HELLO, SWEETIE

For anyone who didn't get hold of issue 242 of Skin Deep Tattoo Magazine, you can view the article here. It's quite nice. You can even purchase back copies if you go here. 

YES, I FOUND THE MARBLE. THIS IS WHY I'M LOSING IT AGAIN

 CHARITY AUCTION. THAT'S THE POINT. 

JUST SO YOU KNOW.

The signed print. In my hands. Retail value $75. Limited edition of three prints, and the only one available to buy

A while ago I published a blog called 'The Best Photo I Never Took', or something like it, I can't remember, anyway, it's here, but no need to look, there wasn't much in it, and the photo is below so don't bother. Come back to me. Thank you.
It featured a single photo of a marble I found in my bed. I don't know where it came from, or how it got there. I accept it's not an impossible thing to happen, but generally I can follow the logic of random bed-finds. This was different: I have no recollection of anyone playing marbles in my bed, and the mystery remains. I held it up to the light, and my little daughter pressed the button on my phone to take a picture. 

Photo: Tiny Sprig

I really love that picture. It makes me think of so many things, so many worlds, Universes, possibilities... captured in the morning light by a sleepy child. Shall I get to the point? Because I'm about to lose my marble...

SOMEONE CLOSE TO ME has recently received a diagnosis of Alzheimer's. I don't really know what that means. That is to say, we all have an idea, or we think we do... we all say 'what did I come upstairs for?' twenty times a day, then laugh and say 'It's my age!' - Well, I suspect the journey of finding out what Dementia really means is about to begin. I'm a little bit frightened. I wonder if my Someone is, too.

NOT LOST: the Marble

I LIKED THAT MARBLE so much that I had it caged and fastened round my neck. I shall certainly not lose it, like that. But now I am choosing to donate it, for whatever it is worth, to the annual charity auction at the Discworld Hogswatch celebrations later this month. Yes, perhaps it is a symbolic gesture. Perhaps it's somewhat flippant. But I think you know me, by now. I choose, symbolically, to lose my marble, in the name of charity.

The necklace is not all. You may also be aware of some fundraising activity I undertook a mere matter of weeks ago.

Skin Deep Tattoo Magazine

In case you haven't been keeping up, take a look at another blog entry, in which I provide details of my giant tattoo in aid of Dorothy House Hospice Care and Depression Alliance. Those were the two chosen charities of the British Beard and Moustache Championships 2014, which I co-hosted back in September (go on, go and have a look). The event raised a total of £5000 - over a quarter of which came from donations to my tattoo fundraiser. Well done, you fine people, and thank you. 

Brian Kesinger's 'Otto & Victoria'

Brian Kesinger, who did my tattoo artwork, sent me three signed prints of the design. I have kept one. The second has gone to my Mamma, who loves Shakespeare even more than I do. The third will be auctioned off at the end of the month, at the Hogswatch celebrations, in aid of RICE - the Research Institute for the Care of the Elderly. 

Yes, I'm being Victoria. And there's Otto

The purpose of this blog is not to ask for donations again, though of course you can give if you want to - go here.  Just have a look at the photos and, if you want to put in a bid for the print, or even for the necklace, just drop me a line.

Photo: SteelJam

I SHALL BE PERFORMING in my usual outrageous capacity at the Hogswatch celebrations. Come and see me.  Come and bid on something unique. Come and join the family of Bloody Loonies. It's all right, we are, and we know it. Terry says so.

Brian Kesinger's artwork for my tattoo. Bid on this - A3-sized signed print

The Blue Marble from my bed; My necklace. Own it

  

The finished piece. Not included in the auction. You cheeky monkeys.

Your Opinion Matters. Wait - No It Doesn't. And Neither Does Mine

I was going to blog about this week: a lot has happened. But I’ll tell you all of that next time, because the following exchanges occurred this morning before I’d even got out of bed.

Yes. I'm in this.

I say ‘exchanges’; they weren’t. I told you last time, I don’t do social media spats. But, but, but. This is beginning in the middle. Let’s wind back a little bit.  Earlier this week, issue 242 of Skin Deep Tattoo Magazine went on sale. I admit I haven’t had cause to get all that excited about SDTM in the past, but now I have reason to be – and not just because I’m in it. Yes, I had a small tattoo somewhere private* as a result of youthful folly, but I never, ever dreamed I’d get another one, or that it would be huge, or that it would raise £2000 for charity, or that it would – oh, here it comes – end up as a five-page reader profile in a magazine. 

See? Told you

 I won’t say anything about the article – bloody go and buy a copy. It’s well worth the money and there’s a nice picture of my bum in it. Besides, you know, all the other cool tattoos and much-prettier girls. But – exposure… it has a circulation of fifty-odd thousand or something, so you never know what will come of it. Then, this morning, something did. One thing, definitely: I don’t know about the other two. It’s possible. I ended up with the feedback classic, the Shit Sandwich.

Layer one: Nice Gentleman, sent this. Charming words AND he liked some of my poems. What a lovely thing to say! Earns a deep curtsey from me, not to say a flutter of my fan. My actual fan. Seriously, Shup, people.

Layer two: hardly a Gentlemanly response to the image on the right, but if all opinions are valid, his is too**. As you know, I don’t respond to this kind of thing, but I did share it – quite objectively, I hope; with a hint of sarcasm, I admit.  A flood of comments followed – again, not a wave of support but plenty of feelings on both sides of the argument. Privately someone suggested I take a look at his profile and rip him to pieces. No. I just wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter. Again, as has happened before, I’ve reached a place in my life where this kind of thing doesn’t hurt. I wonder, though – does that actually make me a Condescending Witch? Oh, the irony…

And finally, Layer three: layer three is just delicious. Layer three is not a slice of Hovis 50/50. It’s not even a complex handmade Seeded Batch. It’s a delicate, melting Brioche, lightly warmed between the thighs of a –

Well. Read it yourself. It was a private message, from a woman. Her permission to share it has been sought and obtained.

Have you read this far? Well done, you. Seriously, I'm impressed. Thank you. I check my blog stats: no fucker reads it. Ever. The only time they even glance at it is when there are pictures of tits and arse in it, and then the chances of them actually looking at the words are almost nil. So yes, I will continue to voice my opinion, safe in the knowledge that no-one will ever, ever know what it is.

Not really my opinion. Lighten up.

• Damien Hirst can't fucking paint. 
• Some people are beautiful, both inside and out. 
• Others, though, are just c*nts. 

Ignore this. My opinions are no more valid than the next fool's. See below.

Then kiss me, Motherfucker.

*I say ‘private’ – didn’t stop me getting it out at the the Great British Tattoo Show when a random individual asked to see it. Can’t believe I did that. Well… there’s a lot of nudity at these events. You stop worrying about it after a while. Still – tut, tut

**All opinions are NOT valid. Ever read ‘Have Your Say’ on the BBC website? For fuck’s sake.

HE THAT HATH NO BEARD IS LESS THAN A MAN

I'm doing this in the car. Bear with me. Hyperlinks will go in later: they're proving to be a f**king fanny on a Samsung Galaxy S4 mini. Any photographs I manage to upload are by Bertrand Vessier.

FIRST THINGS FIRST – THE FUND IS STILL OPEN, so if you want to donate you still can.  Let me remind you who you’re supporting: the two chosen charities of the British Beard and Moustche Championships, which are Dorothy House and Depression Alliance. I maintain that there is not a person in the UK right now who will not, at some point, need the services of one charity or the other; or have a loved one who will. Give some money at Mu's Big-Ass Charity Tattoo - if you give £25 I’ll send you the signed photo of my –

- Never mind. I’m getting to that. This is what happened.
Somehow (I know not how) I made the decision to get a tattoo. Not my first; though I may be forgiven the youthful foolishness which planted a marsupial on my backside like a little ass-hickie. No, this would be my first proper, serious, grown-up tattoo.

But I can’t tell you all that, either. Because I told it to the editor of Skin Deep Tattoo Magazine after I had the almighty front to send him an email containing the following - just days after being introduced to him at the Great British Tattoo Show:

“Let me get to the point: In a nutshell (deep breath), do you think [the magazine] would consider it a matter of sufficient interest to feature between its covers the occasion of my inking? I should simply adore it if you would.

Good God, I shock myself sometimes. If I thought it would sway you, I’d send you a picture of the proposed canvas; but fortunately, I actually do know when to wind it in. Sort of.”

Obviously, I’d explained about the charity fundraiser as well. So that makes it perfectly ok*.  But you can read the full story in Issue 241, out in September.

THE OUTCOME

• So far, £1820 donated to the cause. 
• A total of 7.5 hours of tattoo work by a woman I admire so very, very much – I hope I may be allowed to call her a friend. 
• Genuinely the worst pain I’ve ever felt, and I’ve had two children. 
• A nude photoshoot with a photographer I trust completely, and whose work I love. 
• Countless messages of love and support from all over the world.

This year has brought yet more wonderful people into my life, and I am constantly overwhelmed at the capacity of ordinary people to act kindly for others. Thank you, all of you, who have supported me in my hare-brained scheme to raise money and promote the Beard Championships. And yet it’s so much more than that: I feel as though I have a new friend. 

William Eight-Speare. He’s got my back.

*No it doesn’t. Siôn, I am so sorry. You didn’t deserve that, based on an hour’s acquaintance. Sorry. Sorry.