Wilder, lower, wolves

An odd sort of week I've had. Moments of laughing my hole off and moments of blind fucking fear at the very idea of getting out of bed in the morning. This does not happen me very often. Some instances of crystal clarity followed by a fuckload of haziness. The kind of startling indolence that leads me to stay in bed until 3 in the afternoon met with periods of genuine productivity, if one has such a thing in my line of work. Magnanimity married to an urge to mire myself in bitchiness and the pulling of no punches. Resignation to it all and utter defiance.
Hectoring, badgering, toadying, schmoozing.

The kind of week where I stay awake contemplating quitting blogging and then heartlessly composing posts in roughly equal measure.

I detest this kind of post

You know the way when you log into Google Reader there's a bit at the side that recommends blogs you might like to subscribe to? Well, tonight it's recommending that I subscribe to Chancing My Arm. I feel ridiculously tickled by this. I'm not sure if it's the momentary thrill of seeing my blog name up on screen when I didn't type it, or simply the notion that Google's magical software that selects these things decided that, based on my reading habits, I might like me.

Or will they just throw any old shite at you?

I'd call this post "penblwydd hapus" but she's not actually Welsh

It's a rare thing that a young man should find himself with occasion to spend any length of time in Wales. Rarer still that he should have two reasons to be there. But such was my lot last week.

I set off with most of my immediate family for the ferry to Holyhead, early on New Year's day. This was preceded by rather tame New Year's celebrations, consisting of two bottles of Duff beer (curiosity and branding pulled me in but seriously, don't bother) and a few funny chaps on the telly. We were headed for my great aunt's birthday party in north Wales. Now, I am not such a dutiful grand-nephew that I would normally attend such events, but this lady was turning 100 and they tell me you only do that once a century. There is a Chinese curse that says may you live in interesting times. My Aunty Kay has certainly done that, but I doubt she saw it as a curse. You don't need me to provide a potted history of the last 100 years, but I'll do so anyway.

Deep breath.

Scat music, the birth of Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen, continued advances in the field of corduroy trousers, the liberation of St. Kitts' and Nevis from the tyranny of a pack of less than benevolent werewolves, the deflowering of Maggie Thatcher, 'text' becoming a verb, George Michael, global contrariness, monkey tennis, the rise of synonyms, Betamax, Hank Marvin, Alvin and the Chipmunks, belly-button fluff, Nebuchadnezzars of champagne, the startling progress of smut, germ warfare, Jade fucking Goody and all that she represents, a man who would have been lucky to have a house (let alone a White one) a hundred years ago about to have a go at ruling the planet.

A mixed bag, the shamelessly clichéd might say.

Still, I don't see any of that when I greet her later that afternoon. I see cards from the Queen and the Welsh First Minister, and a lady with a ticking mind that made her Scrabble Queen of Anywhere She Pleased until about the age of 98. Still clasping hands gently and radiating the kind of warmth that will give our polar ice caps further cause for concern. Saying, "Do come and visit again. Soon."

Fibreglass Links

Would you?

NaRocRoc's magical date.

Gimme with a good fucking point.

Jonathan Woss's twitter ejaculations

Sarah tells you what you should do

I'm not sure what Radge is on about, but I think I like it.

MJ's brand new wedding blog. It's OK, she's not Bridezilla.

It's gonna be a glorious day

Not for the first time, I skipped college this morning. Nine o'clock starts are not reasonable, are they? My dialogue with the alarm clock pretty much followed the standard pattern today: It starts its horrible bleating at a disgusting hour and I wake up with a grunt and politely murmur "Oh do fuck off," before hitting the snooze button. Five minutes later it wakes me up again and again and I say "Stop with that horrible bleating at such a disgusting hour." I snooze once more. The bastard soon wakes me again with renewed vigour. "Five minutes, just five more fucking minutes is all I ask from you." Then, usually at this point I'll have a bit of an old scratch and a fart and gradually make my way toward whatever whoors and horrors the day may have in store for me. Not this morning. The sheer bleeping enthusiasm of the thing leads me to roar "I don't need you, I don't need anybody!" before convincingly smashing it off the wall with the greatest display of energy I'll manage to summon up all day. I sleep soundly for another five hours and it is transcendentally beautiful.

But not now it isn't. I lie wide awake at stupid o'clock, knowing that once again I'll have to be up at an obnoxious hour, feeling far from sated sleep-wise. Herself, who is no bundle of fun in the morning either, told me earlier that having me around makes it easier for her to get up, because she can laugh at my groans and grumbles and realise that, no matter how much I hate the morning, the morning doesn't care.

She's right, you know. I've never been much of a believer in New year's resolutions but perhaps, just perhaps, it might be time for me to try and start getting in tune with the times that polite society likes to fall and rise at. Failing that, I may just try to become an active member of the Australian blogosphere, where the hours I currently keep should tie in with theirs quite nice nicely.

Words I Intend to Use More in 2009

cygnet
lissome
blithe
rearguard
tatty
nuanced
dredge
jugular
frisson
didactic
caucasian
avarice
phlegmatic
rippled
clean
beneficial
erratic
immodest
calibrate
gosling