STREET ART.....

In the week where the shy Banksy gains more plaudits for his headline-grabbing 'street art', along comes London urban artists Slinkachu and Cordal who specialise in 'miniature street sculpture'. They install tiny 'dioramas' using the world around them, take their photographs and then leave them in-situ to either be discarded or kicked away. All their sculptures are no more than 5cm in height. Slinkachu's work is now being exhibited at the Andipa Gallery in London. I think they're great and here's a glimpse of some of his (and Cordal's) miniature art to see if you agree... 

PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC FOO-FOO'S.........

Another wild and frivolous night out to report from the Foo-Foo work's night out. Sorry to say also, there's another thick head to report once again this morning. Our trusty team hit Lytham last night and met up in a swanky little Italian bistro which had all those fabulous ingredients... great food, lively and noisy atmosphere, plenty of wine and good service. We then all headed off to the Station pub which surprise surprise, is a converted Victorian railway station but without the egg sandwiches and sausage rolls. There was a good live band on rocking away and then my boss decides for us to decamp to another pub where our favourite band 'The Deadbeats' are playing. Now this place was absolutely rocking to the rafters. Within 5 minutes we're all dancing and cheering away to Foo-Foo D and her sexually provocative take on the Kings Of Leon's 'Use Somebody'. And then a couple of us headed to the outside beer garden for some fresh air. When I say beer garden, it's a small outside yard for smokers with a cloth veranda keeping the now heavy rain from drenching everyone. We're chatting away when some bright spark decides to poke the bulging veranda cover with a chair. Yep, the one and only rip in the cloth and yours truly was stood directly underneath it to receive 179 gallons of icy cold, fresh rainwater directly on top of my head. 

Back inside and pouring water out from my boots and drying off a little, the place is rocking even more and we're up dancing again. One of the tracks played last night which really sticks in my mind is Wild Cherry's 'Play That Funky Music'. What a corker of a track and it sums up last night's shenanigans perfectly. Despite being submerged in water, not hitting my bed until some ungodly hour and feeling like death this morning, we all had a great evening and plans are afoot with the Foo-Foo Social Secretary (ie. me) to arrange the next outing. 

HIGH DEF? EXCEPT WHEN OUT OF WARRANTY....

Well, it's another day off and another day to get things fixed at Fishfingerbutty Towers. My car (the one that smells of wet dogs even though I don't own a dog) has been making a terrible screeching noise lately each time the brakes are applied. Thinking that I'd quite like to one day draw my pension and fulfill childhood dreams like seeing Bruce Forsyth retire before the age of 90, I thought that rather than risk careering off M61 and into the central reservation, maybe a better option would be to let my trusty mechanic have a look first. Sure enough, the brakes were a problem and brake pads were replaced. I've been reliably informed that had my brake discs gone, it could have burnt a greater hole in my pocket. He's a pretty decent chap and filled up the oil and  screenwash, replaced a faulty headlight bulb and inflated the tyres whilst he was at it for which I will be eternally grateful. Mike the mechanic tends to always greet me on collecting my car with a 'did you know your oil was low?' and a shake of the head. Erm.. no actually, I didn't and if I'm being totally honest, I don't give a flying fig about car oil either. I suppose I should because I have a sneaking suspicion that if my car engine blew up, I'd turn into a person I wouldn't like.    
Anyway, this morning I was also greeted by a text from my good buddy DP who escorted my out for breakfast which was very civil and unexpected. Back to my place for a coffee and he noticed my TV screen was.. as he termed it 'pixelating'. I termed it 'it's a green thing all down the right hand side that does my head in'. Being a IT techie, he very kindly rang his electronics mate who agreed to try and fix it today. Before I could rinse down my last drops of Kenco decaffeinated, my flat screen TV was unplugged and in the back of his car heading out towards this little electronics workshop. Apparently, this is a known fault with Samsung (just when they're just out of warranty) and he would try and fix it with a new ZX-7889 TAS-AR pixel panel complete with SDF 540 electronic fixing plate and Hi-Def spumonics. Ok, I made that up but it was something on those lines and I just stood there very humbly, smiling knowingly whilst not having a clue what on earth he was talking about. He will ring me later with either the repair cost or to tell me that my 3 year old Samsung flat screen HD ready tv is totally goosed. If the latter, expect high pitched screaming, ranting, yelling and a heavily exceeded overdraft limit. I will become that person I don't like....

BRIT AWARDS CLASS....

I've just bought the Brit Awards 2011 CD in the grim hope that there may be something new and innovative on there from this year's crop of talent. I'd caught glimpses of the Brits when it was aired last week and I'm afraid I switched over in exasperation when Justin Bieber won the International Breakthrough Act. 'International Shortarse over-hyped schoolboy with a crap hairdo' award I could understand, but International Breakthrough Act????

Anyway, back to the CD and skipping through tracks by Tinie Tempah - apologies to his many legions of fans out there, but he's not my cup of tea. And then I came across Rumer and the sublime track 'Slow'. Listen and you're transported back to the heyday of Karen Carpenter or at a stretch, KD Lang or Dusty Springfield. This song is so breathtakingly superb it's worth a big mention. I shall be looking out for more from Rumer as this girl is really, really good. And she's a Brit! 

Here's the full list of winners from this year's Brit Awards... 

British Male Solo Artist Plan B

British Female Solo Artist Laura Marling

British Breakthrough Act Tinie Tempah

British Group Take That

British Single Tinie Tempah - Pass Out

MasterCard British Album of the Year Mumford & Sons - Sigh No More

International Male Solo Artist Cee Lo Green

International Female Solo Artist Rihanna

International Breakthrough Act Justin Bieber

International Group Arcade Fire

International Album Arcade Fire - The Suburbs

Critics' Choice Jessie J 

STEAMY WINDOWS....

It's the first day in my week off work and already there's been scandal to report. The BF (that's Best Friend to all the enquiring texts I've been getting!) and I headed out for lunch to our favourite cheese and ham toastie / ice cream combo location and had a good foodfest whilst reading the newspapers. I ignored her comments likening my new reading glasses to those last seen on Nana Mouskouri. My witty riposte was that her greying parting was last seen on a rabies-ridden badger. As we've known each other for over twenty years, it's quite normal for us to swap insults over our increasing age and 'everything going South' status. We then hit the well-worn path to Subway's at Cleveleys for a cappuccino take-out and drive down to the beach. The waterfront was a hive of activity today with numerous cars parked up and full of retired people having a mid-afternoon snooze pointing out towards the sea watching fishermen out capitalising on the bounty of fish swimming towards the shore during the Spring tides We were chattering away and then it happened. The BF looked towards her left at the car next to us (about 20 feet away) and nudged me with a worried look on her face saying something on lines of 'eeuuugghh, look at those two snogging in that steamy car... hang on a minute, are they having sex? OH MY GOD, THEY'RE HAVING SEX'. As much as I didn't want to look I glanced across and was slightly horrified to see not a couple of lusty teenagers, but a couple in advanced years looking all the world like they were getting jiggy with it. This, I have to say was taking place in a public place  with the odd dogwalker traipsing past. It was taking place in a Hyundai sports car with very steamed up windows and in the middle of the afternoon. Thinking we had  inadvertently stumbled across a new dogging area in our locality, I sheepishly looked around me for famous actors from EastEnders or dogwalkers with video cameras but couldn't see anyone who was giving these two the slightest bit of attention. That's the beauty of Cleveleys I suppose. The general population is over 70 and is either sight or hearing impaired, or drives a mobility scooter. Totally oblivious to afternoon delight it seems. 
And then if that wasn't bad enough, the BF then reports 'They're moving positions.. wait... wait.. he's bobbed down. I think they're doing that...Oral highway thing..quick, have a look'. I can't tell you how stunned I was. Stunned indeed for what was allegedly happening 20 feet away from my enjoyment of a cappuccino and oatmeal cookie, but more stunned that the BF knew this phrase. I replied with something like 'The Oral WHAAAAT?' Much to my chagrin, I'm blushing and despite her repeatedly asking me to look to confirm this new and dangerous manoeuvre and ignoring my protestations totally, I just couldn't bring myself to be so openly comfortable with voyeurism. I then asked her how she knew about such things and she just shrugged her shoulders and nonchalantly claimed that's what it's called when it happens in a car. I blame myself for buying her the requested Sex And The City box set a couple of birthdays ago. She's never been the same since. 
And as for the loved up wrinklies... I started up the car pretty damn pronto and drove past steadfastly with rigid stare ahead whilst the BF leant across and beeped my horn for good measure. I noticed that she found my panicked reaction very, very funny. 


Mental note to self: 
1. Add 'Oral Highway' to vocabulary and use sparingly. Definitely not to be used in the company of parents, or during job interviews. 
2. Check internet whether Steve Heighway (ex winger at Liverpool FC in the 70's) married a Swedish blonde model called 'Oral'. 
3. Review personal opinion that sex does happen when you're over 60. 

FACEBOOK, SCHMACEBOOK....

New research from Edinburgh University has revealed that the more time people spend on Facebook, the more anxious they become. I would have to agree and I don't think an expensive piece of research was needed to verify the point. I joined Facebook a few years back at the behest of my university chums as a way of keeping in touch through our studies and arranging revision between us. It soon snowballed into a multitude of friends requests from people I hadn't seen for a millennium and then media headlines of hacking within Facebook accounts and selling your soul to unscrupulous nosey-parkers. 
In Facebook's defence, it was quite amusing at first. I'd chat to people I'd lost contact with, friends I was at school with who were living the vida loca in the USA or Australia, and ex-work colleagues. There would be some really amusing exchanges of funny stories and genuine wit which would draw some equally amusing comments. Two of my friends even got together through Facebook - a union which would never have happened in a month of Sunday's without the help a few months of cyber flirting via Facebook. 
Over time, the novelty wore off with the onset of requests to join Farmville, Cityville, Tossersville, GetALifeVille etc. With the gathering of more friends including my own nephews and nieces, you become accustomed to the endless exposure of your 'friends' providing tiny updates on the dullest minutiae of life. If reading my teenage nephew's and niece's updates weren't bad enough, 'OH MY GOD, ur soo gay u retard', to 'friends' feeling to urge to share with the world the most mundane of daily activities. Examples I've had include - 'just had toast for breakfast', 'work today' or 'just been to toilet'. You get to the point of screaming at your computer screen with 'BIG BLOODY DEAL'. Well thanks for that. My life has been enriched with that knowledge. And then there's the sharing of photos. I had a grumpy spat with an old friend who felt the need to upload photos from our youth. Some of the photos I felt, infringed my privacy and were not in keeping with my current responsibilities under the code of conduct I signed up to when becoming a nurse. But that's the trouble with Facebook, once they're on and you're tagged, it's very difficult for many, many people not to see them. Facebook is also seen as a useful forum for getting things off your chest and I've seen some very unwise comments and language being used which borders at times on the side of slander. I'm gobsmacked when I see people's ranting in cyberspace with the misguided notion that free speech under the premise of Facebook will not have repercussions. Like the saying goes, you can only get away with it for so long.. So for now, I am giving Facebook a body swerve and leaving it to the teenagers and to people who want to be on there or who like to expose every detail of their lives. I shall stick to blogging under a more subtle veil of anonymity. It's far more amusing and there's no mention of Farmsville.....

FIRST CAR MEMORIES....

It's said you never forget your first love or your first car. Mine was a little beauty of majestic qualities. Ah yes, this young 18 year old loved her white Ford Escort Mark 1 Mexico above anything or anyone else. It was beloved and polished to within an inch of it's life. The chrome bumper and casing surrounding the headlights and radiator grille had more T Cut and Brasso applied than I care to think about. I saved up for a car radio/cassette player (couldn't afford the 8 track) and some swazzy door speakers. It had a chrome gearstick and a highly sophisticated  small racing steering wheel covered in leather. The Mark1 seemed at the time to be the car of choice for all the greatest rally teams and in the days before compulsory seatbelt wearing and speed cameras, my white Escort would invariably be seen razzing round country lanes at breakneck speed and without a thought to personal safety or the safety of others. My Escort transported my mates and I round local pubs and was the usual venue for late night chips and gravy, late night chats, late night listening to Radio Luxembourg and the odd snog-fest. Unfortunately, it also started to lose oil at alarming regularity, get overheated and had to be jump started more often than is good for your lower lumbar region. And then the floor started to fall out. Only a little rust at first, followed by massive chunks that were so big, you could see every road marking and cat's eye between your trainers on the clutch and accelerator. It's last gasps of life happened once fateful weekend when we all traipsed over to Manchester to visit our mate who was training to be a nurse at Ancoats Hospital. On our return home it finally died on the East Lancs road and we had to hitchhike back. It was towed back the next day and it's fate was consigned to the local scrapyard. I was heartbroken. I've had loads of cars since, but none have provided the thrill and excitement of driving that white Escort Mark1 which also captured the carefree life before mortgages, responsible jobs and crows feet....