Diary of a Grammatical Misfit

There’s a little voice singing inside my head. It’s a good voice even though it’s little because it’s the ghost of some good voices I heard on Saturday.

“Little shop… Little shop of horr-ors….Little shop…Little shop of horr-ors”

Musicals are a pain for that. They boost you up and make you jolly and everything’s good. But for days after they buzz around your ears and your brain and your footsteps.

“Little shop… Little shop of horr-ors….Little shop…Little shop of horr-ors”

That last one might sound weird but I’m sure I’m not the only one whose walking rythym is affected by the tune that’s playing in the head? This morning I walked along with a jaunty bounce. Most ridiculous for a Monday morning - I am expecting the white coated people to arrive any minute.

“Little shop… Little shop of horr-ors….Little shop…Little shop of horr-ors”

I was struck by thoughts on the train this morning.

There was a horse pissing in a field. It reminded me of one of those safari park programmes where the keeper was saying that you could tell the sex of newborns from a distance by observing the direction of their pee. I could make a silly joke about the inside the toilet bowl versus all around the toilet but that would be too obvious - feel free to insert your own.

Actually, it’s more boring. If they have a penis the urine goes forwards, if they don’t, it goes backwards. At least I think so. I can’t actually remember which way round he said but that would make sense wouldn’t it?

Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards……….

Evolution is such a funny thing really. We’re all so different yet bodily so similar. Penises, rib cages, skulls etc. So many creatures have penises. Like that absolutely has to be the best method of joining two creatures to reproduce. Seems a bit limited really.

Puzzles are the same. You’d think there’d be more ways of fitting two shapes but they’re nearly all alike. One with a knobbly bit and one with a corresponding hole. Although they are, of course, more adaptable than humans side they can link on all sides…

The horse in the field was a she-horse anyway. Why isn’t it shemale rather than female? Sounds better. There’s probably some reason why it’s not though. It’s probably one of the many things I do not know because I didn’t do Latin. Or maybe Greek. Either or, same reason.

Faces are all quite similar too. Eyes, nose, mouth. Why always placed the same way on the head? Even creatures with more eyes or with no noses have faces that look like faces.

It’s all a bit weird.

Then I realised that this is all too much thought for that time of morning. Why do I always say that? Even when it’s the present and should really be this? I suppose coz you can spit that with the right degree of venom to reflect the disgustingly early nature of the time.

That is not a set time or time period. It’s simply any time that I feel I should really be in bed. The only actual time that can be spat in the same way is four in the morning. Easily adapted coz it’s a four letter word beginning with f - easy to spit out venomously.

Five doesn’t work though does it? Why not? I think it’s just too soft coz of the ive-y bit. Like a rugged building all softened by the ivy. Five. Five. Five. Ivy. Five.

And then I went to sleep.

I went to an exhibition called The Secret Public / The Last Days of the British Underground at the Institute of Contemporary Arts last week. It was an interesting collection in lots of different ways. 

I was struck, for totally frivolous reasons, by an image called Office at Night. It showed a woman in officewear in 1986. She wears slightly clompy court shoes and a herringbone suit with flared skirt. Completely lacking in shoulder pads, she could have stepped straight out of a current fashion spread. It’s odd when entire outifts work - each element cycling back into style at the same time.

The favourite exhibit for my friend was an installation called Enough Tyranny - a large room full of early 80s kitsch, blasting out Ziggy Stardust. I also liked the room but it gave me a weirdly creeping feeling of being very young. I didn’t clearly remember most of the items that were scattered around in the display but I guess some subconscious part of me recognised the style and the era and harked back to the age I was when they were commonplace.

This experience was quite similar to the feeling I used to get when wandering around my childhood city of Bristol when I first moved back there to go to university. It is strange how these feelings operate. I discovered when I returned to visit Bristol for the weekend before last, that the city now haunts me with my late teens/early twenties rather than my childhood. That might have been the result of spending more of the sunny weekend in pubs than in playgrounds though…

On Monday, I was a member of the world’s largest coconut orchestra.

It was a Monty Python thing, a precursor to a big screen showing of Quest for the Holy Grail in Trafalgar Square. It was far too bizarre an idea to miss out on.

There were thousands of us there. 5,567 according to the news reports but given the loud announcement “We’ve run out of coconuts!” before the attempt began, there were probably a few hundred floating around shell-less and miserable. Hopefully they joined in with the singing even if they were unable to clap any nuts.

The previous world record was a measly 1,780 set in New York so we smashed that into tiny little bits. In fact, we smashed it like an empty coconut shell that has been dropped on the ground – as one or two people sadly found out before the orchestral bit even began.

We warmed up by clapping along with some archive film footage from the BFI which handily included lots of footage of horses and camels. Clippetty clop clop clippetty clop.

People were a bit over-enthusiastic with the sound effects really. The burst of galloping to accompany a picture of a horse being hoisted onto a ship was a bit odd – his legs were at every angle and definitely not making a noise. And camels don’t quite make a riotous cantering noise when walking on sand…

It turned out to be good practice for the later showing of Quest for the Holy Grail though. Everyone sat on the ground (which was remarkably clean – something funny going on) and coconut clapped along where necessary as well as calling out some of the more memorable lines. It’s rather strange hearing a few thousand people yelling “bring out yer dead!”

Anyway, back to the actual record. Now we were nicely warmed up from the silent film footage, we were ready to be trained in coconut orchestral techniques by the conductor for the Monty Python musical, Spamalot. We were not gathered together merely to make a loud noise – oooooh no – we were to be an Orchestra, and as such needed to know what to do.

The result was quite impressive I thought. (There are lots of youtube clips of the event but this one has really good sound and shows the crowds nicely). We certainly fulfilled the criteria set out by a friendly man from the official world record department thingy. He duly gave the certificate (So organised to have it ready!) to the representative pythons, Terry Jones and Terry Gilliam and we all cheered.

Hooray for coconuts!!

…comes from my colleague who has just announced:

“Tonight I am going to clap my gigantic penne”.

I’m not and no-one around me is (much) at the moment.

But the word curmudgeonly keeps going round my head and if no-one’s prepared to give me an excuse to use it…damn it…it’s going to have to come out somewhere.

So here blog, have it…

Curmudgeonly. Ha.

Oh shit, maybe it is me after all!

A tuesday is not wasted (despite it being my absolute most awfullest despised day of the week) if one learns something.

Today I learned that cartons of smoothie can splatter everywhere when you take the plastic seal off.

And thus I learned that white tops, red smoothies and job interviews do not mix.

Not all learning happens soon enough.

I feel I’ve let this blog down by failing to mention two things I went to see in March that were fabulous. I missed out a couple back in November/December time too but they’re waaaaaay too long ago so I will pretend they do not exist. Or mention them in relation to April to pretend I’m not having a boring month…

The two things from March were Push and the Barenaked Ladies and I loved them both.

Push was incredible. The show is nominally ballet - a selection of pieces choreographed by Russell Maliphant and performed by him and Sylvie Guillem. The pieces were unusual - there was some incredible lighting design and a wide variety of music styles. The overall effect was powerful elegance. Wow.

It was the first time I’d seen Sylvie Guillem dance but I will do so again on Friday - this time in a programme called Sacred Monsters with Akram Khan. I hope it’s as good as Push.

First time for Sylvie, second time for Barenaked Ladies. First time was Glastonbury 1999, this time was at the Hammersmith Apollo (a legendary venue in my world as it was the location of the filming of Eddie Izzard’s Glorious routine). I fell in love with the band watching them do one live set when I knew none of the songs. This time was just as good only I could sing along more! Quirky, funny and musically gifted - what more could I ask for? Well, apart from my favourite song (Call and Answer) which they didn’t play, sadly. But I forgave them for all round brilliance.

Gosh, my life has been dull recently. The whole world (well, my limited slither of it) is full of stories about the exciting things they did over the four-day easter break and I did…..nothing.

I worked. All weekend.

Geez.

All I have to show for my easter break (apart from a big fat report for work, fortunately) are sore knees and thighs. A slightly bizarre effect of sitting with a laptop on my lap for four days straight.

Weird.

Still, now the monkey’s off my back, I can have some fun again. Like going to Bristol for the weekend - yay! My favourite place in the whole world and my hometown and I haven’t been in nearly four years. I hope it forgives me.

I HATE the subject box on emails.

It taunts me.

It hangs there. A long white oblong. Inviting wit or wisdom or awesome perfunctoriness. Requiring an ability to sum up a whole subject or collection of subjects with a few beautifully chosen, carefully analysed, perfectly designed words.

And I always let it down.

Our relationship is doomed.