IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE HOGSWATCH

This year was my third Hogswatch, and my second as the hostess of the Pink Pussycat Cabaret Club. 

If none of that means anything to you, be a love and pop over to Google for an explanation, because once again it's after midnight and I should be in bed. 


The bit that Google may not make immediately clear is the abundance is warmth and love that, each year, wraps itself round the small town in Somerset where Ankh-Morpork has found its twin.

I drove there on Saturday morning through blazing sunshine, drinking in gold all the way, thinking to myself, I'm going home. I'm going to my Family. That's how we all feel. Enjoy the few pictures I've scattered though here; they barely touch the surface though, really.

I tried to get a few Hogswatch selfies, which was fun, and there were lots of new faces too - 'Hogswatch Virgins'. Well: Virgins no more - or, as dear Douglas Adams would have had it, maybe rather flushed and sticky Virgins.

As you know from a previous blog, I made a couple of donations to the annual auction in aid of RICE (Research Institute for Care for the Elderly). 
These were a necklace I assembled myself from a mysterious marble found in my bed; and the beautiful artwork print of my f**k-off fantastic tattoo.

In addition, I donated an envelope of fifteen or so Haiku that I had written for the occasion.
Here's the bit that floored me. The Haiku? A handful of moderately pornographic verses, and a dozen or so tributes to our DW friends? Sold for £55.
The necklace? Which, actually, was rather lovely? Sold for £55. Maybe if I'd mentioned that I had slept in it, it might have fetched more...
And the print? One of only three, and the only one available to buy? Sold for £160.

I am humbled.
Where else to take you? How can I, in a few words and pictures, do justice to the Hogswatch Talent Show; the visit from the Hogfather; the fabulous cake competition; the games, lectures and quizzes; the aerial hooping display; the Magnificent Makers' Market; the Sausage Supper or, indeed, The Cabaret show itself?

Of course, I can't. Not really. You had to be there. You really do have to be there. It's like nothing else, and I love it. 
One other thing: Davina challenged me in the afternoon to write a poem based on things shouted out by the audience on the Saturday afternoon.

Things that sprang to mind when they thought of Hogswatch. Sausage! they shouted. Corsets! said someone. Drink! said pretty much everybody. Off you go, Mu. 
I had about an hour, by the time I'd got back to the hotel and changed my costume ready for the evening. This is it, as promised. I don't know if it has a title yet; I'm still waiting for it to tell me. But it's a cautionary tale, of a sort, such as befits the season. Sort of.


This is the tale of Felicity Vaine
Whose tastes for the high life were such
That she only drank of the finest Champagne
And dined upon truffles – so much

That her father despaired of her, so he said “Flair,
Your habits are costly and fine
Your disdain for the ordinary makes me despair!
In fact, I’ve decided it’s time

That you learnt a new lesson in life! Yes, indeed!
Simple pleasures, you know. Now I’ve talked
To your Mother about it, and she is agreed
We’re sending you to Ankh-Morpork!”

“But Daddy!” sobbed Flick, “But it’s Hogswatch, you Fiend!
And I’ve heard the place smells like a drain!”
“That’s as may be, young lady, but you’re not the Queen
And you’re drinking me dry of Champagne  –

So don’t argue, your bags are all packed, off you go
The train’s got a good head of steam
And when you come back, let’s hope that you know
Life is not just a big bowl of cream!”

Poor Fliss – she wasn’t cut out for that life
Though she wasn’t without common sense;
She bought a corset and a long silver knife
And she took up a new residence

At a boarding house owned by one Madam Palm
(Whose daughters were residents, too)
Felicity reasoned with no hint of alarm,
“I’m a well classy bird through and through

I could toil at housemaiding, earning my bread
On my knees, until they are sore;
But the manner to which im accustomed,” she said,
“I need money – so I’ll be a Whore!”

She made a glittering start, being young, fresh and pert
(Though glitter’s a rookie mistake
She soon learnt not to sprinkle it under her skirts
Because after a while, it chafes)

Her clients were noble and wealthy young men
Fliss Vaine was the toast of all Ankh
Oh yes, the toffs wanted a piece of her then
They all love an upper-class yank

But life has a why of handing out fates
And Felicity Vaine’s heart was won
By an unlikely squire who held out a plate:
“How about this – inna bun?”

Well – she looked, and she looked, and her violet eyes
Took him in from his boots to his smock;
And her breath came in fast and her eyes opened wide
As she noticed the size of his – sausage

So Felicity lost most of her dainty ways
And fell from her pedestal high
She couldn’t resist Dibbler’s sausage, no, nay,
Nor his rock-solid thighs. – I mean pies.

© Muriel Lavender
Hogswatch 2014

Well - they asked for it.

So... Thanks to Bernard, Reb, Ian, Boggis and all the organising crew who make it happen. 

Thanks to Davina, Alison, Mari, my DW Mummy Ulisa, Pat Harkin, The Bear Inn, everyone who looks after me like the over-fluffed Diva I am.

Thanks to Kev, George, Pam, Rob, Nige, Jan, Vicky, Steve, Robin, Phil, Cohen, Matthew, Alex, Renta, Ana, AJ, Haddock, Harry, Darren, Carrot, David, Stew, Pixie, Ellie, Erik, Renta, Eli, Jacob, Aine,

Angelina, Adele, Ras, Krystel, Adora (much missed), Dibbler (remembered in rhyme), Igorina, Kirstine, Vanessa, Ian, Pam, Dr Hix, Grundy, Amy, Richard, Nina, Chris, Mandy,

Granny W, and all the endless people I can't name because it's now half past midnight and I still have laundry to deal with. But I love you. All of you. 

Thank you, Hat. Thank you, Terry. For everything.

BY THE GARMENTS HE HATH ON

ANTI-BULLYING WEEK

17-21 NOVEMBER 2014

Let me get this bit over with.

IF YOU EVER HEAR ME UTTER THE WORD 'KARDASHIAN', TURN AWAY - I MAY HAVE SNEEZED.

That is not bullying. I merely illustrate the point that I am not here to discuss Kim's rear end: ironically, I can't be arsed. Thank you.

For a few days now, I've been brewing one up over this Shirt business. Just when I thought the battle was all in vain, and I was going to have to lay aside my spoon and spew forth bile and outrage whilst exhorting the Keyboard Warriors to Just Be Fucking Nice For A Change, It Doesn't Cost A Fucking Penny, You Irretrievably Myopic Slack-Jawed Learn-Nothing Want-Wits (breathe, Mu - that's the girl), Colin gave me a better idea. That is, it's still his idea. I'm just running away with it.

BULLYING FUCKING SUCKS.
Nothing else need be said. There is no excuse for bullying, ever. Never. Don't sit behind your computer and act like a c**t. If you wouldn't say it to someone's face, don't type it; and if you would say it to their face, then possibly you're a git. Do you want to be a git? No? Then be nice. Or shut the fuck up.

THE IMPORTANT BIT

Ok - smile! Here's Colin's idea.  It's his birthday tomorrow, Wednesday 19 November. He said this (see pic). He's a top bloke.

So to take part, all you have to do is post a pic of yourself in a crazy, colourful, gaudy or plain badass shirt on WED 19 NOVEMBER. I recommend posting it on the Facebook page  '10k for Dr Taylor'  with the following hashtags:
#Rosetta
#10kLikesForDrTaylor
#AntiBullying
#HappyBirthdayColin 
...I'm going to throw that last one in for good measure. You can add a link to this blog, too, if you like.


Don't forget Twitter and Instagram, and if you are able to make a charitable donation, please do so.
If anyone cares to give money in the name of anti-bullying, here are some links to anti-bullying charities.
www.bullying.co.uk
www.bulliesout.com
www.anti-bullyingalliance.org.uk
In the US: http://livedifferent.com

There are plenty of others. I am not endorsing these ones. Choose another if you like. I donated to one that supports families of LGBT victims of bullying earlier this year.

Now. Here is a photo of Dr Matt Taylor, and a link to the real story he's been involved in, actually, bollocks to that, go to his wiki page instead, he's amazing. But it doesn't stop there, does it? I now find myself obliged to agree with everyone's favourite bumbling moptop Boris Fucking Johnson, who apparently said:
"There must be room in our world for eccentricity, even if it offends the prudes, and room for the vague other-worldliness that often goes with genius." 
Fuck's sake.

Finally, here is how I think his apology should have gone. And you know how I feel about opinions; I should be grateful that all of twenty-five people agreed with it. 
Presumably, everyone else thinks it's balls.

Now... Hand me a new spoon, Butler, for I must bite through it with vigour.

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.