Skincare

Tags

Amy Winehouse, Andrew Motion, Bradley Wiggins, Carol Ann Duffy, Champs Elysees, Cheryl Cole, Dan Snow, Johnny Depp, Kirstie Allsopp, L'Oreal, Mahalia Jackson, Mother Teresa, Olympics, Phil Spencer, Radio 4, Rango, Samuel Beckett, Sarah Vaughan, Shar Pei, Sophie Raworth, St Kilda, Tour de France, W H Auden

Monday, 23^rd July.

In the north rain; in the south: sunny.

Everyone is being urged to cease whining and to look forward to enjoying the great spectacle of the Olympics.  But the goodwill lasts for about two seconds and then someone phones in to Radio 4 to detract from Team Sky’s victory.  The Language Police can’t refrain from pointing out that the “p” in Champs Elysees is silent.  A better suggestion was that it should be re-named The Road to Wiggins’ Peerage!

Meanwhile the backlog of people requiring investigation for being illegally resident in the U.K. – criminals included- is equivalent in number to the population of Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  It may well be more efficient to round up all Geordies, starting with that annoyingly accented Ruth in The Archers. Cheryl Cole would be next.  Another on the list who never would be missed. She thinks she is worth it, but is she?

Maybe the super-rich who have thirteen trillion hidden offshore could be persuaded to put their bodies where their money is, leaving space for those who have lost their pension funds.

I was watching Sophie Raworth, the newsreader, popping up in a fetching red dress and ballet pumps, all over Stratford – or virtually and graphically so.  We were being advised who to look out for in the coming weeks, but all that I could think of was how the Aquatic Centre looked like an architectural panty pad.

Impatiently, I flicked the remote.  There appeared Dan Snow, with his rower’s chest, stripping off his outdoor gear and racing up some chimney gully on St Kilda.  That was riveting eye-candy.

It was unfortunate that Phil Spencer came on next.  I immediately thought that you could call that a paradox.  I wouldn’t go as far as an oxymoron.   It was certainly unfortunate.  I couldn’t imagine him shinning up a literal chimney- not even if Kirstie had left her designer handbag on top of its cowl.  Anyway, what knight would want to risk derring-do for someone who appeared in a purple tie-dye marquee with a turquoise belt and puce espadrilles?

Normally I would have approved of Kirstie’s comfort in her own skin, but I did think that she must have scoffed rather too many cupcakes recently.

That left an Arena programme on BBC4 about the time that Amy Winehouse went to sing in a church in Dingle, some remote coastal dot in Ireland.  I expected Neil Oliver to pop up since it was his territory, as it were, and thought that he and Amy might have got on well. They could have stayed in and had a girlie night, backcombing each other’s hair.

Amy interviewed well, but I had difficulty with her diction when she was singing.  When clips of Mahalia Jackson or Sarah Vaughan were played, I understood every word they uttered.  It was sad when Amy sang about not wanting to go-o-o to rehab.

Also sad was the news report with the tragic weirdo in a ginger wig who had massacred all those innocent people in the cinema in Colorado.  I didn’t want to think about that too much before bedtime, so opted for Horizon and its exploration of sun damage on skin.  A glamorous female surgeon simply had to visit Sharm el-Sheikh, Berlin and Paris, to promote current research on care for our body’s biggest organ and to pick up a few L’Oreal free samples on the way.

I considered rushing out a.s.a.p. to the chemist and stocking up on their entire stock of anti-UVA creams, not to mention the Unilever pill which might just be available.  I didn’t want to develop the W.H.Auden look, which someone had described as being like a Xmas pudding left out in the rain.   He should have used moisturiser and have spent as much time on his skincare regime than on poetry.  He had been worth it, even if he did look more like Rango than Johnny Depp.  I hoped that Carol Ann Duffy was taking note.  She needs to look good in her lofty bardic position.  Andrew Motion did.  He was probably no stranger to E45.

W. H.  What did the initials stand for? – I seemed to remember that it was Wystan, not Winston.  Always good to file away for the General Knowledge round of Mastermind.  Also the name of that wrinkly canine breed- Shar Pei: commit to memory.  If I don’t pass the audition to fill the black chair, I will just have to apply to Alexander Armstrong, to see if he will have me on Pointless.

Winston had had a face like a baby’s bottom, everyone used to say.  He used to smoke cigars, so it was maybe just ciggies that contributed to Auden’s complexion, or perhaps it was his personal involvement with the Age of Anxiety.

Of course, Mother Teresa and Samuel Beckett were both wrinklies. They probably wouldn’t have had the time to spend on a cleanse/ tone/ moisturise regime.  Their value was not dependent on their dermis. They were truly worth it.

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

Tour de France

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, Bradley Wiggins, Grayson Perry, Hollande, Jacobins, Kirstie Allsopp, Olympic torch, Olympics, Puritan, Roger Federer, Sarkozy, Tour de France, Wiggo

The Olympic torch had been practically blown out on the South coast today.  I could not understand why all those people, including inmates of old people’s homes had been hurled out in their wheelchairs to wave at people in synthetic, white, untailored suits, who brandished perforated Dunce’s caps, or metallic Cornettos.

I could understand why some drawing pins had been strewn in the path of the Tour de France.  It was just so boring.  I did think that if everything was about positive discrimination, then the collective conquerors could all finish at the same time and have a certificate that said how well they had done to take part.  It had been pretty sporting of Bradley Wiggins to let the others catch up after they’d been stopped in their tracks, or tacks, as the case may be.  But, if everyone slowed down to give others a chance, even those with stabilisers, where would be the glory of a maillot jaune?

The thought of being able to consume 8,000 calories daily and still to look as slim as Wiggo and to have a pert little bum that looked good, even in lycra, made me wonder where the nearest velodrome was.

Yes, the French love their Tour de France, but yesterday I had been reminded of their storming of the Bastille, which put them in a rather poor light.  I debated whether six weeks of rain was preferable to six weeks of Terror. There had been  an opening if ever there had been one for Kirstie Allsopp to have created a nation of tricoteuses, or basket weavers, to contain all those untidy heads.  She could have published a recipe book for brioche since the poor common folk experienced a shortage of pain artisanale. I could just see her on the cover, dressed as a shepherdess and photographed in soft focus in front of Le Petit Trianon.  She could keep Phil in order with her crook.

Sian Williams spoiled my reverie as she couldn’t pronounce Juillet.  However, she is probably Welsh and we find it impossible to pronounce their words, so I suppose I mustforgive her.

Grayson Perry was on the programme and he surprisingly criticised French cuisine.  Their cathedrals he had praised, however. I bet that he would have welcomed a place on Kirstie’s book cover.  He loves the Little Bo Peep look and could have asked for a share of the royalties.

Perhaps if the Jacobins had restricted their protests to scattering a few tacks before tumbril wheels in the modern French spirit, fewer heads would have rolled.  On the other hand, the thought of Sarkozy or Hollande receiving a surprise bath time visit might cheer a few EU refuseniks.  Allons, enfants!

The previous evening there had been a rather silly programme which tried to divide our nation into Cavaliers or Roundheads.  Ann Widdecombe was clearly of the Cromwellian party.  In her Puritan mode she said that she couldn’t understand why her fellow female competitors on Strictly wore so little. (Well, they might have been equally confused as to why she was on the programme at all.)  Weren’t they cold? she’d wondered.  Immodest Ann is not.

However, when it came to the abolition of Christmas by the Parliamentarians, she was- roundly?- on the side of the ringleted Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen.  He loves decoration and probably knows how to pronounce Juillet, even though he is of Welsh extraction somewhere down the line.  As would a scholar such as Ann, I added.  I wouldn’t have fancied Marat’s chances if Widdi had wangled her way up the back stairs with a newly sharpened Sabatier, modestly dressed or not.

I was intrigued as to whether the nation’s favourite  Terpsichorean MP would consider Grayson Perry, as Clare, overdressed.

When the Turner prizewinner does not like one of his pots, he smashes it, but has taken to gathering the little ceramic fragments and places them in reliquaries that he has assembled in workshops in India, so that we can all afford some of his art.  Again, Sian didn’t seem to know what a reliquary was, but Widdi would not have had to phone a friend.  So, gratifyingly, shards are in. Just as well, after what we have spent on that giant example.

And still the stuff comes down!

Some neighbourhoods in Switzerland have joined together to force a farmer to have the Alpine bells removed from his herd of cows.  Maybe the noise was keeping Roger awake.  I thought that they should come to Suttonford, where my neighbours would make the farmer’s bovines seem like Trappist monks.  If Wiggo had been whizzing down a mountain track near Roger’s chalet, -pre-match- he might have had to muffle his clapper if a goat had strayed onto the road.  The reporter was Bethany Bell, which amused me, even if it was an early item and I wasn’t quite awake.

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