Didn’t Hear Tiddly-Om-Pom-Pom …

… but had a great time in Brighton. Will expound at length when I get back from THIS weekend’s trip to Scotland.

busy busy busy.

Bucket - Check! Spade - Check! Lifeboat - erm

I’m unreasonably excited about spending 4 days in Brighton. As I like Gene Vincent AND The Who, I was a bit worried where I’d be if it all kicked off on the beach, but I’m reliably informed they don’t do that any more. Even if they did, one swish of my hirsute bonce and mods and rockers would doubtless unite in cries of “get the hippy” which would at least give me the satisfaction of having brought them together.

Looking at the weather reports, my next blog post may well be about a weekend staring out of a hotel window and a comparison of anoraks and wellies. Ho hum.

Any cat fans concerned about my pampered felines need not worry. One swift trip to Argos and I’ve set up an electronically timed gadget to release food at regular intervals. The cats were suspicious of the new toy at first but they’ve now realised that unlike the regular feeding device, it serves food at the same time every day regardless of what time they jump all over it during the night. They’ve also got Red Leader on speed dial in case of emergency.

Fiona started packing about a week ago, ticking off items on her going-away-list and sub-lists thereof. A level of organisation well beyond me. I thought everyone does what I do - grab a rucksack the night before and go through the essentials :-

    - Socks/Pants/T-shirts - one per day (of each, I’m not Foreign or anything)
    - Spare trousers
    - Toothbrush (if you’re going with a bird)
    - Comics/sweeties/music for train

Don’t they??

One Of Us

Another winner from the government.

Once I can get the images of Nuremberg rallies out of my head, I think this will be a branch of logic I’ll LOVE. By proclaiming publicly that one is a loyal British citizen, one is filled to the brim with so much citizenship one BECOMES a loyal British citizen.

By which reasoning, I can stand in a barn whinnying, declare “I AM A HORSE!!” and win the Grand National.

Better yet, next time I’m at Manchester Academy, I shall leap on stage, declare myself a rawwwwkkkk god and boogie on down.

And therein lies the flaw. Others will follow my lead. The stage will be awash with expert musicians and suddenly what do we have??

A Supergroup.

Or worse, Lynyrd Skynyrd

(aw nuts - I forgot the unwritten rule - one mention of Skynyrd and you have Freebird in your head all day.

“eeeff ahh leee-ave here tooo-mawww-haww-rooowww…..” )

On The Plus Side…

…starting the day with Waffles and Maple syrup was rather nice.

But the “toast at a medium setting” instruction actually meant “put on lowest possible setting and don’t walk away or you’ll have a kitchen full of black, black smoke.”

The cats were sniffing the new electronic cat feeder a bit warily too. And that was while they could still see it without the use of infra-red equipment. New toy is intended to feed cats on a timer while I’m away for a weekend (Brighton in a fortnight, Scotland the week after … Michael Palin’s got nowt on me) but I fully expect the feline hackers to have it upended, rewired and emptied by the time I get home.

Ye’ll Huv Hud Yer Tea?

Sadly, they hadn’t and even expected a full Burns Supper. This wasn’t entirely unreasonable as I had invited everyone round FOR a Burns supper*, only later starting to wonder what the hell that entailed.

Rather than go for the full Maclarkey, we did the Neeps and Tatties and Haggis thing. Piping in the haggis was problematic - I don’t play bagpipes, I don’t have bagpipes and I do have neighbours. Luckily, I have a tartan bow tie that plays “Scotland the brave” when you press it (thanks mum).

I battled back tears of Nationalistic pride to perform the “Address To The Haggis” which went over the heads of the assembled Soft Southern Jessies. An hour of noshing to the plaintive strains of the Proclaimers and Karine Polwart ( I couldn’t find anything by Sydney Devine or Fran and Anna) and we were ready for the one piece of Scottish Culture my mates understand - ten year old Laphroaig and a Jura Malt.

After that point, there was a lot of singing, some strumming (of the guitar and the pink ukulele) until we all collapsed.

I think Burns would have approved.

*if you’re wondering, it WAS at the right weekend, I just never got round to posting this entry.