A Letter...

Dear XXX

It has been a while since we last spoke, and the way we left things has been uncomfortable. For a while now there have been many unsaid things between us, but for me, at least, the time to say these things has passed and I no longer wish to raise them again.

How does one write a letter severing a past relationship? For me it will be the end, because I cannot carry on playing charades anymore. I may see you out and about, and if you approach me I will acknowledge you, but I never want to engage with you again. The Americans have a jarring word: closure; this word used to make me cringe, but now I have attained it to the best of my ability, I am cherishing the protection it offers.

As it is, we have moved on in life. You still chase fame and fortune and indulge to excess. I look back on the time we spent together with a sense of self-loathing. What was it that made me leave my self-respect at the door, to turn into one of your pawns in your ugly, twisted games? The ridicule, slander and self-destruction you subjected me to. But no, enough I tell myself. No more bitterness; after all, life is full of experiences, and that was one of them.

I do not wish you well, but neither do I wish you ill for I am indifferent. But how does one end a letter like this? I am no longer yours, neither am I sincere towards you.

Goodbye.

Would you take me seriously...

... if I were called Brett?

There was an article in the Times yesterday about how a name influenced what the person was going to be like in adulthood. It cited 'James' is a name associated with success, as well as Lisa; Georges' and Annes' were the least likely to be associated with attractiveness and various silly things that one would generally giggle about but not take too seriously.

Then, I was going through a collection of short stories and novellas that I wrote when I was at the young tender age of 14 and wisely saved from floppy disc to compact disc. Back then I was full of romantic notions, and the innocence that life was only worth living if we could embrace the darkness of it as well, along with a dire insistence of being overly descriptive in what a life of luxury consists of. At this stage I was obsessed with Interview with the Vampire, and along with my then best friend we used to obsess and write fantastical stories about being vampires.

So, below is an excerpt which I read, and almost choked.

----

When Godot Arrives, by XXXXXXX XXXXX

... while the shadows cast by the roaring fire danced in the corners. I was leaning against the mantlepiece, studying the small, smooth artifact that brought back memories of wandering the fields of Elyssium in the dead of night with Cassandra. As I was lost in thought, I reached out to pick up the glass of wine I had set down, and at that moment the girl's reflection in the mirror above the fireplace startled me very briefly.

I turned to look at her. She had put on the black cashmere sweater I had given her, and dried her hair and twisted it into a knot. A stray lock had fallen out, and was caressing the nape of her elegant neck. I could envisage my long, well manicured fingers stroking the pulsating vein beneath the creamy skin.

She walked up to me. Her grey eyes were staring at me, cautiously, intently. 'I'd like to thank you for rescuing me from those hooligans,' she started.

'Not at all,' I countered. 'Would you like a glass of wine to calm your nerves?' as I walked over to the antique mahogany console with inlaid mother of pearl detail. I picked up a glass and looked at her. She nodded back. I filled the lead crystal glass with a couple of fingers of Chateau Neuf de Pape that had been decantered earlier that evening, and handed it to her.

She reached for the glass and mouthed a silent 'thank you' and took a long sip of the wine. Strains of imperceptible music played over the hidden speakers, and as she closed her eyes to savour the developing bouquet, asked what was playing. I picked up the controller, and turned up the volume. Notes spilled forward from a melancholy jazz trumpet, and soon we had almost finished the wine. She was by this stage giggling and swayed into my arms. As I held her, the pulsating vein was now too much for me to bear. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, at the same time she spoke gently, 'I forgot to tell you my name. It's Sandra. Actually, it's Cassandra, but that sounds so, formal.' I felt a jolt in my heart as I heard the name. 'What's yours?' she whispered.

'Kevin,' I replied...

-----

Wait a minute, Kevin? KEVIN? Okay, as a vampire I have lived for thousands of years, and even though I could change my name to anything, why Kevin??? You just can't take that name seriously, and as I was debating with Miss T, how can you take a country seriously if its headed by a man called Kevin (cf. Down Under).

*sigh*

Now I'm just going to ponder the rest of my existence with the name that I have been given (not Marmoset, obviously), and what in-roads I can make the most of.

It'll probably show that I'll be a drag queen artiste forced to sing 'Ken Lee' in rowdy bars for the rest of my life.

Midweek Choon

Sorry for interupted service last week. I've been around but busy and so many things to do and catch up on. This week's choon is 'Ken Lee', by Bulgarian Music Star performer Vanessa Hassan. This is the best version of the song I've ever heard, and its not in Bulgarian...

Kafka-esque...

I've been thinking about this the last few times I've been eating a particular sandwich. I am a bit of an odd person given that I like to open my sandwich to discern what constituents it is made out of, or when I am eating I have, according to OH, a very surgical manner of dissecting my food and eating things somewhat in rotation.

Anyway, to get to the point, this particular sandwich is of the chicken variety. It is shredded (the chicken) and blended with a herb mayonnaise, and a few slices of tomato. And here's where the Kafka-esque moment arises: it also has slices of hard-boiled egg.

Now, am I alone in thinking there is something terribly sadistic about eating the layer, and the layee? It boggles the mind to be biting into something while having that eternal question 'which came first, the chicken or the egg?' playing around in your head, while you're contemplating the merry-go-round possibilities of egg-chicken, chicken-egg and realising you only have 30 mins to put your mind at rest.

I would like some feedback...

Dear BBC...

I have a bit of a bone to pick with you. It's about the Eurovision Song Contest. I'm going to do a wee bit of a comparison here.

Behold the nice looking Swiss entry, that sings of passion and you can just see it in his eyes that you want to take him to bed with you...

eurovision suisse 2008 Paolo Meneguzzi - Era Stupendo
par jief75

The Ukrainian entry starts off a bit wobbly, but builds up into a great crescendo and actually becomes quite entrancing, even if you're somewhat afraid of meeting the Shady Lady.

eurovision Ukraine 2008 - Ani Lorak - Shady Lady
par jief75

I'm hoping this is going to be the Swedish entry:

melodifestivalen 2008 - Charlotte Perrelli - Hero
par jief75

And the offering from the UK?

eurovision uk 2008 - Andy Abraham - Even if
par jief75

I have nothing against an ex-dustman following his dream and becoming a star courtesy of a reality TV show. The song he's singing isn't bad, but it doesn't really scream 'VOTE ME' (apart from when Ireland will vote 5 points out of habit. It might win a line up to be the next song that will be used in a Boots/Debenhams/BHS commercial, but not really the Eurovision Song Contest. What I do have against the UK's entry to the Eurovision Song Contest is that in recent years it just seems to be a big old joke, with The Sun carrying the double entendres it does so well to appeal to the lower masses, as well as time and again the spineless, insipid entries. Remember the year when Gemini didn't know the words to the song they were singing? The there was Darren Whatsisname that did wigger rap with nubile Lolitas prancing around in their school uniform, and most cringeworthily, last years upbeat entry, which although ticked a few boxes for verring towards pop and having synchronised dance moves, was spoilt by the innuendo of salty nuts and made me try and adjust the colour on the TV to be a bit more normal while the permatanned group played havoc with the 'red' settings on my screen.

So, dear BBC, why not do what you've been good at with so many other reality TV shows (Strictly Come Dancing etc.) and whip the nation into a frenzy, and make voting for good talent and a catchy song a fun yearly event, where our patrioticism shown during sporting events also extends into music. Take directions from Sweden's Melodifestivalen, and produce a winner with a song that will make the UK proud.

Marmoset

Monday Choons

One of the first things I did when I started to learn French was to listen to lots of French music so I could pick up words and learn not to say embarassing things like voulez vous coucher avec moi, c'est soi? One of these artists that I listened to was Mylene Farmer, best described as a cross between Madonna, Kate Bush and Kylie by my friend. I was forewarned that the lyrics to her songs weren't the best way to learn (I learnt more through Marie La Fôret) but this is Ainsi Soit Je (Thus being me) and the way she sings it is a little haunting, if not a bit breathless when she gets to the high notes.

Mylene Farmer-Ainsi Soit-je
par logicom07

I nearly wet myself...

... then I remembered what I had to do when I had a funny feeling



The way the kid strains at the end, he's going to have bum melons when he grows up.

Happy Friday!!

Does He Love You?

The very first time I went to see the Sing-Along-A-Sound-Of-Music, it was the gayest affair of watching a classic that had been around for ages. For those of you who are not familiar, this extravaganza happened every Friday evening at the Prince Charles Cinema in Leiceister Square in London. Normally movies shown here were typically those you really wanted to see when they first came out, but never got round to it, and so because by the time they appeared at the PCC, the movies would already be out on DVD and so you would normally watch it in the comfort of your own home. Also, the average price per movie aould be in the region of £2.50 if you were a member, and £3 for those of you who weren't. This made it a great place to hang out when at university, and we'd regularly pop our own corn in the mirowave at home the night before, and stock up on cheap fizzy drinks from the 99p shop in anticipation of one of our PCC outings.

Anyway I digress. The whole reason why I went to the Sing-Along is forgotten, but I do remember the immense amount of fun I had. Firstly, the tickets were £10 each which I was quite reluctant to pay for, given I had this on DVD at home. But with lots of cajoling I eventually paid my note and went in, whereby I was asked for another £10 if I wanted the Sing-Along pack. From what I could make out, the pack contained a miniature foam board, the kind you'd use when swimming; a black and white hankie; various strips of paper, and some scraps of fabric and maybe even a whistle. Now my interest was piqued.

As in ever pantomime, there is always a prompt in the audience that shouts out 'Behind you!', or 'Oh no it isn't' or some equally innane phrase that normally drives me up the wall. Why I'd was watching a pantomime in the first place I really can't remember, but again I digress. The Sing-Along was like one giant karaoke event, where everyone was singing along to the words that appeared on the screen, along with the little bouncing ball indicator, and every time something was about to happen there would be a veteran Sing-Along-er that would prompt us with 'Behind you!' (for the curtains, and the Baroness) and 'The Eyebrows!' for the Baroness. There would also be lots of booing and hissing (the Nazi's, and again the Baroness) and cheering (Maria, the children, the nuns. Yes, the nuns.)

The Sing-Along pack contained all the useless paraphernalia that made the Sing-Along even more enjoyable. Of course, I was sulking that I didn't get one, but in retrospect glad, otherwise it would be another small contribution to the world's problem of waste disposal. When 'Climb Every Mountain' came on, everyone was waving the miniature foam board which was in the shape of a tampon profile, I mean, mountain, and when the nuns came on, all the black and white hankies went on the heads and How To Solve A Problem Like Maria was generally butchered by those who thought it funny to substitute 'Maria' with various forms of obscenities and other peoples names which spanned 1-2 syllables or 4 syllables, but never 3.

So anyway, the title of the post comes from the song Does He Love You by Reba McIntyre and Linda Davis, and although the lyrics are powerful, it must be said that the generically bland leading man is a bit gormless, and the whole set up for the video makes me want to shout out the following phrases at the following times as well as making the following observations:



0.07: Feathered cuffs and detail on the lapels that are all PINK

0.09: Introduction of generic photograph of generically bland man that you'd find in photoframes worldwide.

0.16: The Nostrils! The Nostrils!

0.24: WTF? It looks like they've been superimposed on some American primary election crowd that is cheering.

0.37: Ouch, that must hurt, but wait a moment, it was with her BARE HANDS. She must be ANGRY. Well, I'd be angry too made to wear that hideous pink get-up.

0.43: The Hair! The Hair!

0.55: 'Smile, look like you're enjoying it, like you're wearing the dress instead of her. Yes, that's the smile...'

1.11: 'Keep focussing on the dress you get to wear later...'

1.15: The NOSE! THE NOSE!

1.23: 'Poor Shelley, what a crap nose job'

1.26: 'Excuse ME?'

1.29: 'Oh no you don't sister, the dress is MINE'

1.36: 'HAH, I can see SPINACH on her TEETH'

1.37: 'You're NOT getting the dress'

1.49: PASTEL BLAZERS? Yuck

1.55: 'Is this over yet? Bland Boy is really boring me now... meh...'

2.00: SUSPENSE... Is it a genie?

2.02: YAWN...

2.06: WTF??? I mean seriously WTF IS SHE WEARING?

2.14: Murder in her eyes. And those NOSTRILS.

2.35: Seriously, if I were going to an Arabian Nights themed party I'll knock on her door and ask to borrow that headpiece. Its even got inbuild blades on the side so you can slit your wrists on it in shame as everyone thinks "WTF is he WEARING?"

3.00: The grim reaper, with big nostrils, to sense (or should that be to 'scents'?) death.

3.27: You're going in a SPEEDBOAT love, not a friggin yacht, take that stupid hat off, but leave the shoulder pads in, they're good as a drowning device.

It gets pretty boring after that, but I love the finale, which is promptly ruined by the shouting of the video director after that...

Does he love me? Not if my fashion sense turns into that, which is most definitely what will happen if I found out OH was going out with someone with Big Nostrils and Bad Fashion Sense, and only then so because I'd never see them together because my head would be swathed, suffocating in that turbanic nightmare while I fashioned a noose out of the feather boa.

This Made Me Laugh...

...out loud

la vie des animaux selon les hommes
par mouskaters

Monday Choons

Okay, its not technically Monday and this is ripped from Stornisse, but the sheer gayness and schlagerfest that this song represents is all too much to keep to myself.

2008 Sweden - Charlotte Perrelli (Semi 4)
par Galiza

In other Marmoset related news: i've been busy with studies and work. Also, I had a very bizzare dream last night. I was at a brilliant art exhibition where the paintings started to melt away to reveal really horrid images, then the artist was taken to prison, and while the gallery was being cleared out I had a massive argument with my sister and then I decided to convert the gallery into a stage for Cher's newest single, and it was being filmed in a gothic style setting, for which I was going to make black silk curtains, then I found myself in the kitchen making squid ink pasta and my pasta just wouldn't roll thinly enough.

Luckily I woke up in time before I totally lost it.