Shakin’ That Ass

Tags

Betty Grable, Botafogo, Bruno Tonioli, Claudia Winkelman, Craig Revel Horwood, dance-off, Darcy Bussell, Duchess of Cambridge, Elton John, gigolo, glitter ball, It Takes Two, Len's lens, maracas, Pasha, pickle my walnuts, Pippa Middleton, Pixie Lott, promenade position, rear spoiler, Renault, rigor mortis, Shimmy, sprung floor, Strictly, Tess Daly, twerking, varifocals

And now please welcome witty and glitzy raconteuse, Candia Dixon-Stuart

and her gorgeous gigolo partner, Pasha Kovalev.  Tonight they will be

twerking to…

It was really difficult to negotiate those stairs with the strobe lighting

which flickered from the glitter ball almost inducing an epileptic fit in me.

Without my varifocals I was entirely relying on Pasha’s supporting arm to

deliver me safely to the sprung floor.

Claudia blinked vacantly at me from under her veritable thatch of a fringe.

Her pale lippy gave her a look of rigor mortis– more so than The Human

Ironing Board‘s dazzling smile.

The orchestra struck up our number: I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister

Kate.  I truly wished that a member of our Suttonford sorority could have

stood in my shoes, whether she shared a name with The Duchess of

Cambridge, or not.  Come to think of it, Pippa would not suffer from

such self-doubt. I bet she could shake her rear spoiler to good effect.

Maybe she will be invited on the show, if she is not too busy babysitting…

Watershed, or not, our song referenced some murdered brothel madam

called Kate Townsend- but not many people would have known that.

Oh well, I would just have to try to shake my beading to its Pixie limit.

I adopted my promenade position.

It was all over in a flash.  Pasha had to carry me over to Tess, who

brushed a few sequins from my shoulder.

Put her down, Pasha, she hissed.  You’ll do yourself an injury!

Ohhh, Candia, darling!  All the boys are going wild over sister Katie’s

style.  Unfortunately...here Bruno fell onto the floor, laughing, and

had to grab Len’s arm to hoist himself back into his chair...you are not

called Kate, are you?  Maybe you were adopted.  He pursed his lips in a

pseudo pout which anyone could tell was ironic, nay sarcastic.

Clearly I won’t be invited to one of his all-night parties with Elton John.

Darcy tried to be kind:

Wow, Candia.  You came out here and owned that floor.  Pasha gave

you a really challenging routine and you…Well, if you could develop your

core strength more and fully extend your arms, finishing your lines..She

concluded lamely, reaching for her empathetic ‘five‘.  Basically that

was the equivalent of a negative number from Craig’s arsenal.

We were now under Len’s lens.  I think our lift was legal, but he clearly

was not going to pickle his walnuts.  Instead he reached under the table

and produced his maracas.

You see, it takes some time for the seeds to pass across to the solid wall

of the coconut shell, so you have to anticipate the beat.  He demonstrated

by waving them over his head and saying, Um cha cha; um cha cha!

It was as clear as mud.

You came out and gave it some welly, but it looked as if you were wearing

gumboots while you were at it, he added, a trifle unkindly.  It was one of

his more moody evenings, clearly.

I blushed under the fake tan.  Pasha gripped my arm.  Keep smiling, he

whispered.

To reference the original song, Craig drawled, you didn’t shimmy like a jelly

on a plate, darling.  You did, however, look as if you were in a trance.  I’ve

seen more successful posterior rotation in a Renault advert.  Your left hand

was positively splayed and your performance was nothing less than

flat-footed. Strictly-speaking, Betty Grable you were not.

I wanted to remonstrate that I hadn’t been able to get my orthotic insoles

into the high-heeled shiny slippers, but they would have thought I was just

trying for a sympathy vote, so I desisted and I will never know how I got up

those stairs, trying to shield my bouncing bosoms with my non-splayed hand

from an overhead camera which zoomed in on cleavage.

Claudia was rabbiting on about getting permission to use someone else’s

mobile.

Please, please, I mimed desperately.  I didn’t want to be in the dance-off.

Actually, I didn’t want to be there at all.  I knew my bum looked big in my

outfit.  The massive peacock feather tail didn’t help.  I’d told them peacocks

were unlucky, but they just told me to break a leg.  And I nearly did!

The scores were in.  No ‘seven’ from Len.  A predictable ‘five‘ from Darcy.

Bless.  Bruno stole a sidelong glance at Len and replicated his score.

Craig produced a card I had never seen before.  It said minus two.

He was obviously feeling generous.

Bottom of the leader board.  How embarrassing!  However, my public

may save me.  I may live to fight another day and that glamorous natural

mover who keeps scoring nines and tens may be on her way out.

I thought I was going to faint.  Pasha caught me in his arms.  It was

all worth it!

Dancing for us next week is…

But as my eyes re-focussed, I saw the shadowy outline of The Husband

bearing my morning cuppa.  He didn’t look anything like Pasha, even with

his shirt off.

What’s wrong? he asked solicitously.  You were muttering something about

botafogas.

Hmmm, I replied.  It takes two, babe.  Thanks for the tea.

He plumped up my pillows and I tried to sit up, but something was irritating

me.  I was sitting on a sequin.  Weird!

Ah well., at least when I go into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe I won’t

be besieged by boa-toting women shrieking, Keep Dancing!

Instead of shaking that ass, I will just keep kicking it.  And if you keep giving

me ‘likes‘ it will be the nearest thing I’ll ever experience to holding that trophy

aloft!

Suits You, Sir!

Tags

Celia Imrie, Cheeky Girls, Down By Salley Gardens, Duchess of Cambridge, Fast Show, George Alexander Louis, Harry Enfield, Harry Potter, Imelda Staunton, Jennifer Saunders, Kathleen Ferrier, Lembit Opik, Maggie Smith, Mark Williams, Ron Weasley, Steve Bell, Suits you, The Cheeky Girls

Brassica e-mailed me.  Candia, I really think you should approach Mark

Williams and ask him if he’d play the part of Augustus Snodbury in the

film of your Suttonford Chronicles.

Mark Williams-basketball player?  Welsh Snooker player?  I Googled him

and, oh yes, he played Ron Weasley’s father in the Harry Potter series.

He also represented the butler in Blandings and was in The Fast Show

with Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield.

Actually, I could see what she meant.  Williams was educated at Brasenose

and the role of the pedantic Gus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus

Middle School, would not be a dramatic bridge too far to cross. In fact, I

discovered one of the thespian’s comments from an interview, where he

revealed: If I wasn’t an actor, I’d be a teacher. 

Apparently he had been deeply affected by his English master, in his own

early days.  And he loves the contralto, Kathleen Ferrier, whose crackling

vinyls Snod is sure to play in his grace and favour flat-a favourite being

I Know That My Redeemer Liveth and, in more poignant secular moments:

Down By The Salley Gardens.

However, I don’t think that he would consider himself as ever having

been ‘young and foolish‘- Snod, that is- not Mark Williams.  Let’s not confuse

the two.  Yet.

He loves satire, as in Steve Bell cartoons and so I reckon he would

appreciate my candour and sarcasm. Snod would definitely suit him,

sir.

Actually, Brassie might have prompted a train of thought.  I can see Celia

Imrie as myself and Maggie Smith as Ginevra, the gin drinker

extraordinaire.

Jennifer Saunders would be useful as one of the yummies and

Imelda Staunton could be the cleaner, Mrs Hatch-Warren.

Either, or both of The Cheeky Girls could be useful for the au-pairs,

Magda and Ola.  And, yes, I know that they are Romanian, but anything

of an Eastern European flavour should do, as Lembit Opik once reputedly

said.

Which reminds me- Ola, whose pregnancy followed the Duchess of

Cambridge’s, or MC, as she is now called by her own Royal family,

has now sprogged, or frogged, her firstborn with the encouragement

of her French widower, whom she met on the last occasion of

Suttonford’s twinning exchange with Bric-a-Brac (Normandy).

The conjugal jumelage has resulted in a little dauphin called

Georges Alexandre Louis and Ginevra, her erstwhile employer-

cum- patient has already wetted its little head in her usual fashion.

Brassie, you are an inspiration and I owe you a latte in

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe very soon!

Any suggestions for Nigel Milford-haven?

Austerity Round Robin

Tags

Artem, Danny Alexander, Duchess of Cambridge, Eminem, Grayson Perry, Harriet Harman, Kirstie Allsopp, Lynne Truss, meggings, nausea, onesie, Portsea Island, Strictly Come Dancing, Tiger, Tracey Emin

Dear Victoria,

Am slightly ‘put oot,’ as they say north of the border, by Lynne Truss, that

witty journalist, nicking my idea for a satirical response to the Round Robin

letter, especially as I was just about to write mine.

We wish you and Andre a healthy and prosperous New Year.  You’ll be glad to

know that Kirstie Allsopp has popularised the de-worming, not only of pets,

but of all kinds of old skip-rescued furniture, so you will be able to continue

shipping your trove of tat over here for some time to come.  Austerity is good

for business.  Or your line of same. Sounds like it should be a proverb.

It’s been a hectic year as usual, with it being Suttonford’s turn to host le

jumelage exchange visit with Bric-a-brac.  The exciting news is that Ola,

Ginevra’s erstwhile carer, –the one who went off for some deeper mutualite

with the widower who had been billeted with your mother- is in a state of

infanticipation and her EDD coincidentally matches that of The

Duchess of Cambridge.  Magda, the replacement carer from the agency,

has gone over to Normandy to visit her compatriot and to help see

her through the period of la nausee – (wasn’t that a book?  I must

look it up on Amazon.) She might just be doing some research on the

the availability of spare widowers.

Gyles is fine.  Working hard to pay all the school fees.  Of course,

Tiger being a scholarship girl helps a bit. (15%)  I hope he likes the meggings

I have purchased for his Xmas.  I also hope he agrees to wear the onesie I

bought him for Brassie’s Strictly party on Saturday Night.    It’s either that or a

bare-chested Artem glitter special for his samba number.  We all have to do a

dance, but he said that he wanted to cover up and wished everyone would.

Spoilsport.

Talking of Tiger: it was an amazing privilege for her to have been

asked to carry the Olympic torch in the summer.  Gyles and I were

annoyed that she refused to wear the uncool white tracksuit.   It

wasn’t so very different from her polar bear onesie, I thought, and she never

takes that off.  Grey onesie, really.

Rollo went on a Parisian parkour programme in the hols and Ming

went wingsuit skydiving.  We did not tell their grandparents, though.

They were very proud of Ferdy winning the Mini Scientist of the Year

Award, all because Mr Milford-Haven had the foresight and nous to send his

essay on recessive genes and hair colour to Danny Alexander and various

government nobs.  Spelling? After the Harriet Harman episode, the Treasury

was only too happy to provide a generous grant for the newly instituted

award.  They seem to have the finances for some things. Of course, Gyles

spent half a term helping Ferd with the wretched thing, bless.

Ming was singled out for his ceramic project and has been making

pots with Grayson Perry.  He has to wear an overall to protect his

school uniform from all the slip clay, but wonders how his mentor

manages in those baby dolls.  He tries to remember to call him Clare.

Of course, Tiger’s heroine is Tracey Emin, or Eminem, as the boys have

dubbed her.  I don’t think Tiger has made her bed for a year now and

she refuses the cleaner entry to her room in case she disturbs her

work-in-progress installation.  I still have to pay the woman the full amount,

though, so no Chrissie bonus for her, since she takes that attitude. She earns

more than Gyles’ PA, in any case.  Or Gyles?-can’t remember which.

Gyles and I fancied island hopping in the summer, but in these times

of austerity, we only managed Portsea Island, Hayling and the Isle of

Wight.  We skipped Lee-on-Solent after remembering Alan Bennet’s portrayal of

it in Talking Heads (First Series) – the one with Julie Walters and the film crew.

More anon,

Have to make my mincemeat!  No suet.

tbc

Noisy Neighbours

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, Bing Crosby, boobs, catwalk, Christopher Robin, Duchess of Cambridge, husband, Mark Tully, Piglet, Prince William, Rowan Williams, Something Understood, St Andrews University

There is something funny going on here!  I have just remembered that Kate Middleton paraded down a catwalk at St Andrews University, wearing a transparent dress, possibly to deliberately attract Wills’ attention.  So should she turn on the coyness now?  Or is it suddenly immoral for journalists to intimately reveal her to the world since she has acquired an elevated status? Maybe it is all to do with the timing of disclosure being down to an individual’s personal choice.  (see Gottes Zeit below.)

Anyway, there is nothing worse than people becoming bored with your boobs.  Unless it is becoming incensed with noisy neighbours.  Now the two topics in this paragraph should be great tags for anyone’s blog!

I’m only getting round to discussing the latest Something Understood, presented by Mark Tully, on Radio 4, as it has taken me nearly three days to recover from the emotional wreckage and sleep deprivation inflicted by my noisy neighbours in the early hours of Sunday morning.

The theme of the programme was based on the quotation: Is Discretion the Better Part of Valour?

This struck a chord as I deliberated whether to simmer once again with suppressed rage at anti-social nocturnal activities.

Yes, dear readers, even in sleepy Suttonford where the local rag will report a missing budgie on the front page and scintillating evening classes may revolve around the crocheting of loo roll holders, there is still a serpent in Eden.

You’ll have heard it said that there is no rest for the wicked, but this has been amended to simply: there is no rest.

The rasping cackle of a female laugh which resembled the onomatopoeic rapid rifle’s rattle from the trenches, as described by The War Poets, cut through glazing and blinds and permeated the bedroom as noxiously as a gas attack.

I had been listening to Tully discussing whether Falstaff’s discretion was in fact comic cowardice.  This query was juxtaposed alongside the lyrics of a song:

You can stand me up at the gates of hell:

I wouldn’t back down.

I won’t be turned around;

Gonna stand my ground.

Thanks for that, I thought.  Go, girl, and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

Different camps had either criticised or praised Archbishop Runcie for being indecisive.  Sometimes, he had seemed to think, it could be helpful to nail one’s colours to the fence.  Compromise is not necessarily weak.

Personally, as I flew out of the back door into the garden, I must confess that I felt like nailing some people to the fence, possibly with a staple gun.

In the past I had been indecisive. I’d compromised. Okay, so President Kennedy had avoided a Nuclear Armageddon by masterly indecision.  Elizabeth I’s foreign policy had been marked by procrastination.  But one day she decided to cut off her cousin’s head.

Bing Crosby smarmily sang: I surrender, dear. I could still hear it in my mind.  I immediately repulsed the thought and replaced it with a reminder of the philosophy of Pooh and Friends. Even Piglet did not avoid confrontation and he was accorded the highest praise for his bravery.

Pooh:  Did Piglet tremble?  Did he blinch? [sic]

Piglet:  I-I thought I did blinch a little.  Just at first!

Pooh: You only blinched inside, and that’s the bravest way for a very small Animal not to blinch..

So, I went out into the garden and I tried not to blinch. I bellowed as if I was a very big Animal. I told them to behave themselves in no uncertain terms.

Rowan Williams spoke next.  No, not in my garden.  He wasn’t behind a bush, burning or otherwise.  He had been on the programme too.  I could still hear his voice:

Don’t lose touch with both sides in the conflict, so people keep speaking.

Would he mediate?  I couldn’t imagine him approaching the rowdies in his mitre and dalmatics.  Presumably, at that time of night even the Archbishop of Canterbury would wear pyjamas.  Mind you, they would probably take as much notice of him as if he was wearing the invisibility cloak we have discussed in previous posts.

Rowan had said that one should never be tempted to be seen to be doing something decisive in order to gain approval.

No, I think I am safe there.  Approval is not going to be an outcome.

Then The Archbishop chided with a caveat:

Who carries the cost of what I say or do?   

a)   Others.  Well, they don’t seem to be affected at all, so that is that.

b)  Myself.  Yes, the Husband knows that I won’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night as I will be emotionally wrecked.

But, Rowan is encouraging here.  If I alone am to bear the cost of any decision to stand up and be counted, then, what is there to be afraid of, so long as I can cope with myself afterwards?

I can cope.  I can cope.

So, BELT UP, WILL YOU?!

Tully inserted an interesting little poem at this juncture about a cautious man whose relations made some kind of life assurance claim on his demise.  However, they were told that they were due no payout, as, since he had never lived, he could not have been considered to have died.

Vivamus, mea  Lesbia , vivamus.  Let’s live then, baby.

Shuddup!

Rowan counselled that the fear of God was the beginning of wisdom.  There is a proper fear which acknowledges that you know to whom you are answerable.  So… forgive me, God, but, I mean it …  Shuddupayaface!

In Zimbabwe, eight years ago, a Harare bishop proved his loyalty to Mugabe.  Why hadn’t Archbishop Rowan DONE SOMETHING ABOUT IT?

Ah, said Rowan, because if I had denounced him, it would have handed him a weapon.  So, instead I listened to J S Bach’s Gottes Zeit – God’s Timing.

Okay, I have listened to the noisy ones for twelve years, off and on, so now seems like a pretty good time, deo volente, of course…

Quiet!

Were they?  Yes, eventually.  After making the point that it was in their own time.

So, was valour the better part of discretion, or vice versa?

Ask me next weekend.  Otherwise I send in Piglet, aka the Husband.  That’ll make ‘em blinch.  (Not)

Husband is like Christopher Robin:

What I like doing best is Nothing….just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.

Bother.

So, Husband, dear, what are you going to do?

Oh, nothing.

He is for Discretion and I am for Valour.

But I am his Better Half, so:

Shurrup!!!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Closing Time

Tags

Annie Lennox, Boris Johnson, Brave New World, Darcey Bussell, David Cameron, Duchess of Cambridge, Eric Idle, Fatboy Slim, Grayson Perry, husband, London 2012, Lord Coe, Olympics, Poor Clares, Prince Harry, Prince William, Ray Davies, Russell Brand, The Queen, The Tempest, Trinity, Vivienne Westwood

The Tenth Sunday after Trinity

Clare of Assisi, Founder of the Minoresses (Poor Clares), 1253.

Maybe she would have something pertinent to say about the economy?

A scorcher with threatening thunder which disappeared after 2pm.

9pm saw my hubby and myself on our starter sofas, ready for action viewing.

A strangely nasal singer commenced the proceedings and a bad Churchill impression did not light my Olympic flame.  Same speech from The Tempest ; different hats.

Prince Harry appeared, instead of The Queen.  A solitary Duchess of Cambridge was there. Probably Wills was hovering overhead in a helicopter, watching in case his brother became too flirty with his wife.  If Harry got too fresh, Wills might have Kate sent to the Tower and could marry Pippa the following day.  They can be like that.

Batman came out of a Robin, but he was American, wasn’t  he?  What’s he got to do with it?

There was too much Our House, or One’s House, as someone joked at the Jubilee.  Probably the Royal version is One’s Hice.

The Ku Klux clan appeared to be cycling past, or was it a belated Semana Santa procession for the Spanish contingent?  No, it was The Pet Shop Boys.  One Direction  had the crowd singing the annoying Na-na-na-na refrain, while the whole of London seemed bent on street sweeping, which isn’t a bad idea.  Cameron wants 100% youth employment, so there’s your answer, Dave.

Ray Davies of The Kinks understood that the crowd were not completely thick and so gave them a variation to join in – namely, Sha-la-la-la, which made a change.  At least it was a catchy tune and distracted you from the bankers committing suicide by hurling themselves out of the Gherkin, which some would have found the best bit.

Russell Brand did his I am the Walrus act and I was glad that that awful mate of his, who only gets  him into trouble, wasn’t there, namely Mr Woss.  Grayson Perry, as Clare seemed to be with him, but, then again, it all happened so quickly that I might have been mistaken.

Fatboy Slim – I recognised the oxymoron, was at the centre of a huge octopus, while Jesse J gave everyone their big chance to sing La la la la confidently, because by now most of them knew the words.

The fashion parade was interesting but the commentators did not elaborate on the designers. I thought that Annie Lennox was probably in Vivienne Westwood for her number, but I failed to recognise the Dracula connection.

The pixels and lighting were stunning throughout. Eric Idle’s skating nuns would not have been out of place on Duddingston Loch .  Idle wasn’t shot out of the cannon, but Russell Brand, no, Russell Grant could have been. He had had plenty of practice on Strictly. Now that he has stopped dancing, he might have put on weight and got stuck, however. Sergei, the meerkat might have done it well, but he is anxious to maintain his dignity, so he might not have been too enthusiastic.

The rap did not appeal to me, even though the audience now had the opportunity to repeat, Ay-oh in response to Baby, let’s go.  I thought that was Teletubbie lingo.

Harry was getting a bit bored and started chewing, even just after the big We will rock you number.  I hoped that the Koreans  or Iranians wouldn’t get any ideas for a We will nuke you number.

The Greek flag was raised and that would have been a good moment for a whip-round, I felt.  The Mods on scooters could have whizzed around, collecting the bags.

From Greeks we fast-forwarded to Georgios Michael, who danced all over Damian’s sprayed flag, singing about Freedom and wearing a miniature For The Love of God skull on his belt buckle.  Again, that song title could have suggested a panty pad advertising jingle. Maybe he was out on bail or had a new release coming soon.  Wake me up before you go-go might have given the crowds a chance to vocalise the double syllables that they had been practising throughout the evening.

The London Eye becoming a baldacchino was a powerful symbol of immanence over a vacuum, I thought.  Maybe Zeus or Boris was meant to bless the gathering, but there was no sense of the divine that I could detect.  Lennon’s Imagine stated that there was no heaven nor hell, but only sky above us.  It was moving, but a profound sense of spiritual emptiness swept over me.  Were we meant to worship Man as Superman?  After the exposure of the clay feet of the Tiger Woods of this world, I could only feel limitation, not exaltation.

Past gods materialised in the shape of Mercury- Freddy, to be precise.  He raised the bar of audience participation by challenging the crowd to replicate fairly complex vowel sequences.  The figures on the screens made me think of Brave New World and the feelies.  Was I to become a pleb?

It must have been difficult to entertain everyone while 204 flags were being brought in and athletes were filling in the stripes, like painting by numbers.  Indian drums created tension and suspense, but the white box set building was a natural point for nipping off to the loo, but not if you were in the crowd, obviously.  I wondered about the facilities.  Basically, it was going on too long for anyone’s bladder capacity.  No wonder Philip had given it a miss.

Darcey Bussell’s Firebird section was dazzling, but then there were speeches and that French guy never seemed to smile, though he recognised that our hosting had been happy and glorious, to coin a phrase-not.  Coe smiled, but then he has a job lined up for the next few years, which is more than the marvellous volunteers probably have. To continue The Tempest references, we might echo Antonio, the usurping King of Milan:

Worthy Sebastian….

…methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should’st be…

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head..

I was relieved when the accident-prone Johnson managed to avoid setting himself alight, by furling his flag too close to the flames.  Maybe that was why the Duke of Cambridge was hovering overhead, ready to unleash gallons of water from on high.  Or was he on standby to douse Boris’ burning bush or to dampen Harry’s passion? Maybe he was trying to persuade his granny to jump.  Coe addressed Your Majesties, so he clearly expected them to drop in. Perhaps they had missed their cue.  As a fallback, the massed pipe bands could have played:

Oh ye cannae shove your granny oot a ‘copter-x2

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012