The People's Poet

I see it, I write it.........

Midday Poetry Part 2

People struggling off their scooters and puffing out of breath,

Queuing for expensive over the counter medications they don't actually need,

But have seen advertised loudly and in Technicolor on Sky Living and ITV 1.

People in clothes too small, podgy in lace, lycra and gold trimmed leggings,

Straining to hear and understand each other's familial heckles,

Through the fog and slurry of grunted adenoidal diction.

People shouting txt speak in catalogue knock off - 'O.M.G!',

'he'll be on crack next - I'm gonna start 'losin' ri-spect for 'im',

Whilst eating fried foods, their mouths wide open as they drop litter without shame.

Midday Poetry

I just came across - it should wipe off, the start of a poem I started to write the other week having popped out for a sandwich at lunchtime in the glamorous neighbourhood in which I have the pleasure of working.

I think it says a lot in very little. But you wouldn't want to read the whole bloody poem would you!


Lunch Break by William Godwin

People smelling of drink queuing for doughnuts
Others with glazed loss in their eyes furtively smoking tab ends

I thank you.

Giving Up

No don't worry this isn't a last dash attempt to share before I flutter from this world by way of desperate measures. Nothing so poetic.

So I haven't written for a while - this is true, but I'm not sure why, although I have been quite busy. I don't seem to have ignited the sparkler which normally fizzes into a creative blurt. But spurned on by the productive creativity of those more able, I am keen to let you know that I am still here and give you something in return for your kind attention.



So yes, I've been giving up! And I must say those three degrees moves are strangely reminiscent of my own in house boogeyrobics (if no 3 degrees vid present I suggest you go and enjoy this at the original source http://wgodwinesq.blogspot.com/.)

I've given up a lot of things over the years, I've given up girls, I've given up meat,  I've given up religion, I've even given up on David Soul.............



I've given up the fags, I've given up eating unhealthily, and I've given up my fair share of men. [surely enough giving up - Ed]. Well yes, indeed, a polite sufficiency of  removal and reduction to be sure.

The biggest thing I ever gave up was the fags, Gawd Blimey did I like a smoke. There are so few photos of me without a fag in my hand between the ages of 20 and 35, and this was because during waking hours I was invariably smoking. Adrian used to worry that the only place I wasn't able to smoke was the shower, and set about designing me a Heath Robinson esque waterproof smoking device. We never actually put it into production, but it made the point that I was very good at smoking.

The other thing I have always been very good at is drinking. My speciality as those who have shared a tipple or two with me over the years is vin fin rouge. Oh my how the red grape has slideth down my throat over the years, more than occasionally. When I finally gave up smoking I recall being amazed by the ease with which I transmogrified from a smoker to a non smoker. But even though I was pleased and amazed, I told the assembled that whatever came to pass 'don't expect me to give up the grape, cos it just ain't happenin'.'

So what have I gone and given up now then? Yes drink! No wonder I've been busy - I have a lot more energy and down time to fill. Has it been easy - yes, why? because I am not experiencing it as a deficit model, I don't feel like I am doing without anything, I don't feel like I am missing anything, there is nothing negative about it actually. I'm not quite sure why - maybe it was my time, maybe like so many bloody things in our lives the anticipation is worse than the execution.

But I am enjoying the benefits, including a waist difference resulting from my wine calories reduction, better sleeping, and never a fuzzy head, a bit more energy, and loads of cupboards cleaned and dusty corners cleared.

So that's what I have been doing, that and looking forward to retirement and wishing I had a new car, and longing for a villa by the sea, and trying to win the lottery, and thinking about Prince Harry and ................

Racy Theatre

I’ve spoken to you all on the topic of ageing before, and the habits of old people in particular. God knows I’m taking part in a live experiment myself, thus ensuring accurate ring side observation and reportage.

In fact I took part in my latest piece of research this very Saturday. The test involved getting lots of old people into a small contained space; a theatre foyer, and have them traverse the floor, from one side to the other and into the auditorium, using only their own inertia and the gravitational benefit of a slight forward tilt. They had to aim for a medium sized set of double doors, easily identifiable though, by the posting of two usherettes either side - Like the Pillars of Hercules. There was an added buzz to the exercise, as it was against the clock; the curtain rose in 10 minutes. All the world is a stage, the show must go on; pass the duchi panni left hand side - that sort of thing.

So did they crack on? Well to be brutally frank - no, the only gear any of them were able to utilise for the journey was slow or stop. 

Half a step forward, then stop, rest, turn, rest, ask ageing companion something tedious about doilies, half step sideways, and then onwards once more, and repeat. Not good. I can’t walk that slowly and it physically pains me to restrain my speed to dead slow.

So you can imagine the relief I felt when one woman realised that she was wrong to do the stop, rest, turn, doily routine, and even though I was trying to walk in a straight line at a low to moderate perambulation rate, it didn’t make me a bad person. She said ‘I am most awfully sorry’. I liked that, and was grateful she has seen the errors of her way. I had hoped that her entering a guilty plea might have encouraged her to amend her behaviour. But it didn’t. So much for setting a trend.

In the time it would have taken me to bake two trays of homemade macaroons and queue for a fortnight’s pension, we were all finally seated and the play began.

‘If music be the food of love, play on……’ for it was Twelfth Night.

Then just as I was settling down and getting up to temperature with the proceedings and my environs in general – ‘rustle rustle, rustle, ziiiiipppppppp, zzzziiiiiiiiippppppp, ziiiiipppppppp’.

The woman behind had decided she needed her specs out of her bag, funny that she hadn’t realised prior to curtain up that she required corrective eyeglasses for distance work. She was being so loud with all the zips and velcro on her bag, and it didn't seem like it was ever going to stop. She was trying to do it quietly which only served to slow the noise down. 

At one point I thought someone was just about to say something from the stage. So as quick as a flash and in an endeavour to end the noise without delay, I turned and glared at her directly, I willed her to shut up. The Paddington hard stare has never failed me before but my direct action affected no hush. I then steadied myself and was just building up the courage to turn round again and enquire ‘DO YOU MIND’ when thankfully she stopped.

The play was marvellous and even at two hours 40, excluding interval, a lot shorter than the time it took us to eventually leave the theatre once the safety curtain was down.

Oh to be in Cornwall now that Winter is here

Leaving London I pop last week’s omnibus of the Archers into the CD player (yes I am very modern with my podcast burning) - Nigel’s funeral week. And blow me, steady ladies, if it doesn’t get me blubbing and I can’t stop for about an hour. Now driving and blubbing aren’t partners of choice, especially at traffic lights where pedestrians and fellow drivers get to see one’s puffy wet face at unflattering close range.

But I’m on the A303, always a good sign as you can only end up in Devon on that road, and remember – summer does come soonest in the south.

As its January and before lunchtime everyone else is in bed and so the roads are empty – out of London and into the South West.

Five and a half of your English hours later and suffering from non marital stiffness, my sat nav, precariously pronounces the name of my final destination and confirms that I have arrived, in extra good time and whilst it is still light in her Majesty’s Cornwall.  God Bless ‘em all.

There is something so very excellent about crossing the border into Cornwall. It instils a near immediate sense of calm and relaxation in me. On this, my first night, without any external forces and sans grape I am in a borderline comatose state of idyllic relaxation, and I sleep better than I have done for years. I would have slept longer had my sister not been attempting a very good impersonation of my father by clattering around with the washing up under my bedroom, and before dawn. It’s a family thing, it can’t be helped. At least she puts the milk back in the fridge after use which my dad never does – but best not get me started; I don’t want this typewriter wearing out.

***************

I’m plagued by lack of internet, which after 3 weeks of no broadband at home I am not happy about. I have a mobile dongle – no reception, my sister has wireless broadband – my computer won’t talk to it, my phone has a tethering option, my computer isn’t into S&M.  All roads point to the fact that my computer is shit. But I try very hard to blame everyone else’s equipment and let it simply wash over me. It is like a strong saline solution over a deep cut, that’s how well it washed over me. But my wonderful, beautiful new phone is still working so I fall back on it for all my connection to the world needs and its multitude of options, facilities, communications and entertainments.

But I am, after all, south of the border, young*, gorgeous*, still mobile and never far from wine, so nothing (much) to complain about.

Did I mention I love Cornwall?

***************

Mary and her partner are leaving today for a variety of locations and activities, starting with a visit to Leamington and associated joy. Whilst casually pondering what holiday adventures to undertake today and as they finished off their packing and sundry, I lie on my bed and listen to Shirl doing Goldfinger. My sister, whilst she packs his bag, calls out a long list of instructions to her partner, detailing what he should do and how he should do it when he gets to his final destination in York. Apparently it’s required.

I am a free man today. I have my sister’s house and the lanes of Cornwall to myself.  I decide to head to Falmouth for lunch, a mooch, vista bonita del mar various and merriment a vaccance in general.  Kernow submersion day one stylee. Bring it on.

The sat nav finds a much better route to Falmouth than I have ever taken before which is great as it brings me to a central car park right on the chuffing harbour if you please. The views of the estuary have me reaching for the retirement home pamphlet and longing for a future by the sea. This is not helped by the squawk of seagulls, the sound of masts rattling in the wind and the sight of boatmen painting their boats on the quay – all button pushers for me and my idyllic dream. And this a university town to boot – pass mummy her smelling salts.

Driving back I realise how I would happily make a profession of driving in Cornwall, going too fast down deserted lanes in glorious countryside is one of my favourite boy activities.

So first day done. Tomorrow?  Well I crave the coast; I must get near the sea tomorrow. My sister is coming back on Thursday and wants to go in search of Art, and so I will save my favourite drive in the whole world – St Just to St Ives, until then. But the coast is calling me so I will definitely commune with the sea and enjoy a lot of coast and harbour tomorrow. But I have two coasts to enjoy – it’s like drugs, just cheaper, legal and a with a better high.

Did I say I loved Cornwall?

***************

Grey eggs! Is that an Arab custom?. Not the brightest of days today, but that’s never put me off much. I’d stay in bed if I was at home but I feel the call of the sea and must answer it. J’arrive!

I’ve been extra nice to my sister's cat. Smiling at it, not shouting at it, no mention of blue juice, no threats of muff making, giving it food, but still it runs at the sight of me. Some things never change in life I suppose.  But hey ho – I’ve shown willing, that’s the main thing. If it does want stroking and for me to speak to it in a stupid voice like my sister does, well it has to actually come nearer to me.  I even laid a trail of cat crunchies between the door and where I was sat last night to try and encourage our blossoming love – but no, he shunned me. ‘Blossoming love’ is quite rude when you think about it. I think imagery of anything opening should have an R18 certificate.

On the subject though, I was strangely drawn to love yesterday, most out of character at the moment I know, but listening to Gerry Rafferty as I whizzed cross country, reminded me of being a teenager and having those intense feelings for people. A magical and powerful time of lust and longing and dreamt futures of warmth and perfection. I thought if only love could be like that and without the nagging, the arguments, the expectation that you will change who you are so as to fit with the other persons deficiencies, the ultimate disappointment and the stretched out tedium of that final closure, then that, I thought, that would be nice.

I’d like to think that it wasn’t me, and that I just haven’t met the right girl, but I think it highly likely that it is me.  But hey – there’s plenty of snap left in my celery. There’s air in them there tyres, and 4 stroke in the tank. Don’t stop me now, cos I’m having a good time, having a good time!

And we’re back in the room..... Look at the muck in here!

It is getting very grey now – a perfect day to inspect the coast me thinks. (Enter your own Daphne Du Maurier imagery here – it’s cheaper for me and with lack of broadband I can’t Google any references for checking)

***************

And he’s off.  I think I’ll start with Porthleven and then head off to Marazion and maybe Penzance. I had wanted to go to Newlyn to the gallery there, but unfortunately this week seems to be the week many of Cornwall’s key galleries are hanging new exhibitions. Many finished last week and new ones start next week – but this week – all dust sheets and polystyrene coffee cups I’m afraid.

The cat is sitting outside in the cold waiting for me to go and my sister to return I imagine. Oh no, wait a minute, now it’s decided to forget how much it dislikes me and head for the warmth after all.

***************

My word, what a lot of weather we’ve been having. My drive home today was through mist on the hills – fantastic.

Oh, all of a sudden I’m the cat’s best new friend. It can’t get enough of me. I suppose the men always come round, especially when they are hungry.

As planned I started in Porthleven – a gorgeous harbour with a splattering of galleries and vistas bonita a plenty. I thought I’d spotted two Gays at lunch, but then I realised they were just fat with beards. Maybe I’ve been straight all along, but my wrong side of svelte and hirsute face have been swerving my bedroom calibration. Anyway apart from the non Gays and a lack of Walnut in my gorgeous Cornish salad Porthleven was everything an out of season seasoned traveller, sea and art lover could have hoped for and so much more.

Just walking in the harbour and watching the sea crashing against the stone and rocks, watching a fisherman tend to his net scrutinised hawk like by hungry seagulls, spying in every corner some actual or residual piece of Cornish history of the sea, of mining, of art – these things trump all others for me and generate a great sense of strength and peace inside me.

I took some pictures in the harbour, some of the small fishing boat I had been watching. The resounding image I have of Cornwall is small fishing boats all with their area codes, PZ for Penzance for e.g. Also the place names get shortened to their boats codes. So we don’t say Penzance we say PZ, and we don’t say Porthcurno we say PK.  I absolutely love it. Oh to live amongst fishermen and artists by the Cornish coast. I certainly think it is my ultimate dream.

I then drove on to Marazion and to the causeway leading to St Michael’s Mount. Again, beautiful and some great art here. I walked on the beach and took lots of snaps of the mount. The light was not good but the moody greyness of the sky somehow enhanced the mystery of the castle atop. I paid a call on a very posh gallery with a London stylee floppy haired gallery assistant. I pretended I was interested in buying one of their very expensive paintings; it got me a much better quality of attention than they would have otherwise furnished me with. Then a drive into PZ for a spot of econo shopping – Bluetooth adapter, Yorkshire tea, some great trainers, a waterproof coat and a postcard for Evie, my Goddaughter.

***************

I’m on the wild Atlantic Coast today - much to my enjoyment, but there do seem to be a lot of old ladies sitting in the back of cars whilst their presumably male drivers have stepped out to enjoy the bracing vistas various. Now if I remember the public information films correctly you are supposed to leave the window open a jar if you leave your old lady in the car, so they can get some air.

Now those regular to this Parish will know I’ve spoken of head scarves before, and there is a jolly good reason for that; they are very sensible. And in certain weathers they are particularly practical, and today is certainly breezy enough to warrant a Hermès square.

I’m not quite sure why my late Mother didn’t befriend them more – they would have been a real boon to her and enabled her to get out and about more. The merest thought of the wind messing up here hair was enough to keep her in her bedroom refusing to even answer the front door.

So I find myself going for a lovely walk - It’s ok it was National Trust Land. Beautiful coast at Godrevy. I saw seals, deserted coves, a light house and even old people with Thermoses – it’s traditional. I even sat on a bench inscribed in memory of an Ice Cream Man – 1989 – 2009. More of an ice cream boy if you ask me, but he picked a good spot, I’ll give him that. And with my new trainers scampering across the rocks was like walking on air.

‘Aktually it is only fotherington tomas you kno he sa Hullo clouds hullo sky he is girlie and love the scents and sounds of nature’

***************

One up, all up. Paper thin these walls and floors. I could hear my sister discussing the price of Tin with a neighbour before sun up. The ease with which I am party to all this nocturnal chatter is starting to make me worry that maybe the girls upstairs in London can hear me like I can hear my sister. If so I’m surprised they even say hello in the street. The angry vulgarity I hurl in their general direction if they are being particularly heavy of foot – well it would be enough to make a midwife blush. Sitting quietly is generally underrated as an acceptable pastime by the youth these days and my neighbours are no exception.

***************

Pasties in St Just, the most wonderful drive from St Just to St Ives, and then in the bright sunshine and arctic wind of St Ives we saw art, art, art and more art. Gorgeous. Highlights were our visits (pilgrimages) to Barbara Hepworth’s studio and Penwith Society of Artists Gallery – a joy to behold in every way.  Oh and on the drive home my sister told me that when I was a baby I called ice cream nim nim, and food num num. I’d need three these days – num num, tem tem and wim wim.

Did I say I love Cornwall?

***************

Well that’s what we like to call a polite sufficiency and for those of you not yet asleep, thank you for listening.

(*May not necessarily be true)

The Lost Notes from a Cold Bungalow September 2010

Don't get me wrong I love my family. I just came across these notes I took during our cold family holiday, last September.

1.             Someone has just said ‘Well it didn’t do you any harm!’

Well a) they don’t know that, and b) that doesn’t make it right.

2.   What’s so cool about being warm anyway?

3.   Everyone is texting. Laura incessantly tip tap, tip tap, followed by a tinny fanfare heralding a response, and repeat ad infinitum!

4.   I think I’ll eat this last biscuit so it’s not a temptation later.

5.   I hope those pasties we had for lunch weren’t date rape pasties.

6.   Some parts of my family are very noisy. I’m trying to encourage my sister to develop an internal monologue instead of the ongoing music hall turn and external commentary of every move and thought.  It’s wonderful that I am so tolerant and patient with them all.

7.   Having a child is a bit like having a facial tattoo – you have to be certain that you are going to really want it for a terribly long time.

8.   I think when I have a speed boat I’m going to call it the Princess Royal.

9.   As Lily Tomlin said – It’s going to get much, much worse before it gets worse.

Unlucky is lust

I see in the Guardian today that one of my former flatmates is releasing her misery memoir later in the year. I was so very sorry to hear that she had faced a lot of dark times when she left our humble zone one duplex and moved to America and am certain that the telling will be excellently executed, interesting and worthwhile. The review certainly suggests a v good read. I also hope that her life is now bringing her brighter times, and happy stories to publish in the future.

However there was one very concerning aspect to the write up which has both taken me by surprise and caused me a modicum of consternation.

For in their billing not only is she detailed as a writer, she is red carpeted as former beau to Colin Farrell. Yes the Colin Farrell, he of my top list of scrabble favourites! 

I have had the romantic rug pulled from under my feet; she has beaten me to love with one of my key dream gentlemen. Really, when am I going to get my turn on the arm of a swarthy Hollywood bad boy heartthrob?

But I shouldn’t be surprised, It’s not the first time my friends have had luck in the bedroom or Valentines booth (no I don’t know what one of those is either) with people I have been sweet on or sweated over.

There was one gentleman who for a couple of years I would bump into at various times and places and each time my knees would go weak and my heart beat a little faster. I dreamed of being swept off my feet into a cloud of international travel and love and obedience for many years to come in the arms of this hulking great, drop dead gorgeous man brute. But it was not to be, which was fine, I was never really his type. I could live with that - I’m used to it.

But what I couldn’t live with was the ever growing list of people I knew who had snared him in the pant department. It seemed every time I either mentioned this person or he came up in discussion, someone would say - ‘Oh yes I dated him’, or ‘I’ve been out with him’ or ‘I’ve seen his Valentine booth’.

Now obviously I am only friends with the Beautiful People, but I have turned some heads in my time, and received interest from a range of desirable benefactors of the heart and other organs from all sections of society including high. And I think I could certainly match these friends in terms of love points wink for wink.

It’s all very unfair, and now this! So please, if you end up going out with one of my dream men, can you kindly keep your dirty, selfish lovin’ to yourself. Nobody’s interested and it’s not big and it’s not clever. You are simply cheapening yourself by its mere mention.

However I suppose on reflection none of this really matters, the wounds and sadness will heal in time, and after all, I’ve decided to keep myself nice from now on. So maybe it’s best that these he brutes are dating other people. It would only nasty my counterpane anyway.

Important Advice from the Red Cross

I'm more than aware that some of my readers aren't as young as they used to be, (or say they are) for myself, the twinges of middle age are not completely unfamiliar. 

So I thought the following advice from the red cross was excellent, and very demographic appropriate. I know we all like to help, and many of us are motorised these days, so why not duo these into a give give give option.

........................

Out and about in the cold

The Red Cross advises that you stop and offer roadside assistance if you see someone's car has broken down during severe weather. This is a very small act of volunteering which could save someone's life. But in areas where heavy snow is likely to fall, be prepared.

Always carry in your car:

a blanket

a torch

a mobile phone

a brightly-coloured headscarf

matches

some chocolate bars

a flask of hot soup

a sign that says HELP in big bright letters.

If you break down or get stuck in snow, don’t leave your car – it will get noticed before you will. Put the HELP sign in your window, tie the headscarf to your car's aerial, turn off the engine and curl up in the blanket. Don’t run your car's engine for more than a few minutes at a time and make sure its exhaust isn’t blocked with snow.

Remember that the bad weather catches many people unaware every year in the UK, so always be prepared to keep safe and to help others.

If you are interested in doing more go to the Red Cross website http://www.redcross.org.uk where advice can be found on what to do in cases of hypothermia, frostbite and falls and tumbles.

........................................

So there you go, don't say I'm not always bringing you up to the moment guidance and lifestyle option suggestions.

However some essential points aren't clear. The key issue for me is does the scarf need to be a Hermès? That can be the problem with some advice, full of good intention but low on detail and when you're worried about being a good Samaritan the last thing you want is a series of unanswered questions with the potential for making a fashion faux pas.

So I think to be on the safe side yes it should be a Hermès

Btw - don't forget when you are out and about rummaging through the thrift and goodwill stores, always check the hem of every scarf in the 50p box. A Hermès will have a rolled hem which will have been hand stitched. The volunteers will be too busy smelling of moth balls to always notice these gems. 

Just a little tip my mother taught me, and it costs nothing to share.

Keep warm, and get those headscarves ready!

As we enter Advent

Now, as you all know there are several important things that must be prepared for well in advance of the big day itself. In fact this one should be prepared as a matter of urgency, as it is, you'll agree, the keystone to happy and successful yuletide festivities.

That's right, you've got it in one, today we are going to make the Blue Peter Advent Crown.

Now, we are going to be making the original one not the PC police gone made version. The only draw back with this version, is that buildings and personal liability insurance should be trickier to obtain unless you go sub prime and you know how tricky that is these days. You see, today's youth, apart from wearing hoodies, doing that funny limping walk, playing music on their mobile phones on the bus and smoking crack cocaine, are subject to a health and safety conscious advent crown, where baubles are added to welcome in each new week of advent rather than the celestial light of burning wax. I think you can take this nanny state thing too far and anyway ours has candles AND baubles.

Do remember to ask an adult for help if necessary. You will need 4 wire coat hangers, ask mummy or your housekeeper to get these for you from the dry cleaners, plenty of tinsel (re insurance reference above maybe make sure it is fire proof), 4 jar lids, now these don't necessarily have to come from an organic preserve, but it is preferable especially if the neighbours have a tendency to pop round for sherry unannounced. Now do you have 5 glass baubles handy? no? well pop along to your local DIY shop, Fortnums, Peter Jones or Harrods should be near enough. To further adorn you'll require holly, now don't just snip away at the first bush you come across, topiary doesn't grow on trees you know. Finally you'll need 4 candles, and don't make the same mistake I did and come back from the iron mongers with fork handles!

How we laughed. Anyway.

1. First cut the hook off two of the wire hangers just above the twist then using thin wire join one hanger with a hook to one without at right angles - make two pairs.

2. Turn one pair upside down and wire them all together into a large 3 dimensional diamond, fasten the jar lids at the four corners.

3. Place the candles in the jar lids, decorate the hangers with tinsel and greenery, and hang baubles from underneath the jar lids and in the centre at the bottom. But remember kids never leave lit candles unattended, even for a moment.

So there you have it, 4 weeks in advent and you light one candle per week. What joy!

Have a look at the one I prepared earlier (below) for some more clues, or ring up Biddy Baxter if you need the fact sheet - she won’t mind.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Now children, are you sitting comfortably? Well then.............

Well then you are very lucky bastards and what the mothering  blah de blah have you done to deserve what I so dearly crave and require?

It all started with my mother. Yes I know the laments of so many Gay men start along those lines. But no it wasn’t because Zena made me a queer – ‘if I give her the wool will she make me one?’

No, it was more as a token of her passing last year Dad gave us a small financial token in lieu of compensation. Two of the things I spent mine on were a week away from whatshisface on a motoring tour of the Outer Hebrides and a new sofa.

Now as you will have known from my previous chronicles - shared for your education and amusement, the week in the outers was amazing and mind blowing and enriching, etc., etc..

But you may now recall that the sofa isn’t something I’ve spent much time discussing in my despatches.  Seems strange I now as most people regularly blog about their seating arrangements. But please, it has always been so uncomfortable which is only worse because the sofa was purchased to replace a very uncomfortable sofa.

How hence the why not replace it with a comfortable one?

Yes, well how clever you are to ask such a plain question, but you see the thing is I purchased the new sofa on looks and online – trusting in comfort and dreaming of anticipated snugness.

It was nether, but I had more important things to worry about – the eviction of the tedious and the repatching of a life made semi orphan.

But as some of those close to my well being will attest, I do suffer on occasion with my back – and so support and comfort are two very important things to me. Importantly the other thing Zena provided for was the purchase of a new bed which has been life changing, but the seating remained poor and increasingly annoying.

So the other day in a brash but controlled bolt of inspiration I announced (to myself) that enough was enough! That piece of shit is leaving here and it is leaving here now!

I felt so liberated, but realised that I wouldn’t simply be able to stand of an evening. I quickly determined that I wanted to replace the monstrosity with 2 comfortable chairs rather than a new sofa.  As those of you who have enjoyed social intimacies over the years here in London’s glittering East Dulwich will testify, my garden apartment is only tiny. So I began to see how the flexibility of chairs over the hulking brutishness of a 3 seater could present a series of affordable advantages both to me and to my guests.

So first it required me running the no sofa concept passed a selection of my inner circle. Mixed views here, with some suggestions of researching a firmer and smaller sofa, but I clearly heard some views that twinned with mine, so I branded them as a general consensus.

The key to my replacement strategy does teeter on my being off work the week after next and so having time for removal and advancement. So I threw caution to the wind and have already booked the council to come and get my old sofa. I trawled the net and identified a number of pleasing on the purse and the eye options and this weekend set out in my trusty motor to sit on said examples and to gauge the levels of comfort they could bestow upon my requirements.

Interestingly I changed my mind several times during the testing period, but have now anchored on 2 chairs – one which I have bought and is here overcrowding (pre sofa removal) my sitting room and only providing modest payback for the eye, but bringing riches untold to my need for comfort and support. And my second chair is now being made to order. A more traditional armchair which I sat on a sample of and which was lovely both on the back and on the eye. This comes in December, so when the sofa goes next week I will enjoy chair 1 and lots of space, and 6 weeks later I will have two comfy chairs, a much happier back and all in all my life will be one step closer to perfection.  

There are lots of steps mind, but one closer is still closer.

Carriages at 11

As many of you know I am a great supporter of the charity, did once have a set of cut down golf clubs, have worked very closely with key members of Bucks Fizz and Brother Beyond and know all the words to Manhattan Transfer’s Chanson D’amour, in French, and I know him so well by Paige and Dickson (in English).

But enough about me. Yes I, your self-appointed showbiz correspondent and food taster to the stars, has once more been shunning the damp patches of south London in lieu of living the vida loca in London’s glittering Mayfair!

So it’s Sunday afternoon and I’ve got my DJ on already; this does seem strange. My corset is tightened, thank heavens for the maid, and my shoes are polished. All set. My chaperone and I black cab it hot foot to your actual Park Lane. Our driver dropped us off a little way away (playaway!) in order that we could once more adjust some tight fitting items and so those needin’ smokin' facilities could be accommodated - timewise.

I must say that it wasn’t a straightforward 200 yds hop. Firstly we were accosted by a well dressed large woman with her shopping bags at the bus stop. She’d fallen asleep, so the story went, and had her train fare stolen – and could we furnish her with 12 English pounds by way of compensation. With the answer ‘how about no?’ she asked whether we’d meet her half way. My chaperone settled on a pound and we walked on. Narrowly missing the next gang of rent a beggar, I was just about to be presented with an award at the Sikh of the year ceremony when we realised we were only at the Grosvenor, and that we had to trot on further as we were Dorchester bound. And no that isn’t some seedy Dorset S&M club.

So finally we arrive, albeit a pound lighter, at the Dorchester Ballroom where a young lass in a tight dress welcomed me to my night with the stars, all in aid of Ronnie Corbett’s 80^th birthday and a good old excuse to raise some money for Children’s charity. Smashy and Nicey were not there but an evening of showbiz Gold ATV style was ahead and anticipated. With excitement, trepidation (it should wipe off) and a hunger to meet the octogenarian himself I made my way up the steps and into the first part of the evening – the ‘reception’.

Now to the kiss and tell section*

Well no sooner had I finished my first glass of fine wine, courtesy of one of London’s leading talent agents (no, no job offers yet) my well connected chaperone whisked me over in a ‘can I thrust by – I’m a diabetic’ stylee to meet Mr Rob Brydon. Luckily he was ready for a change of scene what with him chatting to a Judith Chalmers stylee orange person, and so welcomed our merciful yet jolly interruption. What a chatty man, and how polite and friendly he was. I try and do my A list research, and  so had listened to his recent dessert island discs. This enabled me to know about the new family and the circumstances pertaining to his previous marital breakdown. Not that I made it the main topic of discourse but a baseline understanding of an individual’s predicament makes for well lubricated social intercourse (I find).

All the while my young and excited heart was hoping above hope that the evening would include a Rob Brydon doing Ronnie / Ronnie doing Ronnie double act. I die disappointed, but swiftly on.

Obviously I can’t divulge, due to the 37 page (double sided) security clause my chaperone made me sign, the intimate detail of our honest one on two discussions, but I can say that his eyebrows are his own, and his is a very funny and talented man who made my chaperone and I giggle profusely - what a great start.

The master of ceremonies – who I did see rolling his eyes on being ignored by everyone, was doing his utmost to shimmy us through, a not unwide opening, to the grand ballroom itself to take our seats and for the evening’s raz a ma taz to commence and how. So we just stayed where we were, my chaperone went to check his shares and I slowly sauntered in past the artwork up for grabs in the silent auction, thinking everyone else was inside, apprehensively looking for my hosts’ table.

But no I was the first in. Our table was luckily the first one I came to and as I ummed and ahhed as to which seat to take I was greeted by Victor who informed me that he was going to be our waiter this evening and asked quietly if I could be so kind as to point out our host on his arrival - he would be most grateful. There was no obvious seating plan so I continued to hover not wanting to firm up my choice in case a social faux pas was committed. I did consider the various angles between all of the chairs and the stage and had a few options in mind should the time for decision appear soon. No one else came though so I presumed I was at the wrong table and would soon be joined by extras from Holby and get myself into inappropriate banter with one of Jordan’s bridesmaids. But no, the appointeds arrived and we worked out a very convivial boy girl, boy girl seating scenario, which found me next to two very glamorous and very well credentialed TV execs  - both ladies, both of the opposite sex and both lovely.

Early celebrity rubbing (like brass rubbing but less expensive) includes my backing on to Vanessa Feltz’s table. Now hers was very different to ours and included a lot of ladies with short skirts and hospital strength blusher, as well as Johnny Culshaw and someone who I think might have been in Emmerdale. I only see Vanessa from behind; she never turns round, not even once! And I can confirm she does have lovely locks in a very nice condition. Which is strange as I’d always thought her hair looked dry on the telly!

My Chaperone at one point called me outside to the smokers’ pavement to have a word with Tony Hatch, but I missed my chance by a fag’s breath. Back inside Tony introduces the evening in his capacity as Chair (of the evening) and reminds us all of Clive Anderson which simply confuses us – some guests had already had more than one wine.

After Tony had made his introductions we were enthralled with the Omnipresence of Mr Rob Brydon whose task it was to set us on the golden L.E. path of a true celebration of Mr Ronnie Corbett in his 80^th year.  He did enthral us with his magnificent impression of Ronnie, which had the house down as expected. I had hoped he’d have done a spot of Tom Jones too, but you can’t, as I have learnt over the years, have everything.

Next up there was a girl singer who no one knew and wasn’t terribly good so we squeezed in a good amount of chatting amongst ourselves. The chat was then disturbed by some quite complicated instructions, which completely went over my head, about having to write your name on a £20 note and if your note was chosen you’d win the table decoration on your table. (Tony Hatch’s wife made them I think). Luckily I didn’t win, as I’d only tenners in my wallet and that would have been embarrassing if one of my tenners had been pulled out of the envelope housing everyone else’s 20’s! Think of the shame!

Time for a gentleman’s break – never you mind ladies, all very salubrious and high end, although they could have done with some spot mopping. On my way out none other than HM Mr R Corbett himself was coming in so I held the door for him and said I hoped he was enjoying the evening. He was very polite and did what looked like a little dance – I don’t think he can help himself – it’s in the genes (tartan).

Dinner is served - very nice, and although sober, I have absolutely no recollection of what I had for my starter. The meaties were served cod on stuff avec something. For mains the meaties had a lovely looking beef wellington avec legumes du campagne seasonál. I had a sort of basket made out of the pastry they do samosas with, resting on a large pool of a very tasty mauve sauce, the basket was filled with a battered tofu or quorn steak, which we all thought tasted like chicken so we left that, and a selection of tempura’d veggies - very nice. (Mrs Hatch apparently chose the menus). Pud - well it was a lovely bit of something moose but cake like with a nice crisp brulee sheet across the top with some raspberry sorbet and fruits du jour. Coffee was then served but I missed out on the sweet meats as I was busy hob-nobbing.

Next on the menu was the auction. There were a plethora of goodies on offer from signed books, to golf bags, to villa holidays (flights not included) to dinner with Lord Lucan – you know the drill. Unfortunately one of our table accidentally bid on appearing in OK magazine and so six hundred pounds later (lighter) our table hosts had their snap taken with Ronnie himself – soon to appear in a Forbuoys near you – no doubt! All very exciting and all proceeds to charity.

The key point of the auction was that it was led by a hyperactive Bobby Davro, who  was mostly only able to pretend to be Harry Hill. Harry himself was in the audience so I’m not quite sure how that would have gone down or whether they perhaps had some sort of deal. Anyway there were two points to Bobby’s patter – one high – holding his wine glass up he announced – ‘ladies and gentleman, I haven’t had a drink for 37 days!’ mutterings of approval and old school support, ‘Not consecutive days of course!’ brought the house down. The low was when he said ‘I’d like to thank all the waiting staff who’ve done a great job, considering they were all gripping to the axles of lorries in Dover 3 hours ago!’ Now mixed reception here. Our table all looked very dour whilst the independent radio execs and their ‘dates’ at the next table all pissed themselves with laughter and clapped themselves raw!

Then ladies and gentlemen a hush ascended on the crowd as Tony moisturised us into anticipation of our ‘surprise celebrity guest’ and then from the shadows at the back of the room rushed Tarby. Up to the stage – he’d hot-footed it from a family occasion - car waiting - engine running. He said a lovely few words about Ron and then straight back out again to the Merc no doubt on double yellows – standing ovation, lights up. You’re back in the room.

Next they showed us a film of disabled children so we were all crying in the aisles and the locks on our wallets were further loosened. Sandi Toksvig then shares about Ron’s great charity work and links this to the variety club etc etc etc. Very funny –talks about them working together last Christmas at the Festival Hall – which I saw, and how she is the only person in the business who looks up to him – she is TINY.

For some reason John Culshaw then gets up and does a) lots of impressions of W G Bush and b) a not as good impression of Ronnie as Rob Brydon had done. But he’s amusing in a mass media sort of way – which I am told is popular these days and even more important than what I think – it is all raising a lot of money for the charity.

More wine, more chat and then, drum roll, the show stopping begins. Mr Ronnie Corbett himself gets up on stage and the fun really starts.

Ron does a couple of very funny routines – all running round the stage - very active and fan fucking tastic. His little act culminates with him asking his wife Anne up on stage. He talks about how they met – both working with Danny to start with, and then they go into this pretendingly not rehearsed song and dance routine. Anne is really up for it and steals the show completely. Lots of - as the music segues into the next song...’do you remember this one?’ Absolutely brilliant. Then as they are all bowing and thanking the band Tony Hatch comes back on stage and as Anne is kissing the band says that Anne is doing the old Danny La Rue routine – you couldn’t pay for this gold. He signs off by thanking all the wives - which has us all in hysterics re the golf club stylee nature of the evening. Lights up, hats on. It must be time to go.

But no, my fearless chaperone has international cabaret introductions still up his sleeve. He pushes me forward to Sandi who I greet and grab and have my photo taken with – my photographer is short sighted and not to be re employed. We then head for the big game - Ronnie Corbett (Mr) is in our sights. I of course hold back re the nerves and public school upbringing,  but my chaperone -  used to celebrity chit chat and with relevant provenance and appropriate credentials - forges our way forward with a 'hello Mr Corbett’ and then there I am, chatting to the great (little man) himself. Whilst maintaining the chat I reach for my programme, turn to my chaperone and intone ‘pen’ and before you are able to say ‘will this be on ITV4?’ Ron had signed my programme cum menu and I am one step closer to dying happy. How fucktastically amazing, Mr Ronnie Corbett OBE shaking my hand and talking about Jackanory.

 *extracts from this blog have previously appeared in Now, Closer and Hot magazines and may have been exaggerated in order to make the author appear more popular.