WTF???!!!

ARTIFICIAL GRASS, WHAT A FABULOUS IDEA!

I am rapidly coming round to liking the idea of artificial grass.  I used to wonder why it existed,  it just seemed like another 20th century invention: "We can make it, so we shall!" (like alcohol-free lager, or touch lamps, or Beadle's About).  "Only lazy, stupid people like fake grass," I surmised, and felt smug in my conclusion.

Well, I've changed my mind.

My mother is the proud owner of a very green and lush lawn.  It's not very old, it was a replacement for my father's flower and vegetable garden, the theory being it wouldn't take much work to look after a lawn.  Would it?

Most lawns are dry, brown, compacted earth affairs that you can run a mower over once a fortnight and leave to look after itself.  My mother's lawn has an agenda: it wants to be the tallest, greenest, lushest, wettest bit of grass in existence and nothing any human being tries to do about it will deter it from it's mission.  Since the earth is spongy and wet, no lawnmower known to mankind will have any effect on it whatsoever.  So we must tame it with the use of a strimmer.

Oh, the strimmer.  how I hate it so.  Strimmers should come with a label attached, explaining that only men should use them and that any lady who does so should be aware of the consequences:  your lack of upper body strength means that you will be knackered from swinging it about, and your tiny lady hands will go into spasm from holding it and trying to keep it going at the same time.  (My hands are s-still sh-shaking as I write).  The end result looks like the head of one of those kids you see whose mum has saved a bit of money by cutting their child's hair themselves.

I am quite close to borrowing a sheep to do the job for me - although I don't think it would be able to operate the strimmer properly because of it's hooves (drum roll and cymbal crash...).  Or a flamethrower.  That would sort it out.  The prospect of artificial grass is looking sweeter and sweeter.  Although, I suppose you don't get the same type of eco-system with plastic that you get with chlorophyll...

Rare sighting of the Virgin Mary captured on camera.

FILMS IN UNDER TEN SECONDS #1

THE BOURNE IDENTITY

(A man - our ASSASSIN - dressed entirely in black is on a rooftop aiming a gun at someone.  Another MAN in a trenchcoat and trilby taps him on the shoulder)

MAN:  Mr.Bourne?

ASSASSIN: ...I might be...

FIN

ANTHOLOGIES

When are music fans going to realise that the fabled "Anthology" release of a particular band or performer is never going to live up to expectations?  I realised this after borrowing someone else's anthology collection of John Lennon's solo work.  I am a huge fan of Lennon, but I discovered that I don't want to hear every hallowed squeak, fart and swearword inbetween the laying down of some of his most famous tracks.  That's why the tracks are famous: they are polished, edited and finished to perfection.  If "Imagine" began with the words: "F*ck off, Yoko, and put that soddin' bag away," it wouldn't have touched people's souls over the years in quite the same way it has.

However, the worst parts of an anthology have to be the hallowed squeaks, farts and swearwords in between some of the less successful recordings.  Because not only are the songs a bit rubbish, but so is the conversation.

The excuse for these "Anthologies" is that it lets you follow the creative process, you can  hear the way the artist reaches the finished product.  Cobblers.  It's just a way of raking in more money, especially from artists who are d-e-a-d and not able to produce any more work.  Squeeze their back catalogue 'til the grooves bleed, whack on some original artwork by the musician themselves (even if it's terrible, because apparently musicians are great at all arty farty stuff - just ask Paul McCartney), then box it up, overprice it and wait for the money to roll in. 

To own an anthology of someone's work is simply a reflection of one's own vanity. It just proves to other people how much of a massive fan of [insert band/performer's name here] music you are.  It does not necessarily mean that the work on it is better than the original.  Because that means they would have released the work collected on the anthology, and not the finished article on the original which earned them squillions of  Earth pounds.

SEVEN SIGNS THE APOCALYPSE IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

• Katie Price becomes a nun.

• Simon Cowell opens an orphanage for disadvantaged children and doesn't make them sing songs for his record label.

• Prince Phillip says something civil to a person of ethnic origin.

•  Someone English wins a sporting contest, just once.

•  The Daily Mail stops frightening its readers with tawdry horror stories.

•  Cats and dogs start living together in perfect harm-o-neee.

•  Heather Ayrton gets laid.

THE DAY FROM HELL...

It is 4 o'clock in the morning and I am wondering whom I hate more:  my dentist, or the NHS hospital I attended yesterday.  My dentist filled my tooth and left me with the face of one of the family members in Les Dawson's candle joke.  The NHS took me in for a routine ladyproblem and left my insides feeling as if  the surgeon had played them like a Nepalese damaru drum.

I was the lucky victim of a hospital cancellation which, in turn, left it too late to cancel the dentist appointment.  They need at least 24 hours' notice of the fact that your mouth will not be appearing at their surgery that afternoon, or the black-balling process begins and any tooth-related problems you have in the future will have to be solved with a piece of string and a door handle...

So began my day at the hands of the sadists.  

Add to this the appearance of the chirpy Scouse exterior decorator who had finally, after three years found space in his busy schedule of window cleaning to come to paint the house.  Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't top myself.  I couldn't even say: "Have you got fifty pee for the parking?" (at the hospital), so  I  didn't even  bother contemplating the idea of telling him to:  "Eff off..."

Hospital is a special kind of humiliation for people who cannot possibly avoid admission.   They have odd things going on in awkward places:  "No, really, I know I have a brain tumour but I'll just try and sleep it off."  Weeing in cardboard bowls, the draughty gown, the endless, endless waiting...  Some people are so sick that the hanging around doesn't bother them (so surely they must be in the right place).  However, even when off my nut on morphine I was acutely aware that another five minutes on the day ward and I would be trying to crawl home using only my lips...

I think I am angry with myself  -  for volunteering for a barbaric procedure which was comparable to using a sledgehammer to crack a nut.  Although the alternative would probably be a bit of homeopathy, lavender oil in the bath and acupuncture needles in the affected area three times a week while playing the finger cymbals by candlelight.  Maybe I'll stick with morphine, at least I know that works.