|Cover of will.i.am|
Good Morrow, financially buffeted but hopefully not bust Reader,
By the by, I take it you’ve ‘checked out’ my ‘dope’ moniker in the title. Yes, I’ve been watching too much of ‘The Voice’. I’d get dizzy if my armchair spun round every time I heard a nice voice. I think that’s why Will-I-Am talks all that dopey dope stuff, Jessie (She knows the words to every song!) J sounds like an American hip-hop black, sassy lady, Danny O’Leprachaun is just dizzy and Tom (I’m still a love god in my head) Jones looks like he’s waiting for nurse to collect him for beddie-byes! Mind you, Tom still is ‘The Voice’. The competition only proved it, at great expense, unlike Engelbert, who proved that ageing werewolves should not be seen in spotlights, especially Eurovision sized ones! He was ‘cracked’ to think he could crack it. It was won by a slightly wacky Swedish lady, with a load of ol’ cute Russian dolls as back up! Maybe next year I should give it a go; I’m wacky, ancient, not afraid to be dressed up in a sci-fi suit, but I won’t do the sex change. That would be the unkindest cut of all! It’s not compulsory, is it? My stage name would be Will-I-Eck-as-like. What do you think? I could become an icon? Can I say icon, nurse? (I’ll check with my lawyer when he get’s out of the sanatorium after my last diary entry.)
Anyway tempus fugit and sometimes flare and fall into a black hole. I must try to stick to the point. Talking of sticking, when I told my daughter I had a sore tongue, she offered to stick a plaster across my mouth for a week. Is she trying to drop a hint? My car idles noiselessly, unlike me, according to her. Reminds me, viz-a-viz TV performances, could someone politely ask Prince Charles and Cruella to stop their roadshow now. The noble prince has been a weather ‘girl’ and a DJ. What will he do next to convince us he’s the serious heir to the throne? Go in for Eurovision next year singing the Johnny Logan classic, “What’s another year”? Anyway, I’ll put myself back in ‘prose’ control. It’s not easy at age 88. I have to write a note down about everything, even loo visits! Although, in the immortal words of Bacharach and David, “There’s always something there to remind me!” Mind you, I’ll never be lonely. If I were dropped into the Sahara desert today, I would be ok. I’d chat up a passing Bedouin (Maybe the one that ‘found’ my camera in Morocco?) and get him to take me up the Kasbah. Then I could have tiffin with a belly dancer. You see, I’d never be in the s**t, just the Souk! For me, life is like a Forrest Gump ‘box of chocolates’-some bits are hard and bitter. I want the soft centres ‘cos they’re squidgey and exciting! Reminds me, did you see Nicole Kidman and Kylie at Cannes? If anyone can, they ‘Cannes’! (Please yourselves! I do!)
Suppose you’re wondering when I’m getting to the visit to France? Well, I wondered that too. It was magical. Yes, I’ve been away, but not with faeries, as we say here. I mingled in a totally platonic way with the rich and famous. They couldn’t take their eyes off me. It’s my matinee idol looks, repartee, charm and highly developed sense of modesty and self-awareness! In fact, I’m so good with people and animals, I think I could be a successor to Saint Francis of Assisi. Yes, any time I see a bird, I get a funny feeling. You’ll probably know ‘our’ poem, “Where there is discord etc..” Mrs Thatcher tried to hijack it. Mind you, there’s still plenty of discord about. Maybe that nice Lord Levinson could winkle something out of the very forgetful media dudes and politicians. Then, when he’s solved that he could have a stern word with that Syrian regime. What? You don’t think that would be enough? Thank goodness satire, irony and sarcasm are not dead, unlike the thousands of innocent civilians. Can the so-called ‘powers that be’ not get their act together and put aside self-interest? Rant over!
Any road, I nearly missed my plane to France. My daughter forgot to remind me to bring my passport. Basic error, that? Anyways, we were in the airport coach with our suitcases in the hold, when I asked her if she had my passport. Well, you would have thought I had let one go in front of the Queen (Again, but that’s another story, as the architect said!). She went a funny colour, murmured something about ‘cupid hit’ and we had to get a taxi back and forth for the next coach. If only she could be as organised as I am. For instance, I knew I had a funeral to go to (Not my own, you might be disappointed to know?), I just couldn’t remember whether yesterday was a Wednesday or what. (I can’t be expected to remember everything. Who am I? Carol Vorderman? I might be, but I don’t think so. My memory’s more like the Murdochs, patchy. It’s not easy being a media typhoon, I’m sure!)
Any rate, I rang the son-in-law and asked him what day it was. He seemed to be choking and stifling something. I’d like to …No, I’ll say no more as I want him to fix my TV. The other day I pressed for the rugby and got ‘Loose Women’. Normally that would be ok, but listening to Janet Street Porter going on about the menopause made me search in vain for the ‘off’ button! I bought him a box of crackers for fixing it; very appropriate I thought! I always said he was a cowboy. He used to be a ‘Loan Arranger’! (You know, Lone Ranger? Hey-ho!) Did I tell you I got another book from the ‘pound’ shop? Yes, it’s the ‘Karma Sutra’-a bit naughty, but very laid back, if you know what I mean! By the way, the lady from the perfume shop is after me and with my gammy legs, I can’t run for it. Yes, I’m nomadic and pneumatic. I’m full of hot air and I get about a bit. Anyway, she’s sniffing after my sponduliks and I wouldn’t come up smelling of roses!
Did I ever explain that I expire or whatever it is to be the Samuel Pepys diarist/chronicler of our times and mine. I observe the so-called ‘good and great (Who say’s I don’t do irony? Bronzy and Goldy probably; very much in the Olympic spirit) Yes, I will come back to the ‘Games’ again, but, in the meantime, do I hear correctly that a pint at the Olympics will cost £7? Blimey, someone’s taking the widdle. Maybe it’s from the competitor drug testing bottles? Never mind that, I want to pay my respects to our ‘Diamond’ QE2. I met her once, shook her hand and considered having it embalmed. I thought better of that. It would have interfered with my hobbies. Anyway, I’ll see her when I reach my century and she hand-delivers the card as pre-ordained. After all, I’m a proto-saint? Did I tell you I tried to get into the ‘Old Boy Network’, but they wouldn’t have me for some spurious reason? Ageism is rife! I also report on the word on the street. A lady the other day, here in Norn Irn, said her daughter wanted a baby and was having ‘UVF’ treatment. Just a bit drastic, I thought?
Before I go, I’ll leave you with a couple of thoughts. Firstly, if ‘we’re all in it together’, as the ‘Condemns’ say, then most of us are in a leaky dinghy and they’re in a luxury liner, now renamed, Titanic 2! Can you tell me what a ‘Grexit’ is? Is it a refurb of Aristotle Onassis’ yacht? Secondly, I’ve got to get the car into the repair shop-just minor things-scratches when I reversed into a bollard and, oh yes, the steering wheel came off in my hand! (It’s all in your own minds!) Yes, as sure as I’m riding this camel across the Atlantic! Yep, I rang a customer insultant, who turned out to be kind and French. (Think her name was Marie Mee?) It was a bit ‘ooh la la’ when she said she would ‘take me in hand’. My mind went blank and I almost forgot why I’d rung until I noticed the steering wheel on the sideboard! Anyway, she says she’ll sort me out, so I’m walking on air, at least until the car’s fixed.
Well, I’ll keep soldiering on. Before WW2, I worked in a linen mill making parachutes. Yes, I landed on my feet? Strange then that I lose my thread so often? Ironically, I was recruited by a guy called Soldier Dunn. So, for a year, I rhetted, scutched and hoed-all above board, then into the army, where of course I was a model of decorum at all times, and anyone who says different is probably a jealous rival with too good a memory. Hey-ho, off I go. Got to call in at the bank and warn them about my holiday spending. They’ll think my middle name is Rockerfeller, when it’s actually ‘Stoney-broke’!
Just remember why I write this diary! I want the world to know that you can live life to the full, even at my great vintage. I don’t whinge, but I do ‘wine’. I take off for hols, love my family, make people smile, live every day like it’s my last, but always keep my feet on the ground! Wish me luck with the ‘peepmobile’! I wonder if Marie Mee will give me the necessary for the car in person?
Yours, with my ear to the ground yet permanently on holiday,
The Blogging Gogfather (Grumpy ol’ geezer!)