Betty's Utility Room

Dear old Richard and Judy were having a discussion about Celebrity Big Brother yesterday. They weren't assessing the race, class, cultural and bullying issues which have been pored over endlessly by the media in the past couple of weeks.

No, they were getting to the crux of the REAL problem in society today.

The fact that young women behave appallingly.

With a panel made up of three of the great minds of the modern age - Amanda Platell, Raj Persaud and some bint who has written a book about Etiquette For Young Laydeees, it was decreed that society has gone to the dogs because young British women burp, fart and swear in front of people and drink too much.

We were shown a clip of Dirk Benedict in the Big Brother diary room bemoaning the fact that British girls are horrible compared to the demure, blushing young maidens back in the good ole US.

Of course Dirk has got a right to climb up on to the moral high ground. After all, this is a man who was hitting on a beautiful woman thirty years his junior during the time he was in the house. Yech.

Lovely, sweet, feminine Amanda (absolutely NOT a first class bitch, but a considerate and gentle soul) thinks that young women are so rude and full of themselves in a way they NEVER were in her day. Boo hoo.

Raj Persaud believes that young women's behaviour has deteriorated because they put off having children for longer and don't feel responsibility for their actions. According to him, a few years back, young women were "waiting at home for men to find them" so they acted in a way to appeal to men.

WHAAAAAAAAAAT?

ARE WE GOING BACK TO THE ERA OF JANE AUSTEN? BECAUSE I CAN'T REMEMBER THIS BYGONE AGE, AND I'M ANCIENT.

If teenagers and twentysomethings are more aggressive and drink more, perhaps it reflects on the pressure facing them in their jobs, universities and schools.

If young women are more assertive, good for them. Half of the population had to put up with shit from men for thousands of years: now it's their turn to have their say.

If they want to put off having babies - or not start families - all well and good. What's wrong with enjoying yourself when you're young? There's a time for drudgery later, let it wait.

If I look back to my teenagehood, around twenty five years ago (I know that'll seem like a bloody long time to some of you, but it doesn't to me!) I can remember most of the girls of my age basically looking forward to killing time in a factory or working as a shorthand typist until their mid twenties. They would then marry, breed and work as unpaid chief cook and bottlewasher in a loveless marriage forever.

If I look back to my grandmother's life, all she had to look forward to was giving birth every year, doing loads of soul destroying housework and getting beaten up by her drunken husband on a Saturday night.

Surely we wouldn't want anyone to face that predicament.

Still, the public who voted in Richard and Judy's poll believe that young women behave badly: eighty seven per cent of them actually.

So the message seems to be - girls, get back to sitting indoors, embroidering, and blushing prettily if a man deigns to speak to you.

Otherwise, as my grandmother warned me when I was eighteen, you'll never find a man to cook for.

As far as I know, there's only one pop star who, like me, had a bonkers Yugoslavian father and an English mother.

... whose first and surnames have the same number of letters and syllables as mine.

... and my dad almost moved to Detroit to *start a new life* instead of to the erm, West Midlands. She grew up in Detroit.

Spooky.

Is there enough information in there for potential stalkers to find me? Well, it should keep me on my toes, anyway ...

This is my favourite single of hers. Darkly East European, with plenty of eerie bird noises (she used to work on horror movie soundtracks y'know). Plus, there's an excellent raven in the video.

Oh, and she did backing vocals on Supernature by Cerrone. Which is also good.

What more can you want?

Help.

This morning in the bath I found myself singing "I never wanted to be king ... WALLIS" in the bath ...

Courtesy of the internet's answer to Tiny Tim.

Clearly I need to be carted off to the nearest high security facility.

If, like me, you've done a lot of work as a telephonist, you'll be told that you have to smile on the phone. The inference being that you have to empty your mind of any negative thoughts (you're unlikely to have any occupied space in your head anyway: you are a receptionist; you are a bimbo) and allow your natural blonde bubbliness to simmer up to the surface.

You will not say anything negative.

You will be kindhelpfulpolite.

You will not tell the psychotic fuckwit on the other end of the phone that they are completely misinformed.

You will not tell an arrogant fuckwit solicitor that he is an arrogant fuckwit solicitor.

You will not tell some hundred year old jobsworth that he is dithering and rambling on for hours tediously and that there are a hundred other calls flashing impatiently in a queue on the switchboard.

Your duty is to be the first line of abuse for any company while you are smiling simperingly.

Your duty is to have a crystal ball and skills of telepathy, because people will expect you to know exactly what someone in an office in Stockport is thinking, or about to do, even though you have not been informed by anyone of their intentions.

Your duty is to be looked down on by more *important* employees as the sillyairheadbubblebrainedreceptionist who has nothing else to do.

Anyway, I can sympathise with the woman who "got back" to us about the details of amenities at the holiday cottage we'll be staying at for a couple of weeks later in the year.

Up to a point. She has obviously been told to "smile on the phone" and not be negative. In this case, she has been told to cancel out the negative by accentuating the positive.

"Just to confirm that your cottage does not have a washing machine, but IT DOES HAVE A FRIDGE. Just to repeat, IT DOES HAVE A FRIDGE".

Thank god for small mercies.

Perhaps we will be able to store the bags of mucky clothes in the fridge if they start to get too whiffy.

Still don't feel inspired to write, but I'm just bloody sick of seeing Janice Battersby grinning in a self satisfied way every time I look at my blog. That and scrolling down to read 9.28 AM (37) comments. Argg!

So I thought I'd follow everyone else who's done a post about blogging personas. Not that I've got much of insight to say about the matter, but I'm sure that you don't visit this blog for insight, hem hem.

Thing is, I'm feeling a bit *left out of things* because I only have the one identity on the internet - me. I'm pretty much like this in real life. Stick a frightwig on me and a horrid common person's comedy "thick Brummie from thick Brummieland" accent and what you've read is pretty much what you get. I don't appear under a guise in forums for popular "cult" television shows, popular "cult" films or unpopular "cult" bands. I don't have a profile on MySpace because I don't have anything to sell (awful music, poncey short films or my raddled old body). Am I doing something wrong?

The one great thing about blogging - and it's really wonderful - is that no one has to know who I am. I'm aware that there are unfortunate bloggers whose identity has been outed and in some unfortunate circumstances they have lost their jobs, but it ain't gunna happen to me. I've led such an insignificant life education and career wise that if I Google my real name nothing comes up but a load of gobbledygook (Googledygook?).

Plus, I cover my tracks, due to excessive paranoia ... and I'm pretty lucky.

I don't post pictures of myself. Come on: I'm forty three. No one over the age of thirty five should have to look at themselves in the mirror any more if they don't have the courage to, let alone face their haggard mug on a computer screen for any passing pimple encrusted troll to leave a comment saying "fucking ugerlee ROFL, LMFAO. Are you a man? LOL LOL". No one has any idea what I look like ... apart from the few visitors who know me. Ever shall it stay that way.

I live in the middle of blogging nowhere - unlike Bristol, or North London, or East Angular, which are places that are absolutely teeming with bloggers. A recent survey found out that East Angular has a population of just 327 people, a staggering 89 per cent of which are bloggers. Anyway, not living within spitting distance of other bloggers means you're not going to bump into them in the town centre. Even better, you're not going to be threatened with any blogmeets. Perish the thought.

There was discussion on a TV programme this morning about stalking. There is now apparently a phenomenon known as cyberstalking. People see a picture of you or exchange messages with you and somehow feel that they're a part of your life. Ulp.

I know: it's difficult to avoid trolls, abusive commenters, and, er, "lonely" people who are "lonely" for a good reason. I feel particularly sorry for twenty and thirtysomething single women who I'm sure are a flame for every ageing and beergutted pub bore in the universe who thinks he might be * in with a chance* of finding someone who will share a love of steam trains, Kiri Te Kanawa, Keeping Up Appearances and "quiet nights in" at long last. It may be a drag, but at least THEY DON'T HAVE YOUR ADDRESS.

I may go off at a tangent with this topic at some point in the near future, if I still haven't found anything else to write about.

In the meantime ... WHY HASN'T THE BLOGGIES' SHORTLIST BEEN ANNOUNCED YET? I could do with something to bitch about ...

The runners up in the Best Keep Fit DVD On The High Street award!

JANICE BATTERSBY'S EVIL HOBGOBLIN WORKOUT

Janice, coathanger-mouthed evil hobgoblin from Coronation Street, has dropped from a size sixteen to a SIZE SIX in a couple of months thanks to the Evil Hobgoblin Workout! A diet of fags, twenty pints of ale in the Rovers every night and a lunchtime hotpot provides you with enough energy to carry on avoiding work, gossiping and generally stirring it up at the factory all week long. The fitness element comprises a one hour workout, traditional bareknuckle fighting, extreme darts, taekwondo, knock down ginger, skittles and participation in a weekly Rugby League match. Not for the fainthearted, but you'll be able to get into those skinny jeans at last, ladies!

STAR RATING: * * * * and a bit.

JADE GOODY'S BERMONDSEY KNEES UP WORKAAAHHHT

Lovely, gentle, caring, fragrant Jade off the telly combines aerobics, yoga, yoghurt, speed walking, extreme darts, mountain biking and weight training in a tasty but low fat stew. Unfortunately, all of that hard work didn't pay off and she had to have most of her body fat sucked out via her stomach into an industrial strength hoover. Yuck! "Jade is a brave, beautiful, strong and accomplished young woman" sez journalist Julie Burchill (probably).

STAR RATING: * *

BARRY SCOTT'S CILLIT BANGERCISE WORKOUT

Limescale! Rust! Ground in dirt! Yep, it's the happy hardcore mix of the classic advert that everyone's talking about (with thanks to Rockmother). Now extended to an hour and a half of bangin' beats, all you have to do is scrub those stubborn-to-remove household stains in time to the music and you'll be shagged out. Not since the days of smearing yourself with Vics Vapo Rub, wearing a dust mask and dropping a talcum powder and aspirin "dove" at Amnesia, eh kids?

STAR RATING: * * *

AMY WINEHOUSE'S "THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME GO TO REHAB" NON-WORKOUT
Amy's revolutionary weightloss concept involves no exercise whatsoever. Look - she's dropped to an American size minus ten! By replacing food with a bottle of gin a day, crack cocaine and heroin, she now has the kind of figure that will get dress designers the world over drooling! Possibly not advisable for long term health benefits, but good for anyone considering a career in showbusiness in America.

STAR RATING: *

THE EXORCIST WORKOUT

Workout those demons with the aid of a real, Evangelical priest! WARNING: Possible side effects include revolving head and projectile vomiting. WARNING: Soundtrack features music from Tubular Bells by Mike Oldfield.

STAR RATING: * *

Ladies, admit it - in the New Year we always want to lose a few pounds, and end up looking at the DVD's in Woolworths to assess which is the workout that'll help us get back in shape so we look our best sat around the swimming pool in Magaluf.

Don't worry - I've done all the hard work for you, and have tried and tested all the best celebrity workouts so you don't have to. I'm going to give a star rating for all of the "(low fat) cream of the crop" starting with the outright winner ...

BIG MICHELLE OFF OF THE X-FACTOR'S BLUBBERBUSTER WORKOOT

Michelle, 26, lost an eye popping FOURTEEN AND A HALF STONES thanks to her "Blubberbuster Workoot". The workout certainly makes you hot, sweaty and flustered, and you end up with aches in muscles you didn't even know existed for weeks afterwards. It involves a combination of boxcercise, Thai kickboxercise, all in wrestling, aerobics, "extreme" darts, 10,000 meter steeplechase and a three times a week 10 mile run. Not for the fainthearted, and it certainly requires dedication, but boy, does it shift the pounds!

However, Michelle insists that exercise has to be combined with sensible, healthy eating and, in her case, a complete change of lifestyle:

"I tell ye, for years mah typical Saturday night oot consisted of a fush and chup supper - that was TRIPLE fush and chups from the chuppie on the esteet, mind ye, wi' curry sauce, and washed doon wi' ten cans of Tennents Extrae. Then ah used tae hang aroond ootside the chuppie. I'd be soo oot of mah heed tha' ah'd call ANYONE fae a fight. "Yooo lookin' at ME ye big bastard?" ah'd say, "I'll kuck yeer HEED in an' re-arrange ye FACE, ah tell ye".

Now, thankfully, those days are gone.

"Aye, ah had tae cut all that oot. Noo ah drink 3 pints of carrot juice a day and have an evening "treat" of two pieces of steamed celery. I'm in bed bah 9 o'clock and I cannae drink booze. I tell ye, I feel aboot 10 years' younger and nae one on the estate is frightened of me anymoor. In fact, they used tae call me "Big Michelle" an' saw me as some sort of Prisoner Cell-Block H type. Noo they just call me Michelle! It's great!"

So, if Michelle can change her life - I'm sure you can. Give it a go, girls!

STAR RATING: * * * * *

I'll be back with the best of the rest soon.

Yesterday was a bright, crisp, sunny day here in Utilityland.

Which meant that no less than THREE of my neighbours mowed their lawns.

It's midwinter.

The people in my street are clearly losing their minds ...

...

...

...

... or are they? Is the idea that you shouldn't mow the lawn outside the growing season just an old housewives' tale, such as the one that dictates that you shouldn't wash your hair every day, or the one that says that you shouldn't bathe during a period (EUUHH)?

Basically I want someone who does a bit of gardening to reassure me that it's wrong, man, and that you shouldn't mow the lawn until March, with the mower on a high setting so the grass isn't too short. As tradition states.

... or should I be out there ensuring that the garden looks as perfectly manicured as the courts on the opening day at Wimbledon all year round?

Oh well. As you were.

I can post tonight assured that there's not actually anybody reading: they're all orff at some kind of blogmeet.

Starting off with the all day breakfast (eggs, sossidges, beans, fried bread, three rashers of bacon, fried tomatoes, black pudding, two slices of limp bread and butter and a grubby mug of milky sugary tea) at a top secret motorway service station "to line the stomach" it appears to have turned into a sordid pubcrawl in the West London area and involves psychobilly Oyez! !Billy! ...

... Llllllewtrah, Realdoc, Rockmoootha, Annie, Great She Elephant, Joooooollz, Patti Boyd, Jean Shrimpton, Anita Pallenberg ... and a cast of loads of other women.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking.

It doesn't bear thinking about any further.

... anyway, moving swiftly on, I spent last night drifting off to sleep drunkenly watching Celebrity Big Brother. Dirk Wotsit off of The A-Team was reminiscing tediously about the birth of one of his children to Jermaine Jackson, who was barely managing to stay awake.

This morning, I switched the telly on again (to check the weather out on BBCi text) and the first thing I saw was Dirk Wotsit, STILL reminiscing tediously about something or other with Jermaine Jackson!

Jermaine Jackson is supposed to be a very quiet person. If you're quiet, you're used to being told that you're "a good listener". This means "I am a boring cunt and most people interrupt me, but you always listen politely to me".

Poor Jermaine.

In other telly news, I do hope that there is a YouTube clip of Charlie Stubbs singing the Oasis song up pretty soon. One of the funnier things I've encountered in recent times. Even funnier than Tracy Barlow attempting to lapdance to Oasis, the least likely band on the planet that you would lapdance to.

In the meantime, and, because no one is reading, heh heh, you will have to make do with Noosha Fox, laydeez and gentleman.

Bottoms up.

So this is it. The New Year is supposed to be a time when we wallow in self denial.

Thing is, I couldn't really be bothered to follow a detox programme. This seems to involve drinking tea that has been strained through bracken and pubic hair clippings for a month, feeling like death warmed up, having dog breath and a permanent headache which is, to quote the late (again) Lucien De La Peste, bangin'.

Instead, I have decided that my musical palate needs to be cleansed. For too long I've been listening to the frivolous, the ridiculous and the throwaway.

I am 43. It is time to follow the path of righteousness and, as I said two posts ago, put aside foolish things.

Inspired by the documentary Hotel California, for the next couple of weeks I'm going to listen to nothing but early '70's West Coast rock.

As any poor sod who has persevered with reading this blog knows, my taste in music veers from 60's wig-out psychedelia through to disco and disgusting pop music. It's about time I grew up and realised that heartfelt voices, acoustic strumming and beautifully observed lyrics are more beguiling than thumping Eurohouse tracks or, ahem, Petula Clark.

Over the next fourteen days, when I'm tempted to bung on a bit of Abba, or Old Skool Rave Volume 29, or Thank God It's The Sixties - Sixteen Discs For A Fiver, Including Dave, Dozy, Beaky, Mick And Titch!!!! I will instead sit through - er, sorry, *learn to adore* Crosby, Stills And Nash, Joni Mitchell, Gra"ha"m Parsnips And His Flying Dorrito Brothers and Laughing Boy Neil Young.

Say a prayer for me folks. I may end up on the other side wearing brushed denim and cheesecloth, but I'll be ready to face up to my other challenge as I head towards the menopause: trying to enjoy listening to Radio Two.

DISCLAIMER!!!! Of course, I'm not going to listen to the bloody Eagles when I'm doing me workout or sweating on the treadmill. I'm not that much of a flake bake!

Links: David Crosby, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young (pictured right)

So, happy sixtieth burffday Mr Bowie. How you got this far after all the Colombian marching powder you've hoovered up you nose and the longstanding chainsmoking habit is a minor miracle.

When I was about nine I used to hang out with the hardest girl in our class. She would turn up at school in yellow skinny rib jumpers, Oxford bags, two tone stack heeled clogs, smock coats and the like. This was more suitable wear for someone in their teens, and she was always a couple of months ahead of what everyone else wore fashion wise. I was never going to be able to compete, with my mum's intention being to make me wear "sensible" "warm" clothes (bah!) , hand-me-downs from my millions of cousins and the much loathed flat shoes "so you won't have an accident and fall over" (bloody bollocks! How could she not realise that it was IMPORTANT to wear four inch heeled t-bar platforms???).

Oh, and the hardest girl in our class was lucky enough to have short bogbrush copper hair at the point when David Bowie made short bogbrush copper hair fashionable - hers wasn't even dyed!

It would be natural to assume that the hardest girl in our class would have come from a very poor family ("it was society wot dunnit") but this wasn't the case. Her parents were teachers and she lived in A Very Nice House - well, compared to everyone else I knew. When I was at her birthday party and she was out of the room a discussion took place about how the hardest girl in our class lived in A Very Nice House compared to the rest of us povs: "anyone who doesn't rent a house is rich. The hardest girl in our class's parents own their house, so they're REALLY posh and wealthy" one girl informed us, solemnly.

On Friday mornings, discussion with the hardest girl in our class tended to lead to noting who had been on Top Of The Pops the previous night. "Do you like David Bowie? I think he's really gorgeous" she would declare, or "I really fancy Bryan Ferry". Basically, she was the first person I encountered who had fairly cool taste in music (and possibly the last for a number of years).

The hardest girl in our class was described as "a little monster" by the headmaster. However, most teachers turned a blind eye to her monstrous behaviour. Because her parents were teachers.

Being the hardest girl in our class, and a little monster, it was inevitable that she eventually turn on me (after about a year and a half, which was pretty good going really in childhood terms). In fact, she turned half of the girls in my class against me in one afternoon break as well, and it ended up as a Lord Of The Flies scenario. I was covered in bruises in all sorts of interesting places, but, as the saying goes, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

I learned two important things in a short space of time:

(i) not to hang around with the hardest girls in my year anymore.

(ii) children are uncivilised little brutes compared to adults.

I couldn't wait to grow up ...

If I ever met the hardest girl in our class again at a school reunion I would throw my drink over her and call her a fucking sadistic ugly evil bitch, then walk out.

This is why I'm not remotely interested in joining up with Friends Reunited.

I still jest lerrvve David Bowie, though.

Well, nobody visits the blog Search Me apart from ardent fans of Beverly Callard's norks, so I thought I'd put a couple of *topical* searches on here for a change:

Tamsin Grieg (sic) Scientologist

Doctor Mac is dying of an illness

... well, to be frank, I haven't got a clue about the first one, and only know as much as anyone else who saw Green Wing about the second one (it's a disease with an "A" and an "E" in it. Probably ginger arsehair, if you ask me ...)

You'd really be better off visiting here, actually, if you want to find anything out.

It seems that the moony twentysomething posh birds have now switched their allegiances from Dr Fab Macca to Guy Wotsit (played by Peter Shilton, pictured above) because he has got the sympathy vote.

Women: very fickle, you see.

Every last blogger and his wife feels obliged to tell the world about their New Year resolutions, then steps away from it all by saying "... but what's the point of making resolutions anyway? You're bound to break them, tee hee."

So why should I be any different?

This year I'll ...

* go to Spanish classes because it's great fun and it's a great way of meeting new people.

* attend Salsa classes because it's a great way of keeping fit and meeting new people.

* do loads of baking.

* carry on working on my first novel.

* stop swearing.

* have a more positive opinion of myself and other people.

* attend lots of blogmeets because it's great fun and a great way to meet new people.

* drink at least two litres of water a day and eat broccoli with every meal.


...


...


...


did you actually believe any of that? You daft bugger.

Instead, some do-able resolutions:

* try to exfoliate more.

* remember to touch my roots up more often. That band of grey hair around the side parting isn't very chic, is it? From a distance, it looks as if you've got an inverse mohican.

* bleach my moustache. I was inspired to do this after seeing Amy Winehouse on Joollz Holland'z "HOOTENINNY!!!" (which also reminded me that heroin addiction isn't a good idea, but that's another story). Still, if any of the laydeez out there have any advice about moustache care, I'll be grateful. I tried those wax strips once but they were useless. I didn't realise that I hadn't washed all the wax off properly, went to sit outside (it was a hot summer day) and ended up with minor burns. I looked like John Major for a fortnight. I'm a bit worried that bleach will leave me with the kind of silvery, downy moustache that very old mongrel dogs tend to have.

* try to read more than the pathetic 7 and a half books I read in 2006. At the moment I'm STILL bogged down in M Proust's Swann's Way, with about 150 pages to go. I wish Swann would either kill himself or the bint he's obsessed with. I think, on the whole, I prefer Billy Swann who did I Can Help (ref: YouTube).

So, in conclusion, I intend to carry on with the increasing struggle to look like a presentable human being in the face of old age and decay, and to read more books that I'll promptly forget the entire content of.

See you in 2027, by the look of things.