Fri 10th Jan
Just attempted to sing Fire by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown to my iphone to see if Shazam recognized it.
“I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE AND I-”
“SHHH! What the hell are you doing?” Esther shouted over me.
Not wanting to interrupt my perfect rendition, I continued.
“Doo-Doo Do Do Do Do Doo-Doo Do Do Do Do Do Doo-Doo”
“Just seeing if it recognizes the song” I explain.
“You’re not even singing the tune!” she says and stomps off to let the pets out. Song Not Recognized comes the damning reply.
I think the thing that really got her goat however was my hysterical laughing at Police Academy, especially the bits that aren’t funny. The angrier she gets, the closer I get to hysteria. But then I have a revelation that shocks me to my core-
Steve Guttenburg is really good looking! We’re talking painful to watch his beauty good looks…he spends the movie running around in a sleeveless crop top and denim hot pants, and it only serves to enhance his masculinity, and at one point, Esther cries out-
“Whoah! Look at that package!”
Short cute guys have all the fun. Us giants over 5’6 lumber around like drunken zombies while these fresh faced whippersnappers nip in and out getting all the girls. Sigh.
Sat 11th Jan
What better way to spend a Saturday than with my brainbox mother, who has booked us in to a writing workshop in Hipsville, Manchester. After a word-association game, we have this list of words:
- Beer Tent
- Shoe Laces
- Loblolly (my mum’s suggestion… “I don’t know what it means though”)
And the task is to make a story using them all. Unable to think of anything but puns, here’s my story;
Polly H. looked anxiously at the latest deals on skyscanner.net. Ireland offered a green, Guinness land where colts ran below like unravelling shoelaces or the stubbed toe-ends of a Hare Krishna’s moccasins. Moscow meanwhile was her loblolly- the one place she could see her mother-in-law (founder of the Hadron collider, hence her full name- Polly Hadron) refusing to visit. Entering her card details, she grinned like a snow hare.
Arthur Rank winced as the check-in lady read his name out, waiting for the inevitable gong joke, which never came. He was fluent in Mandolin, but marred by dyslexia. The beer tent where he had picked up his Hebrew (the barmaid’s Aramaic was a little rusty) had been his greatest folly- he’d dribbled his Chi away make no mistake; and the chance of rehydrating was as slim as a parrot forecast of a dormouse apocalypse.
Suddenly, his pants fell like dominoes- the nervous twitch in his left hand had finally macerated his eco-friendly cabbage belt. Turning in horror, he found himself face to face with the girl of his dreams- well, last night’s anyway.
“It’s you!” he said incredulously
“Yes” she retorted, “And?”
“Huh?” he mumbled in confusion
She breathed on his glasses and etched out an ampersand in the condensation.
“That’s not what you’re meant to say” he replied wistfully
“It is in my dream” she replied, flicking her floppy mane so it enmeshed itself velcro-style in his beard….
Sun 12th Jan
“Apparently Whitney Houston is dead…” I say gingerly. Esther is a child of the 80s like me, and I’m not sure how sad she will be.
“Good!” Esther retorts in an instant and rolls over in bed.