A change in temperature inevitably triggers a rambling updated word wank, aka blog, from the likes of me. Shitmas is coming and as I may have said previously I’d prefer it to visit every five years. Humbug? Oh alright then, three.
Conversely the freshness brought by this recent frost makes my heart sing. Everything sparkles and the sharpness of the icy air brings such clarity. I love the cold air. Never more so than when folk light their open fires or wood burners around this time of year. The summer deprives me of the scent and, although I don’t have access to one myself, I can’t get enough of inhaling the delightful whiff of slightly damp burning pine. I’m one of those annoying people who suddenly halt on the pavement, just to niff up like the Bisto Kid, loitering by the homes of those with seasonally utilised chimneys during the circuitous route between my flat and the bus stop.
Not that I have been able to smell owt of late. To my absolute horror I was struck by some lurgy. The likes of which I typically shake off but not this time. I got turned over by a dose of the flu back in 2013 and have suffered no more than a mere 24 hour sniffle or sore throat before or since. Ergo, when physical illness strikes, I assume I’m nearing my end and wonder who might benefit most from my most valuable possessions. The smart telly and the man of the house. Meow! Drama queen? Not usually. But this is different and I make a very bad patient.
Speaking of drama I had the absolute privilege of seeing a Taste of Honey performed at the Lowry theatre. Shelagh Delaney was light years ahead of her 1950’s time attending to single parenthood, teenage pregnancy, and homosexuality. As for those expertly crafted lines it is little wonder Stretford poet turned bell end, Morrissey, plagiarised the script more than once. The film version popped up on TV shortly after my Lowry treat just to remind me of my girl crush on Jo played by Rita Tushingham.
This gorgeous drop of nostalgia via the Talking Pictures channel was sadly marred by the customary seasonal perfume and aftershave adverts which out freak themselves annually. Next time you have the misfortune to be exposed to one consider how smelling a certain way might compel you to, I don’t know, bury a necklace while staring wistfully into the distance. Bet they have a right laugh directing perfume ads.
Another objectionable stocking filler is a very shit book named The Secret authored by a Rhonda Bullshitting Byrne. I’m clearly late to the party which is themed I am the centre of the universe. To summarise, Confirmation Bias is sold as the law of attraction and the philosophical concept of metaphysics, under the guise of science, renders a stupefying read to sully the mind.
I would rather watch Bad Santa. The mere mention of the name of that film is enough to make me almost piss myself laughing. Oh aren’t I cultured I bring you theatre, book and film reviews by way of simply carrying on with myself. The state of me. Seriously though if you need cheering up stick Bad Santa on he’s immature and disgusting and it’s brilliant. A respectable amount of time has passed since I last curled up to BillyBob Thornton’s un PC chuckle fest.
Which I’ve decided goes well with mulled wine.
Which is also long overdue. 