Monthly Archives: October 2009

Mariah Scarey

I was plugged into the video of Mariah’s song ‘Obsessed’ at the gym this morning and I experienced fear.

The way she starts the song with the words ‘I was, like, why are you so obsessed with me?’ struck me as, like, a deliberately offensive way to, like, start a song.

Then the visual throwback of her walking past an L.A. hotel carrying loads of shopping bags and wearing a gold necklace saying the word, ‘Angel’ made my skin tingle in a different way to the dumb bells.

But coming in at number one most creepy thing to have been let out of the creative industry’s doors in a long time was her cameo appearances as the obsessed stalker himself. (The knowing smile at the end indicating that she is, like, totally cool with any self-obsessed implications.)

Yes, dear reader, what might have elicited a smug little ‘cheeky twist’ chortle from the music producers at an initial meeting has been carried through to its breathtakingly unnerving conclusion.

Mariah Carey as an Eminem chauffeur/hoodie/male stylist parody, with a hairdryer and a fluffy goatee beard, doing blokey hip-hop moves while fawning over her snakeskin-body-hugger-wench self made me slam the emergency ‘STOP’ button on the treadmill.

Stay in on Hallowe’en and pop her on the DVD player with lights dimmed.

mariah-carey-obsessed-video

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hpiwPXkbVc

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Filed under Musical Mumbo

Robbie Williams Confessional

priestknifewoman

Me: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It’s been 36 years since my last Confession.

Father: Better late dan never, moi choild.

What would you loike to confess?

Me: Lots of stuff, really, but the worst of it has to do with Robbie Williams.

Father: Dat your fella?

Me: Jesus, no. Sorry, Father…

It’s more that I crave his suffering.

Father: Good gracious, don’t be sayin’ a ting loike dat.

Me: I know, that’s why I’m here.

He’s a popstar, sort of. Out of action for a while but back off his break.

Way too back.

Father: Singin’ and stoff?

Me: I suppose so. It’s hard to tell.

These urges I have, Father. I find them hard to control.

Father: Don’t we all, my choild.

Oi mean, yes, the body is a powerful force.

Me: Not the body, Father, the mind; I want him dead. Here’s how:

He’s stomping around on stage like an overgrown kid marching to the Tweenies theme-tune when I come up behind him with a microphone wire and tighten it enough to stifle his vocal chords.

Only it doesn’t make any difference because he’s holding the mic out for the audience to join in his desperate ditty so I pinch the top of his nose instead so he can’t breathe.

Father: Dis is fearfully voilent, moi choild.

Me: Do you think? Should I give him a Chinese burn too? Don’t answer now. Have a think about it.

Anyway, next I come round the front to reveal myself and he’s shocked because I’m a girl and he thought we all fancied him and I say, ‘Sorry, not me- especially when you start speaking’, and then I pummel him in the chest and floor him with a Kung Fu move.

Finally, I stand over him with my stiletto pressing down on his black shirt and sing ‘Angels’ really softly so he looks quite peaceful as he passes away, even though the audience are on their feet cheering.

And that’s it, Father. I don’t feel good about myself.

I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?

Father: You may well be, moi choild. Oi’ll pray for you.

Me: No worries, Father, as long as you pray for Robbie and make sure he goes to Heaven.

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Skinny Bunny

DSCF2251

As adults we can choose to act childishly.

Amongst ourselves, behaving unreasonably and being found adorable for doing so is a privilege to be judiciously enjoyed.

Children rob you blind of this perk, sprawling greedily all over the territory, like Chris Moyles on a picnic blanket.

If you spend a lot of time with them the injustice mounts until every now and then you stamp your foot and decide that enough is enough and you want your own way and you shall have it.

Bruno has a new book called This rabbit belongs to Emily Brown.

It’s about a well-loved rabbit who is coveted by the Queen but whom Emily will not part with. Eventually, the naughty silly Queen steals Stanley and re-names him Bunnywunny. Emily storms the palace, re-claiming Stanley and his rightful name and leaving the Queen with a teddy bear who (she advises) will also become special once the Queen has loved him well.

The other day I read it to him before his nap and settled him into bed.

But not without the following unpleasant incident intervening:

Me: You see, Stanley is like your Bear and Piggy and Monkey and Dear, isn’t he?

B: Yes, but I haven’t got a rabbit.

Me: Yes, you have. You have this rabbit here, who sits on your bookcase.

This is a very special rabbit called ‘Skinny Bunny’, who used to be Mummy’s when she was a little girl.

Granny used to make clothes for him and Auntie Adele even made him a passport when we went to America.

B: But that rabbit’s called Tom and I want to sleep with him.

Me: No, darling. You’ve got enough animals in your bed now.

And he’s not called Tom, he’s called ‘Skinny Bunny.’

B: No, he’s not, he’s called Tom and I want to sleep with him.

Me: He’s going to sit on the bookcase for now.

And he’s called Skinny Bunny.

B: (starting to cry) He’s not called Skinny Bunny, he’s called Tom and I’m going to get him to sleep with!

Me: (peeling back the Mummy mask) No, you’re not because I’m going to take him next door with me.

Come on, Skinny Bun.

B: No, leave him in here! I want him on the bookcase!

Put Tom back on the bookcase!

Me: He’s coming with me.

HE’S NOT CALLED TOM. HE’S CALLED SKINNY BUNNY.

Look, he’s very skinny! [wrenching up the miniature knitted jumper]

And it says so on his passport!

*

And off I marched, like the naughty silly Queen, to the fading soundtrack of over-tired sobs.

Two minutes later, cross and petulant with Skinny Bunny on my lap, I took a deep breath and felt the adult returning.

So I picked up my rabbit round the waist, like I used to, and headed back to the little man.

Me: Don’t cry, darling.

You can call him Tom if you like and I’ll put him back on the bookshelf.

*

We had a kiss and a cuddle and I walked out of his bedroom, leaving my beloved rabbit with his new owner.

But he is called Skinny Bunny.

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Rainy Monday morning

9.10 a.m: Email from the managing agents of our rented flat encompassing an ongoing goonery of such staggering accomplishment it is acquiring its own peculiar beauty:

‘Yes, you’re right, we did receive your cheque, rendering the second demand we sent you a paper joke. And while you’re at it, forget about the other demand for 5 billion pounds to paint the exterior of the building because you and the other tenants sussed we are the Wizard of Oz and so now we need to start the process all over again. Lots of love.’

9.30 a.m: Pick up undelivered mail from Royal Mail delivery office. Divine feelings of antipathy towards my fat car blocking those of busier, more important people.

Enter office and question wisdom of sign requesting customers not to abuse staff when they clearly need a thorough bludgeoning, along with every evil warlord in the queue in front of me.

10 a.m: Materialise at leisure facility where I am a fresh member. Have photograph taken for membership, looking like a pregnant police-custody Hugh Grant.

Dip toe romantically in rainy outdoor pool. Flee screaming indoors to hot sporey sweat-box. Begin lengths feeling hatred towards:

a.) woman swimming too close to me, forcing me to do palsied breast-stroke when she passes;

b.) the well-intentioned oversized beasts doing aqua aerobics and causing me to swallow large gulps of the resulting undulating water;

c.) the mother and baby class because of all that pure love and joyful clapping with flat hands, in the style of Hollywood actresses.

Experience maths exam anxiety trying to calculate how many more lengths I would have to complete if I switched mid-way from the 15 metre indoor pool to the 25 metre outdoor pool, based on the number of lengths I used to do at my old 20 metre pool. Plus 2 OCD roly-polies and 2 lengths of backstroke. While remembering what length I am currently on. While hating all the people above.

11.45 am: Go to Westfield shopping behemoth to return a pair of shoes, standing next to a woman wearing so much make-up I can’t help studying her, like a disease under a microscope. Wonder how she can be bothered to apply it. Wonder if her lips will stay that colour all day. Wonder if this is attractive. Observe that it’s an exuberant hue, so maybe.

Realise she is arguing with the assistant, who keeps repeating that the shoes in question are not in the sale, until her mother pitches up and tells the assistant, ‘Your record is stuck’. To which the assistant replies huffily, ‘Well, I’m sorry if that’s how you feel but they weren’t in the sale section’. To which the mother says, ‘No, the tune on your duke box..Oh, my mistake. It’s just that modern music’.

Which I find quite funny.

12.00 pm: Walk back via Levi’s to see if there’s anything on which I can spend a credit note and decide this is a brand stuck in the past.

The one where people looked cool wearing tight little Michelin-man zip-up jackets over enormous lumber jack shirts.

12.15 pm: Discover there is threadworm at Bruno’s nursery, which is bad news for everyone except Bruno, who finally has a legitimate reason to expound on his favourite subjects, bottoms and poo, lit-up from within with the charisma of Mario Testino.

12.40 pm: Eat Heinz spaghetti on toast followed by a walnut whip, for lunch. They’re retro, they’re populist, they’re Wogan.

So I follow them up with Terry Jacks singing ‘Seasons in the Sun’ on youtube, in all its catchy, story-telling, key-changing, melancholic glory.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cd_Fdly3rX8

And I’m a lisping, gap-toothed kid messing with my sisters’ vinyl singles until this rainy Monday morning becomes a rainy Monday afternoon.

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