The Shameful Obligatory Fangirl Post

There really are no words...

This post needs some updating, so whilst I get around to rewriting, just enjoy the beautifulness and visit
Chris' all-new website: http://www.chriscorcoran.net/
The website for the absolutely fabulously amazing pilot episode of The Committee Meeting: http://www.thecommitteemeeting.co.uk/
Or watch the episode here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p01by7cb/Comedy_Feeds_2013_The_Committee_Meeting/
If this is your first visit, I do generally have more to say than this - please bookmark and return when I've had time to update!

Obviously, I have to mention The Book… hilariously funny! (Buy it!! I am still saving up for that kiss-based commission so big thanks to those of you who have bought it through my links already – a couple more and I might progress beyond a peck on the cheek!) I guess it would be considered cheating were I to order a replacement of my own – but I have to admit that being carried everywhere I go is taking its toll. It really is a cracking handbag book though!

And because I know a few who will truly appreciate this image, here is the money shot:

(not literally, of course… that would make this a different kind of blog altogether!)

The first from series 3 of the absolutely brilliant "Those That Can't" - for my money one of the best moments (much as for the thought of Korkey dangling trouser-less from a building than anything else!!)
	And as for this one - well some might suggest I have had a little too much time on my hands... or am avoiding something... or just wanted an excuse to spend four hours listening to old podcasts and snipping soundbites... regardless, enjoy it!

A quick update: Click the pic to go to the all new Korkey's Six Nations page


No captioning needed really - a small celebration of some great tongue action!


And because we all need another reason to lust after him...

Have you ever seen a man with such long fingers? ...

'Nuff said, really!


Oh, what's this?

A new picture?

I've montaged because whilst a some of these images are just stolen from about the web (mostly originating from the BBC) some are my own pics and some I have spent much time tracking down or screen-capping the exact pic I want... and it pisses me off slightly that people feel the need to take without getting in touch or at the very least back-linking. You will notice that throughout the entire blog when I use images from other blogs or websites which aren't easily found, I link to the source... takes a second to acknowledge them and really is a matter of common courtesy. Not too much to ask the same is it?


..

Links here to series two, three and four of Those That Can't. Should the BBC ever decide to release podcasts/cds of the show, I will obviously remove the links so don't rely on them being here forever!

SERIES TWO: EP ONE EP TWO EP THREE EP FOUR EP FIVE EP SIX

SERIES THREE: EP ONE EP TWO EP THREE EP FOUR EP FIVE EP SIX

SERIES FOUR: EP ONE EP TWO EP THREE EP FOUR EP FIVE EP SIX

I was lucky enough to recently land a copy of the fabulous Rob Brydon's Identity Crisis in which we get to see very much of Chris Corcoran. I really do not know why this is not available on DVD, but nevertheless I was grateful when a friend sent a copy simply because it meant I could take screencaps of this one VERY beautiful moment! And yes, ok, many of these pics look much the same as the others but there was no way I could not share every last one of these with you all. This man truly is sex-on-a-stick, isn't he?!

Where to start... eyes... cheekbones... wind-ruddied skintone... the hair... but that jumper... definitely made for snuggling in front of a fire with a hot chocolate after a long Autumn walk. (It's not just me, you were thinking that too- admit it!)

More from Identity Crisis... just because....







And yes, they are montaged again... if you want any individual images, get in touch. I am not Korkey-hogging... just would like to know that people using my stuff are going to backlink at the very least.


A little Korkey-porn for you all here. A montage of Chris hosting the Rhod Gilbert show of June 6th. (brilliantly assisted by Ben Partridge, although strangely you do not hear much of him here!)


And this little gem I found sitting around a dark corner of the interweb all lost and dejected, so rescued it especially for your viewing! Also featuring Rhod Gilbert and Dan Mitchell.

Still Searching...

In order to truly make sense of this post, you do need to have read the post Without Portfolio Although, I am perfectly aware that you will ignore this and continue to read regardless, before realising I might have been correct after all, slipping off to read it and returning here with the hope you’ve not been noticed. So it’s nice to have you back; I hope it all makes more sense to you this second time.

But anyway… to the point:

This weekend’s England vs Wales six nations match has done little to help my Nationality Displacement… I thought it might inject a little pride in my team to see them battle it out in this way, but I ended up instead thinking about the move and how desperately I need to be away from here. Who knows, maybe that’s the key – maybe once I leave I will be able to think about the things I miss about England and realise that is wherein lies my own English identity but time alone will tell.

I don’t know what I was expecting; maybe some kind of epiphany through which I would suddenly feel everything fall into place and I would realise my English core; the truth is a whole pile of something else, though…

Lets start, then, at the beginning with the Anthems; the rousing, impassioned “Land of My Fathers” versus the dreary, sanctimonious “God Save Our Queen”.

Okay, I guess you are already seeing how this one will pan out: In this first play, the full 7 points to Wales as there is nothing inspiring or pride-inducing in the drawn-out drime that is our national song.

But hold on, what’s this? A shameful foul from England through not having their own anthem and taking that which supposedly represents a collection of countries (including Wales, of course!) to claim it as English. Penalty to Wales.

So Wales off to a cracking start then at 10-0.


And so it goes.


In my usual girlie manner, I have to point out that the Welsh kit looks far better. Oh and the English team has far less eye candy... but I am aware these are not the things which define a nationality!

So to make some attempt at depth and substance...


Needless to say, there was no English epiphany - in fact here is what happened:

At a couple of points during the game, I found myself instinctively cheering players through some tricky tackles and spectacular plays – a breakthrough, surely? But no, because these players were wearing red… yet still I was spurring them on, willing them past the struggling English defenders to score and cheering when they did.

And another peculiarity: As I went about my business after the game – baking cakes, cooking dinner, folding laundry and other mundanities, those times our mind shuts down and instinct kicks in – I found myself so many times spontaneously singing aloud. Nothing strange in that, I know. But for the fact that the song implanted in my mind was Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau. And yes, although I don’t know all the words, I was singing what little I knew in Welsh.

These factors are subliminal, things which just happened without thought or intention. So what does that say for my Englishness?

Just how English am I feeling right now?

Not at all, I am afraid.


I am sure I will return to this topic at some point; maybe when I do you will pay attention to my suggestion of a catch-up read and who knows maybe when I come back to it I may be able to provide something more telling... but in the meantime, I have nothing more to say.

Challenging Perception

I held off reviewing Warwick Davis’ show ‘Life’s Too Short’ when it was relevant because to be perfectly honest I remained undecided throughout. I know it will surprise you when you consider how much I refer to the thrill of comedy which challenges, but whilst I defended this show to those who dismissed it as having no value whatsoever, I also have to admit to squirming in my chair at times feeling uncomfortable at watching someone struggle with the circumstances caused by their condition wondering just what was funny about seeing someone suffer such humiliation.

I could quite easily see the humour in it, don’t get me wrong; but there were times I just felt that to laugh was somehow contributing to a negative image of dwarfism in general.

Having watched this interview, however, I have to stop and wonder if I didn’t allow the whole point to wash over me completely.

Warwick Davis: 'Life's Too Short reflected my world' - video
Actor Warwick Davis talks to disability campaigner Nicola Clark at Rada about growing up with dwarfism, and how it has affected his life - from doing the long jump to living life as if a contestant on the Crystal Maze. Though in constant pain when walking, Warwick struggles to label his condition as a disability, as it has brought him so much success over a 30-year acting career

As I heard Davis talk of the fact that the show represented simple exaggerations of real experiences, it suddenly hit me: this is exactly what every comedy writer does. Why then should we not feel able to sit back and laugh at the situation? Surely it is the case that my own discomfort as a viewer doesn’t come from the situation itself but rather my perception of it; and as such it becomes apparent that I and others like me are merely perpetuating the negativity through our attempts to the contrary. Especially when it is so clear that in Davis’ mind, his status as a dwarf (and yes, we are allowed to use the word!) is not at all debilitating having in fact opened doors for him and given opportunities he might not have otherwise had. Not only that, but if we decide it is not okay to laugh at such events, we are also denying him a voice and an opportunity to highlight his own experiences; and surely thus are also telling him (and others with what is perceived to be a disability) that in order for us to laugh along with them, they must conform to our idea of what is ‘normal’.

You have to wonder, too, is it the laughter that causes the discomfort? I used to watch the show ‘Little People, Big World’ in awe of the way Amy and Matt Roloff just got on with life in spite of their obvious difficulties. By far the most influential moment for me was an episode showing Amy grocery shopping and she simply scaled the shelves to claim something from the top. Although this seems a rather trite incident to draw anything from, it is one I could associate with. I am not blessed in the height department and often find myself unable to get the things I want when shopping, but I always shamefully asked for assistance… I realised when I watched that show that any barriers I was seeing were of my own making and as such I should look for solutions before looking to others – not just in terms of size but in every aspect of life.

So if I can glean a positive aspect from this show, why do I view Warwick’s efforts to similarly highlight his own life in such a different way?

You can call the exploitation card but what is more exploitative; to have someone tells tales of their own experiences in the way they choose or to place cameras filming every aspect of a family’s life to be picked over by editors and sub-editors having every moment analysed for its entertainment value?

And with all this in mind, I have to admit to the gleaming realisation that I wasted the time I spent watching the show worrying un-necessarily about things that matter to no-one but myself. After all, what is it telling anyone else if I laugh at a particular scene of a comedy show but that I have a sense of humour?

Is there any chance of a do-over now that I have made my own mind clearer? I’d quite like to go back and watch the series again with blinkers removed!

Alexander Armstrong’s Big Ask

I really do not envy those charged with coming up with new ideas for television shows. At first glance, it doesn’t seem too different to what I do; the need to attack themes covered by others many times over in a different way, trying to find something every person who has gone before you has missed… but when you think about it properly, the complexities of a completely different type of television show is far harder – to be different enough to stand out, whilst not alienating your potential audience…to give enough room for those appearing on the show to be themselves, yet to keep it within a base template… it’s not a simple process at all.

So here we have a new kind of quiz-meets-panel-meets-chat show hosted quite predictably by the incredibly likeable Alexander Armstrong. I love the genuineness which Armstrong generally emanates – he amazes me on his fantastic afternoon quiz show Pointless in the way he interacts so openly and honestly with the contestants as an equal rather than the usual patronising “I’m famous, you aren’t” from other quiz hosts and it is nice to see that his personality is much the same in this; showing us that even if it is all an act, at least he puts on the same front with celebs as the general public – and that is the sort of thing that matters, isn’t it!

And before I descend into another rant of fandom, I will address the content of the show itself…

The format is a simple one: three guests are given topics on which to provide a question their co-panelists are to answer. I have to say, the range of questions so far has been brilliant – but that is, I guess, dependant on the guests. Armstrong does a fabulous job of giving equal forum to each guest, facilitating conversation between them all brilliantly and contributing his own thoughts without overly dominating the show. This balance must be quite difficult, yet it does seem to come quite easily to him, giving the programme an overall relaxed, neutral atmosphere.

I have to say, the highlight by far for me has to have been watching Marcus Brigstocke and Graham Norton try to explain the concept of vajazzling to Sandi Toksvig – with Norton giving the classic line: “Imagine icing a cake, but the cake is a vagina.”

If you are as much a collector of useless information as I am, you will love the eclectic nature of this show. I also love that we get a rather unique insight into the minds of the guests in the type of question they bring and the way they answer those of the others.

This really is a brilliant show, so you should make efforts to catch its repeats of which there are many!

New episodes air on Dave on Mondays at 9pm.

Return to Base-camp

Not that I have taken a break or anything but with the child-shaped on holidays, the hub-person still in a bad way (having left the bedroom only 3 times since October) and given that I have been sleeping in two hour bouts since Christmas time I have been working on my laptop on the sofa mostly under a duvet for the last couple of weeks… and comfy though that is, it isn’t particularly productive. So today I have returned to my office. Not that today will be any better work-wise, since the children have taken it over and it is currently a huge mess… but I have cleared myself some workspace anyway – and have done a couple of PLT exercises I was cunningly avoiding (because I had reached a stage of having to look inside myself and was slightly scared of what I might find!) and now here I am once more in the midst of two reviews, researching for an article on auto-suggestion and (obviously) writing this piece for your entertainment.

All this and it isn’t even half ten yet! Frickin’ marvellous, eh?!

Something that has come out of my downtime is that I have rediscovered the joy of reading for fun. One of the issues with studying all the time is that there is a need to read relevant texts; this stops me from reading recreationally and I had really forgotten how great it was to give yourself over to a really good book just for the sake of it. I guess in a lot of ways this is why I have ended up reading… I can just say “the book” can’t I? You won’t be thinking I mean the Bible or anything, because we have an understanding, yeah? You know the one I mean? Anyway – the thing with ‘that’ book is that I can just pick it up and read without really thinking about it too much (or at all!) – Okay it kind of helps that as I read it I can almost hear his voice reading it to me… but that’s healthy enough isn’t it? I mean reading is all about using your imagination, right?

I picked up a heap of ‘other’ volumes written by authors of some of those books we have all read a while ago (Huxley, Golding and Orwell amongst others) and decided I could make a start on them – I’d forgotten how good it was to challenge the mind slightly; not to mention realising how differently our brains must function depending on what we are reading. I can generally whip through a book fairly quickly, even a non-fiction one given the right subject matter, yet it seemed to take me an age to plough through the relatively short “Darkness Visible” by William Golding. It was a peculiar process, whereby I found myself constantly re-reading sentences that didn’t seem to make sense at all to me to the point where I was almost wondering if reading was for me at all. As it happens, I am glad to have persevered with it and actually appreciate the journey of thought the book took me on; not through its theme but more for the linguistic tone and the way it has once again highlighted my relationship with the written word. Regardless, although it was a fairly good story, I am glad to see the back of it.

It used to be that on finishing a challenging read, I’d cleanse my palate on The Lovesong of Alfred J Prufrock or another Eliot classic… seems I have a new sorbet now as my first thought on having had that hour or so of digesting the closure of the story I had just read was somewhat predictably to blast through Random Thoughts again.

But anyway – tea-break over now; time to return to work!

Without Portfolio

Last night I found myself finally getting around to watching Rob Brydon’s Identity Crisis. Any amongst you who have both watched it yourselves and read more than one post of this blog will be aware of two factors which I am sure make you wonder just how I have avoided watching it thus far.

These being:

1. The presence throughout the show of the delicious Chris Corcoran
2. The fact that I actually quite like a bit of Mr C and would make the hugest effort to have him all HD and beautiful in the corner of my living room

Regardless, I have felt mostly indifferent each time it has cropped up on the TV listings until now.

It was bothering me slightly that to see it was on I just had that “Meh” feeling and got on with something else instead - not just because of the Corcoran-apathy, but because I genuinely love Rob Brydon's work too! I realise now though that the timing needed to be right.

The show was fabulous… but this is not going to be a review, mostly since it's a really old programme so my opinion is fairly irrelevant, but also because it seems to have gone deeper than purely entertainment having led me on something of a personal journey of introspection regarding my own lack of national identity.

The issue of timing comes of the fact that it coincides with the Rugby Six Nations.

Major sporting events tend to highlight the national pride (or lack thereof!) in everyone; in fact, it often feels that I personally am the only individual void of any kind of pride in ‘my’ team.

In a previous job, my colleagues were all very heavily into football. I have no interest myself, so just held back from their conversation. When international tournaments were happening, they somehow expected me to suddenly care about the game, making me out to be strange for having no opinion on how last night’s match went or often not even knowing whether there was one on. I had a heated debate with a very dear friend during the most recent [maybe World, maybe European] Cup over the fact that she had watched an England match and was gutted that we had lost: “I thought you didn’t like football?” “I don’t, but it is England isn’t it!” I don’t understand this. It makes no sense to my mind to endure *half-guessing* 90 minutes (?) of anything unpleasant just to show support for your country; but that’s just me, it seems…

It works the other way too… you may remember (or may not, here’s the page just in case!) my references to the rugby world cup back in the autumn; I do quite enjoy watching rugby. What baffled me, though, was the outpouring at the time from my footie-loving, ‘egg-chase’-hating friends giving their opinion of the plays and outcomes; challenged on their sudden interest, they expressed the same opinion; of course they are interested, their team are playing after all!

So why do I not feel the same? As much as I like to watch rugby, I still cannot muster that national pride to cheer on my team. In fact during the World Cup itself, I noted that occasionally there might have been a choice of matches and I would opt to watch the ‘other’ one, missing the England match. A Welsh friend tried taunting me after a particular match (probably the last one, although I do not remember at what stage or to whom we left the tournament) and was a little down-hearted that his goading invoked such little reaction. His final word on the matter was something along the lines of admiring me for being the bigger person; I never did tell him I just did not care! Especially given that he thought even more highly of me when I sent messages of sympathy over the theft of his Welsh team’s semi-final and afterwards the loss of their third place play-off match against Australia.

And now we are in the midst of the six nations tournament, I find myself headed down the same pathway; being mostly indifferent when ‘my’ team are playing; caring more for other teams than England; feeling I do not quite belong to this nation that supposedly owns me.

So what is the point to all this rambling?

Well, believe it or not it does bother me that I have no affiliation to my country.
Nationality matters. Even with the current pull northwards to Wales, I will still be an English person and am fully aware that moving will not change who I am. Yet if I do not know who I am, how can I teach my children to discover their own identities? There is a heavily ingrained Englishness within me somewhere, believe me; I have studied my family tree and taken at least three separate lines back to the early part of the eighteenth century (the earliest being a 1703 baptism entry) and at no point does anyone move farther than thirty miles from where I now live – that inherent heritage will not go away simply because I move fifty miles north.

So why the calling? Why do I feel such a one-ness whenever I visit Wales, even when I think back on childhood visits? Why the initial round of recurrent dreams which instigated my current need to move away? The desperate need to learn the language and the frantic house-hunting? Why do I feel such a longing, almost becoming of home-sickness when standing at the edge of the county gazing forlornly at the Welsh coastline?

I have no answers, but at least thanks to Rob Brydon (and of course the gorgeous Mr Corcoran!) I do at least have an inkling as to the right questions to ask…




And I am aware of the gleaming irony of using an image representing Cornwall whilst talking of my own heritage, but it kind of illustrates my point to say I really don't much care!

Dedication to the Loveless

As I am sure is the case for the majority of my fellow loveless Valentiners, I have spent so many years frantically hiding from the grand bullshit festival of love and loneliness. It never works, though; the incessantly blissful will need to share their joy, the miserable needing to share how down-hearted they feel thus bringing you down; not into their pit of despair, rather to the ground in order that you can dig your own.

No, far better to acknowledge the day so you can really piss in its face!

So as a tribute to the Valen-lones everywhere; a tale or two and a few images I have scratched from the internet.

The pictures here are clearly not my own. I have linked each to the place I stole it from, so if you like the image at all please visit its rightful home, it’s only fair to those who created them.

I have never been lucky enough to receive a Valentine’s Day card. No, wait; there was that one, accompanied by a mediocre excuse for an engagement ring.




I was sixteen and truly believed that having risked his employment to slip the cash from the till with which to buy the ring was the most romantic thing a guy could ever do; we were like Bonnie and Clyde… no, better than that- he was my St Elmo’s Rob Lowe. He would be the Brad Pitt to my Juliette Lewis in that Bonnie-and-Clyde-based film… you know the one? The one which hadn’t been released yet…
Most importantly; my parents hated him. And supremely important: once he suggested engagement, they banned him.

The reality was that I didn’t much like him at all; I mistrusted everything he said, loathed his syrupy bullshit ‘poetry' and despised his (had the word been invented then) chavvy family. Seriously, were Jeremy Kyle around then spouting his bilious arrogance, yelling opinion-disguised-as-fact at the drug-infused, booze soaked benefit fraudsters across the nation, this family would have been prime candidates for weekly stage seats. No doubt.

But did I mention that my parents hated him? And that they had forbidden me to see him? In all honesty, that ban would have made me marry him, just to show them I was in charge of my own life.

And so it was that a few days after a romantic dinner in an otherwise empty restaurant (not actually on Valentine’s of course, everyone knows they up the price of their food on the day – and midweek dining out is always better!) I accepted his ring in spite of my parents. And gave him my own token gift in return.
Now it is said that if you give the greatest gift of all for the wrong reasons it leads to remorse, regret and self-loathing. In all honesty, for me it was a box ticked. One less thing all my friends had done that I hadn’t. And we all know how I like to complete my lists.

Days later, his thieving caught up with him, causing him to lose his job. And what I mean is that after I mentioned it to another waitress who happened to have her eyes on the newly vacant Head Waitress post it became subject to pillow-talk between her and the husband of our boss; she was promoted, my ‘fiancé’ was escorted from the grounds by some burly builder friends of the boss.

It will come as precious little surprise that in spite of our resolve otherwise, this relationship crumbled to be already on very shaky ground by my birthday less than a month after, he laying the coffin-lid in place by Easter and I firmly nailing it closed weeks later, but there are other stories of no consequence to anyone there.

So that is it; my one romantic Valentine’s story. I hope the sentiment hasn’t truly quashed the anti-Valentine tone here! I do genuinely hope it hasn’t dragged you down. It isn’t supposed to. I embrace that memory firmly as a part of who I have become and what my life represents. In fact, one thing that makes me think about how great my life has actually been is when I think on what I would have become had I stuck out that relationship, overlooked what he did, not slept with that other guy – or done the other thing. And I believe that is the point of these Valentines of Loneliness; a point of reflection, to assess how well you are actually doing and learn the lessons you haven’t learned from the past.

I hear you calling out: This is all very well, but you are focussing on what you have received… what have you given? After all, if you do not give Valentines, how can a person complain at not receiving any?
Well, for a few years at Primary school (okay, two, maybe three) I gave anonymously as was the way back then to the one now referred to as the Dark Destroyer of Dreams . Although I outgrew that particular infatuation once we moved to ‘Big School’ and found there were a great deal more boys than the fifteen or so at my school – you know, when there is a greater selection we can afford to be a little more picky!

And I may once or twice have sent a card to my neighbour. Bear in mind, this is a rural neighbour, so was almost a mile away and rarely seen. He did that clever trick all people we see infrequently can do, whereby he’d get more and more attractive until I actually saw him again when it was all "I thought he was better looking than that!" and “was he always quite that ginger?”

Oh, and for the first five or so of the twenty years I have been with the hub-person I gave him cards; before realising he would never surprise me with a return card or that huge romantic gesture I always anticipated; at which point I decided I could either continue to give, feigning no interest in receiving anything yet still expecting it and being deeply disappointed or I could resign myself to reality.

Reality sucks ass; but is cheaper and doesn’t take time out of my day or cause the expectation/disappointment peak and trough.

I hope this Valentine brings you all what you truly need; but remember that as in all things, it may be that what you need right now is not actually what you want, so be patient. And be happy. Whatever your situation, remember that it could be a whole lot worse.

Piff and Waffle...

I have noticed of late that much of what I write seems to hold better as a spoken piece than written. It’s an odd thing, but I can sit and read it back to myself and it seems to have no grounding; yet if I read it aloud there is substance and context… not sure what to do with this realisation such as it is, but there you go.

Were I the kind of person looking to tout notoriety, I guess I would be taking these works out as performance pieces or something… but we know I am not so instead I guess they will resign to the deeper corners of my hard-drive with all those other things I have cast aside until I find an appropriate voice for them.

I know why this is the case. I have been busy of late, so have not been facing a blank sheet of paper or computer screen to do my writing; everything is coming to me as I perform the idle tasks of my life. I used to drive a lot as part of my work and found that often I would have composed reams of poetry on my journey which all sounded fantastic at the time but was forgotten about once I reached the end of my journey. This led me to carry a dictaphone, recording what came to me to transcribe later (which in turn led to some very interesting journeys when I found myself commissioned to write some of those piece you don’t tell your mum about… but we shan’t say more about that…) and I now find I am almost constantly talking to myself as I go about such mundanities as cleaning windows, mowing lawns and hoovering.

*Digressing slightly, the little attention-deficient child within me feels the need to draw attention to the fact that whenever I try to type the word ‘hoovering’ Microsoft in its wisdom seems to think I mean ‘hovering’… I know it’s a proper noun, blah blah, but really do you think I am flying around my living room holding onto my little digi-dictaphone recording these ramblings? –well not this one, as this is purely written at my desk… but you know what I mean! Were I able to hover, I’d be using the skill more constructively than that – maybe getting the cobwebs off the ceiling, cleaning light fittings, reaching stuff on high shelves… you know, all the kind of stuff you need a tall guy around for – or a stepladder… but you can’t watch a stepladder do the work for you, can you?*

But anyway, in case you were wondering; that is why I have been quiet of late. I am writing. Loads. It’s just not particularly relevant here. Or maybe it is, but because it’s stuff I see as more than the rambling nonsense I think you expect of me I am looking for an excuse not to share; just in case you don’t see what I do in it.

If anyone watched Kevin Bridges’ new show “What’s the Story” last night (ok, a more diligent person would have probably reviewed it first before assuming you may have just seen it, but there are people who watch things without waiting to be told to, I am sure!) I guess I can liken it to his therapy session.

For those who didn’t, the set up is such:

Kevin visits a psychologist who happens to mention she recently saw him live. He asks “Did you enjoy it?” Her response: “Is that important to you?” And like a pair of squabbling siblings, they continued in this “What are you doing?” “What’s it to you?” way for quite some time, Bridges refusing to move on until she admitted to having found it funny; which then elicited the somewhat predictable “You are just saying that”.

This makes me view the whole after-show ‘meet and greet’ most comedians do slightly differently. Is the intention as we perceive it; to show how down-to-earth they are, to give something back to the audience in the form of photos, signatures, hugs and handshakes; or is it an attempt to still the doubts and insecurities of someone needing the constant approval of others? After all, the first thing anyone says to the comedian at these sessions is some gushing statement at how great the show was, how funny, that you liked them already from that thing on TV but love them even more now – those who didn’t enjoy a show won’t queue to say so; they are the ones slipping out of the theatre before the lights are even up just in case they bump into the star accidentally and are asked what they thought about the performance. No, we don’t want their opinions. These people happy to queue for an age in spite of having been stuck in a dodgy theatre seat, doing the awkward arm-rest wrestle with an invasive stranger for a couple of hours (or even worse, with one of those irritating guys who also insists on sitting with their knees spread wide leaving no leg-room either!); these are the ones to tout for compliments and praise.

Anyhoo… packing away the waffle-iron now, as believe it or not I do have more constructive things to write about!

Pantheon of Heroes

Maybe it’s just me, but were I reading a review blog which lauded something and promised a proper review at a later date, I probably wouldn’t wait for the review before actually listening. But it seems that some of you have been. So I am sorry to have made you miss the first three episodes of this brilliant radio show, but I take no responsibility for your lack of aptitude to just listen and make up your own minds. In fact, it is sometimes better if you land on a review with some idea of your own thoughts, as that creates a space for debate (as borne out in my review of the Irish show, Sketchy and the ensuing conversation – and the rather interesting list of search terms on my google report which lead people to that particular post!)

I didn’t lie to you, it was written long ago. In fact, I first wrote it immediately having listened to the initial episode… and have re-written many times since. It seems that whenever I think it’s done, I have one last read-through before posting and just think it sounds as though I am fangirling in the worst way – and I am not. I can offer little as evidence but for my own words but that should be enough. You can see the blatant signs of my fangirl nature in many posts here (not naming names, as that messes with the search engine thing, but regular readers will know well enough… and the tag cloud probably has an inkling!)

I do love Elis James’ work though; he just oozes a natural funniness which is most apparent in the fact that whilst most comedians will hit with some and fail with others I have yet to meet anyone who claims not to find him funny.

With that in mind, I shall attempt one last time to hammer something out for you…

The principle behind the show is thus:

Elis James, ably assisted by Ben Partridge and Nadia Kamil and with the use of the custom-made totaliser, is setting up a pantheon dedicated to the heroes of Wales. In each episode, we are given a breakdown of the achievements of a group of candidates to represent a category of history via sketches and dialogue before one icon is chosen to be immortalised in the garden of statues.

There really isn’t an element of the show that isn’t funny. The interaction between the three stars is natural and really funny, the sketches are hilarious and indeed the whole concept is just brilliant!

There is not much more I can say than that, really.

I have tried and the more I say the more it gets gushy and ridiculous until it comes across as completely insincere… so just listen and make up your own mind. I have struggled to find a clip to embed, mostly because much of the content relies on what comes before and after it but also because when everything is funny it is hard to find a moment which stands out. This particular clip from the Religion episode features Elis affecting a brilliant Irish accent to impersonate the singer, Enya which very much made me chuckle! Enjoy!



Catch the show on I-player, or on BBC Radio Wales (available outside Wales via Sky TV or through "Listen Live" on the BBC Radio Wales website). New episodes air on Fridays at 7pm.

Tribute

It is claimed by some that being a mum is a difficult job; it’s not. Being a wife is hard work, which is why I don’t bother: being a mum is easy.That is not to say there aren't those who are far more brilliant at it than I, but to just be a mum really is the simplest thing in the world.

There are women who announce themselves thus, for instance if asked their job: “Oh, I’m a mum!” as though that warrants automatic praise. Carrying the title of Mum says nothing more about someone than that you are capable of ejecting a tiny person out of your cootch… and even that will happen regardless of effort from the mother; after all, how often do you hear tales of a fifteen year old being dragged out of his lazy mother by a social worker: “Well, we just decided it was time we stepped in since she just wasn’t bothered about pushing” You don’t. And why? Because the body will do all of that by itself.
It’s the same with growing up. As is borne out by all the sad tales of neglected children surviving lives of want; scavenging bins for scraps, getting themselves to school in spite of the lack of parental input; they survive, they grow older and go on to have children of their own without a mum’s influence.

I am a mum. I do not introduce myself as one, though, because it isn’t a career or even a job; it’s just another thing I do. In reality it is the part of my life I love the most; the part that makes all the other shit worthwhile and the part that gives greatest return but it is the part that warrants least recognition on my part because it just happens. The kids get to where they need to be, food gets to the cupboards, dirty clothes get to a neatly folded pile of cleaned laundry to adorn bedroom floors and somehow everyone remains (mostly) sane and normal-looking - no thought to the hows and whys, it just happens.

And it is in this spirit that it being baby’s birthday today I give tribute to the smallest yet loudest factor in my mum-ness

Before I do, though; this little moment from the first born on our return from shopping today.

“There’s another reason I won’t ever have kids. I can’t carry anything; I’ve got twiglet arms!” This reminded me of my awe as a youngster at the strength of my own mum. I would be sent out for coal, to end up dragging the huge bucket across the yard and through the kitchen. Mum would appear as I approached the house and just snatch up the bucket as though it were one of those takeaway coffee cups. She could quite literally carry a full bucket of coal in one hand and a stack of logs in the other, whilst having a bundle of lightings under each arm and still stop to stir a pot of food on the stove as she passed through. It amazed me as a kid and it was a bizarre moment to find that my daughter thinks about me in the same way. Of course, I can lift a lot. It’s a while since I did weight training so I can’t remember now what I lift, but the hub-person is 15 stone plus some and I can lift him when he falls; I fill a trolley with shopping, put it all in one of those giant shopping bags and carry that into the house; I will easily move bags of compost about the garden without a second thought. Although I still shamefully do that girly thing in a shop: “Is there someone who can carry it to the car for me?” But we all do that, don’t we?

But anyway:

There is an inherent problem with our reference points to speech being “indoor” and “outdoor” voices… trying to encourage a child to use an indoor voice when they are out of doors gives way to great confusion and what you end up with is a child who even approaching nine has no concept of the fact that some things should be said quietly and will set you up in certain situations; such as the time we were walking behind a very large lady and she says “Mum, we don’t like fat people like that lady, do we?” -shocked glare, I didn’t know what to say- “Not in a mean way; just that she’s going to die and that’s sad!” The woman went to a nearby house and scowled at us very red-faced as she turned to close the door. The trouble is, she genuinely was not being cruel, she really was concerned for the health of this lady, but “indoor voice, please, baby!”

Part of me would love to have that freedom to just tell a person they look exactly like that woman who was on Jeremy Kyle last night and that I hope her boyfriend is nicer to her and to have the pure self-belief that leads to comments like “Drop me here, mum, I’ll walk to [friend]’s house and then come home” – noting that we just happened to drive past on our way home from an outing and that the friend lives almost on the other side of town – “It’s ok, I know karate [3 lessons!] so I’ll just kick any strangers that try to steal me!”

I think it possibly stems from being so much younger than her sisters that she feels more grown up than her years. If I am going somewhere, she insists on being left behind: “I am nearly nine, you know! I don’t need looking after!” In fact, I had a huge argument with her just recently based on the fact that she felt the babysitting arrangement with our neighbour is unfair. The older daughters alternate in looking after the children [seven and ten] but baby felt this should be a three-way rotation: “I’d like to have some money too, you know!”

She even speaks to her friends commanding authority, giving such sage advice as heard recently after her little friend announced she had a new friend and he said he would marry her: “What the one who never does his work? Why him? He’d, like, get a job and never do anything so you’d be all poor… what’s the point? Marry [another boy] instead!”

Baby has very strong ethical beliefs and speaks out quite loudly (as you would expect!) about all “things in general which harm the environment”; for instance passing the garage as she heads to and from school will elicit a very vociferous coughing fit and much waving of the arms, as does being passed by any car churning out the vaguest plume of smoke from its exhaust. She gets incredibly involved in such things as Children in Need, watching the videos carefully before thinking how the world’s imbalances can be resolved and having a cry at the fact that she cannot instigate that change and as for the over-hunting of rare animals: “They should stop hurting the animals, because it makes me cry!”

She isn’t all serious, though. She has a demon sense of humour with an imagination to match! She once announced quite boldly: “I do know when someone is being sarcastic, you know. I can see sarcasm; I can smell it; I just can’t hear it.” But she does hear it perfectly and is so immensely quick-witted that she will always fire back with something equally funny and can halt the most mischievously teasing granddad dead in his tracks.

Her biggest quirk is food. All three of my children have had peculiar tastes (glossing over the first-born and her penchant as a child for peanut butter and sprout sandwiches!) but baby really is the oddest, eating things most children will turn away from. She absolutely loves canned mackerel, to the point where we seem to go through it like water. On a recent shopping trip I bought two tins after being told we were out but upon our return, she started to pack away the cans and laughed aloud, saying “Mummy, I tricked you! I told you we’d run out of mackerel so you’d buy two tins, now we have three so I can eat lots, that’s just how I’m rolling!” She will devour a punnet of mushrooms raw in seconds, likes to dip drumstick lollies in raspberry instant porridge and insists she can (and will!) only ever eat one prawn in a sitting.

It goes without saying that I have imparted every last ounce of my sporting knowledge to her… regular readers will be aware of the extent of the data I have at my disposal and will be unsurprised at such glimmers of wisdom as: “Which team are we voting for? Oh, the green ones. Can’t we vote for the red one and his friends?” – “No, because he is the referee!” or the fact that she sorts her football cards by shirt colour, choosing to swap the ones with dull shirts because they don’t look nice and I am sure you all remember well her wisdom from the Rugby World Cup.

So what else does she teach us?

We learn that one of her sisters is a butterfly; beautiful, graceful, elegant and brightly coloured and that this sister looks “all pretty and shiny” when she cries even if she does live in a room that “stinks like a kangaroo going to the toilet in Canada”; we learn that the other is more a bumble bee; always busy, slightly chaotic but with a clear purpose, colourful, misunderstood and under-rated – but that wearing a bra makes her angry although “she is always so nice when she doesn’t have one on”.


And I know, 1500 words about the wonder of one child makes me the biggest baby bore in the world, but since I started this post talking about being a mum, I will close now with some of her brighter Mum-moments, such as drawing such an accurate image of me she even included the double chin; her announcing that she is reporting me to the police for “murdering [her] to death” after trimming an inch off her hair; the time she woke me before eight on a Saturday declaring her loneliness, to decide once I had dressed and moved downstairs that she might just take her dad’s Ipod and go back to bed; her demands that if I must sing along with “such horrible bad language at least be quiet for the naughty bits”.

But the two things that truly stick in my mind:

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I noted that my jumper was baggy and decided it must have stretched. To which baby’s response was “You may have lost weight, turn sideways.” So I did and received a peculiar side-on hug. “Yup. Lost weight. Definitely. You used to be cuddly and snuggly.”

And the last (for now):

Snuggled on the sofa in our PJ’s, she suddenly announced: “I’m going to go and hug my big teddy now. It’s just like hugging you, but he’s fluffy, not spikey. Just saying, not being mean or anything!”

And off she went.


I am aware of how fleeting these moments are, especially facing the prospect of child one leaving home this summer with two not far behind her. I love that I have this space to share them with you all and hope that you have at least raised a smile or two on my behalf!

And if nothing else, she will be able to read this back in years to come and think “Did I really do those things?” – and you all know how much I love embarrassing my kids!

Have a wonderful day. Celebrate every small joy, for they each truly are a blessing.

One Cloud in a Clear Blue Sky

Okay, I’ll ‘fess up! I am hiding. Badly, I’ll admit, but hiding nonetheless.

In fact, the only way to describe my current hiding mode would be in the form of a tiny anecdote:

I have a brother-in-law who was only three when our families first encountered one another. I used to entertain him when his parents visited mine and one of the things he loved was hide-and-seek. I being a teenager far more interested in chilling on the sofa secretly listening in to the grown-ups’ conversation would let him be the perpetual hider. It suited me, as I had more time of playing without really engaging in the game but it also was good for him – he was effectively an only child, his brothers being more than twenty years his senior and had precious little chance to play his favourite game, so loved to hide.

So he’d hide. And count. And wait. And call out “You can’t find me!” And wait some more. Then I’d call his name. “Yes?” “Where are you?” “In the kitchen; under the table!” And I’d ‘find’ him. And act surprised when I did. And he never learnt to ignore my call; neither did he tire of being found in this way. So we played for hours – every time he visited.

That’s how I am hiding right now… maybe not under the table having seen the amount of food my kids drop in one meal, perhaps behind the full-length curtains – that seems a fitting place to be… but if you call me I’ll surely answer… if you are a person I want to engage with, of course. If I so choose, I may just follow the rules and not respond. Such is the power of choice.


The cloud of post-Christmas seems to be descending which I know will remain until some time just after my birthday in March. It is a little later than usual but hopefully it will not remain longer to makeup for it: I have plans for April/May for which I need to be functioning! I hadn’t actually realised I was succumbing at all until yesterday when having decided to break for a coffee at around half-one I was awoken by a phone-call from the mum of one of baby’s school friends “Do you want me to bring her home?” SHIT!!! It was twenty past three… school finishes at five past. Thankfully, that friend was coming our way anyway and there is a contingency plan baby knows to follow just in case there is ever an emergency with the hub and I don’t get to the school in time, but nevertheless to sleep through the school run is the worst kind of bad parenting!

In my defence (if there is justification for such an occurrence) I have been ill; beyond the non-flu of the last couple of weeks I have not slept for more than three hours at a time since shortly before Christmas and at some point became a person who sleeps on the sofa (detachment and other excuses) In all honesty, the stress of waking so regularly and feeling the need to check for signs of breathing is just too much so I chose to remove myself from the situation. I thought I might start to sleep properly, but after almost a month that does not seem to have happened. It is nice, though, to have the freedom to walk around the house, to maybe read my book for a while or listen to a little music without worrying that my noisy efforts to be quiet will disturb the hub-creature. But I realise this is far from normal.

So that is how today finds me; having started the year in a fairly positive way, now sinking into a pit of self-doubt, insecurity and worthlessness.

Oh, and it’s baby’s birthday this weekend – for which I have done no preparation beyond buying presents. Luckily, though, I spent two days earlier in the week doing some recipe development on a healthy sponge cake for a food blog I work on so at least have my baking head on!

But anyway…

More upbeat stuff to come, I promise… just needed to vacuum this fluff and fuzz out of my head to give room for the other thoughts to bounce around!

And because I love her music and feel more people should be aware of her existence, here’s a tune from Amy Newton: