Friday, 23 May 2014


I'm posting this now because I'm just about to leave for the Great British Tattoo Show and I won't be able to do bloggery for a few days.  Then I'm going to do some slightly mad things in a field in Oxfordshire*. But, good people, 25 May is Towel Day. Douglas, I love you, and I always will. Thank you, for everything. 

Oh, good lord... I very rarely 'unfriend' people. If I have done, it's always been because they've expressed or spread extreme racist ignorance, particularly if directed at an individual (it would be fair to wonder why such a person would be on my friends list at all, but remember, we’re talking about social media here. It’s not the same as exchanging body fluids. Ugh).
This comment popped up in my feed recently:
"well, just finished reading 'hitchhikers guide to the galaxy - the trilogy of four' the omnibus edition! if anyone wants it, they can have it for the cost of the postage!! didn't really enjoy it and won't be reading it again!!"(Capital letters? No, thought not.)
...and I moved to the 'Unfriend' button.  What sort of cock would react so dismissively to H2G2 – and then admit it in public?! That’s like saying “I lack even the most basic insight into the nature of humanity and the Universe, and here, have my brain, because I’m not using it.” 
Then I thought, No, I'm pretty easygoing, and a complete attention-whore, and people are allowed to think differently to the way I think - I'll just read through his timeline before I make a snap judgement.
Guess what? It's full of racist bile! BYEEEE! HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAA!
Some lilac. Some of you will know why.

 I lifted this text (below) directly from Ben Mapp’s “Douglas Adams’ Lost Legacy” blog post from 19 March 2013 – so it’s not mine, and I am in no way pretending it is. Here’s the original blog. Please visit it out of courtesy, and stay because he's a pleasure to read, but then come back:
Quote begins:
Today it was revealed that an archivist at Brentwood school discovered a poem written by the 17-year-old Adams. It was written in 1970 as part of an initiation to the upper-sixth’s literary society, featuring the theme of ‘candles’ along with the works of his fellow students (including that of comic actor Griff Rhys Jones).

The full poem is as follows:
A Dissertation on the task of writing a poem on a candle and an account of some of the difficulties thereto pertaining

by Douglas Adams, January 1970

I resisted temptation for this declamation
To reach out to literary height
For high aspiration in such an oration
Would seem quite remarkably trite:
So I thought something pithy and succinct and clever
Was exactly the right thing to write.

For nights I sat musing
And musing ... and musing
Whilst burning the midnight oil;
My scratchings seemed futile
My muse seemed quite mute, while
My work proved to be barren toil.

I puzzled and thought and wrestled and fought
'Till my midnight oil was exhausted,
So I furthered my writing by dim candle lighting,
And found, to my joy, this of course did
The trick, for I flowered,
My work - candle-powered –
Was inspired, both witty and slick.

Pithy and polished, my writing demolished
Much paper, as I beguiled
Myself with some punning,
(My word play was stunning,)
I wrote with the wit of a Wilde.
At length it was finished, the candle diminished,
I pondered and let my pride burn
At the great acclamation, the standing ovation
Its first public reading would earn.

But lost in the rapture of anticipation
And thinking how great was my brilliant creation
I quite failed to note as I gazed into space
That incendiary things were about to take place:
That which had ignited my literary passion,
Was about to ignite what my passion had fashion'd.

And - oh! - all was lost in a great conflagration
And I just sat there and said 'Hell and damnation',
For the rest of the night and the following day.
(My muse in the meantime had flitted away
Alarmed, no doubt, at the ornamentation
My language acquired with increased consternation.

So unhaply the fruits of my priceless endeavour
Are lost to the literary world forever.
For now I offer this poem instead,
Which explains in itself why the other's unsaid.

Quote ends. *Sobs quietly*

*I think Douglas would be proud of me.

Monday, 19 May 2014

I'm Not Political, But...

TWO THINGS made me really annoyed today. 

Photo © Kevin Mitchell
The second of the two things is that a couple of boys from school have told my son - well, never mind what they've told him. I don't make my children's business your business. I will simply say that after we talked about it together, I am both humbled and warmed by his attitude. 

It's taken me years to work out who I am, and I'd be sorry if my children had to wait as long as I did. And I'm certain that I'd rather be Embarrassing Mummy than Boring Mummy. Cracking little bloke that he is.  He impressed me tonight; so, OK - it wasn't all bad. 

Source: Social Media
The first thing that made me angry - or, not so much angry as just utterly incredulous - is another example of the ignorant encouraging a dislike of people who are different: Nigel Farage. Apparently (apparently) he said this. I didn't hear the programme, so I don't know, but if anyone wishes to confirm/ clarify/ disprove the content, I shall be happy to hear from them. But as the World #2 Whiskerina, - a title I won in Europe, at a warm, friendly, happy event attended by 300 competitors from over twenty Nations - I am clearly the wrong fucking audience. Bother it, see? I'd love to express myself eloquently on the matter, but the words springing to my mind tend to be appropriately Anglo-Saxon. Just fancy.
Instead, here is the poem I performed this evening at Frome's Garden Cafe Open-Mic night. I've shared it before, and yes, I see that I am picking on the least important aspect of the sentiment expressed by the Gurning Weasel-faced Bellend*; but I choose to mock one kind of prejudice in order to highlight the idiocy of another kind of prejudice.

My point? Aside from the obvious one? My point, as I told my son this evening, is that the dull will continue to be dull: it's more fun to be friends with people who are ever so slightly batshit. I'm infused with a happy, inclusive, mad love for my fellow beings and I don't need religion or politics to tell me I have it wrong.  
I just never, ever thought Eurovision would be showing us the way.

I'm wearing a Sari. And a Beard. Oh, I bet that Mister Farrage hates me

*This is my third use of 'Gurning Weasel-faced Bellend' to describe Farage today. I'm really hoping that when people type it into Google, his picture comes up. At the moment, all you get is my arse, which isn't great for me. Help me out here, people


Wednesday, 14 May 2014

Reflections of the Death of H.R. Giger

I was reflecting last night on some great artists who have died leaving the world a poorer place for their departing. Some of you reflected with me via Facebook - thanks guys, many tears shed, loved your clips. I was very touched.
But I got to thinking, who these days is writing like Adams*? Who's creating art like Giger? Who's singing like Freddie? (Clue: Cowell isn't going to be pulling one out of his ********* any time soon)
And I made this. You can share it, if you like. It contains a rare thing: a Mu-opinion. 

BE TALENTED LOUDLY! Be famous quietly. Kisses, Mu.

photo: © Stephen Moore
 *There's something else. About Douglas. And - 

No. Towel Day is coming up. I'll do it then.

Thursday, 8 May 2014

Feed Your Imagination. It's Your Ticket To Quantum Pigeon Spectacles Happiness

Tonight's blog post is a piece of short fiction by a Small Girl I know. With her seven years of acquired wisdom, she is writing through her pain: her imaginary boyfriend, Charlie, recently broke up with her and ran off with his imaginary girlfriend*. 

Anyway, Small Girl has a new imaginary boyfriend called Max. He recently went to India by train, but he kept in touch regularly, via imaginary text message. He's a Keeper.

*Charlie's new girlfriend is called Rose. Presumably she's real to Charlie.

The Adventure
by Tiny Sprig

Once upon a time there were two children called Ted and Rachel.  Surprisingly, Ted was fourteen and Rachel was twelve. Their dog was called Spottie, and she liked to splash puddles.

On Monday evening, Ted, Rachel and Spottie went to the funfair in their van. The first thing they went on was the rollercoaster. Suddenly, they shrank into micro-world!  Poisonous snakes, fire-dragons, icy dragons, flower-dragons, terror-dragons and big, bad spiders lived in micro–world. 

They were all standing on the steepest hill looking at the cute robots when suddenly an enormous, scary fire-dragon lumbered to Spottie and ate her up.

“Can you get Spottie out of the dragon’s tummy?” Rachel asked.
“Yes,” Ted said.

So Ted got his sharp, pointed sword to kill the dragon.  In a flash the dragon was cut open and Spottie clambered out. Ted and Rachel smiled and they all had a hug.

Suddenly, an old woman popped out of the hard ground in front of them.  “I am so sorry to say this but a baddy turned Susan and Eddie, your sister and brother, into robots,” she said.

Ted and Rachel started to cry.  They got all of the spanners out of the robots and threw them at the dead dragon.  In a flash the children came back!  They returned back to the funfair and they jumped into their van and went home. 

The End 
©  Tiny Sprig
May 2014