Happy As Larry (David) In Just My Knickers

Back to living at Disgracelands alone, I'm spending more time than is natural or healthy just sitting round in my knickers watching a lot of Larry David. This was prompted by an incident during a catch-up with my manfriends. When asked what I'd been up to by said manfriends, I replied "oh, this and that, making bunting". "Bunting?" they queried. "Yes, bunting, you know that triangle shaped stuff they hang up at village fetes", which I followed with a bit of visual description, by holding both hands up to make a V shape.

They absolutely pissed themselves. I looked in astonishment as Steve and Dave completely cracked up and didn't stop. Both huge Curb fans, it turns out there's an episode where Larry and Jeff make the same hand symbol to depict a 'huge vagina'. Discussing this with Les French (big Larry fans), I learned that the French word for bunting is fanion, pronounced 'fanny-on' which tickled me hugely. Never having got past series 4 before, I saw the episode this week. I almost cried laughing myself. Watch it and weep, readers:

Larry seems to be having an awful lot of problems in his dry cleaners too. I've had my very own Larry moment round the launderette. Normally, I'm in there every Saturday to dry bedding and towels (can't have the place looking like a laundry, potential buyers don't want to see my frillies all over the radiators...or do they?) Anyways, I hadn't been in there for a couple of weeks. Überfriendly Turkish guy who runs the place (not much English but very sweet, helps me fold my sheets) calls out "Hello there!" from the counter as I enter. I throw my bedding into the dryer and then he's calling out "I have thing for you!" and I look round thinking, "he can't mean me" and seeing if he's looking at any of the other people in there. And it's busy. But no, he definitely means me. And then he goes under the counter and brings something out.

And it's a pair of my knickers. And he holds them up. And everybody looks. And my eyes almost pop out of my head. And then, I have to laugh. "I have them from last time" he says. More laughing from me. "Thanks for keeping them safe" I replied and the whole place is smiling. Turkish guy looks very pleased with himself, having reunited knickers with their rightful arse. I leave, still laughing and congratulating myself on the fact that I'd managed to leave an immaculate pair of pretty white underfrippery, and not some hideous, massive dog-eared Mum pants (which I would never actually own, I hasten to add, in case gentlemen friends are reading).

I bet he's had them on.

Rockin' Up That Hill

Sometimes, when things don't seem so great, and I'm having a bit of a "what am I living in London for?" moment, I have a little wander down the road, through the woods and up the hill to Alexandra Palace. I sit on a bench, usually the same one, and have a look at the spectacular vista, with all of London's landmarks in clear view, and have a bit of a think. It doesn't actually fix anything, but it just seems to work in clearing a messy head. That bench has been party to every important decision I've made whilst living here, even down to what cake I might have after my tea:

Hmmm...Victoria sponge or lemon drizzle?

Welcome distraction came from recent miserable events this weekend, Alexandra Palace having its customary hand in clearing my head. After a lovely brekkie in the Haberdashery, and a spare ticket found for Camille (hooray!), a saunter up the road from Crouch End brought me, Nads and Lady Doc to Ally Pally for the ATP / Portishead curated 'I'll Be Your Mirror'. Named after the B-side to Velvet Underground's 'All Tomorrow's Parties', I can't wait until the bods at ATP get a weekender going called Heroin. Daily Mail heaven.

It all started off a bit middle-aged. We spent the first 20 minutes trying to get to grips with the one-way system round the venue. We tried to watch DD/MM/YYYY. They were ok, but as Lady Doc said, the main singer had annoying hair. We spent about 15 minutes trying to find coke. The brown fizzy stuff that comes in a can. Sure sign of middle-age when the first thing you want at a festival is a nice drink of pop and a sit-down, not a nose full of class A. And then I had a worrying moment when I couldn't remember if I'd put any knickers on. Put us in a home quick, someone, please:

Northern Rock

But things got better. We watched Beak>. They were great. They were loud and droney. They woke us up. A text from Les French - Camille managed to wangle a wristband for Nico too - bravo! Saw some classic feel-good old-school reggae played by a stage filled with dreads. Black Roots hail from Bristol and I can imagine the young Portishead gang going along in the 80s to watch these fellas skank away in some Bristol dive. There was a young bloke in a green top, dancing just in front of us. I have absolutely no idea what he could hear, but it can't have been the same reggae we were hearing. The most off-kilter jigging I've seen for ages. He had no rhythm at all. None. But he looked happy. A true case of someone dancing to his own tune.

A text came in from The Ex. Amy Winehouse had been found dead. This was sad news but not really a shock. Recent reports of her having to cancel her entire tour made you wonder if she would ever really come back from her drink and drugs battle. I had a run-in with her once. I won't go into details, just that she was incredibly rude to me and my good friends for no good reason. I soon set her straight. Shame someone closer to her couldn't set her straight on a few other things, including a way off that path to self-destruction. What a sad waste of a young, talented life.

(MF) DOOM up next. Now, some of you will be astonished to read that I like to hear some decent rap. And this was some of that. There were people in the audience wearing a mask a bit like Mr Doom, whose stage mask is based on the one worn by Russell Crowe in Gladiator, if what I read is to be believed. Sometimes, it's thought that Mr Doom sends someone else up on stage wearing the mask and they pretend to be him. It would actually be funny if he sent Russell Crowe up. But that would involve blacking up and I believe that manner of thing is frowned upon nowadays. Unless you're Papa Lazarou:

Dat you, Russell Crowe?

There was a bit of aimless wandering. We bumped into Massimo Haberdashery and the lovely Lisa. The Ex and Mister Doc had appeared. This swiftly followed by the start of PJ Harvey. Now, I've seen her play recently, and it was really busy, and well, me and Nads just got hungry. So, chips overruled goth.

Last up on Day One - our guardians for the weekend, Portishead. And right from the off, it was superb. The sound was clear as a bell, Beth Gibbon's voice, haunting and pure, rising beautifully above synth, loops and guitar. And the visuals were stunning. Assorted camera angles gave us grainy black and white filmic close-ups of Beth's face, her sublimely furrowed brow displayed in detail on the huge screens as she poured her heart out of her mouth. At one point, there was a brilliant merging of two close-ups - Adrian Utley's foot on his guitar pedal, fused with his fingers playing a spine tingling solo on his guitar. Spellbinding stuff, I couldn't look away. Last time I saw visuals this good, I was watching The Orb play, circa Little Fluffy Clouds, and I think I may have been under an influence. Towards the end of the set, Beth even jumped off stage and ran the length of the audience to shake hands with everyone. Top.

Glorious stuff.

Slow start to Day Two. Lots of toast and juice, followed by strong coffee, only just got our arses into gear in time to head up the hill for a band I've never seen, Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Sitting waiting for the doors to open, we bumped into Les French. And they'd seen the bad dancer in the green top too! But much later in the day and by the sounds of it, a whole heap worse for wear...

Brilliantly sunny day, so what better way to spend it than in a darkened room watching footage of buildings burning whilst listening to deafening, droning, swirling, bowel-budging minor chords belting out? We managed about an hour and a half. Then Nads said she actually felt a bit depressed, so we went outside and let the sunshine work its magic. There was a bit of listening to shellac (no, not Steve Albini brilliance - some old fella in a bow tie playing 78s on a gramophone), followed by a wander by the boating lake. The boating lake has huge swan-shaped pedalos. If some clever snapper had persuaded Michael Gira to cram his band into one of those, it would have been a genius bit of thinking and a photographic coup for ATP. I'm praying it's out there:

"What do you mean "Michael Gira said no"? Chicken."

And so, back inside for more racket. I'd tried a bit of Beach House, but was disappointed. I saw them in New York a few years ago in a smaller venue and that's the size of place I'd prefer them. Caught a bit of Acoustic Ladyland - I love to see Seb Roachford drum, but I couldn't actually see a thing. And then - Swans were superb. Glad I remembered my real ear plugs today, not just some bits of bog roll shoved in my ears. They were loud and impressive. They had Thor on drums! Thor Harris - my favourite Viking drumming God! But after a day of drones and noises and top percussion, I was really in need of just good old-fashioned rock and roll. Preferably played by a band who know their stuff and strut it in a suited-and-booted sharp dressed men kinda way. Step up Messrs Cave, Ellis, Sclavunos and Casey aka Grinderman. I love these boys. I'd spotted Mr Sclavunos earlier in the day, wandering resplendent in a pink suit. The man oozes cool and he can drum. It's a bit of glamorous, lightshow filled, lyrically brilliant showbiz after so much glooooomy cool. Thank you, boys:

No Pussy Blues? This lot? Yeah, right.

And at this juncture, we did some serious flagging. Camille called me to say Nico had left already, both Doctors had gone home, so now the dilemma. To watch Portishead again, easily the performance of the weekend...or a lift home from Camille, followed by tea and toast? Now, you know me. Cut me open and you'd read 'ROCK 'N' ROLL' right through my middle, like some cavity-inducing candy bought on Blackpool seafront. But bollocks to all that. Enough's enough. So I got a nice lift to my front door from the sweetest chauffeuse in town, and curled up with a nice cuppa and some raspberry jam on toast. I'll be doing it all again in December anyway, and a girl of my advanced years has to conserve her energy. Note to self: remember to wear knickers in December. Minehead can be cold that time of year and no-one wants a glimpse of my old arse resplendent with goosebumps.

Visiting The Valleys

Wales. Land of song. Birthplace to Jones The Voice, Burton The Voice, Bassey The Voice (they give good voice, them Welsh). Oh, and Max Boyce. Just got back from the Valleys and it's started me reminiscing about bygone journeys over the border...

There was the school cottage trip. Our school holiday cottage was right in the sticks, in a little place called Cerrig Y Drudion, not far from Betwys Y Coed (great names, places in Wales. I'm proud to announce that I can say that really long place name correctly, the one they shorten to Llanfair PG). Every year, each 3rd year class got to go on a 5 day trip to Wales. You could wear your jeans (me love denim long time). My trip heralded my first case of unrequited love. I haven't suffered from much unrequited love over the years. I normally get to 'requite' it, lucky me. But this time, the object of my affection was Jason Holmes. He was sort-of romancing a girl in the class below me, she wasn't on the trip. The teachers took us all for a scary midnight walk in the woods. I said I felt a bit frightened, he said "here, hold my hand". Sigh. Always a sucker for a gentlemanly act. I bet I blushed in the darkness. And probably messed my schoolgirl panties.

Once, in the late 70s, the entire family went to Llandudno. I mean entire. Mum, Dad, eldest sister Liz, her husband Chris, their little girl Kirstie, my sister Mary, her daughter Anne-Marie, brother Joe, his wife Rosa. And me. I was 12. Oh, and my sister Helen and her new husband Yong (he's Malaysian). I use the word 'new' for good reason. It was her honeymoon. The whole family on her honeymoon. In a B&B in Llandudno. I kid you not, reader. They'd probably never even heard of the Maldives back then.

For a couple of years, I went out with a very handsome geography student. He was tall, funny and incredibly fit. He liked to climb rocks. I got to see some beautiful places with him and Wales has some spectacular climbing opportunities, particularly on the Gower peninsula. But my favourite trip was wild camping on the cliffs in Pembrokeshire. I read books and lazed in the baking sun whilst he climbed to his heart's content. It was one of the loveliest holidays I've ever had.

Today's jaunt was a day trip to Swansea to visit Dean in hospital. Once over the shock of how thin he's become since the accident just over two weeks ago, and the surprise that he's now sporting a beard and looks remarkably like Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn (phwoar), it was great to see him. I'd brought a couple of M&S ready meals along for him (personal experience reminds you that hospitals really aren't big on the imagination front when it comes to catering, particularly not when you're a vegetarian). He needs feeding up, our boy. I've absolutely no idea what I waffled on about. My usual line in bollocks. He didn't seem to mind. Good stuff at numbing more than just pain, that morphine.

The physios arrived, and this was the only bit that hurt not just him, but me too. To watch this big handsome chap, so used to being incredibly fit and independent, have to struggle with a walking frame was very hard. But he did twice his normal distance! And with such bloody cheerful good grace. I think he was showing off for me (only written that because I know it'd make him laugh). He told me that on the earlier walks, he only had a hospital gown on, with his arse hanging out. The nurses had to ask him to cover it up. And when he fell asleep without the blanket on, I think the old lady opposite got an eyeful of his black balls too (I still wince when I think of his poor bruised spuds). He's had tons of visitors, he's a popular fella. Just the night before, some of his film-set mates had rocked up. I'm imagining some kind of Carry On Matron bedlam. Rumour has it a huge amount of takeaway curry was involved and some 'adult reading matter' was stashed under his pillow. I left for my train back to London and texted him from the taxi, begging him to not let the old dear opposite catch him pleasuring himself - after her clocking his darkened parts once already, the sight of the 'end' of him might actually signal the end for her.

"Oooh, that Dean's well lush. D'you think the English will let us keep him, Blodwyn?"

No Apology Needed For Idlers

I said to somebody over a bit of lunch recently that I thought I might be lazy. I was confused. I'm not lazy. I'm an idler. There's a huge difference. Being lazy means doing fuck all. I do lots. I believe that I do a lot of nothing of any import to anybody other than me. Which suits me just fine.

My parting gift from LouLou on her recent trip to London was a book from the Penguin Great Ideas Series. Robert Louis Stevenson's 'An Apology For An Idler' was her choice and how apt. The blurb says this:

An irresistible invitation to reject the work ethic and enjoy life's simple pleasures (such as laughing, drinking and lying in the open air), Robert Louis Stevenson's witty and seminal essay on the joys of idleness is accompanied here by his writings on, among other things, growing old, visiting unpleasant places and the overwhelming experience of falling in love.

Everything about this appeals to me (particularly the laughing, drinking, open air, and the bit about love). I started reading this tiny tome on an overground train from Gospel Oak to Kew, on the way to visit The Boss and her broken ribs. I was Laughing Out Loud (you know, like the young folks do) on the train. He's a funny guy, that RLS. Must read Treasure Island again. Can't remember any of the pirate gags.

I read some stuff whilst busy idling, so I'm vaguely aware idling has been adopted by many media types as a thing to be broadcast from the rooftops, or even fancy places in that West London. I've also an idea that the brother of lovely music journo Will Hodgkinson (Tom) may be a leading light and advocate of it. Maybe I should join some academy and celebrate idling with others of my ilk?!?!

No. You're alright, ta. I'll continue my lifelong idle on my own. (ref: Early Doors / Tommy. Idler and curmudgeon supreme). I'm a Lone Idler. I have no need of a Tonto. Well, not for idling purposes anyway.

I spent a precious afternoon with The Boss (my admiration of this bird can only grow - in the face of a tragic accident of mammoth proportion, she remains cheery, pragmatic and pretty brilliant, really. I took her some biscuits I'd baked in the shape of her initial 'T'. A friend popped round last night to see them cooling on the tray and remarked "why have you baked cookies in the shape of a penis?" I'm not Delia Fucking Smith. It's the thought... etc.). Sat on her bed, chewed the fat (and those cock-shaped cookies) and talked about shit. Top idling.

Not sure if I should mention it, but The Boss showed me a picture Dean had sent her from his hospital bed in Swansea. Once seen, this picture can't be forgotten. I wasn't sure what I was looking at. Neither was she when she first saw it. Turns out it's a picture of one of Dean's balls. His testicle. It's pitch black. Dean is a white man. I've seen the balls of white men before. They aren't this colour. I was pretty shocked. Until The Boss tells me that Dean has described his balls as "a pair of beetroots". I'm now laughing my head off. This from a man who could have died from his injuries only a week ago. I texted him that I've seen his ball. He says he'd "send a picture of the shaft, but it has tubes coming out of it". I suppose he has quite a lot of time for idling at the moment. Top bloke. I love him, I really do.

NB: no picture of Dean's black ball was inserted here

Whilst idling on the bed of The Boss in Kew, Blondie was busy in Clapton sending me pictures of us fannying about in our youth. Boss howled as she saw pics of me and Blondie dressed à la Pallenberg et Faithfull circa mid 90s. Blondie is going through her own health hell at the moment. My lovely old friend is another testament to a person with huge balls (not black, like Dean's, but truly impressive nonetheless). Between Blondie, Smiff and me, there's been a biblical amount of idling over the years, and much of it has involved talking bollocks (not about Dean's black one, mind) and eating cake / biscuits / buns. The finest idling known to man (or small Northern women).

Followed this on my return from Kew with a late evening meeting with Lady Married, taking in a nightcap glass of red. I'm kinda off the booze at the moment (this may not last - She Keeps Bees tomorrow and ATP curated by Portishead this weekend). I tell her about the RLS book. She's a big fan of idling, having spent the last few months doing the very same. To reiterate, the difference between lazy and idling is this: lazy means you cannot actually be arsed to do anything at all. Idling is spending your time on pursuits totally self-indulgent, enjoyable, perhaps pro-active (not sure what that is - just trying to chuck in a bit of modern terminology) but highly unlikely to be for any monetary gain. She spent months reading great books, learning stuff off the internet, looking out the window. I'm a massive fan of looking out the window myself. The Ex used to come home from work and I'd be sitting there, in silence, doing just that. When he asked what I was up to, I'd reply "looking out the window". It always seemed to make him laugh. He got it.

LEJOG: Just Giving A Few Bob, Please

I started writing a blog for fun. And, in years to come, as an aid to my terrible memory, so I'd know I'd not spent all my time fannying about, and if I had, I'd had a jolly good time doing just that. I wanted to write mainly about gigs I'd been to, films I'd seen, places I'd been. Not really about me, per se. Definitely not serious stuff. Things I'd enjoyed. The usual blog bollocks.

I had a good blog entry prepared on Sunday. It was all about transport. It consisted of various stories about getting from A to B, and would have had pictures too, if I'd got round to uploading the pictures. It would have revealed the reason for writing a blog about transport - the piece was to culminate with a picture of me behind the wheel of the Boss's Landrover Defender, taken by Barry in the Leonard Street car park, as I practiced driving "The Tank" round and round, watched with amusement by The Boss. Practice needed to make perfect in prep for my role as 'broom wagon' driver on the Bobby Dazzlers charity cycle ride from Land's End to John O'Groats. There would have been more tales to come on my forthcoming LEJOGblog, as I chronicled the ups and downs, highs and lows, laughter and tears during a feat of endurance by a gang of people I know, respect and (particularly where three of them are concerned) love. But you won't be reading any of this. That transport blog entry - I wiped it out.

A bit like the mindless little bastard boyracer who, whilst racing his car against his little shithead mates at 80mph, lost control and nearly wiped out my dear friends in a layby near Abergavenny, as they took a well-deserved rest on their bikes. Two of them are lucky to be alive.

If you're reading this and you know me (or, even if you read this and don't know me), and even if you haven't met them but know how often I talk about The Boss, what an amazing top woman she is, and about Dean, and what a brilliant photographer and bloody great bloke he is, then do me a favour. Take a second to go the link below, click "INFO", read what they were about, then click "DONATE" and help them raise the £10,000 goal they had set themselves. They'd have smashed that total if only some thoughtless fucking idiot hadn't taken away their opportunity.

http://www.thebobbydazzlers.org.uk/