February 2009 Archives

Twitter's a funny little thing isn't it, whatever 'thing' it might be, haven't actually figured that bit out yet. "What are you doing?" in 140 characters or less that can be posted from your PC, mobile phone or Blackberry onto the internet for all the world to see.

Some people use it like texting ("On train to London, weather damp and grey" yawn), but its weird when 'famous' people like Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher do it... and believe me, it doesn't get any weirder than Mr and Mrs Kutcher:

FOLLOWER: Why the f**k am I even following Mrs Kutcher? Unfollows.
MRS KUTCHER (Demi Moore): Wow did I do something to offend you? (why does she even care, she doesn't know this person).
FOLLOWER (now has her attention and feels important): ahhh no you didn't offend me i just really have no idea why i'm following you i didn't mean any disrespect sorry.
FOLLOWER: now i feel bad i was just being aggy.
FOLLOWER: i unfollowed u becuz i didn't think u talk back or whatever but u do also i don't really know any of your movies so ifeltweird
FOLLOWER: *follows mrskutcher again* ahh twitter you tear me up inside. lol
MRS KUTCHER: love the twitter mind set of positivity it continually restores my faith in humanity!

Even freakier, Mr and Mrs Kutcher have encouraged their Kabbalah teacher onto Twitter ("I'd follow this guy to the end of the earth," says Ashton... does Kabbalah believe in a flat earth then?)

The Kabbalah couple are clearly in need of counselling of some sort judging from their quite frequent Twittering:

ASHTON: Spiritual study time. I'm going to go crush my ego for a couple hours cu L8r.
MRS KUTCHER: Me too baby
ASHTON: Apparently I have all my planets in Aries. Which means I need to work on listening more. What? (What indeed, clearly needs to work on which planet he's actually on first).
MRS KUTCHER: Always focus on the positive but never run from the negative it just might be the gift you have been needing to change your life! (Uh huh, run that by me again?)
ASHTON: I also need to work on my stubborn pattern behavior.
MRS KUTCHER: You and me both!

Lily Allen (10,000 'followers' and only 2 updates, what's all that about then?) and Perez Hilton have apparently been 'fighting' on Twitter (go figure) and Lily has now told reporters that she's 'blocked' Perez (sharp intake of breath). Is that the cyber equivalent of being given the cold shoulder in public? Is Perez even now sobbing with shame in some dark room?

People feel that they need to keep 'followers' updated on their every movement, producing a constant 'real-time' stream of garbage and even apologising when they haven't Twittered for a while (but hey, they've been busy, or sleeping). They say goodnight and good morning to all their followers as if we're waiting to see if they're up yet. Wow, Wossy doesn't get up until 10am, shock horror.

As Jeremy Kyle would say, maybe I'm missing the point. What is the point? Maybe the point is I've just 'searched' for Jeremy and he's not on Twitter... yet, but give it time. There is, however, a NOT The Real Jeremy Kyle (and quite a few NOT The Real Celebrity types, which I'm struggling hard to understand the reason for), and also a Jeremy Kyle Show Twitter. Is there no end to this madness?

Stephen Fry does it, of course, and he's quite a prolific Twitterer, so maybe we think because the Great Mr Fry does it, we should too, because he's clever and we're... well not. Boris Johnson is there in his capacity as Mayor of London ("Have also done a deal with the Government for a new railway for South London - very exciting"), as is Jonathon Ross ("I am going to take a nap. Twitter exhaustion"), Philip Schofield ("Welcome my brother to Twitter, but stay loyal to me!") and Alan Carr ("Just watched 'The Wrestler',loved it, i wouldnt be surprised if Donatella Versace goes on to win the Oscar. She was amazing.")

Even Tom Cruise is doing it ("Rejected 7 scripts today. Accepted 1. With caveats. Will be (extra) busy this time next year."), though not very often as I suspect, like me, he's not quite sure what this Twittering phenomenon is all about but doesn't want to run the risk of missing out on anything.

There are non-famous people on Twitter too, but really, who wants to look at those, aren't our own lives mundane enough without having to read about other people's?

So as far as I'm concerned, Twitter is a pointless phenomenon, a mere 'craze' that will pass, like Tamagotchis and Cabbage Patch dolls. And yet, strangely, I keep looking at it with squinty Lee-Van-Cleef eyes (one possibly twitching), thinking, Is it me, or is this all rather insane.

Stranger still, I do it myself, in a kind of not-quite-sure-why way. I tell myself I'm just researching, or feverishly keeping my finger on the pulse of modern technology, but really I suspect I just want to find out what Mrs Kutcher is up to today.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (Twittering allowing)
Brummie Broad: Hiding out there rest of time.

Card from my beloved?

No.

Romantic gift from the chosen one?

No.

Husband remained in the house and in my life only because we'd agreed beforehand not to bother with commercial celebration this year. I mean, there's only so many fluffy teddies holding red hearts you can accommodate before they start to lose their appeal. [I like what Michael McIntyre said about the Valentine card for his wife, in which he wrote, "I still love you, please see last year's card for details."]

I asked only for five kisses during the course of the day - I'm a real low-maintenance kinda gal. Oh, and dinner in my favourite restaurant, which didn't send the Yorkshireman into spasms of panic because the restaurant in question is actually home (no taxis, no annoying people at the next table, no CPR to administer to the wallet-clutching husband when the bill arrives).

We went to Sainbury's to pick up the ingredients for a romantic candlelit meal.

"Plonk?" Hubs said.

"Moron," I replied, thinking we were in play-mode.

"No," he tutted, "Shall we get a bottle of plonk?"

If you were in Sainsbury's in Selly Oak on Saturday afternoon and you saw two people standing wide-eyed in front of the wine display looking for all the world like two wallabies caught in the headlights of a oncoming truck and muttering, "Which... What... Should we... Perhaps..." that was us. What we know about wine you could carve onto a grain of sand and mount on the point of a needle.

So we went mad and chose something completely different, something that had rum in it, and pineapple juice, and some coconut milk, and other stuff of the alcoholic variety. 14% proof it was.

Two shot glasses before dinner and I was rapping I Will Always Love You in front of the bathroom mirror using a bottle of Pantene Classic Care shampoo as a microphone.

Bladdered? Oh yeah.

The condition of being somewhat intoxicated was further exacerbated by the opening of a bottle of champagne we found in a cupboard (yeah, just found it in a cupboard, bizarre). This was quite recklessly followed by several fingers of whisky in a really large glass, some of which actually managed to reach my mouth.

After a meal lovingly prepared by one's husband, we watch Mamma Mia and, inebriated beyond measure, I was Anni-Frid Lyngstad - much to Hubs' and the dog's amazement (and barely concealed horror). No idea what the neighbours thought of the high-pitched wailing coming from my house that night, but all hopes of ever appearing on the X-Factor have sadly been laid to rest.

It's quite strange to stagger through your own kitchen on the way to the toilet, crashing into the fridge, the sink and the washing machine and laughing hysterically at the amassed collection of injuries. The last time I was so sloshed was at some dire corporate event a decade ago, but its not good behaviour once you're passed 30 (oh stop laughing at the back there, 30 is a perfectly acceptable number to use). Fun though.

It's also quite strange to think, "Oooh, look at me, I'm really drunk, chuckle chuckle hic burp" without having any consideration whatsoever for the hangover that will inevitably follow.

And follow it did.

Boy, did it ever.

I still haven't recovered.

Brummie Broad - Here every Tuesday (alcohol consumption allowing)
Brummie Blogs - Recovering there rest of time

February's a funny month isn't it. Not funny 'ha ha', clasp wobbly tummy and throw head back in guffawing motion. Funny like suddenly finding cheese bubbling in the fridge with a sell-by date of 02 Jan 1993, funny of the eye-bulging variety.

We have spring; which is basically a period of waiting for summer to arrive as we listen to the gale force winds lashing the rain/snow/hail/wildlife against our windows.

We have summer; bit of sun, bit of stoic shivering next to barbecues, bit of strappy-top wearing over thermal underwear.

We have autumn, pretty colours on trees, pretty horrific contortions/fractures on pavements strewn with rotting leaves, bit of a chilly breeze punctuating the perpetual downpours.

Then winter arrives. Only we don't really notice it because we're distracted by Halloween and then Bonfire Night. As we recover from being kept awake by exploding fireworks every night for three months, we're oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature because we're too busy worrying about Christmas.

Christmas is all about forcing the masses to forget about the Godawful weather. Argh, Christmas is coming, must buy, buy more! Yeah its cold, yeah its grey and miserable, but look at all the shiny, sparkly things in shop windows.

Then the festive celebrations are upon you, lots of drinkypoos, lots of forbidden grub, lots of visiting and entertaining, lots of swigging from bottles of sherry (though not in full view of the police car following you down the A38, obviously).

Suddenly Crimbo's over and you've forced all the shiny stuff in the loft to rot for 12 months, and you happen to glance out the window and think Would you look at that WEATHER out there!

And there's nothing to distract you. It hits you like a sledge hammer. WINTER!

Bugger!

You feel like a rechargeable battery that hasn't been recharged, a deflated balloon, a baggy carcass of lethargy. But mostly you just feel cold (only you're too afraid to put the heating on because power companies are robbing you blind, the gits).

And you find yourself waiting for Spring again, that period when you wait for Summer, which never seems to arrive. In fact, I'm still waiting for Spring 2008 to make an appearance - it clearly couldn't muster up the energy to turn up and is probably now languishing permanently on some Caribbean beach.

It's a bit depressing isn't it, winter. Too cold to do anything. Too wet, too grey. A day now consists of about six and a half hours of limp, opaque sunlight, and nights last for about a day and a half. The hibernation gene kicks in, and the only thing you have to look forward to is a good snowstorm to trap you in the house so you don't have to go to work (although this wouldn't benefit me, being a homeworker and all).

I'm sure good weather will arrive eventually. Pretty sure it will. But probably best to keep an eye out for it, just in case, God forbid, we should miss it.

Stay warm, people!

Brummie Broad; Here every Tuesday, unless hypothermia sets in.
Brummie Blogs: 'Chilling' out there rest of time.

A bit of snow and we're all panicking... or not, depending on where you work I suppose. Doesn't bother me because I don't leave the house, so I can just watch the pretty whiteness descending as I toast crumpets in front of the gas fire (because its so damned cold in the ice cavern that is my kitchen).

Proper workers had a nightmare getting to their offices this morning. I know this because I received a 'flurry' of expletive-laden emails from mates - one simply read 'FARKIN SNOW!" in size 56 font.

Some people didn't even attempt to go in. Had I been one of the 'normal' people, I wouldn't have bothered either... there's nothing fun about tramping to or from the city centre in a snowstorm - trust me, I know about these things.

Here's what I writted when I last worked in the city and the snow came:

"The annoyingly chirpy weather woman on GMTV this morning said the snow would turn to rain later, so I set out to work armed with the knowledge that the white stuff currently falling from the sky would cease and all would be well with the world once more.

Got to work, still snowing.

Went out for a faaag at 10.30, still snowing.

Midday, and its still snowing.

At 3pm large flakes are careering passed the office window with increasing regularity, and it's sticking. Memories of trudging through the snow to get home come back to haunt me with alarming vividness.

"I'm off," I tell my boss, snatching up my fur hat and coat.

"I don't blame you," she says.

And I make a run for it.

Jump on a bus. Traffic slow, but not terrible. I get out my book. We crawl up Broad Street. We slither around Five Ways Island. We hit standstill traffic by the White Swan pub and sit there for 30 minutes. Another 30 minutes to crawl up the hill to Harborne. The High Street is gridlocked with traffic struggling to stay in a straight line and not mount the pavements.

I read my book for another 20 minutes, optimistically chanting, 'We'll get home , we'll get home'.

And then the bus driver, in a rare moment of passenger communication, yells, "Everybody off. Traffic's at a standstill, can't go any further."

And the full horror of the situation hits me.

I was going to have to walk.

I pull up the collar on my Russian coat, wrap my scarf several times around my face so just my eyes show, pull my bag strap over my head, and off I go, stepping straight into the grey slush right up to my ankles.

And the slog begins. I live nowhere near Harborne. I have a trek of Captain Scott proportions ahead of me. I slither and slide passed all the gridlocked traffic like Bambi on ice. It's freezing, it's wet, it's deep, and still bloody snowing. That chirpy GMTV weathergirl needs to be taken into a room and given a damn good thrashing, the lying cow.

Onwards, along with all the other foresaken commuters fighting through the blizzards to get home. A young, skinny girl marches passed me in high stiletto boots, oblivious to the snow and strutting like she's on a catwalk - how the hell does she do that?

Onwards. A group of hooded youths swagger towards me. I stay on my straight(ish) path and so do they, clearly thinking the snow-covered hag will move out of the way for them. The hell! I've just spent nearly an hour trudging through knee high snow and black sludge, suffocated by the exhaust fumes of a thousand motionless cars, and I'm more than a little pissed off. I stomp onwards, willing to fight for the path ahead if necessary. The youths launch themselves into the snowdrift at the side of the road, and on I trudge.

And on.

And on.

I slip, I slide, but by some miracle I don't fall over. One foot in front of the other, nowhere near home, my feet and my clothes sopping wet. It all seems very surreal, but there's a soothing rhythm to the crunching of feet in snow. A woman ahead of me falls over and no less than 10 fellow trekkers rush to her aid - it's that kind of atmosphere.

I start to flag. I pull out my MP3 player and crank up Bodyrockers, the perfect snow trudging music. I like the way you mooo-oooove stomp stomp stomp.

And onwards. Forever onwards. Up a hill, down a hill, gridlocked traffic everywhere, cars skidding and sliding, buses roaring like ungainly dinosaurs. My husband calls my mobile phone to say he's stuck in the car in Quinton. The whole of Birmingham and beyond has come to a shuddering standstill.

And still it snows. And onward I plod. My bladder swells to the size of a Zeppelin balloon and I eye up potential bushes along the way, but can't bring myself to scurry behind them for relief, not with the eyes of a thousand stranded motorists all around. I just keep walking. And walking. One foot in front of the other.

I finally reach familiar surroundings, albeit colourless. It's now 5.30pm, over two hours since I raced out of my office building, over an hour since I jumped off the bus. A man walks along the path towards me, not veering to one side to let me pass. How rude! The man reaches out and takes my hand, and I'm more than a little surprised. No harm in mass camaraderie in the face of extreme hardship, but intimate groping is a definite no-no. Fortunately the gripping hand belongs to my husband, who managed to crawl home in the car and then came straight back out to search for me (star!).

Together we walk hand-in-hand, parting only to push the a neighbour's car out of the snow and for Hubs to race ahead and unlock the front door so I could shimmy wetly to the toilet.

Oh the relief! Home at last.

My Russian coat, when I peel it off, is so sodden it weighs more that I do. My black fur hat is white and stiff with snow, and my sensible Clarks shoes are swollen like sponges.

It took me more than three hours to get home tonight, risking frostbite and injury. But I did it.

I won't be doing it again."

And in fact I never did.

So I'm thinking of you all out there in the cold, harsh world, as I sit here in front of the fire working on my laptop.

All hate mail to...

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (come rain or shine or snowstorm)
Brummie Blogs: Hiding out there rest of time.