SIZEMOLOGY. Size matters. Yes it does.

(posted by Mr. D.)

SM1. Mindlessly awaiting my turn in the barbers, I recalled a queue-related incident which this medium makes it easier to share. You’ll understand. And your gender will determine your reaction…

Some years ago, my beloved was temporarily between two regimes of contraception and I was advised to ‘take precautions’.

So, a nostalgic pilgrimage to the chemists then, where a plethora of old ladies had swarmed, to get prescriptions filled, each discuss several ailments with the very patient pharmacist etc. In MY lunch hour.

Nearing the head of the queue, I resolved to avoid future wastes of my valuable time by buying more than the usual ‘packet of 3’. Hell, I could’ve got through 2 of them in the 10 minutes I’d been there!

And so, eventually arriving at the counter, I manfully demanded a box of Durex.

“What size?” asked the harridan assistant.

“I. Er. Um. I. Um. (pre-empting Gareth Gates by some years).

She let me sweat. Hours passed. Someone behind me muttered “C’mon big boy, I’m on me lunch hour”.

“What size box?”. “25, 50?”. As if there could have been any other answer!

“Oh, 25 is fine” I gushed. “please, take all of this money, and keep the change”.

I legged it. I still redden thinking about it.

(You’ll have to wait for SM2. Hey, I’ve gotta pace myself.)


Why I Got The Sack From The Museum.

(posted by one of anna’s b****es, apparently)

Before the Number 15 hoved into view this morning quite a queue had congregated. We stood silent and staring uproad, the Monday Morning Mule Train. Despite that I knew most of the faces in line and they I’m sure knew my face too. Later, I saw an even longer mute queue outside the Post Office on the corner of Brazil Street. Nobody was sambaing.

It was irritating, itchy even, to wake up at 3.15 am with the television still blurting and to see so many mediocrities speaking so earnestly about Art, meaning Money. Hollywood occasionally lets Art slip past the studio Pitbulls, but the Oscars are a celebration of every tawdry, dishonest, faux-artistic impulse that the Los Angeles Petting Zoo holds dearest. Great Art is opaque, but to win an Oscar a movie needs to be so transparent, so dishonest, so Hanks-Spielbergundian that you can watch it whilst asleep and still know exactly what’s happened.

So I’m tired like every Monday and the sun is shining and I’m haphazardly word-sketching the chestnut eyes of the woman on the bus seat in front of me – dark hair dusted burgundy and a smile that took 10 minutes to appear but will make the rest of today liveable. She was chatting happily to her little boy, which makes her pretty freakin’ rara avis round these parts. She gets off 2 stops before me, and then I surf my way down the aisle (3 skips in the road to ride), jump off, and try to forget enough about beauty and wonder that I can be an efficient prole.

Criss-cross rhythms that explode with happiness.

(posted by Mr. D.)

Music is such a personal thing, and this being my first blog proper, I’m worried about being aprosexic.
So I’m hoping that the title (and yes, maybe even that adjective?) has got you at least a tad intrigued.

If not, and you’ve already surfed off in the direction of away, one of us has missed an opportunity…

So, Saturday night and another “band to be seen before I/they die” gets ticked off the list. Osibisa, the godfathers of World music, slayed me in ’71 with their eponymous debut album and in the unlikely venue of Cranleigh Arts Center, did it again.

“Music for Gong Gong”, the tribal equivalent of a disco dance floor filler, reeled ‘em in and from then on, they had you by the feet. We were all taught the chorus to “Ayiko Bia” and “Kilele” (as if we didn’t know them anyway!) and no-one held back.

Teddy Osei, “Mr. Africa” and co-founder, struggled to walk onto the stage but played flute, tenor and alto sax, police whistle, african tom-toms and cow-bell with enviable vigour and verve.

Sol Amarfio, the other original member, who looked like he’d been born behind his drumkit, never stopped smiling once throughout the concert and the relatively youthful rhythm guitarist danced his socks off in a space the size of a telephone kiosk.

N.B. TD – you don’t have to trust me on this. They play their last U.K. gig at the Flowerpot in Derby on May 10th. Take K and your dancing shoes and let rip!

The voice of the ladies – anna pickard, femininity encapsulated.

(posted, unsurprisingly, by anna)

Firstly, sisters, let me thank my gracious host (mike – a man, but he can’t help that…)
(Pause for laughter)
for giving me this opportunity to speak on behalf of the fairer sex this week, if only by default, and thank you, sisters, for allowing me to speak, for, of, and to, You.
In accepting the title of
Miss troubled diva guestblogger
I will, alongside my tireless work for world peace and disabled house-pets, accept the responsibility of furthering the cause of All my sex, and will to this end, be;

  1. Talking about shopping.
  2. Breaking off in the middle of a post to pluck my eyebrows.
  3. Wearing pink.
  4. On a diet.
  5. Propping Barbies and vases of flowers on top of my computer.
  6. Bursting into tears for little reason.
  7. Giggling about boys.
  8. Worrying about the size of my bottom.

I speak not for myself, but for all the girls out there, sitting in front of their computer screens, playing with their hair and thinking about having babies.
Thank you.
(Rapturous applause)

For any readers of my own site, let me assure you that there will be none of the usual nonsense and obscenity, no swearing, ranting, burping, drunkenness, and I will certainly not be referring to my gaggle of co-hosts as ‘my b****es’
Thank you again, sisters, my darling girls, and thank you, Mike, for giving me this opportunity to act like the lady…

Also, if this post recieves more than 2500 comments, I pledge not to talk about periods.
Thank you.


(posted by D)

(tap, tap, tap) Is this thing on?

Whoa, where did that cool title graphic come from?! Needs a 1-pixel border methinks…

I’ll be back later when my fluffy brains sort themselves out. Thanks to the Malaysian Grand Prix I managed to squeeze a three day weekend into 48-hours. Plus, I’ve been reading since she started (I’ve even met the lovely Anna on two occasions) and I’m somewhat in awe of her. Shocked that she was also chosen for this gig, but mainly in awe. Shock and awe… that’d be my general mood at the moment.

Realising the vision.

(posted by Mike)

In my old wild Trade-babe clubbing days, I was often struck by how melodramatic some of the techno-trance-hardbag-nu-energy music could sound. I used to imagine how great it would be to see a group of fully togged-up Spanish widows in the club, standing on a podium somewhere, in full traditional black lacy garb, complete with those mantilla headdress thingys, white-faced, fans and/or hankies in hands, their faces pictures of studied, theatrical woe, throwing “misery me!” shapes above the anonymous bobbing shaved heads of the crowd, as the light beams swirled around behind them.

(I also used to imagine four headscarved Russian-Jewish babooshkas on another, more distant podium, dancing in a circle, kicking their legs and cackling with witchy glee. God knows what I was on.)

Anyway, I was explaining all this to D from Acerbia, and then he came up with the nifty title graphic which you now see above.

Hurrah for Acerbia!
I © Guest Week!


The Faux Oscars.

(posted by Mr. D.)

“…. and I’d also like to thank ……….”

The Phrontistery, who lured me to Tinka’s “Distant Sun” blog (because I’m a “Crowded House” fan too) and of course Tinka herself, who advocated visiting the Troubled Diva, which I did, or I wouldn’t be here today …

(I actually typo’d that as “toady” – thank Microsoft for SpellChecker!) ….

Camera pans back to the podium .. Mr.D. pauses to draw breath, stop blubbing etc.

Picking from the virtual CV which won me this Guest Blog, I’d suggested to mein host that it was like inviting someone to share your “Meal for one” – utterly selfless, but you’re gonna be hungry.

So, without wanting to fawn, dear, I would like to state my gratitude to Mike for this opportunity to share what is, essentially, a very personal medium and hope that my morsels and musings don’t detract you from The Man Himself.

Oh, and, er, yes, Little.Red.Boat is peerless – please read her input if you do nothing else.

Mr. D. (see Track 1 “Goat’s Head Soup” by the beat combo The Rolling Stones).