Stop The World - I Want to Get Off

That's it. I mean really, THAT IS IT! The whole world has gone stark staring mad. You doubt me? You accuse me of hyperbole? Think again. Read this and despair.

I mean, you've been flooded out of your home, a gale came along and blew what was left away, it's Christmas and you are living in a tent, and this is supposed to cheer you up???

Paul McCartney to replace Kurt Cobain in Nirvana reunion

Former Beatle will perform with Dave Grohl and Krist Novoselic at 12.12.12 benefit gig for Superstorm Sandy

• Guardian music
• guardian.co.uk, Wednesday 12 December 2012 10.51 GMT
• Jump to comments (82)

With the band … Paul McCartney plans to unveil a new song with the Nirvana crew

Paul McCartney will fill the role of Kurt Cobain when he plays with the surviving members of Nirvana at the 12.12.12 concert for victims of Superstorm Sandy on Wednesday night.

The former Beatle will join Foo Fighters singer Dave Grohl and bassist Krist Novoselic on stage in New York to play a new song after secretly working with the pair. Grohl and Novoselic have not performed with each other for 20 years.

A spokesman confirmed that Grohl recently asked McCartney to come along to "jam with some mates".

The former Beatle suggested they "just make something up" and found himself playing with Grohl on drums, bassist Novoselic and guitarist Pat Smear, who toured with Nirvana for the last six months of the band's career.

Kurt Cobain took his own life in April 1994.

McCartney said: "I didn't really know who they were. They are saying how good it is to be back together. I said: 'Whoa? You guys haven't played together for all that time?'

"And somebody whispered to me: 'That's Nirvana. You're Kurt.' I couldn't believe it."

I was right all along....

The more creepy old men get fingered by the pigs for being pervs, the more justified I feel in always being suspicious of them. My personal list of (possible) miscreants reads like the End of The Pier Show from Hell (or Blackpool as it is more usually known):

The Chuckle Brothers (oh the irony of that name)
The Krankies (for obvious, non-Shakespearean cross-dressing reasons)
Little and Large

The Shudder Brothers

Les Dennis
Keith Chegwin
Tony Hart
Morph, Chas, the Nailbrush and almost certainly Mr Bennett the Caretaker
Mike Reid
Peter Powell
Peter Purvis (too easy really)
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater
Peter out.......

It is probably easier to make a list of so-called celebs who categorically NOT child abusers. At this rate the list is both small and exclusive (and empty for the moment, however I would literally keel over if Ronnie Corbett was mentioned, not least because the average 8 year old could duff him up, then scarper).

The Hell Jar (apologies to S Plath)

The only cute slug I could find.....

And the gift that never stops giving....refuses to stop giving. I still sound like a goose farting in the fog, and I am convinced that a past life transgression has condemned me to eternity with what feels like a pair of trained slugs living up my nose. Honk.

At least my sense of taste has sort of returned. The pickled chilli jar of hell was dipped into the other night - a very odd sensation - no feeling at all north of my collar, and then disaster broke loose south of the border. And as for the after effects, well, less said the better.

Anyway, better out than in. With the wedding approaching of Mr (and soon to be Mrs) Handy,I have to be snot-free and mellifluous. And capable of not soiling myself in front of a) the happy couple, b) a vicar, c) the congregation, d) God and e) anyone else who happens to be passing. Thankfully, I've kept the reading short and sweet. I share my poetry and words of love with you. Stand back in awe and wonder at me.

ALL HAIL THE HANDYS. PEACE OUT DAWG.

Blowing in the Wind

Or in my case, making a noise like a flock of geese honking into a tuba. Which is a fairly accurate way of saying I have a cold. Bleagh.

Worse thing is, I have lost my sense of taste completely. It re-emerged at lunchtime with a brief snippet of chicken soup - hooray, celebration, but all too briefly. Poor old Husband was served up insano-turkey last night with a ladle full of chilli flakes dumped all over it. I tasted nothing; not even the evil, evil, evilness of the newly discovered 2011 pickled Habaneros managed to blast through it. WOE IS ME.

On a lighter note, I have discovered a rather splendid album by a Norwegian lady called Susanne Sundfor, The album is called The Silicone Veil and she is obviously a bit mad, but I quite like that. The single White Foxes includes the wonderful line "I hunger, I crave the gravy of your soul". Okaaay. Lost in translation maybe? Who knows. Maybe soul gravy is a very real thing in Norway. Actually it sounds quite nice....mmmm, soul gravy.....meaticilious.... Hang on - Soul Train, Gravy Train?!! -My God!

Full of Eastern Promise

I have realised that, having trumpeted this blog being about food and books, I very rarely write about either one. So, I have to report that I made Moroccan Lamb and Chickpea Soup last night, and very nice it was too.

And I further report I am reading "The Case of Spring-Heeled Jack" which features the (alas) fictional adventures of Algernon Swinburne and Sir Richard Burton, which ties in nicely to the Eastern theme as he spent much of his life researching and translating Arabian poetry. Tah-dah! Book and cooking tie in.

Spring Heeled Jack was a peculiar thing. In Victorian London he appears as a cloaked figure, spitting fire and able to leap over walls in a single bound. He attacked several people and in one really scary incident, spat fire at a woman who answered her door when he knocked. Her sister came to her rescue and shut the door in Jack's face. BUT rather than run away, he just carried on knocking....brrrrr...shiver.

Who knows who or what he was? One things for sure, between Jack (both bouncy and rippery), opium dens, Moriarty, and sundry other unpleasant types, Victorian Britain probably wins the "Scariest Time"award; doesn't mean I wouldn't want to visit! In a gesture that can only mean it's true love, the Husband has booked us onto the Jack The Ripper walking tour....I shall have to resist the temptation to correct the host and start looking for blood stains....

The way is should be...

If things happened the way I think they should, I can guarantee the world would be a weirder place but a lot more fun...well, for me at least.

I think this pretty much sums up how history actually happened. Oh and Francis Drake was a man-duck.

You must suffer to be beautiful

As my mother and granny always said, which makes them sound as though they were used to being squeezed into rib-crushing corsets as youngsters - not true. Unless of course I am actually 112 years old and they were protecting me from the truth that I am related to Yoda.

However I would gladly ram skewers through my earlobes to sport these bad boys!

These earrings are now fully operational.

Because One is an Oeuf...

So, here I am, abandoned at home while the Husband lords it up in Portugal with his chum. Curses. As Noodles pointed out, my hamster is not a great conversationalist, more of a listener I suppose.

Anyway, 6 days of quiet in the Pit; me assuming the position on the sofa and enjoying back to back telly crap - what could be better? Still obviously cooking enough to feed two - even though this nibs would not have appreciated last night's effort due to a distinct lack of meat.

The whole kitchen smells like pickling vinegar, due to an egg/ jar seal accident on Sunday. However, the eggs were saved and are festering away in the cupboard gradually looking more and more black and evil - mm mmm mmmm. I know I will have to leave them at least a month (Christmas goodies!) but everytime I open the cupboard I have to fight the urge to just nick one. Which would turn into two. Shortly followed by the rest of the jar.

Two dozed pickled eggs later, I think I would need to get used to being lonely for a very long time.

Where's the Cheese?

I'm having one of those weeks when I feel like a rat in a maze (hence the title...mind you, where is the cheese?).

I can't believe Mrs Dooms-Patterson wants to play Maria.....

• Get up
• Porridge
• Shower
• Teeth
• Walk to work
• Coffee
• Work
• Lunch
• Work
• Walk home
• Dinner
• TV 
• Bed

And repeat until death.

I think the clocks changing makes a difference, it's so bloody dark that when I do see the sunlight I feel like my eyes are boiling in their sockets.
The same old people, day in, day out. Which as a moan is ironic as I loathe meeting new people, I always feel awkward like my skirt's tucked into my pants, or I have unmatched shoes on. Bah, it's just autumnal blues I guess. Next week will be even worse as The Husband is off on a golfing holiday....dear god, when did we turn into Margo and Jerry? Altogether now, "the Ooh-Aaah Bird is so called because it lays square eggs....I don't get it"

Part 2 - YES HE DID!!!!

Hallelujah, sense prevails, the world turns once more on its axis and all is well.


After the fear of contracting a case of the Mitts, we can all breathe a sigh of relief. Reasons why:

Mitt Romney (as a Mormon) believes he has magic underpants from God that protect him from temptation.

Now I am the last person to prejudge a person on the strength of their religious beliefs; loving one another and generally being  respectful seems to be the basis of most faiths. however....

UNDERPANTS?   REALLY????

One part of me throws my hands up in despair and gives up. Another part of me would dearly like to see these magic pants, and wants to know if they come in a set of other special magic undergarments - anti-satanic socks maybe? Beelzebub battling bras? Who knows what cosmic struggle goes on in Mitt Romney's nether regions - no wonder the poor guy looks startled a lot of the time, a poorly placed pitchfork will do that.

YES WE CAN (try)

To paraphrase Gershwin "I'm glad I'm not in America, Bad politics in Amereeeeca".

My God, if the world stops turning one day, the unholy crapfest will probably look a lot like the Republican party attempting to put shine on the rape shaped turd laid at their doorstep by the Tea Party. I can only imagine how crazy people are going, having angry adverts crammed into their eye sockets 10 times every half an hour.

At least in jolly old Blighty, once every five years a wee beige man sitting in front of a library of classics will lean forward to tell the waiting public that his political foe is a jolly bad egg and not to be trusted.

It took the election to bump me out of the funk I've been in since dear old Auntie Betty died. A greater, more magical person I will never have the privilege to know again, and mores the pity.

Huh?

No matter how much you wish, no matter how much you cross your fingers, rub a lucky rabbits foot, throw salt over your shoulder and avoid black cats up ladders, you will NEVER understand physics. 

Oh, and don't lie to a flow chart...

How Times Change...

EEEEK!!!!

I remember when I was at University, there was a secret list of people, who, no matter how cool and talented they were, you would NEVER entertain the idea of sharing a lift with them, let alone a bed.


Of course, in public you would bang on about how awesome they were, while hoping you never found them outside your window at night. For me, that person was Trent Reznor. He, frankly, scared the bejeebus out of me.

Ooooh!

Much like a great deal of university and the people that surrounded me, I now see the error of my ways, and HOW. Nine inch whatever, he's a honey.


I am confused.

The Gun Show

I have a best friend who is inordinately fond of his own biceps. He likes to show them off by flexing in a long sleeved shirt. He enjoys twitching them in time to music. I am quite fond of parts of myself, but making them dance about has never been in my repertoire.

Biceps are a very male obsession, however obsession can so easily turn into mania. Witness, please, this gentleman who has made it into the Guinness Book of Records for an achievement a blind person would be able to get the hang of.

Words fail me. How in God's name could he ever find a shirt that fits? And why on earth has he done nothing below the elbow? In fact, where are his elbows? Was it a terrible accident with a bicycle pump? Did he fall hands first under a steam roller? He would make a very good, but slightly limited "forearm stuffer up cows bum" man (vet possibly?)

Between this chap and that weirdo cyclist with the thighs (see 2nd August), are we seeing the rise of a new mutant race?  I suppose after years of ladies inflating various bits to scary extents it was only a matter of time before the gents got in on the act. I am not going looking for any other bits I can assure you; the internet can be a very frightening place indeed.

What was I saying before I was so rudely interrupted?

Ah, yes - fridge bingo.

Droool.

Well, after a week in sunny Portugal I am craving greens - cabbage, watercress, kale, lettuce, spinach - yum yum yum.

Bless the Portuguese; they love their sardinas and their frango, but no lovers of the vegetable are they. Better than Egypt  -question: "What is the vegetarian option?", answer "Chicken"....hmmmm.

A week of lounging around like a beached whale, munching on fish and piri piri is all very well, but I have come to the conclusion that I need some form of routine in my life, even if it is rotten old work. More than a week and I can feel my brain going spongy. Maybe it's the heat; I tried to read Dickens and could not be doing with it, and unlike some I cannot bring myself to read magazines about the latest Kardashian public freak fest. Does that make me a weirdo in comparison to the rest of the world? If so, thank God.

On a Lighter Note...

After my surprisingly sombre offering yesterday I feel some levity is needed.

Allow me to guide you through the wonderful world of

FRIDGE LOTTO!!!!

You don't need a game card to play - oh dear me, no. All you need is an upcoming holiday and a sense of adventure. Picture the scene...a kitchen, a calender counting down the days before you jet off to hotter climes, and fridge, getting dangerously low in the following ingredients...

Mouldy tart (snigger)

Cheese
Milk
Salad
Passata
Chicken
Potatoes
Butter

Or in fact, any items that you would normally use to create delicious and nutritious meals for you and your loving partner. Instead, the white cupboard of disappointment sports this...

Feta cheese
Smoothies (left over from the last time anyone under the age of 10 visited)
A box of sad, slightly sweaty mushrooms
The remnants of what was a lovely bunch of spring onions (now looks like a handful of weeds)
Suspicious leftovers in boxes
Some pate that Husband insists is fine, but which you can plainly see is wearing a wig

Prepare yourself for the trial of making at least four dinners with this rag-tag bundle of misfits. Thank heaven for take aways.

In the Beginning

There was light, and all of humankind saw the light fall on the face of the earth from space for the first time - our small blue jewel of a planet  revolving in the ink of space. Humanity looked at themselves through the eyes and cameras of three men, hurtling through the vacuum, alone but carrying every nation with them. The awesome responsibility, and the humbling realisation of the true meaning of SPACE - the gaps between things, the distance between people, the nothingness that  fills up all of this that we see - it has never been better demonstrated and it could never have been entrusted to a more extraordinary group of people.

I doubt that the world will ever be the same in my lifetime and I am so envious of everyone who saw the events all those years ago. The world; since the first time the earth was seen as a whole, has expanded and grown and the Space between us all has increased. In spite of all the technology that brings us together, we have never been more far apart.

But, for a few moment in 1969, the world looked up at the moon, as generations have before, and instead of dreaming of what the moon might hold, the world looked up and for the first time some one looked back.

Rest in peace Neil Armstrong - the world owes you a debt that we may never be able to repay.

Death by a Thousand Cuts

Gaaah! Hairdresser doubt strikes again. I have an appointment to be refrizzed at Toni and Guy tomorrow and, as usual, I am in a quandary - what to do, what to do?

Mmmm, what a lovely do, what hairdresher do you frequent?

My hair is very thick and goes sort of kinky in hot, humid weather...so at the moment I look like a right mess. I would love short hair, but once it's off, traditionally you can't reattach it. Do I take a plunge, or do I bock bock bock out of it (chicken noise!)

The thought of toddling off to Portugal in 10 days, where the weather is currently a scorchio 35 degrees with what is essentially a Russian fur hat on my bonce is a horrible thought. That and the fact that the snow on the mountain is beginning to show through the terrible dye job I recently attempted. I have visions of getting a hair cut, hating it, getting a new colour put in and going green on holiday due to sun and chlorine.

I sometimes wish I was bald. But not often.

As Sir Robert of Smith might say...

HOT HOT HOT!

The idea came before
the picture....

Blighty basks in temperatures hotter than the Med, which sounds considerably better that "slightly hotter than the inside of an hour old dog poo". Well, this is all very well, but I am not designed for this weather. I'm too big, my hair is too thick; I feel like a bear forced to live in an airing cupboard. Cruelty.

I have noticed through the course of writing this and flinging it out into the ether for anyone's entertainment,https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images? that I could not be more British. I am obsessed with the following:-

• The weather
• Poo
• Sport

But not necessarily in that order. And certainly not mixed up into some nightmarish version of It's A Knockout  where contestants have to play badminton in a storm of pee while whacking shuttlecocks made of shite.

I fear for myself....maybe Mr Handy is right when he gently shakes his head and says "I worry about you mate".

What the world needs...

Is a shed load more images like this; now if the cockles of your heart aren't bubbling away merrily at this sight, you are officially a dead eyed, heartless, robot-person. I weep for you.

All the plaudits and medals were wonderful, but this is surely what the Olympics is about - peace and a small window of opportunity, however brief, to make the world seem a place where our similarities outweigh our differences.

Nature's first green is gold Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

So, the morning after the night before, or rather the 17 days before. Blergh - feels like the world's worst Boxing Day. Just such a superb, uplifting, weeptastic two weeks of sport; makes me feel like the world is not such a bad place after all.

All is takes is for a couple of hundred, ridiculously fit and healthy people in Lycra, tracksuits, swimsuits, jodhpurs, dressing gowns and vests, to get together and duke it out, and peace reigns for a tiny moment. Seems like a good deal to me.

Oh, and we beat the French, Australians and pretty much everyone else too. Hooray.

Sitting down on a good book...

My continuing hunt for the perfect library furniture turns now to micro-libraries; why have a whole room when you can just have a library nest!



STOP PRESS.....THE LOVELY PICTURE I HAD PLANNED TO HAVE DISPLAYED ON THIS PAGE HAS BEEN CRUELLY REMOVED. BOOO HISS.

Team GB! Team GB!

The normal course of events has been turned on it's head. No longer is Blighty the king of sitting down sports, we also run and jump and chuck stuff! The whole country appears to have Olympic fever - that's what comes of actually winning some medals.

As a consequence of our national success and multiple tales of derring do and triumph against adversity, I have spent the best part of the last week
a) glued to the telly, frantically flicking between events to try and download as much information into the old noggin.

Really down under

b) weeping.

Me and the husband have also become armchair (not wheelchair) athletes, and have magically become "expert" at almost all sport. Judo eludes us though. As far I as can tell:-

The Rules
Wear a dressing down.
Bow.
Have a hug.
Trip up.
Win.

Excellent, almost as confusing as the sailing (teeny sails about 50 miles away, all going in circles), the Keirin (massive thighs pedalling like stink, then going slow, then winning), synchronised swimming (half fish-half Bratz doll pairs drowning stylishly).

I don't want it to end. Particularly as we giving Australia a kicking - joy.

The Gold Medal for Whafuq? Goes to.....

Another day, yet more images of the strangest shaped human beings on the planet. Having carried out the BBC "What Athlete Do You Resemble" (Answer: Hungarian wrestler. Male Hungarian wrestler. Joy) I can rest easy in the fact that while not reminding anyone, ever, or a gymnast/ volleyball player/ swimmer, at least all my limbs are in proportion to the rest of me.

Unlike some.....

Exhibit A - the man wearing what appears to be a couple of Warburtons Seeded Batch loafs in a pair of american tan tights is a sprint cyclist. His name is Robert Forstemann. He is German, and apparently has never owned a nice pair of slacks, ever.






On the other hand, this gentleman seems to be the result of a drunken encounter between a manta-ray and a holidaying Italian lady.

The thought of those legs on that body....shudder.

Let's Get Physical...

The clip-on human moustache strikes back.

Or more properly, let us watch the cream of the world's sporting talent running, jumping, swimming and riding while we sit aboard the good ship sofa, stuffing our pie-holes and breaking out into a sweat while reaching for the remote control.

Yes, Team GB are awfully good at sitting down sports, but they are seem to be more focussed on the sport than the sitting down. Apparently, you do have to move to qualify as a "sportsman" - pffft, overrated.

Having said that, if I could do half of what the gymnastics teams can do, I would never walk anywhere ever again; why walk, when you can perform a triple back somersault, land in the splits and do weird, Childcatcher-like "oh, what, this corner, oh, I always prance into corners when I see them, I'm just crazy like that".

God bless them, the bouncy, double-jointed, circus freaks. In times gone by you would have all be burned at the stake for being possessed by the devil - so hooray for 2012!

RIP Solo

We finally put our dear cat to sleep this morning. He was a good cat and a lovely friend for 14 years, and we will both miss him very much.

Sleep well matey.

And you thought that the Mayans had it right...

 Turns out they were wrong, here we all are in jolly old 2012, hurtling headlong into the future. It can only be a good thing when it contains things like this:

Indifferent Cats in Amateur Porn

Once the cat was worshipped as a God, Now it is forced to watch hairless flesh bags attempt to pleasure each other for pantless chubbers in American double wide trailers. How the mighty have fallen.

There's Something in The Attic!

And it's me!

Finally moved into my new/ old office in the pigeon coop. It's OK, smaller and very much hotter, but also a lot quieter, so all in all it'll do (like I have a choice).

However, having listened to my new hero Bradley Wiggins banging on about how to be the best and how to avoid naysayers (his description was considerably more fruity), I will make the best of it and thank God every single day that my idea of fulfilling fun is not sitting on a razor blade/ saddle  for weeks on end and then finishing the horror off by forcing myself to cycle over cobbles down the Champs Elysees.

Sport or torture. I suggest Sporture.

I'd Like to Move it...MOVE IT!!!

I really would. Having been surrounded by boxes of shite for weeks now, I would dearly love to actually get shot of this place and move into my new/ old office. I feel like I am in an episode of Hoarders; Buried Alive. Sample conversation:-

QUESTION = "Do you need this piece of paper that has been sitting at the bottom of this box for, well, let's see, oh, for longer than I have been alive, and it is covered in spider webs, silverfish and mouse nibbles?"

ANSWER =  "Yes"

RESPONSE "Aaaarrrggghhhh - you infuriating ape creature - why won't you just die????"

Tidy Desk..Tidy Mind.

A bit extreme, but the tether's end has been reached. And this Friday I have to attempt to weasel my Boss out of his office of 15 years (the equivalent of the hoarders "special closet" which is usually full of newspaper and squashed cat carcasses). Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated; I'm thinking of some cheese on the fishing line dragged along the floor.

Doom and Gloom

Well. the weather is damp, the summer is practically officially over and no-one has seen the sun for weeks (which makes the perpetual British obsession with atmospherics just too easy to indulge). And to cap it all off, a dour but hardworking Scottish lad got bitch-slapped all over Wimbledon by a man from Switzerland who never sweats.

Arrgh - what the hell is that???

The Olympics seem to be only thing to look forward to, weather dependent of course. I have images of the equestrian centre being used for water polo, the volleyball courts doubling up as the canoe slalom, and Tom Daley being called up for search and rescue at the Olympic Stadium.

Aaaah - normal service has been resumed

Which is worse though? Blighty with it's predictable unpredictability, or Qatar (host of the next World Cup) which can be relied upon to cook spectators, players and officials alike in 40 degree heat. Personally I know which one I would prefer, but that is only because I am basically more firelighter than human.