When in Rome IV…

Today we visited the Church of Saint Peter and the Vatican and in a churlish display of anti-religious fervour that would impress most moody 14-year-olds I sported my Sisters of Mercy T-shirt with the pentagram.

As we arrived at the church the Pope was giving an audience and this was quite bizarre because he’d namecheck a church or charity then a section of the crowd would cheer, then he’d go on and namecheck somebody else and another section of the crowd would cheer. It was a rock concert with no music or charisma.

The Vatican Museum, however, was quite impressive with loads of Egyptian and Roman artefacts but as soon as this section was over we went into piety overdrive. Gallery after gallery of scenes of Christ’s suffering and penance in various forms from painting to sculpture to tapestry… I felt quite assaulted by the relentless imagery and how it was designed to pummel me into a submission of faith.

It was about this point that I wanted to let rip with a tirade on the evils of a religion designed to keep the poor in their place and educate them to accept injustices in this lifetime for the promise of something better in the next, and how anyone who was dumb enough to believe should simply wake up – or better still leave the planet and give the rest of the gene pool a fighting chance of survival…

Then I realised I was being a tad zealous myself. I just have to accept that I have no religious fervour of any description after dabbling with it as a 13-year-old – but I do believe in acceptance and forgiveness and tolerance. I also try to live and let live and I genuinely strive to love all the people (even politicians, irresponsible journalists, religious zealots, evil media barons and Ross Kemp) all of the time.

But sometimes it’s really difficult…

PS. A fellow Goth did spot my T-shirt and commented to his girlfriend ‘That’s beautiful that is…’ God bless you my friend.

PPS. See the irony of the above comment? See... It’s sometimes hard to adjust…

When In Rome III...

Today we have explored the Forum (Ancient Roman ruins), the Palantine (Ancient Roman ruins on top of a hill) and the Colosseum (Ancient Roman ruins in the shape of an arena).

It was stupidly hot and although it was pretty awe-inspiring I felt thoroughly over-loaded on Roman ruins. The Missus and the Boy were also not impressed by my new comedy joke. This went something along the lines of me saying ‘It’ll be good when it’s finished…’ whenever we passed a partially ruined or partially recovered monument.

By 4pm this gag was wearing a little thin and both were threatening violence if I ever repeated the joke again. So I tried to defend myself:
‘I’m just demonstrating how to crack a joke then give it additional shelf-life…’

The Boy looks at me despairingly.
‘You’re actually demonstrating how to crack a joke then run it into the ground before stabbing and shooting it to death to ensure it has actually died.’

The Missus raised her eyebrows as if to agree with him. I may need to rethink my routine from here on in…

When in Rome II…

We are in Rome, which is perhaps not the best place in the world to voice my long-held opinion that Catholicism is one of the evils pervading the world.

I am explaining this theory to the Boy who has a look of utter bewilderment on his face as all his did was ask what I thought of a church we’d just passed. Fortunately I am close to the end of my sermon on Catholicism:

‘…the bottom line on any religion for me is that it should be a positive force for humanity and Catholicism spreads its belief system in already impoverished countries, converts the local populace then tells them they can’t use contraception to protect themselves against the already established threat of Aids. So in many South American and African countries where Catholics have gone to spread the word you have impoverished local communities where Aids is widespread and health workers can’t teach contraception because it’s against the religion. So not only is the disease spreading but the population is growing and large numbers of those newborn are born infected.’

The Boy ponders my sermon on the roof terrace of our hotel then chips in with:
‘I may convert to Judasim.’

The Missus is now intrigued – and a little worried. She is deeply cynical about any organised religion.
‘Why?’

The Boy replies.
‘They may sacrifice pork and their foreskin but they do get really good holidays…’

We concede he has a point. The Boy is perhaps a comedy genius…

When in Rome I…

‘When in Rome do as the Romans…’ is of course the accepted wisdom when visiting the Italian capital.

However when I single-handedly tried to form a quasi-facist imperial state based on military might invading other countries and assimilating their cultures people just looked at me in a funny way. So I turned tourist instead and joined the Missus and the Boy walking around the place discovering ancient monuments.

And it’s very pretty and it’s quite funny walking around a street corner to discover another 2000-year-old lump of temple. But there’s a lot of tat too.

Take the Pantheon, a stunning Roman temple that was then turned into a church. Architecturally and visually it’s a stunning piece of work… then you get outside and there’s a man dressed as a Fisher-Price version of Mark Antony and a fat woman dressed as Cleopatra who try to grab you and convince you to have your picture taken with them.

I spotted this odd couple and pointed them out to the Boy.
‘That’s the fattest Cleopatra I’ve ever seen…’
‘Yeah. And she’s not even bothered to try and look Egyptian either….’
‘He’s got a plastic sword too.’
‘And she’s got blonde hair. I’m sure Cleopatra didn’t have blonde hair…’

Myself and the Boy are also playing Nun Watch. It’s the same rules as Goth Watch but it’s seeing who can spot the most bizarre-looking Nun. The Boy is so far winning this because he spotted somebody who looked like Gillian McKeith.

More from Rome later…

Apple Mac News...

'Say that again. S-l-o-w-l-y... How fucking much??!!!'

Exams News...

The Boy’s GCSE results are in and he's done pretty damn well.

Four As, four Bs and a couple of Cs. This officially now makes him the cleverest person in the house if O Levels and GCSEs are the educational barometer. Needless to say, myself and the Missus are absolutely chuffed for him.

My bank account, however, is less happy as I promised him a new Apple Mac if he did well. I really should learn not to offer incentives if I've been in the pub drinking.

But it's well deserved. Just hope they're not too expensive...

News From Oz...

The Starr-Gows, our Australian chums, have been in touch and sent us pictures of their spanking new home in the suburbs of Sydney.

I downloaded these pictures to my desktop but I was also watching a DVD of EastEnders, which I'd paused as I was doing this, so as I went to click on the first picture a face shot of Keith Miller (pictured) popped up.

'Dave's let himself go...' I thought until I realised my mistake.

The Missus is right. I am an idiot...

Mitchell Madness...

Peggy Mitchell in EastEnders is an utter idiot.

Her squawking, busybody, bigoted, pseudo-cockney, midget ways have annoyed me on EE for many a year now. But above all that it’s the fact that the character is such a bloody idiot that really gets my goat.

The bigoted old witch gave Mark Fowler hell over his HIV status, she had no idea her sons were continually up to no good, she picks totally unreliable men to get jiggy with (the dodgy gangster George Palmer, Frank Butcher with his twinkling eyes and roving hands and Harry Slater with his history of raping his young niece) and she emotionally suffocates anyone in her family to such an extent that most of them can’t wait to get away from her.

But her latest bout of stupidity saw her hand control of her business and the keys to her house to two relatives she didn’t even recognise before she sodded off on holiday to see one or other of her absent children. So she’s patently an idiot. Well that or the EE scriptwriters could think of no better way to get the repellent Mitchell matriarch out of the way so it could properly introduce its newest arrivals in Roxy and Ronnie Mitchell.

Roxy and Ronnie are Mitchells through and through. They’d only been in the Vic for five minutes before they were sticking up for their ‘fam’ly’ and serving pints behind the bar while Peggy suffered another crisis, this time over Phil’s aborted wedding to Stella. Half a dozen episodes later and Peggy had left the country and they were running the Mitchell empire and starting a new feud with Ian Beale.

The sisters themselves look like they could be good fun. Roxy is the flighty, slightly bubble-brained romantic with a good heart, a wicked smile and a nice line in low-cut tops. She’s played by Rita Simons and early signs indicate the character could have some potential and that the girl herself can also act. She’s also easier on the eye than Charlie Slater which always helps.

The older sister is Ronnie. She’s the slightly tougher and more sensible one. You can tell this because Rita wears clothes that wouldn’t look out of place on a 16-year-old girl eager to get served alcohol in a nightclub and Ronnie wears more sober clothes that make her look like a bank clerk on dress-down Friday. Ronnie is also played by Sam Janus, she of Game On fame with the scowling face like a slapped arse.

As a long-term fan of EE it will be interesting to see if the girls work out. The show obviously thinks it’s onto a winner judging by the amount of on-screen teasers and billboard posters proclaiming their arrival. And they’re certainly getting lots of screen time at the moment so it seems the powers-that-be at EE have big plans for them.

Let’s hope neither is the new love interest for Keith Miller, eh?

King Of The Goths: Part III

The Boy is agog at my new T-shirt and can’t stop laughing at my claim to be King of the Goths.
‘You’re not a Goth.’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Prove it.’
‘I like the music.’
‘You also like Country and Western. That’s hardly Goth is it?’
‘I like Gothic literature.’
‘But you like other literature too. Bukowski is hardly a Goth!’

I feel I losing the argument to a 16-year-old who is out-logicing me. I reach for my ace card…
‘I’m going to start wearing make-up!’
‘What make-up?’
‘Mascara…’
‘Mascara?’
'Goth Mascara!'

The Missus interjects.
‘He means eyeliner.’

I jump in hoping my mistake has not been spotted.
‘Yes. What she said…’

The Boy laughs.
‘You shouldn’t have told him and let him wear mascara. You’d have had lovely lashes…’
‘I’m King of the Goths. You can’t ridicule me!’

The Missus interjects again.
‘With mascara you’d actually look more Emo. You could be the King of the Emos…’
‘Or the King of the Emus more like. You gangly freak…’ adds the Boy.

I am speechless. The King of the Goths is getting humiliated in his own kingdom. I leave in a regal manner ignoring their taunts…

All Played Out?

I will not winning the Verity Bargate Award this year after a rejection letter landed on the doormat this morning.

Rejection is never a good thing and I was convinced I was in with a real chance of getting somewhere in this competition. But it's not happening. Of course it doesn't mean that's it for the play Meat as I still have faith in both the premise and the script, and in the grand scheme of things Soho is not the only theatre in the UK that accepts new work.

But it's annoying to be stopped in your tracks, especially when it's a piece of work you really believe in.

So what happened? By my reckoning it's either:
i) The play is rubbish and I am deluded.
ii) They thought the play was rubbish.
iii) It wasn't what they were looking for.
iv) It was too off-kilter.
v) It was not off-kilter enough.
vi) The play is good but there were just better plays submitted.
vii) The play is good and they have entirely missed this fact.
viii) It was read by a vindictive former lover who took great delight in wrecking my hopes to repay some old wrong I did her.

Sadly I know it wasn't the latter so it could well be any of the others. But at times like this it's important to have self-belief and I know it is a good, strong and substantial play.

So I'll spend the next month going over it again to tighten it up and prove they are wrong and ensure it will be a major success.

That'll learn 'em...

OWWLOW News…

The OWWLOW (Other Woman Who Loves Other Women) is in Edinburgh to see her actress-writer sister in a show.

It’s obviously quite an arty family because the OWWLOW works at a major London theatre and her actress-writer sister is something of a comedy star in the making. Like the OWWLOW she’s also quite foxy but that’s another story…

Before she went to Jockland, however, the OWWLOW was overcoming bad news. Due to the recent outbreak of Foot And Mouth, the theatrical actor goat called Bruce who was appearing in one of her shows was no longer allowed on stage as his appearance apparently posed a serious risk so he was forced to pack up his theatrical goat suitcase and head back home.

I feel quite sorry for Bruce because this was obviously a big role at a big theatre and I would imagine good parts for theatrical goats don’t come along too often. So to have it cut short by circumstances beyond his control was very sad.

So if in the coming weeks you read of a depressed goat who ended it all in a stupor of fags, drink and booze then remember it wasn’t his fault. Blame the Government!

PS. The OWWLOW has been doing some research on all things Goth and she informs me that one King of the Goths killed his wife by having her tied to a horse and dragged around at high speeds until she was dead. It would probably keep the Missus quite for a while…

King Of The Goths: Part II…

The Missus poisoned me at the weekend so the King of the Goths was laid up feeling non-too well.

The offending foodstuff was a fish en croute and it resulted in something rather unpleasant happening to both our digestive systems. So I clung onto my Sisters T-shirt like some sort of security blanket as I tried to snooze off my pain – and I noticed the T-shirt smelt familiar.

It was a sort of vanilla aroma and the same smell also lingered around my one experience with a dead body. I mentioned this to the Missus and now the T-shirt has been washed the smell still clings to it. This intrigued me. Was my T-shirt possessed of some magical powers that made it retain a certain smell?

I discussed this with the Missus who suggested it would disappear in time.
‘But what if the T-shirt has some sort of magical smell? What if it really is the robe of the King of the Goths?’
‘Don’t be such an idiot…’
‘Maybe the King of the Goths has his own smell and this is it?’
‘Following the fish this weekend I’ve smelt the King of the Goths and it’s not a magical smell. I can assure you…’

King Of The Goths: Part I...

From Sixth Form onwards I always liked the Sisters of Mercy but, truth be told, I was a rubbish goth – too happy, too optimistic and nowhere near brooding enough.

I rediscovered all my old Sisters of Mercy tapes a few years ago and in a gush of nostalgia I immediately went out and bought all the albums on crisp, shiny, new CD. Consequently the Sisters have featured on my various iPod playlists for some time now and I succumbed last week and ordered a Sisters t-shirt too.

I had an original Sisters T-shirt in the 1980s but gave it away to an older girl I fancied at college. She used it to sleep in but she never gave me the same privilege as my T-shirt. I should have asked for it back but such a request seemed churlish and petty – especially as soon afterwards I learnt she was also shagging one of my favourite lecturers. Bitch...

Anyway, my replacement Sisters T-shirt arrived early on Saturday morning so I signed for the parcel, tried on the T-shirt and headed back upstairs to the snoozing Missus.
‘Look. I’m King of the Goths!’
‘You’re not wearing any trousers…’
‘The King of the Goths sets trends and doesn’t follow them!’

The Missus sighed and turned back over to go to sleep. Later that afternoon we go to grab a coffee and the Missus asks me what I want.
‘A strawberry and cream frappuchino with cream on top.’

The Missus looks at me, lowers her eyes to my Sisters T-shirt then looks at the women serving us.
‘A strawberry and cream frappuchino for the King of the Goths please…’

I am a fraud.

Other Woman News...

The Other Woman is in Edinburgh in her professional capacity as a comedy critic.

Much as she loves this annual working beano she is also fully aware that it comes at a price – and that price is spending a week recovering from seven days of late-night drinking, a bad diet and a distinct lack of sleep as she continues to 'network'.

But she never learns. She sent me a text message on day one of her stay and it read: 'Arrived 12 hours ago and still going. White wine and chips for dinner...'

Even funnier is the fact that she returns to London to move into her new flat with her fella, so instead of intimate romance in their new home he's going to have to put up with her being grumpy and tired and farting as she recovers from her week of work-meets-fun.

He's a lucky fella...

Prime Meat...

The Boy is growing up fast.

In fact he's been growing up fast for the past three or four years and he's now grown up so fast that he's finally decided on his adult 'look' and has enacted a Stalinist purge on anything in his wardrobe that does not fit in with this.

Consequently I am now the proud owner of a new pair of combats that he was going to recycle until the Missus spotted them and realised they'd fit me.

The plus side of us now wearing the same size clothes is that I can get hand-me-ups from him. I even offered to repay the compliment by telling him he could borrow any of my clothes but he just sneered and said 'As if...' and went back to his bedroom laughing.

The down side, though, is that we now wear the same size jeans so to stop our clobber getting confused the Missus has actually written my name inside my jeans. Like I am at school. The Boy is growing up yet I feel like I am four.

But sometimes I feel much older and this weekend was a case in point.

Myself, the Boy and the Missus were walking down Old Compton Street and the Missus pointed out the rainbow flag and started to explain what it meant but the Boy said 'I know. It's a gay flag. It's a gay street.'

The Missus asked him how he knew and he explained I told him when we out and about last year. Then he added that today he'd also spotted the amount of men who were checking him out and it had reminded him, before reassuringly telling me that: 'But you're OK. You have nothing to worry about. You're past your best. It's me that's the prime meat here...'

Matthew Bourne’s The Car Man…

He’s a clever bloke that Matthew Bourne because his fancy dance ways and beautiful choreography won over the Missus many years ago.

Consequently I have now become a regular patron of his shows and I think he’s pretty good, although I am hardly the most knowledgeable dance fan in the world.

But myself and my girl have now seen Matthew Bourne’s Edward Scissorhands and Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake, and we are going to see Matthew Bourne’s Nutcracker at Xmas.

Of course it’s purely a marketing device but using his name as a precursor to every single one of this shows seems a bit silly and in the quite bits of the show last night my mind started wandering… I imagined the Bourne household has stickers all over the place that read Matthew Bourne’s toilet, Matthew Bourne’s pencil and Matthew Bourne’s nasal hair trimmer.

But I digress… Matthew Bourne’s The Car Man nicks the music and the seedy setting of Bizet’s Carmen and steals the plot from The Postman Always Rings Twice then throws a bit of bisexuality into it. So we have a seedy rundown town where a stranger arrives, shags the local businessman’s wife then knobs the young boy loved by the woman’s sister. The stranger ends up killing the hubby but pins the blame on the young boy. The young boy is jailed, escapes jail and returns to town to wreak revenge. The end.

It’s pretty gritty stuff and very raunchy too and the dancing was beautiful and very sexy. I could well get into this dance lark. In fact I suggested myself and the Missus learn to dance on the way home and she just stared, a look of horror and pity in her eyes. I think that was a ‘No'.

Probably for the best...

Other Woman News…

The Other Woman is going to Edinburgh in her capacity as a professional comedy critic so we hooked up after training last night for a few pints and a bit of a chinwag.

I also needed some advice on my latest fixation so I sought her counsel.
‘I’ve got a bit of a problem…’
‘Are you talking to the cat again and expecting a reply?’
‘Well it’s not actually a problem. It’s more of a confession really…’
‘Go on…’
‘I really like Kate Nash.’
‘I see…’
‘I think her single, Foundations, is great and I’ve found the video for it on the web and I watch it repeatedly at work…’
‘Go on…’
‘I also think she’s cute.’

The Other Woman looks at me. There is pity in her eyes. I continue…
‘It all started out when I bought the Lily Allen CD last year…’

At the mention of Lily Allen the Other Woman makes a sound a little like a leopard before it pounces on a gazelle and tears it to shreds…

‘…and I thought it was great and she was cool and now I’m really into this summery pop feel-good music. And I think Lily Allen's great and Kate Nash is pretty fabulous too and I’ve been onto the latter’s Myspace page and had a nosey around. She’s from Harrow you know…’

The Other Woman sighs.
‘It’s OK to like to rubbish music. Me and my sister saw the Scissor Sisters last week…’
‘I recently downloaded tracks by Wham!’
‘Jesus. You’ve out-camped me!’
‘I shagged Elton John too.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. I made that bit up.’
‘But thinking she’s “cute” is just pain wrong.’
‘I know…’
‘You’re 38 and she’s 18. You see where I’m going with this?’
‘You think I’m Chris Langham?’
‘Well…’

We terminate the conversation. We buy more drinks...

Fashion Advice…

The Missus is in crisis. We’re late up and she has several work meetings then we’re going out tonight and she can’t figure out what to wear.

Even worse it is her birthday soon and I was toying with the idea of buying her a dress so I’ve spent some considerable time trawling the internet to find the dress I want for her. Consequently I now consider myself a fashion expert so I try to lend a hand by pointing out various things in her wardrobe…

‘How about that?’
‘Too casual…’
‘That?’
‘That’s a winter coat…’
‘Try the thing next to it on then.’
‘That’s a pair of jeans…’
‘How about that? The colours are really good.’
‘The material is really thick and today is supposed to be the hottest day of the year…’
‘How about…’
‘Just stop trying to help me. Please…’

I head downstairs. My mobile phone has been charging through the night. I check to see if it’s OK and notice the date. I head back upstairs. The Missus is now dressed and heading downstairs. I stop her.

‘What do you want now?’
I pinch her arm then gently hit it while reciting: ‘Pinch, punch, first of the month. No returns.’

I wait for the smile to crack across her face. Instead she just stares. Like she's just seen a rogue horse do a shit. Across our new bed. When it has the new duvet covers on it.
‘You really aren’t helping yourself, are you?’

I could be in trouble...