0 Weddings and a Snowcock...

'Twas the weekend before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring...erm except me. I had woken up stupidly early on a friend's sofa bed and, being a ridiculous, needy attention whore, I decided to check my e-mail. Imagine my surprise when I opened the latest from a literary agent expecting a standard rejection, only to find a request for my full manuscript! Excited doesn't even begin to cover it. But no one else was awake so I poked Mr. Pinkwood in the face until he WAS awake and told him. Then I tried to calm down (because let's face it - we've got a LONG way to go yet...no use counting our proverbial chickens) but by this time I was wide awake.

So I lay in the snugly front room and enjoyed some quiet time just being warm and horizontal and CALMLY thinking about the sub-clause I would need to put in my contract when I sell the film rights to my book, which stipulates that I must have full control over the casting of the motion picture so I can make Jensen Ackles...what?! WHAT?!

And then I got a text from a friend a few miles up the road:

How's the snow looking with you? It's snowing here :(

A seemingly harmless little message which I rather offhandedly replied to:

Nothing here yet!

Not only was my response blasé, it was also unresearched and factually incorrect. You see, what I couldn't be bothered to rouse myself from my cosy, warm daydream to ascertain was that we'd actually had about a foot of snow since I had gone to sleep!

Now, usually I'm all for being snowed in when I'm toasty and in bed. I like to take full advantage of the UK's inability to cope with a bit of the white stuff when it means I can stay on my sofa rather than going to work. But this particular pre-Chrimbo weekend was not of the usual ilk. It was a WEDDING day. The wedding of two of my oldest friends who will be moving to the other side of the world come January.

As the rest of the household woke up, it soon became apparent that we were actually pretty boned. First we had no cancel the hairdresser (no biggy - we can do our own hair). Then our lift fell through due to the state of the roads. Our return cab from the reception started looking shaky. So finally, with an emergency quartered scotch egg stashed about us and some warm clothes on, we walked gingerly to the train station, preparing for an epic 3-change journey (it takes 2 hours on a good day) to the ceremony. But after buying our tickets and waiting for a train which seemed less and less likely to show up, we got a phone call from a friend further down the line, saying all trains going anywhere vaguely near where we wanted to be had been cancelled!

The weekend had started well but it was rapidly going the way of an inexperienced skier on a black run - downhill FAST!

(LOL - I've never been skiing - did that even make sense?)

So, with heavy hearts*, we called the groom and went home to take off our finery and watch Scrooged** :(

Here's what you would've won:



The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Pinkwood and I were scheduled to have early Christmas with my family due to the fact we will be in Manchester for actual Christmas. Mum had bought not one but TWO turkeys. Everyone in my actual family was sick or incapacitated due to SNOWMAGEDDON. Things were looking a bit wobbly again, but then a thought hit. What would be more perfect at Christmas than spending it with people we actually like rallying the local troops (i.e. my friends) to eat all this excess food - Hollywood style?! Mum was sold: Trains, Planes and Automobiles is one of her all time favourite movies. She suggested a snowball fight and a wintry dog walk. So that's what we did. There were 9 of us in the end - which everyone knows is the number of a good fellowship. The roads had been gritted enough that we could actually get there, so up we bowled and the champagne was duly opened.

Now it may have been the fizz. It may have been cabin fever. It may have been repressed upset from missing the wedding. I don't know. But at some point it was suggested that we could build a great big cock out of snow. Oh, how we laughed. Imagine the neighbours' faces! One of my brothers would be in charge of ball foundation. I would oversee bellend sculpting. Everyone else would take shaft duty. We snickered and guffawed, and then we ate lunch.

After eating, we dressed warmly, brewed some gluhwein, put the dog on a lead and went outside for Christmassy fun. But the snowpenis idea refused to die. I guess it was crowd mentality. If there is one thing you do not do, it is make a flippant remark to my friends and family. Especially not if they are all a bit tanked and high on roast potatoes. And so this happened:

It could be a snowman if you squint...


Yes, MORE alcohol. That will help...


Possibly the point of no return:


Ben and my brothers thinking about helmet construction:


Tom and Mr. Pinkwood define those balls:


It's almost straining! Michaelangelo would be proud :')
Now everybody say "COCK!"


If that wasn't bad enough, we went back later and transformed it into some kind of illuminated Winter Solstice totem (and added twig pubes :/)



SO, the next day, in a completely appropriate fit of embarrassment, Mum went out and pushed Snowmanhood over (leaving the balls as a 'fuck you' to over-zealous residence association members (lol) everywhere). But when she returned from a walk later in the day...a GENUINE CHRISTMAS MIRACLE had occurred.

SNOWPEEN WAS RES-ERECTED!



Well, it's more of a semi - but it restored my faith in the magic of Christmas anyhow :)

So, dear readers, I bid you farewell for this year having successfully lowered the tone of 2010. I hope you all have a FABULOUS holiday, and I'll see you on the other side where I shall probably be making a right pig's ear of 2011!

*I am exploiting this misfortune for a stupid blog post but I am GENUINELY gutted about missing the wedding and will be making it up to the bride & groom BIG TIME.

**Mr. Pinkwood had NEVER SEEN Scrooged before!! WTactualF is up with that?!

Turn & Turn Again by All Thieves

The lyrics to this song are so beautiful they actually make me do a bit of a cry. These guys must be about to break big time. And the video is just a perfect illustration of why I am OBSESSED with Supernatural. There is just nothing like it. Epic bromance is epic forever y'all :')

My name is Pinkwood, and I'm a (soft) RAWK-aholic!

This post is endorsed by Pat Benatar*



It was Friday night, and the birthday of a very close friend. The chum in question is a pretty excellent dancer, and is sweet enough to indulge my love of throwing shapes even though I have all the grace and finesse of a hobbled ostrich. With brain damage. And so it was that we found ourselves at Ultimate Power. This is a club night at the Scala in Kings Cross which plays only power ballads.


I salute you, mysterious paragon of fist-pumping.

Yep - you read that right. They ONLY play power ballads. All night long. Big hair, reproduction inhibiting trousers, and fist pumping - good. Poise, dignity and anything which doesn't involve saying 'baaaaaaay-behhh' - bad. This isn't Guilty Pleasures. There is only one flavour and that flavour is SOFT RAWK \M/. Once you're through those doors, you're committed.

I was in frickin' HEAVEN.

I'm not sure at what point I went from smirking at Foreigner and singing along in an ironic way to eschewing the infinitely cooler charms of my i-pod to actively seek out a bit of REO Speedwagon on Youtube. It's all a bit worrying. I found myself tearing up to Journey's Faithfully at my desk the other day. Seriously - what the fudge? Even my father (purveyor of dad rock) is mildly perturbed. He's all like, "This is NOT my fault! I brought you up on Deep Purple and The Zep!"

But I'm OK with it. I am. Really, I am.


Journey have no fucking time for your scepticism.

Two things quickly became apparent on Friday night.

Firstly, despite the fact I've been in a relationship for seven years, I'm overweight, unkempt, generally too drunk to be even slightly capable of flirtatious behaviour, and dance like a special needs ostrich, many people seem to think I could do with a good groping. On walking to the bar, a man in the cloak room queue shouted 'look at that hair' while pointing at my hair (OK, I'll give him that - it's a slightly odd colour) and then swiftly followed up with 'AND LOOK AT THOSE TITS!' at which point he proceeded to fondle my fun bags vigorously. Is that common practice? Genuine question. I fear my normalcy levels are skewed now because this shit happens to me ALL THE TIME.

Secondly (and I'm not even exaggerating) I KNOW ALL THE WORDS TO NEARLY EVERY POWER BALLAD EVER WRITTEN. I realise this sounds like the hyperbolic claim of a mad woman, but I swear it's true. I literally have no clue how it is that on any given day, I can't remember whether I fed the cat or sent an important e-mail to the regional office, but I can remember every single lyric to These Dreams by Heart.

I'm afraid that roughly 79% of my brain is taken up with clichéd lines which I have never actively sought to learn, let alone retain for 20 years, and that this is stopping me reaching my full potential as a human being.

However, this will not stop me from going to Ultimate Power next month.

Total Eclipse Of The Heart - Literal Version @ Yahoo! Video

*This post is in no way endorsed by Pat Benatar

The Camera Never Lies?

This short was written for and featured in Are You Sitting Comfortably? (11th Nov 2010 at Toybee studios, East London) - a night of live story telling run by the kind, welcoming, wonderful, beautiful, super-talented people at The White Rabbit.

Now available to download from Ether Books.

The Boy Who Lost Heart

Just a quicky (as the actress said to the bishop...)

As some of you may know, I am currently seeking representation for my first novel, The Boy Who Lost Heart. It is the first in a planned series based on the tale of the Watchers from the apocryphal Book of Enoch.

If you like your angels fallen, your sexual preferences murky, your blood spilled and your love epic, then this is the book for you! There is even a good dose of rock 'n' roll thrown in. And you can now read it IN FULL on the Harper Collins Authonomy website

The idea of the site is to get some feedback and criticism from other writers, and perhaps even have your work looked over by a Harper Collins editor. You don't have to be an Authonomy member to read, so please feel free to peruse and leave any comments for me on this post. What doesn't kill me will make me a better writer (or a bitter alcoholic) so please don't be shy.

Thanks y'all!

Gerard: The Gift That Keeps On Giving (Or Why I Love Ben Pt. 2)

Ben and I have known each other for about 15 years now I think...maybe more. So that's a fair few birthdays and Christmases...which means numerous gifts have been exchanged.

Items which gave been given by Ben to me and other friends over the years include:

Antique jewellery
A dentists' mirror
A transvestite Barbie complete with lovingly hand-crafted Fimo penis
Glitter
A bag of compost
Possibly some bodily fluids
Cookie cutters
Books on mathematics
A tank driving lesson

As you can see, Ben is quite inventive when it comes to giving, and such effort merits reciprocation. Luckily, Ben has a range of interests which make him relatively easy and pretty fun to shop for.

When he expressed an interest in preserved insects and antique taxidermy, I felt we'd hit the muthaload. A few beetles, spiders and butterflies later, some of us decided to club together and get him something a bit larger. At first we scanned ebay for some genuinely beautiful bird samples from the 19th Century, carefully watching various auctions and studying photos to check the condition of each one. But then, being us, other things began to catch our collective eye. Moose heads, lion skins and even a PIG. I shit you not, someone was selling a whole, stuffed PIG.

Now, Ben loves a pig. For a few days, our biggest dream was to present Ben with a full sized, dead adult pig which would have to be used as a sofa or an elaborate pouffe because it took up the whole floor area of his living room. But when the bids reached £700 after just a few hours, we had to admit, with heavy hearts, that the pig might turn out to be the most expensive backfiring prank of all time.

(Incidentally if anyone knows who bought that pig, please make yourself known. I have questions.)

So, undeterred we decided to set our sights a little lower. A fox maybe, or a badger?

And then we saw this....



It's a SQUIRREL riding a freakin' HORSE!!!!!!!

From the same source, we could also have bought a squirrel IN AN ORANGE BOILER SUIT, riding a QUAD BIKE! This would not only have been brilliant, but would also have matched the decor in Ben's flat. But something about the horse made this too good to pass up.

We registered our interest.

Now, you're probably thinking a stuffed squirrel, riding a plastic horse would set you back about 25p. YOU'D BE WRONG! Although we were no longer in the giddy world of pig money, the bids were rolling in, and it became apparent that if we wanted to witness Ben's face as he came face to face with a dead squirrel super-glued to a horse for the first time, it was gonna cost us. Still, it would be worth it, right? Right?!

Having won the auction and taken delivery of Ben's gift, we then had to keep it safe from the marauding threat of a friend's cat until the evening of the grand unveiling arrived.

We nervously assembled in the pub and waited for the rest of the gathering to present their (nice and largely sane) offerings. Finally it was our turn. Ben took the package and tore into the paper. He opened the box and looked inside. For ages. We held our breath. This could go BAD. We had a lot riding on that little squirrel/horse combo (sorry). Maybe Ben would laugh a little at this tasteless monstrosity and demand his real gift. The silence was oppressive.

Finally, Ben reached into the box and removed the squirrel and his steed. Held them aloft to take in their full kitsch glory, face still impassive.

Then a huge grin broke across his face and he declared:

"Aaaaaargh...I LOOOOOOOOOVE HIM! I shall call him GERARD!!"

And that is another reason that Ben and I are friends.

UPDATE: You can now read more about the adventures of Gerard the dead, equestrian squirrel HERE!

A STUNNING Pixies cover & interview from the awesome OK Go boys. This has everything: an anecdote about a chainsaw, Tim in shorts, a glockenspiel! What more could you want? Also Damian is so beautiful, I genuinely forgot to breathe for AGES the first time I watched it. I wish he'd stop playing hard to get and just come get me already! ;)

So, the CW network asked fans of Supernatural to 'tweet' questions for the stars of the show. And look who posed the first to Ackles!



Tee hee! I am fully aware that this shouldn't make me as excited as it does.

FYI this is the only one I asked which was suitable for broadcast - I'm amazed I didn't just get an injunction in the post...

My favourite thing about this is that he has to actually try and dignify such a shit question with a response. He gives the correct answer immediately which is just 'NO'. And of course he's never had a supernatural experience because there is no such thing as ghosts or monsters, so he could have left it at that but then (BLESS HIM) he thinks hard and seems genuinely sad that he doesn't have a story. Oh, Ackles :( It's OK. I'm too busy looking at your mouth to hear anything you say anyhow.

And then he's all like 'maybe ghosts stay away from me because they know I have mad skillz when it comes to destroying them'. This is supposing that a) there are such things as ghosts (which there aren't) and b) ghosts watch Supernatural. It's all just gotten silly and out of hand!

Jensen, if you are reading this - and frankly why WOULDN'T you be?! - I'm very sorry I wasted 30 seconds of your life with my inane question. I let you down and I let myself down. But I do have many more pertinent things to discuss with you so call me, yeah?

Dear Santa...

I realise it's still a bit early, but I wanted to give you fair notice because I know what I really, really want for Christmas. Santa, baby, I give you the Rodeo Jensen 3000:



This life-size, posable spanky toy comes with an array of stunning features including:

Removable, mismatched double denim outfit comprising shirt and plum-hugger jeans

Complimentary 'Dr. Sexy' style cowboy boots

Sasquatch lasso

Ginormous and ostentatious 'junk adornment' belt buckle

Falconry gloves(?!)

Realistic smudges of grime for added heterosexuality

Carefully tousled 'grabby hands' hair

Awesome, patented 'Real Feel' mouth

(Requires 684 AA batteries - not included)

I think you'll agree it truly is the 'must have' toy for this coming Chrimbo - hence I am registering my request in October. You snooze, you lose as a wise man once said.

Also, since I have been so very extra good this year, I thought you might find it in your heart to send me TWO presents (don't ask, don't get, God loves a trier and all that jazz), so I would also like to put my name down for an Interactive Sweat 'n' Strip Jared:


He sweats REAL sweat!!

It may seem a tad greedy, but if you could see your way to fulfilling my requests this year, I will never need to ask for anything (or leave the house) ever again.

Many thanks and kindest regards,

Pinkwood (aged 30 and 3/4)

Sad Face Masterclass (Or Why I Love Ben Pt 1)

You know those days when EVERYTHING drives you into an insane rage?

I had one the other day. I was so tired and exasperated by EVERYTHING that I sat at my desk and e-mailed my friend, Ben, bemoaning the fact that I wasn't skilled enough with punctuation marks to design an emoticon which accurately represented the full extent of EVERYTHING happening to my face - annoyance, disbelief, frustration, ennui, mild hysteria - and that this failure in itself was adding to my mounting pile of impotent fury.

:( Wasn't going to cut it.

:'( Pfft! Where's the ANGER?

D: I hadn't seen a ghost!

D': Or a spider.

Ben does not enjoy a constraint. I'd go so far as to say he actively dislikes one, which is why he shunned the frankly limited medium of key-strokes and drew me this instead:



He's a freestyling fucking genius! This is EXACTLY the right level of hissy! The attention to detail and sheer depth of feeling conveyed is even more remarkable when you consider that it took him about 5 seconds and he was probably in the middle of cutting a brain into 0.008mm slices and sealing them in wax or something. (Should probably mention at this point that he is a scientist - not a serial killer.)

And this is one of the reasons Ben and I are friends.

Fishnets & Filth...

One of my most enduring memories from childhood is being simultaneously thrilled and scared senseless by the sight of Tim Curry stumbling out of a freezer, having stabbed Meat Loaf to death, and dropping his pick-axe on the blood-stained ice, while Little Nell screams from the soul and pulls her hair in the background.

I can't remember how old I was when I first saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but I must have been young. Mother - if you are reading - I'm not questioning your parenting skillz BUT you probably do have a lot to answer for! Just sayin'.

Rocky Horror was my main obsession for many years. I was in the fan club. I had posters, t-shirts, rare cast recordings. The works. I even had pen pals. Although this age of internet forums is perfect for a greedy, stalkerish, instant gratification kind of bish like me, I sometimes forget how exciting it was awaiting the arrival of the latest newsletter by snail mail or taking hours decorating a lovingly hand-written epistle with glitter and lipstick kisses and anticipating the reply.

I had two older pen chums whose lives seemed impossibly glamorous to me. One was a young lady who used to send me mix tapes loaded with obscure songs by the cast of the film. We spoke endlessly about our mutual love for Curry in women's underwear. You should know that my love for Tim meant I wasn't even afraid of this! The other was a gay guy who would regale me with tales of fabulous debauchery. At least that's how I remember it. We would write pages and pages about our Rocky Horror related antics and send each other pictures of ourselves dressed in our sluttish finery.

My 'real life' friends shared my passion as well. One of the reasons I bonded with one of my bestest and oldest friends was because we were sat together in an art class one day and she noticed the doodles on my portfolio included lyrics from Rocky Horror and also by David Bowie. I think our first real conversation began when she turned to me and asked bluntly 'So you like boys who wear make-up too?'. It was love at first dirty sight.

We'd go to the stage show at every opportunity. Back in those days we had to make our own costumes and everything! Look how fresh faced we were:

Ahh...it seems like only yesterday. But it wasn't. It was about 15 years ago! THIS was yesterday:

I'm not sure why I hadn't been to see the stage show for so long, but slipping into your fishnets and sequins to heckle some scantily clad actors is like riding a bike or doing the Time Warp - you never forget how. And now I am born again I will never stray far from the path of this joyous filth. I mean, is there anything finer than a perfectly toned man wearing tiny pants and covered in body glitter who can back flip and sing at the same time?

That was a rhetorical question btw. The answer is NO! Duh.

It's been interesting to follow how the show has evolved over the years, and how each new production keeps the story fresh. The sex has gotten dirtier. Way dirtier. As another gorgeous friend (and the organiser of last night's outing) noted, the current tour has dispensed with condoms - a staple of the bedroom scenes for years - and includes practices which may have been quite an education for some of the audience members by the looks of it. It's testament to either the actors or the wardrobe department that there are no visible side effects from all that dry humping. Either they are all consummate pros or that underwear is sturdier than it looks. But I digress...

I'm always amazed at the diversity of the audiences. For all the die-hard fans who turn out in stockings and feather boas, there are always newbies and those who look slightly out of place (terrified?) to me. I often wonder what is going through their heads as they hear a room full of people screaming 'SLUT!' and 'ASSHOLE!' at Michael Aspel for the first time.

When you think about it, the story makes very little sense. Neither do the lyrics. But I guess that's not what it's about. I think it's been popular for so long because of Richard O'Brien's excellent tunes and because it gives people an outlet. While we are at the Frankenstein Place we can laugh at kidnap, cross-dressing, molestation, incest, murder, jealousy, cannibalism, the Nazis and genetic experimentation. Anything goes. It's all very cathartic!

Although transgressions are punished and relatively normal behaviour is reinstated at the end of the story, it is the anarchy and decadence - embodied by Frank - which is prevalent for the most part. Although he stands for everything we are told is wrong - violence, pride, promiscuity - it is Frank we root for. He is literally playing God in his house, constructing his own depraved little universe where there is none of the order or restraint imposed on the rest of us. And everyone adores him, even those he has mistreated. So much so that they are prepared to die for him. Riff Raff's claims that his master must be destroyed because of his extreme lifestyle are undermined when he reveals he doesn't feel anyone 'liked' him. Jealousy appears to be the overriding motive.

Whatever their reasons for loving this lush, dirty little musical, it certainly seems to bond people which can only be a good thing. And anything which gets accountants, lawyers and school teachers wearing corsets and feathers, and more boys in glitter and heels is doing the world an invaluable service as far as I'm concerned.

I was obviously deeply affected by watching this cult classic at such a tender age. More so than I realised. Although I had neglected my own alter-ego for too many years...

...it seems she never really left me:

That is my everyday hair! But not my everyday clothes (although they WOULD be if I had my way).

And she and I STILL enjoy boys in make-up.


UPDATE!!!

My mother has confirmed I was TWO YEARS OLD when I first saw it! TWO!!! This explains a LOT!

Rudd-y Brilliant!

Yesterday I was on Twitter (as is my wont) when I noticed that one of the trending topics was simply 'Rudd'. Subsequent and very cursory research revealed this was of course Kevin Rudd, the ex Aussie PM, due to recent activity surrounding the elections. BUT for a few seconds when I saw that hash tag, before reason prevailed and disappointment set in, my brain was all like 'Wow! Finally Paul Rudd is getting the love and recognition he deserves as an actor and a gentleman!'

I LOVE Paul Rudd. I'm not sure when I first realised this. I think it was a slow burning thing. It kinda crept up on me over the years. Paul Rudd is more than the sum of his parts. Sure, he was pretty hot as Josh in Clueless even if it took Alicia Silverstone the whole damn movie to notice. Like, DUH Cher! But that wasn't the defining moment. Maybe it was as Phoebe's boyfriend in Friends? Nah - I actually pretty much hate Friends so probably not. He's clearly outstanding as Brian Fantana in Anchorman."That's the smell of desire m'lady." Now we're getting somewhere. Then there's this. "Your index finger smells like Rupert Everett." Yeah. I think we're pretty much there. But THEN there's THIS. WOAH! Holy shit! We've hit the paydirt. Bromance and cock rock. I didn't stand a chance! Take me NOW Paul Rudd. And while we're on his faptastic dancability, how about this:



And YES, I do enjoy that Family Force 5 song. And NO I am not ashamed. Much.

I'm not alone in my Rudd infatuation. I have found that in a room full of people, in any given situation, if you mention that you love Paul Rudd, 99% of the people there will be like 'who is Paul Rudd?' and when you explain they look at you with a mixture of confusion and pity. They can't fathom your enthusiam at all. They assumed he would turn out to be some actor of smouldering intensity from obscure arthouse films, a hero of cult '70s slashers or even a porn star, but instead it slowly dawns on them as you get further through your list. "You know," you say, with a manic grin and a slightly unhinged glint in your eye. "The one in 40 Yr Old Virgin? Knocked Up? Role Models? Forgetting Sarah Marshall?" "Oh...HIM!" they say, eyeing you with suspicion. "WHY?"

But then there will always be that one person. That one in a sea of blank stares who is returning your fervent look. Their excitement is palpable. They thought THEY were the only one who loved Paul Rudd that much. They have found a kindred spirit. "I LOVE PAUL RUDD!" they say. "I KNOW RIGHT!?" you reply. You are now firm friends.

Sometimes it's someone you've known for years, but due to circumstances beyond your control you've never had a conversation go the way of Rudd, or sat to enjoy one of his movies together. But once you DO discover your mutual passion, your friendship will always be that much richer for it. Conversely, someone you hitherto thought was a dick might inadvertantly disclose their love of Rudd and you decide they can't be 100% tool if they like Paul. That's the healing power of Rudd.

So ANYway, after writing on Twitter yesterday that I love Paul Rudd, and how I had thought (somewhat rashly) that the Rudd trend was about Paul Rudd, I got an e-mail which said in the subject line:

Paul Rudd is now following you on Twitter.

Imagine, if you will, the rollercoaster of emotion I was riding for the time it took me to open that e-mail. Confusion. Excitement. Fear. Possibly a more well adjusted person would have assumed that it was one of their friends playing a joke. Or that someone who just happened to be called Paul Rudd, but not THE Paul Rudd, had misinterpreted my Tweet and thought I was in love with them. Come to think of it, that would actually be quite weird as well. But MY train of thought went something like this:

OMFG! Paul Rudd is following ME?!

How did he know I love him?

I didn't even hash tag his name when I wrote that Tweet about loving Paul Rudd!

Paul Rudd must spend all day just scanning Twitter for his own name!

That's a bit strange, but then again if I was a slightly famous Hollywood star probably that is what I would do.

What if Paul Rudd saw what I wrote about him and started reading all my Tweets and now Paul Rudd is in love with ME?

Holy crap! That must be it. Paul Rudd LOVES me.

And I love Paul Rudd.

What if he's leaving his wife for me right now?

Oh God! Do I really want that on my conscience??

They've got a small kid forchrissakes!

What will I tell the boyfriend? Am I really leaving him for Paul Rudd?

I'm gonna have to. He's PAUL RUDD. I'd be a fool to pass that up.

Jesus tap-dancing Christ. I understand now. It's my destiny to be with Paul Rudd.

But just as I'd made up my mind that I was going to have to move to the US and set up home with Paul Rudd, my message opened and I could see that in fact Paul Rudd wasn't following me at all. It was the Twitter account of Paul Rudd FANS. Their bio says 'Biggest Paul Rudd Fan Page Ever'. And they have 16 followers :'( That makes me a saaaaad panda. I'm pretty sure more than 16 people (now 17 including me) like Paul Rudd. Come on Rudd addicts. You can do better than that!

So, it looks like I'm not going to be the next Mrs. Rudd which is kind of a shame. I was pretty upset for about an hour but I had wine and some Galaxy Counters and think I'm OK now. But for those of you still not getting the awesome power of the Rudd, I leave you with this:

Bloody Second Hand Cat

I have inherited a cat. I never wanted a cat. I have had an empty fish tank sitting in my hall for two years because although I love tropical fish and kept them for years, since we moved into our last flat I seem to be the kiss of death to them. I cannot deal with the guilt. Also I am very lazy. There are 101 things I would rather be doing at any given time than standing elbow deep in fish poop cleaning a filter. Yeah, I know - amazing! Also, due to the fact that I have spent the last two years carefully training my neighbours to leave me the hell alone, keeping all interaction to brief pleasantries when we happen to be taking the bins out at the same time, I have no one to feed said fish when we go away. But despite all this, I can't bring myself to get rid of the tank because deep down I still harbour a longing for it to be full of scrummy, wriggly little critters with brightly coloured tails and lush plant life.

So I find myself slightly stunned that I have ended up with a cat. A bloody second hand cat. I have known this cat since it was the family cat, but now it is my cat. That means it looks to me for all its feeding, watering, grooming, lavatorial, and entertainment needs. I can barely do all that shit for myself! It follows me around the house, even when I go for a wee. It is waiting for me when I get up in the morning and when I get in from work at night. It stares at me expectantly all the time I am home, its yellow eyes boring into my very soul. It meows at me. It headbutts me. It trys to beat me up the stairs and trips me up, getting itself toe punted in the process. What does it want from me!?

At this point I should mention that Mr. Pinkwood is highly allergic to cats. He is currently under referral to the local hospital to see about getting allergy shots. He is munching his way through the SE London reserves of antihistamines. He is wheezing, itching and generally miserable. Poor, long suffering bastard. It reminds me of this:



So aside from the neediness, the litter tray cleaning, the expense, mild anaphylaxis, the morbid fear that it might get ill or run over while in your care and the need to facilitate a relationship with ones neighbours with a view to asking them to feed the damn thing so you can leave the house for more than a day at a time - what is the downside to owning a cat you might ask? Well, there's the increased need for housework. Hoovering. And life is just too short for hoovering. And there's the snags and pulls in everything I own from clothes to upholstery to carpets. Nothing is sacred. I am slowly coming to realise I cannot ever expect to have nice things EVER again. Only shredded, tattered, hairy things.

Bloody second hand cat. It's a good job I love it.

Would you ask THIS for an opinion?

Let's make one thing clear: I am in no way proud of this. In my defence a man from Winkball (whatever that may be and careful typing it into Google) stopped me outside the Electric Ballroom and started asking me very banal questions about OK Go. I was drunk on beer and high on Damian and I can't NOT talk to people when they start it. I find it physically impossible. Anyway, I will leave it up if only for the AWESOME T-shirt I made which is full of win and in no way the work of someone unhinged. Also it will remind me not to eat ever again! It is my greatest dream to have just the one chin. One day...one day.

Anyway, the boys were stunning as always. I would be posting photos and all that jazz only my camera battery ran out before the band came on. Yeah. Yeah. So instead of a lovely post with fancy rock 'n' roll action pics and Damian's O face, we have this.

Jensen takes the concept of the 'gag-reel' a little too literally...

There really isn't much I need to say about this, so I'll just say OMFG! WANT.

Once again Jensen Ackles proves there isn't a happier place on God's Green Earth than his mouth...and doesn't he just freakin' know it.

Hot For Teacher

Science. Hard isn't it? Even quite simple physics sends me into a kind of existential panic. I'm basically about four rational brain cells away from being a Flat-Earther. Luckily we have people like the amazing Prof. Brian Cox fronting programmes such as the awe inspiring Wonders of the Solar System to lead us through, distracting us with startling beauty while gently pouring mind blowing facts into our poor frightened ears. We all love Brian don't we? Even our dads are a bit gay for Prof. Cox.

Back on our own planet, natural history and biology have always seemed less scary to me. Perhaps because we have David Attenborough. It's almost physically impossible to be even mildly perturbed while he is whispering about the diversity and majesty of life on Earth in that hushed way that makes you feel like everything will be OK. Better than OK. It will all be delightful. Damian Kulash knows it. Of course he does. He's Damian.

Except there was that one time when some chimps chased and caught another screaming chimp and ate its brains out. Not even Sir David could make that painless, but at least he was on hand to soften the blow. Like a kindly grandfather, he carefully explained that where there is life there must also be death. And sometimes it's nasty, shrieking, visceral, cannibalistic ape death.

But there can also be beauty in death. Inside Nature's Giants is a programme which takes a sad event – the demise of an epically proportioned animal – and uses it as an opportunity to literally turn the specimen inside out. While it is undeniably icky in places, the subjects are treated with such reverence that you soon forget to be squeamish. Watching the team examine the mechanics of a giant python's jaw, I almost forgot it was a real creature. It was more like Predator.

It's a truly brilliant series, but my favourite aspect of all has to be biologist Simon Watt. Whether he's dropping a huge frozen snake, getting freaked out by a liger or being spun around in a NASA centrifuge machine until he faints in order to simulate the pressure on a giraffe's brain, his soft Irish lilt, lopsided smile and slightly apologetic manner make for compelling viewing.

“I'm OK, I'm OK,” he mumbles unconvincingly as he is dragged out of the centrifuge by two men, limp as a rag doll and green around the gills, before heaving over a hastily positioned waste paper bin. Never losing sight of why he is doing this, he continues to educate us as he pulls a whitey on the floor: “I wouldn't be having these problems if I was a giraffe!”

Indeed Simon. But you're not a giraffe, silly sausage. You're a man. A beautiful man.

I don't really want to contemplate a world without Sir Attenborough, but when that terrible day finally comes, we could do worse than pass the mantle to Simon. Just look at his lovely, clever face. I hope it's going to be around for a long, long time.

The Grave of Victor Noir

Late last year I visited the breathtaking city of Paris with my significant other and two dear friends. We decided to take a stroll around Pere Lachaise cemetery to visit the tombs of the more noteworthy departed such as Gustave Doré, Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde and Robert Ross.
One character I was not familiar with, however, was Victor Noir – a French journalist who was shot down in 1870 at the tender age of 21. His death at the hands of Pierre Bonaparte, a cousin of Napoleon, and Pierre's subsequent acquittal of the murder led to public outcry and violent demonstrations, and exacerbated the Emperor's growing unpopularity.
The most fascinating thing for me though, and something I find myself musing upon a lot, is the life-sized bronze effigy of Victor which lies atop the tomb, and its subsequent appropriation as a kind of modern day fertility totem. Sculpted by Jules Dalou in 1891, it depicts Victor in the moments after his death, his eyes closed, clothes askew, hat lying by his side where it fell, and...a rather large protuberance in his (inexplicably unbuckled) trousers!
What possessed Dalou to portray the recently expired youth with a semi is anyone's guess, but the statue has become legendary. A woman who places a flower in Noir's hat, rubs his groin and kisses his cold, graven lips, it is said, will enjoy a rich and satisfying sex life (marriage within a year and pregnancy being variations on the theme). The blue-green patina is tellingly worn to a warm golden brown in these profanely sacred areas.
Just how this striking likeness came to be imbued with magical powers remains a mystery, but I can certainly attest that there is something deeply romantic, slightly morbid and a little thrilling about waiting until the surrounding area is deserted and free from prying eyes before leaning down to plant a hopeful kiss on Victor's mouth.
I can't help but wonder what the young man would make of his posthumous status as a fetish, so beloved that neither fences nor constitution can keep the adoring hands and lips of Parisian women from his immortalised body.

Help! I'm Addicted

I absolutely cannot get enough of this gem of a song. Enjoy!

Atelic. My first submission! This was shortlisted for the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook short story competition 2010. The theme was 'union or unity'.

This story is now available to download from Ether Books.