*I’m not sure I understand, Click… Groucho wasn’t Russian…*
*… No, I don’t think Karl was either, Click…*
*Ah, okay Clicky… I think I understand what you were driving at…*
*… Nope, Click, you’ve lost me. I’ll be honest with you, Clicky, this post of yours is a bit of mishmash…*
*…Never mind, Sweetie. Have a Song…*
I had just finished watching a fascinating (and gripping) battle between 40 BARRS and C-ASH in QOTR, when Kit Bisto sauntered into the Library. “Guess who I am.”
I eyed him carefully; he eyed me back through ragged slits for eyes. My young assistant is fond of dressing up and playing the “Who am I?” game. This time he was wearing my Russian hat, a gift from a trip abroad and the cut off leg from some trackie bottoms. “I don’t know, some sort of Russian terrorist?”.
“No. Do you want a clue?” He picked up my packet of cigarettes, another gift from abroad.
“Some sort of dictator?” He pointed to what I think was his nose, I was getting warmer. He turned the packet round and ran his finger along the brand name.
*Clicky, Did you know, there were 20 cigarettes in that pack, compared to just 18 in a pack bought in the UK?*
“Sterling?”. It took me a couple of seconds to catch on…
*Aww Clicky… chosen for our friend Joe Public? He does like our posts…*
Kitten cocked his finger and thumb into a makeshift gun and took aim. “Boom!”. He flourished a pack of cards, apparently well hidden up his sleeve. “Want to play Blackjack?”.
I really should know better by now than to play games with boy that will not be beat…
*Thanks for the song, Clicky, there was quite a bit of ‘hit me’… /rolls eyes*
*Lovely colourful gif, Click …*
“It’s Fathers Day. Why am I doing all the heavy lifting?” Thoughtful Man harrumphed as he dropped the heavy box on the floor.
“Hmm…?” I was trying to take a picture of Assistant Loopy’s latest addition to the Library walls and so, let’s be honest about it, not giving him my full attention.
“No lie-in. No breakfast in bed…”, he looked at me coolly. “No present and no card”.
I moved closer to rub his shoulders. “You said Fathers Day is a made up day by card manufacturers to make money.” I found a knot and dug in. “In fact ‘fake card days’ is one of your favourite moans”.
“It is”. He groaned under the pressure of my needling knuckles.
“Well, the boys and I took your message to heart and decided to ignore it. Fathers Day, that is. What’s in the box?”. I kissed the back of his neck and peered over his shoulder. “That looks like your old video games”.
He reached in and pulled out a handful of plastic cases. “‘Final Fantasy‘. I love those games”.
“I know you do.” Now it was my turn to groan. Unlike Thoughtful Man, I kept it inside. “We’ve still got the console, why don’t you play one later?”.
“I think I will”. He delved deeper into the box.
“Good. I have plenty to be getting on with.” I moved away, “Breakfast?”.
“Hmm?”
“Happy Fathers Day, sweetie. Have a Song”.
*I know, Clicky, that’s a huge sign… /lights up …*
*I know, five fingers… /drags… who’d have funk it …*
Chase,
You may see Pitch Perfect 2 under these conditions: By Wednesday you will deliver to me a two-page essay which will be your response to the movie. Your response will answer the following questions:
1. What is this movie’s message about sex?
2. What is this movie’s message about women’s bodies? (In particular about being overweight? Are any of these messages sexist?)
3. Is there any racism in this movie? What scenes?
4. Are there any messages in this movie about love, friendships, or careers that are positive?
5. Would you recommend this movie to your sisters? Why or why not?
So, you can see this movie- but only as a critic, not as a blind consumer. You in?
Love, Mama
*Five questions and 8 questions marks, does seem a tad demanding but, Clicky, don’t judge; the woman knows her son. Plus he’s a teenager … Kit Kat was just a kitten in primary school at the time of our deal …*
The Setting
A kitchen in a terraced house, somewhere in Essex.
Mum, a woman in her early 40s, is standing at the sink, washing up up dishes and staring out of a window at the garden beyond. Kit, a boy of 7 or 8 dressed in school uniform, enters the kitchen and kicks at a cupboard door.
Kit Arghhhh!
Mum Kitten! What’s wrong?
Kit (dramatic sigh) I hate smoking!
Mum dries her hands on a tea-towel and turns to Kit. She reaches over, gently pulls him to her and strokes his hair.
Mum But you don’t smoke, Kit. You’re not old enough.
Kit Smoking kills.
Mum Did you learn that in school today?
Kit Assembly…
Mum Are you worried because mummy smokes?
Kit (nods) I wish it would go away…
Mum Kit. I choose to smoke because I like it. (pulls away to look at his face) Besides, I’ve read a lot about smoking and I don’t believe it kills.
Kit But, school said…
Mum Kitty. School has to teach you that. I’m sure your teachers haven’t looked into it as much as I have. Some people that really don’t like smoking got the government to tell your school to tell you smoking kills. They wish it could go away, too. (rubs chin) It’s like those people that don’t like video games…
Kit Video games?
Mum Yes. Some people would like to see video games banned because they might turn you into a bad person who hurts or kills people. If they banned video games I would have to stop you playing…
Kit What?!
Mum Honestly Kit, I’ve looked into video games as well as smoking. I don’t think you’ll turn into a bad person because I let you play them. You’re not a bad person are you?
Kit No.
Mum No, of course you’re not. Look, I’ll tell you what (pauses) Let’s make a deal… I won’t let them bully me about your playing video games and you don’t let them bully you about my smoking. Deal?
Kit Okay, deal.
*Oh, the second thing that happened yesterday … Ha ha, um … Kit handed me some ‘Sterlings’ …*
*… in fact he insisted on staying and watching the second one with me …*
*…/holds sides… Honestly, Clicky, I’ve still got a stitch from last night’s laughing … Fuck it. I’m gonna click it again. I swear that boy is a genius sometimes … Go on, give our readers a song …*
*Clicky, are you feeling sensitive? Why don’t I just tell them to hit on your images to be transported to somewhere else?*
*Alright! Sheesh …*
This is a post about synchronicity …
… not all of synchronicity, of course, I’d be here all bloody day and night. No, this is a sync concerning this very post, which I was formulating yesterday evening, and with a comment smoking blogger Frank Davis made today, which ended up as his post’s title: “Will someone please tell me what happened to Harley?”.
First up, Christopher Lee died on 7th June but I only read about it yesterday:
In a pub, eh? He mightn’t have met Tolkien in a pub these days …
*That’s right, Clicky, a smoker … ‘exiled to the outside’ …*
This post was … is about a letter hanging in my Library …
For the life of me I cannot remember what fault I found in Josh Kirby’s front cover illustration of a Harley …
… I can’t even drive a car and am certainly not mechanically minded …
*squint …*
… but I remember writing my letter as soon as I’d finished reading ‘Soul Music’ and peppering it lots of …
“Hat. Hat. Hat.” made me laugh so hard, I had to let the author know. I really wasn’t expecting to get a reply …
*Clicky, we’ve had this conversation before about life before the internet … then, books were ‘books’ not ‘boks ‘ …*
Of course, Christopher Lee voiced Death in the TV adaptation of that Discworld story.
*No Clicky, Ian Richardson voiced Death in ‘The Hogfather’ … I’m talking about ‘Soul Music’ … Oh doo keep up …*
Harley Quinn is a character from Batman, of course …
*/puts finger in ear* … STOP PRESS! Harley is OK … I repeat, another smoker is not dead yet …*
“Feeling good for the most part just sore as hell all over and tired. You gotta figure I went almost a month with no sleep and it took til my 4th day home before the pain from my sternum and ribs quelled down enuf to finally sleep. Of course I was off all that damned morphine that made me a literal madman in the hospital for 4-5 days I was swinging and hitting everyone.”
I think that calls for a Song …
*Good choice, Clicky… /taps feet … I’m so glad to hear Harls is feeling better. I should go over there and say hello. Coming?*
*Oh Clicky-Doo that’s wonderful … photography is not my forte …*
“Whitehouse…” My eyes signaled which way I would turn my head before I did. Left in this instance.
“That’s extremely tenuous and nobody will understand the connection, except me”. Laser squint dissolved into rapid blinking. “One. Newman and Baddiel were only half of the ‘Mary Whitehouse Experience‘.” He shook his head. “And number two. We only met Paul Whitehouse at Roy’s play.”
It’s true. At half time in the bar Roy, Thoughtful Man’s best friend from school, and basis of one of the play’s two main characters, introduced us to the great man. We said “Hi”.
“You were too shy to even talk to him, for goodness sake!”
*Marc Warren, Clicky? Oh he was very shy when I told how brilliant he was at playing Thoughtful Man …*
“Hello. Seriously, are you not listening to me?” He was wearing his ‘You’re not listening to me’ expression.
“Of course I was listening.” I thought fast. “You said, ‘You can connect anything to anything else if you look hard enough. It’s just coincidence. Everybody has them’.” I turned the camera back and took his photo *Click*.
The squint was back. “Lucky guess”.
“Of course. I’m the luckiest woman in the world. I married you.” Unfortunately the deadpan delivery only served intensified the squint.
“True.” He rubbed his chin. “But you do spend far too much time on the internet.” Again true …
“I’ll be as flexible as I can with your synchronicity malarky but I’ll be glad when your holiday is over and you get back to real work.” His face was set …
*I said ‘set’, Clicky.*
Gently, he took the camera back, laid it on the table and took my hand. “Why are you spending all day chatting to great unwashed, listening to rubbish and chasing old laughs?” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m on holiday, too. We could connect”.
*Not fair and not true, Clicky… /rolls eyes… So jealous…*
“Come and have a look at this!” chortled Thoughtful Man from across the room. I looked up, for I was bending over, having an interesting rummage though the programmes delivered last week. I was looking for one in particular. “Hmm?”
“You’ve got to see this”. He sounded excited, which doesn’t happen often, so best not avoided. Fortunately I’d found what I was looking for. Rising, I turned to see him leering and pointing at Elsa, the LoL computer. “It’s an old advert for WD-40”. 
“That can’t be real”. I said wiping a tear of mirth from my eye. As funny as it was, it couldn’t possibly be real.
“I shouldn’t think so. It’s on the internet.” He winked at me. “Although WD-40 was originally from ‘The Rocket Chemical Company’.” He winked again. Genuine or not, it had put him in a good mood. “And what were you looking for?” he said jovially, plucking the battered programme I was clutching from my hand. 
“I don’t remember this one. Which one was this?” He thumbed through the pages before handing it back. “It was the one with the willy.” He stared back at me blankly. “Frankie and Benny” I continued but nothing was clicking except maybe confusion; I’d forgotten about our local bistro.
I explained that I’d just watched the Graham Norton show, which had featured Stephen Merchant promoting his new play, ‘The Mentalists’. He would have to get nude on stage and we’d seen extremely funny, dare I say ‘flapping’, nudity when we’d gone to see ‘Dead Funny’.
He looked at me knowingly. “Trust you to remember that”. “The funniest thing is that I saw the actor, David Haig, sometime after at London Bridge station, during rush hour.” I paused as a look of horror crossed his face. “Stood right next to him actually.”
“You didn’t?”.
“What? Compliment him on the acting abilities of his willy?” I smiled sweetly. Thoughtful Man shook his head, covered his eyes and sighed. Deeply. “Would I do something as crass as that?”.
I couldn’t see the squint but it was definitely there, behind his fingers. “I wouldn’t put anything past you woman.” He turned back to Elsa and started clicking. “Have a song”.
By Joe Public demand */chortle*
“What was that song Labour were so fond of? ‘Things can only get better’?“
Clicky got everso excited earlier on today after I showed him a blog post, by Anna Raccoon, about the UK’s No.1 export, prime Wanker Tiny Blur …
*I know, Clicky, prominently displaying your logo helps sales, I think …*
Not happy with just bringing peace to the Middle East …
… The grate man is now dead-set on bringing ‘tolerance & reconciliation’ to Europe …
Clicky, of course, knew the answer to Ms Raccoon’s question but what really got him somersaulting was the connection with his yet untold past. I managed to stop him hogging the bar at the Raccoon Arms …
… and to post some of his story here because … to be frank, it is really, really long winded …
*Alright then, it’s not … Yes, it is interesting … Clicky, just get on with it …*
*Oh Clicky, that’s so sad… /sniff… I had no idea… well done you for getting that out…*
*… that’s right, but save the rest for another time … do you fancy a coffee?*
Earlier this week, coinciding neatly with a just-in-time delivery of memories into the LoL – a faux-leather case, bulging at the seams with promising content, Mrs Reign opened Parliament and recited the new government’s proposed legislative programme for the coming year.
“Have you seen this?” Thoughtful Man said, passing the case over for inspection. It was surprisingly heavy, requiring both hands to guide it to the floor and prevent flattened toes. “That should keep you occupied for a bit”. He was right. A glance at the protruding spines produced a squeal …
*squint*
… and the urge to break out plastic opera glasses. “Programmes! These are all our programmes”. I grabbed a handful and got comfortable …
“Shows, concerts, places of interest.” I looked up beaming, “All the places we went together. I’d forgotten all about these”.
“Of course.” Thoughtful Man managed to keep the ‘harumph’ out of his voice but not off his face. “I keep everything.” He’s not called ‘Thoughtful Man’ for nothing. “I don’t think that’s all of them, but it’s enough to get you started. Why don’t you take some photos and then pick one to focus on.” He handed me a camera and retired to a safe distance.
Where to start? There was a lot to choose from but fortuitously a prompt arrived from A Void at Merovee … 
Erasure … not the sort proposed by the new government and read out by Mrs Reign … but the campy band and their ‘Phantasmagorical‘ concert that I had to go see twice at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1992.
I’d bought the concert tickets for Thoughtful Man, as his gift the first Christmas after we were married. But as luck would have it, he was travelling that night so I ended up taking Sister Juju. Afterward, as we left the theatre, the sweat rapidly cooling on our hot and tired bodies, we hoarsely agreed “OMG! He has to see it!”
The next day I set about trying to find more tickets, no mean feat considering this was pre-internet days …
Not quite that desolate, Clicky, but I can see why you might think that.
It was the giant, Pip, from work at Big Shop, who unexpectedly came to my rescue …
These tickets were even better than the first, right at the front, but even better than that, we got to have the phantasmagorical experience together … 
Jealous much, Clicky?
“Have you finished that yet?” Thoughtful Man reappeared, looking anxious; he knows what a terrible shot I am. He spotted the shiny programme. “Erasure! Bloody brilliant!.” He turned away, leafing through the pages. “I’ll tell you what, have a song.”
It’s my birthday today. I got cake for breakfast from Google …
*I know! What a scrummy surprise …*
… and Thoughtful Man took me shopping …
*Hardly, Clicky … the local Asbo …*
He takes me shopping once a year, mostly to remind himself why he doesn’t go shopping with me more regularly …
*No, not quite …*
I rather like food shopping, looking at all the product laden shelves … studying the exciting ingredients … riding the trolley … I get rather google-eyed at it all …
“Calm down or I’ll Mary Lincoln you” Thoughtful Man sighed heavily, placing a steading hand on the handlebar as it wobbled closer to a 2 for 1 special on Pot Noodles.
“Ab Lincoln’s wife? I was taken aback and slightly flattered … the wife of a President.
“She went mental and was committed by her son after she fell in with a spiritualist” he replied as we skirted past a group of lads looking for the barbecue and beer aisle. “He invented double exposure photography, though he didn’t get the credit for it”.
I skidded to a stop … good job too, I hadn’t seen the mobility scooters conveniently parked at the entrance to the cat food aisle. “Do you mean like Photoshop?”
*Unfortunately Clicky, I don’t think that’s photoshopped …*
*No, not that one either …*
“I suppose … Do we really need this much cheese?” He eyed the trolley contents suspiciously, “toothpicks, pineapple chucks … tin foil … Hang on, I thought you didn’t want a birthday party”.
“I don’t. It’s in case the neighbour’s child comes over to play with the boys”. His icy squint burned. “Sorry, I invited him. He’s just lost his mother”.
“He ate her”.
“I don’t think he had a choice.” I pushed on toward the frozen pizzas. “I think it was like one of those Donner Party situations”.
He caught up by the time we’d reached the check out. “So you [blip] think he’d prefer eating cheese and pineapple [blip] kebabs instead?!” He fluffed open a plastic bag and started filling it. “You are a [blip] mad [blip]“.
*Please Clicky don’t do it. I’m so embarrassed …*
*Clicky!*
