(Poster for Au Moine Saint-Martin in The Poster in History by Max Gallo, Hamlyn 1972)
Whatever happened to shopping? It used to be fun.
These days, my enthusiasm for shopping has dwindled to almost zero. I am sure I am not alone in saying that I find clothes shopping particularly demoralising. My actual size is usually something like the secret floor in Being John Malkovich, mysteriously stuck somewhere between L and XL. And the dreaded change-room experience is something like the last scene of All About Eve, but even more chilling, and with added love handles.
Last weekend I set off with gritted teeth, clenched fists and an optimistic wallet, determined to buy myself some sort of goddamn treat. I have been a good boy of late, keeping my head down, working hard and staying off the turps. I have been squirrelling away my pennies for a forthcoming overseas jaunt (Only 36 sleeps to go. I should know. I have been scratching them on the wall in crossed fives, with my own blood, like a delusional convict). I demanded some instant gratification, some distraction from creeping time, and convinced myself that I deserved it. Needless to say, I was thwarted. Instant gratification was nowhere to be found on the boulevards of Adelaide.
I looked at all manner of objets but felt disappointed and paralysed with indecision. I have learned my lesson about impulse buying. Consequently, something as simple as buying a cucumber could involve at least five reconnaissance missions. I soon resigned myself to the fact that I may well go home empty handed. It also takes a lot to drown out the austere voices of my childhood which admonish that objets will not, or, more accurately, should not make me happy. I was always haunted by the Bible Story of the Rich Fool and his silos of grain. That said, I liked the bit before he died and went to hell and all that.
Lest I sound like I am on a high horse, let me say that objets can and do make me happy. The frippery I surround myself with helps me construct a comforting little retro fantasy that distracts me from the fact that my life is far from the glamorous, world-conquering existence I dreamed of as a child.
The day was not entirely a wash out. As I traipsed, stoop-shouldered under grey skies, a whole raft of happy memories started to filter into my consciousness. I wandered into dusty corners I had not visited since I was a tyke. I thought about when shopping "in town" was something to look forward to. Travelling in on the bus with Mum or a sister on a Saturday (everything was closed on Sunday). Getting dressed up for the day in my 'trendiest' outfit. Having a cappucino or maybe even a cheese roll or something fancy like a quiche at a cafe. Maybe even seeing a film at a cinema long since demolished. Mum buying dresses that I was told not to tell Dad about. Lustfully fingering coffee table books stacked up on remainder tables. It was not often that we bought them (unless they were drastically reduced), but just knowing that they were there was comforting. Buying posters. Incense. Singles. Badges. All those book and record shops which have disappeared or been taken over by chains. What does "in town" mean these days? It seemed then that anything could be found "in town". Now it seems the opposite is true. It seems that anything can be found on the net. Which is not as much fun. And, alas, does not involve cheese rolls.
Clip from Terence Davies' The Long Day Closes posted on Youtube by Rongart)
I have been waiting for this clip to appear on Youtube for some time, and, presto, there it was today. The very clip.
I have had a real affinity for this film ever since I saw it (in the suitably art deco surroundings of The Capri Cinema), with my mother, on its first theatrical release in the early 1990s. I guess the 1990s were not all bad, then. Given that affinity, I am unable to be too objective about it. Although I did not exactly grow up in the Liverpool slums in the 40s and 50s, so much of this film reminded me of my childhood - the way that church life permeated everything and the concomitant guilt-fest, the escape from school life that family, music and cinema provided,the closeness with my mother, jealously watching the older siblings go out and being left to entertain myself, my burgeoning gay sensibility.
I remember reading a review at the time which, while positive, said that the film strayed into chocolate box sentimentality at times. But to me, what made this film even more moving is that it was deliberately dealing with a relatively happy period in Terence Davies' life when his brutal father (as depicted in Distance Voices, Still Lives (which I have never got around to seeing, but the clips I have seen on Youtube are plenty harrowing) was absent.
So, I hope you enjoy it. Who knew that Debbie Reynolds could be so moving?
(Photo by Robert C Cleveland in 'The Architectural Digest', Spring 1962) (Needless to say, somebody else's family home)
On bleaker mornings like this morning, when the spectre of Monday creeps up, Nosferatu-like, earlier than it has any right to, I lie in bed wide awake (while Dear Patient M, unsuspecting, snores gently beside me), conducting a virtual tour of the house I did most of my growing up in. I approach the house, as it was, a rambling, run-down bungalow on a busy road, like a mist, seeping under the door, and then I swoop, twisting and laughing and spying through every room. It is, indeed, my "happy place".
I am the only one of my immediate family left in Adelaide. The rest have all fled to sunnier or loftier climes. That house is the one tangible reminder that we ever lived together at all. Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing. I miss them all terribly. I am not sure if they know that because I cannot bring myself to let on in front of them. My schtick is to pretend to be wounded that they forsook me.
My parents never owned a house when I was growing up. My father was a Man of the Cloth and we lived wherever The Church would put us up. In this instance, we were accommodated beyond our means in a neighbourhood we would never been able to afford to live in otherwise, and which I could not afford to live in now. We were very lucky, I guess, that The Church was very shrewd when it came to buying and selling property. I am sure that they made a killing when they booted us out of this house after about 11 years. I remember visiting other Pastor's families in similar settings - ensconced (with their crappy old furniture, their frumpy make-do clothing, their potplants grown from cuttings) in drafty unrenovated Manses in nice leafy suburbs.
The neighbours were unlike the Church people that we exclusively associated with up until that point. One one side, there was an English family, who seemed quite posh. If the father was not a professor of some sort, he certainly seemed like one. He had a kindly face, and spent a lot of time pottering quietly in his unruly garden. We called him Puddleglum. The mother was friendly, gossipy and loud, had grey wiry hair, smoked Woodbines in the house and would blithely chat to my bemused mother about things like The Family Silver, not thinking for one minute that Mum might not have any Family Silver of her own. On reflection, I think the English Mother was probably bored out of her brain. On the other side was a more glamorous couple in a more 'modern' house who were rumoured by the English Mother to have made 'millions' in their furniture business. Awful child that I was, I started a baseless rumour that the Furniture Father was a transvestite. Fortunately for everybody, 'The Children's Hour' did not ensue. The house was bought as a deceased estate from an elderly lady called Mrs Holmes. Her presence subsisted. I am not just talking about the soiled pair of cotton tails that my sister and I found stashed in a cupboard. I am not talking about a ghost (although there was one bedroom that always spooked me). No, despite Dad's knee-jerk protestations, Mum had the foresight to buy the entire contents of the house for a few hundred dollars. In the late 70s, the original early-to-mid-20th-century furniture seemed heavy, dull and unfashionable. There was the original grey floral carpet, grey linoleum in the kitchen, crazy paving out the back. Everything was tatty and there was a distinct dearth of anything resembling a mod con (it explains alot about the Adult Me).And everything was filthy. There was also crockery, cutlery, and a multitude of vases. I do not think that any of it was made after the 1950s. It was almost as if Mrs Holmes had not changed anything, Miss Haversham-like, since her wedding day.
The neighbours were unlike the Church people that we exclusively associated with up until that point. One one side, there was an English family, who seemed quite posh. If the father was not a professor of some sort, he certainly seemed like one. He had a kindly face, and spent a lot of time pottering quietly in his unruly garden. We called him Puddleglum. The mother was friendly, gossipy and loud, had grey wiry hair, smoked Woodbines in the house and would blithely chat to my bemused mother about things like The Family Silver, not thinking for one minute that Mum might not have any Family Silver of her own. On reflection, I think the English Mother was probably bored out of her brain. On the other side was a more glamorous couple in a more 'modern' house who were rumoured by the English Mother to have made 'millions' in their furniture business. Awful child that I was, I started a baseless rumour that the Furniture Father was a transvestite. Fortunately for everybody, 'The Children's Hour' did not ensue.
The house was bought as a deceased estate from an elderly lady called Mrs Holmes. Her presence subsisted. I am not just talking about the soiled pair of cotton tails that my sister and I found stashed in a cupboard. I am not talking about a ghost (although there was one bedroom that always spooked me). No, despite Dad's knee-jerk protestations, Mum had the foresight to buy the entire contents of the house for a few hundred dollars. In the late 70s, the original early-to-mid-20th-century furniture seemed heavy, dull and unfashionable. There was the original grey floral carpet, grey linoleum in the kitchen, crazy paving out the back. Everything was tatty and there was a distinct dearth of anything resembling a mod con (it explains alot about the Adult Me).And everything was filthy. There was also crockery, cutlery, and a multitude of vases. I do not think that any of it was made after the 1950s. It was almost as if Mrs Holmes had not changed anything, Miss Haversham-like, since her wedding day.
Of course, I would give my right eye for most of that stuff now. But apart from the odd item which has been transposed to Queensland with my parents (where, to be frank, it makes little sense), it is all since long gone.
The memory I most cherish about that house is not a specific memory at all. Rather, it is a memory of that sense of the house being full. Of us kids, off in our own worlds, doing our own thing. Sleeping. Fighting. Trying to lose weight. Smoking. Dripping candle wax in elaborate patterns. All of that lying on the floor with oversized headphones on. I also remember my parents, probably looking for a corner of respite, from us kids and each other. But all of us doing whatever we were doing under one roof together. I miss that.
I have often thought about wheedling my way into the house for one last time. I continue to stalk it in the real estate pages, but it never comes up. When feeling particularly anxious or blue, I have driven to the neighbourhood, parked around the corner, and walked past, darting furtive and bashful looks in the general direction. In fact, I did it today. It works like a charm. It grounds me.
But I never linger. I cannot even bring myself to begin to let on.
Segment from 'Paris, Je t'aime' directed by Alexander Payne, posted on Youtube by Jaxn 27
'His innocence was accompanied by an infallible flair, and his feeling for truth was only exceeded by his obstinacy. He was an absolute mule! A friend of his once told me the following story. He had got engaged to a girl whom his father did not consider a suitable wife for him. She came of a very good family and was what is called a good match, but old Monsieur Champagne had already made up his mind. After a furious altercation Pierre went out on to the balcony of their fifth-floor apartment and put a leg over the balustrade announcing that he was going to jump. 'Since I can't live without Mimi, I may as well put an end to everything. That would solve the whole problem.' The sight of that body hanging over a five story drop attracted notice in the street and before long a crowd had gathered. Women screamed, and one even rolled on the ground as though in an epileptic fit. The objection to Pierre's marriage to Mimi was promptly withdrawn.'
Jean Renoir, on his good friend, Pierre Champagne. From 'Jean Renoir - My life and my films'
(Photo of Ryszard Cieslak in After Dark Magazine, September 1970, by Max Waldman)
Above is a depiction of my customary reaction upon being extended an invitation to the theatre. Make that 'live performance of any description'. In fact, it happened just today. I blurted out 'I have a million things to do' which was a blatant lie (just look at me idling here!) before coming clean and explaining that it just is 'not my thing'. Besides, the show in question is part of a festival. No need to re-open that particular festering wound here, other than to say that festivals and me are like oil and water.
I know, I know - I am a churlish Philistine.
I blame it on having to attend so many church services as a child. Something about ritualised group responses to spectacle causes me to shudder. My worst nightmare is having to attend a performance of a stand up comedian and feeling compelled to laugh on cue. I will elaborate on that at some point no doubt. But tonight it is yet still too raw...
Opening an article with an apparently apocryphal quote from Stanislavski, 'You must suffer if you are to be an artist!',is for me, a massive neon sign blinking, 'This way to Funsville'. Here is what the rest of the accompanying article says about this delightful little slice of angst:
'As a man, he is made to suffer an intense, extended, choreographed, orchestrated orgy of physical and vocal involvement. As a symbolic figure, he becomes like a Christ, absorbing into his body and his spirit all the angers, rages and frustrations of a frightened, frantic humanity which...oh, stop it.
The title and photo above are lifted directly from the overwrought pages of that esteemed journal of all things bizarre and deliciously ill-fated, 'Parade' magazine.
The career of Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate from 1896 to 1913 'was a hilarious interlude of parody, mockery and laughter unrivalled in literary annals.' According to 'Parade', 'Malign Fate' and 'A cynical Prime Minister who could think of no one else' conspired to get him the job. Every morning when I awake I give thanks to the Lord that I am not a Poet Laureate. It does not sound like much of a job and from all accounts is still poorly paid. Who would be a Poet Laureate, then? Alfred Austin would! So much so that he threw in a legal career to pursue his dream.
Many of us would be deterred from such a dream if our first volume of poetry only sold 17 copies. But not Alfred. When his second volume, a satire of the Mayfair marriage market, was slated by the critics, he responded with a 'pompous bad tempered pamphlet called 'My satire and its critics'. He always came out swinging, did our Alfred. He decided Browning was 'muddy', Swinburne produced 'mere babble,' Tennyson would be 'handed over to the dust as soon as the generation came to its senses'. Dickens was 'surrounded by a flimsy brood of servile admirers.' Although Alfred clearly recognised that bunch of ne'erdowell flybynights for what they were, they were not impressed. Swinburne referred to Alfred as 'that creature' while Tennyson went one better by ignoring him completely.
That said, once Tennyson, despite his obvious literary shortcomings, somehow managed to become a peer, Alfred decided his friendship was worth cultivating. So he 'tried' to give Tennyson a leaf. Always works for me, I have found. Ok, it was not just any leaf. It was allegedly a 'laurel leaf from the ancient Greek shrine of Delphi.' You will note that 'Parade' is enigmatically silent on whether or not Alfred actually ever succeeded in his leaf-giving attempts.
Alfred's next project was a long narrative poem (is that the tinkling of alarm bells I hear?) entitled 'The Human Tragedy'. It took him a good twenty years to complete and is by all accounts, unreadable. Its apt title should not remain unremarked upon.
He also embarked on a career as a failed Tory politician before deciding that the 'hurly burly of the hustings' was too much for his 'rare spirit'. Thankfully for us, he chose instead to concentrate instead on his deathless poetry and pamphleteering, proceeding to churn out '20 volumes of atrocious verse in the next 30 years.' Somehow, he managed to win friends in high places, with Queen Victoria declaring his work 'delightful'. He dedicated a poem to her, mystifyingly called 'Prince Lucifer'. Perhaps it reminded her of Albert.
Then, after Tennyson dropped off the perch, there was a vacuum of three years where no suitable Poet Laureate could be found. Eventually, given his presence in the good books of the Queen and his unimpeachable reactionary politics, he was appointed Poet Laureate by Lord Salisbury. Lord Salisbury remarked that the only reason why he suggested Alfred for the job was that 'he wanted it'. It may have also had something to do with the sonnet Alfred penned for the Lord:
'Great, wise and good, too near for men to know, til years shall pass, how good, how wise, how great.'
Dear Alfred, with customary insight and modesty, was not at all surprised by his appointment: 'It is simply recognition of my place at the head of English Literature', he responded.
As for the rest of English society, it greeted Alfred's appointment with 'a chorus of mingled contempt, derision and ribald laughter.' The laughter grew louder when Alfred published a patriotic verse drama all about - who else- King Alfred the Great. It was called 'England's Darling'. To say, as 'Parade' does, that the critics seized on it with delight is, no doubt, an understatement.
Alfred then banged on for many more years, inciting all manner of racial hatred with his jingoistic doggerel and 'flatulent odes'. He never achieved the peerage he so brazenly craved, and his ultimate and inevitable decline in popularity almost led to the abolition of the post of Poet Laureate altogether.
In closing then, a fitting tribute would be a few words from the man himself. And if you can make head or tail of it, you are a better person than I am:
Will you, I round it willingly can guide you;
Unless-and told, shall fully understand-
Wander you rather would with none beside you.
In the interests of keeping things fresh, and to give you a break from hearing more things you did not need to know about me, from time to time I would like to indulge in what I think of as 'automatic blogging.' As the Young Folks say, it will be, like, totally random. Here then, without commentary, are three things that caught my eye this week:
(from 'The Concise Home Doctor - Encyclopedia of Good Health' - The Educational Book Company)
'One night, after three nights on a mountain unsuccessfully chasing a she-bear, the Captain suddenly let loose with his pen, in a torrent of hot temper, against the whole caboodle.'
(from 'Five Sisters - The Langhornes of Virginia' by James Fox)
'George: Sunday, tomorrow; all day.
(A long silence between them)'
(from 'Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?' by Edward Albee).
I have been tagged by the Lovely Elizabeth of Love, Elizabeth fame!
I have always responded well to structure (that may surprise those of you who have caught me in the throes of an interpretative dance) and have, therefore, enthusiastically embraced this format. It makes me feel like one of those celebrities who get interviewed in magazines and asked questions such as 'How do you react when you see a nun?'
So, fasten your seatbelts ....
1. Respond and rework. Answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own invention; add a question of your own.
2. Tag eight other un-tagged people.
What is your current obsession? I like to sing the jingles to furniture ads, but I do find some of the recent jingles on local television a little challenging. In particular, the Beaumont Tiles ad which could be best described as an 'homage' to Donna Summer's 'I feel love'. The tune eludes me, (in a similar fashion to Dear Patient M's favourite tune, 'Sophisticated Lady'). But I persevere, none the less.
Oh, and this:
Winter is coming on, and my thoughts turn to Kate Bush. This is a lovely home made clip set to her song 'An architect's dream'. I love the imagery. It was created by StanRd2005 and posted on Youtube.
What do you see outside your window? A large, round, corrugated iron, rainwater tank, some deep red leaves on the grapeless grape vine, some pink hibiscus. And some refreshingly green weeds. When I first moved in, I foolishly thought the tank was a space-wasting eyesore. That was before the drought.
If you could have any super power what would it be? Invisibility.
Which animal would you be? As much as I would like to say a lion, gazelle or a peacock, the reality is probably closer to a sloth, a tapir or a silly old goat.
Who was the last person you hugged? A friend from University who I have not seen for 10 years. And, before that, I embraced my sweet embraceable, my irreplaceable Dear Patient M.
What is your favorite color? I am partial to mint green, powder blue and baby pink. That said, I like most colours apart from certain shades of yellow and brown. Especially when it comes to cars.
What’s your favorite food in the whole world? I am just nutty about nougat!
What’s the last thing you bought? A pair of old-style grey desert boots. It was only once I got them home that I realised I had just, in fact, bought a pair of grey shoes. And gasped. I would only countenance grey in a desert boot and they work surprisingly well.
What are you listening to right now? I have I-Tunes on random. I do have a number of different playlists with titles such as 'Winter is Blue', 'Autumnal Longing' and, tellingly, 'Hangover music.' But at the moment it is just on random. Currently I am listening to 'Consolation Prize' by that great Glaswegian straight-but-unafraid-to-be-sissies band, Orange Juice. Sample lyric:
I wore my fringe like Roger McGuinn's
I was hoping to impress
So frightfully camp, it made you laugh
Tomorrow I'll buy myself a dress.
I have always found the refrain, 'I'll never be man enough for you' oddly comforting.
If you could buy one object right now, what would it be? It is not exactly an object, but I would not mind purchasing a new stomach.
What’s on your bedside table? A framed photo of Dear Patient M with a big smile on his face, a book about the Langhornes of Virginia, a lovely collage by Magic Jelly featuring budgerigars, the remote control for the air conditioner, a phone that always becomes unplugged, some little cards with some of my favourite Flickr images on them, and a doyley made by my dear departed Grandmother (she of Ladykillers fame).
If you could have a house totally paid for, and fully furnished, anywhere in the world, where would it be? Out of the places I have already been, I am partial to the idea of Berlin. But the States is also calling me.
What would you like to have in your hands right now? Ooh Matron! My retirement carriage clock. Failing that, a martini.
What is your favorite children's book? They are legion. For the pictures: Yellow yellow by Frank Asch and Alan Stamaty. For the kind-of-kitsch but Sentimental Aussie Favourite: Peg's Fairy Book by Peg Maltby. For the pervading sense of melancholy: Moominsummer Madness by Tove Janssen. For the jolly good romp that made me want to live in Victorian times: The story of the Treasure Seekers by E Nesbit. For the vividly remembered colours and atmosphere: Charlie, Charlotte and the Golden Canary by Charles Keeping. For teaching me that life was inherently unfair: The Shrinking of Treehorn by Florence Parry Heide, illustrated by Edward Gorey. I could go on...
What is your biggest fear/phobia? Having my mind go blank while public speaking. Perversely, I have embarked on a career in which a certain amount of public speaking is unavoidable. And in which my mind often goes blank. A few grasping seconds feels like a lifetime of paralysis.
What's the bravest thing you've done in the past year? I have changed jobs, something which was unthinkable this time a year ago. The bravest thing I have ever done in my life was to chase a man who stole my wallet and make him give it back to me. His lack of manners peeved me immensely and I found a strength and agility I never knew I possessed.
If you could change your name, what would you change it to? It is a toss up between Frederick Von Something or Granville LaCruise.
What did you want to become as a child? A ballerina. Failing that, an author who illustrated his own books. A bit later, I wanted to be a go go dancer, a back up singer or a cactus farmer.
What posters/pictures do you have on your bedroom wall? The Fellini poster above, a painting by my dear friend Nookabel called 'Tree and birds' (it is inspired by a World Record Club cover), a photo of a Tretchikoff print taken by an estranged friend, a framed fragment of a record cover which in my mind is titled 'Love in Dusseldorf', two reproduction travel posters (one for Chicago - Vacation City, the other for Bill Rose's Aquacades), and two of Dear Patient M's Lomographs. There is also a ceramic Toucan on a perch hanging from the ceiling.
What were you wearing at your 21st birthday? A 70s Photoprint shirt featuring Gustav Klimt ladies, a white scarf that belonged to my father, a powder blue velvet dinner jacket, black velvet flares, and eyeliner. The theme was The Long Frock and Big Hair Affair.
What was your first job? Working from midnight to 8.30 every Friday and Saturday night pushing pancakes to drunks in a seedy 24 hour dive. I did that for four years and am still recovering.
Say something to the person/s who tagged you: Elizabeth, thanks for the tag - I have enjoyed this! You know you continue to inspire me, care for me, move me and make me laugh as you do with many other of your devoted fans! You're the tops, you're the Colisseum..
Post a favorite childhood photograph of yourself.
Here is a photo of me parading about with a potty on my head, wearing a skirt made from an old man's singlet and some leaves. I was having a grand adventure, no doubt. The photo was taken in about 1976 when we lived in Melbourne. The shadow belongs to my big sister, Finn the Poet. My dress sense has only improved marginally since.
What is your plan for tomorrow? To survive.
Now, I am suppose to tag another 8 bloggers. I am not sure if I actually have 8 blogging friends. So I will simply say, if you want it, consider yourself tagged. I would recommend it - it is good fun, bordering on the therapeutic.
Oh, and PS: How DO you react when you see a nun?
(Clip of France Gall singing Poupée de cire poupée de son by Serge Gainsbourg at the 1965 Eurovision Song Contest. Posted on Youtube by ZaaK54)
Ah, it is Eurovision Eve! The Happiest Night of the Non-Christian Calendar!
Some years ago I was quite taken aback when a work colleague (let us call him The Tall German, to preserve his anonymity) breezily enquired whether I had watched the previous evening's Eurovision Song Contest. I responded with a curt, 'No, should I have?' What followed was a rather awkward and regrettable moment in which he reddened and mumbled something like 'I just thought it would be your type of thing...' Now, at the time I was a much more paranoid and highly strung creature than the reconstructed shrine to calm and self-love that you encounter today. Accordingly, I was slightly affronted at what I suspected was an unconscious slur against either:
1. My distant European heritage (a bit rich coming from a German, Tall or otherwise); or
2. My sexuality (a contest only The Gays could love!); or
3. (Most devastatingly of all) my taste-level.
In retrospect, I realise he meant nothing of the sort, and his comment was in fact, right on the mark. Of COURSE I have since embraced Eurovision with a vengeance. What is not to love?
I searched long and hard for a clip that I could live with. As tempting as it was to inflict some Brotherhood of Man, Nana Mouskouri or the Unrockingest "Hard Rock" band on Planet Rock, Lordi,*upon you, in the interest of leaving my taste level unbesmirched, I settled on dear old France Gall singing a Gainsbourg tune. Now, the surprisingly useful and versatile phrase moi aussi aside, I do not speak a word of French. I have had to rely on Wikipedia for a precis of the lyrics. Apparently France is singing about how she is just a straw doll who knows nothing of real love. Boom bang a bang, then, it aint. Until the mythical Morrissey contribution to Eurovision finally surfaces, this will do the trick nicely.
(France Gall reminds me of my callow student days. I used to listen to hand-made cassette compilations of France Gall and Serge Gainsbourg and dream about Godard and Gauloise. As Shit Hot as this made me feel, the whole Left Bank act was undermined by the awful truth that I had not the foggiest idea what they were singing about. And those snippets of Gainsbourg which I could understand left me feeling slightly soiled.)
Anyway, as we say here, I best toddle as it is time to Warm the Set and Cool the Tinnies. And settle in for a night of celebration! A celebration of:
The One Hit Wonders! The Also-rans! The Never-Wases! The Wardrobe Malfunctions! The Mis-spent Moments of Glory! The Rapaciousness, Cheap Sentiment, and Corrupted Endeavour! And the robust survival of a world where high mindedness, taste and fashion exist only to be cheerfully trampled into the ground by ineptly dancing feet. Sounds like a country I would be proud to call my own.
The One Hit Wonders!
The Wardrobe Malfunctions!
The Mis-spent Moments of Glory!
The Rapaciousness, Cheap Sentiment, and Corrupted Endeavour!
And the robust survival of a world where high mindedness, taste and fashion exist only to be cheerfully trampled into the ground by ineptly dancing feet. Sounds like a country I would be proud to call my own.
*PS Do not be taken in by Lordi's ghoulish appearance. They are the Bucks Fizz of the Monster World.