My personal favourite was Dracula from Romania.I tried to convince Mr SDS that this entry was really just a piss-take (which is what I liked about it) – seeing as the song seemed to be a rip-off of Dr Alban's 'It's My Life' (so much so that it even had the same title) but with predictable, moon-in-June lyrics delivered in an unpredictable soprano voice by a man in a wonderfully, devilishly, outrageous outfit.
I failed...
Well, my joy at the 'irony' of Drac dissipated at the very end of his performance when he gave the look of a sighing diva (possibly pretending to be) overwhelmed by adulation.Hmm.But I'm choosing to ignore the signs because I just want to believe it's ironic. And mainly because I need an excuse to watch it again purely for his costume which I have a secret (ok, not so secret now) longing to experience first-hand - or even second-hand.I have a guilty desire to be embraced and carried off in and to have filthy deeds done to me by the wearer of such a delight.Not him necessarily - any man will do really - well, any man that would look good in that costume which I suppose does limit it rather a lot, perhaps completely.But I live in hope (or should that be: "a fantasy world".)
Would a 'wink' emoticon be too obvious here, or would you think I was being ironic?
Romania didn’t do as well as they should have in my (admittedly warped) opinion, but as every cloud has a silver lining - and as I’d like to find out if that outfit does too - I’ll be searching for the aforementioned costume on eBay shortly.Some black leather gloves would top it off nicely.
Also this weekend there was a repeat of BBC Four’s ‘…Sings James Bond’ which maintained a level of excitement rarely felt in this household on a cold May evening.I enjoyed Moby, Garbage and Dusty in particular. Then as I watched Shirley Bassey in her long, shimmering, spangly dress it occurred to me that I may get to the end of my life having never actually worn one.Is it too late?
As he stood in our doorway with the large bag of rare records that he had just bought from us, he reached out for my fingers, bent forward as he held my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Lovely to have met you”, he said.
We said our goodbyes and closed the door, and as we watched him through the window getting into his car I turned to Mr SDS and said, “I don’t trust him.”It was the hand-kissing that did it.
I was right not to trust him.The (substantial) cheque he’d given us in exchange for our vinyl valuables bounced.(Yes, I know, we should have insisted on cash…)Numerous follow-up phone calls to both his home and his workplace number revealed the horrible truth that this particularly unsavoury individual had clearly never had any intention of paying.He had ripped off his work colleagues too, sold his flat and moved.Obviously keen to avoid answering the door to Joe Hardnutt from Beat The Living Daylights Debt Collection Agency he’d relocated to another continent and word had it that he was living in, of all places, Kansas. (One can only hope he tried pulling a similar stunt out there…)
If only he had kissed my hand before he wrote out that cheque, our misery at being duped could have been avoided, for it was that sycophantically sleazy, albeit subtle, gesture that gave away his dubious character.In my experience (to borrow from Samuel Johnson’s quote about patriotism) hand-kissing is the last refuge of a sleazebag. In every instance that I’ve had my mitt kissed by a stranger there has been something unsettling about it, and about them.Am I right?My lovely female readers,I’m sure, will know just what I mean and agree.And my lovely male readers, I’m certain, would never dream of doing such a thing.
Picture source unknown
(but with thanks to the friend who sent it to me!)
Call me kinky if you like, but my penchant for having my tootsies tickled began at a very early age.I lay the blame entirely at someone else’s feet… those of the shop assistant in our local branch of Barratt’s Shoes, who first introduced me to one of those... are you ready for this?… one of those foot-measuring gauges.I think they’re a bit more sophisticated now but the one that first got my virginal young feet tingling was a metal, wedge-shaped platform with a sliding rule that fixed your foot in place to measure the length and – ohhh!the very best bit! – a soft belt that wrapped around it and slipped into a buckle to determine the width.There was something about my foot being touched and enclosed in such a sparse yet strangely sensual way, and especially the feeling of that little belt - so much so that I was disappointed when my feet stopped growing and the placement of them in such a delightful device was no longer required.
Their desire for attention didn’t subside, though.As an adult I developed a taste for having my soles very softly and slowly tickled – only it doesn’t actually tickle in that squirmingly unbearable way, instead it soothes.I go into a happy stupor when my toes are teased, my insteps caressed. I never want it to end. And I used to ask, "Will you do my feet?" ("do"!) but I admit I'm spoilt now and let my provocatively wiggling naked toes make their own silent but firm demands. I truly believe there is an erogenous zone down there that equals any of the other more well-known ones.It’s just as well you can’t get pregnant through your feet.
Many years ago I had to go for a medical in connection with a job I’d applied for.It was the first and only time I’ve had to go through one; as expected it was mostly just a case of answering questions about lifestyle and general health.Then the doctor said she needed to check my reflexes, so she did that thing where they tap you just under the knee, causing that horribly weird ‘dead’ sensation that makes you kick out involuntarily.Oh, I hate that.“And now I’m just going to check your feet,” she said, preparing me for a similarly uncomfortable experience, as she asked me to remove my boots and socks and lie down on the couch with my legs outstretched.I waited anxiously. Then slowly she started to tickle my right foot with a large feather.I closed my eyes, let the feeling take me.Bliss.She carried on for a little longer and then moved to my left foot.The feather brushed softly against my sole, lingered tantalisingly around my heel then moved up and oh so sweetly stroked the underside of my toes.I may even have let out a very quiet but ecstatic sigh - it was all I could do to stop myself crying out "More! More!" Finally the doctor stopped, looked over at me with a rather concerned expression and asked, “Erm…. did you feel that?”I suddenly realised that she had been expecting my feet to jerk, my legs to twitch, my whole body to stiffen in discomfort. I came back down to earth and explained that, yes, I had absolutely felt it, and that I’d loved every second of it…She looked at me as if I was mad.I got the job, though.
I may as well face it.My name is C and I’m addicted to having my feet touched.Do you reckon I could get hold of one of those old foot-measuring gauges off eBay, I wonder? Mmm... that little belt...
I had a call yesterday from a lady whose surname is Badger. What a great name. I'll be meeting her in due course but I'm getting this irrational fear that I'm going to be faced with this:
Mrs Badger
Of course this has set me off now and I've started to imagine her colleagues too...
...like Miss Fox
and Ms Ratt.
Then there's the elegant Miss Deer
I think it's probably unlikely I'll meet Mrs Highlandcow, at least.
Ah, I’ve just seen the first swallows of the season.Two flew over my head, making a little chirruping call, so optimistic sounding.The buzz of a miniature light aircraft (of sorts) passes by my ear at the same time: a large black and red bumble bee whose furry body looks too heavy for its wings.It hangs low in the air, legs dangling, reminding me of a microlight.
And it makes me think of this song:
Squatting down on the path to pet the neighbour’s cat, who doesn’t seem to mind my somewhat absent-minded stroking, I'm distracted by tiny beasts busying themselves on the ground.I let my focus adjust incrementally like a camera lens, zooming in to the microworld at my feet.Ants, a cautious spider, a woodlouse.I wonder what their view of the universe is like.I attempt to envisage their surroundings from their perspective, like when you’re a kid and you lie on your back to look up at the ceiling, trying to imagine it’s actually the floor. (I loved my fantasy topsy-turvy room with its window just above ‘ground’ level and white stippled plaster instead of carpet, an upturned lampshade sprouting from it like a futuristic sculpture.) My mind idly follows this line of thought, just as my hand idly follows the curve of the cat's sun-warmed back. How might that stone, that leaf, my foot, look to an ant?And are we like mere ants in the vast garden of some other giant life-form?
Oh, stop!
Fortunately, the bee draws my attention away from this mind-boggling mental meander and instead to a dandelion, where it lands on the bright petals.I like the fact that the name comes quite poetically from the French for lion’s teeth, ‘dents-de-lion’ – I guess that refers to the jagged-edged leaves.The French themselves have a more blunt label for this plant: ‘pissenlit’ as in piss-the-bed, thanks to its diuretic qualities. A good herbal remedy, apparently. I've never tried it but my childhood pet tortoise, Twinkle, loved eating dandelion leaves.She frequently pissed on me too...Maybe this was just desserts for when I sometimes used to wrap little string harnesses around her shell so I could watch her carry an egg box behind her like a horse with a (very lightweight!) cart.Occasionally I'd set up small obstacle courses with objects to navigate around which, following that ant’s-eye-view-of-the-world line of thought, must’ve looked like some kind of Stonehenge equivalent to her. However, in spite of this humiliation, and the pissing, she and I got on well, and she would come running (ok, maybe not exactly running…) from the flower beds when I called her name. She was lovely.
And so my mind wanders on this sunny Spring Sunday: swallows, bees, dandelions... and a pissing tortoise.
Inspired by this (thanks, Singing Bear!) I just dug out a CD single that I haven't played in ages - a cover of the Neil Diamond song 'Solitary Man' by HIM - and I still think it sounds great. A combination of an Edward Scissorhands lookalike and some choppy, squealy guitar... mmm! Well, it works for me. Perhaps it's just a guilty pleasure?
There are more things to thank Finland for than just the Moomins! And they also do a mean cover of 'Wicked Game'.
I sat on the top deck of the bus as it made its way through Cambridge yesterday.I love viewing things from above street level, you see so much more.
To me it’s something of a schizophrenic city: ugly and beautiful, affluent and impoverished, and I’ve known it for a long time. I went to the art school there in the early ‘80s, just as Ronald Searle and Syd Barrett had before me.I should’ve had a good time back then but I think I was struggling with my own version of duality.On the one hand I craved independence, on the other I was immature and naïve.I didn’t finish the course and even when I was there I frequently disappeared (on the premise of drawing but rarely doing so).I took long walks down the less than salubrious back streets, preferring to rummage through piles of junk in the rather sleazy second-hand shops of the old Mill Road (I remember one shop where they seemed to specialise in guitars and porn!) over any wanders amid the more boastful facades of the famous university buildings.
Thirty years later, Mill Road has been regenerated but Cambridge’s better known historic heart now seems a little smaller against the new high-rises of its infills and outskirts, especially those I passed on the bus yesterday.These are now the boastful buildings, boasting of their modernity, their convenience for the commuter trains into London and their proximity to cultural treasures.Yet their windows look out onto congested main roads,industrial estates and multistorey car parks.
The bus stopped by one very new, grey, angular block, so far uninhabited by the look of it. Lined up on the inner sills of two of its large windows were dozens of empty beer, spirits and wine bottles.It was as if this building's mask of pristine sobriety had been betrayed by a secret binge drinker and it seemed to me like an abstract symbol of the whole city’s dichotomy.I wish I’d taken a photo.
Anyway, in spite of an odd ambivalence I have about the place it was still good to be in Cambridge.I was there to have lunch with some people I worked with years ago.On the face of it they may seem an unlikely group for me to know and we probably don’t have much in common on any deep level. But there are two extra factors that turn these reunions into a bit of a tonic for me too: the fact that I’m the youngest - and that I’m female!
Older men – well, certainly these ones, who have sailed the high seas in their former lives as ship captains and engineers – know how to make a woman like me feel good about herself!Never mind that I’m now heading towards the open jowly jaws of fifty, my companions will always have ten years and more on me.They are jolly and charming and even if we don’t share political views or lifestyles their company is pleasant and easy for a couple of hours.When I walk in to the restaurant I’m immediately boosted by their convivial greetings. There are jokes about who’s going to get the first hug and I jest back, with a confidence I didn’t even know I had, that they should form an orderly queue. Soft kisses on cheeks are exchanged alongside the “You’re looking well!”s.I must admit it feels lovely to face a roomful of cuddly chaps with arms outstretched.Please don’t tell me there is anything sexist about this - it’s just sweet and warm.For a few hours I feel more feminine and youthful than I have in ages, even if it’s only comparitively, because older men like these seem to have a knack for emphasising it, in the nicest and most harmlessly flirtatious way. Age and time become warped in their company - warped in my favour - and I’m not complaining.Lunch was good too.
On the way back to the bus stop I’m shown the rather bizarre Corpus Clock.Time is also warped by this striking piece of chronographic sculpture featuring a wonderfully creepy metallic locust. There are no hands or numbers on this clock, instead the time is displayed by blue lights shining through slits in its bright golden face.The locust sits atop it, rocking back and forth, occasionally blinking and moving its mouth, as if eating up the seconds as they pass (to quote Wikipedia). The clock’s creator, John Taylor, calls this creature the Chronophage – literally ‘time eater’ in ancient Greek. Apparently he deliberately designed it to be “terrifying” – a way of reminding us of the inevitable passing of time.“Basically I view time as not on your side,” he says.“He’ll eat up every minute of your life, and as soon as one has gone he’s salivating for the next.”
Ironically perhaps too, the clock is only absolutely accurate once in every five minutes. Sometimes the pendulum seems to stop, the lights lag behind and then race to catch up.Like life, it’s erratic and irregular, occasionally disturbing yet compelling.It kind of sums up my experience of Cambridge yesterday, the contrast of splendour and ugliness, my feeling of youthfulness - in spite of the reality of my middle age - against my fellow diners.Maybe it’s not just beauty, but time and age too, that are in the eye of the beholder?
