November 2008 Archives

Sounds like a chocolate bar, doesn't it, credit crunch. Sounds like something Cadbury's would come up with - maybe they could, 'Credit Crunch', the chocolate bar with nothing in it but fresh air and imagination... which is what we're having to use as finances make like a boa constrictor and get tighter and tighter.

I found myself counting sheets of toilet paper this morning, how bad is that? Girlie discussions no longer revolve around fashion and clothes and makeup (bit of a relief actually since I never contributed much to those kind of conversations). Now we talk about where to get the cheap stuff (and how many sheets of toilet paper we use... I simply don't believe that one will do, that's just laughing in the face of hygiene).

Hubs, declaring takeaways off the menu (and spending a good few minutes fanning me after this sudden declaration), has started making his own. Hmm, I thought, as he banged around the kitchen, recipe in hand, if it were that easy everyone would be doing it and the Birmingham Balti Triangle would disappear out of existence.

Oh me of little faith. Onion bhajis are the easiest thing to make (says she who didn't make them), and are far tastier than the expensive cannonballs we usually pay for.

I've also made contributions to the belt-tightening mission. I unplug everything at regular intervals, I think twice before turning on the gas fire, I determinedly sit in the dark instead of putting on a light. This is 2008 isn't it? For a moment there I felt all Dickensian, although I haven't yet resorted to huddling over a candle with the dog wrapped round my neck, but I can see it coming. I'm certainly sitting closer to my hot laptop than I used to, sometimes hugging it to my chest in order to restart my frozen heart and stop my teeth chattering.

I have considered not wearing clothes during the day to save on wear-and-tear and washing powder. Nakedness is doable if you work at home, but I suspect visitors might not like it much (the postman certainly doesn't). I've taken to wearing thermal underwear of the yukky-blue kind - nothing else, just the thermals, which are so sexy I can't begin to describe.

I've warned friends and family that Crimbo pressies will be miniscule this year, but I'm willing to supply magnifying glasses if that helps, festively decorated in tinsel. We've even given up our weekly pint of Stella, that's how bad things are (these are sad times indeed).

I've also resisted the urge to phone utility companies and scream abuse at them (as I sit shivering in the dark), mostly because I can't afford to make the phonecall. I've sourced a cardboard box on Colmore Row (where earnings can be quite lucrative I hear) but the wimpy 'doesn't piss unless its dry and warm' dog refuses to come with me - I might have to put him in my thermals.

In this time of financial crisis, I fear there is only one man who can save us. Not Darling (dye those eyebrows, man). Not Brown (learn to draw breath like it's not your last). It's Jack. Jack Bauer. 'You have 24 hours to save the world's floundering economy. On your marks, get set...'

Until then, I'll just keep adding vegetables to the pot on the stove until it congeals into a new life form (which can hopefully fend for itself, cos I certainly can't afford to keep it).

They say Cleopatra used to bathe in milk and honey to stay beautiful. One assumes she stank of decomposing cheese after a couple of days and was constantly followed by a swarm of bees.

Terri Hatcher apparently bathes in wine. Clearly a woman of alcoholic tendencies who doesn't need to pull the plug afterwards but lies there, hiccoughing and laughing at the décor, whilst sucking the bath empty through a straw. So booze is obviously the answer - stay pissed and incapable of focusing on the wrinkles and grey hair is the way to go.

Anna Friel uses frozen spoons to 'pop on her eyes after a night out to reduce puffiness'. It may well reduce post-club swelling, but surely icy metal is apt to stick to the skin? Poor woman will lose her eyelids if she's not careful, instantly achieving the Marti Feldman look.

Shania Twain favours a cream that farmer's use on cows to keep their udders supple. Uh huh. Who says superstars don't have a firm grip on reality, eh?

Then there's inner beauty, as dictated by the waspish, stringy, witch-woman known as Gillian McKeith. If ever there was a deterrent to eating healthily, she's it. Sure, devouring truckloads of beans can make you thinner, but your friends will desert you in droves when you disappear inside a smog of noxious gasses.

Real beauty comes from the inside, they say, which is comforting to those of us who don't look like Kate Moss. But I find being delusional works best - body dysmorphia is a wunnerful thang. Whenever I look in the mirror I see Catherine Zeta Jones staring back at me. No, really. And I can easily convince myself that the clashing rags I threw on this morning, in the dark, whilst still unconscious, are very 'hip and trendy' - psychedelic bag lady is sure to become fashionable at some point, I tell myself.

Decrepit eyesight is also a bonus. I whip off my spectacles, take three steps back from the mirror and, hey presto, I can be any glamorous film star I like (squinting might be required, although if I've taken my glasses off I'm usually squinting anyway, and squinting causes wrinkles, so closing curtains and turning off lights is probably a better option, but then I tend to trip over things in the dark and I don't fall well any more, what with the worry about hip replacements and everything).

It's what's on the inside that counts, they tell you, and you breathe a sigh of relief because the outside's taken a few batterings over the years, but thankfully clothes cover a multitude of sins.

Gok Wan believes in wearing a Big Belt. If it's big enough you can enclose most of your body within it and walk around like one of those tubular liquorice allsorts topped with a face.

Trinny and Suzanna seem to think clothes will transform your life, because they're clearly delusional. The act of shopping for said clothes will make you feel suicidal, and unless you particularly like the shrink-wrapped-sausage look you're not going to find much above a size 12. The most common dress size is 16 (as sashayed by Marilyn Monroe), but shops don't like to stock it, preferring to sell all their miniature clothes in sales. Odd

My personal beauty regime? I just make sure I take off all my makeup every night, because I hate seeing my own face on the pillow in the morning.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

In the current financial crisis, the producers of the Bond films have sensitively announced that they'll be making a less opulent movie next time. Gone is the flashy car, Bond will now drive an eco-friendly Smart car. Bond and his girls will no longer wear designer clothes but shop at Primark (jewellery courtesy of Argos). Million pound yachts are a definite no-no, so Bond will now have to chase after baddies in a pedal boat, his little legs going ten to the dozen.

Vodka martinis? Gone. Instead, Asda's own brand and a bottle of cheap coke.

Private planes? Gone. Bond will now travel economy class like the rest of us and leave the plane twisted and agonised from lack of seat space.

Techno gizmos? They will all come from the Gadget Shop.

Health and safety have also got involved. No more jumping down lift shafts for Mr Bond, oh no. Sets a bad example. In the new film you'll see him being fitted out with a safety harness before each stunt and the words Do Not Try This At Home will appear on screen. Any underwater action will be done by inflatable dolls. Explosions will be simulated by cardboard cutouts. Dangerous scenes will be carried out by stunt doubles (Ken and Barbie have auditioned).

Guns from Toys R Us. Advent are supplying on-screen computers, so expect to see Bond pressing buttons that do nothing, keys flying off and The Blue Screen of Death appearing at regular intervals [Advent, complaint letters to my solicitors please].

The only scene that won't change, say the producers, is Bond coming out of the sea wearing speedos. This will be filmed at Weston Super Mare. Any scenes involving posh hotels or penthouses will be set in semi-detached council houses on an estate in Bradford.

And finally, the producers have announced that they can no longer afford Daniel Craig (cue hysterical sobbing from women the world over). An extra from Eastenders is tipped for the part (although John Prescott has shown interest). Bond girls will include Jo Brand and Kate Price (obviously).

The title of the next film has not yet being decided, but those being considered include:

Dr.Gupta
From Britain With Love
Tinfinger
On The Government's Secret Service
Benefits Are Forever
The Man With The Plastic Gun
A View to Unemployment
Licence to Tax

Television programmes are also making cut-backs. Keifer Sutherland's 24 will now be called 12, and the producers of House MD are moving the set to a British NHS hospital and calling it Maisonette GP, Kevin Maisonette. Hugh Laurie will be replaced by Johnny Vegas, and he won't have a limp, he'll have an artificial leg because they won't have had the medicine to put him into a pain-reducing coma (too expensive) so they just hacked it off.

In the newly revised series, Maisonette will too tired to be funny because he works 145 hours a week, so he'll be a bit scruffy and rumpled and unwashed with huge bags under his bloodshot eyes. The hospital wards will be filthy, with just one woman idly shuffling around with a damp cloth.

His colleagues will be dishevelled and demoralised and knackered. They'll say things like, "Do you think its Lupus?" and Maisonette will say, "Yes, its Lupus, but we can't treat it because there isn't enough NHS funding and our local PCT are in deficit to the tune of £7.7million, so everyone's going to die and there's nothing we can do to save them."

There are currently no plans to make cut-backs on Prison Break, but Lost will in the future be filmed on the Isle of Man.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time

or Things That Make You Run Screaming Into Therapy

There are some things in life I don't get, will never get, ever. Like how to change a toilet roll (man's work since the holder is so complicated). How to empty the vacuum cleaner (also man's work because of its unfathomable structure). And how to order a takeaway (yep, man stuff again, hunter gatherer and all that sort of thing).

The list goes on. Take Facebook for instance (or Faecesbook as someone referred to it recently). I'm on it, but I'm not quite sure why. I feel I'm missing out on some pertinent piece of information that will make me go Oh yes, of course! I mean, exactly how excited should I be about having an apparent glut of Hatching Pets?

Social networking they call it. Back in my day (cue Hovis music... what do you mean, you don't have it, what kind of background music department are you? Any violin music at all? Just the William Tell Overture? Tsk). Anyway, in my day social networking was getting your mate to tell the boy you fancied him and did he want to go out with you. Social networking meant meeting up with your mates outside the corner shop to have a crafty fag whilst comparing badly applied makeup. Social networking actually meant meeting actual people. Call me old fashioned.

Slang is something else I don't get because its clearly not meant for my generation (the one just below decrepit), more like a code the youngsters use to stop us 'sussing' what they're on about (or maybe to deliberately confuse us so they can have us committed and make off with the inheritance - won't they be surprised to find there isn't one).

My youngest son said, "That's so fat," the other day. When pressed for an explanation, he said, "Fat means good." "I thought bad meant good?" I said, confused. He just tutted and rolled his eyes, clearly thinking Tsk, mothers!

Another son, when I mentioned I didn't understand a word I'd heard on a TV show, asked what it was. When I said, 'rimming', he got all apoplectic and said I shouldn't know about such things. I Googled it of course, but I'm still none the wiser.

And text speak, a completely different language altogether. I had a message from a friend the other day that read thus: "alryt slut! hows tings? my nu job goin wicked m8:) work is bit gash tho. Wot u duin?"

I didn't reply because, frankly, after struggling to decipher any meaning, I didn't have the strength.

I'm hoping they'll bring out a DVD or a 'large-print' book soon called How Not To Appear Stupid All The Time. But I fear it may already be too late, I've been pushed, kicking and screaming, into the generation that Knows Nothing... or is it just me? Oh great, just me again.

Meanwhile I'll just stumble on, clueless and ignorant, doing the best I can in this harsh, cruel world.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (unless life takes over and locks me in a cupboard)
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.