SHAGGY BLOG STORIES

Red Nose Day is upon us soon. It's red nose day most mornings for me, until I've liberally applied Estee Lauder Maximum Cover nos 5 and 7 (oh yes, I blend my own shade of foundation. You don't think I wake up looking this good do you?).

Our Teuchter* friend in California, Sam, has alerted me to the following Worthy Project which involves contributing a post to an anthology of funny blog posts being compiled by Troubled Diva, proceeds to go to Comic Relief to the tune of £3 or £4 per book sold.

This is where you come in. Which one should I contribute? It should be short, and of course funny. I've got such a hectic weekend that I haven't got time to plough through my great opus of hilariousness, so I need your help. Which one made you laugh most?

You might as well help me do this, as I certainly wouldn't be seen dead in public wearing a plastic red nose. And please buy the book too, whether or not I'm in it.




* Teuchter = Scots term meaning peasant.

DEATH AND THE NILE

As anyone who knows me will attest, I am a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to modern music. My most spectacular case of missing the boat was in 1986 when I "discovered" two handsome young men in tight white shorts prancing about on the telly, only to find it was Wham!'s farewell concert. As a result I usually just stick to what I know, which amounts to the Rolling Stones and Tamla Motown and some obscure ethnic stuff.

So nobody will be surprised to learn that I have just
"discovered" a band from the 1980's which I think is just fab. They are called The Blue Nile, a trio from Glasgow fronted by a hot Scot called Paul Buchanan (who probably doesn't look much like this any more but, well, phwoarrr anyway). Apparently they didn't make many albums, but I saw them on a DVD of the best of Jools' Holland's "Later" programmes which I borrowed from the local Flemish library. I had managed to miss out on every series of "Later" over the whole ten years it was running, either through being in the wrong country or it being on too late at night. Or perhaps it clashed with Match of the Day. Anyway, if you haven't heard them, try and find one of their albums or download it, they were stunning. Buchanan reminds me of a British Lindsay Buckingham (one of the singers with Fleetwood Mac for those of you who have had even less of a life than me). If any of my readers from North of the border have any idea what they're doing now, I'd be interested to know.


The other artiste I've recently discovered is slightly more contemporary but apparently has been around for ages too. Antony and the Johnsons is actually just one person, and a rather odd bird he is too. He is an American transvestite, has a beautiful, haunting voice, and sings moving ballads with extremely weird lyrics, often about death, but don't let that put you off.


And just to show you what I mean about The Blue Nile, here's an extract from the very edition of "Later" in which I discovered them. I do love the way Jools Holland still refers to "LP's". He must be almost as old as me.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR VERA

I have forgotten Vera Slapp's birthday. Again. So to make amends, the following are for you, dear Vera. Enjoy.

MAY TO DECEMBER

I refer you to the excellent Witloof blog which highlights a recent article from the Seattle Times in which Belgium’s federal partnership of Walloons and Flemings is described as a “loveless marriage”.

In the words of the great Mrs T. Turner, what’s love got to do with it? Part of the gripe in Belgium is to do with one partner financing the other. It is quite acceptable practice in married couples for one to look after the kids and the house while the other one goes out to work and puts food on the table. Although it might be said that Belgium’s arrangement is rather like a marriage of Waynetta Slobb and Alan Titchmarsh.

The French comedian Smain once went on record as saying there was nothing wrong with women being more attracted to men with money, since women’s main objective in a relationship was security, and money equals security. Needless to say, this was after he had become very successful and, er, wealthy.

Harold, may he rest in peace, has been gone 18 months now, and I am starting to feel renewed stirrings in my undergarments. I thought it was indigestion at first, but have found myself staring at length at young waiters in restaurants and experience a pleasing frisson when the young man in Media Markt smiles and winks at me. I have even generated some interest in cyberspace from younger male bloggers, although they’re not to know that I don’t actually look anything like Carmen Miranda.

Apparently it is quite fashionable for young men to be seen out with an older lady, especially if the lady in question has the charm of Francesca Annis, or even Miss Tina Turner herself. Love across the years is now known as a May-December romance. In some cases it stretches from May 1949 to December 1978.

A young man can learn a lot from an older woman. Table manners, for one thing. Discretion. Personal hygiene. And it’s always good for older people to be around the young. How else would we know that the Arctic Monkeys are not the latest wildlife series from David Attenborough? And a muscular young man is so much more agreeable than a shopping trolley.

It is said that if you are going to get a new man, you might as well get a young one, as they never mature anyway. And why stop at one, look at the immortal Edith Piaf, who made it her life’s work to help younger man with their careers, in return for a little, er, escort work. Yves Montand and Charles Aznavour once wore the “blue suit” which was code for “Edith’s latest boy”. Nine at a time was perhaps a little excessive, though.

P.S. I have just popped over to Tippler's place and have got to go and have a lie down now.

COUGH AND SPIT

Natural polyglot that I am, fluent in French, German and Polish, competent in Spanish and Italian, with holiday Arabic, Twi, Geordie and three words of an obscure language from the higher Atlas mountains which is written in hieroglyphs, I have however met my match with Phlegmish. I am told it is basically Dutch with more spitting and hoiking.

Occasionally Phlegmish is very similar to English -- for instance, “thank you” in Phlegmish is “Dank U”. Occasionally it isn’t: the Phlegmish for sweetshop is “snoepgoedwinkel”. Which I think is pronounced Rumpelstiltskin.

Sometimes the place names are self explanatory. There is a square in Antwerp called Oude Vaart Plats – and in summer you will see the oude vaarts sitting on the terrace of a café, sipping their half en half. But I never know where to look when I go through a certain Brussels metro station (contain yourselves, please).

However, now I have finished my German refresher, I am thinking about taking up Flemish properly. Pardon me while I clear my throat ...