Welcome to the inside of my head.
I've had a rather strange few days all told; part general weirdness, part drunken hallucination, part nightmarishly surreal French movie. So I've decided I have to share.
I attended my first poetry reading on Wednesday night. The primary reason for going was because one of our writing tutors, Alan Bissett was reading a section of his latest novel. (follow the link for details) All in all, it was an enjoyable affair, with some decent stuff being read out. Some dross, too, it has to be said, of a particularly adolescent style, but that's the danger of going to an open mic night. The other danger of going to an open mic night is getting roped in to read. Guess what.
Surprisingly, it wasn't actually all that bad. I pictured myself in my underwear, and damn, I looked hot in my Monkey pants. So that worked fine.
Afterwards, we went for a pint, mostly to calm me down as I was still high as a kite. And I got chatting away with some of the folk from the course, had a laugh, that sort of thing.
That's when the weirdness kicked in.
I got talking to one lass in particular (I'm not being patronising here, it just sounds wrong in my head to label any female older than I am a "woman" or a "lady") and we were talking about dressing up. As you do. She mentioned that her son dresses up for a living. I'm thinking "Okay... should I ask? Is he a female impersonator of some sort..." Oh no. Her six foot three sixteen year old son dresses up as a rabbit and does children's parties every Saturday. I don't know about anyone else, but if I'd have encountered a six foot three fluffy bunny at my sixth birthday party, I think I'd have needed a change of shorts. Then she mentioned that he has to do a special fluffy bunny dance. Apparently, it's somewhere in between the Hokey-Cokey and some kind of American-Football-style-hip-gyration-victory-dance. Which she demonstrated. I think it's fair to say, the mental imagery I had at that point was... more than slightly disturbing... Only after we'd dried our eyes from this did she mention that he also does adult events. By which, she then explained, she didn't mean stripping or anything on those lines, she meant corporate race nights. I suddenly had the most startling image of a dozen fluffy rabbits lined up, under starters orders; then they're off, and the blue rabbit takes the lead, with his big massive fluffy costume head bouncing up and down on his shoulders, and his ears blowing in the wind...
Yesterday, I had another reminder that posh people are bonkers. Or, to use their terminology, eccentric, i.e. rich enough that most people ignore the madness. How? Two things. Ferrets and Jewellry. See below.
The picture on the left is the cover of this month's Country Life magazine (a sort of estate agents brochure/pimping service for the landed gentry). The picture on the right is a an antique duck brooch with a list price of £6,300. Owch, that is hideous.
Anyway, the ferrets reminded me of the following sketch:
(From Scotland the What?, by Buff Hardie, Stephen Robertson and George Donald (Gordon Wright, 1987) In this comic monologue from 1982, the owner of a toy shop in Ballater, near Aberdeen telephones the Princess of Wales to ask what her son would like for Christmas.)
"Noo, fit wid he like for his Christmas, the loon? Fit aboot a pair o' fitba beets? Beets. Beets. B-O-O-T-S, beets. Weel, I ken that, but he'll surely grow intae them. Weel I'll tell ye fit I've got. It's something very suitable. It's oor ain special line in soft toys, and it is a cuddly futret. A futret. Div ye nae ken fit a futret is? Futret. F-E-R-R-E-T, futret. Now, cuddly futrets is exclusive tae the Toy Shop, Ballater. We get them specially made up by a wee wifie, in Hong Kong. Oh, an' fit a job I hid explainin' tae her fit a futret is. Ye wid like a futret? Oh we'll fairly manage ye a futret. Noo fit size o' a futret wid ye like? We've got a dinkie futret, a mini futret, a life-size futret, a jumbo futret or a mega-futret. Ye'd like a jumbo futret? No, it disnae hae a trunk. No, it's got a string that ye pull, an' it sings Run, Rabbit, Run. Weel, fit else div ye expect a futret tae sing? Now is there onythin' else the loon wid like? Fit aboot a rubber duke...for his bath? A duke. No, no, nae that kinda Duke. D-U-C-K, duke. A quack quack duke. Like Donald Duke. Donald Duke. He's a freen' o' Mickey Moose...Moose...M-O-U-S-E, Moose! God, div ye nae understan' English, lassie?"
Like I said, I thought it best to share.
I attended my first poetry reading on Wednesday night. The primary reason for going was because one of our writing tutors, Alan Bissett was reading a section of his latest novel. (follow the link for details) All in all, it was an enjoyable affair, with some decent stuff being read out. Some dross, too, it has to be said, of a particularly adolescent style, but that's the danger of going to an open mic night. The other danger of going to an open mic night is getting roped in to read. Guess what.
Surprisingly, it wasn't actually all that bad. I pictured myself in my underwear, and damn, I looked hot in my Monkey pants. So that worked fine.
Afterwards, we went for a pint, mostly to calm me down as I was still high as a kite. And I got chatting away with some of the folk from the course, had a laugh, that sort of thing.
That's when the weirdness kicked in.
I got talking to one lass in particular (I'm not being patronising here, it just sounds wrong in my head to label any female older than I am a "woman" or a "lady") and we were talking about dressing up. As you do. She mentioned that her son dresses up for a living. I'm thinking "Okay... should I ask? Is he a female impersonator of some sort..." Oh no. Her six foot three sixteen year old son dresses up as a rabbit and does children's parties every Saturday. I don't know about anyone else, but if I'd have encountered a six foot three fluffy bunny at my sixth birthday party, I think I'd have needed a change of shorts. Then she mentioned that he has to do a special fluffy bunny dance. Apparently, it's somewhere in between the Hokey-Cokey and some kind of American-Football-style-hip-gyration-victory-dance. Which she demonstrated. I think it's fair to say, the mental imagery I had at that point was... more than slightly disturbing... Only after we'd dried our eyes from this did she mention that he also does adult events. By which, she then explained, she didn't mean stripping or anything on those lines, she meant corporate race nights. I suddenly had the most startling image of a dozen fluffy rabbits lined up, under starters orders; then they're off, and the blue rabbit takes the lead, with his big massive fluffy costume head bouncing up and down on his shoulders, and his ears blowing in the wind...
Yesterday, I had another reminder that posh people are bonkers. Or, to use their terminology, eccentric, i.e. rich enough that most people ignore the madness. How? Two things. Ferrets and Jewellry. See below.
The picture on the left is the cover of this month's Country Life magazine (a sort of estate agents brochure/pimping service for the landed gentry). The picture on the right is a an antique duck brooch with a list price of £6,300. Owch, that is hideous.
Anyway, the ferrets reminded me of the following sketch:
(From Scotland the What?, by Buff Hardie, Stephen Robertson and George Donald (Gordon Wright, 1987) In this comic monologue from 1982, the owner of a toy shop in Ballater, near Aberdeen telephones the Princess of Wales to ask what her son would like for Christmas.)
"Noo, fit wid he like for his Christmas, the loon? Fit aboot a pair o' fitba beets? Beets. Beets. B-O-O-T-S, beets. Weel, I ken that, but he'll surely grow intae them. Weel I'll tell ye fit I've got. It's something very suitable. It's oor ain special line in soft toys, and it is a cuddly futret. A futret. Div ye nae ken fit a futret is? Futret. F-E-R-R-E-T, futret. Now, cuddly futrets is exclusive tae the Toy Shop, Ballater. We get them specially made up by a wee wifie, in Hong Kong. Oh, an' fit a job I hid explainin' tae her fit a futret is. Ye wid like a futret? Oh we'll fairly manage ye a futret. Noo fit size o' a futret wid ye like? We've got a dinkie futret, a mini futret, a life-size futret, a jumbo futret or a mega-futret. Ye'd like a jumbo futret? No, it disnae hae a trunk. No, it's got a string that ye pull, an' it sings Run, Rabbit, Run. Weel, fit else div ye expect a futret tae sing? Now is there onythin' else the loon wid like? Fit aboot a rubber duke...for his bath? A duke. No, no, nae that kinda Duke. D-U-C-K, duke. A quack quack duke. Like Donald Duke. Donald Duke. He's a freen' o' Mickey Moose...Moose...M-O-U-S-E, Moose! God, div ye nae understan' English, lassie?"
Like I said, I thought it best to share.