddely comes, and I don’t notice, I may well be deafened, because some airtight pigfaced powder-snotted advertising execufucktard has decided that the Best Way to get my attention is to turn the volume up three or four notches so that I’M SUDDENLY BEING SHOUTED AT BY IDIOT STEREOTYPES ABOUT WASHING UP LIQUID! THAT’S RIGHT, WASHING UP LIQUID! IT’S “NEW AND IMPROVED!” APPARENTLY, AND no, never heard the rest, because the mute button’s gone on, I’ve wandered over to the pooter and without doubt the next time I look up I shall realise that I have missed ten minutes of murder and mystery and will have no chance of catching up with the plot.

I’ll try, of course. I shall sit down and try and work out how many other people may have been killed, and how many meaningful glances have passed between the chief investigator and his assistant, but as soon as I start to get a vague handle, the advert break will start, I will stick the telly on mute, pick up the paper and forget I was watching anything at all, which I wasn’t, not really.

Oooo. I fuckin’ ‘ate adverts, I do. (I hate most of them. most adverts. not all).

I hate perfume adverts, I hate how theyall look the same, like they’re filmed on lo-fi black and white Super-8 with impossibly thin and wispy looking people either
a) Being sultry. Possibly with shots of a fucking leopard pacing though a fucking maze.
OR
b) Turning around. I think turning around may be supposed to signify ‘being carefree‘. Although to be honest, it doesn’t signify anything more complicated than ‘The most complex thing we could get this model to do on demand was turn around, but don’t they do it well? Look! Pretty hair. Mmm, they must smell Yummy, mustn’t they!‘

And they have stupid poncy music, or no music at all and someone mumbling, usually in French, or going ‘I live the way I wannooo live….’ under the sound of waves and coquettish giggles. I mean, do they advertise this way because perfume is expensive and therefore it’s like art? Or because it’s ‘foreign’ and therefore kind of mysterious? Bollocks, mate. It does what it says on the fucking tin.

Here. I have a suggestion. ‘Perfume. Because smelling like your dead gran’s pot pourri may possibly help take your mind off all the things you could have spent this money on instead.’

‘Perfume. Because £30 for two squirtsworth actually will make you both thin, And carefree!‘

‘Perfume. Because you smell.‘

But you know the one that kills me at the moment? The one that makes me squirm? And would actually make me scream if I was still an actress and overly demonstrative and slightly attention seeking that way?

It’s the one with Charlize Theron. It’s L’Oréal. She’s sitting in the back of a limousine doing an interview on her ‘craft’, or so it would seem. On the very nature of acting itself.

‘To be an exeptional actor, you have to be able to become different people, change roles all the time…To be exeptionally convincing, every time’ She pouts.

Well, she says that or something like it, anyway, I mean, what did you think, that I would sit in front of the television with a notebook waiting for it to come on just so I could write it down word for word? Well of course not.
Because it didn’t come on when I wanted it to and I had to watch loads of other adverts instead. I Hate adverts. You see what I do for you?

‘My secret?’ She carries on, with all apparent sincerity… ‘I only choose the best in Exceptional hair colour’

So what you’re saying, love, basically (let me get this right) is that the reason you, or anyone else, are counted as good actors - is beacuse they’re able to dye their hair convincingly, is that right?

You have an Oscar, don’t you, Charlie love? You got your Oscar for Monster for being able to dye your hair (at home, it’s a home dye product after all), and then just stand about ‘having nicely dyed hair’? I had no idea that was actually a category.

Or no, hang on, it’s not a category, you’re just happily degrading yourself, your career, your profession, and the profession of many many other people on television, many times a day, because someone’s giving you (and let’s not kid ourselves here) an obscene amount of money for it?
Well, you go right ahead.

I shall just put the mute button on, make a cup of coffee and read my email while you do.

Because - yes, that’s right - Because You’re Worth It.

I don’t know what we did before we had freeview.

Oh, no, now I remember, we spent a whole lot more time talking and a whole lot less time saying ‘What IS this crap?’ before giving in and watching it anyway.

We had five channels, but somehow, that didn’t seem like enough, so we bought a little box. Of all the little boxes available, ours was marked down in price. It used to be expesive, and now, compared to how expensive they’d once thought it should be, it was Now A Lot Cheaper. We were amazed, and thought this was a good thing. Fools. We took it home, and we plugged it in. Shaz-am!

Suddenly our five channels had crystal clear reception… And we had gained the ability to watch three hour diamonique (just like the real thing!) specials on QVC, whenever we wanted.

There were three 24-hour news channels (which surely no-one can watch for more than a one minute at a time) and two music channels, which had approximately 30 minutes worth of videos between them. In amongst the britney video one of these chanels had a curious programme called ‘Cribs‘ which seemed to be a 22 minute long platform for showcasing rich and apparently famous people that I have uniformly never heard of, smugly showing off their oppressively opulent houses - almost all of which seemed to have been interior designed violently by an angry person with a clinical dependence on zebra print and a grudge against anyone with eyes.

Needless to say, it soon became my favourite programme, and I get grumpy when I have to miss it just because some bastard’s put an award-winning documentary on another channel that I feel I should watch instead.

Anyway. The box taunts us by making us flick past all the channels we can’t get before depositing us on the few channels we can, displaying the ‘now and next’ information on all, so we can see what we could be watching if we were a little bit richer, but aren’t watching presently, becacuse we’re not.

Actually, I said the box has killed conversation, which is not true. It inspires many conversations about:
a) ‘what we think would have happened in the show we were watching if the freeview box hadn’t just turned itself off’,
b) ‘whether it improves the technical performance of the freeview box if we shove the remote control down the back of the sofa between uses’
c) ‘whether this is officially the shittest freeview box in the world’ and
d) ‘who the hell’s stupid idea was this piece of crap freeview box anyway?’

I mean I like it, it just has a habit of knowing when a punchline’s coming up and switching itself off just before it, leaving me to guess what might be the funniest thing to say. Maybe it’s helping me hone the sitcom writing skills I never knew I was trying to develop. Maybe it’s a psychic life coaching freeview box.

It switches itself off, and then on again at a random channel at a random volume level, which inevitably leads to comedy juxtapoistions and being woken up by a shouty monster truck rally when you fell asleep to a somnubulent BBC4 documentary on theatre criticism in 1950s Britain.

The other day we discovered tellyoke. I often watch TV with the subtitles on. I don’t like loud things and shouting and stuff. So I discovered, after a magical random self-turn-offing-onning of the damnbox, that although there are some channels we cannot watch or hear we can read them. And I have to tell you - Are You Being Served without sound or picture is one of the best TV moments of my week. Just voiceless, faceless subtitles blurting out:
‘Will you get your hands off my pussy!’
(Laughter)
‘Well I will if you agree to relinquish control of my trousers!’
‘You shall have to breathe in then.’
‘Golly, this is a tight spot. Has anyone got a trouser horn?’
(Loud voices shouting in the corridor)
‘Quick! Into the changing rooms, the vicar’s coming back!’
At seemingly random intervals.

And then there was an episode of Blakadder that we’d seen so often we didn’t need the picture or sound, and happily sat there imagining what was going on as, and sometimes before, the words popped up on screen. I realise this tragic. Say nothing.

I have to go. The freeview box has just turned itself off again and I want to turn the television off as well before I get sucked in again. Oh… too late. Ooooooooooh. A diamonique earring collection come chess set? For that low price? And set in genuine imitation silver-effect brass?
Unbelivable.

Hey mate? Have you got a minute? No, it’s not a charity, honest, no, not a political party, just a quick set of questions, it’s for the good of all, it’s in the public intere… es, just random… Have you got 30 seconds?

a) Yes
b) Fuck off.

Oh. Ok. But…

1: It’s raining. You have an umbrella, and are standing at a bus shelter, do you;
a) either stand outside the shelter with your umbrella - hey, let people who are getting wet stand under the shelter - or inside the shelter with your umbrella down, because y’know,, there’s a community atmosphere and alsothat’s what shelters are for, right?
OR
b)Stand UNDER the bus shelter UNDER your umbrella. Because hell, you have an umbrella, you’re going to use it. Also, those poor people standing under the bus shelter without umbrellas, they deserve to get dripped on, and their eyes poked out and stuff. Because they’re poor. Otherwise they would be standing under this shelter with their own umbrellas.

2: Once the bus arrives, there’s one free seat you can see, do you say;
a) Well, I’ll wait to see if anyone more needy needs it, and if no one needs to really want or need the seat, I shall sit in it.
OR
b) I will Sit. In. The fucking. Seat. Who cares who else wants it. Old? Bollocks! Disabled? Fuck you, I’ve been at work all day! That seat is mine. Who needs to get home more urgently than me, after all? Who needs it, therefore, more than me? ‘xakly. F’off.

3: The woman buying her Daily Mail in the corner shop in the queue ahead of me is having a nice conversation. This makes me:
a) happy, what a lovely community I live in. These people are from such different, social, economic and cultural backgrounds, I think it is wonderful they find this time to communicate so well.
b) I’m being made late. There seem to be some people-shaped objects in front of me making me late. If I were car, I would honk. I do not know what to do. Hm. Still talking. Yes! I will huff, and also tut. This will communite intelligently how I feel.

4: Someone is smiling at me in the street, this indicates that;
a) they are nice.
b) they are about to mug me.

5: My normal walking speed is:
a) walking speed.
b) 748mph

6: An elderly gentleman is walking toward me clutching his chest and preparing to speak; I should:
a) stop. My god, this man may be having a heart attack. He may need help.
b) swerve. Swerve, swerve, swerve and avoid visual or physical contact. Come on, let’s face it, this man is either begging, about to mug me or TRYING TO GIVE ME THE ‘OLD DISEASE’.

7: A homeless person is selling the big issue. This means that:
a) There is a person selling the big issue. This is a good way of helping homeless individuals back into employment and back into housing. I feel I should buy one.
b) Ooooh! I see someone attempting to fraudulently extort money from legitimate Humans like me. I Will Avoid, avoid, avoid, and Kick, if they don’t get out of the way soon enough. They’re in the Way of My Fucking Bus.

8: A happy looking tourist stops you to ask you a simple question, do you:
a) Answer it, and maybe show them the way, since they’re nice and it’s near.
b) Hate them. Swerve, avoid, tut, throw dirty looks, kiss teeth. These people have no right to be in your city. Kill them all.

9: The bus coming is;
a) a bus.
b) my bus.

10: A good friend is having their wedding reception in Glasgow. Your travel plans are:
a) Easyjet from Luton, and coach either end. It’s cheap, and it works.
b) I don’t understand, I have not heard much about this ‘Glasgow’. Is this ‘Glasgow’ a new club in Soho?! Wow! How exclusive!
Oh! No? It is in ‘Not London’? A place different? I don’t understand this ‘not London’. Is it a suburb?

Results

mostly a’s congratulations, you may well be a human being!

mostly b’s congratulations, you’re a horrible horrible Londoner. A Big Horrible Londoner. You live in London, and you’re horrible. You should think about shooting yourself. Really.

Really.

n.b. This is, essentially, an audio installation.
Please note that the hearing impaired among you could take this opportunity to set your hearing aids to the ‘T’ position, although you won’t find it helps very much.

Imagine, if you will, you are in a large art gallery space, surrounded by between 20 or 30 speakers. Now imagine, within that hall, you are closing your eyes, and imagining that you are in MY OFFICE, sitting next to SOMEONE REALLY SWEATY. Breathe deeply. Yes, through your mouth. And slowly realise that you are being surrounded, washed over with waves of aural experience.

Doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo …

… a hopeful silence …

dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo

… pause …

dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee.

Ooh, Also if you can imagine the sound of an enormous headache (they kind of go BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM) then that may help you to help me bring this thrilling piece of contemporary art installation to life proper.

Thank you.

Its name is ‘Oh building being built next to my office window, oh society in constant flux, oh builders of a new future, oh die faulty alarm bastards die die DIE. Die in pain.‘

And postcards are available in the gallery shop.
They show the noise, and also also my head exploding.

I’m slightly sad to see my friend, mr. galligan-man doing the old stopping-blogging thing.
It means, for a start, I’m actually going to have to get off my arse and email him.

If only to tell him how powerfully written I thought his penultimate post was.

Damn him.
Because I will miss him, the fucker.

This is Anna answering questions part two.
Again, if you have no idea what I’m talking about, read this post here.
I asked people to ask me questions, and now I’m answering them.

I decided it should sort of do it in sections, so I’m tackling all the blog and blogging questions. You know, get’em out of the way and all. Because I still don’t really understand blogging as a thing, as a team sport, as a movement. I’m proud to be part of it, but I haven’t got a clue how it’s supposed to be done, I’ve always not been good at the linking, blogrolling, blogiquette thing. And I don’t like the word ‘blog’. It is heavy and sounds like something dropping to the floor, like ‘blob’ or ‘plop’, or ‘flab’. S’fugly.
I’m going to try and be more brief in these.
Because it is simple.
I like little.red.boat. I like writing.

So here. I try and answer some questions.
I not so sure about this idea now…
(more…)

Ok. I’m going to answer some questions. I was going to do them in order, but now I’m not. I’m just going to answer some.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’ll be wanting to read this post, which will tell, you, and if you want to leave some questions there, do. I’ll keep the comments open until the viagra-fairy forces me to close them.

Ok.

“What’s your favorite drink?” ( or ‘What is your tipple of choice?’, or other variations…)
As asked by Shane and Rachel.

I’ll drink anything.
Anything apart from Southern Comfort, Malt Extract, or wee (whether seperately or in mixer form).

Right now, as I sit at desk, I am drinking soluble asprin in half a glass of water. There is good reason for this. Last night, we were at the pub.
In a pub, of an evening, it is most likely I will drink cider. There is also an easily explainable reason for this.

When I lived in Iona, there was one pub.
The pub had… now let me think… 4 things on tap. I think. Guinness, Some form of ale, a lager, and a cider.
At this point, I was a lager drinker. And a jolly good one at that. I could drink lager with the best of them. Unfortunately, the only lager on tap was ‘Tennents’, which, frankly, is piss. As previously stated, I am reluctant to drink piss. So I started ordering these pints of piss with a shot of lime cordial, to take away the nasty beer taste.

After a while, I realised, however, that the lime cordial was Taking Up Room In The Glass, meaning I had up to a centimetre Less Beer. Clearly, this was madness. So I started drinking cider. I may suggest that marketing campaign to Strongbow:

“Drink Cider. Because at least it’s not Tennents.”
“Strongbow, less remniscent of piss than other leading brands. Brands like Tennents.”

I also like wine - White, red, rose, free - I like most free drinks, actually, not just free wine, although ‘free wine’ is your more common occurance. I like port and brandy, in the same glass. I like Long Vodka, and Long Island Iced Tea, and other drinks called ‘Long’, although I can’t think of any right now. I like tequila and lemonade, and red wine and coke (bambus), I like single malt whiskies, particularly Macallan, and Highland Park, and lots of others, (if they’re free).

Most of all, I like White Russians. And lots of other things.
Most of all I like drinking.

Shaun also asked My favourite joke

Which is an answer that could possibly go on too long. I store a lot of jokes in my head - very little useful stuff, but a whole fuckbunch of jokes. Yay me.

Sit me down and we’ll have a joke-off. I bet you I’ll win. (God. Now I know that if this ‘end of year bloggers thing’ happens, someone’s going to take me up on that. I the stupid.)

I love jokes, really stupid ones. I collect them, and they’re good to collect, because they don’t gather dust, unless there is dust in my head, and I wouldn’t be too shocked to learn there is.

I would think that one of my favourite jokes is the one about two lobsters walking into a bar, but that’s visual, I’m sorry. And then there’s… No. Also visual. And then there are the ones that depend on tone of voice. So. Erm. Ok.

One of my favourite jokes is this, stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before:

There are two women sitting in the living room of one of their houses, chatting away, when the lady of the house happens to look out of the window.

“Oh God…” she says, annoyed, “Here comes my husband with a big bunch of flowers”

“But… but… that’s very romantic, don’t you think?” Says her friend.

“Romantic?! Ha!” Says the woman “Romantic? It just means I’m going to have to lie on my back all night with my legs wide open.”

“Oh I see.” Says her friend. “Have you not got a vase?”

Haithangyoo.
It’s the way I type’em, y’see.

The other other Karen asked Am I a ‘righty’ or a ‘lefty’?

Now, I have a feeling this is either about
a) Which side of your trousers you prefer your penis to be on when you dress or
b) Which ‘handed’ I am.

Well, I’m sorry, I haven’t got a penis, so I… Actually, I’m not really very sorry I haven’t got a penis. I am, mostly a righty. I write with my right hand, anyway. I eat left handed, though, as everyone in my family seems to do. I kick footballs with neither foot, as I never kick footballs.

Short answer: I am right in my hands and left in my politics, or would be if there was such thing as a Left in politics anymore, which there isn’t, without reverting to novelty parties. It’s shocking. Also, I would like to add that in my day, this were all fields.

Speaking of fields, D asked whether, if I had the deciding vote in the upcoming US election, would I vote for Bush or Kerry? Sorry, that has nothing to do with fields.

Bush or Kerry, eh? Let me think. What a quandry.

Actually, to be honest, I don’t know if I would have time to do either. I think I would be quite surprised to discover my US citizenship, and be attempting to make the most of my new nationality by purchasing handguns, driving about in beautiful cars, inflating my hair and saying ‘motherfucker’ convincingly, which is something I could never do when I was British.

I can’t say who I would vote for. It’s none of my business - I really don’t have any right to talk about how people should be voting in an election that doesn’t affect me.

Hahaha. Sorry. I suddenly realised what I just said. ‘Doesn’t affect me’ indeed. If being affected by this election were an issue, then you’d need about 3 billion voting slips and someone to show the polar ice caps where to put the cross.

I can’t really talk about it though, I don’t know enough. But, in every election I’ve watched, it seems to be not who you like, but who you hate the least. Not who you think will do great things, but who you think will do the least bad. What a great way to have to vote.

But you do have to vote. And since Dave has given me this vote I would, of course, use it. But while using it, I would be a core member of this campaign.

I don’t link enough from this site, I realise, and I’m sorry. But Mike did something a while ago that I have been inteding to nick off him, because, you know, he’s a proper blogger, and a great writer and also seems like a very nice man, all of those and other, also lovely, things.

My (mike’s) thing is this.
I was thinking of updating my ‘about me’ page, or adding to it, rather.
But I’d like to do that in a question/answer type of fashion.

This is where you come in.
I would like questions to answer, in order to build up a kind of rounded ‘about me’ proile.

So if you would, do you have questions? I’ll probably, if anyone has any, ansewr them here first and then gather them into an about me page. Is that ok? It sounds silly, now I say it.

It would be a nice thing, if anyone had any. Maybe just a couple of questions each, though. Two. No more than two each, if you have any. And also bear in mind I won’t answer anything too personal - nothing more personal than is already on site. Just in case. But I’d like my ‘about’ page to be things people actually wanted to know.

You know, questions about stuff. And also things.

Is there anything anyone *actually* wants to know?
Any questions?
About stuff and/or things?