Day 127: I Provide A Round-up Of This Week's Cultural Experiences

I watch This Life, and am confused

They are all chainsmoking, and using telephone boxes! Egg is telling Miles he should try finding love on the internet because it's "the future"! Andrew Lincoln Looks Exactly The Same! What happened to the gay one, and the one with the bad hair? Where did Tanita Tikaram's brother go? It is a Blessing that we have not seen Egg's whingey girlfriend since 1997!

And by jiminy, it's Not Very Good, either. Bollocks. I used to fucking LOVE This Life. I thought they were Virtually My Friends, even though they were all lawyers and lived in a gigantic house, and I did menial tasks in an advertising agency and lived in a tiny flat with a flatmate I used to torture with a stick. I wanted to be Anna (but then I reckon that the God-botherers on my corridor at university who used to put "Jesus Loves You" postcards under my door, complete with pictures of kittens, wanted to be Anna too). In fact everyone wanted to be Anna. And then I sat next to Anna (well, Daniela Nardini) at a wedding a couple of years later. And she was top. I have a ladycrush on her, even though I am not on that particular bus.

There is a Christmas Special coming, in which they will be Reunited Ten Years On. I hope that Anna is still wearing red lipstick and flashing her marvellous legs, but is living quietly in the country mostly making jam with a nice chap, looking after her horse, writing novels and occasionally going Up To Town to buy more red lipstick and see her Old Chums. I love her.

With any luck Millie realised how boring she was and killed herself. Egg's OK, he's making a fortune from voiceovers. Miles is mainly hanging out with Johnny Depp in a Pirate Costume but like I say: where's Warren? What happened to Tanita Tikaram's brother?


I go to a Show

I hate musicals with a passion. I don't mind old-fashioned films of musicals with people singing properly and stories, but I cannot even think about Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman or Elaine Paige without coming out in hives.

But I saw The Sound of Music the other night. There was Cilla Black, Graham Norton, Anneka Rice and Doreen out of Birds of a Feather, a thousand people up from the suburbs for the night and us. And loads of cameras and that, and some red buses going to Saltzburg.

Maria was played by a girl who won her part from a telly programme in which the best impersonation of Julie Andrews was judged by Andrew Lloyd Webber, who was sitting in a Golden Armchair. I did not watch it. Every time she talked she skipped. It was like the film, but with all the long bits taken out and without Julie Andrews and Christopher "Foxy" Plummer. We ate a lot of Liquorice Allsorts and the Julie Andrews impersonator got a standing ovation at the end.

Someone else I know went last Friday, and as they were doing the Nazi bit (you know, when the Captain sings Edelweiss and they all run away), the person sitting in the seat next to her shouted "They can't do that! That's RACIST!".

Then we saw this lovely bust of Bruce Forsyth, which made everything worthwhile.
















I listen to Radio 4

I listen to Radio 4 the whole time, even when I am asleep. ("Viking North Utsire South veering southwest 6 to gale 8, increasing severe gale 9 or storm 10 for a time. Rough or very rough, occasionally high later. Rain or showers. Moderate or good.")

But today I heard Lord Stevens (who used to be head of the Metropolitan Police, pictured here on the left) on Desert Island Discs*. He was an Idiot. Lots of jingoistic hymns, a song from Phantom of the Opera sung by Brightman and "If" by Rudyard Kipling (surely the Worst Poem Ever Written), read by DES LYNAM.


I read some books

When it rains, you have to read The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford, The Young Visiters by Daisy Ashford, or The Diary of a Nobody. Then you will feel less rained-upon. Fact.


I take a photograph

It's not very good, but London has been sort of like this this week:

















But despite the rain, my teeth are beginning to be mendededed, the Vanity Cover is off the Classical Cock today, and Anuja-the-personal-trainer is leaving Holmes Place. I am Free! Free of endless wittering and mixed metaphors! Released from "If you look good, you feel good!". Never again will I have to endure an hour of a story I do not understand, about people I do not know, with no obvious conclusion, whilst doing squats on a half-ball holding 10kg weights.

Things are looking up. I reckon it'll turn out nice tomorrow.


* For Foreign Readers: BBC Radio 4 is the best radio station in the World. Desert Island Discs is a strange but good programme, invented by Roy Plomley in 1942. Celebrities go on and choose the eight records they would take on a desert island, and talk about it a bit. Everyone gets The Complete Works of Shakespeare and the Bible to read, but you can choose one other book and a luxury. (Mine are Molesworth and some tweezers.)

SPECIAL FEATURE: Ask Monkeymother

Regular readers will be aware that I have a mother, who is called Monkeymother. Last week, she kindly agreed to be Guest Agonymonkey. As a result, thousands of questions have been pouring in to Monkey Towers. I've had QUITE a job sifting through them all, let me tell you.

Anyway here, finally, are the answers. (To some of them. Not all of them. That would be Foolish.) Oh, and if something's troubling you, Ask Monkeymother. She'll know the answer. (Send your question in by email. Address there on the right. Yes, that one. Well spotted.)

Right then.


AT LEAST THEY UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER

Dear MM,

Where oh where was Toshack?

Robin


Dear Robin,

I understand your question but, as a lifelong (from the age of about 4) Gunners fan, I'm afraid I can't really sympathise.

Best wishes,

MM


A POLITICAL CONUNDRUM

Dear MM

What is proportional representation?

Martina

Dear Martina

As I'm sure you know, proportional representation is a type of electoral process that exists in several versions and is too complicated to explain here. It is more democratic, from the electors' point of view, but hellishly difficult to rule a country when no clear majority party emerges. It has nothing to do with the relative sizes of your body parts.

Best wishes

MM


BLOG ANXIETY

Dear MM,

I'm 32, going through a midlife crisis (or possibly just a Sunday night downer), and my blog is shit.

How do I tell my boss I want to quit to become a poet?

Signed,

Absolutely anonymous


Dear Absolutely anonymous

Sadly, you can't do anything about your age - I certainly would if I could - but Sunday nights are grim for us all. I suggest you pack your satchel and get your clothes ready for school, make yourself a cup of hot chocolate with a very large slug of your favourite booze (probably not an alcopop) and have a Nice Early Night.

As for your blog - are you sure it's shit? If so, stop. But ask yourself: have you enjoyed writing it? have you had appreciative comments? If so, keep going.

As for the poet in you. Have you ever been published? Can you write things that rhyme, or scan or do at least one of the things poems do to look right? If so, I suggest you sit through all of Monday and Tuesday morning. If you still want to quit after a good lunch on Tuesday, you have two courses of action: 1. Do something so outrageous he'll have to fire you or 2. Write a poem handing in your notice.

Hope this helps

Best wishes

MM


TREVOR DREAMS OF JOINING THE CIRCUS

Dear Monkeymother

I have long been an admirer of your work. You seem to have your wits about you, that's for sure!!! Do you drink a lot of tea?

Here's a question for you. Maybe you will know the answer.

My dream is to join the circus. My good ladywife doesn't think it's a very good idea. At the moment I am the Chief Accountant at a thriving local business (that makes pie) just outside Potter's Bar. In addition to this, following a nasty ankle injury thanks to a pothole on the High Street last Easter, I am a bit stiff. But a Life Coach I met at the Rotary Christmas Drinks told me that I could do anything if I put my mind to it, and that I should pursue my dreams before it's too late.

Do you think she was right?

I am 48. My wife collects commemorative plates. The mortgage is paid off and the kids have left home.

In anticipation of your swift response,

Trevor


Dear Trevor

Thank you for your kind remarks.

Do not join the circus - they'll have you shovelling elephant poo at your age. Try AmDram - a bit less demanding but at least you won't have to sleep in a caravan with a chemical lavatory.

Best wishes
MM


A PUBLIC RELATIONS QUANDARY

Hi there MM!!!!!! :-)

I am 23 and work as a PR in the catering trade. There's a boy in my department who I really like. Last Monday he gave me a biscuit from his packet, and at the Christmas party last year he asked me to dance once, but didn't touch me. I have caught him looking at me on two training courses and on the First Aid one, his mouth got close to mine when we were doing mouth-to-mouth resuccitashun. My friends say he is interested, but I'm not sure. We've worked together for two years and he hasn't asked me out yet. He likes Shirley Bassey and Greek Sculpture.

Do you think he's interested and shy? And if so, should I make the first move?

Thanks MM!!!!!

Jacquie, Milton Keynes


Dear Jackie

What a nice boy he seems to be. I think you should try and make friends - offer him a finger of KitKat as your first move. I think you'll find he'll be a lovely friend and his advice on your wardrobe and interior decorating will be exemplary, but I don't feel that romance is on the cards.

Best wishes

MM

Splendid Monkey Gallery: Pictures 14 and 15

Regular readers have muttered about my propensity to over-post, and I am therefore half-thinking about Trying To Cut Down. (Over-posting is what happens when there is nothing to take to the post office, no Classical Cock to photograph and no work to do.)

However, I have (in the last few seconds) received an email that made me squeak with glee loudly, twice, because of the Splendid Monkeys attached. And I must Share Them Immediately, Without Delay.

Sent by a Dear Friend by the name of Dan, the pictures are accompanied by a Mysterious Note:

"The popcorn one would have scared me stupid as a kid. Still does to be honest. Look at his demon eyes. He’s fucking mental."












But if you thought Popcorn Monkey was good, you ain't seen nothing yet.












Holy shit.

I am rigid with pleasure (and weeping slightly) when I say: Congratulations, Dan!

(No comments about whether or not they are ACTUALLY monkeys. I have decided they are and I am a monkey, therefore they are. Thank you for your attention.)



PS: Due to Over-Posting Awareness and as a Speshul Friday Afternoon Treete, Ask Monkeymother will now be appearing tomorrow, which means it is not too late to submit questions (via email, up there on the right).

Day 126: I Am Developing A Close Relationship With My Local Postmaster

Work is an excuse to do things that people can say "yes, but that's technically theft" about. Whole days can be spent:

1. Emailing on company time
2. Looking at the internet on company time
3. Acquiring stationery for 'working from home' (inc. whole fax machines)
4. Sending faxes to your bank
5. Posting things
6. Sending things by courier
7. Stealing biscuits from meetings and putting them in your pocket
8. Photocopying things randomly and without real purpose
9. Scanning things and emailing them to people who don't really want them.

Not Working is desperately inconvenient in many ways. Not only do I have to do my own filing, answer my own telephone, organise my own 'meetings' and do my own work, but I am constantly thwarted by not having the correct size transparent plastic folder, large bulldog clips, parcel tape, envelopes, a scanner and a photocopier. My printer doesn't work, and if my computer breaks I am what is technically known as "fucked".

However, help is at hand in the tiny shape of my Local Postmaster. He is very small, and peeps over the counter from behind reinforced glass. Sometimes his Dad helps him (he has glasses), and his wife is very grumpy. ("Seeta! Come and help me please! We are busy!" "NO. I am eating." A door slams.)

The last three remaining Post Offices in Britain are often rather skanky affairs. You have your Big Post Office, which is run by the Post Office and is full of envelopes of various sizes (apart from the one you actually need), balls of string, glitter glue, commemorative stamps and impenetrable leaflets about Weird Things That I Will Never Need. There are Many Tills with flashing numbers, often occupied by people who are trying to renew their Road Tax Disc but have forgotten the right paperwork and are Shouting (i.e., me).

Apparently out of London there are little Post Offices that also sell jam and are owned by rosy-cheeked ladies who know everyone's name and read everyone's post. There are also Local London Post Offices, usually part of a dark and sinister Corner Shop, run by strange people with swivelling eyes. And then there is the Post Office on Elm Park.

It is tiny and clean. There is nothing in the shop apart from Christmas cards and some boxes on a very high shelf, too high for the Local Postmaster to reach (but I can). There is nothing in the shop because EVERYTHING is behind the glass with him, his Dad and his grumpy wife. I often think that if he opens the door, ten thousand envelopes will pour out, taking everyone in their wake. Passing a parcel to him is an exciting affair, for he opens his door Just Enough To Get The Parcel Through, then shuts it quickly and scurries back to his till shouting THANK YOU, THANK YOU, as if we cannot hear him. "No, Thank YOU!", I always say.

He is utterly charming, has very nice hair and has the patience of a saint. He is also a Comedy Genius. Or maybe he is not.

Episode One: In which I send a postcard to the Colonies

Me: Hello! How are you?
Him: Good, good! How can I help you today?
Me: I must send this postcard bearing a picture of the Queen's head to the Colonies.
Him: OK. On the scale now. OK. 50p.
Me: Bargain! Can I have an Air Mail sticker?
Him: There is no need!
Me: Why not?
Him: Well, it is not GOING BY BOAT! (Laughs at own joke for at least 10 seconds.)
Me: Oh! What a shame. I like Air Mail Stickers. They are Exciting.
Him: Oh, OK. Here you are. Have two.

Episode Two: In which I send a postcard to the Colonies (again)

Me: Hello!
He looks at the large and oddly-shaped postcard in my hand.
Him: Canada?
Me: Yes! You remembered!
Him: You have a friend there that likes postcards?
Me: Well, I hope he does.
Him: Me too! OK, 50p. Here is your special sticker!
He gives me an Air Mail Sticker.
Me: Hoorah! Thank you!
Him: Thank you!
Me: No. Thank YOU!

Episode Three: In which I attempt to send a parcel to the Colonies.

Much time passes. We discuss various methods of Postage, for the Parcel is too heavy to send in the post. It is over 2kg. I am given options.

Him: ... and then there is Express Special Parcel. Only £6, but no insurance.
Me: How long does it take to get there?
Him: Maybe within a month. Maybe not. Who can tell.

I choose a Sensible Option. The parcel is covered in three layers of customs declarations with made-up things and numbers on. They interfere with the animal stickers (with speech bubbles) that I have placed all over the parcel. He gives me the Actual Stamp Bit.

Me: It says £51!
Him: But is not £51. This is strange.
Me: Isn't it.
Him: No matter. The gorilla is good!
Me: Thank you!
Him: No. Thank YOU.

Episode 4 is yet to come. For I must visit the Tiny Local Postmaster and do some complicated photocopying, place the photocopies in an envelope and send them Recorded Delivery to some imbeciles in Scotland. I Very Much Fear he will think I Am In Love With Him, for I have been to the post office every day this week and, Royal Scottish Assurance willing, I will be there again tomorrow. Still, it passes the time. And he's awfully nice.

Day 125: I Demand A Peerage For St Ken of the Livingstone

£25 for owners of 4x4s! I love you, Ken. The rest of us will pay £8, assuming we Cannot Avoid Driving (although we should take the Public Transport when we can), and Laugh At You Until Our Faces Ache.