Must Twi Harder...

Today, my good friend Amy surprised me with this extra special Photoshopped gift, which brightened my day considerably more than my encounters with poppy-men Usher and Craig David. I got my photo with them, too, which was nice, but when it comes to the men of my dreams these days, you can keep your Grammy Awards, your 45 million record sales figures, your penthouse apartments and fussing entourages. I like my men dead, cold, sparkling and lusting for the taste of my blood. And failing that, I like them howling outside my windows, bounding on four legs through forests and “imprinting” on me when the moon is as full as a wheel of Gouda. Mmmm...

With this one little picture, Amy has rendered me at one with Twilight, in a way I never deemed possible. Sure, you might think this is a bit sad… perhaps a little weird. You might think, don’t you have anything better to do with your life than wish you were dead, destined to spend all eternity as a vegetarian vampire, fighting the urge to pash a werewolf? Well, the answer is no. I don’t have anything better to do than think about this.

Sure, I do other stuff with my days; mundane things like breathe, eat food, hang out with humans, but when it comes to that stuff being BETTER than getting my blood sucked out through my neck by a man who sparkles in the sun and flies me up to the treetops after school... don't be ridiculous. What could be better than that? I’m just killing time until I’m killed by the love of my life, really.

No man is good enough unless he’s part mythical creature, these days. Amy knows this. Thank you Amy. You are a true friend. (And thanks for calling me Bella when I ask you to).

Beards of a feather flock together...

A magazine arrived in the office mail the other day, with a picture of Alan Jackson on the cover. His moustached mouth was curved seductively into a grin as he posed, leaning up against a haystack, (probably). It was out of the shot so I couldn’t tell it was a haystack, but I imagine it would be. I bet he likes haystacks. A lot. Anyway… it made me want to pinch his cheeks and snuggle up against his face. I’d be safe there, wrapped up in his hairy smile. I bet he smells like freshly reaped hay. I bet he has shirts in many shades of beige.

Something about men with moustaches has been strangely appealing to me as I’ve neared the middle of my twenties (oh alright, 30), even though I’ve never really been a fan of facial hair in any form. I had a teacher at school once who hated facial hair so much that she used to pencil in her own eyebrows. Well… I thought it was because she hated it, but I later learned that Mrs McManus had some weird disease, because her other hair fell out too. I felt bad about that.

Back when I lived in New York, my friend Ebeth had an ex in town who had a beard that would have made Jesus and all his disciples weep. This beard was amazing. This beard was the longest, most wiry, most incredible example of extreme masculinity I have ever seen. Other facially inferior men would stop in the streets, beard-envy brewing in their eyes as he strolled on by in oblivion. Glenn was the beard. It became more than a part of him.

Ebeth would often talk about the Glenn she used to know; the smile she used to love, the smooth skin of his cheeks that once would glow. Glenn would nod as he sipped his pint next to her, remembering the days when he too could look in the mirror and see his face. But my, how he loved his new look. He would twist clumps of his beard into little points that stayed on their own when he let go. He would stroke this hairy monstrosity into shapes like a pet he’d been training for years, and Ebeth would occasionally reach out into its masses, hoping for a part of it, like the relentless lady who lost her man to the tramp.

When Glenn left New York, we missed his beard. People would no longer have as much reason to talk to us in bars. You should have heard the conversations – ”So, my friend, how long’ve you been growing yours?”, “Do you find your pillow gets sweaty in the night when you sleep on your stomach?”

Beards follow beards it seems. Beards of a feather flock together, perhaps.

Glenn kind of ruined it for other people with beards though. I mean, you simply couldn’t top that thing. It really wasn’t worth anyone even trying. If a bloke was to say “Hey, ladies, do you like my beard? I’ve been growing it for two months,” any girl who’d been a part time traveler in Glenn’s thirteen month facial expedition would have to shake her head, shrug her shoulders and say “Sorry, I’m not interested. I’ve seen ‘beard’ in its truest form and I’ll accept no imitations.”

I’ve never really locked lips with anyone with a big beard. I’m not sure it wouldn’t feel a lot like practicing french kissing on your favorite teddy bear. They’re nice to look at though. I think, maybe, it’s a comfort thing with me. I’m attracted to people who make me feel comfortable and many bearded people are associated with such feelings. Santa Claus, of course is the main one. Then there’s my oldest friend Dave’s dad, who’s always laughing and pouring huge measures of alcohol into his tea cup when his wife’s out of the room. Then of course… there’s one more,…oh yeah, Jesus. So, hmmm,… maybe it’s more an inner peace thing I need to find, not a piece of beard.

Alan’s still looking mighty fine, though.

As the rain lashes down on Sydney...

...after months of sunshine, I can’t help but feel a little smug that this time next week I’ll be sipping booze from coconut shells and feasting on fresh fish, in Fiji. Yes siree. That little hut right there could well have a whole lotta ME in it! Hurrah!

Obviously I’ll also be failing miserably to suck in the muffin top that may or may not have baked above my bikini bottoms lately as a result of my own laziness and swivel-chair-to-restaurant lifestyle, but as long as I’m sucking it on a sun-bed, I’m fine with that. (Sucking myself, obviously. I mean… god that sounds just as bad, but you know what I’m trying to say).

I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji. I actually had some crazy idea a while back that one day I’d get married there with a little furry monkey as a ring-bearer and a parrot on my shoulder, trained to squawk our first song. A crowd of my nearest and dearest would look on beneath a sky of birds-egg blue and smile, thinking, we always knew she’d do it, and then we’d all dance away the evening on the sand, surrounded by more overly-intelligent animals and a big cheese fountain. We’d dip the fresh fish into the cheese fountain of course. No matter where I get married eventually (if it ever happens) there will most definitely be a cheese fountain involved. This has always featured in my wedding dreams… always. Without fail. So has karaoke. In fact, this could well be the reason I’m still single, when I think about it. If a potential partner is not put off by my unhealthy appetite for cheese, he’s bound to run a mile when I mention singing animals and karaoke… and weddings for that matter.

But you know what, I don’t think you should ever sacrifice your dreams. Even if I’m scandalously poor and can’t afford any other food at my wedding, or decorations, I’ll just get the cheese fountain delivered and get my guests to bring their own crackers. And we’ll sing by the light of a Fijian moon… and say “Bula” a lot. And admittedly, most people will regret flying all that way when they realise we could have done the same thing in a community hall in Bethnal Green, but hey, you only get one wedding day. Or do you? Actually, most people get more than that these days… ok so maybe I’ll do Bethnal Green for the first one and then have my real wedding, to the RIGHT person, in Fiji. Two weddings, two cheese fountains. Works for me.

I digress. I am really looking forward to Fiji. We leave bright and early on Saturday morning and are spending seven glorious nights in the Yasawa Islands, which is a broken up mass of volcanic surface to the right of the mainland – slightly further away from the bit where all the piss-heads go to drink kava and pretend watered down, overpriced cocktails are exactly what they came for. It’s also quite comforting to know that these particular volcanic peaks are quite dormant, so there’s to be no ash-cloud (imaginary or otherwise) putting a dampener on my plans to do absolutely bugger all for a week.

Bliss.

Volcanic rumbling ramblings...

It’s all just blimmin’ miserable in the UK at the moment isn’t it? When it’s cold in my current hemisphere it would be nice to feel the warmth of a lovely news bulletin from my homeland; the comforting embrace of a nice English story about postmen and gingerbread me and frolicking lambs in the Devonshire countryside. But no. It’s all political screw ups and ash clouds. How depressing.

The latest volcano eruption is currently trapping my friend Tracy in London, something she’s not particularly happy about. I suppose they’re just trying to be careful, in that typical overly-cautious British way. But even the king of planes himself, Richard Branson, thinks it’s all a bit silly. He actually made me laugh when he said: "It is obviously dangerous to fly through the mouth of a volcano, as has been demonstrated time and time again on television by what happened to the BA plane (do’h). However, the volcano is hundreds of miles away from the UK.”

Yes. It is. Come on people, listen to Richard. It’s bloody miles away! Just because you can see a bit of smoke, doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a fire. Does it?

I don’t really understand all this ash stuff anyway… I mean, how is an ash cloud different from a really big rain cloud, full of thunder? Well, OK, so it might be a bit hotter, but if planes are built to withstand getting struck by lightning, how’s a little flick from the equivalent of a volcanic cigarette butt gonna bring one down? I just don’t get it. But then, I guess if I was on a plane and my pilot said “Hey guys, buckle up tight, we’re flying through a volcano in a bit,” I’d be an incy bit scared. I might even do the whole putting my head in my crossed arms thing and hide under my tray table. I might even sue the airline, or at least demand more complimentary vodka for the turmoil. Maybe it’s a case of laughing at the stupidity, until you’re actually in that situation, zooming through the barf of an ancient mountain.

Maybe it's not even a volcano thing. When it comes to the prospect of experiencing whinging Brits, maybe you just can't be too careful.

Bloody hell, Britain...

Will someone just make a decision? It's British to the core isn't it, all this faffing about. We never say how we really feel. To outsiders, we're a nation of flustered Hugh Grants, beating around the eternal bush, and now the people supposed to be drawing conclusions for the good of the confused, are so bloody flummoxed themselves that no one knows what the hell's going on. We can hardly keep up on this hemisphere. HELLO?!

Let me get this right. Poor Gordon's continued presence in Downing Street was seen as harming Labour's chances of reaching a deal, so he's shut himself away to tuck into some nice digestive biscuits with his gran, who'll tell him over and over again what a lovely boy he is and how he's simply misunderstood (probably). Meanwhile Labour and the Tories try desperately to woo the Lib Dems with promises on electoral reform, when everyone knows they're all greedy control-freaks in disguise as a beacon of hope, anyway. It's all just soooooo dramatic.

David Miliband might be up against his brother, and we're warned that someone called Ed Balls, the school secretary (Ed BALLS, the SECRETARY for gods sake!) also wants a look in as the leading Labour man, now Brown's out of the picture. It's a reality TV show in the making, isn't it. The eviction process is always screwed when someone actually quits, but it just makes it all the more riveting. As it stands now, no one's in charge. No one. It's so embrassing to watch from afar. But it does leave an opening.

I think Britain should take a leaf out of this guy's book. Sharkey the Vampire has got it all figured out. He's a self-described vampire who'd previously announced plans to run for governor of Minnesota on the Vampyres, Witches and Pagan's ticket.

It might seem like madness but at least he has a bloody plan. (Bloody being the operative word). He might not have thought about taxes, or schooling, or who's gonna pay his expenses when the public next refuse, but when he originally announced he was going for the gig, this man who admittedly looks like a murderer, stated very clearly his plans for people who abuse children:

"They'll be tried by me, beaten, tortured, dismembered, decapitated, impaled, and their heads will be put on display... This is the Viking State. Start acting more like Vikings. You got a problem? Take it to the streets. People need to get a set of balls and a spine."

Good for him, I say. Even crazy people understand politics better than the British. Make a plan and stick to it. Don't do things half-heartedly and then wiggle out of the consequences any which way you can. You don't see vampire clans shuffling back on their agenda, whinging, crying, quitting and whimpering things like "I couldn't POSSIBLY make such a grand decision on behalf of everybody else. I wouldn't want to impose. Will someone else just deal with it, please?" No. They just swoop on in there and get the blimmin' job done.

Back to Ed Balls. You can see the newspaper puns already, bless him.

John Mayer's body is a wonderland...

“Thanks Sydney!” John Mayer shouted into the screaming masses tonight, as he wound up another tune and pretended he was done (even though we still had half an hour left on the clock!)

“We’ve had the best week here!” he carried on, “It’s really kind of blown me away ‘cause it’ feels like home! Usually when I’m away, I count the clock ticks towards the next place and the next place, but in Sydney, I’m not counting.”

Bless him! John Mayer could have counted 12,000 faces in the crowd at Sydney Entertainment Centre tonight, if the neon lights hadn’t been shining in his eyes. As he brushed a mass of crazy curls away from his face and turned to the spotlights, he cradled one of the seven guitars he had on stage with him in his arms like a danced-out lover. Oh, to be that guitar!!

I wasn't alone. The girls in the front row shrieked like a pack of rabid chimpanzees, wishing no doubt that they too could feel his fingers on their bodies (ahem), but Mayer looked straight at them, grinned and said:

“I don’t think these girls will ever be as excited in their lives, as they are right now. I think you should take that energy, put it in a box and bury it in your gardens, ‘cause you’re gonna need that in 15 years time, trust me!”

Mayer’s definitely got the showmanship down these days, but as such, his AMAZING talent for guitar playing sometimes plays second fiddle to those insightful lyrics and husky vocals that make his albums fly off the shelves. This is a man who needs to be appreciated live. Not only has he mastered playing with the guitar over his shoulders, but at one point, the instrument was flat on the ground and Mayer was practically doing a shoulder-stand on a patterned rug as he performed a solo. Sounds impossible when you write it… but trust me, it happened. You could hardly hear the notes for the screaming and god forbid anyone had epilepsy down near the stage – there were more flashing lights than a rave on a spaceship whenever a song ended.

Looking at Mayer live on stage, in plain black trousers, a t-shirt and white trainers reflecting the yellow stage lights, it’s easy to believe this guy really does just want to play his guitar, above all else. The money, the fame, the fortune, they’re all just bonus products he’s attracted, just by following his dream. As the camera flashes and mobile phone screens glistened in the crowds like fireflies where cigarette lighters would have been waving 20 years ago, I couldn’t help but think back to when I first heard John Mayer’s songs, in New York City, almost ten years ago. Hardly anyone had heard of him then. Everyone’s heard of him now.

He didn’t forget to credit his support act too – the lovely Orianthi (Michael Jackson’s ex guitarist, no less):

“Sometimes you meet some bad musicians who are bad people, and that’s just BAD. But then you meet awesome musicians who are just awesome people and then you know they’re on a skyrocket to wherever they wanna go. Orianthi is one of those people, give it up for her, and shout so she can hear you!” His orders were followed.

“Thank you for giving me Australia,” Mayer said, not once, but twice after he’d finished his final set of songs, including the gorgeous “Perfectly Lonely” from new album Battle Studies, and “Who Says”, to which a group of guys in front of us delighted in echoing every “Who says I can’t get stoned” line as loudly as they could, while waving their beers about enthusiastically.

“I feel like you’ve given me a key to this country and now I can come back here and play little shows for you whenever I want!” His Sydney PRs are gonna love that.

More rapturous applause confirmed that yes, John Mayer is welcome in Sydney any time he wants to drop in, though he confirmed he’s off to Japan with his crew first thing in the morning. He also admitted to taking a moonlit jog through Luna Park the other night with a member of his band, when the rest of the world was sleeping. Such a shame I didn’t know that in advance...

Mayer and his act bowed in a line at the end, like a troupe of circus performers, which was quite fitting in a way, as Mayer’s an act like no other. He plays the clown, he acts the fool and then he blows your little brain away with a show so amazing you feel different, just from being in the audience.

When, oh WHEN will you notice me, John? *sniff

The Candy Man who couldn't...

I've seen a lot of bad theatre in my time. The most excruciating encounter was probably 'The Man With The Iron Mask - The Musical'. I sat with my friend Z through an hour of what can only be described as pure torture, watching the lead character try unsuccessfully to sing his lyrics in a decipherable manner, due to a big fuck-off iron mask strapped over his mouth.

Another theatrical faux-pas was 'Menopause - The Musical'. I'm not sure this really needs explaining as it was pretty much exactly THAT; a group of pained, ageing women not only attempting to recreate the agonizing process of the menopause through a serious of atrocious, morbid tunes, but failing miserably to engage anyone except their mortified husbands in the front row: "Why must you play out this private matter to absolutely everyone we know, Gladys??"

Last night I took my lovely friend Pam to see a show called 'The Candy Man', based on the life of Sammy Davis Jr. I didn’t really know what to expect, as the show description was very vague, but alarm bells sounded pretty much from the first act. A short, white, sweaty man completed the number ‘The Candy Man Can’, and announced that he was obviously nothing like Sammy Davis Jr, but the show was an intended tribute to the great member of the Rat Pack and famous vaudeville performer. And he sure did hope we enjoyed it.

Fair enough, I thought. He made for an enthusiastic MC, even though his mediocre attempts at singing made him sound a bit like an over-enthusiastic karaoke host, or a wannabe cruise ship entertainer. When he spoke, he was seriously out of breath, too, like he'd run a mile backstage on a treadmill first, whilst smoking a warm-up cigar.

He started another number... danced in a fairly average manner between some scantily-clad showgirls and attempted the splits. It was then that I realized he intended to perform the ENTIRE tribute act himself. This short, white, asthmatic individual was hell-bent on wowing an audience of a thousand people with a black man’s sacred repertoire. The earth moved beneath my feet. It could have been the tap, tappity tap of his tap dancing shoes reverberating through the theatre as he began another cringe-worthy attempt at entertainment; but I figured it was Sammy Davis Jr himself, turning in his grave.

We left at half time, along with most of the audience; went to get a rack of ribs and a very large glass of wine. I apologized profusely to Pam, told her that theatrical tragedies such as this are almost as memorable as the awesome ones, and promised to take her to CATS.

I do feel sorry for the performers in ‘The Candy Man’ though. Prior to the show starting, the producer, a woman in her 60s in a slinky black dress stepped onto the stage and told us all she was so thankful we’d come; the show had taken four years to put together and had all started with a vision she and a friend came up with in her own back garden.

Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me.

Unfortunately, I’m sorry to say that along with 'The Man With The Iron Mask - The Musical', and a line up of wrinkling moaners singing songs about age, ‘The Candy Man’ most definitely CAN’T on this occasion.

Upon first glance, you might not notice Charlotte...

...She is carefully camoflaged against the blue of the wall behind her in this photo. I'm not sure that was intentional on her part. Although I'd like to believe she spent a few months touring the homes of Australian citizens in search of the perfect colour scheme, before relocating to her favoured ocean-blue hued residence, it was probably a fluke. But Charlotte sure does LOVE her home. And now, I love Charlotte.

I wouldn't want to touch her. It's the same as you love things like electricity, and standing on the edge of endless gushing waterfalls - you appreciate them for all their vast, impressive power, but you wouldn't want to stick your finger in, or step any closer than you have to.

She's always there when I walk to work in the morning, hanging out in her home-spun hammock; right in the middle, like a happily intoxicated royal on holiday, sipping fly-flavoured cocktails and occasionally reaching out a spindly leg to flick a stray leaf off her doorstep. She takes up the entire space between the lower branch of that tree there, and the bush below. And what's really cool about Charlotte is that she's gone one step further than regular spiders in her trapping methods, by creating not one, not two, but three separate webs that all intertwine, creating a sort of spider-woman vortex that no living creature (smaller than a grain of rice) can possibly escape.

RESPECT.

My walk to work isn't complete unless I've had a glimpse of Charlotte, and I think she knows. If she had a face visible to my rubbish human eyes, she would smile as I walked past, and possibly wave with every single one of her eight legs; "HELLOOOOOO BECKY!!! MY HUMAN FRIEND!". Well, maybe seven legs - she couldn't levitate herself completely, that would just be weird.

It's a bit of a shit photo, this one below, as I don't like to get close enough to warrant obtaining the perfect shot and focal point. I'm not THAT accepting just yet. But Charlotte is growing on me. She's awesome actually. Here she is, as close as I dare to get. Bless her.