Oh, she’s such a tease. Today on Naked Blog, Peter deigned to supply us with sub-headings only. If we wanted the full post, then we would have to write it ourselves. There might even be a small prize. A Port Of Leith T-shirt, most likely.
Pity I don’t do T-shirts, except when hiking or gardening. Still, I never could resist a challenge…
Port In A Storm
Controversy reared its head in the Port yesterday, as Mary solemnly re-tuned the telly from the gee-gees (C4) to the rolling coverage of Katrina (Sky News). Howls of protest from the Star Wars end. Hie thee to the bookies, says Mary. Show some respect. (She has rellies in New Orleans, dinnae ye ken.) Scowls exchanged, at point blank range.
Down at the other end, two of my bingo ladies had wandered in. Flushed with success from a modest win, they were already onto the second gins. And we all know what gin does. Makes a girl maudlin, see.
So there they were, moist-eyed supplicants at the altar of Murdoch’s wall-to-wall disaster p*o*r*n, fishing in their bags for hankies, and wondering if there was a number they could ring for donations. Ever noticed that it’s always those who have nothing, coming to the aid of those who have lost everything? There’s your “community”, Tony.
As for this old girl, she just sat there betwixt the two camps, nursing her Guiness, biting her lip during the endless ad breaks. Accident insurance, mainly. Oh, the irony. Or if not that, then it was all shrill cross-promotional plugs, strictly for the benefit of that ghastly billionaire tyrant and his pushy mail-order bride. The rich serve only themselves. Sic transit gloria mundi.
On the jukebox, someone put on Led Zep. Cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good, when the levee breaks mama, you got to move. That shut them all up. Audible snuffles from the auld bikers in the corner. Oil prices through the roof, said the silent rolling ticker. Time passed.
My mam and my da taught me never to show emotion in public. Sign of weakness. So I had a wee blub when I got home, the wasps my only witnesses.
Much love to all who have been affected by this horrible tragedy.
Then the call came. Big media, wanting in on a slice of my estimable organ. The lure of mammon. The glint of greenbacks. LSD signs in the eyes – and we ain’t talking microdots, hon.
As older readers will know, we’ve been down this path before. Rocky road. Vale of tears. All too much for a white woman. Why, I can hear you all now. She’ll flounce before the ink is dry. No staying power, that one.
Que sera sera, as Dorrie’s mam used to croon, back when the world was young. Alea jacta est. (It’s Latin. Look it up in a book. You remember books, don’t you?)
Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown
Monday, September 19th. The date when yours truly makes his debut on the national airwaves. Oh, there’ll be none of that “community radio” tree-hugging hippy shite for me now. Strictly mass media, darlings. I’d love to tell you more, but wild horses and all that. (And, more to the point, legally binding non-disclosure agreements. These boys and girls leave nothing to chance.)
So, will it be sink or swim? Triumph or tragedy? Apotheosis or apocalypse? Place your bets now.
More details as we get them. Don’t go changing! Natasha hen, get those sofa cushions plumped!
Weight a Minute
So, if all this stress is destined to bring me nothing but heartache, then at least it should be good for whittling away a few inches around the girth. For as my media advisor always says, the camera does add ten pounds (4.5 kg). In which case, there’s work to be done.
The Guinness is right out, for starters. What do those skinny bitches in OK and Heat drink, anyway? Vodka, I do believe. Never could see the point of that vile brew. But needs must when big media drives.
Celebrity Blogger Fat Club. The meme starts here! Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye!