Day 204: I Am Made Dutch

Suddenly, I am doing work. Today, meetings; some emails sent; some conversations had. I am quite dizzy with it all! (I think I may even have had an idea earlier, but cannot be sure.)

I cycled home in the rain via the shop (where I bought fish stock cubes by mistake), and thought how much better working is now that I am, in my heart, non-working. Life is much more pleasant when you stop caring where you'll be in five years' time and just do things you like doing.

But this mild cheerfulness was multiplied one-hundredfold when I returned home and discovered a communication from Farty, a regular commentator (but not, apparently, owner of blog). He has done some work on my true likeness, taken sometime last year by Mr Dave Shelton, and has made me into a Dutch Non-Working Monkey!



In truth, the Amsterdam people I have met mainly seem to spend time being tall, bicycling up and down, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. But no matter: I am charming in my clogs, and pleased with my plaits. Thank you, Mr Farty!

Day 204: I Observe The Wildlife Of Amsterdam

Last night, a woman with a long-haired dachsund, matching tartan headband and trousers (and a troll with a freshly-grated face for a husband), described my coat as "disgusting". I missed the exchange, what with being in the loo, but got back to find my brother and New Friend, S, rigid with shock and glee. "Don't look left", they muttered. "Why? Why?", I said, looking to my left, to my right, and under the table. "She'll tell you she wants you to behave. And she thinks your coat is DISGUSTING. So we've moved it."

The woman and the grated troll left, sneering as they went. Still rattled, we drank the wine, ate potato and wondered what was more disgusting: a dog in a restaurant or a black coat from Marks and Spencer.

Muddle-headed and still in shock (exacerbated in no small part by the thrilling news that a Colonial pathologist is coming to visit), I walked to work this morning. It's not long, the walk; I turn left out of my front door, cross a canal, turn right along the canal work is on, and go to work. It takes about ten minutes and there is not much to see on the way other than some splendid houses and some bicycles.

But my dears! Look! In a window! On the way to work! I am still Rigid with Delight, and can barely do any work at all!

Day 202: I Am A Favourite Amongst The Academic Population Of Great Britain (And The World)

I have long been aware of the above-average intelligence of my readers, let alone their exquisite taste and vast reservoirs of really quite extraordinary knowledge. I am convinced that they are Strange and Magical creatures; were they all to meet in a public house they would no doubt rub along very well, buy pints of real ale for each other and perhaps - prevailing winds being favourable - do some dancing and perhaps kissing. (An idle dream and long must it remain so, for my readers live all over the World and I - as everyone is by now well aware - live in a canal in Amsterdam.)

When I got back earlier this afternoon I put my laptop on my knee, made a cup of ginger tea, turned on Dr Phil (I like him more than Judge Judy), and had a look who had been looking at my web-log using the "Site Meter" as my guide. (I rarely do this as I do not often understand what it says, other than "Total Visits This Week: 3".)

And my dears! I have to tell you that I noticed something astonishing: I have many, many visitors from Universities! I have long believed that I should be the subject of a PhD (or at the very least an MA - I am an Art, not a Science).* And now it seems my dream is coming true! I have so many visitors from Universities that someone, somewhere MUST be making a study of me!

I shall list the Universities in question here (in no particular order) and stand back as you marvel at the fact that they are all, without exception, August Academic Institutions. None of that "My degree is in Deep Fat Frying (With Manicure Studies) from the University of Penzance (formerly Totnes Sixth Form College)" for MY readers. Oh good God, no. They go (or went) to proper Universities and do (or did) things like "English" or "Maths" or "Modern Languages" or "Veterinary Science" or indeed "Chemistry". This much I know to be true, and will not be told otherwise. I know FOR A FACT that one of my readers has five degrees, for example!

From Great Britain:

LSE
Leeds
Sheffield
York** (strong showing from Yorkshire there; keep it up, Yorkshire!)
Cranfield
Edinburgh
Oxford
Cambridge
Newcastle
Birmingham
UCL
The Open University (lots of them - what are you DOING, people?)

From the Abroad:

Harvard
McGill

If you are visiting from a university server but are not listed here, please - make yourself known! The clever are ALWAYS welcome at this web-log! (And yes, I will be a Visiting Lecturer for a small fee plus expenses, inc. a go in the refectory.)

* Think of it! "And what do YOU do?", people will ask at parties. "I am a Doctor!", will come the reply. "A Doctor of Medicine?", they will enquire. "No", will come the humble response, half-whispered from behind a delicate hand: "I am a Doctor of Non-Workingmonkey Studies".

** In 1991, A.S. Byatt (in a Tam O'Shanter), gave me a degree in English in Central Hall at York. I therefore remain very fond of York University, despite the geese and the cheese scones in Vanbrugh, which explain my arse.

Day 202: I Get From Bedroom To Work In Under Five Minutes

I sleep, finally, after many months. My noisy upstairs neighbour, De Twat, has quietened down after Saturday night's extravaganza of noise. I wash. I breakfast upon dense sourdough 8-seed bread, peanut butter made from unbleached hemp sacks and two tiny organic pears the size of gerbils. I dress. I leave my flat; I walk out of the front door; I unlock Glorie the bicycle, put my bag in Basil, her basket, and cycle off. For about three minutes I whizz up and down canals and over tiny bridges; cars stop; pedestrians know not to get in the way. Having left home at 8.37, I am locking Glorie up at 8.41.

It is strange and marvellous and absolutely the way things should be. In London, I would waste anything between an hour and a half and two hours a day either in my car, or sitting balefully on an underground tube train. Here, no more than ten minutes a day will be spent travelling to and from work. That means I have at least an extra one hour and twenty minutes a day to be literally rather then simply metaphorically "Non-working". It is Quite the Thing!

Day 201: I Survey My Local Cake Shops

Much to relate, what with De Twat*, the 4am clogdancing neighbour upstairs, a gymnasium made of black marble with people sobbing in reception, Glorie the Bicycle (feat. Basil, her basket) and the organic supermarket. But there are things to do and so, until later, I leave you with some stunning photographs of the two cake shops that are within two minutes' walk of my New Amsterdam Home.

As you will see, they are VERY different. One is guarded by polar bears; the other by snakes with strange lolling tongues, Barbie stuck in a cake, Scary Marzipan HeadFace and pink penguins overseen by newly-married couples. Bet you can't guess which one I want to buy MY cakes in!












































































































*For a while I thought "die" means "the" in Dutch, despite evidence to the contrary and Knowing It Really. It would have been funnier in some ways (what with "die, twat" being entirely appropriate in the circumstances), but WRONG in a way I do not like. Alwaysconfused (who has no blog, otherwise he/she would have a link) pointed it out nicely and without being a knobber. He/she also makes an excellent point about going round and being nice. I had forgotten this as a tactic - as correct and effective as it usually is - because it didn't work on TwatBoy. But thank you AlwaysConfused for not being annoying and allowing me to make an Important Correction.

Day 201: I Am Being Followed By TwatBoy

Regular readers will be aware of the work of TwatBoy, my fuckwitted upstairs neighbour, and his hideous little flatmate, Fucking Cretin.

One of the many benefits of moving to Amsterdam (or so I thought), would be six weeks' respite from their endless stomping, bellowing, door slamming and crashing about. This, combined with being a good few hundred miles away from my astonishingly noisy, virtually retarded cat, would allow me to sleep for a whole night without being disturbed, possibly for the first time since TwatBoy moved in last September.

Or so I thought. But it is 5.23am and I am awake. For upstairs there lives TwatBoy's Dutch cousin, De Twat. He mainly enjoys running up and down his wooden floor (in clogs), jumping off his furniture, chasing his shrieking girlfriend around, bellowing and slamming his front door over and over again.

I have noticed a pattern. I sleep if I am in the country (French or English; either will do, although I suspect that General Countryside would be fine) or sharing a bed with a pathologist. But I can't move to the country, for I am Working In Amsterdam for a bit; pathologists are hard to come by (and pathologists I would share a bed with rare and precious indeed). Drugs are no good; warm milk and baths and all that are nice enough, but don't help much because getting off to sleep isn't a problem; I can't use earplugs, because I need to hear the alarm clock. Notes (polite or otherwise) usually serve only to exacerbate the problem, and I can't get a gun at this time of night.

I cannot be responsible for my actions. Does anyone know anything about Dutch law? I'm hoping for manslaughter on the grounds of diminished resposibility, which will be directly attributable to the fact that I HAVEN'T HAD MORE THAN THREE HOURS' SLEEP A NIGHT FOR WEEKS.

There is nothing funny about this at all. Nothing. Which is strange and unusual, and almost more disturbing than the fact that there is more than one TwatBoy in the world. I give up.

Day 200: I Am A Failure As A Blogger, But My Brother Realises That Danny De Vito Is Not Even Four Feet Tall

I have been taken off a blogroll! It is almost certainly not the first time, and yet suddenly I am curious; I am alarmed; I am (dare I say it?): Taking Myself Seriously.

I thought you were supposed to do the Hot Internet Web Log Action for fun! If the prevailing winds were favourable and delivered self-haircutting pathologists, new chums or book deals, then so much the better. (One and two: yes; fingers crossed for three!) But no! This is a Serious Business, and I am A Serious Blogger. I know this, because I write an email asking why I have been taken off a blogroll!

An immediate (and accurate) observation would be that I am in fact a knobber. But I like to think that it is a little more complex than that; that by suddenly taking myself seriously, I have Grown Up. I have Failed as a normal, cheerful sort of person with a web log who counts herself lucky to have met Canadians with American Hair and made new chums. Instead, I Am A Serious Blogger. I shall, from this moment on, care about my web stats, blogrolls, whether or not I have a publishing deal*, and what people think of me.

Simply put, that means that there is no more room for this kind of nonsense:



Meanwhile my brother, Runningmonkey (three years younger than me, despite looking older than me: a fact often remarked upon by literally everyone we know), is watching a film with Danny de Vito in it. His incisive criticism so far has included the ground-breaking observation: "Fuck me, he's really SHORT, isn't he? I had no idea he was so short! He's not even four foot tall!".

* I'd still like one though, with a picture of a monkey on the front and an advance of £10,000.

Day 199: I Watch A Shrimp On A Treadmill Listening To Curtis Mayfield

I have also watched this and teared up a bit (despite the fact that that Judi Bowker was an idiot and didn't deserve a horse like Beauty):



And this. This was REALLY good.



What is even better is this, which is a variation on the same theme. Longer, but better in so many ways. Ways I can't quite describe.

(With thanks to my brother, Runningmonkey.)

Day 199: I Am At Work

I am at work! In an office, on a canal! There are desks and people who give you big metal Apple laptops. There is also a cupboard with pencils in it and pencil sharpeners to keep your pencils as sharp as your mind must be.

It is like the United Nations! Everyone is very nice, and from a different country, but mainly the Canada, and the bit of the Canada where they speak French I do not understand. This pleases me, as it reminds me of pathologists.

This afternoon, I am to buy a bicycle and sign some documents for an "apartment", as I believe they are called here.

Now I must go and do some work (whilst remaining essentially "Non-Working" in my heart).

Day 198: I Explain (Yet Again) How It Is Possible To Be "Working" And "Non-Working" At The Same Time

Here I am, sitting in my armchair, smoking a small clay pipe, supping on a glass of absinthe and inserting my tiny little monkey paw into a packet of Hula-Hoops. That is happiness, my friends; deep happiness. A happiness you can only feel if you are Truly Non-Working (in your heart). It is not to do with unemployment, holidays, being fired, or taking a day off. It is a state of mind.

I thought I'd explained the difference between "Working" and "Non-Working" before, but no. Only this morning, JonnyB left a dramatic comment on an earlier post. "You need a new identity for your internet web log ... Otherwise you are a liar", said he, in response to the astonishing news that on my 199th day of non-working, I will be moving to Amsterdam to live in a canal and do things with advertisements.

Oh, there's no doubt that I admire JonnyB. He's everything I want to be: a popular and respected blogger; an owner of ladders; a man. But sometimes he just doesn't listen. And so, for the sake of JonnyB and anyone else who insists on tiresomely pointing out that I am, in theory, now in a state of "workingness" rather than "non-workingness", here is my final word on how being "non-working" does not preclude being employed.

What is "Non-Working"?

"Non-Working" is an international movement spearheaded by me. So far, it has spread to the front door of my plush Brixton apartment and down the road a bit. It is a state of mind; a way of seeing the world and in particular, the world of work. It is perfectly possible to go to an office every day, do a good day's work, commute a bit, have a sandwich with Colin in accounts, be paid, do your expenses, take telephone calls, wear a suit and steal stationery - in fact, do all the things that would usually add up to be "working" - and yet be "Non-Working".

In essence, it is the strong desire to do very little (unless it's something you really like doing) and be answerable to no-one, whilst understanding that working is necessary in order to get money, which we need to live. (Unless we live in communes in trees and barter things, e.g. a dog on a string for a new jerkin.)

How do I know if I am "Non-Working"?

You are "Non-Working" if you work to get enough money to live. If you do not know where you see yourself in five years' time and couldn't care less, you are almost certainly "Non-Working".

The benefits of "Non-Workingness"

Happiness usually comes with "non-workingness". Ironically, also, being "non-working" can often make people much better at their jobs. They are less irritatingly eager to please; they are less sycophantic; they are relaxed, and have time to think. They are often more creative, nicer to work with and better at stealing stationery. Strangely enough, they are often better managers because they, more than anyone, know that everything else is more important than work. As a result, they often inspire a strange and beautiful loyalty in their teams.

How do I know if I am "Working"?

Oh, you'll know. (Clue: BlackBerry.)

I suspect I may be spiritually "Working" rather than "Non-Working". How do I change?

Cretin.

And now I must put down my glass of absinthe, leave my armchair and pack my satchel for Monday morning. But my armchair won't be empty for long, for in five weeks I will be back, absinthe in hand, admiring my new clogs.



I shall post from Amsterdam about anything that is not to do with work. Despite the fact that I have decided to get a book deal, I have had no offers (yet!!!! Come on, Faber! Ring my ding-a-ling, Random House! Ooh, Penguin! I'm a Modern Classic, I'm tellin' ya!!!!), and must be Sensible.

Day 198: I Am Definitely Going To Amsterdam

It is true! I am leaving Blighty on Friday to do some WORK in an ADVERTISING AGENCY in the Amsterdam for five weeks! It will be like The Old Days, when the Old Days were good and I still liked working.

Assuming I have not died from shock by lunchtime on my first day (biologically, I was not made to work; I was made to be a duchess*), I will continue to write my web-log and post photographs of the Miracles I See In The City Of My Temporary Residence.

I will start with a Miracle I saw the other day in a shop window in Old Amsterdam. He has friends (regular readers will have seen the dog), and shares a window with a crocodile, a goose and a rabbit.



















* Why is that woman Fergie (Chanteuse from Black Eyed Peas, not Foolish Duchess of York) a cretin? She spells "Duchess" with a 't', and doesn't know the difference between London Bridge and Tower Bridge. However, she is very good at miming the administration of oral love on loose-limbed dancing guardsmen with ill-fitting bearskins, so I may let her off.

Day 196: I Am Almost Definitely Going To Amsterdam

Hot news! A nice Canadian man (not the self-haircutting pathologist), a nice lady with a kind laugh and I are ever closer to "closing the deal"! We have had a brief 'conference call', during which they murmured in sonorous tones into a desk telephone, and I yelped into my mobile telephonic device whilst trying to remove pork chop from my new crown. Now we are exchanging emails.

A man called Otto has just emailed me to tell me I can, if I wish, rent a house "across the canal from [your] office" for the knock-down price of 5,000 Euro. I said no, reeling slightly at the expense; but most of all I am reeling from regular recent use of the following expressions:

- the office
- my office
- I will be at work
- I will be working
- I have got job (for a bit)

I am sure I will die of shock on the first day, for it has been six and a half months since I worked in an office with other people. I will have to concentrate and remember what it's like; from what I can recall, it has little to do with watching Murder She Wrote, and everything to do with not eating sweets all day, laughing when people tell you what to do, or talking to people like they are mentally deficient.

Excitingly, however, I will be joining a Gymnasium in the Amsterdam, as cycling about the place without lights will not be enough to significantly reduce the doughboy-like appendages that still lurk about the place like Banquo's porky ghost.

I have made my choice of Gymnasium without so much as viewing the facilities: I shall be joining the one that is run by a man named Pepijn Le Heux. I am hoping he will be my Particular Friend, so that I may introduce him to others. "Let me introduce you!", I will cry, clogs flapping in the wind. "This is my Particular Friend, Pepijn Le Heux!".

Pip pip!

Day 195: I Drink From The Head Of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

Last night, to a dinner party. Dinner parties are invariably a bore, as most people cannot cook and are boring. Very occasionally the food is at least edible and the company entertaining, but rare indeed is the dinner party at which you discover halfway through pudding that your host's lodger (man-like, despite her enormous bosoms), has very surprising interests.

A fellow guest and beautiful environmentalist surprised us all (not least our host) by revealing that one night she had asked to borrow mittens from the man-like lodger. "Upstairs, bottom drawer", said the odger. The Beautiful Environmentalist opened the bottom drawer and what did she find? Oh no, my friends, not mittens, but a range of S&M 'gear', made mainly of red rubber, folded carefully in the drawer where the mittens should have been. (She found the mittens in another drawer, and no more was said on the subject.)

As pleasing as this story was, and as charming as the company and food, nothing could prepare me for the heights of joy I was to experience later in the evening. "Coffee, anyone?" said our hosts (a question which translates as: time to go home now, everyone!). "Yes!", we cried, ignoring their unspoken plea to be left in peace. Coffee was made, and cups were brought. And I was given this mug: a mug festooned with head of Atatürk; a mug that made me so happy I nearly wept, for I have long been a fan of Atatürk: he enjoyed wrestling, was very particular about his appearance and had a dog called Fox.

But the best was yet to come. Not only had the food been more than edible and the company sensational, but the host (still in shock following the rubbery revelations), said: "I would like to give you that mug, as it makes you happy. I have two. I can spare it."

Now I am drinking from the head of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and thinking about mittens, rubberwear, wrestling and a dog called Fox. It is not unpleasant. I shall take Atatürk to the Amsterdam with me, and see if he likes it there.

Day 195: I Am Going To Amsterdam

Hot news! It is Almost Certain that next Wednesday, I will mount an aeroplane marked DESTINATION: THE DAM. I will then fly to the Amsterdam where I will live for five or six weeks, earn some money (which, I was astonished discover, I have to work to get), do something I find interesting and live in a rental flat that I will Make My Own with some exported fripperies and gee-gaws (e.g. Beaver the Beaver, a scented candle and a 'throw').

Most thrillingly (enticed by the complex series of waterways that run through Amsterdam and breakfasts made mainly of cheese and ham), I am to receive a visit from a Canadian Pathologist. Whilst I toil over hot advertisements, he will Amuse Himself visiting the Amsterdam's many and manifold attractions including, perhaps, the Van Gogh museum and the "red light district" where, as I understand it, you can buy coloured lightbulbs.

"But you cannot write your Web-Log if you are working! You are Non-workingmonkey!", I hear you cry. Regular readers will be more than aware of my practised reponse to this sort of panic-mongering, but for the sake of Newer Readers: yes, technically I will be 'working'; but as it is freelance work, I remain essentially non-working. In other words, being "non-working" is a state of mind, and it is this that allows me to both work (in a practical sense) and yet remain non-working (in an emotional and spiritual sense).

But all this is Leaping Ahead! First, there is the packing and the Trip itself. But neither of these are a chore, and particularly not the Flight to Airport of Amsterdam, a place where there exists a sign made especially for me.

Day 192: I Smell Like A Hamster

All boys smell of hamsters. When a boy no longer smells of hamsters, he is A Man. Girls never smell of hamsters. (They smell of other things, I know, but you'll never meet a lady who smells of hamsters.)

Girls don't smell of hamsters because they are not stupid. They know that if you want to dry your clothes, you do not stack them all up on top of each other and stuff them on a radiator. You space them out and let the warm air circulate. In that way, your clothes dry properly and you do not parade about the place with crispy jeans and t-shirts that smell like the bottom of a hamster's cage.

Although I am not a boy and am not (despite the fact of my short hair, which often causes people in restaurants to call me 'sir' until I turn round and they see my enbonpoint*) a man, I have a jersey that smells like it has been lining a hamster's cage for many months. I wash it; I dry it carefully; I wash it alone; I wash it with other things. I dry it on a rack, on a hanger, and draped directly over the radiator but all to no avail. It smells of hamsters all day and all night. It is a non-stop centre of Hamsterstench. A blind man would smell me coming and say, "Smell that? That's a first year Chemistry student at the University of Aston, that is. Someone get him a proper clothes drying rack, will they?".

Unlike "Beautiful Jersey With Weird Hooks and Eyes" and "Touch It, It's Cashmere, Black and You Want It" Jersey, Stinky Jersey cost £19.99 from Sainsbury's and was bought in a Panic. It is not made of wool. I think it is made of plastic. It does not wash well, it bobbled within a week and it stinks (of hamsters). It reminds me that it is better to save up the money of six Stinky Jerseys and get one "It's Black, Cashmere and You Want It" Jersey (in much the same way that it is better to save up twenty "It's such fun!" handbags and get one "Cunting hell, you could get a car for that" handbag).

These are dark days, my friends. I am showing my age. Any second now I will be telling you to moisturise twice a day. And yet I must face the truth: I am 37, like Radio 4, like kind Men (not boys that smell like hamsters), believe in Quality over Quantity, and cannot walk the streets smelling like a Chemistry undergraduate. Only one course of action remains: I must give Stinky Jersey up, and hope it meets its destiny as the lining of a slightly grubby hamster cage.



* At which point, if I am in France, they gather in the kitchen, point, and exclaim "Il y a du monde au balcon!" in amazed tones.

Day 191: I Am Worried About Daughter Number Six

I think you may enjoy having a little click on this. Then scroll down. But not too fast. Otherwise you'll miss obedient number three, and sister number five's hat. (She likes horses.)

There is a chance that this is a joke, but I don't think it is. But just in case, look at this, a thing that is definitely not a joke.

And nor (or so it seems!) is this. Underneath the list of vegetables, you, like me, will I know be delighted to discover (a bit further down, under "Causes of chronic flatulence") that a lady called Denise has very kindly provided the world with an mp3 file of one of her flatulent episodes. Read on, and you will find an intriguing reference to "Kate losing her job at the funeral parlour, Denise having to leave her job as a lecturer and Julian's flatulence causing mental illness". Heavens!

Day 191: I Decide To Get A Publishing Deal

Enough's enough. Everyone else has a book deal and I want one too, whether I deserve it or not.

I have therefore put together the following letter and propose sending it to everyone in The Writer's Handbook 2006, even the small zoological publishing house outside Crewe.
_______

Monkey Towers
The More Salubrious Part of Brixton
London
SW2


Dear Agent(s) and/or Publisher(s)

Today I offer you what can only be described as an opportunity of a lifetime: one that will make us all rich, and me famous in a way I will pretend I do not enjoy.

Before I go on, might I suggest you get a glass of cool white wine (medium-sweet, if you can), and a bowl of better-quality cheese-based snacks (Roka Crispies, for example) by your elbow? I want you comfortable, relaxed, and open to new and groundbreaking ideas.

Background: From Blog To Book

I have become aware of late that it is possible to obtain a publishing contract by writing a “Weblog”. In order so to do, it is helpful if your “Weblog” (also known as “blog”), fulfils at least one of the following criteria:

1. Saucy
2. A bit cheeky, leading to loss of employment
3. Useful and informative
4. Interesting enough to lead to interviews on BBC Radio 4
5. Not about much, but well written and/or amusing.

(Please note: in some cases it has been possible to combine, for example, (1) and (3), or (2) and (4) – rare, but impressive.)

What I propose is something new. Something that will break new ground and force reappraisal of the entire blog-to-book genre.

My Idea

I propose making a book out of a blog that is about nothing at all. The book will, therefore, also be about nothing at all.

In addition to and on top of that, I suggest that this book – reflecting the content of the blog that will spawn it (i.e., my blog), will completely fail to meet any of the criteria usually required in order to qualify a blog as book-worthy.

Why My Idea Is Good

My idea is good because it is different. People of all ages, sizes, colours and creeds are fed up with well-written, interesting blogs that have become books. They are hungry for change; change they do not even know they want.

What My Blog Is About

NOT MUCH! And that is why it is great. (Also, it is not particularly interesting or well-written.)

What My Book Could Be About

Like my blog, it could be about not much. And that is why it could be a genre-subverting masterpiece. A book about writing a blog about a life in which NOT MUCH HAPPENS, including genuine behind-the-blog insights and stories about what was really happening. (Not much, as it happens, but it’s a nice “extra’ for the marketing people.)

Example Scenarios

• A plague of squirrels
• A Canadian pathologist who cuts his own hair
• Chewing-gum in my ladygarden (for the second time)
• Pimping my Micra
• Beaver(s)
• Unfeasibly large Classical cock
• A museum of Cat
• A beautician sweats in my mouth
• Some dioramas and some strange facial hair

And many more!

Why Me?

My weblog (www.non-workingmonkey.blogspot.com) is indeed, as I have hinted, about not much. Also, there is enough content there already for me to cobble something together in a month or two, meaning we could get this baby out in time for the crucial Christmas Market.

In practical terms, the fact of my non-workingness also means that I am available to meet any (or all) of you in the Top London (or New York!) Eaterie at any time to discuss my idea in further detail.

What Should The Book Be Called?

I think the book should be called “The Year That Not Much Happened.”

Film Rights

I will be happy for you to sell these as long as Clive Owen (with a brain) is cast in the role of ‘Unfeasibly Large Classical Cock”, and a stunt double is used for the episode featuring “Chewing-gum in my ladygarden (for the second time).”

I very much look forward to hearing from you and trust that you, like me, are able to see the artistic and commercial potential in this new and ground-breaking idea.

Yours faithfully

Non-workingmonkey

Day 190: I Am Greatly Cheered

Discounting two hours spent at the gym (where there is no time to think or feel anything), the Bad Mood that began the moment I woke lasted six hours. No mean feat, considering I once had one that lasted seventeen years.

Anyroad up, the black clouds started to lift following a conversation with Kathryn at Norwich Union (who said she'd give me £2,892), some scrambled eggs on dangerous black bread and a quick go on Supertramp, and finally fucked off out of it when I read all about the winner of The Insignificant Awards and laughed until my nose bled. (Mainly at myself, for going to see if I'd won anything.)*

Oh, then someone sent me this. Which is enough to cheer anyone up.




Note: Be very glad this stops there. It was six times longer, and about why blogging is indeed Insignificant, including my desperately fascinating thoughts on "why I blog". Happily, I realised it was astonishingly dull and, more importantly, a bit of blogging about blogging, which is frankly Unforgiveable.

Update some hours later ...

* Talking of awards, Tim (who seems pleasant enough despite not being able to distinguish between an otter and a monkey), has given me an award for being "funny", which is kind of him, although I fear he may be laughing AT rather than WITH. Do go and look, if only because he has "bigged up" (as they say on the streets) some good blogs as well, e.g. dearest Anna.

I like awards very much, so if anyone else would like to give me one, do feel free. The only condition is that it should involve no effort on my part, no sending of $10 to the Ohio Poetry Society, and no subscriptions to either Reader's Digest or Which? magazines.

Day 190: I Wish They Would Shut Up

I wake in my pit at 8am following a night punctuated by noisy felines, alarm clocks going off for no apparent reason, emails from the Colonies half-read and replied to in the early hours, and strange dreams containing a Pathologist and a serviced apartment in Paris with a very slow lift.

I am thick-headed. My legs ache and when I swallow, it hurts. It is raining, and the post brings nothing but bills from dentists, copies of tax returns and letters from Norwich Union containing approximately £2,500 less than they were supposed to contain.

And now they are digging up the road with one of those tools that requires ear protectors for its operator. They are doing it outside my house, and will be doing it all day. I would like them to stop, otherwise I fear I may weep.

Still, at least the cat has stopped snoring, reminding me that I must once again put out an appeal:

1. Does anyone (in the UK) want to adopt this cat?
2. If not, does anyone know the best way of getting a cat adopted?

He is old, fat and needs company. (Like me.) He's alright when he has company, but because I go away quite a lot I think he's going a Bit Mad. He is low-maintenance but makes a racket if he's been left on his own too long. Free to nicest person.

I have tried to take a photograph of him looking sweet, but the best I can do is this:


You will note that even in a photograph that is supposed to make him look sweet, he looks like a fat, mad, slightly malevolent bat.










On a more positive note, his name is Monster and he is usually asleep. Unless you are, in which case he will make an infernal racket, meaning you will not sleep much and will wake the next morning in a foul mood, hoping beyond hope that someone will adopt him.

Day 189: I Have Weird Elbows

Regular readers will be aware of the work of Anuja, who was once my personal trainer. She had her good points, like being able to spin in the air, but mainly she threw things at me and told me very long stories about people I do not know.

Anuja left to take up a career as a mobile masseuse and astrologer. Virgin Active took over Holmes Place; we were given new branded haversacks and a man with a moustache squatted in a poster that told us that if we forgot our pass cards, we would have to pay for another. Christmas, New Year, the wedding of my best friend and a delicious Pathologist came and went; I went to Bedford, saw a tiny baby inside a lady's tummy, put a cardboard box on my head to amuse a small child, and went to Amsterdam to Consider My Options.

But all of this Activity (including long walks in France with emergency cake in my pocket), could not detract from the fact that my arse remains Quite Considerable and my tummy - which is in fact an alien appendage created by boy scientists in the Pilsbury Dough Factory - continues to hang in a strange, almost apologetic way. (And this is Without Consideration of The Rest Of It.) There has been Little Gym Action of late and I have been feeling stiff and blobby, and like I am seeping over the edge of things when really, I am not.

Today, my arse hanging behind me, I rushed to the gym to meet my new personal trainer. He is called Nick (a name I have always liked), and immensely tall, as tall as a lamp-post, and cannot touch his toes. When it is cold, snow gathers on his head. Birds build nests in his hair. He is kind and gentle and you do what he asks as he would be sad if you didn't.

He made me do 50 situps, very fast. I was a bit sick in my mouth. And then me made me do 50 pressups, quite fast, but halfway through he shouted STOP!, so I stopped. No more sick came, but sweat went into my eyes and I blinked a bit. "I'm NOT CRYING", I said. "No, I know", he said, "but let me look at your elbows".

My elbows are a bit odd. Only last Thursday the lady with the tiny baby inside her (and the 2-year-old who only likes me when my head is stuck in a cardboard box), looked at my elbows and called me a freak. They sort of swivel around you see, my elbows, in an odd way.

Nick, who is so tall that he cannot fit his head in a normal car, told me that I had "hyperelastic" elbows. "Hyperelastic?", I said. "Well, that or hypo-elastic", said Nick. "Hypo- or hyper", I said, "I think you are saying I have WEIRD elbows". "Yes", said Nick, "You have Weird Elbows. In fact, I think you may be a freak." After that, he made me do other things, things that are the gym equivalent of cod liver oil and spinach, and said: "Not bad. For a FREAK".

I think I like Nick.

Day 188: I Make Low GI Muffins And Do Not Spit Them Out In Disgust

No reader has been so regular that he or she remembers Day 1 of this weblog, in which I was driven out of my own home by some revolting Low GI Muffins. Since that first terrible experience, all I can say is that people wandering around looking for the Holy Grail is as Nothing compared to my 187-day search for a Low GI Muffin recipe; a recipe that is Edible, and does not make me think of pony nuts and straw.

Thanks to various dull 'ishoos' involving the odd visit to Speshul Doctors, I must be Wary of things that are full of sugar and the like and eat mainly Low GI foodstuffs, for it is in this way, and this way alone, that I lose weight. (I hasten to add there is nothing faddy about this; Those With My Condition were aware of the Low GI Diet many years before size 10 journalists in womens' magazines decided to drop two dress sizes on it.)

Today I found a recipe, from the North America, that involved cups and yoghurt. I remembered, with a sudden jolt, that I had bought some 'cups' in the Canada: the making of North American recipes was possible! My friends, let me tell you something. I made the recipe, with the cups, which were easier than scales with numbers on. (A question for North American readers: does one leave one's cups attached to each other, or separate them?). I even worked out the rest of the strange and subtle North American Language of Recipe ("t" meant, I decided "teaspoon"; "T", "tablespoon"), all by myself!

The muffins are fairly palatable, bearing in mind that they do not contain the ingredients (e.g. butter, flour or sugar) that make 'normal' muffins (a.k.a. an excuse to eat cake for breakfast) quite nice. The walnut is my own attractive embellishment; one that, I am sure you will all agree, makes them look rather elegant.

From now on, I shall only make North American recipes with cups, as they are better than measuring scales. As far as I can tell, means I will be eating mainly Bundt cake, muffin and macaroni cheese. Still, needs must!

For those that wants it, here's the recipe:

APPLE OAT BRAN MUFFINS
From The Good Carb Cookbook; I found the recipe here.

Makes 12

2 c oat bran
2 t baking powder
1/4 t baking soda
1 t ground cinnamon
1/4 c dark brown sugar
1/2 c nonfat or lowfat vanilla yogurt
1/2 c apple juice
1/2 c fat free egg substitute or 2 lg eggs + 1 egg white lightly beaten
2 T canola or walnut oil
1 c finely chopped peeled apples
1/2 c chopped walnuts, pecans, dried cranberries or dark raisins (optional)

1. Combine oat bran, baking powder, baking soda, and cinnamon in a large bowl. Stir and mix well. Add brown sugar and mix well. Press out any lumps of brown sugar.

2. Put yogurt, apple juice, egg substitute (or eggs), and oil in a small bowl and mix well. Add the yogurt mixture to the oat bran mixture and mix well. Fold in apples and if desired, nuts or dried fruit.

3. Coat bottom of muffin cups w/ nonstick spray and fill 3/4 full w/ batter. Bake at 350 degrees for 16 minutes or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center of muffin comes out clean.

4. Remove the muffin tin from oven and allow to sit for 5 minutes before removing the muffins from the tin. Serve warm or at room temperature. Refrigerate or freeze any leftovers not eaten within 24 hours.

Nutritional info per muffin:

100 calories, 19 g carb, 0 mg cholesterol, 3.4 g fat, 2.6 g fiber, 4.4 g protein, 133 mg sodium, 83 mg calcium

GI rating: Low

Stuff I did: Put the apples in; put in a mixture of walnuts, linseeds, pumpkin seeds, dried cranberries and dried blueberries; forgot to buy apple juice so used slightly diluted elderflower cordial instead; didn't have any ground cinnamon, so used mixed spice. Do not have a freezer so will not be freezing leftovers, and fridge is full of cabbage, so will have to eat them all by 6.30 tomorrow otherwise they will Become Poisonous and Kill Me. Didn't coat the muffin cases with stuff as forgot and they were fine. Remain deeply perturbed by N. American use of word "batter" to describe "mix"; "batter" is what you make pancakes (known as 'crepes' in the Americas, I believe) and Yorkshire pudding out of. Oh, and couldn't find any low-fat vanilla yoghurt that wasn't made mainly of sugar, so I used the rhubarb yoghurt I had in the fridge instead. And I don't know what a Canola is and I didn't have enough walnut oil, so I used sunflower, although walnut would have been nicer.




Random Addition: What has actually happened today is that someone I know died. (No comments on this please, we weren't close and I didn't always like him that much.) But it would be odd writing anything today without mentioning it, so now I have. He was 42 and died quite quickly. If you smoke, give up now, and be nice to people you like.

Day 187: I Am Enormously Happy All Of A Sudden

Morrissey! On the Eurovision Song Contest, representing Britain! (Possibly.)

I am crying tears of pure joy.

(Look! It really is true!)



Talking of quiffs, I am reassured to see that the years may pass, but Mark Kermode remains a knobber.*












* Worst celebrity hairstyle in existence, apart from present-day Paul Weller. And why is it that Morrissey and Stewart Lee get away with quiffs (as did Mark Lemarr, before he cut it off), but Kermode does not?

Day 187: I Live Beneath A Cunt

Regular readers will be aware of the work of Twatboy, the near-millionaire 27 year old who lives upstairs. They may also be aware of Fucking Cretin, his gormless flatmate.

Fucking Cretin is a moonfaced Sloane. Like Twatboy, he is shiny-faced and public-school educated. I suspect they both went to one of the minor public schools; schools that have no entrance requirement other than parents with money, and whose examination results do not necessarily provide much of a return on investment.

Twatboy is irritating, but he means well. He apologises and worries about the leaseholder, for example. But it is Fucking Cretin who will die, and die tonight.

Fucking Cretin plays a war game very noisily all the time, endlessly and without cease. It becomes impossible to work, or concentrate on Columbo and Murder She Wrote. Sometimes he plays music very loudly, and shit music too: things like Keane, for example. (Most of the time I ignore it, for they are ten years younger than me and I must be Reasonable.) And every morning, they wake me up stomping down the stairs.

Today I am very tired indeed. I have much to think about, not least whether the kindest way to kill the cat is by placing a cushion over his head and then sitting on him. I have been lying on the sofa drifting in and out of sleep and not feeling guilty about doing nothing, for every time I jolt out of a doze, I am ever-closer to Working Out The Thing I Need To Work Out. It is Vital that I am (for the first time in many weeks) able to think this weekend, and send an email to Amsterdam that may or may not affect my future in a six-month sort of a way.

But what is this? TERRIBLE MUSIC IS BOOMING THROUGH THE FLOOR. I sit bolt upright. The cat sqeaks. The book I am reading (50p from the charity shop) on the sofa, whilst drinking tea and deciding on my short- to medium-term future, slips to the floor.

I Lose It. I bang on the front door. And bang. And bang. And Fucking Cretin comes down.

"Hello Cretin", I say. "Come and listen to this."

Fucking Cretin comes into my flat. The music is extremely loud.

He has a look about him that I do not like. It is a look that tells me the little cunt thinks he is somehow better than me. Granted, my hair is standing on end and I am wearing a 'hooded top' over an otherwise sensible ensemble; and yes, all the self-help books I have acquired over the years are on the floor*, being sorted to take to the charity shop. But nevertheless, I am a) older than him; and b) his neighbour. And c), he does not own the flat; TwatBoy does. It is therefore in his best interests to be nice to me.

But no. The little shit looks at me, sneers slightly, and says "But it's not that loud".

I am astonished. "What did you say?"

"Well it's not that loud. You asked me my opinion and I'm giving it: I don't think it's that loud."

The cunt! I think.

"I didn't ask your opinion. I asked you to come into my flat so you could hear how loud it is. Then you might understand why I sometimes come and ask you to turn it down."

"But it's not that loud."

Time passes. Traffic stops on Brixton Hill. Storm clouds gather; birds fall from the trees. A distant shot is heard. I squint at Fuckin Cretin in disbelief.

"Are you arguing with me?", I say, as if I have just been told the earth is flat.

He crosses his arms and sticks his chin out. He laughs slightly, in that patronising way that only half-wits with over-inflated ideas of their own intelligence and importance can laugh.

"I just think you're being ridiculous. It's Saturday evening, I'm getting ready to go out, and it's not that loud"

What happened next I will not repeat in full, but the expressions "you're being fucking rude, Cretin", "had it crossed your mind to apologise", "don't fucking talk to me like that, Cretin", "get out of my flat NOW", "I have already asked you once: get out of my fucking flat", "yes, Cretin, I WOULD like you to turn it down" and "I wouldn't mind so much, except your music is fucking awful" were used.

Fucking Cretin will no doubt be spending the evening recounting in full how amusing he was in the face of the hysterical woman from downstairs. But what Fucking Cretin does not realise is that I am a trained assassin, and will get him when he comes in tonight. I will wait for him behind the garden wall and leap on him like a puma that has eaten to much cake, whip out a cushion, put it over his face and sit on it until he stops breathing. And then I will move to Amsterdam, and allow some practitioners of the heavy metal to move in.


* Every one unread, I hasten to add, apart from the first three chapters of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, from which I gathered you should put men on elastic bands and let them go into caves, and women just need a nice cuddle. What is more worrying is the fact that many of these books were given to me. Do I sound like the sort of person who wonders who's moved my cheese?

Day 186: I Am Really Very Confused

My brother and I continue our walk after staring confusedly into a shop window, and suddenly - as if by magic - I am Thrown Into Mental Disarray once again! What in God's name is THIS shop selling?














Still confused, we enter a local "bar" and drink some strong beer out of a tap with a seventeenth century man on it. Everyone is playing chess. It is a very nice bar with candles, smoke and dim music. (There are no bars like that in London*, but many in Amsterdam, Prague and Vienna.)

I am talking about work with my brother (the word "career" is neither appropriate nor entirely palatable), and we talk a little about the ever-increasing possibility of me living in Amsterdam.

Me: I like this bar.
My brother: I wouldn't be playing chess though.
Me: No, nor would I, but I'd be up for a game of badminton.
My brother: Twat.

* There are many, many English things that I adore and think are unsurpassed (the BBC and Marmite, for example), but actually living there is Rubbish.

Day 186: I Wonder If Anyone Can Help

To be fair, I was up at 4am, driving from Bedford to Stansted on A-roads in the dark and the pouring rain. I nearly DIED at one point and I am Not Exaggerating. (Blind bend, rain, 4x4, full beam headlights, sudden dip in the road, heart stops working, dangerous swerve.)

Anyway, I got the flight to the Amsterdam (just), and got picked up and went to an interview, which was like Rear Window but with a canal and some boats. And then I went to a birthday party and was walking back with my brother (who lives in the Amsterdam), and we saw this shop. And we're fucked* if we can work out what it sells. Any ideas?























* And no, we hadn't "been to a coffee shop".

Day 184: I Revert To Speed-O-Blog Once Again In An Attempt To Get My Cat Off My Hands

This endless busyness is wearing. My shoulders are aching. I dream of sugar and things that would make a Freudian psychoanalyst wear holes in her notepad.

Yet tiny things continue to drip just within range of my relentlessly efficient peripheral vision! I find myself compelled, by a strange force I do not understand, to further wear down the coating on the space bar and "e" in the dim hope that someone, somewhere will want to know how I smuggled an aquatic rodent into a Top London Eaterie* last night.

And so to 'Speed-O-Blog' once again, my last resort in times of Busyness. (Or how about "Postasbord"? Sounds clever and faintly Scandinavian.)

We take Beaver the Beaver out on the town

Regular readers will be aware of the work of Beaver the Beaver. He has been down in the mouth of late; yesterday afternoon, I found him listening to Airbag by Radiohead and sighing, a little as I did a month or so ago . This can only mean one thing: he is homesick for the Canada.

There is nothing sadder than a homesick beaver and so, when I went to dine with my brother, Runningmonkey, Beaver the Beaver came too. (We went to a very nice restaurant, where they provided a special high chair, a picture of Canada and some pencils for him to colour it in with.)






















As you will see from these photographs, he also practised dam building on a panacotta with poached rhubarb and the "truffle logs"* that came with my afogato, and had a cheeky pop on our biscuit in Bar Italia afterwards.

You will be glad to know that Beaver the Beaver is now tucked up in front of repeats of "Life On Earth" on BBC9, talking about snowshoes in the shape of tennis rackets and looking at the picture of Pierre Trudeau I cut out of a magazine for him.

I think my cat needs a new home

Regular readers will be aware of the work of my cat, Monster. I adoped him and his uncle, Squiffy (deceased) one night two years ago when I was drunk. Monster is about 13, fat and very stupid. On a good day (i.e., when he has company all day), he is like Bagpuss. On a bad day, I want him to die. He is so stupid that he sits in the garden under apple trees, and when very big apples the size of the moon fall on his head it makes no apparent difference.

I am away quite a lot. This is not good for Monster. Monster needs attention and affection. He will probably die soon, so you won't have to feed him for long. If you want him, please let me know. If you are nice and I think you will like him more than I do (not difficult), I will even drive him to you if you live in Edinburgh.

As if I have not made him sound tempting enough, here are some enticing photographs:

























You should also know that an eminent veterinary friend has confirmed that he a) does not have dementia; b) is a bit weird; c) looks like a bat about the ears.

I am going to see a Baby

Tomorrow to the Hospital to see a Tiny Baby inside a lady! Happily, I know the lady, and also her husband, and also her small daughter who is my goddaughter (and has a monkey called Creskin). I will see the baby on a Screen apparently!

I am going on a Business Trip

Regular readers will be aware of the fact that in the olden days I used to travel on big planes in the name of Business. Ladies in hats would bring me free stuff, most of which I did not want, and there were always men with boards with my name on everywhere, even at the end of my bed in my five star hotel room.

On Friday I go to Amsterdam to See A Man About A Dog. Just like in the Olden Days, my travel has been arranged for me. I will however admit that I was startled to discover that my flight leaves Stansted at 7.05 IN THE MORNING.

The comments are better than the post

This is often the way, as my readers are, on the whole (with the exception of any of my family) quite amusing. You don't need a link; just read the comments on the post below.


* I dislike this kind of language. Things like "a portion of moist cake" that has been "drenched with a mouthwatering coulis". Give me the fucking cake and shut up, fool.

Day 184: I Wonder If He's Being Ironic

You may like this.

Please study it carefully. Is the man:

1. Being ironic, but actually quite put out
2. A knob
3. Trying to be funny?

I think the answer is (1).

Day 183: I Consider An Alternative Mode Of Travel

Regular readers will be aware that I have been unemployed for 183 days. Some may also be aware that my unemployment has been a relatively luxurious affair supported, as it has been, with enough money to buy crisps and a new hat every week.

But my dears! The temptation! It takes Effort not to fill one's days with family size packs of Revels, triple bills of Judge Judy and blog posts about squirrels, beavers and enormous plaster cocks. Sadly, my efforts have not always been successful, especially in matters of rodents (aquatic and otherwise) and Classical Genitalia.

I can however congratulate myself (and you may congratulate me too, if you wish), on my adherence to my revolutionary new diet and fitness plan*. It has led to considerable weight loss and increased fitness (particularly in the thigh area), for which I have rewarded myself with the odd afternoon of Murder She Wrote with the sound turned off whilst reading 50p novels from the charity shop. (A pleasure that can only be improved by the sure knowledge that Morse: 20 Year Anniversary is only twenty minutes away.)

But I am human (surprising though it is to hear it), and the Festive Period (inc. a wedding and Royal Colonial Visit from a self-haircutting Pathologist), has meant that my usual regime of daily three hour sessions at the gymnasium followed by macrobiotic air in a low-cal shake has fallen by the wayside. I have therefore been Taking Action over the last four days, star-jumping out of the front door in my Nike Air 360s as the sun rises, and eating food that can only be described as Healthy In Quite A Dull Way.

On Saturday, for example, I ate an entire cabbage for lunch, stir-fried with chili and garlic. In the evening, a chop and some courgettes, accompanied by some dark ale I found in the refrigerator (a treat after a Long Day working, consumed in front of a film with a man in it). The next day, thoughts - and my diet - turned to stews of pulses and brown basmati rice with a Healthy Accompaniment of broccoli. Porridge has been eaten, with a banana and a little honey. Apples and pears have been consumed, with some oatcakes. Salmon today, with Many Green Beans. And last night, to dinner with Friends! "We shall go and have a Mexican dinner", they cried, marching me off to a Fashionable Hoxton Venue. There, we ate spiced meats accompanied by raw shredded cabbage, re-fried beans and dark ale.

On Monday, I am going to Amsterdam to see a man about a job. I have ignored his secretary's repeated requests for information concerning my airport and carrier of choice, as Air Tickets will not be necessary. I shall be getting myself to the Netherlands using my own Special Propulsion Jet, a method of transport that I am sure you will all agree is the Environmentally Friendly Choice: low on carbon emissions whilst making constructive use of natural methane gasses.


* It's a fucking sensation. It is called "The Eat Less and Move Around More" diet. I confidently predict it will be sweeping the nation by May. In fact, I'll be astonished if The Daily Mail aren't on the blower offering me an 8-page Bikini Diet Get Fit For Easter Pullout Special Feature (sponsored by Avon) by Thursday.

Day 182: I Am Yet Again Asked To Open A Baby Giant Rabbit (And/Or Tiger) Petting Zoo

"... So what you could do", said my friend Sarah, "is have a petting zoo. With giant rabbits in it. And then I could come and run it."

Sarah is always GOING ON about the giant rabbit petting zoo. If it's not giant rabbits, it's tigers. At the moment, she claims she has a 'meercam' attached to her computer, which provides her with round-the-clock images of a family of meerkats. (What she then does with those images is not known, but we do not like to ask).

However, Sarah has surpassed herself this afternoon by sending me the following images of pandas, accompanied by a Mysterious Note.

"I send you these", she writes, "but just imagine them with baby giant rabbits and tigers instead."






Imagine it indeed!

Day 181: I Am Delighted By A Small But Athletic Act Of Vandalism

SPLENDID MONKEY GALLERY: Picture 20

Regular readers will be aware of the work of Splendid Monkey Gallery, in which hopeful readers send their monkeys in for Assessment and Possible Inclusion in my magnificent online monkey art collection.

I am delighted to tell you that the New Year has started on an artistic high with the following monkeys, sent by the elusive Dr Forte under the thrilling subject title "Monkeys from Suffolk".

They were accompanied by A Mysterious Note:

"I think these are both lady monkeys.

Happy New Year

Dr F"

Happy New Year indeed!

















It only remains for me to say: Congratulations, Dr Forte!


NB: If YOU have submitted a monkey that has not Made It into Splendid Monkey Gallery, please re-submit him (or her) for re-consideration. It will have been an oversight rather than a Deliberate Exclusion, of that I can assure you.

Day 180: I Cry With Happiness

Press the "Play" button on this. It's two minutes long. It is very funny. There is a monkey and Johnny Vegas, and many packets of PG Tips.



This is good too.

And this: one of the original Monkey and Johnny Vegas ads for ITV Digital, which went tits-up.



Then there's these. The genius that is "Pets.com. Because pets can't drive." Irrelevant, other than they also feature an animal puppet. Oh, and I've only just found this ad after being sad enough to look for it for a long, long time.

Day 180: I Am Reduced To Tears By The Job Centre

Regular readers will be aware of my relationship with the Job Centre. It is important (they sign a form, I get my mortgage insurance back), but not vital (I do not need my Jobseekers' Allowance). However, it is rapidly (like the parking ticket from Hackney Council) becoming a relationship that continues as a matter of principle rather than necessity.

Job Centre Plus is staffed by people who cannot get jobs elsewhere, not even in factories pulling giblets out of chickens or washing carrots. People whose brains have been removed and replaced with fudge and cotton wool, who ask me if I've filled my forms in myself and stand chatting in clumps whilst The Unemployed gather in confused mounds. People who give you differing 'advice', depending on what time of day it is; whose only answer is another form; whose last resort is a quiet acknowledgement that "it's a miracle anything ever gets done".

Bearing in mind I paid enough income tax last year to keep most of London in Jobseeker's Allowance for the next ten years, I was overjoyed to receive the following letter this morning:

Dear NWM

YOUR CLAIM FOR JOBSEEKER'S ALLOWANCE

We cannot pay you jobseeker's allowance from 15 December 2005.

We cannot pay you because you have not paid, or been credited with, enough Class 1 National Insurance Contributions.

We have used the tax years ending 5 April 2004 and 5 April 2005 to assess your claim.

We may still credit you with Class 1 National Insurance contributions if you continue to attend the Jobcentre.


I don't cry much. I weep with frustration, or when someone succeeds on Faking It, or baby elephants die on the Attenborough programmes. I cried a bit last Saturday in a good-but-scary way. But the Job Centre makes me cry once a week. Either it's an hour spent filling out the wrong form and being spoken to as if I'm a cretin, or letters that make no sense, or conversations with midgets in wigs that mean Nothing and make no difference to anything at all, or letters like this that say 'no' for reasons you didn't think could possibly BE reasons, like "You cannot cross the road because THERE ARE NO ROADS", or "You cannot go to the hairdresser because YOU DO NOT HAVE A HEAD".

Perhaps Job Centres are the most democratic places of all. The more educated you are, the more compliant, the better you fill out your forms, the more employable you are, the more carefully-photocopied stuff you provide them with, the more polite you are, the more income tax and National Insurance you've paid over the years, and the fewer times you've claimed any kind of state benefit, the less likely you are to get it if you actually do need it and the more likely they are to make you weep with rage.

I think I'm turning right wing and middle-aged. And somehow, suddenly I don't care.

Day 179: I Resolve To Do Nothing Except Embrace The Miracle Of Knowledge

I will not speak of Resolutions for they are, on the whole, a Nonsense designed to make us squeal with Guilt. Today alone I have not done the work I was supposed to do, done my tax return, or called back one of my oldest and most-loved friends. I despise myself for these things, but it is unlikely that I will ever stop leaving things until the last minute or being mildly forgetful, however much it saddens me.

However, there is always room to Learn New Things and it is this small fact that keeps me going through the long winter months. This very afternoon, for example, I have been giving some Deep Thought what I have learnt in the last week.

Crows do not have hands

Barely credible, I know, but True as the Oxford Museum of Natural History said it in a sign.














Beavers Are Endlessly Inventive

A beaver will make a dam (or Lodge) out of any material he finds. Endlessly resourceful, Beaverish Structures can be made of sugar cubes stolen from Oxford Coffee Bars, or the detritus of a cream tea consumed in the coffee shop of the Natural History Museum in London.
























Birds Suffer From Flatulence
























The Head Of Andy Warhol Is Preserved For All Eternity In The Pitt-Rivers Museum In Oxford


























Michael Ball Is Still A Bit Of A Knobber

I can't hate him, because I don't think he's essentially evil (unlike, for example, Paul McKenna PhD or Sir Cliff of the Richard), but every time I see him I remember what Knobberdom looks like.








May 2007 be the year in which I learn from experience: you can shrink the head of an artist; animals and birds do things you would not expect; Ball is a bit of a knobber; New Year Resolutions are a waste of time; strange and glorious things happen when you do not expect them; the people that you love are worth looking after. Seems straightforward enough to me.

Day 178: I Show A Pathologist Around England

Heavens to Murgatroyd! My favourite self-haircutting Canadian pathologist arrives in the England and suddenly it turns into a theme park!

I have seen things in the last five days in Real Life that hitherto only existed in the Films and in free aeroplane magazines written by Austrians.

Policemen with Pointy Hats On

What is this? Policemen wear flat caps or body armour, not pointy hats! But we have seen three policemen wearing Ye Olde England Pointy Hats in the last week. (One of them I think was twirling a truncheon, but I cannot be sure.)


The Queen

I only think of the Queen in the context of the phrase beginning "come the revolution". However, this week she has been on the television and radio almost non-stop, as well as being on all the newspapers endlessly and without cease. (She has also been on our currency, but that was to be expected.) I am frankly surprised we didn't bump into her over the weekend.

Jam

I have six jars of jam. Two of them are marmalade; one of them is French; the other three are Tiptree. This is not normal.

Tea

"It's complete nonsense, this thing about the English and tea", I say, looking in my kitchen cupboard. "It's a myth, this apparent obsession of ours." Before me I see:

PG Tips
Twinings English Breakfast
Twinings Lapsang Suchong
Sainsburys Decaf Earl Grey
Twinings Organic Peppermint
Sainsburys Jasmine Green Tea
Birt&Tang Ginger Tea.

No, we never drink tea. Ever.

A Wedding

Despite the wedding of my best friend being in Shoreditch and quite 'fashionable', my Colonial friend was able to enjoy:

- the best man making jokes about the groom being gay
- poo jokes
- sausage and mash in a box
- fish and chips in a box
- ladies in hats and Other Headware (e.g., feathers)
- drunkenness
- dancing to E.L.O.
- reference to what the groom did in the dormitory at school.

CAMRA Pamphlet

Much as I admire the work of CAMRA in keeping facial hair and Hush Puppies at the heart of British culture, it is not normal to go into a pub and find a CAMRA leaflet on the table. It is also not normal to open the leaflet at the following paragraph:

"I met Caroline and Alan at Cheltenham Royal Well bus station and caught the 10.30 Castleways 606 service to Winchcombe. The bus stops conveniently right outside the Corner Cupboard Inn. The first pint of the day was one of my favourites, Stanney Bitter. On leaving we walked down Harveys Lane to the footpath leading to Langley Hill, stopping at the top to take in the splendid views on this warm sunny late summer day ... After we finished our drinks... it was another pleasant work to Beckford Church to rendezvous with the 15.19 Midland Red service to Tewkesbury."

Country Folk

Obviously every time you drive along a lane in the English countryside you see a man wearing breeches, leaning on a shooting stick and wearing a tweed cap and waistcoat. Of course you do. Every time.

A hunt

In much the same way, every time you drive along a road in the English countryside you are nearly mown down by a woman in a top hat, a man wearing a pink coat and a child in a hacking jacket, astride enormous horses (and a pony). Then you look to the left and see many horses and riders dotted about the place, suggesting that a fox has been Found in a Copse. Then some people gallop off, and some muddy Range Rovers follow them.

A Cottage

I had chosen a Tiny Cottage in the Cotwolds for New Year claiming, as I did, that the Cotswolds would be good "because they are what foreigners think England is like". Little did I know that it would be extravagantly and cinematically English! Freezing floors, no hot water, not enough logs and ducks in a pond at the end of a garden. And an extremely comfortable bed, which is apparently a Feature of English Beds, but not one that I was aware of!

Tea at 4

One of my oldest friends happens to live in an eighteenth century converted stable across the courtyard from a sixteenth century manor house. He also happened to have, when we arrived, teacakes and scones. Which we ate for tea. With a cup of tea. Which of course the English never drink. And nor is tea a "meal" we ever have.

A black cab

We take a cab. The driver is friendly and Chatty! He chirrups in a friendly manner at the delicious Pathologist in a cock-er-nee stylee. The Pathologist understands not one word, apart from (perhaps) "guv".

A curry

It is in Tooting and Fucking Brilliant. In this, it is unlike most other curries in the England.

A Pub Lunch

On the menu are fish and chips and steak and kidney pie.

Natural History Museum(s)

The Natural History Museums of both Oxford and London contained exhibits that were older than Canada itself, including a squirrel that died 219 years ago and a stuffed badger.

In the Natural History Museum in London they had cream tea. We sat underneath William Morris tiles and I tried to explain where Cornwall and Devon were, how they argue about who invented scones with cream and jam on, and how one county says you put the jam on first and the other says you put the cream on first. Then we saw a wooden tiger attacking a man, and some lights that went up and down and made noises in a Victorian courtyard.


Now the Pathologist is gone, and England has lost its lustre. As an inevitable consequence, I am wearing my brushed cotton pyjamas, drinking dry sherry and thinking of going to bed with C S Lewis and a cup of warm milk. But first I must watch EastEnders, put my milk bottles out on the doorstep and turn off Radio 4.