Month: October 2003

(Posted by Mark)

Nosce te ipsum. Know thyself. While Francis Bacon has been attributed with that stalwart of business training session slogans “Knowledge is power”, I vastly prefer Oscar Wilde’s opinion on the subject of knowing: “There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating – people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing”. And so, perhaps to counteract the art of guessing, we have the science of knowing.

Knowing trivia
My name is Mark, and it’s been two days since I last played a quiz machine. I just couldn’t help it; I saw the bright, flashing lights, the sounds of coins dropping and electronic twangs and bumps and I was drawn towards the touchscreen. I know it’s a problem, but with the group’s help, I know I can fight it. Actually, I know no such thing. There is something wonderful and at the same time slightly shameful about quiz machines. I think it’s because after years in primary, secondary and higher education, I now use my knowledge not to find a cure for cancer, nor to broker a peace settlement in Northern Ireland, nor to write a Nobel Prize-winning piece of literature, but rather to remember how many goals Peter Beardsley scored for Newcastle United or when Ramsay MacDonald was Prime Minister.

The way that my (and it’s not just me, it’s also other people’s) eyes light up when they see a Cluedo, Trivial Pursuits or Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? machine in the corner of the pub is, I realise, a sign that my social life may need some form of enhancement product. I would defend quiz machines simply by stating that they are, in fact, intensely social. When three or four are gathered around the machine desperately trying to put car models in the order in which they were produced, it promotes team work and friendship. The occasional shouting across the room to the guy who you are positive will know Pele’s first name manages to draw other people into your circle as well as make them feel good about themselves because they are regarded as an ‘expert’. It’s a feelgood thing. Being able to draw disparate friends with different spheres of knowledge together in the noble pursuit of getting rich quick is certainly a talent, and while I might not be saving the world in style, I am doing my own little bit for society. Well, society in our pub, anyway.

Knowing the score
Akin to knowing how the land lies, knowing the score is all about being up-to-date, to the minute, with the times, with one’s finger on the pulse, being au courant with the latest trends and news. What I am doing writing about this is therefore something of a mystery as I can rarely be said to know the score; indeed often I don’t even know that the match is being played. Knowing the score originates from the Middle Ages when “the score” was a term for the amount owed by one person to another, or the balance of a business account, so by knowing the score you would be aware of exactly how much you owed. As the language has evolved and filtered through the centuries, it now simply means that you know what’s hep, hip and with it, daddy-o.

Of course, if you were to take the term “knowing the score” more literally, you would be able to have the perfect entrée into the average male conversation. “What was the score?” “Oh, 2-1”. Naturally, we will actually need to know what the result of the football, rugby, cricket or other sporting event was in order to participate properly in this, but assuming that you are aware of the tally after the final whistle, you now have a quick way to get acceptance. You should try and back this up with a few other key phrases:

• “Shocking defence” (football)

 

• “It’s all down to the slips” (cricket)

 

• “You’ve got to convert them, though” (rugby)

 

• “Magic arrows” (darts)

 

• “It’s about temperament” (all sports)

After a few careful minutes gauging the reactions and team allegiances of your newfound friends, you will be able to discuss all manner of sporting events with them, free from the fear of being regarded as ignorant or, even worse, uninterested.

Knowing too much
No-one likes a smart aleck, or so the saying goes. I beg to differ. I think that a lot of us really do like the smart aleck mainly because without the person who knows too much, most detective stories or thriller films would not exist. It’s the classic scene and you can pretty much cast and write it yourself. Edward G Robinson is the gangland boss who is attempting to pull off the heist of the century. Alan Ladd is the good guy in the wrong place and the wrong time who has stumbled into the dastardly plot. Peter Lorre is the henchman entrusted with making sure that Ladd is silenced. All you need is a half-decent score, the RKO logo and a gangster’s moll and there’s a sure-fire film noir hit for you.

Too much is generally a bad thing to know, however, for that particular person. As a form of criticism, it is a strange one. Are we not supposed to like someone because they are intelligent? Are we not supposed to like them because they worked hard at school or they educated themselves to a high standard? It’s not really clear, but I think the main reason we’re not supposed to like them is because we’re not supposed to display the fact that we know things. Like Tennyson, we are supposed to be “wearing … learning lightly, like a flower”. It is bad form to be constantly showing off (like quoting Tennyson, Wilde and Bacon in one post, for example; oops) that one has done such heinous things as, well, read books or paid attention. Perhaps it’s better to know too little, but then we return to the cult of the gentleman amateur and, as my mind constantly does, we turn to Sherlock Holmes whose knowledge of literature, astronomy and philosophy may have been nil, but whom no-one would accuse of knowing too little.

If, as is often said, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, then I will end the science of knowing here, hoping that while it may not be comprehensive, it may at least be said to have a little thrill about it.

 

(posted by Fi)

I only just managed to log in. This editing window is far too complicated for me so I’m just going to write a bunch of stuff and push the “post & publish” button when I’m done. Trust me, its better for you and me both if I don’t try and mess with these settings. User Interfaces are not my strong point.

Maybe a bit about myself to start with, since everyone else seems to have settled in already and I’m the one showing up in a tizzy at lunchtime when Mike specifically requested that we sign in at 9 a.m. on the dot (he’s such a taskmaster).

I write. Lots. When I have a spare moment I write more. I write database manuals for a living and articles for websites on the side. The technical work balances out the diverse and ecclectic mix of subjects I am commissioned to write which pay less but prevent me from pushing my manager’s nose through his brain-stem.

I live with my partner and two cats in None-of-your-business and I’m here to write. You don’t have to read, you can skip them if you like, but I’ll try and entertain you along with these beautiful people.

(posted by Zena)

Gee, those other guestbloggers get up early. So here I am. Thanks for letting me type in your space, Mike.

Here’s what I’m interested in: men, women, the “disconnect” as I once heard some very annoying relationship coach describe it as, and how women’s bodies play a part in all of that.

I’ve recently lost some weight. Quite a lot of weight, actually. Nearly four stone. I tend not to tell people how much, because then I become the sort of person who previously needed to lose four stone. And then some: I have a way further to go, but I prefer not to get into that.

I look different – to most people. I feel different – to me. And boy, do men – I’m straight – treat me different. So that’s some of what I’m going to explore this week. But first, chocolate digestive biscuits. Get coffee, come back, we’ll talk.

…and fellow guestees.

(posted by Buni)

Thanks Mike for the intro. x

Cripes, this is all a bit daunting isn’t it, a little like being put on stage at Wembley with an overly bright spotlight shining in your eyes and the crowd just staring, waiting for you to deliver something amazing.

I was kind of expecting this and so considering I also have a 9 – 5, college tonight and tomorrow, and of course, my hectic social life as the Doyenne of Nottingham Café Society to attend to, I gave Mike the opportunity to ask me 7 questions which I would do a write up on over the 7 days. I will be posting in between though and of course, there is always MY SITE. Oops, too loud?

Mike saw it another way, and proceeded to ask me 7 song titles as questions. So without further ado, as I know you all have jobs to go to, I give you ………….>

7 Titles in 7 Days.

1. Do You Know Where You’re Going To? (Diana Ross)

This is actually a good place to start the week as it’s a subject that has been on my mind of late. I’ve always been quite a restless person; I get very bored very easily. As a child I was always out and about with friends, constantly doing things, we were very dynamic. I get very irritated by laziness. We are dead longer than we are alive, grasp the nettle. Take risks. Live life to its full potential and embrace it. Not to do so, I believe, breeds regret. I don’t want to have any regrets when I grow older. I want to be able look back and say what a bloody good time I’ve had and think about all the great people I’ve met along the way.

My outlook on life is to think about where I’d like to be and try to find a way to get there. Being this restless person, it is inevitable that I would have a ballpark idea about where I’d like to go to or a place where I’d like to be. However, they are just that, ideals. I’ve always been this sort of person who thinks ahead, anally breaking the years up into three or four year segments and thinking about what each segment would contain, I would compartmentalise my life into challenges. I am currently at the end of a three year period and, as my friends will testify, I’m becoming restless with semi-structured thoughts about what my plans are.

To understand where you are going to, it’s terribly important to be able to understand where you’ve come from and where you are at present. I’ve come from what could be called a dysfunctional family, my mother having married five times, it was a highly insecure state and marred by family arguments and fights. We moved about a lot, even to other countries, and my sister and I got used to not staying friends with people for too long in case we moved again (and I might add, not getting too used to our step-fathers). It’s only now that I’ve lived in Civvie Street in Nottingham for nearly a decade that I’m not worried about losing friends and can now establish long term friendships. As such, my social life is excellent.

One of my primary thoughts as a young man was to get away from home as soon as possible; I tried at the tender age of 15, running away from Portugal (where we were living at the time) to Manchester and I called my mother the following Wednesday to tell her where I was; I tried a little later at 17, with my parents consent this time, to go and live in London. That didn’t work out and I ended up homeless for 3 months; then after returning from a European Interrail holiday, I tried later on when I was about 19, when I joined the Navy. That is the pivotal moment in my life, where everything changed.

I have to admit, joining the Navy was totally against my belief system. I was a pacifist, against the establishment, war and everything it entails. I was a kind of hippy kid with long hair and a desire to spend most of my days getting stoned. When I said where I was going to, all my friends said that I was mad as I wouldn’t be able to handle the discipline. I had no choice, I had to get away. Also, being the sort of kid who had ‘flights of fancy’ about certain things and never stuck to them, my Mother just asked if I thought it was the right thing to do.

There I was, 19 years old, no qualifications with a stable job and a new ‘home’ at the base. This carried on for about 3 years when I was asked if I wanted to take redundancy. This was a really tough decision as the Navy had been my back-bone and ‘aunt’ for the whole time and I never really considered life outside of the gates. It was ‘us’ and ‘them’. In the end I took the money and ran, to Nottingham to go to university here. University isn’t all that much different from the Navy; you get the social life and the binge drinking; people from all walks of life joining together; and once you’ve got your work done , your time is your own. I graduated in 2000.

That’s really what the last decade has been, through my 20’s; building a foundation to work on through my 30’s. At present I’m really quite free. I no longer have the hassles I had as a child, I have no baggage to validate it either. I also now have the security that was lacking as a child. I’d like the next decade or so to be one of personal growth; experiencing things, travelling and meeting new and wonderful people. There is such a big wide world out there that I can’t possibly imagine only seeing it for two weeks every year and the rest of the time spent in Nottingham. Moreover, I’d like to meet someone who has the same desire that I have. It would mean so much more if I could experience these new and wonderful things with someone.

From reading this, I suppose the first thought that comes into my mind is that where I want to go to isn’t tangible. It’s not a place like Barcelona or some other destination; it’s a place in the mind that you get to when you know you’ve done pretty much all there is to do. I don’t mean making pots of money or anything remotely similar, I’ve had that in Portugal and believe me, money doesn’t bring happiness; you just don’t worry about bills. Happiness in my eyes is from knowing you’ve given it the best that you’ve got, your best shot.

Does that answer your question? I’m going to seek happiness, experience and self-fulfilment and to share that with someone.

Posted by Melodrama

Hello England, or is it Great Britain? First of all, I thank Mike for inviting me as a guest blogger. I stumbled on to Troubled Diva, while I was checking out British blogs and have enjoyed reading his blogs very much. As for your queries Mike, I think there would be plenty of job opportunities for you and I’m emailing a long list of Ayurvedic retreats to you by tomorrow. Now that we have dealt with the stereotypes on to the posts. By the way, the number of referrals you got from my blog is testimony to the fact that India is soon overtaking China in matters like umm… headcount aka population. Alas! We are a many and curious people!

This is my first umm… international exposure, so to speak of and to be honest, apart from the kicks I get from er… reaching out to a global audience and everything, is mostly designed to er… increase the hits on my own humble blogs. Nah! I’m joking, its a pleasure to be here and to do what I enjoy doing the most on my blogs, wax lyrical (mostly about nothing in particular) and have interesting feedback about the waxings. So, here I come, all you Brits. I can assure you, like it or not, I will post often and certainly more than just five times!

Time once again to pipe out the old and ring in the new, as Guest Week Three prepares to launch.

First of all, who could forget my dear, big-hearted, irrepressible, jam-tastic Auntie Cyn, over yonder in Liechtenstein? I regret to say that disturbing news has reached me this week, from well placed sources on the Liechtenstein Mail & Herald, that Cynthia’s days in the kingdom may soon be numbered. Something about export shipments of Auntie Cyn’s Special Herbal Preserve, Made To A Unique Recipe And Guaranteed To Cure A Wide Range Of Ailments & Maladies, and a team of over-zealous sniffer dogs. This is clearly a terrible misunderstanding. However, it does rather explain Cyn’s somewhat hastily announced “Big European Jolly” (see below). Auntie dearest – wherever you are – your loving nephew sends you his heartfelt gratitude for being such splendid company over the past week.

Thanks also to Mac, whose virtual acquaintance I have enjoyed making. What with all my pop-culture Anglicisms, I don’t always do a terribly good job at nurturing an overseas readership, so it’s good to form bridges across the water. I’m equally grateful to Quarsan for waxing lyrical about one of my favourite periods in music – the post-punk era – and for maintaining some directly music-related content on this site.

And then there was John, who I’m sure has endeared himself to us all over the past week. I’m not sure which part of “you should be prepared to make a minimum of five posts, spread reasonably evenly over the week” he failed to grasp, but never mind. I blame the falling standards in our educational institutes, obviously. “I’m just like Jack from Will & Grace, only hotter“, he claims. Clearly no twink, then! Hope you enjoyed having your URL at the top of the page all week, and all that FABULOUS extra traffic, John!

On to next week’s guests, then. They are, in alphabetical order:

Buni, loyal old mucker, confidante, partner in crime, and my stalwart companion on the podium at NG1 on Wednesday nights, when the R&B section kicks in. Many of you have asked me how to pronounce his name: does it rhyme with Bugs Bunny, or George Clooney? The answer is, of course, neither. It’s pronounced Boo-NAY.

Fiona is a twenty-something database administrator for a global internet company, who can still remember the wet paint smell of the Web from the early Nineties. She has written for various sites in various guises, and under too many pseudonyms to list, without ever settling down to blog in one place.

London Mark should need no introduction. Founder member (and indeed sole member) of the self-appointed Blogging Z-List – as he will remind you at every conceivable opportunity – Mark is perhaps best known for his exemplary “The Art Of…” series. For a master-class in The Art Of Guest Blogging, keep ’em locked on Mark’s postings over the next seven days. (I haven’t over-sold him, have I?)

Melodrama is a web mistress and self-confessed drama queen, currently living in Calcutta. Judging by the number of referrals which came my way following her endorsement of this site on her blog – the most referrals I have ever received from a single weblog – she is quite a force to be reckoned with.

Hello India, with your thriving and constantly expanding IT industry! Got any vacancies for a washed up mainframe systems developer? Also, could you tell me more about those Ayurvedic Spas of yours? It’s just that K likes the sound of them, and is considering coming over for a week in November to avail himself of their delights.

Zena is an international woman of mystery, currently residing in London. That’s all she wants you to know for now. Yes, that makes five guests this week. Yougottaproblemwiththat?

Guest Week Three starts….NOW.

Well, it’s been a blast. May I leave you with a link to wfmu the world’s greatest radio station where many tracks that will educate young people are broadcast. Indeed almost every show’s playlist is archived and available to listen to. It is an awesome treasure house.

They also think I have a footnote in musical history for ‘helping to define Post-Punk”

Well, what can I say. It was a wet Wednesday and someone had to do it 😉

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

Hello, my dears. It’s me, Cynthia, again. I’m still here – although not for much longer.

This is my last post on Mike’s site and, you know, this week on the web has got me thinking. Meeting all you gorgeously thrusting young bloggies and bloggettes – even if only through the computer screen – has made me remember all the people out there in the extended Troubled Diva family whom I haven’t seen for some years (because of – well, you know – my colourful past). Great Uncle Boris, who we used to call Great Uncle Bulgaria because he lives in – aha! – Bulgaria; he’ll be about 103 now. The Russian branch of the family – the Divasnikovs – out there in Kiev. And my long lost artist cousin, Pierre, who sealed himself up in a Paris attic almost twenty years ago in pursuit of his artistic vision. The last time any of us heard about him, he’d decided to go one better than his hero and chopped off both his ears. Poor, poor Pierre. Oh, and I mustn’t miss out Cousin Bettina either, who’s still doing her act with the snake and the performing dwarf in Hamburg, even though she must be nearly 70. Bless!

I’ve remembered all these people, and I think it’s time I visited them. So I’m about to embark on Aunt Cyn’s Big European Jolly. Oh yes! I’m not going alone, of course – my driving skills have failed me somewhat since the incident when I ran into a lorry load of plastic garden gnomes. Friedrich, my extremely smooth and muscular German handyman, has agreed to accompany me, to drive the 2CV and regularly service the engine. He’s such a good boy.

I’ll let Mike know how I’m doing and – well, you never know – he might even be able to report my progress here occasionally, with a few photos. “There’s Aunt Cyn in front of the Eiffel Tower, there’s Aunt Cyn drinking beer at the Oktoberfest, there’s Aunt Cyn getting arrested for procuring young men in – ” Ahem.

Oh, and a special message to Mike and K – I’m coming to see YOU too!! Yes! That’s right! You must be overwhelmed with delight! Expect me around Christmas – I’ve already loaded the car with twenty-three jars of jam (Prune & Melon, because I know it’s your favourite!) We shall have SUCH fun, shan’t we? In particular, I want to see the garden – because, ooh I shouldn’t really tell you this now but I’m just SO excited! – because I’ve been making something special for you in my evening sculpture class. It’s your very own p*ssing cherub, painted in gold. Wonderful, isn’t it? I just KNOW you’ll love it. So put the kettle on, Mike, and make sure you’ve got some teacakes in!

Fire up the 2CV, Friedrich – I’m on my way!

Big kisses to all my readers; it’s been lovely knowing you,
Auntie Cyn

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

That young Quarsan fellow has quite enlivened my musical listening in recent days. I’ve thrown my walking stick to the side as I’ve fair pogo-ed round the Parker Knoll to the sounds of the Buzzsocks, Joyful Division and The Runts. How did I miss these golden oldies in the 70s, when I was a comparatively spritely young lady in my early 40s?

But I do feel it’s time that I did a little musical education of my own. And I like nothing better than spending a sedate Saturday afternoon pulling the heads off flowers while listening to my Flanders & Swann collection (on vinyl, of course). Rich Tea biccie, anyone?

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

Thanks to Mike for alerting me to the problem, detailed below.

Well, Opie, I think it’s a sign from Cupid that you and your wife are destined to be together, and you should stop dipping your wick with these other bits on the side immediately. They obviously don’t share the same (whirl)Wind of romance as you and your darling lady wife do. Although these other young nymphettes may flatulate – sorry, flatter – your wilting male ego, only Mrs Opie knows the true pleasure of your passionate trumping, and the breath of (un)fresh air you bring to your romantic liaisons. Return to the marital bed invigorated, and promise her your undying farting – sorry, I meant love.

Failing that, lay off the All Bran.

lots of love,
Cyn

(posted by Mike)

I see from one of the comments boxes that my Aunt Cyn has finally been given a personal problem to solve. The problem in question is, I think, worthy of being plucked from its box and placed on full display.

Dear Aunt Cyn,

I hope you don’t mind if I submit a letter for your attention to the comments section.

While visiting Scotland several years ago, I was invited to a party at a country house. Arriving slightly early due to an error on the invitation, I discovered the hostess and her daughters busy with preparations. I gallantly offered to help.

Unaccustomed as I was to the local cuisine, while bending down to lift a heavy rack of glasses, I broke wind with astonishing force. The hostess emitted a muffled snort. This in turn distracted her youngest daughter, who dropped her rack of glasses, tripped over an untidy garden hose and fell into a small decorative pool.

As a result of this incident, I made the acquaintance of the now drenched daughter. We subsequently fell in love and have now been happily married for several years.

It transpired that our mode of acquaintance was more important than I had initially surmised, however. My wife is uncontrollably aroused by male flatulence during the act of sexual congress. To please her, I eat vast quantities of roughage and drink copious volumes of the fine local ale. Her ardour has had a very nearly Pavlovian effect on me; small toots and flutters begin to slip from me at the mere sight of her, and our lovemaking has become a windy Rabelaisian revelry.

Recently, however, with the renewal of hunger that attends on long marriage, I have discovered the pleasures of dalliance. And therein lies the problem.

For inevitably, as I begin to achieve a thrilling intimacy with a new lover, the whirlwind of my passions is, as it were, aroused. The beast my wife has awakened inside me will not be tamed. I will soon be unable to count my assignations on the fingers of two hands, yet only one brave combatant has stayed the course.

I have tried changing my diet but the response is too ingrained. I am at wit’s end, Auntie Cyn. What can I do?

Yours & c.,

opie

Whatever can he do, Auntie? Whatever can he do?

(posted by quarsan)

Number Eleven Nobody’s Scared – Subway Sect (wav file)

One of the first punk bands and one of the most iconoclastic. Subway Sect, and especially Vic Goddard, stood out from the crowd. From their debut, and their long awaited follow up – Ambition, they were street smart but had their sights set higher than the others. Indeed, they were the thinking spikey’s punk band.

When many people jumped on the bandwagon and the image of punks became one of loud yobs, it was people like the Sect that represented what it was all about. They were, shock, horror…. literate. Their second single was a perfect piece of post-punk, a song that remains as fresh and as enigmatic as the day it was released

Vic’s first LP, What’s The Matter Boy (photo) struck me as being full of ideas and tunes. It charmed and intrigued me, and I spent many hours playing it as a backdrop to my life.

And then he did Songs For Sale a selection of songs in a swing style – including the divine Hey Now I’m In Love.

Vic Goddard had such a clear and interesting talent as a songwriter it is nothing short of criminal that he has underachieved by so much. In fact, this towering genius is, according to this interview working as a postman.

That’s a national disgrace.

(posted by quarsan)

Number Ten In A Rut – The Ruts (mp3)

Some records just hit you between the eyes. When I first heard this I wondered if my record player could handle the deep dub bass that drives this track. One aspect of punk was it’s appreciation of reggae, indeed the punk explosion brought reggae into the public eye.

Sure, the Clash played around with it, but it was The Ruts who merged the two to make something new and fresh. This heavy dub bass and screeching punk guitar is topped with the blistering vocals of Malcolm Owen.

Sadly it is another smack track. Malcolm often sang about his struggle with heroin, a battle he lost in the summer of 1980. That was a great loss to us all, for Malcolm wasn’t filled with self pity or posing as the punk Keith Richards. He desperately wanted to stop, he knew he had his precious music, but it wasn’t enough.

After a short career of some of the finest singles to come out of the era, and believe me choosing which one to feature was difficult. So, I went for their debut. It could so easily have been any of the others. But it also showed what was to come, as did the B-Side, H Eyes.

I remember interviews with the other Ruts after his death (and here’s one) where they described their efforts to help him as he slowly dissapeared into himself. Heroin isolates you until, even you, are just not there anymore.

And Malcolm isn’t here anymore and that’s just so damn sad.

(posted by quarsan)

Number Nine You Say You Don’t Love Me – Buzzcocks (Audio) (Lyrics)

The Pride of Manchester. In the early days, punk was a Northern thing, and more specifically, a Manchester thing. We used to go down there, or to Liverpool almost every week. We’d save money by hitching and sleeping in train stations or anywhere we could doss down for a couple of hours.

We saw the Buzzcocks so many times, and they never failed to provide a great night out. They were different to the other bands, in that they had great catchy melodies (I nearly chose the wonderous Walking Distance) and a nice line in self depreciating lyrics. They were one of the few groups who weren’t to cool to sing about failed love affairs. To be honest, that was pretty much all they sang about.

One word describes their music: bittersweet. The genius of Pete Shelly was that he could wrap a sad tale of unrequited love in the honey of a tune that stayed in your head. These guys made songs you could whistle. Most people smile when they think of the Buzzcocks.

But there was an aura about them also. You just liked them, they were not aloof or arrogant. They were ordinary, down to earth guys who treated their fans with kindness and courtesy. I tried to start a school magazine so I wrote off a list of questions to New Hormones and got a handwritten reply from Steve Diggle, with long answers. He’d clearly taken an hour or so to do this. That impressed a very young quarsan.

To this day, they remain a group I feel a great deal of affection for. If the world was fair they would be millionaires and they would sing happy love songs. But the world, they and we lived in wasn’t fair, and our love lives weren’t working out. and they sang about that, and they sang about it in a way that helped us get through heartbreak and have the optimism to risk it all over again.

Posted by Fantastic Amazing John

Yo niggers!

Michael of the Midlands (the troubled diva in question) has been sniping at me for not posting. Well here it is. Why is he of the Midlands you cry? Because all the middle-aged homo-gays live in Blandshire. I’m sure I will when I’m 50 too. Anyway, enough compliments for one day – I’ve got proper stuff to do!

I’m making excuses for not posting more frequently – I’ve been busy. Good things come to those who wait anyway…

Since you’re either somone whose job is so yawnsome you read blogs all day, sat in your office, or you’re somone whose entire life is so boring you read about other people’s boring lives all day long, my narrative should buck you up a little. God has smiled on one of us at least.

Tuesday and Wednesday were spent in hospital, healing the sick. Really, someone should beatify me…the old men and women on the wards LOVE me!!! The fact that I posess excellent inter-personal skills are a test to my perfect upbringing and pedigree parentage. Mummy and Daddy always taught me to be nice to the poor, elderly and the stupid. Combine these qualities with the fact that I’m a walking Oxford Textbook of Clinical Medicine and Integrated Surgery, and you have an excellent doctor-to-be. Only 4 years and I’m let-loose! They’ll probably turn it into a saint’s day or something.

I saw a fantastic case of pulsatile hepatomegaly (enlarged liver with a pulse) – a sure sign of left ventricular failure. It’s a sign you don’t encounter very often as it develops fairly late on in cardiac failure and the patient has usually died by this time. This old dude didn’t have long left bless him… He couldn’t lift his legs onto the bed from sitting so we helped him and as I took my hands from underneath his legs, they were covered in smelly goo. His legs were so oedematous (swollen from fluid build-up) that the interstitial fluid (tissue fluid) was actually being forced out of his skin and dripping off. I couldn’t wait to Ayeleffe my hands… I felt dirty all day. Not in a good dirty way – like you’ve given a hot guy a blow job in a train station toilet; but in a bad dirty way like the toilet guy wanted to piss on you and now you smell. You see what I mean?

Today I was meant to go and visit my eldery patient but I couldn’t go. We’re doing a community health study on patient’s over 65 yrs, who are taking 4 or more medications. We see him every few weeks and just have a chat and ask some questions about his drugs. Called up to arrange a time to visit but his siter had just died so he was a bit up in the air. I gave him my sympathy ‘cos he’s a nice old guy.

But, every cloud has a silver lining (for me anyway). It meant I could go to the matinee performance of Whistle Down The Wind at the Liverpool Empire. I saw it with friend Emmeline – my crazy drunken friend, and we loved it. We do love our musical theatre. We’re going to a mutual friend’s house party tomorrow night and I’ll be drunk and so will she. When we’re drunk, we resembled Jack and Karen of Will and Grace TV show fame. Except I’m hotter and she has smaller titties. We’re a fab team. I love us!

John’s Tip Of The Day: Take life with a pinch of salt.

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

HELLOOOO MY DARRRRLINGSHHHH!!! DO COME ON IN!!!

Oopsy-daisy. Hic. Auntie Cyn has a confesssshion to make.

Auntie Cyn ish an ickle bit tipshy.

You shee, I was cooking a nice meal for that nice German handyman I mentioned before – he’s had a verrrrry hard day being handy, you shee – and I was adding some cooking sherry to the sauce. An ickle drop for the sauce. A glass for Cyn. An ickle drop for the sauce. A big glass for Cyn. Oh dear, bottle’s nearly finished. Better finish bottle. Ooh my dear, I do feel slightly odd.

My German handyman wasn’t impressshed when I came in to sherve the meal, tripped and landed in his lap, spilling the sauce all over his shirt. Oops. I even offered to lick it off. Yesh, ooh dear my head.

BUT BUT BUT – Auntie Cyn has good news too.

I have my first internet crush. Oh yes. Come to me, big boy. I was reading shome of the commentsh on this here weblog earlier, and a rather wonderful chap called PETER said, “I’m almost a hundred”. My kind of age. Then I went to visit his site and it turns out that he’s naked!!! I almost passssshed out at this point, but had a nice strong cup of Breakfast Tea and felt much calmer. But really, Peter, if you fancy shome of this mid-60s auntie who’s seen the world and isn’t shocked by anything (well, almost) then do get in touch . . . mmmm. Be still Cynthia’s beating heart, be still!

Ooh, I’ve jusht dishcovered that I have another bottle of sherry in the larder …

(posted by quarsan)

Number Eight : Theme – The Banana Splits (mp3 file)

James Brown is, unquestionably the Godfather of Soul, but who is the Godfather of Punk? Lou Reed? Iggy Pop? Alice Cooper?

Nope. It is the Banana Splits. This wild and untamed theme song is one of the finest punk tracks ever recorded. It is the sound of joyous anarchy. It is a myth that punk was miserable and apathetic, it was the opposite. The punk spirit was saying you can do this too. Sniffing Glue’s famous page showing an E, A and G chord with the instruction “Now form a band” said more about it than any number of learned articles or sullen poses.

The Banana Splits have something with real energy, and something more valuable. You just want to jump about and join in whenever you hear it.

So, listening to Mac’s suggestion that we form a band, let’s try our first track. Listen to the mp3 file above really loudly and sing along:

The Troubled Divas Theme

One Diva, two Diva, three Diva, four
Troubled Divas make a bunch and so do many more.
Over hill and highway the four bloggers go
Comin’ to bring you the Troubled Diva show
Makin’ up a mess of fun, makin’ up a mess of fun
Lots of fun for everyone

Tra la la, la la la la
Tra la la, la la la la

Four Divas, three Divas, two Divas, one
Troubled Divas playin’ in the bright warm sun.
Flippin’ like a pancake, popping like a cork
Auntie, John, quarsan an’ Mac

Chorus

Two Divas, four Divas, one Diva, three
Postin’ like a bunch on monkeys, commentin’ for free.
Hey there, ev’rybody, won’t you come along and see
How much like Troubled Divas ev’ryone can be

Chorus

Makin up a mess of fun
Makin up a mess of fun
Happiness for ev’ryone
Tra la la, la la la la
Tra la la, la la la la
Tra la la, la la la la

[posted by Mac]

With all Quarsan’s talk of music and bands, it got me thinking. The Troubled Diva guest poster’s for week two need to start their own band.

We could be one of those awful Vegas lounge acts and name ourselves The Troubled Divas. We could wear a lot of velvet and say things like “You’re beautiful, people! Don’t ever change!”

Of course, I don’t really know the other guest posters. I can only take a guess at what their roles might be in such an endeavor. I am talentless when it comes to music, so my only options are groupie or the hack who plays the triangle.

Everyone else around here seems much more talented than I. I think Aunt Cyn would be the lead singer and song writer. She’s lived life. She’s seen stuff. She knows things. I imagine her lyrics would be gritty, but her voice would be buttery smooth, much like her excellent jam.

And John, well….John is the young buck among us. The reckless one. The idealist. I see him as the wild drummer type. He would be the guy who destroy the show with his scorching drum solos and then go to his hotel room and trash it due to his unexpressed angst.

That leaves Quarsan. I see him as the guitarist. He’s the guy who holds the band together and carries us all through with his exhaustive devotion to the band. He’s the one with common sense.

Am I wrong?

I have no idea where that came from…I am loopy this morning.

(posted by quarsan)

Number Seven : 12XU – Wire (mp3 file)

Lyrics: Saw you in a mag, kissing a man, I’ve got you in a corner (cottage)

It’s got to be said that Wire were smash and grab artistes. They did what they wanted and got out of there asap. Their monumental debut LP Pink Flag has 21 tracks in under 40 mins. But this was no artifice, they gave you the trimmed down essentials and not one second more. Like Hemingway, there is not one wasted word, nothing that wasn’t vital.

Wire were the band that made us want to form a band. And we did. Often derided as being arty, at that time the ultimate put down from the dizzy heights of NME, I just couldn’t see it. I thought they were smart not art.

When we did get our band together, it wasn’t this track but Surgeon’s Girl that we put in the set. Listen to all of Pink Flag and Chairs missing and enjoy.

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

One thing Mike never prepared me for when we discussed taking my first nervous steps onto the internet was how wonderfully joyous a thing email is. I now have my hotmail account – to which none of you, I hasten to add, have chosen to email me with any of your highly amusing deeply sensitive personal problems for my Agony Aunt column – and already I have about twenty emails. I never knew you could buy so much on the net! I was bewildered by the vast array of Viagra on offer, but have bought £150 worth from an address in Germany, because – well, because I’d like to try it on my new German handyman, if I’m honest. Seems like a nice boy, and he believes that I’m 43 when I tell him too. Which makes him a very nice boy indeed.

Order made, I suddenly had a message pop up on my screen. Seems that a man on the East Coast of the USA wanted to ‘chat’ to me about having a ‘good time’. I was about to describe to you some of the immensely colourful words he used, but I’m just checking Mike’s instructions again and apparently I’m not supposed to use words like that in case the site gets ‘Googled’.

Googled?

He was very nice anyway, this chap. We were getting on so well, chatting away about my gardening habits and how I need a new pair of rubber gloves. Then he went and spoiled it all by telling me that he wanted to **** my ******* **** off. (I censored that, because I have a feeling some of the Liechtenstein Ladies’ Circle might be looking in for a read – I told them that I’m now ‘online’ and ‘surfing’ and ‘chatting’ and they were very impressed. I’ve even got some search requests to do for them tonight, although I’m not sure whether surgical stockings are available in leather. Oh well).

Don’t forget: auntiecyn@hotmail.com if you need to get in touch and share your woes, ills and peculiar perversions with me and the rest of the internet community.

I must go feed the squirrels. Night night.

Cynthia (Cyn to my friends, which I’m not convinced you are).