Plagiarising like Vivaldi

Plagiarism Schmagiarism, I say.
You know what I hate? When you get to the bottom of a cup of tea and the last swallow contains something solid. Like a big floaty chunk of fucking laughing cow or something.

Here I had a version of My Funny Valentine with colourful insults added to the end of every line, but it didn't work for me so I have done deletion. You would have too.

So, in case you don't know me, during the day in my real life I go by an Irish name. It's not difficult. It's not. It's just a tad unusual, is all. But do you think people would get the fuck over it?

Me: Hello?
Everyone: Yeh, I got an email from someone with an unpronounceable name?
M: That could be me. Does it start with a B?
E: Yeh
M: It's me.
E: What the fuck?
M: Yeh, it's me
E: Holy mother of-
M: Yep. That's my name.
E: Jesus wept. Is that Irish, it is?
M: Yeh.
E: Fuckin hell. And what does it mean?
M: Nothing
E: Nothing? (long pause to consider this)... That's gas isn't it? Jesus!

I swear I have the above conversation at least twice a day. Like at least. Unlike the following conversation:

Me: No holes in m'stockings today, no sirree
You: Fantastic. Here's something free you don't have to pay for.
Me: What is it?
You: I dunno. A fuckin sandwich or something. No, wait. A fucking unbreakable tights dispenser.
Me: ...
You:Do you want the unbreakable tights or not?
Me: Shut up
You: No, you shut up

Babette makes you feel

What Your City Can Do For You

So I'm back from my holidays. London and Berlin in 6 days and all I got was this lousy sty and some kind of 24hour meningitis.
I overheard some kids discussing their art projects in The Tate Modern. It went "This is SHIT! There's nothing to DRAW here!", so I can report back that the British education system is striving to be consistent with its global reputation. I do like London, but I think I mostly like it for seeing friends. Cos friends are nice. In fact, no, screw it, friends are great! Friends are fantastic! Hurray for friends!
But enough.What to say about Berlin?
Do you like space? And stunning architecture? And affordable prices? And art and markets and street music and free things and nice stuff? Do you like wondering at the end of the day what you might DO with your evening? Do you like communities, and living and people who don't care if you're not sleek and shiny and sexy and brand new, cos you're real? Because you're made of shit and menstruation anyway? Because fuck you?
Then you'll love Berlin.Berlin is the misshapen, silent man you met on a train who is the unlikely best sex you ever had. Berlin is whole fucking grain, baby. I loved Berlin. Loved it like I'm gonna have its babies, open a bank account with it and breathe deeply of its underpants when it gets up to make the coffee.
It did rain constantly while I was there, though but I didn't mind as the rain only drove me repeatedly to shelter (nuzzle?) under giant slices of cake and tart, pulling them round me like a spongey German blanket and dozing in a blueberry mattress until the sun reappeared."What do you want to do now?", Berlin asked after another blueberry rain nap."I could do with a coffee, if you're making it", I said.

Babette - Contains Mild Sex References and Scenes of Boxing

And so:

I haven't been reading anything much lately, but Bryson's The Thunderbolt Kid made me laugh out loud on my own. Which I was doing anyway, at my own reflection, as the Babette in the mirror seems to have acquired a pair of spectacles, and they just keep on bringin' it funny style. Incidentally, "spectacles" was one of the many words my little sister and I used for breasts when we were little kids. I do not know why. It still makes us laugh, though.

Me: I couldn't find Specsavers on Grafton St. so I had to go ask this security guard in a shop, and of course he thought it was just cos I was completely blind and just couldn't see the shop.
Stig: Hah. And where was it? Was it right infront of you?
Me: No. It was-
Stig: Was it ontop of your head the whole time?

My pile of unfinished books, and unfinished knitted things grows mightier by the day, until I fear one day I may be buried under it. Literally, rather than figuratively. I am more likely to be buried under metaphors for things as yet unattempted, whose scale and might are greater in my mind than in reality.

Cinemawise? Oh, yes we did.
Pan's Labyrinth- Beautiful. The type of film you wish you had made yourself.
For Your Consideration - Very good, but it didn't kill me (Excuse me, I was recently re-reading some Catcher in the Rye)
Notes on a Scandal - Amazing. Judi Dench is chilling. The kid is not. He's barely believable at all. In fact I'm not even sure he was in this film.
The Last King of Scotland - A bit easy? A bit one-dimensional all over? A bit Yes. But very enjoyable all over.

I'm going to Berlin next weekend to visit a friend, and then to London, to visit another. If you want any cinnamony chocolate or some piecea shit union jack poo with a union jack on it, then please let me know by the end of the week. Im not a mind-reader, yeh?

Babette - The Swiftness of your Leaving Caught Me by Surprise

Smoke n' Mirrors, Baby

Oh my goodness. As if 2007 couldn't get any worse, they have refused to cancel Valentine's day for me this year. I find this unnecessarily cruel. I also continue to post in mini form, as you may have observed.

Dear Neil Hannon,
I so get you.
Be my valentine.
Love B

Babette - Was because our thinking made it real

A Poem

Third wash an ol' doorman hoolie din ash ooh!
Sheets omen each ill den, sheet id no wattle do.

I forget what happened next.

Must go read some Zoomtard. I'll need a couple of months to catch up.
Between giant meals, that is. Not that I am capable of understanding it. But I like to say I tried.
If you don't hear from me for a while it's because I ate the entire Internet.

Take care of yourselves. Stay warm.

Babette

Hahey

Anyway, thank God that's over. Christmas, I mean, not the long-term relationship I recently ended.

You know what's brilliant? The album I'm listenin to. Now guess what it is.

I go now.

Babette- Won't let those robots eat me

When Money Comes Innuendo

Christmas. It's not called Christmas for nothing, you know.
Etymologically it derives from the word "crisis", and is in fact the "Mas" (or holiday), of crises. The early pagans and gentiles knew that it was important to have a brief period every year when people were forced into such close contact, in such stressful situations that they could only survive by confronting, changing and recovering from whatever repressed anxiety may have been lurking toxically during the year; that a New Year meant a new beginning, and that a psychological purification was necessary to achieve a break with the past.
In short, Christmas is a time of staggering emotional fuckedness that allows us to remember why we don't do this more often, and allows us freedom from confusion and guilt that would otherwise prevent us from living our lives 11 months of the year.
Whatever the impending crisis you've been nurturing and protecting under your feathered thighs for years, something about the Mas will bring it hatching and birthing all over you.
You know what I mean.
Didn't your parents split up at Christmas? Allowing the throwing of tableware to end and the healing to begin? Or didn't you finally tell them you hated them for the fact that they made you dress like a girl, and that none of the other little boys would speak to you?
Didn't your Grandad drive a car through the kitchen wall at some point between the pudding and the box of assorted chocolates? Come on. Wasn't there at last one year when you all spent the evening digging a shallow grave out the back garden and vowing to speak of this to no one?
Why I remember the very first time my mother was committed to a mental hospital was right after Christmas. And that was certainly a long time coming. Oh, Hilarious!!

Anyway, tradition, as they say, is tradition, and so this year, with a party hat and a mince pie in hand, I am in full crisis.

However, I shall not discuss. As with any good crisis it is best discussed openly when it has had time to settle into your past for a while so that when you do air it, it may be truly hilarious, ironic and clever, rather than horribly sincere and embarrassing.

The 26th of December is no time to discuss emotions. We still have a couple of days of holidays left where anything could happen. In mid-treatment is no time to call yourself recovered.
And so I say to you: Go forth and scream, spit bile and shit, allow yourself to transgress all boundaries and norms of social conduct. Be as crazy as you always feared you might be. For it may make you sane next week.

Good Luck. Happy New Year. This will all be over soon.

Babette -Got Meal Ticket Taste