Twitter Off!

I must apologise again my feathered friends for my long absence.  I've neglected my duty as purveyor of trivial opinion in pursuit of a new occupation (I wish I could call noble).  As if raising (some might say dragging) 3 somewhat unruly but loveable sons doesn't eat enough time in the day, I have to squeeze in the running of my new heath and beauty anti-ageing business which, paradoxically, can be ageing in itself at times! More of that (http://www.revitalizeheathuk.com/) in a future blog.

Anyway, aware that promoting business these days is a whole new kettle of worms, extending to family and friends on social networking sites, I've recently commenced another time-guzzling avocation - that of increasing my list of Facebook friends.
Ok, so it flies in the face of Facebook's original blueprint for connecting people within similar social circles but we've come a long way since Zuckerberg's original idea was developed for Ivy League schools and universities and I could argue that my social circles (I refrain from the term Inner Circle, which I can't hear without sniggering) encompass people from all walks of life who just want to look and feel good.

Whatever.  The process of randomly adding mutual friends appearing on my own profile began after a well-connected lady with several thousand friends and an avid appreciation for a particular opera star, added me.  Glancing through some of her friends, it occurred to me that I could promote my business interests through Facebook but would need a much larger pool of friends in order to do so.  Self-serving? Moi?

I selected a few names I'd heard of and added them.  Gradually, a few more names I'd heard of began to appear in my mutual friends page.  So I added them too.  Nothing obvious initially about the types or backgrounds of individuals until I started accumulating friends with 30, 40 or more friends in common, when I began to see their real-life social networks a little more clearly.

The status updates of models, designers, fashionistas, journalists (left and right), novellists, artists and aristos make fascinating, if eclectic, reading.  I enjoy chipping in the banter on the walls of people I've never met, particularly authors, who crave affirmation of their literary talents anyway as well as just being naturally gifted with 'posting panache'.

I've heard some extraordinary stories too - being (I like to think) a natural listener, having had my share of life's 'challenges', I find it life-enhancing to invite people to open up and share their problems and feelings, knowing that the cliché 'a problem shared' is indeed, apt.  I can't ignore a sad post from someone that's obviously troubled, whether I know them or not.  If Facebook truly is about connecting 'friends' then no friend should overlook them either - a case in point being an extraordinarily beautiful ex-model who hasn't managed to recover from the loss of the father of her child five years ago.  It's been a privilege to share my own experiences, losing my first husband to AIDS several years ago, and, hopefully, impart some understanding and practical advice towards helping her move on.

Another hilariously witty writer is masking the most tragic circumstance to befall anyone, let alone a single mum with a teenage boy she's deeply worried about - she's had to give up the life she loves to care for her mother at home, who's afflicted with dementia, after losing her father last year.  Her mother subjects her and her daughter to a barrage of verbal abuse on a daily basis and she's facing the prospect of selling her home to have her mother cared for professionally as she, understandably, can't see herself coping for much longer.

A friend I've not seen since school recently split from her husband of 20 years and was clearly bereft, posting numerous musical tributes.  She was obviously comforted by the supportive posts she received from close and distant acquaintances.

Perhaps the most shocking occasion though, was when another school friend, now living in California, bravely posted publicly that she'd been sexually abused during childhood - the same childhood we'd all shared, horrifyingly unware of.

To all of these people, the sympathies of friends in Facebook land has in all likelihood, proven to be a valuable source of support and, for all it's critics, serves to bring people together in so many positive ways.  I hope I can count on them should I need a cyber hug any time!

Amusing acquaintances I've made so far include:-
a charming and entertaining Oxford-educated theologan with a passion for woman and cinema;
the wonderfully talented artist from the punk era, Toby Mott, exhibiting his latest collection of punk nostalgia at the Turner in Margate and touring worldwide with the Mott Collection;
Bruce Oldfield,, the nation's beloved couturier, who's Crown Derby I would dearly love to serve my French Fancies on;
Jo Guest, the former Page 3 girl, who's determinedly battling M.E;
And Roger Lawley, undoubtedly the most fabulously exotic creature I've never met, besides Pete Burns, who dips his toe in the inky Med on a daily basis after his date with Stanley Stairmaster and shares his loves and beliefs so generously.

I thank them all for my enjoyable, if unnecessary time spent lingering online - all perhaps, except the male stripper named Ben Length who added me:

BL: Hi hun.  Im into CFNM, thats clothed female naked male. Basically I get my kit off for groups of women and then do whatever they tell me to ! Get back if your up 4 some fun ! I won't dissapoint !!

Me: Good for you! Like the name! But not quite my thing! Sorry!

BL: I can do live shows, videos or cam. Typical scenaraios include bine ridden naked bareback, being shot naked with water guns, licking shoes n boots, kicked in the ass n balls, dildos in the ass, wanking for the ladies, shootin my load for em ! anythin there u fancy babe ?

Me: Well can't say its on my shopping list at this time but I'll bear you in mind.

BL: ive got videos if ya wanna check out the goods ? - which scenarios appeal hun ?

Me: err you added me so I don't recall seeking any scenarios?

BL: so which ones do ya fancy ?


not speakin ?

u there ?

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Just Call Me Tigger...

Woo-hoo-hoo-hoooooo....I've started bouncing off the walls my feathered friends - not through one too many cappucinos with the girls or some other dubious stimulant. Let me explain.

I was standing in a queue for the ladies in M&S the other day when I noticed I was among the company of women of a 'certain age'. The horror dawned on me that I'd reached the dreaded milestone of having to check out the location of the nearest lavatory on any expedition in the event that I'm caught short. Whether down to the combination of the after-effects of childbirth on the Wizard's Sleeve and being on this blessed earth for longer than I care to remember, the sad fact is my poor pelvic floor isn't what it used to be. Not that I'm at risk of embarrassing myself whenever I laugh, cough or sneeze, but let's just say I wouldn't bounce Tigger-style on a trampoline without the security of a discreet Tena Lady.

So maybe I can't turn the clock back gynaecologically (unless I procure some god-forsaken piece of equipment with 'ring' in the title which sounds frankly vile) but I CAN turn the clock back externally in respect of my skin (subject of a future blog) and internally with my Vitality.

What is Vitality I hear you chirp?

Vitality comprises 3 facets of energy whch determines how youthful we are. In essence these are expressed through physical energy, mental clarity and sexual libido. Vitality diminishes with age and is further decreased by the daily demands placed on us in the modern age. Although good genes, a healthy diet and regular exercise can reduce its rate of decline, nothing has been available to bring it back the levels of a twenty-something. UNTIL NOW.

So if you're still awake, dear reader, but slumped over your desk, fighting the urge to grab forty winks and reaching for the biscuit tin or double espresso to sustain you until 5 o'clock, read on (with matchsticks propping your peepers open if necessary).

A top US anti-aging company has recently launched a revolutionary dietary supplement which contains a patented ingredient which targets the Youth Gene Clusters in the mitochondria. These are the genes responsible for how we age. Yes, it's actually targeting the genes.

The symptoms of vitality loss are reversed. Users have more spring in their step, are more mentally focussed and, ahem, stirring in the virility department can be expected. Even the lucky fitties can benefit from a boost.

So now I'm bouncing off the walls Tigger-style, I'll be stocking up on Tena Lady after all!

Contact me if you want to know more (if you can catch me!)

This is what I'm talking about!

A discourse on tolerance...and lack of....

Run fat boy run...

Welcome back my fowl friend - I've missed you.  I realise its been a long time since I last posted and, for that reason, this page hardly does justice to the term 'blog' but you know how it is?  We get so caught up with the daily demands on us, we forget to check in with those that matter and the months slip by.
Anyway, your feathered friend is giving you a warm, friendly squeeze in thanks for your attention once more.

My topic of choice - oh, ok, you know me too well - rant - that has compelled me to put digits to keyboard (and hoping my next one will be backlit but that's another story Dell is compiling) is....oh ****, I've just seen Jamie Oliver in the latest Sainsbury's Xmas ad - he really is determined to undo all his good work with the Just Say No To Turkey Twizzlers Campaign isn't he and become the most hated man in Britain!....where was I? Obesity.  Especially in children. IMO fat kids are usually raised by fat parents.  No, its not genetic (maybe genetically predisposed), nor is it slow metabolism, being 'big-framed', too big for my size or bulemic and forgetting to be sick.  Its child abuse, and parents who are neglecting their kids through lack of dietary education and bad eating habits need to be (the fascist in me rears its ugly head occasionally) brought to heel and forced to learn the consequences of poor nutrition where their offspring are concerned.  I'm not talking about the odd cake and bag of crisps every day which most kids can be indulged along with their five-a-day.  Its the ready-meal salad-dodgers who don't look at anything unless its beige.  "But my '<'insert chavvy name of choice'>' won't eat vegetables".  You're the parent - reward or deny as you deem fit - they'll eat them with a bit of skilled blackmail.  If the ConDems want to make savings in the NHS, they need to address the obesity-driven Diabetes time-bomb.

By contrast, I was astonished to see an item on Breakfast this week which lambasted mothers who dieted 'in front of' their teenage children, causing them apparantly, to become anorexic.  I think most mothers go on various faddy diets at some point or other.  Obviously the most sensible attitude to foster in our children would be the healthiest, which is to exercise, eat five-a-day and exercise.  Did I say exercise?  When will people learn there is no quick-fix in maintaining a healthy weight, however much the fortune-deriving diet industry would have us believe?  Habits need changing permanently.

My kids kick up an almighty fuss sometimes when I say they can't have a snack until they've had their lunch or I tell them we're going for a walk. Then I say they'll thank me when they're older and hopefully have healthy hearts and active minds.  Its called being cruel to be kind. Mwah haha.

In the name of balance, however, will the producers of I'm A Celebrity please give Gillian McKeith a stick of chocolate-covered celery?  A sugar-deprived fruitcake as ever I've seen - feed her to Alison!

I'm not rascist But....

Just when I thought it was safe to open a tabloid before page 15 again without seeing the 'W' word, the Daily Hate Mail has rattled my cage again.  Firstly, they inevitably pictured the handful of Islamic fundamentalist jihadists burning poppies on Armistice Day.  The sensible papers chose not to give them the platform they achieved with the sensationalist ones by not reporting it.  But The Mail has been remarkably mute when it came to the publication this week of the ill-considered immigration cap, dreamed up by the ConDems to appease those calling for 'British Jobs For British Workers', workers, if you use the term loosely, who are too lazy or unskilled to plug the gaps immigrant workers vitally fill (if you ignore the despicable journalism in The Mail) in the NHS, university research departments and the oil and finance sectors.

There is growing opposition from business leaders and university principals who argue that the recovery will be threatened as well as research.  Maybe there are areas where immigrants stretch resources on a local level but surely a regional approach could be examined rather than a blanket cap pandering to the xenophobes?

And finally...

Apparantly, one of the greatest myths is that alcohol shouldn't be mixed with antibiotics.  Of over 100 types of antibiotic, only five have serious side effects if taken with alcohol.  The myth dates back to the VD clinics of World War II.  Doctors frightened their patients into not drinking to lessen the chances of alcohol-fuelled casual sex, which risked passing on the infection before the drug would work.

The advice became standard medical practice for all antibiotic prescriptions.  So next time you have a niggly cough and long for a glass or bottle of something, pour without fear - unless you're in the company of an unscrupulous sex worker.







It makes phone calls too!

And so I find myself, at long last, lovingly fondling the iPhone 4, enjoying much the same hormone reaction triggered by purchasing a new pair of crippling heels, some new running kit or a miniscule pot of some expensive goop that promises to knock so many years off my ageing visage that the Cock will need a CRB check in order to leave me alone with the Brood...the point is, how and why do an increasing number of us 'girly girls' get equally as excited about the latest technological gadgets featured in Loaded as we do about the usual stereotypical 'pink' consumer goods?

From buying my first home pc - a Wang (not Vera!) model, with a HUGE tower housing a hefty 1MB hard disk and a whopping 512kb memory, not to mention the monstrous monitor with a backend the size of Beth Ditto's - to the first mobiles (always Ericsson for me) that resembled a house brick with buttons that you had to shout into and only outdoors, in open space (see Virgin Atlantic's 25 year anniversary ad campaign), my excitement for 'boy's toys' may stem from childhood.  Bereft of siblings of a similar age - and having a best friend who would later become a lesbian who seemed permanently disappointed at my lack of skill on the football pitch/tennis court/rounders field/cricket pitch/dartboard etc. - nevertheless I persevered with my tom-boy aspirations and briefly took an interest in my older sister's flashy new TV games console, where, to enjoy a game of tennis, you continually hit a white dot with a cursor, which could only move up or down - yes, you can imagine the thrill to be had from that readers of the Spectrum generation and younger.  Even more fun was to be had with the football 'simulator' where you had multiple cursors on screen (representing players) with which to hit said white dot.  

Anyway, I soon moved onto brother-in-laws' motorcycles (Superbikes and Harleys).  I acquired one when I was 15, not a superbike or a Harley but an off-road (since it wasn't road-worthy) Suzuki GT-185 (somewhat like the one pictured but nowhere near as pristine) my dear old dad paid £25 to my brother-in-law for.  

Aside from making me the centre of attention (since anything over 50cc was pushing the boundaries in my age group), it had the added attraction of being particularly challenging to the budding mechanics as the electronic start was prone to failing.  Anyway, sadly, fun-filled days careering round the plastics factory abruptly came to an end when my dad spotted me riding pillion on Richard Vassier's fizzy on the road sans helmet (mine was emblazoned with the logo 'Rough Rider'!) and promptly had it towed away.  It was a bit of a pain anyway.  It fell on me more times than I care to remember - usually after attempting stunt jumps on a carefully crafted earth mound with the Honda Clunk riders.

So it perhaps comes as no surprise that some years later I 'got into' stuff such as golf, technology and flying light-aircraft (not to mention cigarettes and alcohol but I'll airbrush those out) and now enjoy many of the boyish outdoor pursuits my best friend excelled at and berated me for my lack of skill at, thanks to my all-male Brood.

I guess the gadget thrill equates on some sophisticated level to desire for evolutionary survival, an instinctive human trait once basic needs are met and sustained.  Or is it just the mind of a shopaholic?  Anything that takes us where 'no man has gone before' (to quote Captain James T. Kirk), whether it be physical in the case of transport evolution (although I use the term evolution loosely in the context of Top Gear), or technologically with the rapid development of electronic communications devices, perhaps drives us in some small way to worship at the alter of consumerism?

Which brings me, at last if you're still with me, to my newly-acquired, bling-encased, best bit of computer gadgetry since oh, I don't know, the hand-held Space Invaders game I had when I was 12, only available on mail-order from Harrods.

From the moment you switch on the iPhone 4 and sweep a fingertip across the screen, sending icons shooting to an imaginary page over to one side, you become hooked on its intuitive navigation.  Reading text is even easier than holding physical paper - double-tap to zoom in, a quick sweep of the finger to scroll down, its a joy to use, and that's BEFORE you get into the apps.

Ok, so I do have issues with Apple's stranglehold on the development market with its control over the code which means only Apple-approved apps (now that's an alliteration) come on the market, surely an act of corporate, vision-crushing greed which contradicts the very nature of the anarchic, uncensored, information snowball that makes the internet or World Wide Web what it is?

But, short of 'jailbreaking' the phone, enabling me to download unauthorised material I suppose its only to be expected that the company wants to maximise its profits for as long as it can before The Next Big Thing arrives.

So, now I've quickly dispensed with the clunking great piece of machinery that sits in the study/playroom, accessing my email, Facebook, news and photos while sitting in the lounge with the Cock, which pleases him no end, what else are my busy little digits discovering?

An icon called App Store, the WHOLE POINT of the phone itself (if you ignore the little-known fact it allows you to talk to others) is where you quickly end up returning to again and again, installing anything you fancy for free or between 50p and £3.00, but, of course, all from Apple's iTunes store.

And what a world it is.  When I'm actually able to use my phone - who's virtues are all too rapidly being appreciated by the Brood (Spot The Difference, Chess, Incy Wincy Spider and Ludo seem to have miraculously appeared by themselves) - I'm discovering incredibly clever apps in between the fart machines and platform games, useful tools such as Vicinity which, at the tap of the screen, displays all restaurants, cinemas and events happening today in your locality (obtained by connecting to the inbuilt sat-nav of course).  There's a cute little torch app which displays a light-switch which toggles the LED torch on and off and a mirror app which makes use of the second camera on the front of the phone.  My personal favourite, however has to be RedLaser, a bar-code scanner and price comparison app that enables capture of the barcode on many products and in an instant, lists the price of the item across numerous retailers. 

In searching for iPhone apps for women, I'm beginning to realise there's going to be an app for everything. Epicurious, a substantial database of food recipes and Cocktails, a similar catalog of drinks are a couple to be expected. iPeriod (!) allows you to record the obvious and even plan holidays and other events around your hormonal moments (or weeks).  iNursing (could also be called iBitty) tells you which engorged breast you should be offering baby next feed.  But at iDiaper I have to draw the line. Documenting the contents, texture and colour of my infant's nappy could never be top of my priorities even with a good dose of O.C.D.

And my discovery of a Flight Status app that allows me to check departure and arrival times for most flights around the world means the Cock will need to think again if he declares he's 'held up at the office' not the pub!  Maybe he won't be so pleased for much longer!

Give Peas A Chance

Staying with my dear old mum in Norwich this week, she sent me out for a loaf of "Warmongers".  For which she meant Warburtons.  A make of bread. Talking of which....

Oo election fever.  I can't get enough of it.  NOT.  Is it me or is the whole thing a complete turn-off?  I simply can't get excited about this lot whatsoever.  Apparantly, scientists claim to have pinpointed what gives a certain person elusive 'erotic capital' - a specific mix of six social and physical characteristics - that ensures they are particularly desirable and thereby successful in modern society.  David Beckham has it by the bucketload.  As does Brangelina and Madonna (not that its obtainable by acquiring a rainbow brood of orphans).  Brown, Clegg and Cameron most certainly don't.  Alistair Campbell on the other hand....stop.

The much-hyped first live T.V. debate 'starring' the three main party leaders was more of a popularity contest than anything to do with policy, manifesto or intention.  Unsurprisingly, when the final bell rang, despite being untested (him or his party) in the real world, Clegg seems to have swung the better charm offensive, leaving Plastic Cameron and Bumbling Brown battling for sloppy seconds in the gladiator arena.  In Brown's defence, who, undeniably is a world-respected economic expert, he is no media-courting darling, which was part of his charm after the Blairite spin-doctor years and yet this display of dialectic elitism really has very little to do with gaining the trust of the electorate and everything to do with insulting us with American-style dumbed-down, talent-show-fodder.....I'm obviously rather riled.  Mandy should have taken Gordon's place in the debate and turned it into a proper bitch-fest.

And don't get me started on the wives...since when was Sam Cam, daughter of Sir Reginald Adrian Berkeley Sheffield, 8th Baronet, a landowner and three times a descendant from King Charles II of England, a multi-millionnairess heiress,  listless and in distress?  She allegedly wore 'black nail varnish' on her toes in a nod to her 'goth' teenage years and is uber cool in sporting tramp stamps and Converse.  No doubt she felt disaffected and deprived during her tortured years at private school and university like so many students.

And then there's my local MP, the Rt Hon Richard Drax...er ahem, to give him his full name Richard Grosvenor Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax.  Owns Charborough Park near Blandford.  Family made their fortune running slave plantations in Barbados.  Good, honest, hardworking folk. So one of us then?  Like George Osborne - there's definitely something "Nanny, where are my spotty rompers?" screaming about him.

It only gets worse.  I turned on the T.V. this morning to see Gary Barlow yodeling through a Take-That song with a group of school children on the Tory campaign trail along with Dave, apparantly standing with the party for their committment to music on the school curriculum.  Dave then delivered a speech about how important it is for all the children in the country who watch X-Factor to feel capable of following their dreams like the contestants - in other words, promoting the celebridee-worshipping, get-rich-quick-and-to-hell-with-a-decent-education that's becoming the aspiration for too many of this country's youth today.  If Britain is as Broken as DC says it is, will music get us out of the mire?  It worked in Thatcher's day, it could work again....

I'll say it again.  Why doesn't Eddie Izzard stand? Not just for the fact he runs in full makeup like myself...
Eddie Izzard Party Political Broadcast

and because I love it, my fave Eddie sketch ...
Lego Darth Vader



P.S.  SACK THE POPE!

Child's Play

Being a fully paid-up member of the sisterhood of geekdom, I couldn't let the tabloid proportional font fill-in about the latest occupation of Barbie go without a mention.

So, after 150-odd jobs (flighty to say the least), she's now settled in a career as a computer engineer - Tech Support Barbie.

Being a little long in the tooth but still of the opinion that appearance matters - getting my highlights done, not going out without my face on (frightening children on the school run would probably get me struck off the WWC register) and not being partial to sensible shoes or real ale probably makes me a contemporary of the new Barbie (she's older than me though of course).

Aside from the unrealistic pink spectacles (surely she's vain enough to use contact lenses?), I hope she DOES inspire young girls to train for careers in I.T., since I had a fantastic time working as a system developer and have accumulated a number of very dear friends, admittedly mostly male, but highly witty, intellectual, and not of the anorak-wearing sandals-and-socks fraternity (at least in public).  Some have even been known to drink spirits and wear deodorant.

The only thing that concerns me is the BSOD (Blue Screen Of Death - sexist in my opinion and should be replaced by a PSOD but at least Barbie's is baby blue) on her laptop which is currently afflicting my desktop.  I wonder if its a corrupt config file or a faulty driver and what she's going to do about it. I hope she comes with the stock phrases "Try pressing the on/off button", "Its a cd-rom not a cup-holder" and "no, someone doesn't come round and empty the recycle bin".  Here are a few other examples of numpties Barbie may now have to deal with through her bluetooth headset.  She'll be wishing she was an astronaut again, or a rap artist, a political candidate (accessorized with shotgun and her cousin Ken) or even the McDonald's employee (bad complexion and attitude) :-


◦Tech Support: "Ok, I can help you install the software. Would you like me to do that?"
Customer: "Yes."
◦Tech Support: "All right, can you insert the disk in the disk drive please?"
◦Customer: "How?"
◦Tech Support: "Place the disk in the opening at the front of the computer."
◦Customer: "Will I have to have my computer delivered before we can do this?"
◦Tech Support: "Um yes, that might be an idea."


◦Tech Support: "Ok, in the bottom left hand side of the screen, can you see the 'OK' button displayed?"
◦Customer: "Wow. How can you see my screen from there?"
 
◦Customer: "I'm having a problem installing your software. I've got a fairly old computer, and when I type 'INSTALL', all it says is 'Bad command or file name'."
◦Tech Support: "Ok, check the directory of the A: drive -- go to A:\ and type 'dir'."

Customer reads off a list of file names, including 'INSTALL.EXE'.

◦Tech Support: "All right, the correct file is there. Type 'INSTALL' again."
◦Customer: "Ok." (pause) "Still says 'Bad command or file name'."
◦Tech Support: "Hmmm. The file's there in the correct place -- it can't help but do something. Are you sure you're typing I-N-S-T-A-L-L and hitting the Enter key?"
◦Customer: "Yes, let me try it again." (pause) "Nope, still 'Bad command or file name'."
◦Tech Support: (now really confused) "Are you sure you're typing I-N-S-T-A-L-L and hitting the key that says 'Enter'?"
◦Customer: "Well, yeah. Although my 'N' key is stuck, so I'm using the 'M' key...does that matter?" 

The New HRT - Hormone Running Therapy

I read today that Asics latest running shoe, the Kayano 16 (I've previously had the Kayano 12's and now have Asics Gel Cumulo Nimbus Stratus or something....anyway, its all rubbish unless you're into running) has intelligent gel cushioning which reacts to fluctuating hormone levels which apparantly affect gate and pronation in the stride and can therefore provide added protection against injuries.

I think the price tag of £125 compared with the £45 I paid for the non-hormone-adapting version is just too great to be worth considering.  However, if they promised to stop me snapping, breaking crockery and losing my keys I'm sure my husband would be rushing out to buy me a pair!

I love the online polls on the Guardian's website: - "Are you missing George Bush?" and "Who do you trust more, Alistair Campbell or Peter Andre?".  And "The Parable of John Terry" next to "Forgiveness for Haiti".  What is with the seemingly insatiable thirst the public has with sports jocks getting their rocks off?  Marriage is an institution obviously not as in trouble as Tory Central would have us believe when we can all get so righty-tighty high and mighty at every John, Tiger and Ashley who plays away from home.   If its not our sense of moral superiority causing us to wag our finger sternly (wag, geddit?) at their childlish exploits, then surely it can only be that they've done something that finally makes them a bit more interesting?