Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck socks.

Stalling on a hill is a great way to avoid getting your license.

In half an hour, I’m off on my driving test.

I’ve been driving since I was 15, but after moving to Britain, was only allowed 1 year in which to drive before I was required to get a British license. This seems a little odd to me: let me get used to driving on the opposite side of the road, let me get GOOD at it and THEN deem that I’m unacceptable without a UK driving license. I could have been running old ladies down at zebra crossings that whole time!

At any rate, it’s something I’ve been putting off for…well, about 7 years now. I’ve actually taken the test twice before, but both times, I was woefully unprepared for the extremely rigorous testing procedure (a monkey who had never driven before could have passed the Maryland State Practical Driver’s Exam) and had little experience with a clutch, so couldn’t have hoped to come out the other side with a good result. This time, however, I’ve taken lessons and know that I am fully capable of passing. This is the source of my nerves.

Fingers crossed!

The Rock Star and I are questioners. “How does THAT work?” “What would happen if…?” We like to ask questions and then go racing to the internet to try to find the answer after trying to logically work them out for ourselves. Thought I’d share a few tidbits, just in case anyone else has ever wondered the same thing.

Q. Sitting on our flight back from Portugal, I wondered, “Can a 747 do a loop the loop?”

Our Answer. Probably not. A 747 would have to get up a MASSIVE amount of speed in order not to lose lift while the tail was pointing downwards.

The Correct Answer. Strangely, Boeing believes that structurally, a 747 COULD execute a loop as WELL as a barrel roll, but trying either would be “the height of foolishness”. So, due to the lack of test pilots lining up to try these manoeuvres, they remain theoretical. Apparently, there WAS a test pilot in the last few years who managed to roll a 707, but he didn’t exactly get any medals for it from his superiors.

Q. On the way home from watching the Rock Star and BoyRacer run a 5k, Boy Racer wondered aloud, “If you were running the London Marathon for a testicular cancer charity with two of your mates, would they boot you out for dressing up like a giant cock and balls?”

Our Answer. Well, there’s no REAL reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to, especially if running for a testicular cancer charity, but chances are, you’re not going to get stopped by a BBC camera crew to have a chat. There’s probably a much smaller chance of being booted out if you simply donned matching ball suits, but there is always the chance of one finishing before the other, rendering the other’s costume incomprehensible.

The Correct Answer. The Flora London Marathon website doesn’t have any kind of costume guidelines whatsoever. Since this is the case, The Rock Star and I will pledge £50 to the charity of your choice if SOMEONE will run as a giant set of testicles. Willy is optional.

Q. Reading an article on projects competing for money from the European Space Agency, I couldn’t help but ask again, “WTF IS dark matter, anyway?”

Our Answer. That stuff from the Phillip Pullman books. You know, that stuff. Or maybe that stuff from Star Trek? Anti-matter? Is that the same thing?

The Correct Answer. There doesn’t seem to be anyone who wants to use small words to explain this phenomenon. Whatever dark matter is, there’s a hell of a lot of it out there in the universe- it outnumbers regular matter by a massive amount and can only be measured by its effect on things around it; gravitational force, the way galaxies spin, the way light behaves around it. But as for what it actually IS? That’s what scientists are trying to find out. So no answer as of yet.

Other questions welcome!

Just taking another quick few days break with Mama and Papa Potamus who are visiting from Stateside on their way back from enjoying the delights of Switzerland. (Chocolate, mountains and goats.)

Normal service shall return shortly.

The Rock Star and I returned from sunny Portugal on Tuesday evening. Just thought I’d post the travelogue.

July 15 

When the Rock Star and I booked our little weekend getaway to Portugal, like most bargain travellers, we opted to fly with Easyjet. However, upon boarding this afternoon we might have been forgiven for believing that we had walked onto The Winky McStinkypants Algarve Nursery Flight.

It strikes me as strange that people travel with very small children voluntarily. The sheer volume of babies in just the seats around us is quite astonishing. While you expect this volume of toddler travel chaos round about Christmas time, it is simply astounding that this many people with infants would choose to recreate the Seventh Circle of Travel Hell for themselves and fellow passengers. Upon landing, the child in the window seat opposite couldn’t have screamed louder had his mother repeatedly jabbed him in the eye with a fork.

A vacation with a 3 month old isn’t really a vacation, is it?

Other people suck.

July 16

The raging lefty in me has some guilt about vacationing in places like Portugal. I guess I can still hear my Dad’s annual answer to the question “Why can’t we go on vacation somewhere like Jamaica?”

“Because I don’t want to be staying in a comfortable hotel and know that 90% of the population of the island is living in a shanty town a mile from where we’re drinking cocktails on the beach.”

That argument didn’t cut much mustard with me when I was a kid who really wanted to go to some exotic beach somewhere, but driving up to a private 2.5 million euro villa, it was hard to miss the fact that we were passing mule driven carts and crumbling abandoned houses. Portugal is actually one of the most economically challenged counties in the EU and it wasn’t difficult to see evidence.

The influx of foreigners building increasingly larger and more luxurious resorts and vacation homes undoubtedly stimulates the country’s economy but it’s hard to let go of a lifetime’s worth of white, western guilt.

However, being skint ourselves dulled the nagging conscience a tad driving through the gates at The Rock Star’s Uncle Investment’s rather fabulous hilltop pad, complete with 6 bedrooms and saltwater pool. The villa was covered with stunning bright flowers that obviously thrive on the hot, dry weather adding to the overall “ohmygodthisplaceisapalace” effect.

The house…is large. To say the least. If you find yourself in the kitchen, it is unlikely that you would be able to notice a family of 5 living in the furthest bedroom. The Rock Star and I spent a good 20 minutes exploring the place before franticly digging though our bag to find our bathing suits and dive-bombing into the pool. (a tremendous amount of restraint on our part, I feel because we’re both total children)

First order of business was sustenance. In our “welcome pack” from Uncle Investment, we were reliably informed of a mini-mart half a mile down the road from the villa’s “neighbourhood” so we got back into our baking VW Polo (why, oh why did we not feel like springing the extra 40 quid for AC?) and soon arrived at said mini-mart, which looked like the backdrop from a Robert Rodriguez film. (Desperado is my all time favourite. The mini mart reminded both of us strongly of the bar. “And another thing….your beer…tastes like piss.” “We know! We piss in it!”)

We sheepishly crept in, expecting to have to communicate via crude sign language, but to our collective Western English speaking shame, we were greeted by the lady proprietor with a cheerful, “It’s hot today, isn’t it?” Before we left, I managed to drop an open pack of spaghetti all over everything. We shoved it back in the pack and bought it anyway. Shame will make you eat things off the floor.

The Rock Star and I spent the rest of the day trying to keep our body core temperatures somewhere approaching normal by alternately floating in the pool and hanging around in our underwear. It’s great to be married to someone who loves the way you look in a bikini even if you’d never go out on the beach in one due to excess flabbage.

We also discovered the joys of Sky television. 4 episodes of The Simpsons in a row? CSI pretty much on demand? Sweeeeeeet. We who languish in the world of regular telly (although digital has made it somewhat more tolerable) appreciated the entertainment wonderland that is satellite. I had to admit to a certain amount of strangeness of sitting on a couch in Portugal and watching tomorrow’s weather forecast from Cornwall when we should, by all rights, have been watching Portuguese soap operas.

After cooking dinner in a kitchen with more floor area than my whole house, we collapsed into bed in anticipation of another strenuous day of relaxing.

July 17

Trying to sleep in further south is no mean feat when the sliding doors in your room are covered by nothing but diaphanous white curtains. But we managed it anyway. Because we’re on holiday. Never mind that bright orange glow behind your eyelids, just go back to sleep.

Round about lunchtime, we decided to venture out of the compound and go exploring. Uncle Investment had left us some directions to one of the nearest beach resorts, Vale do Lobo, so we hopped back into our furnace-like ride, (we’d forgotten to park it under the only tree that shades the drive the day before) rolled down the windows and struck off for the coast.

Vale do Lobo is a planned community of vast villas built around a golf course. It’s very beautiful and almost entirely inhabited by Europeans, although there did seem to be a small but wealthy contingent of Portuguese.

The Rock Star and I strolled the beach for half an hour or so before retiring to a beachfront café staffed by waiters who were undoubtedly surly due to the fact that they were forced to wear uniforms that made them look like giant toddlers whose parents harboured a naval fetish. Being fans of Nando’s here in the UK, we ordered grilled peri-peri chicken and were delighted by an amazing lunch consisting not only of the chicken, but a lovely ripe tomato salad and crispy fries. Mmmmmm.

We stopped in a slightly larger supermarket on the way home in the town of Almancil to insure we wouldn’t have to set foot outside the villa until lunchtime on Monday. The Rock Star bought himself a bottle of good rum- essential to a holiday to make the hours of doing jack pass more pleasurably.

July 19

Looking back at the past few days from the relative discomfort of our flight back to Luton. The Rock Star managed to snag us seats directly by the entrance door to the plane, taking care of his extreme long-leggedness and my mild claustrophobia in one go. I think, in the future, I’d be willing to pay extra to eliminate the stress of where to sit rather than having to fight my fellow passengers tooth and nail for a space on the aisle.

Sunday we did nothing. Absolutely nothing. And we did it all day long. It rocked.

Monday we decided that Vale do Lobo deserved a second shot, plus we both wanted to swim in the sea, which being on the very VERY edge of the Med, was blue and clear and relatively monster free. (Jellyfish are our main combined sea phobia. The Rock Star once kicked a large one as a child, believing it was his brother grabbing him around the ankle. My mother actually got stung by a man-o-war before I was born and still has the scars. So yeah, hating on the jellyfish.)

The sea was cold on first contact, but quickly became tolerable for floating and joyous body surfing with fellow oceanic enthusiasts. A group of young men playing rugby were bobbing up and down not far from us and as young men do, ganged up on one of their number to steal his bathing suit necessitating a rather long and embarrassing walk up the beach with nothing but a strategically placed rugby ball to cover his shame. Luckily, when you’re young and fit, these things matter less than when you’re old and flabby.

We hit yet another beach front restaurant for lunch and tried to hide under the table when several Brits sitting behind us began berating the waiter due to the fact that his “ice cream was melty.” IT’S FUCKING 33 DEGREES IN THE SHADE YOU MORON, AND YOU’RE COMPLAINING BECAUSE YOUR ICE CREAM IS MELTY? We felt obligated to order and eat OUR ice cream with many accompanying yummy noises just to prove that all foreigners were not brain damaged.

In a fit of uncharacteristic deduction, we capped off the day by finding a massive supermarket that Uncle Investment had told us about but neglected to give us directions to. At first, we cleverly thought that our trusty TomTom would assist us, but alas, it chose that moment to expire with the mocking message “Unable to find GPS device” despite me waving the thing in front of its screen and shouting, “It’s right here, you bastard!” (We have also determined that running the program on a PDA is the height of foolishness due to the tendency of such devices to freeze 2 seconds before you need to decide to turn right or left.) Despite being let down by our technology, we managed to find the place and bought a few last supplies for the evening (how we could have been expected to survive until morning without a 6 pack of chocolate Cornettos, I have no idea) and a bottle of champers to leave for Uncle Investment’s family to say thanks for letting us stay in your castle.

We ended up the evening by watching the beginning of the reality series “Rockstar: Supernova” which, being the only reality show that we’ve ever found in any way gripping, is, of course on satellite, which we don’t have, so nuts to that. Being told by a former guitarist of Guns N Roses that you suck has to be pretty harsh, but all in all, the entrants picked to feature on the show all warranted their places talent-wise, which is rare of shows such as this. Really entertaining and very rock and roll. If you have access to Sky, it’s well worth a watch. As long as you tell us what happens.

So as we end our first ever do-nothing holiday, we fly back Britain-wards refreshed and ready to re-start normal life.

Now if only that baby would stop screaming in my ear.

Can I just say that I would like men to cool their jets about this?

There are a lot of things to argue about when it comes to messing about with procreation and I don’t particularly want to venture into the Swamp of Morality, but what I would REALLY like to see a cessation to the “Well, you’re obviously just all going to become lesbians and imprison us on a deserted island somewhere” scaremongering of the media.

Jeremy Lawrence, commentator for the Independent, had his column heading in today’s paper hijacked by sensationalist editors. The title, “Discovery raises spectre of making men discardable” is utterly incompatible with Lawrence’s actual piece, which offers reasons for rising male infertility (age, obesity, environmental factors) and doesn’t even touch upon the idea of women somehow evolving beyond the need for men for reproduction.

A few quick facts…

a) It is not ever possible for two women to have a biological child together without a man. Female stem cells lack the Y chromosome which makes it impossible to create an artificial sperm. Theoretically, however, it WOULD be possible for two MEN to be biological parents of a child with the help of a surrogate mother, although 75% of the offspring would turn out to be male. So chalk one up for the guys here.

b) Recent decreases in male fertility do NOT signify that men are being evolutionarily phased out. Men are waiting longer to have children, the same as women. Obesity levels are reaching epidemic proportions. (67% of American men are now classified as overweight.) Both of these factors diminish male fertility. What some critics of the breakthrough fail to mention is that FEMALE fertility has ALSO decreased, often due to the same factors. (of course there are about a million more things to go wrong with our bits and pieces, but in some cases, female fertility can be affected by the same factors as male fertility)

c) Do we REALLY think it’s possible to undo billions of years of reproductive and sexual evolution? Will the whole of the earth’s female population simply stop wanting to be with men? (Well, at least the ones that want to be with men in the first place. Obviously some of them don’t which is TOTALLY FINE by the way, before I get clobbered.) The very idea is ludicrous. Who’d get the lids off of the jars? (A JOKE.)

So the media, who does just love to blow things out of all proportion should fight the urge to paint a picture of a man-free world. Any testosterone bearing person who’s concerned about this new development (which is bloody amazing for couples struggling with male infertility, by the way) should really just calm down.

The helicopters will be coming for you shortly.

Holy frejoles, Batman! This is where the Rock Star and I heading for a long weekend!

The Rock Star has an extended family member who’s got a bob or two to rub together, the result being this palatial villa in the Algarve where the two of us are going to spend some time cavorting in the pool and enjoying the seaview. We’ve had all manner of suggestions of things to do in the area, but to be honest, I think most of our time will be spent sitting and lying on various pieces of outdoor furniture.

Hooray for holidays!

There is very little more irritating or uncomfortable than being in smart clothes on a rainy and sticky day in the city.

By the time the Rock Star and I squished through St. Steven’s gate at Westminster Palace, we were pretty much thoroughly saturated, much to the amusement of the policeman who were charged with searching our soggy bodies for weapons before ushering us in to the main lobby where we picked up our passes for The Stranger’s Gallery in the House of Commons.

Having not grown up in a house with C-Span, I can’t comment directly on the distinct differences in governmental style between The House of Commons and the House of Representatives, although I’m not entirely sure that anyone on the floor of Congress has used the word “hogwash” or “rhubarb” in earnest since the early 1950’s. This is not the case in the Commons.

The running of Parliament, while obviously very regimented, seemed very informal. Proceeding Question Time was a Q & A session with the Minister for Wales; not a particularly full or gripping session. As it wound down, MPs began to arrive, sneaking in unobtrusively, cramming themselves tightly onto their benches and loitering in the corners. (a strange House indeed that doesn’t actually boast enough room for every Member of Parliament) Even the Prime Minister snuck in 4 minutes previous to the session with no fanfare whatsoever, a complete lack of body guards and a large notebook with roughly 200 brightly colored tabs jutting out of it in every direction. George Bush can’t even go for a whiz without 6 guys watching his back, let alone address a session of Congress.

The actual Question Time that we sat in on was a fairly bloodless affair. No one got red in the face or severely heckled, except for the MP who suggested that MP’s for London shouldn’t be allowed to sit in Parliament since they’ve already got enough representation in the city, the suggestion of which was drowned out in a chorus of “Sit down, sir!”

Sitting in the gallery was amusing as you could look down on the benches, point and whisper. “There’s that guy who had an affair!” and “There’s that guy who was caught up in that cash for questions scandal!” or “There’s that bitter twisted old badger from Northern Ireland!”

After Question Time was over, roughly 80% of the ministers hightailed it out the side doors, sneaking away like naughty school boys. We did the same due to the frightfully boring nature of the upcoming debate on the gross over expenditure of the Who Cares budget, so we retired to the main lobby, where we sat for a fashionably long time until our MP arrived to take us to tea.

Our MP is a personable fellow one on one, as all good politicians are. He generously (although the Rock Star pointed out that, as taxpayers, we paid for it ourselves) took us to tea in the lovely Pugin Tearoom, which faced out upon the Thames. We engaged in some friendly chit chat about business and the day to day workings of Parliament. The Rock Star sounded intelligent and I dropped a blob of apricot jelly on myself. I despair of me sometimes.

After tea, we sat in briefly on a session of the House of Lords. After being lead up to the gallery through a narrow passageway, The Rock Star and I sat and watched the proceedings and had fun trying to spot the number of people who were obviously asleep. Final count: 4. And at least one of them was a dead ringer for Yoda. (or possibly just dead. He didn’t actually move while we were there.) It should frighten everyone in Britain that these people have anything to do with making laws. The chamber didn’t boast as many famous faces, but we did spot the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Leaving quietly through a panel in the wall (I was terrified I was going to push on the wrong one, causing a terrible creaking sound and rudely awakening the members of the chamber from their afternoon naps) after 20 minutes, we headed homewards satisfied that the country was still running. And snoring.

Tomorrow morning, the Rock Star and I will be sitting in on Prime Minister’s Question Time in the House of Commons. For the benefit of anyone from MI5 reading this website, we will not be taking any condoms filled with flour, eggs or other projectiles but will sit quietly like good citizens and listen to our democratically elected officials engage in government.

Thank you.

Q: When is a pub not a pub?

A: When it is, in fact, a whore house!

The Mis-spelled Band spent Friday night entertaining 150 social workers at a corporate do. Having arrived late, and in desperate need of sustenance, we trotted over to a pub roughly 100 yards up the road from the venue.

It was a bit of a strange place to begin with. The clientele was almost entirely male. The only hints of oestrogen in the room were being produced by the 14 year old barmaid, who was rocking a Jodie Foster in “Taxi Driver” vibe in a big way. Her attire- a bra with a barely-there wrap and a micro mini skirt with a packet of Marlborough Lights tucked into the waist band.

She looked surprised that we wanted to order food. Indeed, as we were walking away from the bar, we heard her shout, “Chantel! We need some FOOD!” with some degree on incredulity into the unseen darkness of the back room.

By the time our burgers came (delivered by another equally underage girl who we could only assume was the eponymous Chantel) we had exhausted our drinks, so the Rock Star returned to the bar for refills.

When he returned, he sat down at the table and announced that he would lay money on the fact that this pub was a rather flimsy front for a knocking shop.

During his visit to the bar, a woman, who was wearing what could kindly be described as a very high cut skirt (more accurately a piece of cloth that parted on both sides to reveal her pants) received a wadge of cash from behind the bar, took two large, strapping fellows into the back room and pulled the curtain.

To add to this pub’s misdemeanours, several moments later, we were approached by a guy who tried to sell us weed. This is a fairly regular occurrence, to be fair, as three of the band members (including the Rock Star) are long haired, rumpled types who look like they might be amenable to herbal refreshment from time to time. Tempting as it was, we politely declined in favour of not having criminal records due to the fact that it was obvious that this place was about to get raided any second.