Sunday, 22 August 2010

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:

Saturday, 7 August 2010

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.