I have just come in from a terrible evening at a drearsome bar in Windsor. Over-priced and under-staffed, the clientele was of the basest kind: vile old junk-bond traders, lady watercolourists, friends of Princess Eugenie and raddled old inebriates, self included. A bad-shave Turk sang Baglasam Durmam in a threatening way. I retaliated with L'hatchil l'hamshich, and things might have turned ugly, but luckily I accepted a Pink Squirrel* from an admiring Armenian, and we were all smiles before the bell tolled.
Why should a licensed premises be so becrammed with people you would hope didn't exist? The whole thing is beyond reason. I don't include myself in that doomed roll call, of course, but it did make me think of who I really wouldn't want to be. I scribbled this list down in the taxi home:
As Clarissa Pouncer awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, she found she had been turned into:
1. Herostratus
2. Virginia Wade
3. Ron Weasley
4. Moira Anderson
5. Kappauf of Citizen K
6. Beth Ditto
7. Nicolas Copernicus
8. Lilian Bellamy
9. Rod Blagojevich
10. Mr Jacqui Smith
I do hope you agree with my selection.
*Pink Squirrel
1 oz creme de noyaux
1 oz white creme de cacao
1 oz cream
Shake with ice
You WOULDN'T want to be Beth Ditto??
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Virginia Wade huh?
ReplyDeleteDoes this mean that you will throw a tantrum if someone mentions your under arm hair?
It all sounds very Turkish to me.
You're far too young to be Virginia and possibly with alien sexual preferences but look on the bright side - the only British Wimbledon champ since dear Freddy AND pals with the Duchess of Kent.
ReplyDeleteCan Jimmy be confusing Ginny with Julie? Roberts?
I don't mind admitting that I'm going to have to google most of those. So out of touch.
I do think that not wanting to be Moira Anderson removes the delightful possibility of being able to wander around warbling whilst wearing a tartan maxi skirt. One should think very carefully before giving up such a chance.
ReplyDeleteRon Weasley's a poor ginger sod right enough, yet he gets his mits on Emma Watson. I know it's only in a film but it still counts.
ReplyDeleteIt still counts.
I wouldn't want to be Hazel Blears. Or Heather Mills.
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'Ginny' Wade shocked my M.I.L when it first came to light in the late 70's about her preference for the fairer sex.
ReplyDeleteMe.. well it was the first time I realised what it was that women removed in the bathroom with a razor.
I think you're onto something again Mrs P. If you could combine the qualities of Moira Anderson & Beth Ditto and become a punk indie traditional singer, then you could join me and Scarlet in a new country garage folk ska act. Scarlet, in a comment on my blog, has even suggested she will get her kit off to play her sax.
ReplyDeleteIt did not know that Virginia Wade was that way inclined. As far as tennis is concerned I've always been more preocupied with the thoughts of Sue Barker felating Cliff Richard. I wonder if two white doves rose from his underpants as she gorged on his holiest of poliests?
ReplyDeleteWhat is your hangover cure, Ms Pouncer?
OI!! Mr Jekand, I said nothing of the kind!!
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WV: Pawspip
Nicolas Copernicus was a cool dude. But he was a dude; is that the difficulty?
ReplyDeleteI hadn't heard of the others. Are they rather dull dress designers?
Please, please Clarissa: don't ever ask for a Pink Squirrel in a bar on Canal Street.
ReplyDeleteI've never heard of any of these people, except possibly Nicolas Copernicus who took all the fun out of religion and Virginia Wade who featured in an implausably erotic dream I had in 1977. But here's someting to cheer you up: it's The Actual Barry Teeth!
ReplyDeleteMrs Pouncer dear, I urge you to think POSITIVE thoughts - not of those who you don't want to be, rather a role model who you aspire to be like. I myself yearn to be Saint Barry Manilow; all those people waving candles at me (I would ignore those vulgar cigarette lighters) as I sing softly....so much better than Hormone Replacement Therapy, and makes the hot flushes worthwhile.
ReplyDeleteI've come to think of you more as Virginai Wolfe than Wade - though of course I wish you a happy retirement appreciating the ladies of the lawn rather than floating down some river. I was a ginger as a small drunk, but have faded to a coppery these days, for which I am grateful - in gingerdarity though I wish more power to Weasly Ron and his starlet stalking ways. I thought Citizen K must be a Kafka dude, till I googled him and found him to be a haberdasher, kripes, you aim too low Mrs P. All our thoughts are with Lillian as she waits for Tiger to come round and I wouldn't wish her current plight on my own third best friend. Is the free porn the attraction of Mr Smith-dom? I can't imagine any other reason, although the former-Home Secretary's fullsome ladyness is far from unnattractive. Tycho Brahe, the Danish astromer has a stick on golden nose, which I would have thought much more your style than Nic C, give him some thought. Myself, I've never even woken as a beetle, LSD once made me believe I could talk to moths though. As a youthful teenage drunk my pea pod-like similarity to Jim Reid of the Jesus and Mary Chain (also a most excellent intoxicationist) was much remarked upon; I glowed inside.
ReplyDeleteMy dear friends and admirers
ReplyDeleteOnce again, I apologise for the delay in replying, but I really cannot emphasise strongly enough how important I am, how sought after, how lionised. It is crucial that you remember this to avoid disappointment.
Mapstew, no I wouldn't. I make a completely hopeless lesbian, finding hot girl-on-girl action a great big yawn, as some disappointed suitors will attest. Also, I am something of a body fascist, being of that generation. The Tab generation; Fresca drinkers. Walked everywhere - no rural bus service, and parents didn't operate as Licensed Cab Drivers in those days. We ate at mealtimes, and sometimes not even then, and chewed gum when we couldn't afford ten Number Six. MacDonalds didn't exist and I had an Oleg Cassini tennis dress (size six!) that my dad brought back from a trip to the States. Actually, I will do a post about this. I'd forgotten how weird it all was.
Virginia Wade, Jimmy! One of the Great British Greats, along with Zola Budd and Greg Rusedski (sp? CBA).
Pat, oft-times I think you protest too much. Which names escape you? Herostratus - world-class arsonist. I know that we have all, at some point, wanted to burn down a major public building, but he went right ahead and did it! Respect.
Madame D - I do that anyway.
Dr Maroon, you show yourself in your true colours. Appalling. You are to keep away from my niece, who is as sweet and charming as Emma, although of a meaner mien.
Scarlet, do have a care! It is a bare year since that hideous rumour about you being small and ginger was started on this very page (K.Musgrove passim). Referencing H.Blears might inflame the whole fandango once again. And do not start with H. Mills-Mucca! I have had the honour of meeting the lady more than once, and have a glorious photograph to prove it. She is in pink cashmere; I am in a state of inebriation. I will post same forthwith.
ReplyDeleteMIL's are easily shocked. One of mine took to using the expletive "Wanker" without having the first notion what it meant. She had heard it being yelled out of a car window in Salisbury and thought it sounded pithy. When all was explained to her, she had something approaching the vapours.
Mr Jekand, I do not think the blend of voices would work very well, if that is what you mean. If, however, you are referring to a melange of their bodyshapes, then that is old hat. Two-Ton Tessie O'Shea used that as her shtik to great acclaim.
I don't think Blears is a natural ginger...
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Emerson, that is one of the vilest things to ever besmirch these sumptuous pages. Kindly flagellate yourself until cleansed. Hangover cures! What a subject and, for once, a strangely neglected one. I intend to address this in an opulent new post: I will deal with the physical, of course, and also with the more beastly aspect, namely the metaphysical hangover. We are all familiar with this. It is when you wake up to a league of people (family and loved ones) who can scarcely disguise that they think you are a shit.
ReplyDeleteScarlet, yes you did. It was probably in a private email to Mr Jekand. We know how you keep these menfolk dangling.
Kevin, you seem to think I am some sort of Home Counties coward! A raddled old peruquier once took me to Manto and I had a Japanese Slipper, two Golden Snakes and an Alien Secretion. Manchesterford had never looked lovelier. And nor had I.
ReplyDeleteGadjo, thank you for sharing. We have all had erotic tennis dreams at some point. I remember being in a compromising position with Vitas Gerulaitis, for example, and falling from the umpire's chair with Buster Mottram. That is not the point. The point is that Barry Teeth is in the ascendant, and I simply cannot get over his glamour! All hail Teeth! We were his earliest admirers and, as such, must bathe in his reflected gloire.
Dear Camilla, how vile. B. Manilow, as a co-religionist, is a mensch, right enough. However, I would never want to be him. For one thing, I would be obliged to encore with Mandy and to wear Hathaway's Cabaret Plaid. I promise a new post featuring a list of who I would want to be by next Wednesday.
Dear Mr Drinker, merci bien. Your comments are fulsome; and not only do you entertain, you also educate. Noses feature strongly in your comment, I see. There is probably something Freudian going on here, but I am too busy to expand. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's father had a false nose, which was made from some thin wood. Also, let us not forget those who have lost their septums through heroic use of charlie. But I digress. My real thrust here is Lilian Bellamy, and I know you will be as thrilled as I am to see that she is showing her mettle at long last. Tiger fought back strongly last night with his encomium to market forces, but Lilian is playing the sex card, which always trumps everything in my experience.
ReplyDeleteOh Inky, don't lag behind so!
ReplyDeleteHerostratus - Arsonist Greek
Virginia Wade - Outlook bleak
Ron Weasley - Wizard pipsqueak
Moira Anderson - Caledonian shriek
Kappauf K - turns the other cheek
Beth Ditto - Arkansas freak
Nic Copernicus - Polymath geek
Lilian Bellamy - pick of the week
Rod Blagojevich - up shit creek
Mr Jacqui Smith - Anal Boutique
Why thank you Mrs Pouncer, my fulsomeness is a function of your own excellence and my own failure to HAVE A JOB. One is, as Elvis so rightly hubbad, caught in a trap; the snare that by saying often enough and believing strongly enough (and by using semi-colons) that one is a writer, one will be a writer.
ReplyDeleteMy mother and father both laboured under most unremarkable noses, so I think your analysis may, for once Mrs Pouncer, for once, is off. I fear that the widow Bellamy's sex card may be somewhat curled around the edges and foresee Tiger in a furious and apocalyptic writing-permanently-out-of-the-series incident prior to going to trial - the narrative arc demans it. Lily the pink nosed will seek saphic consoslation with Jolene and launch Borcesthire's first Pride parade on the banks of the Am - not before time. This is what I dream, but what I dream rarely comes to pass - Leeds United are still to trouble the latter stages of the Champions' League in recent years.
I am considering the life of the gigolo to earn a crust and feel sure you will have some advice in this area - will the lack of a signature overcoat queer my pitch? Will I have to forsake my lino and liniment local for the gin and neon fleshpots of town?
It's either that or a Jesus and Mary Chain tribute act - the Judas and Salome Link perhaps - for which there appears little demand in the 'Diff.
Scarlet, there is only one foolproof way of telling whether Mrs Blears is a natural, and we must hope and pray that we never find out. I call her Squirrel Nutkin, by the way.
ReplyDeleteDear The Drinker, I am absolutely the wrong person to ask about gigolodom. Kindly apply to my friend and combatante, Ms S. Blue (see above).
The Blears woman is one of those peculiar perky people who would think it a lark to dye her pubes ginger.
ReplyDeleteOh God! You are spot on with that Kev! Of course she would... and probably has done.
ReplyDeleteMr Drinker, please hurry to the blog called Infomanic and expose your wares. And your nose. It sounds interesting.
Sx
Kev, it's the perkiness that I loathe and detest. What's she got to be so fucking happy about, anyway? Everyone despises her; everyone I talk to, that is. And if they don't hate her then I hate them. She is rapidly overtaking Mr Jacqui in my bad list.
ReplyDeleteScarlet, please do not lead Mr Drinker astray, I beg. Mr Drinker, do not go to Infomaniac. Dr Maroon did, and was exposed in the cruelest way. There is enough anonymous cock on the net without you adding to it, to paraphrase Mr Gorilla Bananas.
This Windsor bar sounds like the set of a Belgian film. Still, if it brings Turks and Armenians together in common admiration of your well-turned ankles it can't be a bad thing.
ReplyDeleteThe only hangover cure worth the name. Before going out for the evening put an old fashioned non-electric iron in the freezer - if there's room next to the ice, gin, martini glasses etc.
On waking the next day(ish) go straight to the freezer, take out the iron and place it firmly on the nape of the neck.
OK Boyo I'll bite: has anyone tried this and survived? It sounds like home guillotining.
ReplyDeleteOh, that Lillian Bellamy, good grief it's all coming back to me now...... Has Tiger bought up the whole of Ambridge yet? Have Adam & Ian both become C-of-E vicars and adopted some Malawian refugee children? And please tell me that Will Grundy has found peace of mind...
ReplyDeleteBoyo, you took your time. Your hangover cure sounds rough-hewn. Peasanty. The only way to proceed is thus: on waking, have vigorous sex if possible. However, if you are on your own, do not take things into your own hands hemhem. This never helps. Then, have a tiny brandy; the tiniest. You know, the sort of thing that the French have on the way to work. Then, have someone assure you that nobody will remember the things you did or the things you said at 3.00 am or in the taxi. Then, roll yourself into a tight ball and sob gently into the pillow until the Jeremy Kyle show comes on. Then, watch the parade of grotesques and realise that none of them comes close to you in beastliness. That evening, get comprehensively pissed again. Never fails.
ReplyDeleteInky, Boyo's cures are notoriously agricultural. Get Mme Inkspot to fill a rubber glove with crushed ice and place it gently on your forehead. Later on, fill same with vod and pierce one of the fingers. Suck.
Gadj, yeeeees. THAT Lil. Bell. For heaven's sake! Wake up! Tiger's in trouble through sharp practice and Lil's ill with worry. Her bank a/c has been drained and Tiger's bullish. Adam & Ian seem to serve a rather sausage-heavy menu and Will Grundy is forging ahead, although his voice still hasn't fully broken. Everyone still hates Pat & Tony.
I lost track when Nelson Gabriel passed the veil.
ReplyDeleteSo, get me up to date then, purleeeze. Which of the two Grundy boys is currently porking the Carter girl? What have Pat & Tony done to earn such opprobrium (apart from just being naff)? Have any more of the actors thrown thremselves under tractors or gone to work in Southern Africa to avoid having a job-for-life talking about set-aside with other dullards? And has Ruth managed to lose her absurd Geordie accent yet? I must know.
ReplyDeleteKevin, I vaguely remember Walter gabriel...
Nelson was his ne'er do well son who did the prodigal son bit and set himself up in Ambridge as an antique dealer. He seemed to have spent all his time having to sort out the mayhem left behind by his wayward father.
ReplyDeleteAm I the only one who rememers the time that Walter Garbriel's marrow exploded at the village fete after he'd spent all night pumping it up with sugar water?
I will cleanse, Ms Pouncer. But only if you admit that you've never, for a moment, thought about Sue Barker giving Cliff a strong forearm winner.
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