It’s poker night.

The Idiot has invited The Rock Star and Captain Hairy over with the intention of having a testosterone filled evening of King, Queens, bluffing, swearing and drinking. (But no cigars because of the baby, Captain Hairy isn’t allowed beer due to a nasty stomach complaint and probably only til 11 since it’s a weekday. Ah, the joys of manhood at 25+)

I shall not give away The Rock Star’s level of play; I will not say whether he is very good or very bad or somewhere in between. What I can say with certainty is that is he better than me because he knows what all those tricky little cards mean when they’re all standing next to eachother.

I am a reluctant game player. With my mother’s Pennsylvania Dutch/English Major/Mennonite blood flowing through my veins, this is hard to believe. (Game playing is integral to Mennonites; you have to do SOMETHING while lunch is cooking.) But I’ve always been of the sit-around-on-the-couch-with-a-glass-of-wine-and-talk-to-people school of action. Apparently, as a child, I was a fiendish game player; board games, card games, anything I could challenge anyone to I was all over. I don’t know what happened at some stage in my development- perhaps I developed “dice wrist” or was brutally savaged by the dog shaped Monopoly piece or something, but at some point, I fell out of love with games. This must have been a blow to my family, who are so dedicated to games that my late great aunt Louise once broke her wrist playing an incredibly enthusiastic game of “Pounce”.

I wish I could shake the feeling of dread that rises within me when someone walks into the room with Cranium or Pictionary, but I am completely bemused by my apparent aversion to table top merriment in all its forms. This is something that I know I will have to overcome when we have children and am already dreading the squeaky little voices exhorting me for just one more game of “Candyland” when we have already played 48 times in a row.

Luckily, this evening, my cooperation is not required in the gaming stakes. The other women and I shall wallow in our own estrogen in the corner and coo over the baby while the men satisfy their competitive nature by losing money to one another.

As long as we’re in bed by midnight.

Just for fun, the LEAST used of all the BBC’s weather icons. Except maybe in Dubai. The Rock Star insists that I must address my avoidance of the weather-related issues on my blog.

It seemed that I was being proved wrong consistently almost every day in my “let’s see how accurate the forecast is” experiment. The forecast, mockingly, was more or less right on the button. The Rock Star suggested that it might be the weather equivalent of that strange phenomenon that occurs most often while star-gazing; when you try to look directly at an object in the night sky, it becomes almost invisible- to actually SEE it, you have to adjust your gaze slightly to the left or right. Such it was with my observation of the complete lack of accuracy exhibited by the weather service. The minute I turned my head, all kinds of freaky shit started falling out of the sky, to bemusement of those manning weather satellites and Doppler radars every where.

Lesson learned- watch everything out of the corner of my eye. (For extra credit, please discover the name of the afformentioned phenomenon.)

So, true story.

Woman hangs out in her backyard, sunbathing in the nude. Her neighbor, who proclaims to be “offended” and “shaken”, videotapes her and turns her into the police and she is arrested for indecent exposure. A judge today cleared her of the charges.

While it seems like a questionable thing to be doing without the privacy of a garden fence, the statement, “She walked back and fore completely naked - I went to get my video camera to record the incident. ” might throw up a few warning bells in the mind of the prosecution as to the fact that they might have a big old pervert as a client.

This is one of those things that you will curse me for. It is one of those things that winds it’s sticky little tentacles through your neurons and will not let go until long after you have ceased to enjoy it.

But in the hope that passing it on, a-la Ringu, will save me from shoving an icepick in my own ear 7 days down the line to escape it, I present you with Bananaphone.

Unless you want to be fired, for the love of god, don’t open this unless you’re wearing headphones!

The trials and tribulations of those trying to shed excess poundage are rarely amusing, except perhaps in the case of Oprah, in which case, it becomes epic, worthy of being scored by someone like Wagner. A lot of others in the public eye would have us believe that they’ve managed to drop unbelievable amounts of weight 15 minutes after having a baby or finishing on the set of their latest film “Inspiring Story of An Incredibly Obese Person”, when it’s painfully obvious someone has stapled them in cunningly internal places. These people are the anti-christ and should be force fed Twinkies until they go into shock.

Trying to lose weight in the real world with the absence of time, money and personal trainers called Brad is not nearly as easy. Shit just keeps happening. The meeting runs long and you find yourself in a pub with a pint of beer and a ham ploughmans rather than eating the yoghurt and apple that you packed earlier. You don’t have time for breakfast because your kid’s science project escaped in the corridor and is now biting people, so you grab a Twix and a diet coke from the service station to quell your mutinous stomach on the way to school. There is no dietician on daily consultancy fees, there is no pilates instructor, there is no nanny to watch the monsters while you do your daily workout. There is just you and your willpower.

The Rock Star and I are on WeightWatchers at the moment. Diets have never particularly worked for me on any level. One, because I lack willpower and two because denying yourself sucks. The “points” plan, which you’ve probably heard about from one source or another, is pretty good if for no other reason than that it forces you to take stock of what you’re shoving down your gullet. It’s all about eliminating those unnecessary things that you consume without even thinking about it.

While my weight doesn’t bug me all that much, I know it would be better for my health if I didn’t have quite so much of it hanging off me at various unsightly angles. The WW’s point system asked some questions about my lifestyle which is moderately sedentary) and my target weight, which is 9st, 3 or 130 pounds. (Originally, it set a target weight FOR me of 8st 11, which I have not weighed since middle school, so I thought that perhaps unless I wanted to be asking Nicole Richie for fashion tips, I ought to bump that up a bit. I AM a woman after all, and of the firm belief that there is fuck-all wrong with some curves.) After careful consideration, it came up with my daily points total, which was 22. The Rock Star, being larger, fitter and more male than I am, was allotted 31, something that vaguely rankles at the end of the day when he comes in six points under and I’m really, really wishing that I could have a bowl of cereal or something without going OVER.

My weakness is travelling. Sitting in a car is boring. Eating is mildly less boring. Petrol stations call to me with their abundance of that which I crave most; sweet things and salty things. In the US, where people are routinely having to purchase two seats on commercial airliners just to accommodate their king sized asses, companies have caught onto the fact that having a larger selection of healthy options behoves them just as much as those with voluminous posteriors. Over here, however, the diet, carb-counting, South Beach lifestyle just hasn’t caught on, despite the presence of chips at just about every meal. (Fantastic dead comedian Bill Hicks said, “You know, I was walking down the street in London the other day and the hookers were yelling, “Head and chips!”)

As a matter of interest, I’ve been throwing some basic petrol station fare into WW to see what it comes up with and how much of my daily intake it would represent should I choose to consume it.

1 x Snickers bar- 7 points= 31.8% daily allowance. Not surprising as Snickers is one of the most solid chocolate bars out there, not to mention being packed with peanuts.

1 x bag of Doritos- 4 points= 18% daily allowance. The makers of Cool Ranch Doritos obviously collaborate with the makers of Pringles. (aka Crack in a Can)

1 x Twix bar- 6 points= 27% daily allowance. That’s for both bars. Sharing is the best policy if you just want a little taste of something chocolate.

1 x Mars bar- 5.5 points= 25% daily allowance.

1 x Double Decker- 4.5 points= 20% daily allowance. The best of all chocolate bars as far as I can tell

1 x 550ml Coke- 3 points= 13% daily allowance. 13% of my personal daily allowance! On JUST ONE DRINK. Luckily, I’m a diet Coke fan.

1 x bag of Walkers crisps- 2 points= 9% daily allowance. If you absolutely positively must have crisps, these aren’t too bad. Ones with any meat product in it (prawn, barbecue or roast chicken) shoot up to 3.

Okay here’s the killer:

1 x ANYTHING with the word “Ginsters” in it- at LEAST 12.5 points= 57% daily allowance. Over HALF of my allowed daily intake. In ONE PASTY.

And just for fun:

1 x Quarter Pounder Extra Value Meal McDonalds- 25 points= 113% daily allowance. In just one meal. Morgan Spurlock wasn’t just whistling Dixie.

Anyone who says you can lose weight without any fuss should be hit over the head with the corpse of Dr. Atkins.

Despite efforts to unify Europe in matters of trade and international law, we are constantly reminded of the vast differences between the myriad of cultures that are compressed within its borders. What works in Italy is not necessarily going to work in Bulgaria. Spain and Turkey have different ideas about what to do on a Saturday night and what to eat for Sunday lunch. But apparently what everyone can agree on is what rocks.

I’m not entirely sure if most of America is aware of the Eurovision Song Contest. I know that I’d never encountered any mention of it before I moved to Britain. In fact, the first time I saw it, I had to turn it off because it was just too damn depressing. However, due to what I believe to be assimilation by the European Borg hive mind, I find myself drawn to the damn thing every year when it rears it’s ugly, sparkly head on the telly.

I would be interested to know how the contest is perceived in other European countries, considering the utter contempt in which it’s held in the UK. Do people in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (a country that’s long overdue for a name change, in my humble opinion. I’m fairly sure map makers and those guys who have to print the signs for the opening ceremonies at the Olympics would agree with me.) see their entry into this musical farce (Elena Risteska, singing “Ninanajna”) as a matter of national pride or a sacrificial lamb to be slaughtered in the tabloids upon their return?

I’ve always seen the contest as a “who sucks the least?” kind of affair, but we were all rewarded by Finland’s entry this year, who, while awful, stood out in a crowd of off-key poptarts and gave everyone a bit of a laugh with their Gwar-like antics. Never ever having been moved to vote before, The Rock Star and I dutifully texted in to support the minions of rock among the sea of pap. We were astonished to find that even the in-country voting, which is glaringly political, seemed to fall in line as well, everyone stumping for the Nordic monsters.

It just goes to show that bad rock will always triumph over mediochre pop. Go, my children, go pay homage to Lordi.

I like a mindless action film every now and again, but I find, as I get older, it is getting harder and harder to suspend my disbelief. My common sense gland goes “Oh come ON!” while the rest of my conscious brain tries to tell it to get down in front and go back to watching the film.

The Rock Star and I took in MI:3 last night. (WARNING: SPOILERS THROUGHOUT. I usually don’t care about spoilers with these sort of movies. It’s like saying: WARNING: The good guy saves the girl and wins in the end against all odds and the bad guy gets splatted in some ignominious way. The rest is just breathing space between ridiculous stunts.) I don’t like to encourage that bat-shit crazy dwarf Tom Cruise any more than I have to, but getting to watch Phillip Seymour Hoffman beating the living daylights out of him for 20 minutes definitely swayed my favour. Guys like Hoffman probably got picked on by guys like Cruise (or Mapother, to quote his ridiculous given surname) in the school yard back in the day. Seeing him pistol whip that pretty boy on behalf of every other slightly tubby, sensitive, ginger kid who got the piss ripped out of him was pretty sweet. Hoffman is gold in whatever he touches.

I know exactly when it was that my tolerance for the ridiculous in action movies evaporated; while watching Pierce Brosnan as James Bond parachute off the edge of an icy cliff into the water and begin surfing on a giant tsunami wave OFF THE COAST OF ANTARCTICA.

What kept me from constant turning to my husband during the film last night and going, “Oh FFS” was the thought of writing this blog today. So may I get a few things off my chest?

-While the IMF team seems to have the capability of designing a machine that can make an accurate mask replica of a human face in under two minutes, in a city of about 6000 cell towers, Tom Cruise is unable to get a mobile phone signal in the middle of Shanghai, a centre of tech, trade and industry in China. He should probably switch from Pay-as-you-go.

-Why oh why, must the myth that you can have a 15 minute long fist fight with someone be perpetuated? A drunken grapple in a pub might continue for as long as that, but only because neither participant is capable of landing a punch. One good hard punch in the face and you’re either dead, in hospital or missing a lot of teeth. On the other hand, this stereotype allowed for more beating of Tom Cruise, so perhaps I should keep my mouth shut.

-Near death experiences rarely leave you 100% ready for action. If you take 5000 volts through the chest and then have the good fortune of being resuscitated, some crazy, black market arms dealer trying to kill your girlfriend is going to be the least of your problems. Jumping up, gun drawn is probably not going to be an option for you.

- Another myth that needs debunking. Shooting someone in the head? Very messy. Will smudge more than make-up.

- Sliding down a steep glass roof and stopping yourself with one hand? Dislocation city. No more storming secret government labs for you!

I feel slightly cleansed now, thank you.

Well, the offspring of the Idiot and the Barmaid has finally arrived. Leila Mai King, weighing 6 pounds and 3 oz, born after the shortest labour in the universe. 1 push and that was it. Ladies, we should all be so lucky.

Glad she’s here. Hope to meet her soon!

On our return from Manchester, everything that has some sort of green appendages seems to have exploded. Some of the notables:

The Stuff Tree

I touched on our relationship with The Stuff Tree last year. Much to my relief, since The Stuff Tree bloomed this year, I have had a stinking cold and have been unable to distinguish its stuff-like aroma. There are some new people who have moved into the marina over the winter who’s boats are just opposite the stuff tree. I shall enjoy watching their faces as they imbibe it’s fragrance for the first time and go, “Huh. What IS that? It kinda smells like…you know…stuff.”

The Stash

The family cat, Moggins, is blissed out around this time of year. I’m surprised we haven’t found her Ibiza Annual albums squirreled away in garage somewhere. We’re always impressed that the famed Catnip Hedge has a chance to get out of the ground; the minute the first shoots are up, her enforced winter sobriety is broken and she nibbles them franticly, only to have that really early “good stuff” send her chasing imaginary butterflies all over the lawn. An unbreakable cycle of addiction for her, hours of amusement for us.

The Mysterious Blooming Chestnut

I guess a few years ago, an unpleasant variety of tree lurgy went around infecting Chesnut trees here in the UK. One such tree stands in my in-law’s lovely garden. While it often has leaves in the summer, it has been many years since it produced flowers of any kind. (The other Chestnut tree in the lawn seems to have escaped the plague and is blooming hardily. The Rock Star reckons it’s on account of it being planted over the grave of their randiest ever pet, a reproductive yellow Labrador menace called Chippy who once famously tried to shag a cow.)

Two weeks ago, a friend of Moot’s came to visit. We call her The Mystic because she’s just one of those people who seems, for one reason or another, to be able to fix things with some sort of energy. Not only did she come to try to work a little magic for Moot, but we smiled quietly to ourselves when she turned her attentions to the Chestnut tree. HOWEVER… This morning, we discovered 4 blooms on the tree, the first in many years. Logical explanation: The tree was going to bloom anyhow. But it didn’t mean the Rock Star and I didn’t look at eachother funny when I remembered this little bit of psychic tree-hugging.

In weather related news….

Weather Forecast

Cloudy

 Actual Weather

Ha Ha! Caught you buggers today! It’s not only cloudy but it’s RAINING. And SUNNY. You think just because you have satellites that you’re so big and tough! Who’s laughing NOW, weather bitches?

Sigh.

Right. This is starting to bug me. I don’t know about anyone else who’s, you know, a grown-up and able to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not, but all the hype around the forthcoming DaVinci Code is making my common sense gland pulse brightly under my skin, a-la E.T. I would very much like to poke my glowing finger of calm into the soft eye-jelly of some of the morons sounding off about this film.

This is the first paragraph of an article found on MSNBC today.

“The Da Vinci Code” has undermined faith in the Roman Catholic Church and badly damaged its credibility, a survey of British readers revealed Tuesday as tensions over — and hype for — the forthcoming film reached a fever pitch.”

MY POINTS BEING…

1. Is it just me, or isn’t faith in your church supposed to be stronger than a work of fiction by an author who obviously knows how to come up with a killer plot, but at the same time, is unable to execute that plot without resorting to clichés that are older than the hills and claims ownership of a writing style that, at best, screams, “2nd period creative writing class”? If the Catholic Church is finding it’s credibility damaged by an extremely lucky second rate novelist, then perhaps it might be time to think about hiring his publicist.

2. Perhaps these brain donors have mislaid their copies of Websters, which offers the following definitions of the word:

fic•tion (f k sh n)
n.
1. a. An imaginative creation or a pretense that does not represent actuality but has been invented. b. The act of inventing such a creation or pretense.

2. A lie.

3. a. A literary work whose content is produced by the imagination and is not necessarily based on fact. b. The category of literature comprising works of this kind, including novels and short stories.

They also might be surprised to note that this word is related to other words such as “fictional” and “fictionally” BOTH OF WHICH MEAN THAT SOMEONE MADE SOMETHING UP.

A BAD WRITER WROTE A SUCESSFUL BOOK NEVER CLAIMING THAT HIS ASSERTIONS WERE FACT, ONLY BORROWING FROM A FEW CONSPIRACY THEORISTS ALONG THE WAY.

HE….MADE….IT….UP!

Also, another document for your perusal. The first amendment is of particular interest.

3. Please, for the love of god, (which ever one you choose) find something else to complain about. You’ll be amazed how free your schedule will become when you stop sending death threats to Tom Hanks. You can finally find the time for cycling, spending time with your family and all of that stalking of abortion doctors you’ve been meaning to get around to.

My guess is that, if God made us story-tellers, he/she/whoever probably doesn’t want limits on what stories we tell.