Sunday, February 19, 2006

Walk like a Parisienne

I left Ms Miri’s at about 9 this glum old wintry morning, and, wandering along Brick Lane, I passed a man sweeping the street. Not that he was doing so out of the joy of sweeping, or anything, a la those cheerful Cockney characters chim chiminey chim chiminey chim-chim cheroo-ing in Mary Poppins, but because he was being paid to do so. Surprisingly.

As I passed, he piped:

“You right?”

And, because I’ve finally learned that “You right?” means “Top of the mornin’ to ya, wee lassie!” in terse London speak, I didn’t respond anything like, “Well, I do have a slight headache, and my glands are up in my throat a bit,” as I did when first moved here.

“Yeah, I’m right. You right?” I said, a-speakin' his language.

“Yeah. I’m right.”

At that exchange, I nodded to show that I was glad he was right, and I was right and that everything's gonna be alright, like the song, and then he enquired:

“Do you speak French, then?”

In keen interest, I rejoined, “No, do you?”

And he grinned, “No. I just thought you look like you come from Paris or somefink.”

Considering I was wearing the clothes I’d slept in, and, aside from my lurid streak of bubblegum pink lipstick, had the complexion of an iguana especially hard done by in the beauty stakes, it made my glum old wintry day. Although, of course, it could have been my baguette, beret and the fact I was miming walking a poodle in high winds.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Hee-yuk!

When I was seventeen, my maths teacher, Mr Edwards, advised that my laugh was like, I quote, “A Morris Minor trying to start on a frosty morning before being over-revved and flooding the engine.”

I can’t recall what prompted Mr Edwards’ address to the class which was by this time singing 'Stutter Rap', dorks, but obviously it was my extreme mirth at the unlikely event of actually finding the cosine on an equilateral triangle. Or something, since it was the death throes of my mathematic career.

A few days ago, I was on a trunk call to T-bone in Singapore when something he said as we were saying goodbye prompted me to laugh rather raucously.

“Oh. My. God,” he said quietly. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“What?” I said, suddenly serious.

After a few seconds silence he blurted:

“CHEVY CHASE! STEVE MARTIN! TVs ALL-TIME FUNNIEST BLOOPERS!!!”

Which, I need to explain, is the Davinci Code-like key to my patented 'Goofy laugh'.

So, while I was laughing my heartiest “HEE-YUK! HEE-YUK!” hee-yuks, he echoed “HEE-YUK! HEE-YUK! HEE-YUK!” back at me, and shouted more things to further unleash the beast.

“AUSTRALIA’S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS! DRUNK COUPLE FALLING OVER INTO THEIR WEDDING CAKE! LITTLE KID GETTING KNOCKED IN THE HEAD WITH A SWING! FAT OLD PERSON STEPPING INTO A BOAT AND CAPSIZING IT!”

All of which, since I evidently have no empathy for drunk wedding couples, little kids’ playground disasters, or fat sea-faring old people, sent me into a Disney character maelstrom of hilarity.

“HEE-YUK! HEE-YUK! HEE-YUK! HEE-YUK!”

Then he ventured, “DOG PISSING IN THE BREAD!”

“What?” I said, “When did a dog piss in the bread?”

“ON NATIONAL LAMPOON'S VACATION, GOOFY!” he bellowed.

“Oh yeah!” I responded, before launching back into a manic series of hee-yuks, and the phone call lasted an extra 20 minutes.

In an exchanging care package, he promised to record all of the things that make me laugh, if I promise to record the responding laugh. So yes, the little things.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Feeling a bit too centred

News flash:

Okay, I've looked at this at home and the formatting is fine and not all centred right down the page, which is what I was rabbitting on about. There must be a problem with my computer at work. Blah dee blah.

_ _ _ _ _

In case you didn't notice, there is something seriously awry with this template, aside from the general crapness of it being a Blogspot template. If no-one can help me figure out what (please help me figure it out), I might skuttle the blog and start another one, which isn't an entirely bad idea.

Anyone who wants to design me a new blog (nothing special, but better than this) will win an AMAZING prize*!!!!

*TBD.

Punk is dead, dead, DEAD, I tell you!

At the recommendation of, oh, almost everyone, I took a jalopy ride out on the Tube to Camden Town on Saturday, famous for assorted things, including its markets. I only needed to walk out of the station before surmising that I had indeed landed in Teenage Junkshop Hell. What, in between all the goth-punk-hippy-raver fusion gear that has been trudged out in every generic shitsville market since, oh, forever or something, I was underwhelmed. Next time (and I'm all about second chances) I'll avoid the hordes and check out the back streets.

But anyway, I think what really irked me about Camden Town was the fact that on four occasions I was referred to as "ma'am" by young men. Four! I actually preferred it when I had hood-wearing hoodlums in dangerous back steets call me "Bitch". Anyhoo, it must have been my lack of crappy goth-punk-hippy-raver fusion clobber that had me signposted as positively geriatric. The first three times (in a noodle shop, while getting coffee, and then while getting another coffee, hence my oldness and need for artificial stimulants to keep me from nodding off at two in the afternoon with a tartan rug on my lap), I chose to ignore it, but the fourth was while I tried to enter through the exit barrier at Camden Town station, cos that's the wild out there kinda geriatric I am. A young man in a purple mohican and leathers stopped me:

"Sorry, ma'am, you can't go in there. You need to go round the other side," he said obligingly.

"MA'AM?! MA'AM?!" I hissed, "So it's all 'Bollocks to the Establishment', eh? You ain't foolin' me with your 'Anarchistic' clothes and hair-do, you fucking toffee-nosed toff! Johnny Rotten would be rolling in his grave if he was dead."

And then I gobbed on him, gave him a Glasgow kiss and pogo-ed over the barrier.

End.

Monday, February 06, 2006

'Vignette' which is a fancy word for 'short sketch' (should a particular Islington bartender be reading)

Yeah, so me and Rae-baby were sauntering around Islington yesterday, and happened upon a pub that is hosting a trivia night later this week. Rae approached the barman drying mammoth pint glasses while watching the football on SkyTV.

Rae: Hello! I just wanted to ask about the Trivia Night on Thursday.

Old barman: Oh yes?

Rae: I've got some friends coming, and just want to know if we need to book a table ...

Old barman: So, this Trivia Night is on this Thursday, you say?

Rae: Yep, the poster is out the front.

Old barman: Well, I don't know about a Trivia Night, but we do have a Quiz Night on Thursdays. Is that what you're after?

[Slips on a banana peel, has a cream pie mashed in his face and gets wrenched off stage by a cane to the neck.]

End.

Bah. So it wasn't really all that funny, but perplexing, yes.