Lovely present, better future

Allegedly, it's better to give than to receive. Reckon that's all very relative to the circumstances... Must have been a good girl this year, as I've been on the receiving end of some lovely things from some lovely people - thank you all, but especially:

My favourite old china from my favourite old china, Blondie

(this crockery is called Gaytime - makes for

interesting searches on Ebay)

A wonderful tome about disappearing shop frontages in NYC

from Mr Lane - typography heaven

The sweetest (they're very old, not vintage) Japanese salt

and pepper pots from dear Mr Rogers

Library Christmas loan from Les French - suggestion that

it might keep me warm on a cold night whilst they're away

(Taschen The Big Penis Book: trust me, Ladies - once you've seen one,

you really haven't seen them all)

Amidst the piles of chocolates/hankies/bottles of booze, there appeared an unfeasibly kind and daftly extravagant bit of technology kit from Blunt Santa (big gratitude for making my life better in more ways than one, Boss/Friend).

Despite all these treats, the very finest gift of all wasn't something from "fatty with his sack of shit" (best Christmas album ever, after Phil Spector obviously, has to be A John Waters Christmas - thanks to BBH Aine). It didn't come down a chimney either.

No, but it did turn up in a stocking. Two, in fact. Attractive surgical stockings, delivered via a Toyota Yaris sled, courtesy of the kindness of top surgeon-cum-Santa Mr Rhodes of Bradford Royal Infirmary (thank you, HDU and Ward 19). It was beautifully wrapped in M&S pyjamas, and arrived just in time for The Queen's Speech and a Christmas lunch to be cherished for years to come. The most unexpected and perfect present we could have wished for. (Sadly, I fucked it up on the sprouts front, but pulled it all back with my spectacular pickled onion gravy - don't ask.)

Last Night A Pop Star Saved My Life

It's a rare day when I think "halt this shitty rat race rollercoaster, I want to alight", but I've been teetering on that brink for the last week or so. But that's not what you're here for, dear reader - you're here for the fun! fun! fun! - so, next time you're in a murky mindfunk of your own, I can highly recommend a nice hot bath, followed by an early curl-up under the feathers, then laughing your fucking tits / head / assorted other body parts off whilst reading 'Bad Vibes: Britpop And My Part In Its Downfall' by Luke Haines.

I needed distraction. Head just WILL NOT SHUT THE FUCK UP. Started a film. No good. Looked at the huge pile of books I've amassed recently. Montaigne? Too highbrow. Conor McCarthy? Too grim. Lovecraft? Too dark. Magnus Mills? Too freaky. And there, lurking at the bottom of the pile, was a book I'd been lent by a lovely man, who had insisted I would enjoy it and find it highly amusing. Hmmm. Now, I trust this chap, he's clever and has a mutual love of all things musical, but I'd dismissed it, mainly due to the word Britpop in the title. No. No. No.

I dusted it off, opened it up and thought "so, if I read a random bit, right near the front, and it can draw me in, then OK, I'll give it a bash". I opened it up at:

Prologue

Is it ever right to strike a dwarf?

Well, that's that. I'm in. And it was the funniest prologue I've read in a book for ages. Ever, perhaps. Chortles, guffaws - I've given in to the whole chuckle gamut (this must be the thing people call LOL). Superlative swearing, posturing and an obscenely hilarious onstage dwarf incident.

I've had absolutely no urge to write about anything for the last few weeks - so thank you, Luke Haines. Thank you, from the very bottom of my miserable black heart.

http://www.lukehaines.co.uk/