Friday, September 09, 2005


I am deliriously happy. The first album I ever owned, a 1971 copy of a Top Of The Pops compilation, had a message on the back which just about sums it up. Something like "Hey! We feel like climbing to the top of the highest mountain and cheering!" All because one of their previous daft collections had sold a quarter of a million records, apparently. Anyway, I also feel like running anti clockwise down the hard shoulder of the M25.

I will come down to earth with a bump within the next 24 hours, with any luck. Thing is, I have finally painted the front door.

I have been meaning to get around to this pesky job for a few months now. The door was as cracked and plastered as me at 1.00 am every Saturday (...sorry). Possibly this is down to global warming and extreme weather conditions, but it is a flaming inconvenience.

When I first purchased the paint I made sure that at least a week's rain had been forecast, thus giving me a good excuse to put off the inevitable. However, with autumn fast approaching and a holiday imminent (more of which later) I had to bite the bullet.

The paint is apparently "Deep Red" but could more accurately be described as "Goth Lipstick". The good thing is that it it is so dark it hides the numerous drips. The bad thing is that it was very thin and I made a right Jackson Pollock of the job. Plus, the thin consistency means I'll have to apply a second coat, but I don't want to contemplate that in my current mood of smug self satisfaction.

But by heck, I am aching all over. What I could really do with is a steaming and soothing hot bath, preferably followed by an oily massage from Thierry Henry; over the rest of this daydream I will draw a discreet veil. Can't have a bath though as I've got to leave the front door open 'til the paint dries, in case robbers decide to nick the laptop or the picture of the Laughing Cavalier in a photo frame.

The fumes from the white spirit and the gloss have got to me, though, and I'm silly and excitable. I have tried to think of really depressing things:

Frank Skinner singing
The Morecambe Tourist Board site
A Tony Gubba football commentary
Those women in offices I've worked in who wear dowdy cardigans and Scholl exercise sandals and sniffle incessantly
Yorkshire Terriers

Contemplating all of these at once still fails to drag me back down into the doldrums. I shall endeavour to live through it and will hopefully be as drear as ever within a few hours. The alternative is too terrible to imagine.

to be honest, thinking about frank skinner singing would *make* me feel silly (as in silly-daft-stick-to-the-day-job-frank-whatever-your-day-job-is)

a massage from thierry henry on the other hand would make me feel excitable...

gwan! have a bath with your front door open - live dangerously (and then report back here)
Red is a very good front door colour - trust you sanded it 'all back' (technical term) before you started?
Frank Skinner singing. Why does he do it?
Love it. Do you think Betty's Futility Room would be a better title though?
Urban Chick - I dragged the old bathtub out onto the hearth and, funnily enough, Thierry Henry walked through the door as I was exfoliating my back, so that was a happy ending.

Carolinem - The painter and decorator next door donated some sandpaper which was, he suggested "better than the stuff you're using". Very embarrassing. I think he's fallen out with me now as I did such a slapdash job.

Mike - Yes. Frank Skinner singing in a bad American accent is awful enough to turn milk sour.

Bogbumper - Futility Room, definitely.

By the way Bogbumper has an excellent site with loads of enchanting pictures of wildlife. Definitely recommended.
Frank Skinner being "funny" is likely to make me more depressed, to be honest. David Baddiel being "funny" is, of course, an impossibility. What a dream team they aren't.
Actually, while I'm on the subject, the other month I was reading The Mirror or The Sun and was looking at a photograph of Skinner when someone walked behind me. I turned round and it was our Frank. I eagerly turned to the photograph of Jennifer Lopez on the next page, but with no luck I'm afraid.
Spooky experience. I know this isn't on the same level of celebrity spotting, but once I was standing in a queue for a bus at Birmingham bus station, back in the early '80's, and in front of me was the singer in little-known goth band Balaam and the Angel. He was reading a copy of Melody Maker with a picture of Balaam and the Angel on the front page - just to let everyone know who he was, presumably. Tosser.
Just as well he took the opportunity while he could.
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