Pampered Pooches

Tags

007, Alan Bennett, Algy Pug, aluminium scooter, Anubis, Bestall, Brabantia, Characters of Peter Pan, Cream Cracker under the Settee, Crocodile Dundee, Daily Express, Dark Rider, diving knife, Dr No, E-bay, Femidon, Global Bond Day, Hermes, Honey Rider, Hopi, Horus, husband, Lois Maxwell, Miss Demeanour, MIss Moneypenny, Neverland, Paul Hogan, pencil skirt, Pilates, Poo-bags, pooper scooper, Pugs, Range Rover, Rembrandt, Rupert Bear, Samantha Bond, Shopping, Ugly Sisters, Ursula Andress, Vermeer, Wendy Darling

Hello.  Candia Dixon-Stuart.  Pleased to meet you.  I’m from Suttonford, a market town somewhere in the south of England.  It’s a very now place, but it only achieved such status when  Costamuchamoulah, a must-seen coffee shop arrived.  Its beans would have out-priced tulip bulbs in Vermeer and Rembrandt country, if it had done a pop-up in days of yore. It’s very convenient to drop by for a caffeine catch-up with one’s cronies.  Saves tidying your house.

I hadn’t seen girlfriend Brassica, for some time, as she has been on cruises and courses and has been busy sewing name tags on dual uniforms for the new school term.  Her twins, Castor and Pollux, attend St Birinus Middle School, as do the sons of mutual friend, Carissima. We decided to meet up to sink some Wallis Simpson lattes- you know-very skinny.

Brassie told us she was in the throes of organising her Global Bond Day Party.  (I am going as Miss Moneypenny- the original, not that erstwhile FT columnist).  But should I be Lois Maxwell, with rock and roll Fifties specs, which I note are £2.99 on Buy It Now, E-bay, or Samantha Bond? I hit the wrong button and ordered a Miss Demeanour outfit by mistake and had to send it back via Hermes.  The Husband said it looked all right.  He would.  He should be wearing the specs.

Clammie, a diminutive for Chlamydia, another friend who turned up, asked me to come round to her house later on, to vet her in her old white bikini.  She was trying to achieve the Andress look.  She asked me for an honest appraisal, but looked huffy when I told her that it was a bit over the top.  Literally.  A real Dr No No)  Personally, I thought that she was more Dark Rider than Honey Rider and I didn’t think the diving knife added anything.  Less is more, I said, struggling to strike the right note of criticism.

Maybe I should buy a new one? she suggested.  A size bigger?

You should have made a bid in 2001, I advised her.  The original went for nearly £42,000 at auction.  Maybe you could keep the diving knife and go as a female Crocodile Dundee.

But he wasn’t in a Bond film, she remonstrated.

People might not remember, I shrugged.  Some of the guests will have been born after 1986 when Paul Hogan first wielded the weapon, creating a quotation for all time.

 

Chlamydia told us that she had re-commenced her Pilates sessions.  I used to think these were classes for people with OCD, who continually felt the need to wash their hands.  I had seriously wondered if they were sessions for whale watchers, or for females with an interest in aviation, or navigation.  Anyway, Clammie put me in the picture.

Recently I have been taking my exercise by walking dogs-not my own, I hasten to add.  I tend to regard Dora, Alan Bennett’s character in Cream Cracker Under the Settee, as hitting the nail on the head with her canine description of mutts as nasty, lamp-post-smelling articles.  I do not have children, or animals.  The girlfriends say that’s because I don’t like competition.  They may be right.  However, the dogs encourage me to go for a walk.

Yes, the perambulated pets belong to Carrie and they are pampered pugs.  I can wear a pencil skirt and still out-stride them.  Anyway, Carrie scoops them up in both senses when she takes them for ‘walkies’, or she puts them on her son’s aluminium scooter.  I was totally embarrassed when she asked some pensioners to move off the pavement into the road, as it was too dangerous for the dogs to be close to the kerb.

I suppose we are only humans and don’t matter, an elderly woman snapped.  Then Algy snarled at her ankles and nearly knocked her into the path of a 4×4 which was mounting the kerb in order to make a tight manoeuvre, ie/ a swift barge into a space which was designated ‘Disabled.’

I think Algy was named after the pug in the Rupert annuals- the one with the squashed face. I never understood those surreal stories about Chinese conjurors and crowned cranes, or Empire Penguins channelling ermine, in celestial cities, but Carrie has always been an admirer of the Bestall et al stories.  She even called her children after The Daily Express stories.

Her daughter is called Tiger-Lily and her sons are Edward, Bill, Rollo, Ferdy and Ming; her detached thatched is called Nutwood. The nearest approximation to disciplinary action that I have ever seen Carrie implement, was when Rollo called the child-minder Raggety, when he wasn’t allowed two muesli bars in a row.  I think that was the name of a horrific animated, scratchy bundle of sticks which featured in the weird narratives.  She took the crunchy bar from him and said he could only have it after dinner.  Child abuse, eh?

Bill, son number 2, has been on prescription drugs for ADD, but they did not work on the family of protected badgers who rotavated her neighbours’ croquet lawn.  Naturally the neighbours thought that Carrie’s kids were responsible in some way for the devastation of their sward.  Carrie gave the aggrieved voisins some plonk and a bottle of Bill’s pills, which were out of date.  She thought they could try them on the striped gentlemen, as one is not allowed to put anything else down to deter the alleged TB carriers, and grenades are forbidden by EU regulations.  (The neighbours said that they are going to vote UKIP next time.  Then, without the strictures of EU regulations, they will probably be allowed to use cyanide, like the groundsmen at their local golf course were wont to do, in the days when Cotton was King and we had an Empire.)

You know, black pugs are my ultimate fave, and even cuter if they have diamante collars like Algy, Humbug and Pooh-bah, but the spoiled canines cost a fortune in Agnes C pink pooper scooper, scented sacks.  I don’t know how many packs Carrie gets through in a month.  Mind you, the pugs only use the miniature size.  Once, when Carrie ran out, she used a trial pack of Femidon which the family planning clinic had foisted on her.

Thank goodness she doesn’t have Great Danes, is all her husband says, or is allowed to say.

But you can get alternative Brabantia sacks in 23-30 litres size, so less style-conscious dog-owners could use something like those for bigger breeds. Femidon worked okay in an emergency and, to be honest, who is going to use such a passion-killer for anything else?

 

 

 

 

 

 

On our walks, Carrie has a dreadful habit of hanging the little pouches in the trees.  When I remonstrated with her, she said,

But they look so pretty, like votive offerings. It is a spiritual thing.

She didn’t like it when I replied, Votive to whom? (That’s because I can be quite pedantic

when aroused and those au fait with such things can see by my syntax that I had a rigorous

Classical education.)

I continued, To whom? The dog-headed deity Anubis, or Hapi, son of Horus?

Oh, don’t be so sarcastic, Candia. Anyway, there is nothing wrong with cynocephalus, even in gods. You might as well hedge your bets.

Yeah, well you shouldn’t hedge your pets’ excrement, I muttered.

Well, I’m not carrying it home in my Boden jacket pocket! she insisted.

We have discovered that the pugs can’t be walked with Andy, Brassie’s evil Border.  He just can’t behave.  He was named after our dour Wimbledon winner who is a fan of the breed.

Brassie and Cosmo bought him from a breeder around the same time as the Scot had his double whammy.  As a pet, he- the pup- hasn’t been much of a success, as he is very highly strung, a bit like his namesake,

as I am sure Kim could testify.

Anyway, Clammie and I were partaking of a little Sencha Quince in the cafe, when Carrie materialised, desirous of purchasing her weekly quota of spelt.

Hi, guys.  Just popped in for some of that French rainbow honey for Tiger-Lily.  You know, the kind that was tainted by bees getting into the M&M’s factory waste in Alsace? It’s very on trend.

Do join us, I said insincerely, half-moving my Barbour off the seat, as we had just been having a private conversation about her.  However, she said that she had to rush off, as she had left Humbug, the newest puppy, in the car and she couldn’t vouch for its continence.  A waitress had tipped her off that a traffic warden was just around the corner.

But I thought you had a disabled sticker which renders you inviolate? I said.

Immune: she corrected me.  The Blue Badge? No, I left it in the convertible and I’ve got the Range Rover with me.  Pooh-bah needs to be in his basket in the boot, as he had the snip a couple of days ago and we have to keep the three of them apart as he is so grumpy.

Sounds odd.  Gyles wasn’t so bad when he had his little op, I remarked.

Oh, he’s always tetchy, she replied.  So I didn’t particularly notice. Some males simply have to be sorted to make them bearable.  And, talking of ‘bearable’, I must get out of these shoes.

We looked down.  She was wearing her Manola Beatniks.

I’ve been crippled for a month after squeezing my feet into these bargains that I bought from Coltsfoot in their summer sale.  They were one size too small, but such a big reduction! 

Probably what the Ugly Sisters said, I quipped.  She gave me a dark look and I took the hint. You’ll probably break them in soon, I said encouragingly.

Mmm, but I’ve never re-gained the full use of my husband’s credit card, she replied sadly. Anyway, ciao! Must dash into ‘Pampered Pooches’ for some

spare pooper sacks.

You know, Carrie would benefit from joining my Pilates class, Clammie said, thoughtfully, scoffing a lavender-sprinkled bun.

Yes, I countered.  She could do with washing her hands more often. Especially if she is going to take part in that bake-off for her ‘Curs in Crisis’ charity drive.  Dogs are not hygienic. Toxocariasis..

Oh, what a lovely name! Clammie mused.  It makes me feel quite broody. Is it unisex, do you think?

You’re not pregnant?  I gasped.

No, but when you hear an unusual name, it makes you want to give it to someone.

Personally, I think she has utilised plenty of unusual names.  Scheherezade, is her elder daughter.  And she’s not even a Muslim.  Isolde is the younger one.

But then again, Clammie’s husband is called Tristram.  Tristan would have been neater, but there you go. I can’t say I’ve ever been a big Wagnerian.

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I thought Munchkins were something else.

Tags

Edvard Munch, husband, Keith Chegwin, Millennium Bridge, Munch, Tate Modern, Turner Prize

Yesterday the Husband and I had an earlyish start for the metropolis and a brisk walk from London Bridge to Tate Modern, heading for lunch in the restaurant.

We were seated on the Shard side.  Is this tower complete?  Maybe it is meant to end in a poppering pear, split seed pod effect.  There are cranes and a vast building project behind the gallery.  At least we weren’t on the riverside, spectacular skyline or not.  On a previous occasion I was privy to a bird’s eye view of a dead body being fished out of The Thames by a boat-hook, though no one else seemed to notice.

Munch would have, I thought, as we forked out £15 each, stifling a silent scream, in order to view the exhibition The Modern Eye.

Come to think of it, I could have painted a modern version of the iconic painting by placing the figure on The Millennium Bridge.  Bit late for this year’s Turner Prize, though. Must copyright the idea.

Yes, what it is to be an angst-ridden artist.

Apparently Munch’s bohemian friend, Jaeger, used to publish parodies of the Commandments, such as:

Thou shalt write thy life.

Well, dear Hans, I have obeyed your injunction in this very blog.  Could it be an art form?  Candia’s face is slowly emerging from the chiaroscuro in the manner of early Munch woodcuts, but without the self-mutilating gouges, one hopes.

Candia also offers a range of revelations from casual glimpses to defiantly heroic poses.

(Leaflet text by Simon Bolitho)

She devours pretentiousness, including her own, with the ravenous appetite of a vampire and refers to herself in the third person. Her re-workings of raw emotional pain are endless.

Munch regarded his paintings as his children, in the same way that Candia labours-or should I revert to the first person? – in the way that I (oh, the vulnerability of stark honesty) labour to bring to the birth these very posts, with their unusual perspectives and exaggerations. (Even I am becoming confused over personae.)

I too catch my figures in chance poses, or portray them in motion, stepping towards the reader in cinematic fashion.  Like Spartacus Chetwynd, I could animate them through my own carnival troup, or would I merely become a latter day odd man out presenter, such as Keith Chegwin, alias Cheggers?  No Turner Prize possibility in that case.

In my blog I attempt to recreate the Kammerspiele Theatre, just as Munch did in his naturalistic designs for the set of Ibsen’s Ghosts.  This shared style is adapted to the investigation of psychological intensity.

Am I suffering from delusional grandeur?  Do not answer that.

The constrained length of my average posting is brilliantly suited to the claustrophobic effects which Munch endeavoured to create.  He saw the stage as an enclosed room with one missing wall, which enabled voyeurs to peer inside.  The other three walls entrap the actors.

In the same way, in a few paragraphs, I display the foibles and follies of my fellow-Munchkins and prevent the reader from escaping.

In Death of a Bohemian, 1925-6, Munch shows his friend, Jaeger, surrounded by hallucinatory figures and the films record street scenes, traffic, friends and even his own image, just as I attempt to do, even down to a shared  idiosyncratic jerkiness of vision and haphazard chronology.

Munch lived in relative seclusion, but followed current affairs through the media and he created a body of work which responded to local, national and international events, just as I do.  But would he have discovered humour in current re-workings of his paintings which show a bald Mo Farah screaming on the bridge?  You see, Candia can allow such variations and indeed delights in them.

Like his self-portrait in The Night Wanderer, I find myself, or Candia does, in a similar position-ie/ condemned to spend the hours of darkness as a gaunt insomniac, enduring hours of anguish in order to produce art for the masses. I will make a Gratende Kvinne out of my weeping.  And will the public be grateful?  No, like gannets- nay, fulmars- they are inclined to project my carefully pre-digested pap back into my face, like vicious chicks punishing the lonely alpiniste of the world’s cultural sea stacks.

Yet, like Munch, I will comment on the very throes we endure for art’s sake:

I don’t want to die suddenly or without knowing it.  I want to have that last experience too.

And more, much more than that, we will share every last minute with you.

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

Antipasto

Tags

Assange, Boris Johnson, cathedral, husband, Lord Coe, Paralympics, Stoke Mandeville, The Queen, Trinity

The Eleventh Sunday after Trinity

Should I go to the pulpit side of the sanctuary for a gluten-free communion wafer, or should I just risk it?

It was so hot last evening that the husband and I collapsed on our sofas and watched The Best of Men on I-player. It was about the genesis of the Paralympics and the spinal unit at Stoke Mandeville.  Attitudes have changed since 1943 and now headlines are screaming: Thanks for the Warm-Up as there are ten days to go till the events begin.  Boris joined in with a declaration that the Olympics had just been the antipasto.

There was a warm-up today as it was hot in the cathedral and even hotter under the clerical collar for the Praecentor, who had to announce that the Close Vicar had not turned up for Mattins nor Eucharist and so he had been dropped in the proverbial at the last moment re/ the sermon.  I thought that I might have been able to step up and entertain the congregation with some of my diary entries, but clergy professionalism kicked in and the gap was covered.

Imagine if Sebastian Coe had not shown up to give his closing speech, or The Queen had refused to jump out of the helicopter on cue.  Mind you, it might have been preferable if one or two pop has-beens had slept in.

Timing and punctuality are the something beginning with p of princes.  Is it politesse?  Anyway, once at Midnight Mass in the cathedral a St John’s Ambulance team discreetly slipped a stretcher between the rows and extracted a dead body.  Being in the sanctuary, singing in the choir, I observed this although most of the congregation did not.  Later choristers were asking what had happened and the explanation went along the lines of: Oh, some old biddy popped her clogs just before the sermon.  Nice timing.

I remember being slightly shocked at such an attitude, but you can sympathise, especially when things go on too long, as in opening and closing ceremonies.  Just as well Philip took the night off.

Assange came out with perfect timing to give his balcony speech, a kind of drag queen Evita, as a journalist pointed out. I half-expected him to launch into Don’t Cry for Me, Helpful Quito. Andrew Lloyd Webber might have given him a lead role or an understudy part for an ageing Elaine Paige. He thanked the Ecuadorians- did anyone know the collective term before? – for offering him asylum.  However, it is an offer he can neither take up nor refuse.  There is no such thing as a free lunch, not even at an embassy.  Perhaps he had been mistakenly advised that it was part of The Sanctuary Hotel which has a spa and all those little bottles of goo and towelling robes and mules.  I do not think sleeping on the floor of a small office is what he might have expected. The mini bar is probably empty and freebie hair conditioners might not be forthcoming.  As far as we know, no one is offering him a Swedish massage.

Scott MacKenzie who wrote If You’re Going to San Francisco has died. Well, Julian, if you’re ultimately going to Guantanemo, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

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

All Things Are Possible

Tags

Alistair Darling, George Osborne, husband, Katherine Jenkins, Shakespeare, spiders, Summer 2012, swimming, The Tempest

Saturday.

Too darn hot.

A new family of spiders has been discovered called Trogloraptor, or Cave Robber.  One of their genus was behind my headboard last night and it definitely had claws.  This is one situation where the husband can make himself useful.

The theme of the summer, i.e. that all things are possible is continued in news items about a limbless Frenchman who is swimming between all the continents and a sixty three year old American woman who is making her 4^th attempt to swim between Havana and Florida, without the protection of a shark cage.  Last time she had to call it off as she was stung by jellyfish.   Mind you, the American probably needn’t worry, as thresher sharks have been seen basking off the coast of Wales, so they may be on vacation and might prefer a nice nibble of Katherine Jenkins instead.  Who wouldn’t?

Nasty weather is spreading from Wales towards the Midlands.  Heavy rain is forecast for Scotland.  Plus ca change.

Alistair Darling has been writing open letters to George, or Gideon Osborne in The People, asking him to change direction.  The problem is that no one knows where the Chancellor is.  He is not called The Submarine for nothing.  He will come up when the coast is clear. At the moment he would be well-advised to stay below the radar.  He certainly should resist any desire to adopt a stovepipe hat and jump on to The Tempest bandwagon, quoting:

If I have too austerely punish’d you…

…all thy vexations

Were but my trials of thy love, and thou

Hast strangely stood the test…

…be more abstemious.. 

If he surfaced with that kind of talk I think a thousand Portuguese Men-of-War would sting him to death.  And they would be of his own party.

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

Inspire A Generation

Tags

Ben Ainslie, BUPA, Dan Snow, dancing, Desperate Dan, Flavia Cacace, gold medal, husband, lottery, Tango, Vincent Simone

Tuesday

Sunny!

Desperate Times for Desperate Dan ran a headline, which had nothing to do with Dan Snow, but had everything to do with the strong man of The Dandy.  I was so relieved that our Dan and the lovely Lady Edwina were not suffering in these times of austerity, though I’m sure that Daddy, The Duke of Westminster, could always forward them a little loan by increasing his parking charges.  So, fear not, Dan, you can have as many cow pies as you wish and -goodness knows-you need to keep up your calorific intake, what with all that physical and mental activity that you indulge in.  I suppose you could have earned a little bit more by taking on the airspace security at the Olympics. There would have been savings to be made if we had foregone the Typhoons and helicopters and you could have shot down any terrorist planes with your pea- shooter.

The couple who have just won £148 million on the lottery say that they want to make a difference and repay past kindnesses, so maybe they could make a donation to D. C. Thomson of Dundee and keep the comic going to inspire future generations.

Postboxes all over the country are being painted gold, in honour of athletes who won medals of the same colour.  Sometimes the postal authorities are wrongly identifying the home towns and local fans are being arrested for getting out their Airfix enamels and gilding more appropriate receptacles.

This happened in Lymington, which was home to Ben Ainslie for a longer time than was his Cornish childhood base.  Reporters from South Today flocked around our quadruple winner and he received drawings from schoolchildren who had been coaxed out to scream their enthusiasm.  Again, Ben would have been advised not to appear with children, as when one little girl was asked if she had been watching him on television, she said, No! very firmly. The reporter turned to a little boy in the crowd and invited him to share what he had been feeling when he saw Ben sailing into the harbour and he replied very honestly, I don’t know.

Ben then terminated the in-depth analysis by saying, Thanks, guys.

There was a minor news item about heart patients in Buenos Aires being introduced to Tango.  I thought it was a reference to that crude advertisement for the fizzy orange drink where people were mugged and then told that they had been Tango-ed.  Then I realised that it was an introduction to dance exercise as cardiac rehab.  I know that if my husband was offered a few sessions with the fulsome Flavia through his BUPA membership, he’d be sliding down the razor blade of life in next to no time, allowing her to set fire to his tie or to raise welts like nobody else.  She and Vincent have a website where you can book yourself in for a few lessons, so maybe choosing hubby’s Christmas present won’t be so difficult.  I could always keep Vincent Simone of the curling eyebrow amused during the lesson and could pass him off as my festive gigolo.  We could practise a few moves to the Olympic video, Don’t Stop Me Now!  I could become his Flavia of the Month.

© 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

Strictly Come Prancing

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, Brassica, Dan Snow, dressage, DVT, hanging baskets, husband, Kirstie Allsopp, Madonna, Moscow, NHS, OAP, Olympics, pelargonia, riot, St Kilda, teaching, Tiger Feet

Thursday

I went out with Brassica to buy some reduced pelargonia for my rotting hanging baskets. A crowd of orange lycra clad OAPs were showing off in the local garden centre café.  They should have been extras in the Opening Ceremony Tiger Feet number. They’d probably arrived by car and parked their bikes at the entrance for pure effect.  Nothing worse than the elderly behaving badly, I said to myself. They just propel themselves to the nearest sylvan cheapeatery to save on winter fuel in the coming seasons, which saves their annual allowance for luxuries such as ostentatious cycling equipment.  Mind you, they probably prevent DVT by squeezing themselves into such tight gear, so may be saving the taxpayer on NHS expenses.

I enjoyed the elegance of the Strictly Come Prancing dressage.  The winning horse, whose name was a bit like Viagra, could have shown Widdi a thing or two about dancing.  And she couldn’t have complained about the decency of what both horse and rider were wearing.

Madonna isn’t being very restrained in Moscow. Supposedly she had been asked there to sing.  A deputy minister told her to remove her cross and to put on some knickers, which wasn’t a bad idea.   She seemed to have inspired some girls in Leeds to lipstick the strapline: Moralising Slut over their boobs. It all seems rather adolescent and, as a teacher, I could have told them that the best thing to do with juvenile protest was to ignore it.

A poor athlete heard his leg snap during a race but carried on out of a misplaced sense of duty. I have always believed that one’s joints have a finite amount of wear or tread on them and so long ago I decided never to overstretch them.  My husband is a chief exponent of the theory too.

It is almost a year to the day since the London riots and several youths have been sent down for their part in the destruction. Dan Snow had been passing when some looters had run out of a shop, bearing trove.  Big Dan had tackled one and made a citizen’s arrest.  If it had been a female, I can guarantee that she wouldn’t have struggled too much. Dan could have taken wrongdoers to St Kilda for re-hab and could have introduced them to a fitness programme that included running up that chimney gully, or he could have made them harvest gannets, enduring fulmar spittle, as they abseiled down vertical cliffs.  Even worse, Kirstie Allsopp could have redesigned their psyches by forcing them to crotchet drag nets. Or Putin could have offered them judo training in Siberia.

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

Aquatic Centred

Tags

Elizabeth Frink, husband, London 2012, Olympics

There was a thunderstorm mid-day, but my husband wouldn’t have noticed, as he was glued to all things aquatic at The Pringle or The Panty Pad as I couldn’t help thinking of it.

A line of weirdly-goggled figures emerged from a tented poolside, looking like Elizabeth Frink warrior heads, only listening to headphones to avoid receiving their applause.  Again I thought that was an example of Bad Manners. Also, having disapproved of Lady Steel, I was not going to admire the various tacky floral tattoos which decorated many of the torsos on display.

A fifteen year old girl won a heat and I was reminded of a twenty two year old swimmer who had commented on the young people coming through, which made her sound positively ancient.  I suppose that means that I am only fit for burial at sea.  I feel like one of those condemned to the Zimmer, not the Zil Lane in life.

Catty

Tags

Barcelona, Cat, Gordon Brown, husband, London 2012, Olympics, Sagrada Familia, Scotsman, Tesco

I heard that there were lots of Olympic tickets unsold and there was happy footage of cheerful Romanians practising their sure-fingered prestidigitation on unsuspecting Japanese tourists, right in front of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.  They were limbering up for London 2012. I couldn’t understand why I was watching a programme about them, instead of seeing them being arrested. Security was forcing innocent ticket holders to open their packed lunches while the gangs observed the whereabouts of their wallets.  Come to think of it, G4S would probably be suspicious of Big Issue sellers if they were Romanian.  If there were to be a dearth of security volunteers, I might suggest that our local tramp could get himself a job.  After all, he could provide his own mobile phone. Gordon Brown had declined a ticket, apparently.  Well, no Scotsman would want to hazard having his pocket picked.

The news excelled itself in the reportage of doom.  Seemingly we are all heading for heart attacks because we do not do enough aerobic activity. Fair enough, I thought, but it isn’t exactly inspiring to go out in the driving rain.  There had been a momentary diversion of the jet stream and I had hot-footed it to Tesco Express, leaving my coat behind in misguided optimism.  Even the Big Issue seller had disappeared: perhaps he had secured a job with Mr Buckle.

I returned and went upstairs to look at my e-mails.  There was one in the Inbox which was headed Sad News.  I hesitated before opening it, wondering if the woman’s husband or father had died, but it was only her seventeen and three quarters year old cat that had gone to that scratching post in the sky.  Maybe the sender would hold a service of celebration for all the joy that she had been brought, along with some offerings of dead mice and the odd baby bird.  She could hold a wake and could serve sandwiches- not Whiskas, although I thought that you could probably eat them without doing yourself any damage.  I know of several people who feed their cats peeled prawns and their children Turkey Twizzlers.

I was unsure how to respond.  Clinton cards were gone, or going, from the High Streets, so where was I to find a suitable missive?  I could make one myself and add something appropriate, such as:

Your moggie’s snuffed it.

I’m so sorry

that it was not

your husband.

A cat has nine lives:

thank goodness

your husband

only has one.

Maybe that was a bit cynical.  If it had been the husband who had shaken off his mortal coil, I could send:

Your husband’s snuffed it.

But, chillax –

at least it wasn’t

your cat.

Felines, whoa-oa-oa-felines! 

R.I.P.

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