I should not be allowed out in public, or at least I should not be allowed NEAR my Eldest sons teacher without a gag. Unless I have a specific reason to speak to him, I am incapable of maintaining anything resembling a sensible parent demeanour, this is largely because the Man is just NOT in any sense LIKE a teacher, he is affable and has a sense of humour, he also sussed early in the academic year that YES Ms Fanylion IS something of force to reckoned with if the well being of her children is at stake, but that that drops the second its dealt with and its back to mildly mocking the world, and saying stupid things.

Having viewed my sons work, causing a cross classroom ripple of laughter from m'sally, when I commented 'I KNOW this piece of music' as a slide show of fresh faced Y4 children at the start of the year was slowly fading in a and out on the interactive whiteboard...'hang on THIS is the main theme from The Omen isn't it...

The slide shows continued, and catching my quizzical eyebrow, Mr M, explained that they had been for a walk one afternoon, to the cemetery, and one of the children had taken these photos.. it wasn't as I speculated, a slide show he displayed regularly, during tests, looking knowingly at the children and saying 'well Kids, if you don't do well enough you KNOW what I'll have to do' and nodding knowingly at the images of tombstones and wreaths..

After a whilst, it essentially became, a case of his showing videos, photos and a friendly, amiable chat.. the children were playing happily..

A whilst ago, some African drummers went in and did a workshop.... so we saw a video of that, the kids decided to commentate on this, hammer out beats on the desks.. and then, my eldest pipes up something...

Something that will lead to my opening my mouth, before I can stop it happening.. that will shock the two mysterious parents who wish to MEET Mr M before he starts teaching their infant children next year.. something that will take a whilst to live down

Mum, that drum I'm being taught to play, its a Buggerabu

a what?

Buggerabu

*childish laughter from everyone present*

I see... poor Abu

*more laughter*

*things calm slowly adults can just about look up, children revelling in saying bugger and getting away with it*

Wasn't THAT the monkey in Aladdin?

* more giggling and a SWIFT change of subject before the children dare question WHY its funny*

Well we'd best go see Mrs C, and acquaint ourselves with her, perhaps you could put that wig on, and pretend to be someone else for a whilst Mr M?

He didn't, apparently he only does THAT on Saturdays....

Picture the scene, a curvaceous woman is walking towards you, a woman in her own descriptions, 'bootylicious'... whilst you observe the beads of sweat verily glistening 'pon her bronzed lithe form, the movement in the swell of her breasts, and the length of her powerful, yet still feminine thighs, you are I would waver slightly transfixed, in awe almost, and vaguely aware she is trying to impart some matter of great importance to you, only somethings distracting you..

It is perhaps the evident and indeed awe-inspiring Herculean strength she displays, for attached to the rope, tied round her waist and slung, casually over one shoulder, there appears to be a precipice, that wouldn't look out of place in the Andes...

What fresh hell is this?

Well, its Jennifer Lopez, imploring you to accept that fame and fortune hasn't changed her.. in spite of the sum contents of a quarry she carts around with her as either a display of, or simply reaping the rewards of her undeniable wealth, she is in fact STILL Jenny from the Block.

I can only conclude, having heard the song which brought this unusual pass time of hers to my attention, that Ms Lopez is suffering some form of Mental Illness, its a sure sign of derangement, in fact in professional circles it goes as far as to suggest she might be, in technical terms 'barking fucking mad'

Surely a better use of her wealth would have been some discreet jewellery perhaps encrusted with Diamonds.


Still, we should perhaps spare a thought for the Mentally Ill, a sentiment which leads me rather neatly into talking about...

Football.


For the past, however long, it seems a rather LARGE proportion of the worlds populace have been gripped by 'Football Fever' a condition which largely involves boring the arse off of anyone who doesn't actually GIVE a shit, and has more immediate pressing concerns then which nation has acquired the best collection of men able to kick a ball into a net hung on a frame the most times in an hour and a half. Its not actually a matter of 'National Pride' it was an excuse for some fairly vile racism by the factions inclined that way, and the launch pad for the career of an Octopus named 'Paul' which had rather implausibly been blessed with a second sight.

The best thing perhaps about the world cup, was that it outed someone who appeared to be simultaneously arrogant, pig ignorant and one of the most genial, reasonable and frighteningly apologetic men on earth, as 'a bit of a twat', thus enabling me to finally justify walking away, and closing the door quietly behind me... it had been 'fun' if you overlooked the fact I found him a shade cloying, slightly creepy, and really couldn't get passed the factI was the tallest person, in what he deemed the 'relationship'. You see, being busy with Work, taking your daughter who lives with your ex-wife on holiday.. both are entirely reasonable consumers of time... the Football however is not.

Word in your collective shells, like...

I'm fairly tolerant, understanding, accepting, possibly TOO much so for my own good in honesty... but to detail why you can't see me for 2 months, and cite FOOTBALL as one of the three MAIN reasons, isn't ever going to go down well... that's your one way ticket to 'fuckoffsville'

Though, even if that hadn't happened, I at times have a short attention span, and was getting a bit bored, and as he wasn't by any means a stupid man, he would have realised soon enough - I didn't actually feel anything and was in fact, just having fun, getting laid, and hoping for a turn driving his MG... I'm not always (rarely in fact) in these things for the emotional attachment - that tends to over complicate matters, and get your fingers burnt rather dramatically I find...

I've given upon dating, its far too distracting, much easier to just be friends with people and not have sex at all, possibly ever again.

I've also given up on the Booze, it was unsettling my delicate flower innards, there are only so many times you WANT to shit out the snotty lining of your intestines in your life, in fact I find any number above 0 beyond my threshold.. so I've gone teetotal..

Its been a month already, I'm better off, or would be if I didn't keep biuying cheap CDS and driving to wales and back in a weekend.

There is a train of thought, that love or loathe football (I fall into the latter category) you must submit and glibly accept the World cup... revel in the camaraderie as England triumphantly bring the trophy home, enter into the spirit of things as a mark perhaps of patriotic splendour.

I am ignoring that train of thought and have as yet, not succumbed to sitting on my arse watching endless rounds of men chasing a ball back and forth, forth and back... I have no flags adorning my house, or car, I have neglected to enter into small talk about it, save to mutter in passing 'Germany' when asked 'ere the Fanylion who d'ya reckon will win' this has been met with confusion, I suspect because the 2 main topics of school run talk with the folk I really don't wish to pass the time of day with, will, and forgive my judgemental assumption here, be for the ensuing weeks Football or Big Brother... As I quite enjoy confusing them, I'm sticking with my stock muttered response of Germany for the time being, until such a time as I decide to tell them in hushed tones, promise them to keep schtum... that I am to be entering the Big brother house the week before it ends, and indeed that I am Bookies favourite to win.

Instead of letting my brain ROT, I have taken to finding alternative pursuits, the boys like a round of Monopoly, or Snakes and Ladders...and when they aren't here, I read, I listen to music, unless the Footballian Chavs up the street become to raucous, or too frequent with their god awful aerosol spray horns and I retreat to the safety and isolation of the Hills... to think, to take pictures, and be antisocial and old with a flask of tea.... I'm taking advantage of the deserted wilderness whilst I can.


Of course, I appreciate, yes that not ALL Football fans are Chavs, in fact I *know* some thoroughly pleasant people who just happen to also enjoy the football, interestingly many of these people share the disdain for adorning houses and cars with the English flag, some even act guilty, as though to enjoy watching football is akin to having the clap.... they don't develop an irrational racism towards all other countries more likely to Win the tournament, anymore then I would develop an irrational hatred of the many countries who trounce the England Cricket team... I just happen to enjoy watching, or since Murdoch got his hands on the game, listening to it....


Anyway yes..

as I type, cooking... I have twice this evening had to use an unlikely cooking aid - the hammer... my freezer is WAY too efficient... I have perplexed my children with my culinary racket, and suspect they are soon to be disappointed with a mere mariners pie, rather then something hewn from a tree or involving nails perhaps (anyone who KNOWS of such a dish - answers on a postcard - or comment below, cheers)

And I am pondering.

Wondering in fact..

How long can one play with fire before getting burnt....

Well howdy!

Its been a whilst hasn't it, for that I apologise, life has been rather fullsome of late, and time to sit with a head slow enough to scintillate y'all has been alarmingly sparse on the ground.

First we had the almighty wrist injury, caused by ineptitude whilst gardening, a plethora of people instructed me to go have it X-rayed on account a swollen bruised hand isn't normal, nor is being unable to carry anything heavier then say your car keys in said hand... I heeded this advice in my usual manner, assuring one and all it would in fact be 'reet'... it wasn't..I ended up buying various wrist supports to just exist WITHOUT cutting the damn limb off, some weeks later its stopped swelling and hurting, though does have a lumpy faintly misshapen area JUST above my wrist joint on my hand, suggesting everyone who suggested I'd bust it was in fact correct, I expect when I'm old it'll play up like merry hell in an arthritic manner, ah well.


After that, life was going quietly and hectically, the paperwork and transition when moving a child from mainstream education to SEN is formidable, and rather a lot of my free headspace was filled with Ashes to Ashes glee, and adjusting to the new Doctor Who, the latter continues to be a source of glee and is I'd wager far better then the preceding four series, and also features a tall, gawky, geeky youth in the lead role, whom, being a woman of a certain age, I'd rather like to ravage till he's grown eyebrows in defence.

And then, then...May 15th happened.

JUST a nice sunny Saturday.... uh-huh...

and the day, my beautiful, much loved (possibly to an unnatural extent actually) car, the glittering silver metallic finish 207 object of my autophillic lust, was damn near taken from me for always..

and despite the fact there have been times where lack of sleep, lack of food, increasing urge to fuck senseless my passenger and an insane level of anger directed at elderly drivers has caused some alarming (though never actually dangerous) ineptness on my part, in this instance, ones faculties where about one, the M1 on a pleasant sunny May afternoon is NOT the place to let your mind wander, it is focused the kind of driving that makes your head hurt for a whilst afterwards, where actually i run on extreme amounts of adrenalin fuelled awareness of the traffic in front, behind and to either side of myself, because I am gripped by the fear that one false move from a neighbouring car, and I could very realistically be dead...

and so, as it tends to the traffic went from steady moving to STILL with about 20 seconds notice... I tried to move over to buy extra time before applying the brakes with more gusto then Gusto McGusto, Mayor of Gustotown, Gustoania and joining in with the bumper to bumper crawling tailbacks.. thank to Mr McPillock in a 4x4 that wasn't possible, so I gave up on that as a bad idea, and BRAKED, like, largely on account that it DID, my very life depended on it.. I hit stationary in seconds, I missed a small car in front of me by mere feet at best, I was in still stood on the brake when my car went BANG

being, as I am, a girl and a pessimist, my natural assumption was I had just single handedly blown up my cars engine, it was when out of curiosity I turned the ignition and the engine still wored (which ended a brief realisation I was now STUCK in a fucked up car in the fast lane and doubtless about to DIE horribly) and given all this happened in a fraction of a second, the sudden realisation flooding into my head that the VERY close car behind me, was in fact embedded IN my car, hit me and I got a wee bit of a wobble on.

The rest is a bit of a blur now, and has involved 3 weeks of chasing up phonecalls, filling in paperwork, being remarkably SKINT, drawing pictures of the accident, making MORE phonecalls, and not really understanding WHY, when there are Crash repair centres much much closer to home, my car ended up in Beeston.... (no reason for this has ever been forthcoming, will assume its a Peugeot specialist centre)

Against all the odds however, my car has been rebuilt, repaired, resprayed and returned in as was prior to having an Audi RAMMED into it at force from behind, condition, and I salute the good mechanics of NG9 for being able to get her back here in the speed they did, not least because the courtesy car was SHITE and I hated it quite passionately.

So yes, its been something of a hiatus in my being able to think about not terrifying, not grown up and excruciatingly dull things, and indeed being able to comfortably be able to type.

In the intervening weeks, I have become increasingly disillusioned with Politics, the coalition with Govt leaves a very nasty taste in my Mouth, Gordon browns resignation had me in tears for 2 hours, I suspect within 2 months I'll be destitute, bankrupt and facing eviction or something equally Dickensian.


What else,

ach you know...

same old same old.

If you see me on Redwatch, let me know!

For the past three years or so, I have lived next door to the BNP candidate (not standing in the General election, presumably this is on account when he stood in the local and European Elections he mustered a massive 200 votes - that's 200 too many mind)

Some years ago I was quite unashamedly rude to him on the Bus - where he did much of his canvassing, I had no idea he was my neighbour, largely on account hes something of a short arse and its impossible to see him above the 5 foot hedge at the front. I have regular altercations with his Dog 'Elsie' a misc bull terrier who is wont to shit on my back lawn, his dulcet tones through the hedge urging me to 'twat the bitch with a stick' ( I never have, on the grounds it could eat me)

Periodically I am aware in the small hours of morning, that both he and his dog are in my garden, I have made it known that I am aware of this, I have speculated to the garden in a monologue that perhaps I ought to complain to the council, or have the local police covertly watch the house... I have paced my kitchen in the small hours with a hammer, contemplating stainghis narrow minded skull in (and the law would be on my side)

However, I cannot at present complain to the Council - my only option as he isn't a social tenant would be to move, from what is one of a very few nice estates in Chesterfield, also.. in the intervening period between making my monologues and slinging turds over the hedge with the aid of a shovel an odd thing has occured on more then one occasion.

Now to say my neighbour is at times difficult to get an answer from is an understatement, I have oft heard folk knocking at his door for a good twenty minutes before he is moved to open it, I have frequently answered my own door in error, to be confronted with a variety of middle aged men on the other side of the low wall dividing our front doors... from these men I have learned I live next door to a Mr Tasker, I have also learned from one of the few 'men of a certain age and disposition' who have perplexingly come to my back door when he has neglected to answer to ask after 'Graham'.

simple searching via google reveals a colourful history.

I live next door to a convicted criminal who has served time at her majesties pleasure for attacks on women (albeit women of black or Asian descent) and indeed Solicitors in neighbouring towns. He is then, not an individual I wish to get on the wrong side of, we shall simply agree to disagree, I'm happy for immigrants to live in the country, I'm happy for people without connections to the local area historically to live and move here (gawd knows I'm one of the latter) what i won't be doing is causing any ripples on the water, I won't be bothering him in the slightest way, I may have a fence erected to end the issue with his shitting dog and let bygones be bygones.

after all, some years ago, I managed to not realise I lived next to a prostitute (we were TOLD the house next door was a brothel - I naively believed simply the young woman in question was a masseuse) I shall keep my liberal minded, potentially Nazi offending head down... my face after all is known to them, I wonder now, how many of the seemingly innocuous incidents over the past few months have been premeditated, for example the man I found sniffing round my car 'looking for number ** with a takeaway', I turn a deaf ear to the sounds of what MUST be dogfights some nights, and am mindful to keep a low profile when the Police are hammering on his door with a vanful of backup.


I won't however be afraid.

a>

When Gulliver found himself in Lilliput, tied to the ground by some angry Lilliputians, I wonder did he question that perhaps, this Pygmy race had built a series of monuments in the Derbyshire Peaks.





No, I expect he had other things on his mind.





However, I have come to conclude, that the most likely explanation for the distinct lack of height in native Derbyshire residents is that they are descended of a particularly tiny indigenous race, this also leads rather magnificently into revealing why ALL the Monuments I manage to find whilst out on my travels are in fact Miniature, clearly whilst these are at times underwhelming, and lack the gravitas of say Stone Henge or the Taj Mahal, if we simply accept that they are on a scale correlating directly to the midgetesque status of those who originally built them, well.. it all seems more impressive and frankly, more Plausible.





of course, reader, you now wonder I expect what on earth I am on about.





Let me, explain further





last week, whilst in a state described by some as 'on the verge of breakdown' or myself as 'a bit stressed' I decided to head out to Buxton, to revisit a place I last frequented aged 10 on a week long residential trip with School to the afore mentioned town... For up on a Neolithic Burial barrow above the Town, through Grinlow wood, there stands a Monument, Solomons Temple


commissioned by a Victorian do-gooder to ease unemployment in the town, the temple looks out over the peaks, a viewpoint over the surrounding area as impressive as the badly named Surprise View. However, the temple, as it rather grandiosely calls itself stands a mere 20 feet high.









<>

now in my useless memory - I am aware there certainly WAS a sandstone building of sorts - we weren't allowed in it, lest any out of control ten year old fling themselves from the uppermost level, and say, sprain their ankle... No what I recalled was climbing on rocks, scaling down a steep slope and examining a memorial laid in small lumps of limestone for the recent Hillsborough deaths which I neglected to look for last week, ah well.. and being shouted to 'come away from that EDGE girl' - my fear of heights and falling only applies if I am on man made structures, usually chairs - outdoors its perfectly acceptable to lean over a precipice and say 'oooh its a Loooooooooooooooooooooooong way down'

My approach then was accompanied by that low level of internal mirth, I have walked merrily a mile and half up a hill on a very uneven path to see a temple, which is roughly twice and a bit the size of a man walking presumably into it, I pondered briefly if it were a trick of my useless eyes, and perhaps he was walking past it in the foreground, alas he vanished and I concluded at this point, that I may be destined to only find mini monuments, if indeed any full sized ones of an awe inspiring manner actually exist within the county boundary.


Another case in point being Stoke Flat Stone Circle

up on my beloved edges, a 2 hour saunter along from Curbur, including the drop down to Froggatt edge, there sits 'pon the flats, a stone circle, which is by all accounts very hard to find in the summer, despite it being within 50 feet of the main footpath, the bracken is vociferous up there, and the heather mighty distracting, what I hadn't wagered on, one January morn, was that this bordering on imperceptibility in the landscape was due to its being ridiculously tiny..

Again I counter the opinion that prehistoric derbyshire man MUST have been of extremely limited stature, for this circle is smaller then a garden ornament, indeed the main stone (forgive me, I am not Julian Cope, and cannot thus remember the correct terminology) is barely 3 feet high... I have opted to live in this ridiculous belief as it leaves me less underwhelmed by it all, I do not question the sacred nature of the sites, I do not call into mockery the beliefs of those who set about their construction centuries or millenia ago, simply I wonder, precisely why - when in the latter of these 2 examples, on a bloody great plane, surrounded by rather obvious large lumps of rock, they opted to create this place, from where they would revere the sun, observe the passing of the seasons on such a small scale, midgets clearly, or just bone idle...

Bandwagonesque

In absence of an opinion on anything (this is untrue, I have some quite specific opinions about current affairs,but have been set to a clandestine task, or at least I have to provide my opinion officially before releasing it upon the innocent)I am to write a blog,which revolves around the somewhat unlikely premise, of...


"naming five or more characters you find 'rather scrummy' - it has to be the Character, not the actor or actress"

Which essentially means.. 'Oh Ms Fanylion, in the cross over universe, where reality and fiction doth meet, with whom pray tell would thou make the beast with two backs'


So, which fictional characters would I, in the entirely implausible world where such things can happen, do I find attractive...

well...


1: Prentice Mchoan

I can only suggest you read Ian Banks 'The Crow Road', I cannot begin to explain why, you have to Read it to fully understand the appeal, though the 1996 or 1997 BBC adaptation, which cast a young Joseph Mcfadden certainly added to the allure... however he's a real person, and as such against the rules.. bugger

2: Gene Hunt

http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Media/Pix/pictures/2008/02/13/glenister460.jpg



Middle aged, heavy smoking, heavy drinking misogynist, prone to saying deeply unpleasant things about and to his colleagues, beating up nonce's and fitting up criminals.. absolutely irresistible.

3:Dennis Pennis

http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/content/images/2007/08/09/veryimportantpennis1_396x222.jpg


Quite Simply... 'phwoar'


4: Red Fraggle

http://webspace.webring.com/people/gb/blue_rat/red.jpg

Unhinged, be-pigtailed, hyperactive girl fraggle, there's no justification for this, odd, Muppet related sapphic longing, save for her manic eyes and sheer exuberance, past experience taught me, nice girls are shit in bed, they hump your leg and freak you the fuck out, what you want obviously is a potentially bi-polar loony, with pigtails...

5: Malcolm Tucker

http://media.flother.com/apps/files/uploads/originals/malcolm_tucker.jpg

"Come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off"

6: Marwood aka 'I'

Slightly less of an alcoholic then his counterpart 'Withnail' , never prone to smearing himself in embrocation, drinking lighter fluid or indeed 'demanding to have some booze' and had the warmer looking coat, which in the grand scheme of things is quite important actually.

7: David Kesslar


http://exclamationmark.files.wordpress.com/2006/09/david-naughton-american-werewolf-1981.jpg

I for one am prepared to overlook the whole lycanthrope issue here, frankly he could eat me the fuck up like a big bad werewolf come the full moon, on the one condition that, prior to that, he rogers me entirely senseless, till I can no longer walk, and think my name is Jeremy



8: 'Shaggy'

http://pouletvous.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/scooby-doo-and-shaggy-copy.jpg

Actually I have never considered the aesthetic merits of a Great Dane owning Hannah Barbara character in my life., though kudos given for combining purple flare with a lime green top, its a look I have championed myself.... however it has been established. that by all accounts, he's about the only being real or otherwise 'pon this earth who could tolerate me. thus I endeavour to develop a burgeoning affection for him.. it could after all be a beautiful thing, or something.



Anyway reader, thats possibly revealed more of my psyche then is reasonable in retrospect, and frankly if you'll excuse me.. the hour draws late, morning beckons, and frankly I could do witha little private time now...

I am in the midst of 'Internet apathy'.

Its boring me frankly to have every possible facet of information I might want, need, or indeed not want or need, but now have access to anyway, but a flurry of my fingertips away.

The Sun keeps shining, and theres a whole world beyond the perimeter of brickwork marking the external walls of my house, and true to form.. a whisper of Summer on the wind, and I want to be outside, with a camera, or sweating like a rapist tilling the earth..

And so, operation 'tame the gardens' commenceth.. today, like a handsome prince, with breasts, no horse and a distinct lack of chain mail I set about clearing a path to my front door, through the briar that had engulfed us through the cold wet, and indeed snow covered months that ensued in the latter part of last year, though seem, hopefully to finally be abating... and by Thorny briar, I actually mean an explosion of Lavender, and an unruly mysterious tree thats appeared of its own volition in my flowerbed....

Tomorrow, weather permitting, I wage war with the weeds, erect a lavender restraining fence... and mutter darkly at the front lawn,which, with a bit of luck, or more realistically, cash, and hard work will be a nicely gravelled, low maintenance area, something interesting or nice smelling in the middle, and some planted up tubs dotted here and abouts... in short it will be a bit more grown up looking and easier to keep tidy... not unlike most of the inside of my house of late.. seems I am getting a bit more grown up.. sadly I cannot keep myself tidy, I am fighting depleting collagen and gravity... but the gardening really OUGHT to help.

Outback.. and I of course DON'T mean Australia... I am plotting, literally for the resurrection of my growing fruit and veg, albeit on a much smaller scale then the Allotment I so sorely miss
and I'm going to well and truly piss off a holly tree with my newly acquired saw...

Too long have I procrastinated on what I might do, and what I need to do... fuck it... I shall just press on.. and see what happens. It works with decorating, housework, my life in general and so why should I anticipate it wouldn't work with gardening? too much thinking leads to your ultimate ruin.

let us then take the beginnings of an idea and run amok...

see what happens... and get real dirty in the process..

Oh AND do the gardening too,fnarrr

I am restrained for my own safety, beneath me the real world seems very far away, people like Lilliputians gawp and point..

a voice next to me says 'oh yes, it VERY high, don't look down will you'

and then without a seconds warning we fly, hurtling through the air at speeds I usually reserve for IN my car, up and down, round corners without breaking, and disconcertingly upside down, at this point my lack of stature leads me to lift out of my seat..and I know, implicitly that I am going to die.

I found myself incapable of speech, say for 'eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee' and 'holy fucking SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT' and yet I am grinning, the manic grin of the adrenalin junkie in a state of terrified Ecstasy..

You see, I,timid sensible, quiet the Fanylion, was in answer to the voice over question "brave enough to ride the Kumali" I was also brave enough to ride the Mumbo Jumbo and the Velocity

I wasn't fool enough to ride ANYTHING that would leave my stomach lurching several feet above my head - I can achieve that sensation on hump back bridges and roads prone to subsidence at speeds greater then 35mph.

Theme Parks, I take it ALL back...I DO see the point, it just too stepping forward from 'no chance' to 'why not' and being in the company of a Friend of a friends boys, who would have essentially carried me ONTO rids if I'd so much as faltered in the queue.

I re-awoke the sleeping youth within, and long may she prosper, all it took was enormous amounts of Adrenalin, and the sensation that your heart may yet burst out of your chest for it beats so hard in anticipation.

By the end of the Holiday, we were risking hypothermia by going outdoors in biting winds, but inspite of the disco goths manflu, we still managed to run around the caravan site, hiding from our children (who were indoors with the fuzzyfelt, paying very little attention to the antics of two giddy adults) we relished in having the swimming pool complex to ourselves, and discovered Buckfast.. a peculiar wine, like cough medicine and ribena.. but not actually unpleasant.


However, the Zoo.

Zoo's are loathsome places, miserable animals far from their natural climes looking about as impressed with being in a muddy field in the North of England, as I was with the 'mono rail' the lure of 'you know the ones with Bums' was sufficient though - I presumed the disco goth was referring to Baboons - on account all apes, great or otherwise are in possession of a rectum...
And so, slowly.. in the cold, we encircled the enclosure.. The children and disco goth were impressed by a small newborn baboon... not AS impressed as we were soon to by.. the Disco Goths protegé piped up, 'm-u-u-m is that DEAD monkey'.. 'no its JUST a baby' 'Noooo, THERE'

And there, back arched in rigamortis, arm outstretched and teeth bared in rictus grin it lay 'pon the grass, the small simian cadaver, I managed a very blurred photograph - mono rails are not the ideal point for photography... largely because they move - we went back later on, but in true Baboon style, they'd carted the corpse off with them.


It is one of those moments, where everything you anticipate has been over ruled by the strangest spectacle, and quite WHAT it says about me I shouldn't like to speculate, but I always find dead animals fascinating and quite funny.

Anyway, reader.. I have to go about my business, and poke the cat in the eye to stop her staring at me quite so intently...

Unexcited, heads North...

It is early, the sun is in the process of rising, and the feline contingent of the house are stalking about my feet verily Yowling to be outdoors, unfortunately such delights are denied of them, for shortly, well in ooh about 4 hours, I, the offspring, the discogoth and one of her brood depart these walls for the heady delights of Flamingo land.

Yes reader, I am away, on a Holiday.

At this moment in time, I aren't sure what has possessed me, what in the name of all I hold holy was I thinking, ah yes that was it 'the children will enjoy it'

let us examine for a moment the finer points...

it is a Theme Park and Zoo I like neither....there is a Monorail over some of the Animals, this I suspect is a recipe for disaster - what pray tell does one do, if it breaks over a pit of bored, caged angry.. and potentially HUNGRY Lions, Tigers or Bears (oh my..) madness, though probably saves on the animal feed bill.

However, its NEAR Whitby, so that'll be me happy for a few hours at some point.

Holidays that 'the children will enjoy' are as close to torture as any adult need venture, it is I suspect a masochistic streak within parents, wishing perhaps to punish themselves further for having the temerity to issue forth an extension of the gene pool. Things can only be made worse by going to resorts situated traditionally along the coast, where 'entertainment' and indeed 'fun' are top of the bill and enforced on people foolhardy to pay for such a privilege. I speak from experience here, Butlins, is I suspect the last vestige of the third Reich, though as you might expect.. we opted for self catering, and as such casual observers of the horror... men and women in red coats, barking 'Hello Can I help you?' - terrifying.. no actually it was worse then that, at the set meal times, you'd see the prisoners of fun, glassy eyed, wandering trance like towards the food halls, bandy legged and forlorn looking, their very being haunted by the fact they will be near hypnotised into later, attending a 'show' which may or may not feature the creator of his own time 'Chico'...

But... the children enjoy it...


None of this nonsense held sway with my parents, they I presume didn't give a shit if we enjoyed our summers or not, and essentially put us out to pasture in the back yard, one year aged about 2 I lived for several weeks as a hobo in a cardboard box ( it was BRILLIANT, granted I slept indoors, but I really don't know why the homeless complain so much) other years, we cycled about various villages, like a modern day von trapp family (only my mother looked very little like Julie Andrews,and there were remarkably few Nazi's looking for plague graves in the Wolds, nor was our apparel constructed entirely of curtains, though we did indulge in questionable singing)

I of course do them a disservice,we did have fun, and they made sure of that in their own way, picnics, and walks, simple fun, 'appen we were poor, it was grim up north afterall... though we did have at least 2 holidays when I was very small..

Ingoldmells, the Miners Welfare camp -no one in my family is a miner, never have been, we were healthy lunged interlopers.. there under false pretences.. actually, no, we were invited by my Grandfather, who with his MGM trio performed of an evening - entertaining the emphesymic. These holidays have become the stuff of legend in my memory... I recall recoiling in horror when a grown man called me a silly sausage... my Mother very kindly explained to me that it might mean poo, I was aghast, and precocious to tee, will have chastised him.

The accommodation was perhaps then, the highlight... a humble performers perk, you see... the 2 berth caravan... quite how it worked I aren't sure, but it contained 4 adults, 2 children and three dogs, a rambunctious springer spaniel, a whippet and a bloody huge Alsatian, cosy is an apt description... back in the early 1980's concerns about paedophilia were brushed under the carpet.. and we children were strip washed in a large bucket outside the caravan (this I suspect has led to a lack of inhibition on my part in adult life, and the sheer inability to care where I pee).

As the camp was enclosed, the door of the caravan was mainly open, and the dogs loosed about us....

The Alsatian, kato was a beast of an animal, huge, hairy and rather prone to startling people by standing very very close to them and frowning.. this was largely due to myopia on the dogs part, but gave her a ferocious air... in spite of the fact that at least once that holiday I attempted to ride her like a horse... it didn't work, dogs are not compliant in such circumstances...

To further create the illusion of thuggery kato would cock her leg to pee, there is a chance she may in fact have been a he, I cannot remember, and have no one I can ask to confirm this.. One
morning, whilst out on a jaunt about the campsite, kato was as dogs are prone to be, possessed by the urgent need to evacuate her bladder... she chose a tent as the ideal receiver of her micturate... unfortunately it was occupied, and said camper was less then happy.. I was recently washed and dressed for the day when an irate man, charged up to the caravan,

"is THIS your dog" he demanded, My grandfather confirmed indeed he was owner of said Alsatian...

"Well its PISSED all over my tent, and YOU are going to have to clean it"

Something of a heated debate ensued, My Grandfather maintaining the upper hand, calm and polite, affronted by the behaviour of, and language used by this man in front of children...threats about reporting us ALL to the camp owner were rather futile, we were in a privileged position after all, ultimately he took the bucket of water - in which we had so recently been washed, accompanied the gentleman to his tent, and rather then actually cleaning the tent, threw the soapy water over it, turned on his heel and went back about his business...

I don't recall encountering the camper again, I recall being too young to run amok with the other children nearby, and spending a deal of time hung out of the caravan door watching them, I recall equally a playground, where the children of a miner openly mocked me for knowing how iced lollies were made, and indeed my sisters Monty Python t-shirt (this later became my PE kit at primary school)...

That, that was our final trip to the Miners welfare, had I suspect very little to do with the dogs behaviour, and was more connected to my grandfathers failing health, his last summer spent entertaining the emphesymic.. before himself succumbing to cancer.

At least a decade, I suspect more, passed before we went on a 'proper' holiday, abroad no less... well to France, by which time I had an appreciation of cheese, and developed an appreciation of wine... I lost all appreciation of sloped low ceilings on the first morning there, when, in that most stupid period of your life(immediately after waking..) I sat up... it hurt.


Anyway, the others are getting impatient, apparently its not the done thing to lord around in your dressing gown, blogging when there are excited offspring in the vicinity....

I must away...

Sometimes, you discover a truth, your brain had erased, for no good reason beyond the fact you were 19 and quite spectacularly drunk...and then..12 years later, you are reminded of it.. you sit dumbfounded.. then laugh.

Lets go back in time... vworp vworp vworp tardis sound effects...


It is New Years Eve 1997, every ones back from Uni, so the old gang have decided to see the new Year in together.. in the heady night spot of Lincoln.. we convened in a pub by the canal (always start near the water - saves falling in) taxis were booked for after midnight at the top of the hill to return us to our respective villages.. Much alcohol was taken on board,and the peculiar battle for my attention from a dear friend ensued.. her mistake had been to invite along the one person whom could hold court with my attention and my affections, causing the rest of the world to cease to exist, so she took the approach of getting so shit faced everyone would be paying attention to her... by 11.30 she was sat vomiting ungraciously under the table.. we were a stones throw from the Cathedral, it was agreed that her parents should be summoned... on the grounds that she was showing us all up - and I'd be able to get a free ride home.. we saw midnight in, she slumped on a bench as the clock chimed out its fateful passing of time bongs.. almost empty by then of her cargo of booze... I mysteriously bleeding down my sleeve.. and the source of all the trouble stood at my side, hooting with laughter with me at how oddly this reunion had turned out...


and there, my memory stops.

What i don't recall is that between 1 and 2 am, I was at home, probably drinking tea with my Mother and sister who'd been out for a meal... and the phone rang.

Uncharacteristically for me at ANY point in my life.. I answered.

I am assured by my mother, who remembers it clearly, because everyone who was in earshot was quite taken aback...that my words ran thus...


'he-llo?'

'who is this?'

'YES.. but WHO is THIS'

'oh *sigh* FUCK OFF'

at which point I apparently held the receiver at arms length and uttered the words 'Mother, dads on the phone, apparently he wants to talk to you'

and then stalked off about the house, mumbling vitriolically about the 'fucking wanker' 'what the fucks does he want, twat'

All these years I have lamented not saying goodbye and not closing a door.

Turns out, that actually.. I slammed the bugger SHUT with some vigour, only I had clear forgotten about it.

My phone manner has improved slightly.. and oddly enough, asides the memory games my mind plays on me.. I no more wish to speak to him now, then evidentally I did then.

The humble house mouse gets bad press, and not without good reason.

They are small, furry and not entirely unappealing, certainly they can make lovely pets, till they turn nasty and eat each other in a power struggle..however they are entirely incontinent, and never have the good grace to clean up after themselves. Nor do they buy in their own provisions, oh no.. the gnaw your vegetables, spill your oats about the cupboard and make free with your teabags, as house shares go.. I prefer people, at least they leave a note saying 'sorry finished the milk' and aren't usually wont to piss in the pantry..

Its been a good 2 years since I won war with my rodential contemporaries, the addition of two bloody thirsty killers to the household is, we hope deterrent, or pest control enough...

The day I discovered the mice was quite traumatic for me... put an animal out of context and it becomes immediately terrifying.. mice ranked slightly lower then the Toad that hopped into the kitchen one summer evening and rendered me, trapped on a chair, babbling incoherently and gesticulating at the amphibious infiltrator, a spectacle made all the more amusing by the fact that outside, when encountering, presumably the same toad in my garden, I just pick him up gently and move him out of harms way so I can mow the lawn (I flymo-ed one once, it made a god awful racket) needless to say, no toad nor frog has crossed my threshold since that day... a situation probably helped by my ex, who once whilst on his way to the bin managed to catch a miscellaneous amphibian on the toe end of his shoe and send it soaring majestically several feet through the air, before it landed indelicately and with a bellicose 'croak' went about its business.

Anyway yes.. the mice.

I boxed up all that was untarnished by their feasting, and threw the rest away.. and cleaned the pantry and kitchen to within several inches of their non mortal lives.. I identified the point of entry for the furry burglars.. and with a demented look in my eye.. and a cry of... 'this isn't rock and roll THIS is genocide' poured a heady cocktail of poisons down then hole... this wasn't ever going to be enough.. who eats blue wheat when theres a cornucopia of heady delights above floor level.. not mice thats for sure.

I blocked the hole... they gnawed through.


The only solution then was to lay traps, and poison...

I got through countless traps... evenings trying to read or heaven forbid watch the television were punctuated by the rhythmic 'CRACK.. *ricochet* THUD' of another mouse having its neck broken...

I never could bring myself to empty the traps... a spike goes through their head.. its a messy business and I have a weak stomach when it comes to rodent brains.

Friends recommended glue traps.. I couldn't bring myself to use them... cold hearted killing is one thing, willful torture is another... which brings me to the reason, I never considered 'humane traps'

My Grandmother, once had a mouse in her pantry... and decided far from kill it, she would ensnare it in a humane trap and release it to the wild far far from her house, safe in the knowledge that if you just put them in the garden, they come back.

We applauded this gentility, this tolerance and respect for life...and wished her luck with this endeavour.


6 months later, she cleaned the pantry out... and found the Humane trap stowed, where she had placed it, behind several jars of maturing chutney... she picked it up, and then.. when she heard the rattling sound from within..

She remembered... you have to CHECK humane traps and empty them.

My Mother was summoned, via the unusual practice of telephoning our next door neighbour (we didn't have a phone, and Grandma was in no state to hop on her moped)

Bravely, and not without a little amusement, my mother opened the trap.. and outside, emptied its contents onto the ground.. there, preserved beautifully, dehydrated, and not unlike Tutan Khamun was essentially a mummified mouse.

We considered the option of reconstitution, and were accused of being silly, worse still it was suggested we were cruel, harsh words from the mouth of a woman who had, starved to death an innocent field mouse which had taken refuge for the winter in her pantry..

From that day on I avowed.. never will I attempt genial dealings with the rodents, once more I encountered a humane mousetrap.. in my late teens, the cat had decided my bedroom was the ideal place to stow his live prey.. and safe in the knowledge I would never remember to check the neck-breaker traps - or indeed equally likely would have ended up injuring a hand or foot by neglecting to remember where they were.. we opted to use,yes, my grandmothers old humane trap... over several nights it became apparent, house mice are clever and long enough to escape these traps... so we devised an extension - to make it harder for it to escape, and so positioned it that it would make a noise against furniture when the mouse was trapped and devising its escape... at which point I believe the plan was to drop the whole set up out of the window...

And THEN.. at the point, where, watching idly from my armchair (I had essentially turned my room into a bedsit by this point) the mouse was making its approach to the trap.. ah HA we've got you NOW I thought.. THEN.. then the cat decided to kill it, and eat it..

So the moral I believe is, go straight in for the kill, too much kindness will kill slowly, too much ingenuity and thinking.. and someone or something else pips you to the post.


Oh and the mice situation here.. that was ultimately solved by having new flooring put down..

Yesterday, I did something possibly ill advised, of which I am sure the consequences will be biding their time until they come back to haunt me.

For the benefit of those reading who have never met me, it may come as a suprise for you to learn I'm not quite like the majority of people, I have never had an inclination to follow the herd, I blame this entirely on my family.. I do not strive to be 'different' or 'alternative' in my dress or disposition, I simply know what is and isn't 'me' and actually I'd stand out far more in the fashion uniform of the masses, simply because it would be at odds with me... equally.. I have never felt inclined to do anything other then speak properly, yes I have something of an accent, but it wanders around various regions at a seconds notice, theres a lot to be said for enuciation, pronuciation and indeed the correct inclusion of consonants (which isn't to say 'appen I never drop the occasional 'h' or indeed 't'.. but the inflection is there... what I don't do is replace 'tt' with a 'ck' sound.. I loathe and destest THAT kind of behaviour) anyway.. yes.. you should now have the idea in your head, that I, Fanylion am a little, how shall we put this without sounding dreadfully cliched and up ones own arse.. erm... kooky..


For all of that slight oddness, in my own way I fit in with the right kind of people, I live in an area where theres very much a social divide.. there are the decent, honest people, and at risk of sounding like a crushing snob.. there are the chavs.. the vast majority of the latter, look down their immaculatley made up noses at everyone else - they simply KNOW they are of superior standing, I do not bother them, they do not bother me, occasionally I suspect they consider ringing the fashion police, or indeed having me sectioned based on my devillment of wearing checks AND stripes.. and then.. just in case there wasn't enough playground politics.. you have the extras from shameless.., the people who I have no qualms abut appearing snob
bish about, the ones who roll up pissed at hometime, who stand shouting and swearing in the playground, making tactless remarks and being frankly nasty.. just to make themselves feel better.

Since my eldest started school, I have established myself, been accepted by the other parents, as yes.. a bit 'odd' sometimes, but not terrifyingly weird.. I have firm friendships, people who take me for who and what I am.. and then, then theres 'monstrosity #1' as I shall call her.

And herein is the crux of my waiting for a situation to bite me on the arse, you see I broke the cardinal rule, instead of, just letting her railroad me OUT of the way, and out of control of a situation wth my own child (bear in mind this is not someone who could consider me even a casual mate, and if she does, it says more about her lack of intuition and ooh intelligence then it does mine) I steadfastly remained calm, and ignored her... assuming perhaps that she might take the hint and back off.. she didn't

I to avoid confrontation, kept a very very low profile..

and then, it, the monstrosity cornered me in the street, where people where innocently unloading their children from cars to deposit them at school...

And in the politest way imaginable.. I warned her, that she really didn't want to speak to me, it was not in her better interests, my mood was bad, my temper short.. and there it was.. the moment perhaps when she realised... Fanylion *doesn't* actually like me, THATS why she never sends me a christmas card, never stops to talk to me in the street, never invites me down for coffee.. and looks so bloody BORED when I speak... she swore in her dulcet, consonant dropped tones at me...

I didn't let rip people, I didn't execute the verbal castration, or character assasination..

no

I turned on my heel.. (she flinched actually) looked her in the eye, and made it quite clear, that I was in a BAD mood, and actually, like every other human being walking the face of this planet... I will take it out on whomsoever I wish...as is my wont.

I left her, stood, mouth flapping like a liver diseased acne riddled 2 legged goldfish and walked home, hand in hand with my ailing child, head held high..

and I know, the fall will come.

I know..

when I LEAST expect it, andthere are enough people around to witness my downfall.. then

at that moment it will come.. a launched tirade, that would have Jeremy Kyle running for cover.

I will be this, that and indeed the other, I have no doubt about that..

if I'm really lucky, she'll try and hit me.

for my part, as I know its coming, I intend to do what my Mother always taught me to do with bullies, look bored, ask nicely if she's quite finished yet and rise above it..

I'm hoping, you see.. that on that fateful day, I'll get the TV movie cheer, that my boys and I will be carried out of school on the shoulders of a rejoicing crowd..

that the Monstrosity will be seen for what she really is, tarred, feathered and run out of town, back to the village she came from.

Though I expect of course, in reality.. she'll shout and yawp and take a swing at me, I'll behave with dignity and let it wash over me... people will wonder quite whats just happened there, and the gossip mongers will have a field day...

fixed.

Its 25 hours ago, I am in Mold... specifically I am upstairs in Y Delyn, Dean is insistent he is having technical issues.. now MOST of these are rectified by turning the volume up and changing the settings to aux rather the CD on the venues amp... but he maintains during and after one track specifically that the sounds not right, somethings wrong, its just NOT good enough.. interestingly however ALL the other songs played on that deck are fine...

Whats interesting about this is the track he had particular issue with, was Genesis.


From this we can conclude, safely one important factor which should never EVER be overlooked, Genesis in ANY incarnation, were in fact SHIT.

Sadly it was from their debut album, so we cannot attribute the mainstay of their LACK of appeal, though it is something which must never ever be considered anything but of paramount importance, the 'Phil Collins Effect' throughout his career, YES he has proved an accomplished and impressive percussionist I cannot and would not deny that, but he besmirched the music scene across three decades, and must never ever be thought of as anything but a smug, drumming, ginger baldy twat. Whilst yes I can tolerate, that is to say I am not driven into a psychotic rage or fit of uncontrollable vomiting by 'against all odds' on those rare occasions I listen to the local radio station (usually when we have had several inches of snow and I need to know if I have to actually LEAVE the house and take the loin fruit to school) I cannot bring myself to fully appreciate his whining, I cannot like him.. this however is not the case for the self important Geordie... Jimmy Nail.

Jimmy Nail you see takes shite music so far down the line of truly awful, that it becomes bearable, simply it is a nostalgic hankering for the aurally abysmal, it is background muzak which neither inspires nor distracts you at those times when you need to concentrate your mind... This moment of boredom and distractibility with Spotify so easily at hand saw me delving into the heady delights of Jimmy Nail... having giggled ceaselessly at his soulful vocals, I chanced upon 'Black and White' on his awe inspringly naff titled best of ' the Nail File', reader I implore you hunt this track down.. it will never EVER be the best thing you hear, but it will by far and away not be the worst... You can picture the seriousness with which he MEANS this sentiment, you can hear it in his inflection and intonation, Nail is impressing upon us the need for racial equality, to further hammer home he has at some point enlisted a young black rapper, one 'Ranking Roger', this act leads to what may never be usurped as one of the FUNNIEST moments in bad music... there you are, Jimmy Nail, pouring and gurning his SOUL into this message, this moral tale of scholarly metaphor,, and then... he is urged on with the war cry 'C'mon JIMMY NAIL!!!!!!!!'
I cried tears of mirth when I second heard this, the first time, I simply sat agog at what was playing out before my ears.

I have however, digressed..

Back in Y Delyn, the music improves.. a small crowd is gathering to enjoy the aural delights proffered by Dean, I discovered one of the few lagers I positively enjoy is on tap there, and our small elite hunkered round the decks is added to by the arrival in secret (always when The disco Goth and i are smoking elsewhere) of Ben, known previously as Soundhog (and DO hunt down his work, the mans an undiscovered and unappreciated genius) a man who can reverse DJ, tinker with equipment, create effects and echos without ever revealing HOW, and often unnoticed or magnificently tolerated by Dean, at this point the evening stops being about what anyone as an audience might be wanting and becomes self indulgent music geekage - two grown men impressing each other.. though for an onlooker and listener, this is when it gets better then being 'really quite good' because 2 heads are often better then one.. segues become seamless.. chat becomes silly, and guitar playing along to bloody everything becomes jealousy inducing..

But yes, we raise a glass, and indulge in a nonchalant salute to friends and music, to ridiculous conversations about the 'infinity Les' nature of my family (I have a series of Uncles and cousins all called Les, this begins with big Les and moves down the generations to the point I have a cousin of my age referred to as little little Les's little Les, it has I suspect become farcical..more anecdotes of my odd family at a later date) the realisation that domestic cats are a dying species because rescue centres neuter them all..., the shock revelation that the Disco Goth has never liked Kylie.. and the perplexing notion that in a cannibal situation I'm first on the dining table as food on account that I most likely taste like mint.

There is NOWHERE on earth quite LIKE wales, nothing expected ever happens there and yet.. its the most grounding and normalising place to go.

I join you reader, from my sometime home, well locale I visit so often I ought to pay rent, in North Wales.

Opposite myself are The Disco Goth and a be striped DJ Fuzzyfelt, adjacent to my right is a Glass of rather lovely wine, and a note book, in which I am intermittently making notes at a high speed for Affingham...

Dotting around, in a fugue of high pitched hovering is a mosquito... at some point, it is inevitable at least one of us will be dive bombed.. My money is on the Disco Goth. I have good grounds for this, and thus regale you with the peculiar occurrence..

The Flies of 'steddfod.

Having resided in a field for some three days, in the hot sun of high summer, it is inevitable, no matter to what lengths we went to maintain scrupulous personal hygiene (I for one was walking a 2 hour round trip JUST to shower) that some amount of sweating would have occurred by mid evening.. from sweat emanates pheromones... The Disco Goth, I can only conclude is the very epitome of pheromone production...

To stand by her was akin to being with pig-pen from the Peanuts cartoon, only it wasn't a haze of dirt swarming about her, but a flock of small insects.. some great amusement could be gained by asking her to move and watching the slight delay of a cloud of insects moving just to join her and be close... sadly this spectacle ceased once the sun had set and the temperature had dropped, and it never reoccurred the whole time we were there...

That is all

Back to my wine

After the ball was over..

And so, with heavy heart, and a little sigh, we gather, to think of Donna Noble... last time we saw Donna, she was a bit overwhelmed by the Doctor in his bleak angry phase.. in the meantime, it seems she did a bit of thinking.. and Actually, being a Temp in Chiswick..well it was a bit boring in retrospect....

This time round she also has a Mother who thinks she should get a job and settle down with a nice boy, and a Grandfather who spends a lot of time 'up the hill' looking at stars and tending to his veg... Wilf in fact, is probably one of the best 'adds depth to a companion' characters that exists, reverential and wise, and encourages Donna to follow her dreams...

And so she does... In fact she was reading on the Internet, and hunting down the Doctor... And so, she finds him, after a series of near misses whilst the vunerable and gullible of the world take a new wonder drug, where the fat literally just walks away. Don't get me wrong... the idea of a mouthy ginger being the new companion filled me with dread, but this Donna has had some time to think, she's considerably quieter and yes, she's ready now and she WANTS to see it all... to experience more, and The Doctor, well he just wants a mate...

And so, not before bumping into a dewy eyed, pouty girl in a crowd of gatherers who have been ogling a spaceship, she joins him, in the Tardis...and they complement each other so well, this is very much what both characters needed, The Doctor someone to make him think, slow him down take into consideration the impact of his actions on the Human race - for which he has an evident soft spot, whilst he expounds the importance of maintaining a balance, a continuous timeline - not interfering or playing God... (remember he's seen what can happen when a God Complex develops) and it works so well because theres no expectation on either side, no hidden agendas... its a mutual feedback, they make each other more.

And off they yomp, through space and time, saving the world, liberating species from their oppressors, all the whilst on some almost 'hippy' personal growth travelling expedition, both becoming more aware of their power on a different level to that which they would ordinarily consider themselves, till ultimately they are equals... sparring partners, friends on the best, if weirdest Holiday ever, living in the moment neither wishing to know the future (no spoilers)...

Where other companions have been prone to making the occasional faux pas... Donna is prone to being whipped out of reality, into idyllic dream worlds where she has a family and husband - but only if she looks at them, and indeed into another version of the world, where she turned right at a junction... at which point it becomes rather apparent, that not ONLY was she dissatisfied with being a temp.. she was also the most important woman in the whole universe, even if there was something on her back...

Which is where Rose Tyler steps in... remember Rose? persistent little bugger... never quite lost the God Complex either... and so she sends Donna, back into her own timeline (which risks all known reality caving in on itself) to get run over, in order that Donna who of course knows none of this at the junction turns left instead...all to make sure the Doctor doesn't die... admirable yes, but you worry for his pets...

So, yes back they go in the Tardis, the Doctor and Donna... and then... as it tends to.. Reality Cracked open, earth disappeared and there they are, trapped outside of time... its not looking good.. there have been portenders of doom all the whilst which they have ignored, of course they do eventually get back to earth - not least because ex-companions of the doctor can't NOT intervene..and when theres Daleks dashing around, oh and BLOODY Martha considering blowing up the entire planet... and the Doctors grinning because he's heard the word Rose, and you just KNOW its going to be a big ole, knees up - the whole gang together.. saving the world..

Then it goes a bit tits up.. you end up with two Doctors, and Donna blessed with a whole lot of Time lord intelligence... which is brilliant, you'd already seen her sort of calmly accept she was a key figure and moment in space and time...add a bit o'timelord and she was cocky with it... and you reflect on all she's done, where she's been and how its all led to this moment of brilliance..

and then, when everyone's gone home, Rose has been LEFT in the other Universe, with a token, won't live forever timelord (psycho - clone yourself BRILLIANT plan, wish I'd thought of that myself actually)the parties over..

And by far and away the cruelest fate awaits Donna.

All those things, all that change for the better in herself, everywhere she'd been, saving the world, travelling through time and space..

She'll never know she even did it.

Everyone else at least walks away with their memories...

to never know what you have been..or what you are.., just another thing she's missed and doesn't believe happened.

and just n case thats not bad enough... Wilf Mott makes you cry at then end of it all as well.

I can't sound Jolly, I loathed Martha with every fibre of my being.

Martha my dear, I can't forget thee, try frankly as I might...

Now series three of the new run, is a turning point for Doctor Who, in that the writers et-al have every much established themselves and found their feet, it contains some of the best episodes, and without the undertones of a doomed romance you do get more of a feel for the doctor.. but its all marred by one thing.

Martha Jones, doe eyed and obsequious.

The Doctor, well she doesn't register on his radar.... he's the last of his kind, and he's not looking for a rebound companion, JUST a companion... frankly you'd think someone who's in training to be a (Medical) doctor would have the wherewith all to see that, but no...

And it all started with a kiss...

Granted you can see where she got her signals mixed up, I mean, your on your rounds as a student doctor, and suddenly its raining upwards and your trapped on the moon, then one of the patients, a certain Mr Smith starts acting a bit oddly, kisses you, and together you save the world, whilst trying not to be arrested for being alien by the intergalactic police - who look like Goth Rhino's and answer ONLY to the Shadow Proclamation...maybe she was having an off day.. but frankly if a manic hospital patient started ranting and raving, chasing the elderly lady who just HAPPENS to have a straw and be sucking the life out of people, AND he interferes with medical equipment, frankly THATS no basis for romance, kiss or no kiss... but she's smitten and off they trot...

And actually he does have some regard for her, just as friends though, he KEEPS saving her... even though as things develop, you know once they've had a bit of a to-do with some witches, met Shakespeare, fought with the daleks, it does start to look a bit like, her life back at home, on earth is leading towards a *bit* of trouble for the Doctor, that and almost getting them eaten by a Lazarus monster (think Oil of Ulay.. but taken to an extreme) he clearly has some respect for her, and trusts her, and knows he can rely on that obsequious doe eyed pal to look out for him when he has to turn himself into a human for a whilst... and someone to stop him.. and actually all that doting and belief in him Martha had, well it paid off in dividends in the end, and in a way SHE saved the world - he seems to have a habit of this doesn't he, the Doctor... taking people, ordinary or otherwise and empowering them... she listened to and appreciated him, she saw all the good he did, or at least all his good intentions, she was his counsel, and even though yes, she made something of a faux pas, she did at least end his belief that he was the ONLY time lord left, and essentially caused the return of his arch nemesis and best sparring partner... The Master.. a Man so devoid of sanity and utterly in love with his own hype, that it seems odd the Doctor would be pleased to see him, let alone try to reason with him... a strange move which did lead to him being aged physically to match his chronological years and eventually kept in a bird cage... but Martha.. well she buggered off whilst the going was good... and disappeared for a year.. doing gawd knows what..whilst Good Old can't die Captain Jack was tortured, and Martha's family - who if they'd kept quiet might have been left out of things attended to the many whims of a megalomaniac time lord...

Anyway, whilst lying about whatever it was she was doing, Martha manages in the end to get caught by The Master, and taken back to a space station... where its revealed.. that whats she's done, is makes sure EVERYONE believes in the doctor JUST as much as she does... he de-ages, everything gets fixed, times reversed.. the End.

Oh and she GOT the hint, and left with her head held high.. and went off to be a Doctor in her own right...

Leaving the Doctor to contemplate.. and crash into the Titanic. Which was worth it for his 'what, What WHAT!' boggling.. but is NOT going to be spoken of, because if I ignore it.. it never happened.

More a synopsis then a run through on the whole character... on account theres an entire other series in the way

Imagine, for a moment, your a temp, from Chiswick, its your wedding day.. your walking down the aisle towards your best beloved and then...

BANG

your suddenly stood in the Tardis, with a bespectacled, pinstripe suited, slightly miserable looking waif of a Man...

You'd be a shade on the annoyed side wouldn't you?

Yes... So was, Donna Noble... Now in the fullness of time, Donna Noble will go on to become my favourite of all the companions of the new run of Doctor Who.. back in 2006, she was essentially the between companions bouncing board for a heartbroken and Angry the Doctor... it was, yes...
a bit of a romp.. Christmas Specials always are..

And so, having established that no ones really SURE how she got there, and clearly she'd sooner not be, the task of returning her to her wedding, or at least her nearest and dearest commenceth.. of course, the Doctors interest has been piqued, and the appearance of Robot Santas, and Exploding Christmas trees (and where were they in my actual REAL childhood - I might not have grown to hate the festive season so much if it had been exciting you know) just draws him in even more...

And so, it transpires, Donna has been temping at an insurance firm, this firm has links to Torchwood - who I neglected to mention where in no small way responsible for the whole Rose getting stuck in another reality situation in the preceding series...

The fact the wedding reception went ahead despite her vanishing entirely into air, and the appearance of yet more festive adornments trying to kill everyone, leads to the burgeoning, unlikely alliance of the Doctor and Donna, oh and her previously intended...

Now in the meantime, a whacking great star has appeared in the sky, and 'neath the Thames, after thoroughly upsetting Donna, her now ex fiance meets something of an unfortunate fate - moral of the story - never spike anyones coffee.. because eventually, you'll get fucked over by..

a REALLY big BASTARD of a spider..

the ins and outs are of course that spiders are going to EAT the population of earth, teleport to their huge web-star ship and be gone...

Now no-one likes spiders do they?

Donnas gripe is understandable - she was intended to be their lunch, I'd not be very impressed by a spider that wanted to eat me... and the Doctor,well frankly he's had ENOUGH, he's still in a bad mood about Rose, he's stuck with a Mouthy Ginger, who frankly has a bit of an attitude (but is she bovvered, eh trivia fans).. so fuck this for a game of soldiers.. he does what ANY of us would do..

Turns the tap on, and watches in malevolent glee... as they all perish, Muhahahahahahahaha

(actually I favour either a blob of bleach - they burst, or suffocating them in a glass for 3 days, time was of the essence here though)

The spaceship gets blown up as well, the world is saved, and there writhing and screeching is a HUGE bastard of a mutant spider, rater upset about the demise of her children... at which point..

Donna, develops a compassion gland, makes the Doctor snap out of his rage, and they make a run for it... she decides against his invite to travel with him... and with the ring that Will STOP her randomly appearing in the Tardis in place... off she trots, sensibly, unlike EVERY other bloody companion who gets to go IN the Tardis, back to her Normal life... possibly a bit miffed at not getting married, but much more versed in the manner of mass arachnid apocalypse... Taraa Donna....

I have been thinking, and frankly I find myself a little alarmed. Back in the heady days of the eighties, fuelled by his addiction to drugs and drink, Pete Townshend absconded from The Who to write, what are some fine examples of songsmithery which remain very much of their time, but have a point of context in my memory, of happy times, a house filled with music is never to be considered a bad thing.

You can take them as they are, nicely worded catchily tuned pop music your Dad liked, or you can see the sentiment and you can smile.. a lot of the work seems to focus on the changing inter personnel dynamics as a person ages and as you age it begins so to strike a chord.

However..

the words;

"let my love open a door to your heart"

are a source of concern for me, and have been for some time. Now I have no reason to consider that Mr Townshend is anything but a literate, if not rather intelligent man - certainly my own correspondence with him suggest him to be both well read and articulate, its not unreasonable then, to anticipate he may have some rudimentary grasp of the physiology of the cardio respiratory system is it?

I have over the years had cause to examine my ribcage, of late I have noted a peculiar dint to the right adding weight to my assertion last year, that I had in fact received broken ribs (this was around the point in time I was wearing a corset whensoever possible, as means of bracing myself literally) anyway, what I can say with some degree of certainty is that there is simply, NO door which would lead to my heart. I conclude then, this is either poetic license, or a more accurate line would be;

"let my love, rip apart your flesh and break through the cartilage and bone of your sternum, to your heart"

Doesn't have quite the same ring to it does it?

Also, one has to consider - to what is he referring when he says 'my love' is this simply the emotion, presumably then a metaphysical torture device.. or a specific part of his anatomy, in which case, the imagery is to horror inducing to detail, and frankly I suspect the disproved allegations regarding paedophilia are the very least of the worlds concerns....

Suspect, my 'passing' interest is a little more in depth then I confess

So, yes... Rose Tyler, where were we.. yes thats right God Complex, save the world, kill your new found best friend in the process, all in a days work surely.. that or some jellied eels whilst you have a cockernee knee's up dahn the local, singing music hall greats round the Old Joanna...
(it seems you never can tell with the down to earthy London types...)

Confronted, then with the newer, younger, prettier (infinitely prettier frankly) 'new' version of the Doctor, Rose developed something of a sense of style... better hair, and a dewy eyed look.. By now she knew she could be fairly impressive when she chose, and also that this Doctor was very aware that he was far cleverer..and so a bounce back and forth rapport was established.. not before he'd spent most of Christmas fast asleep, only to be revived by a cup of tea, then save the world in a dressing gown, whilst conveniently losing a hand and growing a new one... lest any plot loopholes be needed in the future...

And off they skipped, having jolly japes and 'a bit of a romp' with ethically corrupt cat people, werewolves.. Dickens.. and then the slightly odd appearance of an alternative reality full of cybermen... where Rose Once again made a bit of a faux pas regarding her Dad (you'd think she'd have learned after the whole nearly folding all of time and space in on itself last time.. but no...), her no longer plastic boyfriend stayed in the other version of the world, which was frankly fair enough really.. And you knew, you KNEW so often.. things she said, lingering glances... again Rose was going to go a step too far.. some people resolutely just never learn do they... The devil told them she'd die in war... did she GO HOME? no... she avowed to stand by her man to the bitter end... (doesn't matter how many times a time lord points out - you'll die, I won't.. the ladies just love it)

And then reality cracked open, Cybermen, Daleks (and there was no scope for dust this time around) people hopping between 2 worlds... and to be fair - they DID try and stop Rose, but she wasn't having it.. no no no back she went only to find herself pulled foot long into the Void... rescued at the very last minute by her not dad Dad...

After that, she started hearing voices, and demanding trips to the coast, to break her heart over a hologram and snot heartbreakingly into a rather lovely scarf...

And frankly, really you'd THINK that would have been enough wouldn't it? that you know you KILL one Doctor, your permanently separated from the other with NO way back, stop your sobbing, use some of the things you have learnt, save the other world...

Back on the other side of the Idiots lantern, a nation wept, and some are still prone to random tears if they think too hard about that scene,. a new companion would be instated, we must forget Rose Tyler, and carry on... we've seen the last of her.

or So you would THINK.

I may have been watching DVD boxed sets.

Poor Rose Tyler, she did get herself in a predicament didn't she.. well in so much as a fictional character can.

Such an ordinairy girl, worked in a shop, lived on a Council Estate with her mum, you know the sort happy with their lot in life..., nothing especially unusual about her, pretty eyes, nice smile.. clothes that leave a lot to be desired... She never was going to be my favourite companion, though she was better then Martha (who will never be forgiven as a character for saying, or an actress for agreeing to say 'Its me Martha and I'm bringing you back to Earth') no my favourite was Donna, but thats another story.

So yes, Ordinairy girl gets whipped out of time and life by some mysterious man known only as 'The Doctor', she see's her normal earth boyfriend turned into plastic after being eaten by a wheelie bin, she watches the end of the world far far in the future, and at no point does she say 'now hang ON a minute here' or indeed take leave of her senses, such is I suppose the power of a fictional universe. Yes she made the occasional faux pas, talking to Daleks, interfering with her own timeline and nearly causing the known universe to collapse in the process.. but with the Doctor by her side, everything was fixable, everything could be restored, and you were shown perhaps just how much power an unassuming ordinairy girl can have.

Right up until the point, where faced with his own Demons, faced with deciding live and wipe out a species or die and leave the world to face its fate, a choice, damaged and broken the Doctor couldn't make, and so he did what anyone with two hearts would do... he sent away the one person who could have helped him, back to her normal life, to working in a shop and living on a Council Estate with her Mum.... having seen so much, and been so many places, its understandable perhaps, that Rose Tyler went a bit mad, so mad in fact she ripped open the tardis, absorbed the time vortex, turned Daleks into dust, and found herself, burning up inside, seeing and understnding everything all at once, and in pain.... and all because, she had an irrepressible need to fix things and help her Doctor one last time. Of course all turned out for the best, only it killed her Doctor in the process... nothing was ever going to be the same after that, she'd gone way too far and developed a god complex to boot.. but she saved the world...

It wasn't of course being with the Doctor that made her Brilliant, just that he made her realise her own power... and to boot he told her, albeit in a slightly cocksure Northern manner

"You were fantastic, Absolutley fantastic, and do you know what? So was I"

Grand Nationals...

After a succession of felicitous gigs as a support act, or the main event in smaller venues, where an audience is guaranteed, Race Horses, have stepped into the breech, a bunch of affable debutantes, on a full UK tour as the headlining act promoting the recent release of their debut Album 'Goodbye Falkenberg'. Interestingly, although they have in the past been able to attract a formidable crowd of regulars and longstanding supporters across the border, only one show on the tour is scheduled in their native Wales.

Brimming with self belief, far from being arrogant, or in it solely for the money, their keenness to succeed and the enthusiasm which with they perform is infectious, a spectacle of enjoyment where yes- things go wrong - but they smile through it, and its impossible to not smile with them. Bringing to the stage the same captivating melodies produced on record, but with the palpable tautness of a coiled spring just waiting to unfurl into the ricocheting chaos of the climactic exit numbers, a quality that cannot be captured in a studio and thus pitches them up several notches as a live act.

Their exuberance and charm, is undeniably reflected into the audience and back onto the band, where, a glance round will see a mass of smiling faces, non perhaps so devilish and mischievous as the front man, whom after a full set of innocent songs with adult allusions, looks positively impish at the prospect of saying the F-word, an expression both endearing and bewitching, encapsulating the sense you are in the proximity of something anachronistic. They have a timeless and untarnished quality... You feel you are in the presence of a band in their infancy, guileless choirboys who once accidentally had tea with a Brothel Madam, certainly you walk away with the feeling you have witnessed the beginning of something wonderful... retrace your steps to that moment, if this is the birth of cool, then consider this both the coitus and conception....

Sidestep out of the here and now, and enter another world, back in time, but within the realms of recent history, when Euros Childs emerged with a raft of post Gorky's pop music, in his inimitable way, all contagious guitar hooks and promenade organs, with words of sunshine - a unique approach that has served him well through the years. It was inevitable then, that an upcoming band Radio Luxembourg were comparable to this,and fitted into that self same niche, though more through extraction then comparison or any notion of being a pastiche. Its a fair summary to suggest the Welsh language music scene exists within its own Macrocosm. Bordering at times on being incestuous and remaining a source of hidden treasure to all but the natives, and those foolhardy enough to venture deep across the border and face the at times extreme Xenophobia and Negativity that lingers on against the English, we of course being the great oppressors whom throughout history littered their landscapes with Castles. Obviously there have always been the exceptions to the rule, those who have gone down in anecdotal legends for sacrificing their fees at high profile events by singing in English.

Whilst success on your home turf is a highly important feature, there will always be those whose drive and ambition sees them looking beyond the horizon. Seeking new boards to tread, and a wider demographic to reach out to. With a healthy collection of releases on the Peski Label and a string of TV appearances under their collective belts, things were looking promising for Radio Luxembourg. With an irrepressible charm and enthusiasm they bypassed the sneers usually reserved for those succeeding on a bilingual level. They were gathering momentum in the manner of a rolling stone on a steep incline, they were attracting interest from high profile record labels, most notably Rough Trade, at around the same time it became apparent that copyright issues were going to emerge if they persisted with their name.. and so in 2009 'Race Horses' became their official moniker, and the two steps to the left change in direction that had begun some months previous became a permanent fixture. Not so much a deviation from their original path, as an extension building upon a solid foundation, but removing slightly the 10p mix and a sherbet dip quality of their previous incarnation.

Whilst undeniably there will always be people, myself included, who silently, and not so silently wish for a retrospective inclusion of that sugary sweet pop in their live sets, Race Horses have resolutely risen above relying on their past success, and started afresh.. although sometimes on their home turf, you are treated to 'Cartoon Cariad', although that marked in many ways the beginning of their regeneration. With new material circulating and performed regularly their appeal remained catchier then a magnetic tennis ball for an Iron handed giant.

It is perhaps testimony to their driving ambition, that they manage to not only face up to the challenge of attracting a new audience, but succeeded in swinging around their existing one, ignoring the inevitable fun poking of those resistant to change, they have taken their sound through a range of influences, and have at times bewildered audiences by opening with their own take on electronica and prog rock - a swirling mass of feedback and organs comparable to an adolescent fretboard recently acquainted with productive masturbation to then at the point where even the most determined onlooker is giving up hope, fall into the kind of effortless pop music that appears so simple and naive, yet infiltrates your subconscious like a subliminal call to arms, leaving an audience disquieted but ultimately hooked..

And so, find them where you will, what so appears to be the beginning has been a five year long journey, those first unfaltering steps of a toddler now racing down hill in a confident sprint.
Taking in a range of influences, yet managing to still sound unique, you occasionally realise that perhaps all that has come before has led to this moment, they are if you will a musical mnemonic. The vocal harmonies echoing back to the Beach Boys, the music hall narratives that take you smiling in your head to the Kinks at their most wonderful but ultimately career damaging peak, those occasional nods to George Formby and Glenn Millar, yet still not wholly derivative. That they are in part classically trained musicians is evident, as is their penchant for wordplay and alliteration. What combines and coalesces is something the like of which you may never encounter again.. suspended out of time and leagues beyond the music pouring from more commercially viable bands, there is, quite simply something happening here...and long may it continue.