Why use two words when one ridiculous one will do?

I like words, and I’m all for us making up new ones, especially sweary ones (like twazzcocks – excellent word) but things are going a bit too far of late. Our propensity for portmanteau is positively plague-like (try to say that without spitting...) And has anyone noticed it tends to describe very unpleasant things? Smog (ick), tweenagers (those 8-year-old girls with belly tops and high heels on. Yes – them.) and Spedi (utter twazzcocks the two of them).

‘But fusion is a good thing!’ I hear you cry, ‘If it wasn’t for the fusion of nuclei we wouldn’t have stars!’ You are right, of course (and a very clever lot if I may say so. I failed Physics at school. To be fair I might have had a shot had I not chosen to write a letter to the examiner rather than answer the questions on the paper. But I felt it would be nice to brighten his/her day with a cheery hello amongst all the dull formulae and experiments they’d be forced to read about. Anyway, I digress…)

We’ve had plenty of fair warning that, when we start mucking about with it, fusion can go horribly wrong. Never mind nuclear bombs, when trousers and skirts were merged in the 80 to form culottes I think we all agreed it was a very bad idea, did we not? The polka dot ones I got for my confirmation were certainly a huge mistake. As was the perm, but that’s another story, and no, you can't see a picture.

Sadly the fashion world has not taken note of this grievous error. They have carried on regardless with their jeggings and their snoods and their (*retch*) meggings. Meggings. I ask you. It sounds like something you’d need a powerful cream, or a dose of antibiotics, for. ‘I’ve got meggings’ you’d whisper to your friends, eyes cast downwards in shame, and they’d back slowly away from you with a look of both sympathy and disgust (symgust even?)

It must stop. And so must I. Must get ready for brunch.

Your pants appear to be smouldering...

When was the last time you told a lie? It was about five minutes ago, wasn’t it?

Hopefully it was a little white ‘the bus was late’ type fib and not ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’ style barefaced deceit. Don’t feel too bad; we’re all lying our arses off all the time (Although if you did have sexual relations with that woman, you should feel bad, very bad indeed, ya cheating fecker!)

Fraud starts when we’re tiny, when we’re mostly the victims of lies, or lyees if you will. I blame the parents. They will tell their children anything for an easier life, ranging from the innocent (carrots give you x-ray vision), to the ominous (that’s not an ice-cream van, it’s the child-catcher). But, giving parental types the benefit of the doubt, most of their little inaccuracies aim to protect or entertain. Siblings on the other hand… the lies they tell are intended only to upset, torture and mentally scar.

My brother is a rather good liar. They say it’s all in the detail, and he has an active (and sometimes disturbing) imagination. One of my earliest memories is of him telling me I was the only person in the world without a willy, because my mother had dropped me on a chainsaw when I was a baby. I believed this for what must have been several weeks or months (I felt quite special god love me) and his ruse was only rumbled when I casually asked my mother about her willy one day.

Slightly more traumatic was him telling our small nephew that Bosco was dead. Run over by a truck while out riding his Harley Davidson apparently. Oh the tears!

[For the non-paddies amongst you, Bosco was a squeaky-voiced, woolly-haired hand puppet beloved by generations of Irish children].

RIP

The old ‘you’re adopted’ is quite a common one, so it wasn’t good enough for my loving, caring, nurturing siblings. As I’m the only ginger in the family, they told me I came from the knackers. The story goes (note the present tense) that the family were out for a drive one day, passed a halting site and a baby (me) came flying through the window. So they kept me, and I am still known affectionately by my gypsy name at home. And what I said earlier about parents generally lying for the benefit of their child? Well they also do it for their own amusement. My parents were, and are, only too happy to verify this story. In fact I think they might have started it…

But it’s all good character-building stuff I tell myself (and maybe some day, a psychiatrist). Excuse me while I go and rock in the corner for a while… Only joking! Those driveways aren’t going to tarmac themselves.

New Year, and no beer?!

So, two weeks in. How are you all doing? All skinny, sober and speaking Swahili? No…? Shocker!

New year, new possibilities, new start. Blah blah blah. I, for one, can't be arsed. Every year we labour under the misconception that the New Year has the mystical properties required to transform our lives beyond recognition. I suppose our brains are so clogged with Christmas cake, cheese and chocolate that lard-induced hallucinations are not surprising really.

What is surprising is the timing of it all. Choosing, for example, to give up booze in January of all months is utterly ridiculous (and, ironically enough, is generally a declaration made whilst chugging New Year’s eve bubbles like they’re going out of fashion).

If we can veer into a little corporate twaddle momentarily (sorry, it’ll be over in a jiffy and you won’t feel a thing) let’s have a quick check if this is a SMART objective:

Specific – yes, in it’s stupidity

Measurable – only with tears of anguish

Achievable – not on your nelly

Realistic – see above

Timely – it’s January for feck’s sake!

January. The least popular kid in the playground, the Aunt that nobody likes, the traffic warden of the calendar year. Gyms are overflowing, pubs are deserted and people on diets are dull at best, frightening at worst (‘DON’T LET ME HAVE CHOCOLATE!’ they scream at you, a manic, stricken look in their hollow, joyless eyes). Why, oh why, would we choose to take away all the things that could help take the edge of the cold dark days?

The term is HAPPY New Year.
Don't take away the beer...

If you’re going to make a New Year’s resolution, and avoid unpleasant self-flagellation when it all goes to pot, keep it simple. The only resolution I have ever managed to keep was to floss every day. One small step for a small ginger, one giant leap in avoiding gingivitis. I have long since given up telling myself I will lose two stone in January, repairing my liver while I’m at it. It will never happen.

But if you’re made of sterner stuff than me and you’re sticking with the Swahili lessons, good on you. Here’s a useful little phrase to help you along…

I’d like a cold beer please: Tafadhali nataka bia pombe baridi.

Now doesn't that look lovely...?

What's your name and where d'you come from?

We’ve talked names before, but where you're from also says a lot about you to other people. Yes, the assumptions may be unfounded, but admit it - the stereotypes pop straight into your head when you hear where someone lives. Especially if they happen to hail from Hell (yes, there are several Hells on earth – three of them at last count).

Hell is a perfect example of my favourite kind of place (that sounds wrong somehow...) I am a big fan of those places with names that conjure up so many images and preconceived notions that your brain starts to melt a little. Anyone up for a trip to Cocks (Cornwall), Muff (Donegal) or Sandy Balls (Hampshire)? *snigger*

On a slightly more innocent note, there’s Pucklechurch. Sure god love us. All I can see is little old ladies having fetes and cake sales. Whereas Shirehampton is just full to the brim with hobbits - in my head at least... As for the people of Merrijig - they must be a happy lot (and quite fit too, I'd imagine, what with all that dancing).

And then there are the places that are just fun to say. I give you Auchtermuckty as a perfect example. Go on - say it out loud. Let it fire around your mouth. One of life's simple pleasures.

Speaking of simple pleasures (and minds). My brother and I were endlessly entertained when we were younger by Ballydehob. Could there be a more Irish-sounding (a.k.a. culchie) place? Perhaps. I think Drimoleague, Carrickfergus or Ballindereen could give it a run for its money as being the actual birthplace of leprechauns.

I can imagine living in a place with a novel title gets a little tiresome, and the residents could be in danger of the odd sense of humour failure when they've heard the same lines trotted out at them for the 4,739th time (so what do you do for fun here in Dull…?), but if you're lucky enough to live somewhere with a fantastic name - embrace it. And embrace your stereotype while you're at it - it's much more fun (it is for me at least. I'm Irish, so I get to drink a lot and eat a lot of potatoes).

Cape Foulwind - I know a few people from there...

Festive frolics

As the Edinburgh festival was kicking off last weekend a small gaggle of us were out taking in the atmosphere (and the beer) and a friend, let's call her Sabriena (because that's her name), decided to 'help' a performer whose flyer-hander-outer had clearly shirked their responsibilities and left the whole pile on one table. Now Sabriena has an impish streak at the best of times, add wine and naughtiness is guaranteed - so out came the eyeliner and said performer, unbeknownst to himself, was soon offering free shows and discounted tickets, not to mention taking on new personalities. Imp-girl then began distributing the flyers to passing punters, forgetting that Edinburgh is a very small place…

It took no less than three flyers before Sabriena was handing one of her special flyers to the performer himself. Caught rotten. He did see the funny side, but there was a definite tone to his good-natured repartee when he realised just how many of his 'very expensive' flyers imp-girl had ‘amended’ (see also: defaced).

So, by way of penance for the sins of the imp, if you are in the vicinity of Edinburgh I encourage you to go and see Trevor Browne – he is, apparently,  'probably the greatest folk-rock musician of all time’, ‘brilliantly funny’, and he's low on flyers - so tell your friends.

As you can tell, you don't have to actually see any shows in the festival to enjoy it, but it’s worth it all the same. Last night we went to see Mark Watson: The Information - the geeky non-welsh, non-Jewish funny guy from Never mind the Buzzcocks, 8 out of 10 Cats and Mock the Week (in his words; a 'non speaking role'). His show features plenty of audience interaction (the mark of a fine comic in my book) and the better half even got kudos and a big laugh for the comic timing of his interaction. This was not heckling, I hasten to add, for heckling rarely comes off well for the heckler - the hecklee generally takes the chuckling glory, and rightly so, because the majority of hecklers are an embarrassment.

Just two statues, shootin' the breeze

We followed Mr Watson with a mime act. Yes – I said a 'mime act'. What’s more, it was bloody brilliant. Words I never thought I would hear, much less write, in connection with mime. Had you said to me a guy could keep an audience totally enthralled and entertained for an hour without uttering a word I would have been skeptical at best, but that is exactly what The boy with tape on his face bloomin' well did. He is a man, but the boy title suits him so much better - and I say that with the nicest possible intentions, because he clearly hasn't lost his childhood imagination. There are lots of positive words to describe the show, but lighthearted does it best. Go and see it - you will come out with a BIG smile on your face.

People watching gold

Its ability to surprise, with the likes of good mime acts, is one of the many reasons I love the festival. I’m also a huge fan of people watching and during the festival it is absolutely golden. Maniacs, midgets and massive cows – its got it all, and more. My 9-year-old nephew put it best when he said 'Edinburgh is weird sometimes'. Yes it is. Weird and wonderful.

This is NOT how gingers should be treated

moooo!