Notting Hill Carnival

As I am writing this, the party outside is still going on, and on and ON!
The biggest carnival of its kind in Europe, the Notting Hill carnival is an institution of London now in its 41st year. Enough with the boring encyclopediaic stuff!
A celebration of Carribean culture that has now become a symbol diveristy and I loved every second of it. The atmosphere was fantabulous!
Picture this:
Wafting smells of smokey barbecue jerk chicken, corn, roast plantains and the gentle puffs of the naughty leaf. Tempting coconuts ripe for drinking, sugar cane ready for enducing sugar sky-highs, and...candy floss. A rum shack, with a bucket of carribean rum mango and orange chunks. Mmmmmm.
The sounds of Soca beats, amplified steel pan vibes with RnB beat, techno-Carribean funk, 50 cent (and a 5?6? year old girl who knew all the lyrics!), bangra drums, mad whistles (including my very own Whistle of Dooom! :: toot toot trill toot::) back to Soca beats, and currently... Jimi Hendrix!
The streets, a human anthill. Whizzing past in a haze of technicolour...red butterfly-like creatures, red-white-black clad steel pan bands, costumed children laughing and jiggling to the beats.
A purple-green-yellow gold sequined army, pink-turqoise silver bursts of brightness, orange-yellow sun gods, costumes celebrating the Olympic 2012 win. Trucks with booming sound systems, mud/cement /sweat/water covered people, the spring-summer-autumn-winter parade...
A strikingly dizzying display of joie de vivre.Does life get better than simply dancing in the street? Carnival-tastic.

The Whistle of Dooooom!

The carnival crew - smiley smiley!

Did you know candy floss could also be used as fake moustachios?

The cute baby doods! (We think their mum thought we were wierd for taking pictures of her cute baby doods!)

In de Rum Shack, djah man! De rum, de mango, de orange, den more RUM! YUM!

A picture frame in the middle of the road? Eeeexcellent.

Notting Hill Carnival - in pictures!

Spring, summer, autumn, winter!

The golden man!

London Olympics anyone?


Purple haze

Pretty in pink!

The sun was shining, there was much smiling and rejoicing!

Ramblings of a Crazed Bible-thumper

Can I say that? Bible-thumper? Is that politically incorrect? Oh who cares. I'll take my chances on burning in hell.

So most of you have already heard of Pat Robertson (aka Mr. Most Influential Evangelist in the US, head of the Christian Coalition, bible-thumper extraordinaire) calling for the assassination of Hugo Chavez because he wanted to turn Venezuela into:
"the launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism" and that the US has "the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability."
"We don't need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strongarm dictator. It's a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with."

Has someone told this guy the Cold War is over? He sounds like something out of the CIA reports on Operation Mongoose for Cuba in 1962! COMMUNISM? Infiltration? Ummm, hello assassination of a Head of State? And what is the US doing about it? Twiddling its thumbs, and very very quietly saying 'inappropriate'. What would the US do if the equivalent, oh I don't know lets say a Muslim religious leader called for the assassination of Bush? Bomb the hell out of them.

These are indeed insane ramblings. I did some research on this Mr. Hallelujah, whom I can only eloquently describe as a psychotic nut-monkey (apologies to monkeydom) and here are some of his finest moments. These are actual quotes, I jest not:

Feminism
"It encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

Oh sorry, is he done burbling? I was just making a potion to kill my husband, in my cauldron, using the heart of the child i adopted with my lesbian lover, while reciting Das Kapital.

9/11
"If they look over the course of 100 years, I think the gradual erosion of the consensus that's held our country together is probably more serious than a few bearded terrorists who fly into buildings."

No comment.

Islam
"It's clear from the teachings of the Koran and also from the history of Islam that it's anything but peaceful."

Clearly this man has never heard of the Crusades or the Inquisition either.

I didn't realise that there were people in the world who genuinely hold these views. Bible-thumping mad.

Art of Conversation

Aaaaah, the art of conversation. A social system which is symbolic and language oriented where responses depend on one persons interpretation of another persons behaviour. Individual interaction on personal topics. And what better person to understand you as an individual with your personal topics than yourself!? Conversation is normally defined in the average dictionary as "an oral exchange of sentiments, observations, opinions, or ideas." The eagle eyed among you will have noticed that it does not specify that it has to occur between more than one person.
No, in fact, it is perfectly natural to sit on a train and talk to oneself, nod in agreement, frown in disagreement, raise one eyebrow in puzzlement, snort with disdain, laugh merrily at the jokes one told to..err..oneself, like the extremely entertaining person who was sitting across from me on the train today, happily chatting away to himself, giggling at his stupendous side-splitting oneliners.
Why should we NOT talk to ourselves? Is there a law against discussing the daily events with yourself? Is it ILLEGEAL? No! So it started out as a necessary means of interaction when early homo sapiens was hunting antelope in ye olden days, a method of cunning strategic planning that went along the lines of "You throw stick thingy with sharp point ouchy, I run scream make noise like lion". Considering we no longer need to hunt antelope we need something meaningful to replace the lost need for conversation - for example discussing with oneself what clever responses one should have made in a debate, yesterday, instead of the crap "Well, I err...disagree".
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to deliver a lecture on "Is postmodernism post-modern?"..........in my mind.

Shoes, Lipgloss and War

I love Sundays. Today was a lovely indulging day of sunshine, shoe shopping (not for ME!!! and yes, you know who you are pretty-shoed one :-P), being attacked by mutant lipgloss in Selfridges, and convincing randomn sales assistants that Drew Barrymore was in ET. Don't ask. I blame the lipgloss. And the perfume people who insist on spritzing some new perfume in your eyes as you walk past, a perfume people passtime which should be called "skunking".

On my way home I saw a person wearing a T-shirt which read:

"War is just terrorism with a bigger budget"

Excellent, non?
What was NOT so excellent was my idea that i should compliment this randomn person (an American tourist incidentally) on their choice of T-shirt. So imagine, there you are, happily clicking away at Nelson's column in Trafalgar Square, admiring the pigeons (damned vermin to anyone who lives in London), exclaiming "Oooooh my GOD! Lets go to Leeeeeeicesterrrr!" and a randomn person (me, wierd-lookin' even on a normal day, complete with a mixture of british, american and eastern european accent) runs up to you and goes excitedly - " I LOVE your T-shirt! Bye!", and then runs off. Yes, i ran off and caught the first bus i could find, because by the time my brain caught up with what i was doing I was really embarrassed.
I need to learn to control my wierdo impulses.

Meanwhile, the countdown begins to next Sunday.

In Memorium

Today is a sad day. Mo Mowlam, who was one of the dwindling number of intellectuals remaining in the British Labour Party, died of a brain tumour today. She was one of the first female Labour MP's, and was the Northern Ireland Secretary, who probably single-handedly fostered the peace deal in Ireland and transformed the Irish political scene (before His Excellency "I want to be a President " Mr Bleurgh swooped in to take all the credit. )
Like Robin Cook, Mo Mowlam was one of the increasing number of Labour MP's who were becoming disillusioned with Blair, and began to speak out against some of the New Labour policies. (For "New" Labour, read Labour which is more conservative than the Conservative party. Imagine Reagan leading the Democrats. Ungh. )

Robin Cook, Mo Mowlam...who's next? Is it coincidence that all the powerful Labour MP's who have begun to oppose Blair (especially over Iraq) are beginning to prematruely die? Or has our fearless leader begun taking notes from Putin?
Tis a sad day indeed.

Evil Penguins

"Smile and wave boys, smile and wave..."

Madagascar

4 psychotic power-hungry plotting evil genius penguins, a lion with a penchant for sushi, a hypchondriac giraffe, and a lemur monkey who likes to sing..."I like to move it move it, i like to move it move it, i like to MOOOVE it!" voiced by Ali G.
=Fabulous.

I want my own psychotic penguins.

Dial D for Dustbag

This weekend saw the occurrence of a surreal experience even by my standards that I feel compelled to share.
There i was vacuuming, with a vacuum cleaner the size of a hairdryer that still uses those paper dustbag thingumijiggies. Halfway through the living room, the vacuum cleaner made what can only be described as the sound of someone choking on a fly. Poor fly. Anyway. Basically one of the pipe thingumijigs came out of the main frame thingy splatterring dust everywhere. (Thingummy = technical jargon, of course.)
The vacuum was basically dead. After trying everything from kicking, to switching plugs i decided it must be the dustbag. Easy-i can change a dustbag! Open vacuum. Remove dustbag. REMOVE dustbag. Remooooove dustbag damnit! Dustbag extracted!!! Success. Replace dustbag. Ummm....discover have run out of dustbags...on a Sunday afternoon.

Now this is the bit where it goes from mundane to mad. Instead of deciding to wait for a day until i could go buy more dustbags, i decided the job must be finished now, now NOW! Some wierd part of my brain, which I am now convinced was descended from Dr. Frankenstein, decided: "I know! I vill disect zeee old dustbag, yah, und fix eet to an oooold grocery paper bag vun yah, und i vill haff a new home-made dustbag! Eeeegzellent! Igor, bring my scalpel No. 3"

So proceed I did. Cut off the top of the dustbag that fits into the vaccum (choking on dust in the process even though i did have the forethought to do this in the garden and into a big bin bag). Cut a grocery paper bag down to size and sellotape it to the dustbag top.
Dr. Frankenstein would have been proud. (Despite the downgrade to home appliance dissection, and with an imagined Igor thanks to Igor rights legislation.)
My creation was ready! All i needed was lightning!!!!! Thunder! Strike! Live! LIIIIIIVE! LIIIVEEEE! Oh fine. I'll just use the plug.

The crazy thing is, it works. Better than bought dustbags. Except next time i will not use sellotape but staples. Sellotape methinks overheats the engine. This will also be helping the environment by recycling paper bags.
Surreal, but functional. Rather like Dali's lobster telephone, non?

India Independence Day

India woke up to freedom 58 years ago. The world finally began to cast off the shackles of empire and so began the demise of the British Raj. Hurrah!

Gandhi's devotion to truth and his non-violent path to redressing wrongs is still an inspiration.
What happened to the idealism of the world? I can't help but think that instead of advancing, the socio-political organisation of humanity is regressing.

Politicians now strive for power, but once they achieve it, they expose the nothingness of their motives. Those killing children to advance their cause have clearly not heard of peaceful non-cooperation. No cause justifies the murder of another human being.

It's quite simple really, the world needs another Gandhi. Happy Independence Day, India.

Pink Post Scriptum

Sir Ivor Pink, pig extraordinaire, was delighted with his brief portfolio and has been kind enough to give me a page of his memoirs. I share this for your viewing pleasure.

Animal Farm

After several SHOCKING rumours as to whether all these animals i claim to "own" (or appropriate) actually exist, i have felt it necessary to dispel the allegations that these are just names i give to the voices in my head. HOW many times do i have to tell you that there is only ONE other voice in my head. The Penguin who lives in my head is simply hiding away from a particularly savage army of sabre-toothed minnows!!? Sheeesh. His name is Eggbert by the way. Eggbert..no...Eggbert...give that back. Argh.....! Apologies. Eggbert was trying to steal my ice cream (or objecting to being named Eggbert, I'm not sure).
Where was I? Oh yes. Dr. Doolittleska at your service armed with photographic evidence. Allow me to introduce you to my (very real) menagerie.

Fleur, Miss Garden 2005
This is Fleur, the most beautiful critter to grace the garden so far. Hobbies include looking pretty, flower hopping and world peace.


No. 2, Garden Squirrel Squadron
No. 2 is the boldest, bravest and youngest (and clearly most suicidal) member of the squirrel clan that inhabits my garden. Their persistent digging up of anything I plant has led me to name them as Bond villains. Any day now im expecting to find another hole in the garden with a note attached saying "From Squirrels, with love". They also cunningly deplete my supply of delicious nuts by hypnotising me to be their nut-providing slave.
The boss of Garden Squirrel Squadron is one fat squirrel. I expect he also has a white pet Persian cat somewhere.
Hobbies include, nut munching, dove chasing, paragliding, digging up flowers just planted, door scratching when hungry, and human mind manipulation.

Sir Ivor Pink, the East London pig
Following a recent debate involving
capitalist pigs, I felt I should defend the noble pig race.
This is Ivor, I met him on a city farm in the East End happily having a mudbath (which i am told helps the complexion). Sir Ivor would like it on the record that he in fact has no political affiliations. He also said that as far as he was concerned, no pig has said "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." If they have, they should consider themselves disowoned from the pig race. Sir Ivor's hobbies include, mud, munching, mud face mask product development for The Body Shop and writing his memoirs


Pablo the Fox was unavailable for this photo shoot. Black Cat was, as far as I am aware, away plotting my downfall which was all that i could figure out from his note which read "I am away plotting your downfall, meowhahahahahahaaaaaaa......ahahahahaha....ahaha!"

More photographic evidence as it happens, but for the time being I believe I have done enough to disprove rumours of animal voices in my head. So there.

Eggbert no. Put that back. No...NO! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargggggghh....... . . . . .

Cat-nip

I have another pet. Well sort of. It's not technically mine, you see. I've just appropriated someone else's pet. Well, Im planning to. This morning i walked out into the garden with my mug of coffee to breathe in the fresh smell of summer. The fresh smell of summer was slightly different this morning. It smelt of flying, meeowling black cat complete with red collar avec bell, zooming off the top of the garden shed, its little bell chiming away like the bells of Notre Dame, and narrowly avoiding my face. (There was also a bit of freshness delivered as a present by Pablo the Fox, my other pet...in the middle of the lawn.)
So anyway, back to Black Cat. Several conclusions. Either it flew off in suprise that a human should intrude in its territory, thank you very much. Or, it was lying in wait, having monitored my daily morning excursions into the garden, and it decided to maim the evil human intruding in its territory, thank you very much.
Happily, Black Cat forgave me by making friends with my ankle. Enter stage left, my cunning plan. I'm leaving little treats on the lawn for Black Cat. So far, i think Pablo is getting in there first, but i shall perservere. The plot thickens.

Motivation, motivation...wherefore art thou oh motivation?

11 hours, 18 minutes after waking, i have spent precisely 10 minutes working on my dissertation. Today has officially been the worst procrastrination day in my LIFE. Why the imagination gremlins in my head hear you ask? Allow me to demonstrate:

8.30 am - Wake up with big plan to work all day on dissertation.
9.30am - Still in bed. Reading book totally unrelated to dissertation subject.
10.47am - Drag myself out of bed. Motivation of 8.30 am seems to have decreased by 50%.
10.55am - Breakfast. Due to feelings of guilt, prepare enough breakfast to feed a Roman legion.
11am - Consume breakfast of legionic proportions while watching World Athletics Championships. Calorie count - 5 billion.
11.30ish - Shower.
11.45am - Make mega pot of coffee. Consume over half.
11.55am - Download article related to dissertation. Read article. Write 10 words of something mildly resembling analytical critique.
12.05pm - Decide that i cannot risk computer crash. Must install USB memory stick to back up dissertation. (Looking back on it, i blame the coffee. Who in their right mind would become so paranoid about losing 10 words of their dissertation - which in its 10 word entirety, i forgot to mention, includes the title !?)
12.15pm - USB successfully installed. Decide "study break" needed. Watch more World Athletics Champions.
2pm - Watch Commonwealth swimming qualifiers.
2.30pm - Download more articles for dissertation. Brief chat with SAG. over whether people in London would be decent enough to return accidentally left behind things like cameras. (Luckily it has since turned out that there are still decent people in London. The camera is saved - hurray!) Chat with SS over possibility that Robin Cook was bumped off Ukraine-style by that fearless leader Mr. Blair.
3pm - Motivation level = -1000%. Decide that maybe a walk on Portobello will help concentration.
3.30pm - Return home armed with Sunday newspapers. It is a sign of desperation to procrastrinate - catch myself reading sports pages with something approaching interest!
Have lunch. Calorie count - not too bad.
5pm - Motivation level - slightly better. Decide to attempt to write.
5.15pm - Switch to vogue.co.uk.
7pm - Snack time. More coffee. More coffee. Make new pot.
7.30pm - Motivation level = -1,000,000%!

I ask you - what is the POINT!? I will now go and attempt to write at least 1,000 words of my dissertation. Will it work? Do fish have feathers?

I'm Sorry, I Haven't a Clue

Well here it is. Blogmania has struck. I too am joining on the bandwagon of blogging having finally realised that the reason i haven't done this sooner is the fear of the blank page. Yes, as simple as that. Mental process went something along the lines of:
"What should I write in my first blog post, ever? It must be grande, glorious, eloquent, philosophical yet funny, clever but not pretentious, advance the political debate while revealing human nature at its core, it must be written with panache, be suave, bold, daring.. blah blah.... But how do i write like the literary geniuses? What is human nature? Are we good? Who am I? What is the meaning of life?"
Obviously, the train of thought deteriorated swiftly into a momentary existential crisis, which was thankfully swiftly resolved by a tub of Hagen Dasz. The blank page, however, remained.
So here I am, several weeks (and ice cream tubs) later having realised that i will never be as witty as Oscar Wilde, as descriptive as Balzac, as tragi-comic as Beckett. By not aspiring to be something I am not I understood that the greatest understanding was knowing how much we don't understand. I had, if you will, an epiphany.

This blog will therefore be simply a record of my randomn thoughts. So to questions along the nature of - what is the meaning of life? my current thoughts remain provisionally inconclusive. In the words of Humphrey Lyttelton & co. I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.

:: cuts red ribbon::

Blog officially launched! Now where is that champagne?