Nip Tuck Wax Sting

Hilda Ogden - The Early Years, originally uploaded by Belljw18670.

Following on from the lip smacking ginger-bollocks below, I hear from Alex who has had mishaps with her DIY plastic surgery. Having taken herself to France she finds herself stuck indoors during the rain and like most women of a certain age with few belongings in their hotel room she plays “make up” which always beats reading your Gideon Bible (or whatever the French version is). Quentin Crisp told us that make up was addictive, as is the art of applying it – one tweak with the tweezers can lead to startling consequences. Alex’s Facebook entry announces that she is nursing a near hair lip after going crazy trying to remove her moustache with Nair!

My cousin once had a problem with Immac – she was at Milford Haven Youth Club disco (woo!!) and dancing with her best friend. Doing that unenthusiastic seventies bop you see on TOTP2, they bitched about a hairy girl in her class. They shouted above the music…

“She’s a mess – what a state”

“Who does she think she is, Chris Evett – she looks like a man”

“More like Jason King - she should use Immac”

“What do you say?”

Milford was never big on technology, and in an age well-before advanced mixing techniques, the DJ coped with one turntable and so the music suddenly dipped as Julie screamed “IMMAC!”

She has never quite lived down that moment.

Alex meanwhile has updated her entry “Can you imagine how pissed off I was when a low-life wasp decided to drop half its arse into my cupids bow a day later! Spent the first four days of our French trip looking like I had a minute female sensory organ dangling from my upper lip! Combined with half my skin missing and the occasional spot of blood oozing over my frites, I think I looked spectacular.”

All of this in a week when I had to answer an email enquiry about Anal Fissures. I discovered that they use Botox on your butt to make the muscles relax and prevent further chapping! There’s something Nadine “Boggart” Baggot doesn’t mention when she’s flogging her pentapedtides. Call yerself a celebrity beauty editor – we all know she’s sharing a cheap rented flat above the Pound Shop with Beryl and Merle, the girls from the British Skincare Foundation.

Well, I’m off to the bathroom for a date with my moustache and “Just for Men”. What’s your nightmare tale of beauty gone wrong – email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Ginger Tabby and Red Cross

chugger, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Friday night: I am happily surfing, catching up with Facebook, Flickr and Big Brother Forum. Richard is less happily ‘serfing’, getting me tea and toast and sorting out a ham to boil in coca-cola.

Someone is knocking at the door. Richard answers but I can’t hear who he is talking to above the din of News24 (from my room) and SGI (Jack’s room). He is not inviting anyone in and as I am undressed I cannot go and investigate – I’m not dressing just for some hawker! However, by judiciously leaning over the banister I can hide my naked bulk whilst catching sight of something ginger in a suit and hear Richard’s nervous coughing. Rich and his dad are suckers for buying things at the door from our local gypsy or 'Lucky Heather' as we call her. They also fill in sponsorship forms and signs petitions. Richard will even talk to neighbours in the street. I worry we are being talked into a conservatory or PVC windows or something equally déclassé to lower the value of the house.

I go back to my room and shut up the smug twosome from the BBC. Why has the news decided on a Richard and Judy format? We never get two men or two women anchors at the same time as if Auntie Beeb had become so heterosexist as to consider that a single-sex news team may affront the moral dignity of the nation. I still can’t hear as Daddy Shortlegs has his telly volume set on “Wembley”. His room is next to the front door (for his convenient removal when the day comes that a long black car pulls quietly up outside) so the noise still masks the conversation in the porch.

The caller has ginger hair with chunky blond streaks and resembles a political refugee from Cats. I am sure his hairdresser said it will make him look like Geri Halliwell during the Ginger Spice years. Unless she is one of those older salon owners with vicious red hair of a colour only used by older salon owners to complement the Caramac (puppy scour) shade beloved by old males in the profession. In which case she might have hinted he would look like Holly Golightly. Unfortunately they are wrong – he has been tinted the shade of an old tabby with a grease problem and looks like “cat” in the rain scene at the end of Breakfast at Tiffanys.

Over his suit he is wearing a logo-strewn tabard – a vest affair normally sported by criminals, netball players and schoolchildren on sports day who can’t afford a set of kit in the house colours. An advert breaks occurs and Jack’s set dips down to the lulling roar of a Motorhead concert. I hear the ginger one saying he is working for the Red Cross so we are victims of doorstep chuggers – and with that hair! We are giving money to a charity which makes the young man lick his lips with delight. I work for a charity and yet Richard does not make a contribution to me. Charity begins at home you know!!

Never mind Rear Window – try Rear Exit.

builder with white van (2), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I am sitting by the window bored between bouts of running to the bogatory (see below… that’s the blog below not my “belows”) and so take to photographing the passers-by and the neighbour’s builders.

One of them complains loudly to his boss (loud enough for me to hear although the Merthyr accent is almost impenetrable). “He’s got the camera on us all day”.

Well what is one to do when stuck at home with a new digital camera – take photos of the cat!

Hiding from the Pooparazzi

30 SECRETS IN 30 DAYS # 1:, originally uploaded by Me & my life!.

It’s been a long day thanks to Keith and Norman who gave Richard some homemade Bolognese sauce which they said was “a little spicy”. Richard joked that it contained five types of chilli which I thought was a pun on the old “5 types of cum in a Swansea curry” story - years of working on a helpline meant that more than once callers began a conversation with “Can you get AIDS from sperm in curry?” A case for CSI Madras methinks! But no, the Bolognese did had five types of chilli including jalapeños and tasted hot on the way in – and even hotter on the way out. So I have been stuck at home near the lavatory for most of the day.

I discover that Gavin has also had an explosion: he left the office today and when he got to his car the bottle of Lucozade left on the passenger seat had exploded. The entire interior was covered in sticky orange goo! And I mean covered - it's stained the roof lining and took him three hours to clean what he could when he got home. How happy do you think he was? As he said “Seats, windows, dashboard, carpets... even inside the cubby holes, over my CDs: fucking everything!” And to think they used to say it was good for you – I never trusted the stuff myself.

There have been other culinary mishaps. Picture the scene, as Sophia used to say, Haverfordwest 1986, me with big hair and shoulder pads galore making curry for my friends who had come around to help sew clothes for my wedding (it’s a long story and I’ll explain it some day - for now let’s just say “I liked cake” and have done with it). Could they resist meddling – no! Into the kitchen they trooped in twos and threes adding a pinch of something here and a pinch of something else there until the curry was metaphorically black and blue. One of the then decided to put a little salt in it and rather than use a teaspoon – oh no too simple – they upped the jar and heaps poured in. I tried sugar, vinegar, lemon juice everything but it was still the saltiest meal ever eaten (unless you count the Swansea curry above).

Of course using a teaspoon doesn’t always help. One former partner took me strawberry picking – turned out he wasn’t meaning M&S for a quick point at the fruit counter but a real farm – what next tobacco crops, cotton, nights spent running from Simon of Legree! (I only know Uncle Tom’s Cabin from The King and I – gay musical-loving stereotype that I am!! I’m still waiting for a food range containing Uncle Tom’s Carbonara – much safer than Mr Uphill’s Bolognese recipe!)

We made pounds and pounds of strawberry jam and then having used up all the preserving sugar, we turned the last few strawberries into a tart and a smoothie. The tarts were baking away in the oven and I was baking away in the kitchen as it was bloody hot day. I really fancied a cool smoothie but it was undrinkable. Thinking the Apostle spoon meant that the white stuff in a salt pig would be sugar, he’d heaped it in the blender. We poured the smoothies away and drank Canton’s water supply dry only to realise the tarts would be similarly saline! I’m not sure which of the Apostles was actually responsible so I blamed them all.

Had any culinary mishaps - email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Prison Break: Daddy Legs it!!

EWWWW! Dad's Legs, originally uploaded by Jeff Danger.

3am and all the lights are out. I am sleepily making my way to the bathroom in the dark when the hall light goes on downstairs. From the doorway of the darkened bathroom I can see through to the hallway where Daddy Shortlegs is shuffling his way out of his room. His head jerks and wobbles as he looks up and squints as if to focus, making him like something feral sniffing out a predator (or prey!) but I am in shadow and he can’t see me. He can’t see as far as his own hand to be honest but I stand stock still just in case he senses any movement. “What is he up to?”

He shuffles along to the row of hooks and searches the coats and jackets one by one, constantly muttering under his breath and looking in all the pockets of items belonging to me and Richard as well as his own. Surely he doesn’t need cash so badly he’d rob our pockets – has he lost his cash card again? If I confront him he will get angry or shuffle back to his room, so as silently as possible I move closer to the top of the stairs and look around the banisters. I stand listening to the shuffling of slippers on carpet and the jangling of keys. He now has a number of keys in his hand and he is squinting into the kitchen, looking furtively for any sign of me or Richard. Coast clear, he makes his way to the front door, casting another sly glance upstairs and I have to retreat around the banisters so as to remain out of sight in the dark.

He doesn’t need a key to get out of the front door which he opens slowly and stealthily. It is obvious that he is now officially “sneaking”. With the door only half open, he stands in the draught of the porch, trying key after key until he finds the right one. He checks it once, twice, then removes the key and shuffles back into the hallway and drops the spare keys onto the hall stand. Another cagey glance upstairs and then a final shuffle back to the door with chosen key in hand. He walks out of the house and closes the door.

I race up the stairs to the first floor window and watch him progress slowly towards the lamppost outside our house. There he stands, like an OAP rent-boy clutching the lamppost in a terry towelling dressing gown, socks and slippers – sexy not! A car passes by and I feel like a guilty Mrs Danvers spying on him in his best Lili Marlene pose as he repeats the squinty searching look, his head jerkily covering the scene as if he can’t remember how to move his eyes independently of his neck muscles. Surely he can’t be looking for me or Richard, he could simply shout up the stairs as he usually does. And surely he isn’t trolling for trade! Is he ill – is he waiting for an ambulance or a taxi (or an ice-cream van?)

Is he planning an escape? Is he practicing for a quick (!) getaway wearing slippers so as not to alert us? Are his blue veined legs the equivalent of the tattoo in Prison Break, hiding plans for where to find the fridge and where he left the TV remote control? Thank God it is summer and not icy outside or the only break would be his hip when he careers along the path in his rubber-soled slippers.

I stop guessing as two minutes later he returns to the house, turning the key slowly and slipping the door back into place as quietly as possible, his hand on the lock so the latch slides home silently. I am not sure whether I feel more like a prison warder or a snitch as I wake up Richard and tell him what has happened. Did you give him his tablets? Did you shut his window? Did he eat his dinner? Yes, yes and yes... so I lie in the dark wondering what he wants. Should I spin his room for illegal stashes of Mr Kipling’s cherry bakewells? If he passes you a note or bangs out his plan on the pipes with his tin cup, email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Baldie on the beach

bald lady on the beach (2), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Richard and I decide to leave our house for the afternoon to escape the smell of burnt cardboard. We drive to Penarth and eat an ice-cream while sitting on the pier. Through the railings I can see a small woman with little hair as she walks alone on the pebbles, her outfit matching the neutral tones of the sand and rocks. Both her slow pace and her contemplative gaze blend with the slow mood of late afternoon warmth. Penarth seems as old and quaint as ever as I devour my cornet of chocolate and vanilla.

I look over the other side of the pier and see a different sight – modern, brash, colourful and ill-fitting. I give up on the thought of scampi and chips after seeing what looks like a fashion victim of a drive-by styling by Edina Monsoon with cataracts. I'm not sure I could keep anything down! My previous reverie for the balding woman has passed - now I wonder if he's an aged drag queen looking for the seagull who stole his wig! Cue Judy Garland's "The mane that got away"

For font's sake!

There is a Christening at the church today –well I think it’s a christening. People are too casually dressed for a funeral or even a wedding (which usually takes place on a Saturday).

Some of the guests are dressed more for the ensuing party than the service. I spot gold court shoes, black leggings, a silver dress and that's just the men... no not really. Finally, I spot a lump in a shrug swinging her handbag like an extra from Band of Gold.

The shrugger-lump's family (top) were not as out of place as the mum in black leggings and heels (below) who has dressed her children in a similar vein… What will the vicar think?

I watched the christening from my window feeling more and more like Jimmy Stewart in a scene from rear window as people murder fashion through my lens. Unfortunately, there is no Grace Kelly to send on a styling mission.

The Vicar has retired home to lunch after the christening without visiting us to perform an exorcism on the poltergeist that is Daddy Shortlegs who is still rearranging the kitchen stools into a heap in the middle of the floor so that he can get into cupboards and rearrange even more things unnecessarily.

The smell of burnt cardboard and Richard’s raised voice lets me know that Jack has cooked a “Chicken and Potatoes” meal for one. I say cooked but mean cremated as among the instructions on the box were such snippets as “unsuitable for microwaves” and “cook for 28 minutes” – so this has translated to put in a microwave for 28 minutes – you could cook a whole bloody chicken in that time!

So today we have had one christening, four fashion victims and a cremation. I’m not sure if there is a poem to fit the occasion although with 15 minutes still flashing on the microwave we can settle for “Stop all the clocks!”

So Horny (horny, horny, horny)

Horn Truck going to Altoona June 2006, originally uploaded by shiphorns.com.

5a.m. and someone has the horn! No, not me - I was deep in Harry Potterland when the noise came to my attention. I read on but five minutes later the noise was beginning to irritate and so I am up and looking out of the windows but I can’t see where the noise is coming from: nothing to see in the back and only a group of three stragglers in the crescent strolling home from some late-night drinking den.

Well, the two men in front are strolling, bare arms around each other’s t-shirted shoulders. Some way behind is a young woman wearing a man’s nylon hoody (what we used to call a windcheater) and high heels. With the oversized hood pulled-up and the overly-long sleeves covering her hands, all we can see is her bare legs which are tanned deep brown (making a nice change from the mottled appearance one usually sees) but she drags her feet and keeps her distance. She looks like she is being forced to model a cocktail dress designed for the WAGs of the Ku Klux Klan.

Only the shouting between the two groups lets me know they are together.

Man #1: “She’s a liar!”

Man #2: “Jill’s always lying.”

Woman: “mumble, grumble, slurrrr…” Her hood makes her sound like Kenny from South Park, only she is from a Cardiff council estate and so less articulate.

Man #1: (louder) “Oh! so Jill told you! She told you, did she? Well she’s a liar, mate - I told you she’s a liar back there. What about when …slurr…!?”

The proceed slowly and unsteadily along the road and one of the men plays with what looks like a lighter flickering on and off – I rub my eyes to make sure I am not asleep and he isn’t a council dementor with a deluminator. Nope: Chav with a lighter, just like I thought. Ms Barelegs has caught up to the men with a tottering step, step, slide stilettos gratingly on tarmac sort of gait but backs off when Man#1 turns around.

I am distracted from the altercation at that point, as the horn noise gets louder and a car enters the crescent going at a funeral pace. The driver has his hand fixed firmly on the horn and after two laps of horner (worst pun yet!!) without any success, he starts parp-parping the horn but to what ends I can only guess. Is he looking for someone? Is he in need of help? Is it the end of the world and Angel Gabriel now drives an Audi. Or has the revolution started – hold on comrade, I need to touch up my roots! He finally parks and after five more minutes of intermittent honking he goes quiet.

The other three have made little progress – woman and man#1 are arguing face-to-hood and he now throws the lighter/phone into the air and kicks it across the road and stalks back to his grinning mate. Barelegs turns and walks back towards my house, while the two men stand gawking at her, once more comrades-in-arms. The argument continues with little sense although I pick up the latest topic is finding a taxi as they totter off down a side-street.The honking car driver has passed them twice so it has become obvious he is not their taxi.

Now I have two unconnected stories to ponder and when I get back to bed I find Richard has turned out the lights (not at all pointedly, he would say!) so I am also left in the middle of Godric’s Hollow. Oh well, I’ll catch up with Harry and Hermione tomorrow. Will the hoody catch up with her hunks? Will environmental health catch up with the horned one and his noise pollution? Email me with these and other solutions to fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Nothing is very strange on Flickr

unicyclist, originally uploaded by stegasaurus.

I am once again on a train and bored. The seats are tiny and made for the pinched posterior of a recently pensioned widow-woman from Devizes who has lost weight on a small allowance of reduced-cost dented canned goods. My traditionally-built Welsh arse has exhausted itself trolling about London, so I sit in a misshapen hump, penned in by sweaty commuters standing along the length of the train all the way from Paddington to Swindon! I have stupidly gotten on the 6:45 to Swansea which is the first off-peak train from London and therefore filled with people from the cheap seats.

To take my mind of the overcrowding, the smell of sweat, fear and market stall perfume, I listen to the iPod (Ethel Merman and Dame Shirley Bassey – not together… don’t start rumours.) Still distracted I decide to sort out my mobile as it now has 21 voice messages and 125 text messages. Browsing through and deleting a large number of reassuring “I’m on my ways” and rather pointed “I am still waiting outside” from my partner and free-taxi Richard, I found this from my former student Alex…

Just picking Gav and girls up and I’ve been overtaken at Boulevard de Nantes by a guy on a unicycle with a hockey stick! Not your average traveller! :-/