21 November 2009

Literally eating Salvador's heart out

The day after doing tequila shots the Swiss way - with cinnamon and segments of orange in place of the eye-watering salt and lemon, for a more warming, Autumnal twist - I indulged in a Surrealist Feast.

A cracker full of anatomical accessories kicked off proceedings, sprinkling the table with 'taches, glasses, noses, toothy gumguards, giant sequins and jokes. A balloon crown was bestowed on the birthday girl, and bunches of bright helium were attached to each wrist. She was given no choice but to weigh herself down with cheesy nachos, fries, filled potato skins, and a whole rack of ribs. This was the counter-attack on balloon elevation. There was no excuse for the rest of us...

Straws slopped out of Marguerita tumblers, 'taches wandered creatively over rosy faces, forming monobrows and mutton chop sideburns, eyes were made large by absurdly round specs (all the better for reading literary lesbian porn, whilst chomping on chips), and spider-leg eyelashes crawled their way over the thick black rims. Diners transformed into Professor Trelawney, Geography teachers, and seventies Glam-Rockers.

'Happy Birthday' was sped up and confusingly altered, so we sang our own tunes whilst the cake was punctured with fireworks before being sprinkled with cocoa-coloured ash. I spooned around the carbon and chemicals... A lone balloon weaved its way through those feasting, held at eye level by a levitating nose. 'I was never very good at chemistry', he said.

A slurp or seven of Oreo milkshake later, and the revellers departed. 'I'm mad, me' was emblazoned across the flushed face of the one wearing a mane of silver strands atop her disco-destined head. A flash-forward to her middle-age, and madcap antics when alone with her cats.

To ease full stomachs, by lightening the load, balloons were launched outside, into the lights of Leicester Square and far, far away. We followed them to the second star on the right, and straight on to mourning the end of a Surrealist Feast.


17 November 2009

I missed the Megabus, so bought Dior...

I make like John Wayne, and add more AWE.

10 November 2009

Handful of Heroes

Right, so this is pretty much the best thing EVER.

Author finger puppets. On index we have Leo Tolstoy, the middle bears Will Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf is worn by ring, and Dickens tops pinky. They can act out their epics, perform their prose, make their poetry into a production and generally be puppet prima donnas. War and Peace in my palm, Dalloway on my digits, a Chuzzlewit mit, Hamlet atop my hand. Genius. I am so asking for the set for Christmas. Punch and Judy eat your hearts out - Virginia has a nose to rival that of Punch, and surely could wield a baton just as violently. Watch out little Leo.

These literary legends would surely be proud of making it to the exalted iconographic status of finger puppets.

I'm hoping to make it to the thumb one day.

1 November 2009


Woe. Is. Me.

One beer and one trauma can render me a rain-sodden, snot-faced wreck of a foetal positioned creature. Red biro scrawled eyes. Eyes wide with despair, staring imploringly into the drizzle. Pathetic.

The eyes ceased staring and began weeping, however, when it was discovered that not only mere objects and the outward trappings of modern society can be thieved, but also ART and TRUTH and SENTIMENT.

Sealed within a first class stamped envelope lay a piece of me, destined for more wild, northern, homely parts. This piece of me was in the physical form of a moustached sea-faring man with a fish for a hat. Above this fish was Charlie Chaplin with a fishing rod, and below the nautical-striped top of the fish-wearing man was a character in a dinner jacket about to dive into a river. A pale blue silver star was in the farthest corner, and turquoise swirls were painted along one side of the fishy figure. The words 'full fathom five thy father lies' were inkily etched amongst these sea-like swirls. This vision opened up to an illustrated message of ardent anniversarial happiness, signed with all my love and elaborate flourish. And x times two, marking the spots to which I owe a lot, both head and heart.

And now it may as well lie five fathoms deep... Unless this thief of my thoughts, this mugger of my masterpiece, this plunderer of my post, was inspired into epiphany and saw the light - the bright light of the red post box, where the envelope wished to dive. It would warm my cockles if Mr Michael Edmund Kirk did indeed receive his piece of me, due to the redemption of a thief. One can only wait. And hope. And pretend to put it down to the postal service and their strikes. Because I want to think of humanity as better than a thief of birthday love.