CATPORN!!

Peewee, this is for you and your newly seedless grapes.

This stars Roger the cat, a filthy sex pest who belonged to a neighbour down the road from our old house. I've been meaning to make this old footage into a film for over four years and now I've done it, I ... it's probably better if you don't watch it. Thanks.

Jesus, it's way past my bedtime.

Food meme, only seven months late

A long, long time ago, Lisa tagged me for a food meme. Seven months and three days. This is how quickly I get round to doing these things: whoooosh, like shit off a shiny shovel.

What do I do? I take the letters of my first name and find something food-related for each of them. Okay. This is me doing the meme now here goes look look Lisa I'm doing it.

Aa is for Anchovies, and for Ass. One tastes exactly like the other.

I hate anchovies. If I were to say this out loud, Ian would ask, "When did you last eat an anchovy?" and I would reply "Just now. All the time. That's how I know." In truth, I have eaten one anchovy, and it tasted like ass.

I know what ass tastes like because I shop in Borough Market, early in the morning, when the swarthy merchants are crying "Gertcha lovely bunch of ass for a pound" and I've had ass for breakfast more times than you've had hot dinners. It's true! Everything on the Internet is true, including this.

Nn is for nausages, which is what we sometimes call sausages in this house. We have days in this house on which everything begins with an N instead of its usual initial.

On days when sausages are spelt with an S, and they happen to be for dinner, Ian will sing the Naughty Sausages Song in a quavering, Goon-Show falsetto that has caused alarm to people who thought they knew us well:

Sausages,
Naughty sausages,
Naughty sausages in a line
Sausages,
Naughty sausages,
Naughty sausages, you are all mine

There are variations to the lyrics, depending on whether the naughty sausages are being cooked in a pan or under the grill, but I can sense you're getting frightened by this so I'll move on.

Tt. We have at least nine varieties in the house:

The British are uncompromisingly picky about their tea. I've noticed that people are quite flexible about coffee. If there's no ground, they'll settle for instant. If there's no milk or sugar, they can live without. But try pulling a fast one with an Englishman's cup of tea and you could be shot at dawn. Tea; and Marmite on toast. Each has to be done just right or it's rendered criminally unpalatable.

In an ideal world, my preferred tea is Twinings Earl Grey. On a scale of 1 to 5 where 1 is piss-weak and 5 is stewed, I like my tea at 2.4. Introduce bag to water long enough for initial pleasantries to be exchanged, but remove before topics of personal interests have been broached. Add normal amount of milk, then a clumsy splash more. Stir. Leave it on my desk. My biscuit of choice is a plain chocolate McVitie's Digestive. Thank you.

Lately, however, I've been drinking peppermint tea, sometimes peppermint and nettle. I've been on a diet. Diets are sad and boring: I think my terrible ennui of a few weeks back was largely caused by celery. But on the bright side, I am small enough to slip between floorboards unobserved. I can fit into my wedding-dress again. If you'd like to marry me, write to the usual address, stating your gender and inside-leg measurement, and complete the tie-breaker "Come live with me, and be my ___", using five hand gestures or less.

Oo God there are a lot of letters in my name. Oo is for octopus. There was a tin of octopus on our kitchen shelves for at least six months. I bought it as a joke. Will and Lucy were getting married and I planned to give them a beautiful food hamper full of really fucked-up food, like Celebrity Meat Loaf and Headcheese, and of course tinned octopus. They sell all this shit and more at my local shop.

Eventually, Will and Lucy got a stuffed weasel as a wedding gift, and Ian ate the octopus. In my life, there are only winners.

Nn is also for nimps, which is what we call shrimps on days when everything begins with an N. I don't like eating shrimps. I know this because I eat them all the time, Ian.

We have three pet shrimps, or nimps, depending on what day it is. They live next to the stereo in a glass sphere called an Ecosphere or something. There used to be ten: now we're down to three. We've had them over four years, since before we had cats or a child.

We used to go on holiday and say to one another, "I wonder what the shrimps are doing?" and the reply would be "Probably this", accompanied by both hands held under the chin, with the fingers waggling about.

Ii don't like eating any seafood, as it goes. Too rubbery. Will best summed it up when a load of us were in Spain a few years ago: he said "How can you not want to eat something that looks like that?" and held up something similar to this:

Aand I think that illustrated my point exactly.

Busy day

11:00: Succeed in moving strategically placed dining chairs: gain access to dining-room fireplace.

11:05: Remove two lumps of coal and charred log.

11:07: Sample charred log for nutritious content; test emollient properties of charcoal with a view to developing new facial moisturiser.

11:10: Hear Mother going to the lavatory unattended. Hurry to lavatory to rectify situation, leaving sooty handmarks on all white paintwork between lavatory and dining-room.

11:13: Find self escorted to bathroom.

11:14: Discover one is tall enough to see over the laundry-bin and into the bathroom mirror. Commence studious gurning practice.

11:17: Find self abruptly immersed in warm bath and face cruelly cleaned NO NO NO NO NO.

Note to self: Empty most convenient wastebin at earliest possible opportunity, then roll in it.

Like a tightly coiled spring

Scene: Bed. Late. Last-minute kisses and pleasantries have been exchanged.

Me: (with right hand wrist-deep in rugged chest mat) You feel lovely and soft today!

There is a pause.

Ian: I've got the horn now.
Me: What? I ... I just said you felt nice and soft.
Ian: That's all it takes!!
Me: Jesus.
Ian: Maybe you could slip out of those wet things.
Me: No ... I'm really tired.
Ian: Oh! (in the manner of a six-year-old denied a biscuit) Oh ... but.
Me: There are plenty of times when I want it and you're too tired.
Ian: That's not true!
Me: Yes it is. You're too tired or your bowels feel a bit funny or something.
Ian: (Low grumbling noises)

There is another pause. Ian takes my hand and puts it on his fearsome, fourteen-inch wang with built-in sound system and LEDs*.

*Poetic licence.

Ian: I've still got the horn.
Me: Yes, I see.
Ian: It's not going away.
Me: Think about Anne Widdecombe.

Ian: That's no good. Now I'm thinking about Anne Widdecombe and I've got the horn.
Me: Lloyd Grossman.

Ian: Still got the horn.
Me: Gillian McKeith.

Ian: Nope.
Me: Cyril Smith.

Ian: It's not working.
Me: Cyril Smith, wearing one of those tops you hate with short, puffy sleeves.

Ian: (with the horn) Mmmm.
Me: Folds and folds of Cyril Smith oozing out of cheap clothing.
Ian: I've still got the horn.
Me: Cyril Smith smeared in Marmite.

A huge, unrelenting, corpulent expanse of Cyril Smith, pasty white and grey under the brown, stinking streaks of yeast extract that collects in the sweating creases behind his enormous knees, in the dark, sunless nooks under his man-boobs.
Ian (laughing): It's not working! I've STILL got the horn.
Me: You sick little monkey.
Ian: I'll never be able to look at Cyril Smith the same way.
Me: He doesn't pop round very often.
Ian: I've still got the horn.
Me: Good night.

In the headlines

I applaud the BBC journalist who slipped this one in yesterday.

Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon

Fig. 1. Tasteful nudity.

Fig. 2. Edible legs.

Fig. 3. Helena; Esme; Ian; and Anita, who cuts my hair. The strain shows on Anita's face as she tries to get Ian's three remaining hairs to cover the whole of his head.

Fig. 4. We've got lumps of it round the back.

Fig. 5. Vast improvement.

Fig. 6. New haircut #2; and the closest thing to a smile I can wring out of him. He looks like he's wanted in three counties for manipulating livestock. Perhaps he is! Only his hairdresser knows for sure.

Here Hair Here

Today is haircut day. It is time. That video of how not to make coffee made me realise it was actually time some time ago.

It always helps to have a picture of what you want for your hairdresser. I learned this the hard way.

I was 24 when Friends came on TV, and I had very, very long hair in perfect condition. I liked the Jennifer Aniston do. I went to a hairdresser and asked her to cut my hair to around jaw-length, kept long at the front, with a few layers cut in. I should have taken a picture like this, but I took none.

This is what I got:

Everyone I met that afternoon said "Oh. You've had your hair cut," in a tone of voice in which one might say "We opted for a fixed-rate mortgage."

I hated my haircut, really hated it with a passion. I have a big wide jaw and a cowlick hairline and heavy fringes look bloody awful on me. I'd finally been brave enough for a haircut and got this: it was terrible. I flippantly began saying I was going to go home and shave it all off. A few hours later, I did. I was in my bedroom with a big mirror propped on the floor, the same mirror that is over our mantelpiece today. I had Ian's clippers, and Ian, who wasn't sure if I meant it or not.

I cut the first stroke, so I couldn't lay the blame on Ian's shoulders if I came to regret SHAVING OFF ALL MY LONG HAIR that I'd lovingly tended for three years, trimmed every six weeks, never blow-dried or curled or coloured - "What am I doing! Ian! What am I doing! I'm shaving all my hair off Ian!" Ian hovered behind me, making nervous sounds in his throat. I passed him the clippers: he did the bits I couldn't see. I left the hated fringe intact in the front: without the rest of the hair, it looked much better. I ended up looking like Tintin.

I remember the date exactly: 24 October, 1995. Late October in North Yorkshire is not the ideal time to remove one's hair, as it tends to get chilly, but it felt tremendous. People said "Oh my God!" in the tone of voice in which one might say "A thousand pounds? For me?" It was great! No more shall I wear it up? Shall I wear it down? Put a clip in this bit? Wear it to the left or right? Life was suddenly so simple. However, for several days I retained a habit of dipping my head to my right and then flicking it back to my left, as if heading a football, which I'd subconsciously done for years to get my long hair off my face and never been aware of until then, when it made me look like a lunatic.

I have had long hair for most of my life. This is mainly because I fear hairdressers more than I fear the dentist. I love going to the dentist! I relax in the chair. I breathe deeply through root-canal work. I forced myself to relax at the dentist, because it used to petrify me, and I didn't enjoy being that tense with fear. So it's twisted and strange, but now when I sit back in that chair under the funny light and the smell of rinsing fluid, this delightful sense of peace washes through my being. My old dentist in York said, "You're my best patient." The nurse nodded in eager agreement and said "Yes, we have to physically fight some people!" I pictured strenuous wrestling matches involving dental picks and machines that went Ping!

Where did I leave the original point of this post? A long way over there somewhere. Let's get back to it.

As it helps to have a picture of one's desired haircut, I browsed the Internet to find one for today. What I found were many haircuts from the Planet Zog that have no place in the real world. I understand that these are extreme showcases of what a hairdresser can do with enough superglue and LSD, but surely these models have lives to live, pints of milk to pop to the shops for.

"Yes, I've brought him in because he's been coughing a lot."

"Twenty Marlboro and a copy of the Sun. Thanks."

"Yeah, er, what platform is the next train to Waterloo? It's not on the board."

"Does this bus go to Streatham?"

"This contemporary dance represents my need for a loaf of bread and some bin bags."

"I need to post this parcel, but I can't see."

"I just topped up my card but the machine's not letting me through. Why are you looking at me like that? GOD."

I was toying with the idea of having my hair cut short today, shorty-short short; but after long and thoughtful minutes in the bathroom, scrutinising my middle-aged reflection sideways-on, mirror in one hand, scrunched-up hair in the other, I've decided not to do anything rash. Just a trim and a tidy-up. I'd only regret it otherwise.

"Hi! I'm new to this playgroup. Who'd like to hang out with me? Anyone? Hello?"