THE BRITISH BEARD AND MOUSTACHE CHAMPIONSHIPS 2014

Darlings, I'm sorry. This still isn't the post I want to do. I will get there. But my mother's away and she hasn't seen the pictures yet, so this is for her sake.  In haste, I have harvested these from my Facebook wall. I will credit them appropriately as soon as I can. But she's in a different time zone and - well, just have a look. it was the best day. Here you are, Mamma.

 THE BRITISH BEARD AND MOUSTACHE CHAMPIONSHIPS 

SEPTEMBER 13, 2014 - BATH PAVILION

with thanks to THE WESSEX BEARDSMEN

THE BRITISH BEARD CLUB

hosts: MICHAEL 'ATTERS' ATTREE and MURIEL LAVENDER

in aid of DEPRESSION ALLIANCE

and DOROTHY HOUSE HOSPICE CARE

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.

Ghosts and the Periodic Table

It all started with this.

We were walking home from the Post Office and I was asking The Boy about his day. Then he suddenly said something that made me ask him to get off his scooter and carry it so I wouldn’t miss a single word. ‘Say that again, Babe?’

‘I said, in school today I learnt that I can’t have a discussion with a Christian without getting really angry!’

The argument boiled down to this, and it would make Professor Brian Cox himself proud. 

Thanks, Geoff. We know this to be true

The Boy was arguing that ghosts couldn’t possibly exist because there is no substance in the Periodic Table which can pass through solid walls, therefore there’s nothing they could be made of that would allow them to do so (yes, I am aware that his argument is somewhat flawed, but a) he’s ten years old and using the Periodic Table to to support his statements and b) um, Ghosts? The whole thing’s flawed from the start). Then his friend had retorted that angels could pass through walls because they could turn themselves into fog. ‘But,’ Boy continued, with violent gesticulation, ‘fog doesn’t pass through walls either! And he wasn’t having it!’

‘And did you point out that angels must be insects, on account of the six limb thing?’

‘No, he wasn’t listening to the first bit, never mind anything else…’

I won’t relate the rest of the conversation. Or the stopping in the street to hold his tiny shoulders and tell him I ache with pride that he has learnt something that many people never do, in their whole ignorant lives.  But following another revelation from The Girl, I took to social media in sheer delight at their miniature self-awareness.

Then something lovely happened. And if this comes across as me preaching about How One Should Use Social Media – FINE. I’m the f**king Pope.  And I’m really good at it. Here’s why:

I posted this – which, some might say, is somewhat inflammatory.  I think you’d have to be fairly web-toed to think so, but as the late Bill Hicks said, there are indeed some serious pockets of humanity out there. Of course it wasn’t long before my friends started chiming in, on both sides of the argument. 

Play Nice, you Beauties

That is, not too far down one side of the argument – they are my friends, after all. The thread began with some banter and a marvellous use of the word ‘Bellend’, which always pleases me immensely; then somewhat of a discussion ensued, between Christians and Atheists on both sides of the Atlantic. I have lots of Christian friends on Facebook, and lots of Atheist friends, and anyone who reads my blog may know my views on religious matters. I state my feelings openly on my blog, and if anyone wishes to be offended, I politely invite them to discontinue reading it. I hope, however, I have the good manners not to invade others’ privacy, their feelings, or their social media walls, with my opinions. I was pleased, and warmed, to see people bonding over shared views, whether equal or opposite to mine.  I was pleased above all that those same people chose to contribute without becoming accusatory – even when the banter was quite provocative.  I’d have been sorry to see it blow up – after all, my wall, no-one has to read it – and as I’d already made my point in the original post, I purposely kept quiet myself.  

Facebook spats are so unseemly. This Be The Word Of Mu.

Yes, Lily. Yes. Yes, I will.

Hypersensitive? Try tattoo cream

You can't generalise about people. I told my mother thus after my second Tattoo Convention. But they look so scary, she said.  But honestly, I said. Everyone I've met has been so nice. You never know,  if you asked someone about them, they might be really pleased to tell you their story. 

I went to Spitalfields Market today and I didn't get what I wanted. Nothing I wanted. So I sat in a coffee shop and felt a little bit sad. Then I went on my way, before I spent the money I'd set aside for the purpose.  As I headed back towards Liverpool Street station, I saw a very pretty lady sporting the perfect rockabilly style.  She was a delight: magnificently swept up hair, held high with a shock of red blossoms; high-waisted jeans, and nipped-in blouse showing arms carved from tattooed alabaster. 
As I passed her I caught her eye and smiled - warmly, the way I do. 'I just want to admire your arms!' I said, 'your tattoo work is so beautiful!'
'Awww,' she replied - a good start - but then came the metaphorical kidney-punch: 'It's a bit weird, though, isn't it, stopping someone on the street to admire their tattoos.'
It was a statement. Not a question. 
'Is it?' I said, then added, 'well, I shan't then, if you'd rather I didn't.  But they're very lovely, anyway.' And the encounter was over.

Is it? I go to London fairly often,  especially during the Globe season. I like to dress up and look pretty - fifties style, funnily enough,  like her. Dozens of people stop me and tell me I look nice.  Some ask to take my picture. Most of the time I don't feel very attractive, and I'm certainly not young - so quite often I am touched by this almost to the point of tears. So today, I wanted to pay it forward. I saw a pretty young woman who had taken great care over her appearance, in a way that was elegant and edgy. It backfired: c'est la vie. I wanted to be philosophical, even though I had the feeling of having been bitten by a puppy. I didn't cry, or anything, I'm a grown woman; but as I emerged from London Bridge tube station,  a dead town crier held out a London Dungeon leaflet to me and said, 'Have you had an electric shock?' (This, I should explain, for any one who does not follow me on Instagram, was on account of my notoriously tousled, um, 'hairstyle'. Post-coital is perhaps the best description.) 
I looked him in the eye. Looking past his pallid, bloodied complexion. 'Street drunks say that to me. You're unoriginal, at best.' 
'No, I like it. You're - look at your nails! They're really long - are they real? Oh no - they're not are they?  They're fake. You know, you look like - '
'Who? Who do I look like? You've had two shots at me now. What's your third? Come on - bring it! What have you got left?'
He paused, and looked me up and down. 'You look like - no, you're too young to remember.'
'Well? Who?'
He put out one finger and touched my arm. 'Dzzzzt,' he said gently. 'Have you - no. You won't have heard of Twisted Sister.'
'Dee Snider! I was expecting Mötley Crüe, or Whitesnake!' Or Billy Idol, I added silently. But thank you for thinking me too young, I added, also silently. Out loud, I told him what had just happened, with the pretty lady. 
Oh no, he said, We're not like that in London. That was mean, he said. We're friendly here. 
She was Northern, I said, and he beamed. 'Ah! You see? Londoners wouldn't ever say a thing like that! You were trying to be nice - Northerners, they don't get it...'  
I wasn't about to be drawn on that one. After all, you can't generalise about people. Some of them are just -

Never mind.

So anyway, I smiled at the dead Town Crier - warmly, the way I do. 'Nice chatting to you. Don't go letting your mouth talk you into any more trouble today.'

Or mine, for that matter.

A MITOCHONDRIAL DEBT OF GRATITUDE

 MY GRANDMA is ninety-eight today. She broke her hip recently, and the Doctors didn't think she'd make it. But she bloody did. So they gave her a new hip. Then she had a fall and broke her nose, and the Nurses named her Miss Independence and she recovered. 

My Grandma is amazing. My Grandma renews her circle of friends every ten years or so: not that she outgrows them; she out-lives them. My Grandma likes Bombay Sapphire and Grey Goose. My Grandma can still beat me at Scrabble.

My Grandma is still beautiful. My Grandma will not be beaten.

Here is a poem about birthdays. I've just noticed it's one of three that I've written where the last line is nicked from Shakespeare. I didn't write it for my Grandma, but I like it and it's got a Hello! style magazine cover to go with it, which is at the bottom, and you can scroll down and look at it, but read the poem first, please, because it's fun, and it's got fairies in and that.

Happy Birthday, Fairy

Happy Birthday!  Being nine

Is super fun – it’s just divine!

And so last-year, now, to be eight:

Quite vieux-chapeau (that’s ‘out of date’)

But: with age comes duty, too

And every fairy knows it’s true

So in between the cake and tea,

And all good things your day should be

A moment, please, to think about

A fairy’s work indoors and out

Wave your wand about like so

To make the pretty flowers grow

In brightly-coloured dainty crowds

Shine the sun and pink the clouds,

Shake the trees to fill the air

With perfumed cherry-blossom fair,

Smile to lift the sky – and just

Remember all that Fairy Dust

Won’t get sprinkled by itself

And never ask a passing Elf

To help – they simply can’t be trusted

To get a single daisy dusted -

Let alone a Fairy Dell

(Do that yourself, it’s just as well);

Bollocks to all that – it’s too

Much like hard work, I think – don’t you?

Sit your arse down, have a fag

A quick flick through a gossip rag

And gloat at all the trash you read

About Peaseblossom, Mustardseed

Cobweb, Moth and all the others

A-List Fairies, like Godmothers

Down through all the woodland folk

Like talking rabbits (what a joke:

Who on earth cares what they say?

They’re high on clover anyway

Check out those photos! What the fuck –

Somebody’s had something tucked

I can’t believe it’s Tinker Bell!

Mavis Cruet’s diet hell

Is all behind her,she looks grand

(She’s fitted with a gastric band)

In his column, saucy Puck

Rakes through all the fairy muck:

Turns out Oberon has fathered

Quite a clutch of fairy bastards

When it broke, as scandals must

Titania hit the fairy dust

Never one to take things lightly

The fairy queen, it’s said, was nightly

Found sprawled upon a bed of Moss

Til Kate herself was at a loss

There’s only so much you can do

Men will be men, and fairies too

Lay aside such trifling leaves

There’s yet an arc of spells to weave

So polish up your fairy shoes

And then, the magic evening dews

Will need a very generous sprinkling

Drip drops until the garden’s twinkling:

For many a Princess’s true-love spell

(A few enchanted frogs’, as well)

Have sadly never come to pass

Because some sprite could not be arsed

Enchanting every nook and cranny

Granted it’s a proper fanny

If the job’s done properly

But all the fairy folk agree

Far worse if we were stuck inside

At office desk and chair confined

Screen-gazing til our temples bleed

Lord, what fools these mortals be

 

© Muriel Lavender

September 2011

Rubbish artwork © Muriel Lavender using Paintbox and a rather cool tattoo I found on the Internets