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Friday, 26 November 2010

In which I am disillusioned with everything...

Good Morning darling readers. Or should I say Bad, Bad morning. You join me as I am severing my right hand with the tiny blade from my girl's Swiss Army knife. If last evening was the shape of exhibition openings to come in Deepest Devon, I may as well go back to arse wiping.
Dear Little S had pulled out all the stops, including for some obscure reason, dressing up as a 1920's gangster, TPS turned up too late to prevent me from descending into a pit of gloom, and, well, it was an unmitigated bloody disaster!
Terry and Goon were scarfing down the wine, which I paid for, and floating around like they knew a Warhol from an arsehole, with her looking like the bride of Dracula. Still, I imagine shovelling six foot of earth off yerself every morning does render one with a greyish pallor.
To be fair, I hadn't inited anyone myself, since I don't know anyone around and about in Deepest. Near neighbours don't look like the types who'd be interested, so I was relying on the supposed hoardes of She Who Must be Obeyed's chums. Huh! Fat chance. Slimey N fronted up to critique my efforts like some kind of ghastly Mancunian Brian Sewell.
'I like that. It's good intit', says Slimey N 'But I 'ate them ones'.
'Well, don't buy them then', I replied with a deadly grimace smeared across my lovely visage.
JV, who was exhibiting with Lovely One, mwah mwahed all her chums from Wembury. In fact it was rather like a Wembury Christmas Party.
I positioned my dear little self behind the counter to observe, since those of you who know me personally will attest, I am a shy and retiring critter.
I would say that a good eighty per cent of the assembled ugly crowd didn't even look at JV's paintings, let alone Lovely One's and were intent mainly on inhaling alcohol and free scoff.
I should have nasally detected a rodent when I got there with Darling Bloke, since in my experience, elderly persons wearing anoraks and wooly hats are not avid buyers of art.
At one point a stooped little old lady wearing a Celia Johnson (Brief Encounter) styly mac shuffled off with me tin of Quality Street into a corner with a grisly gathering of Octaganerians and spent a good half hour gumming up their dentures with green triangles, which just happen to be the favourite of Lovely One. Then they put the wrappers back in the tin. A sin that is up there with farting during oral sex, let me tell you dear reader!
Even JV's guests didn't buy! I did see one reduced print change hands for some money and a couple of cards, but that was it.
By Nine O'clock I'd had my fill of standing there like a spare one so telephoned Dearest Bloke to collect me. I shall clear up the devastation of the Wembury Over 80's Christmas Party this very morn, since I am under Drop in Centre arrest for the day.
There is one other really annoying story to report...
Dear Little S, who thought I would laugh, told me that She Who Must be Obeyed, when told that I was off buying the drinks and scoff, said - and get this -
'She gets around for a Big Lady'


If she'd said something like, 'She's nippy for a fat tart', I would have positively howled with giggles, but that made me sound like some kind of mutant Mrs Mills dragging meself about and I am MAD, VERY MAD.
Dear Little S was quivering in fear of what I might do, and I did indeed exact my revenge, verbally, at every possible opportunity, and, again, those of you who know me will attest that I am alway the victor in verbal warfare!

Anyhow, I have vented my spleen and feel a little better. Only a little though and have almost finished severing my hand...

One more thing...
I felt sure Big would come, but once again he let me down.

Sunday, 21 November 2010

In which I go all Lady Gaga...

Trundled off to Plymouth Theatre Royal yesterday evening to see 'Chekov in Hell'. He wasn't alone, darlings, Lovely One spent an arse-numbing couple of hours foraging for skittles in me coat pocket and trying to get comfy on the cheap seats. Was there a message in it? Who knows? The basic premise of the tale was to explore how Anton Chekov would have fared had he been confronted by our modern world - computers, self help groups, people trafficing, celebrity culture et al...
It was one of these affairs where there's no scenery and no one changes their outfit when they change character. Well, dear reader, Lovely One had the devil of a job following the plot of Cliff Richard's 'Summer Holiday' so you can imagine the pickle I got in! Most of the audience, including Darling Bloke (a strangely cultured being for a purveyor of fast food off a van) regularly burst out laughing at jokes that sailed highly over the pefectly coiffured bonce of Lovely Moi.
There was an inordinate amount of shuffling from the row directly behind us. Couldn't quite figure out whether they were in danger of dropping off to kip like moi or just uncomfy. Why go to the trouble of attempting to bring culture to the masses and then sit 'em on circa 1950 flip down seats with no room to fart.
Anyway, I thought it was the interval, and Glory Be to Elvis, it was the end!!!! I shot off before we could book up for anything else.
'What was that Bollocks about?' I enquired of Bloke.
'Bollocks', he repeated, 'You are an uncultured old trollope' he went on 'You have no imagination.'
That, dear reader, is unfair. I DO have an imagination. In fact, I spend a goodly amount of my life daydreaming and wishing I was anywhere other than where I actually am.
Sadly, the upshot of the evening was that I am no longer invited on the trips to the theatre.

Am currently under gallery arrest on the Barbican. Today's masterpiece is...
Have just been rudely interrupted by the most annoying of non-customers. Yet another Lenkie enthusiast, not buying of course, just wanting to know what Lenkie painted on and if I knew how many layers of paint were on his pics.
'I must strive not to get bogged down in the detail', says the plonker.
I just wanted to get down to the bog, but he wittered on for ages...
Just buy something or shove off, I thought, but I smiled sweetly and had a scintilating Lenkie chat for the seventeenth time to another git intent on not buying anything. He turned out to be a painter who is renting studio space round the corner, so he's on my hit list now, along with Kill Phil with a Dangerous Pill...
Don't worry darlings, I've tipped over the edge.

It's not enough for me to suceed. EVERYONE ELSE MUST FAIL!!!!!

Anyway, can't get on today as have forgotten most of stuff, so shall have to go on youtube and watch people squeezing their boils. I know how to have fun!

Much deliberation has taken place, particularly from Dear Little S, and of course, the nosy old swinger's stuck 'er twopennorth in, over what Lovely One will be wearing for the opening night of the exhibition.
I very much favour a little number in the manner of Lady Gaga. Only not meat. We thought Nelson Slices (chocolate cake pie) or the newly discovered Christmas Truffle would fashion a delicious gown pour moi.
Only trouble is I'd have scoffed it before doors open and be starkers up a corner with chocolate round me gob and semi comatose.

Thursday, 18 November 2010

In which I admit to being a Jinx as well as a Minx...

Lovely One is a jinx. No, dear reader, it's not a typo. I didn't mean minx, which of course, I am, as you well know. No, it's sad but true, I am a jinx. Reclining on One's chaise lounge the other evening, surrounded by packing trunks, with, as yet, no forwarding address, it just came to me in a flash. I have been rendered homeless rather more times than is satisfactory in one's lifetime. I hate to say this, as it makes me sound like I'm in denial, but each time has been at the mercy of others. I, therefore, am some property Cassandra, jinx, bad luck charm, unlucky rabbit's foot, the albatros of the property market, the rabbit to the Cornish fisherman etc. Speaking of the lucky rabbit's foot, I've never quite grasped that one...
Poor dear bunny with a foot lobbed of for some daft bint to use as a keyring, handbag charm et al - don't get it.
Anyway, I digress, as per.
Have sold stately pile, as previously blogged, and found tiny but lovely residence in which to grow old and even more crochety. Fronted up to some fourteen and a half year old 'broker' to acquire funds to purchase said homestead and you wouldn't believe the hoops One has had to jump through. As yet to no avail as the blighters haven't said yes, or indeed, no. Poor dear Bloke is suspended above the pit of despair by the finest of gossamer thread. One slight tweak and he's a goner. Lovely One, however, has had a life of such uncertainty and is therefore slightly more sanguine about matters. My attitude is 'couldn't give a kipper's dick, or f**k the lot of them.' I'd just huff off into the distance and join a travelling circus. Would prob get a job, as world's fastest growing arse, or something.
Anyhow, I'm sure you're on the e of your s's desp to know the history of such nonchalance in the face of doom. Let me take you back, way back...
One's dear departed Papa was something of a chancer and moved in latter day celebrity circles as a manager and promoter. Amoungst other forays into the limelight he 'discovered' Howard Goodall - he of 'Vicar of Dibley' themetune fame, radio 4, big buds with luminaries such as Stephen Fry etc. Much excitement in Harris household when Lovely One was chubby teenager. Dear Papa funded the ungrateful Howard's first 'record' and pumped money into his promotion. When dear HG was on the cusp of fame, Dear Papa was offloaded as manager, being none too posh and all that, thereby rendering entire family homeless with massive debts. Our sad little troupe wandered off to live in a rented flat in Luton, with Dear Mama bemoaning the scant proportions of said homestead with every intake of breath. She should have kept her trap shut as worse, far worse, was just around the bend...
The owner of aforementioned tiny flat didn't bother paying the mortgage with the rent money and so we were uncermoniously chucked out of there...
Anyway, to cut a long story short, Dearest Papa had legged it to the USA to seek his fortune and Lovely One was left to administer to wilting Mama and teenage brother. We ended up in a ghastly council house from whence Lovely One escaped eventually and sought fortune in the drawing offices of the South East.
Move forward some considerable time to the era of Vile Husband...
Turned up at flat in Hampstead one sunny morn with Boy under arm to find residence boarded up. VH not payed mortgage. 'Oh shit' - methinks - off back to cottage,(mine) which I'd kept, fortunately. Legged it in volvo, since Bentley repossessed, incidentally on same day as Amex unceremoniously cut up in front of One.
Plummeted down social scale over the next few years until ended up in Somerset with Boy and VH. Lovely One and Boy nested in Rice Towers until advent of Bloke upon which Lovely One sheared to deepest.
Now, to be homeless again. Oh how BORING. One is seriously arsed off with it all. As you can see, dear reader, it's me! I am bad luck, and a JINX.
If you have a bargepole - don't touch me with it - that's my advice.
Doing the decent thing, I told Big not to keep on being chums with One. For so doing, he might have taken pity on One and have rendered himself Jinxed.
Can't have that!
One little spark of light at end of tunnel though...
Still have Rice Towers, but dear Bloke hates it!

Sunday, 14 November 2010

In which a salutary tale is told for the benefit of the Polaroid Swinger...

Spent a dull day at the Elburton Drop in Centre yesterday, and today, incarcerated in the Barbican Gallery. Will shortly be retiring to the Bahamas on the strength of the two postcards and one Lenkie book I've sold thusfar. Sold a biggie of mine the other day though. Can't remember if I've blogged that before, but what the heck, it's the first thing I've sold for six festering weeks - so BLA!
Dear Little S is beside himself with the impending arrival of the Odd Couple at the drop in centre. Pinnie and badge wearing are to be the order of the day, and that's just for starters. They swung by on Friday, Lovely One missed them yet again. I'm positively desp to see the Terry Thomas looky likey, twirling moustachio an' all. I am always deeply suspicious of the younger male of the species sniffing round the elderly female. The scent of cash MUST be what does it. I know, dear reader, it's not suffragettish or liberated to admit that an old geezer with a young popsie is ok, but really, what on earth, apart from financial gain, can a younger bloke get from an older woman. It's not clever. It's not nice. It's ghastly, nasty and dirty.
Whilst they were there, Dear Little S says they both went for a wee. I can't imagine why he found it necessary to tell me that, but on further reflection, I think they were marking their territory - yukk!

This week with not much to do, sales wise, I've been researching my family history and have found that Lovely One is descended from the Russian Peasantry. Oh, the shame and disappointment of it all. Not a Tzar or Tzarina in sight, just some smelly old toothless, headscarf wearing baboushka!In fact have unearthed a folk tale still told around a blazing fire on sub zero snowy nights to the Riceski clan. Baboushka
Irina Riceski was a Hero in the Motherland, holding down a job biting off the top of Vodka bottles in the local working mens club by night and digging turnips from the parched bitter earth by day with her gnarled bare hands. At the end of a brutal winter with not even enough turnip to eek out into a soup Irina set off, muffled against the biting winds and snow to beg for food at the roadside in the big city. Staggering past the glitterati necking down Vodka shandies in warm and cosy bars she espied a sign...
SELL YOUR HAIR - European women pay top roubles for human hair
Irina tugged off her headscarf and shook free a tumbling mass of red locks.
Ivan lobbed the lot off with one swipe of his scythe and offered a mirror in which to survey the results. Irina, tears cascading down her weatherbeaten face, pushed the looking glass away, covered her stubble with her headscarf and pocketed the meagre payment.
That night Baboushka and her family slept the sleep of the nourished.
In a salon in darkest Manchester...
A scraggy haired bint is having hair extensions glued in.
'Oooh it's lovely intit'
'It looks lovely duntit'
With absolutely no thought for the suffering of the starving, bald peasant.

Friday, 12 November 2010

In which I vent my spleen...

Lovely One is in an absolute quandry this very morn! I had an absolutely ghastly evening of silence from dear Bloke. In fact, not even any eye contact. I have committed yet another misdemeanor for which I must be punished with no cuddles and kisses. I seem to spend a verily amount of time apologising for being Lovely One! I am fully aware that I am:-
An atrocious cook
A clumsy old bat
An annoying old harridan
fat thighs
an ever expanding arse
hair that is far to long for a person of my advancing years
But to be fair
Anyway, enough of that, darling reader, you don't want me washing me dirty shreddies in public. I know you'll all be shedding a tear for Lovely One and wanting to shower her with Jellington Bambinos etc to pacify her, but hell I'm nipping out to smoke a fag or two and pull the wings off flies. Should feel better then.
Purchase of new residence and offloading of current stately pile a bloody nightmare at present! Stchooopid people who want to move into our pile now want us to move out in order that they can move in and their buyers into theirs. Sod off! Why don't they move out. Oh no, I forgot, they've got a tribe of, and I loathe the expression, 'kids', so I suppose that since Lovely One and Bloke have long since offloaded their offspring we're supposed to shuffle off to some dire B&B for the forseeable. I THINK NOT.
As for obtaining a mortgage these days - flippin' 'eck! I remember the days when you just had to SAY how much you earned and that was it. Now, you have to have written proof from a responsible adult and a note from yer Mum before they'll even consider lending any dosh!
It's all getting too much for Lovely One's delicate equilibrium and, for two pins, I'd shout 'BOLLICKS' and stamp off in a huff!
Just to add even more gloom to today, I'm stuck on the Barbican and can't even gain succour from the Elburton Drop In Centre.
The Polaroid Swinger had the audacity to question my 'tonal values' in a recently completed masterpiece.
TONAL SODDING VALUES. What the arse are they? Doesn't the folically extended old trollope realise that the only training I've had was an adult learners painting morning in Milton Keynes!
Anyway - feel much better now I've vented me wassname. Shall shove a couple of wet ones in the window and hope for the best...
A disgusting oik has just flobbed onto the pavement outside gallery. A sign of the day to come methinks...

Thursday, 11 November 2010

In which Contents may Vary in lovely One's chocolate egg...

I cannot imagine why, darling reader, but I had a strage vision of gonads from the past the other day. I feel it may be since encountering The Polaroid Swinger, not that she has any gonads, of course. It's just that in deepest darkest history, before the advent of digital cameras, when one had to front up to Boots the Chemist to have one's snaps developed, there was a device actually called the Polaroid Swinger. It was a large cumbersome article widely advertised on the 'telly' as we then called it, for photograping one's projeny in the act of, say, sport's day, or opening their Chrimbo pressies. Needless to say, dear reader, no one ever, ever used the imaging device for such ventures, instead, much frivolity was enjoyed by persons taking amusing, in my case, or downright vulgar, in other cases, pics of many and various twinkles and winkles.
And so it came to pass that one Easter I was awoken by A, a long passed husbandito, precariously perched on the end of the four poster, polaroid swinger in hand, and gonads nestling in half a Cadburys Easter Egg. Frankly, darlings, on opening One's china blues, I'd rather have had a cup of tea and a fag, but bless him, the elderly and increasingly dull A, was attempting to inject a smidgeon of excitement into our stale coupling. I dutifully snapped the unusual Easter offering and bid him remove the items from the melting chocolate delight, making a mental note to only consume the egg if I was utterly desperate for a chocolate injection.
The picture sadly no longer survives and has gone the way of all such frivolities, and indeed further discarded husbands. In fact, I expect A, complete with chocolate covered gonads, has shuffled off this mortal coil, being twenty years older than dear little Lovely One.
Rather foolishly, it turned out, I recounted this saga to Bloke, who, I think it's fair to say, had his flabber well and truly gasted. I fear Mrs Bloke No's 1 and 2 never indulged in the bedroom hilarities that have always been a feature of Lovely One's allure.
He did however, snigger some hours later, having recalled the story, and my assertion that in order to perform the same feat with his bodily parts we'd require one of those enormouse Easter Eggs one sees for display purposes.
'What did it say on the Easter Egg box?' he guffawed.

Sunday, 7 November 2010

In which I yearn to be shut in me room...

Well, here I am again, darling reader, on the Barbican. Small ugly crowds peering in the window, mainly at the 'Beatles on the Hoe'.
'Two pictures in one', I hear myself warbling as I wrap the blessed thing up, 'The Hoe, AND, the Beatles.' Whoopdi effing do!
Been open for four and a half minutes and already had two lots behind the counter, clearly marked 'Private' for a closer look at the Lenkies that they have zippo intention of buying.
'You can really tell which ones are his', bleats a fat old trollop in a fake fur coat.
'I've got one' brags another, 'I don't want to sell it though'.
Just as well, methinks, this is a SHOP. We sell things to you!
Looks like it's going to be another Sunday of window shoppers.
I am smiling serenely at all the browsers and offering help to those who want it, when secretly I'd rather stick me feet up on the desk and OD on licorice allsorts until I comatose.
Speaking of scoffing and the disastrous effect it's had on my arse, I found an old copy of the Mayo clinic diet on the internet the other day. Not just a copy but an actual scanned in diet sheet that I remember doing the rounds in the drawing office at Kent Instruments in Luton when I was office junior. In those days I was like a filleted fart so didn't join in but I recall several fat old birds doing it for two weeks and indeed losing the promised 20lbs. Well that's it! I'm doing it! And, so, little does he yet know, is Bloke!
I simply MUST - as the exhibition is looming and I want to get into my favourite outfit without busting at the seams.
I shall have to be fumigated before the preview evening though, as due to my bizarre life, I'm dishing out burgers from the van to the great unwashed during the day and mwah mwahing for all I'm worth in the evening.
If I don't sell anything I'm packing it in and going on the checkout at Morissons. I did have a brief foray into supermarket chechoutry in my youth before going to college. I was sacked from Tesco Home and Wear in Luton Arndale Centre.
'Why are you sacking me' I cutely asked the manager, 'I haven't done anything.'
'That's why I'm sacking you', says he. Fair play I thought laughing me head off whilst ripping off me overall and legging it.
Morissons is calling... Oh no, I forgot, I couldn't even get employed there, for goodness sake! Dear Little S and the Polaroid Swinger think it's because I have a problem with authority. Sadly, darlings, that is true, I well remember every school report with 'Claire will not be told' written on in being brandished in front of me as pocket money was withheld until I conformed, which of course, I never did. I must have spent about six of my formative years banished to my bedroom. Well, bring it on, I'd love to be shut in my room now, with a hot water bottle, a blankie and re-runs of Come Dine with Me, until I shuffle off this mortal coil...

Friday, 5 November 2010

In which I am v confused...

Boy is my absolute computer wizard helper. He set me up on that facebook thing. I just don't get it! I go to my 'page', illustrated with a choice pic of me. Oh, ok, it's been doctored by dear little S to make me look young and thin again. I was imaginging to my little self that I actually looked like that yesterday when L, the old polaroid swinger, took a horrid horrid likeness of Lovely One that made me look like a special needs prada willi article 'doing art'. Just because I had two pairs of specs on me 'ead and was eating wax crayons! Honestly, some persons don't realise the pain and suffering I endure to make my 'art'. Actually that's absolute bollicks. I'll paint anything for cash and couldn't give a kipper's dick about expressing meself.
Anyhow, dear reader, I digress, I just don't understand facebook. I went to 'me' fired off a missive about being bored out of me incontinence pants, thought I'd sent it to L and Dear Little S sent a message. AND, there was a whole load of other stuff from someone I'd never 'eard of. Do these messages just float round in the ether until some old online saddo hoiks them onto their pooter?
I am worried about the impending offloading of the Elburton drop in centre/gallery. What will it be like when the odd couple front up? I can't see it being a haven of chocolate cake pie and fags. More like Sanatogen and the bog blocked up with tena lady pads!
I definitely have 24hr Prada Willi. I've just inhaled an entire village of jellington bambinos. I'm just scoffing to pass the time and I can feel my thighs expanding. Another couple of sizes and I'll be so fat that I'll be able to get prescription pants a la Homer Simpson.
Must go and get a cup of tea to wash the bambinos down, six sugars of course.

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

In which Lovely One is on the move and been adopted by Terry Thomas...

Spent all day waiting to hear if an offer on house had been accepted, when, stap me vitals, the other blighters came back full of contrition and lowered the price back down to the one we'd agreed.
I liked first house.
Bloke liked second.
We are having first.
Not entirely certain about little village - Tamerton Foliot -but hey ho, new adventure and all that...
There are 198,000 too many people in Plymouth for my liking, having acclimatised myself to Wivey where there are only 2,000. Speaking of, sallied forth in the Daimler to visit Boy and Vile ex-husband. Upon entering their lair Lovely One was appalled at the state of the place. I was, however, put firmly in my place by both when I offered to clean up whilst visiting. I told Boy that I'd force him to bunk in with me and Bloke if I found him living in such squalour again and he rightly pointed out that I can't since his isn't 'Boy' any more he's 'Man'. So, against all that is holy I got hold of my own business and minded it as requested.
Today am painting in gallery, Hooe Lake. Exhibition looming and more masterpieces must be created. This particular gallery is changing hands shortly and will be run by an old lady and, from what I can gather, a Terry Thomas looky likey. Not that anyone has had the good grace to elicit my opinion on the doings! The unlikey duo, having done a three day framing course, now think they're equipped with the knowledge of 'She who must be obeyed', who's been beavering away selling art for 672 years. By all accounts the odd couple think that Lovely One is benevolently bequeathing all her masterpieces, all BF's fabric lovlies, and indeed the wonderful self of Lovely One to sit in the place painting, all for free!! I think not, dear reader. Filthy lucre will be changing hands before they gets me in there, no danger!
She who must be obeyed may think that she's had One and Dear Little S adopted by these odd beings, but frankly, we have other ideas!
Lovely One can just shear into the sunset but it's Dear Little S I really feel for. If TT looky likey doesn't put out for old lady I fear she may chance her arm with him and pin him up against the glass cutting machine to steal a kiss.
Poor little dear. Maybe I should front up just to protect him from the peculiar little pensioner - all toe rings and tena lady...