Marie Antoinette and Misssy M

I don’t have a lot in common with Marie Antoinette.*

She wanted to let them to eat cake**; I would rather have kept the cakes for myself. I have been known to hose an entire box of chocolate éclairs in one sitting. Let them eat chips; I'm not so fussed about them. You can quote me on that.

She married a bloke who could carry off a bit of makeup. Meeester looks terrible in drag. He once went as Pat Butcher (of Eastenders) for Halloween and the actress who plays her, Pam St Clement, sued us.

Me and dead Louis's head. Still looking ever so dashing
in his slap beyond the guillotine.

She used to like to dress up as a peasant. If she were to do this today, she would inevitably have to sport a Kappa tracksuit to get this down to a tee. Myself, I loathe the look of the chav and wouldn’t be seen dead in anything with a stripe down the side of the leg.

She caused a stir by accepting a diamond necklace from a courtier and tried to give it back to avoid scandal. I would have kept it. I have a jewellery obsession that is outwith my means. I’ll take any freebies I can get. Scandal or no.

She was Royal Austrian married into Royal French. I am working class immigrant Irish and German stock moved to Glasgow, and then married into the East Kilbride Martini dynasty. It’s hardly the same thing. Meeester’s dad did his family tree some years back. Apparently the Martinis were a band of horse thieves in the 19th Century. We’re the sort of people who would have been in stocks back in Antoinette’s day.

Louis XVI: He may have been a foppish tyrant, but he never stole a horse.

She was last girl born in her family, I was first. We first borns have it tough. I’ll bet Antoinette used to hang around her older sister’s room when her mates were round playing records and bug them 'til they were forced to give her a beating.

The young Mozart apparently sat on her knee and gave her a cheeky kiss after performing one of his little tunes for the Austrian Court. My groupie days are well documented on this blog, but I've never bagged a child star. That would be wrong.

Despite all these differences, I discovered whilst researching her for my Halloween costume this year, that Marie Antoinette was exactly same age (to the month) as I am now when she had her pretty head*** cut off in front of a baying crowd.

Cut here

Spooky.

* I would just like to point out that I dressed up as Marie Antoinette for a Halloween party. Not just for this blog. That said, I will dress up as other historical characters given enough cash and notice.

**Antoinette never said this. It was a Spanish noblewoman member of the French court that made the remark. She should have had Max Clifford sort this out. A terrible misquotation and consequent damage to character. Oh well, too late now.

*** Needless to say the morning after our respective events both Marie Antoinette and I woke up and said the same thing, "Ooooh, my poor head!"

What Women Want?

One night after coming home from the pub before Meeester and I were hitched, we sat channel surfing the then four television channels and found one of those worthy late night discussion shows on Channel Four. The topic was “What Women Want”. This is the kind of bollocks Channel Four used to force feed us before satellite TV came along to provide some competition and made them buck up their ideas a bit and put daft slutty lassies getting pissed in Ibiza on for our viewing pleasure.

This kind of show would normally have been flicked over immediately to some more mindless nonsense on a rival channel but for the fact that one of the pundits on the studio couch was a girl I went to university with.

At university she had been one of those smug, overbearing high-achieving girls that you couldn’t hate outright because there was nothing overtly nasty about her. She was pretty, intelligent, mature, right on, and totally superior. Me and my underachieving, immature, gawky mates hated her.

She was equally loathsome on telly and she had some bollocks pressure group type position befitting her general smugness and superior disposition. I couldn’t bear her but felt compelled to watch as she pontificated on “What women want” with the sort of authority that a 23 year old just shouldn’t have. What did she know what I or anyone else wanted? Who was she to sit there with her privileged background, perfect hair and complexion and lecture anyone on anything?

Even through the cathode ray she managed to make me feel small and insignificant in my own living room a world away from the bizarro world of uni. There she was on actual telly being all smart and important whilst I was struggling to get out of a theatre box office filler job and get on with the career I thought I would have had by now. The sight of her on that show plagued me for weeks.

Two years previously at university I had gone out with a bloke who had at an earlier point been her live in boyfriend. Irritatingly he was still friends with her and she would routinely turn up at his flat unannounced to remind him how much more worthy of his affection she was compared to me, and simultaneously how he wasn't going to get any, even if he wanted it. Not by saying so, just by being there. In my paranoid mind, anyway. My relationship with the bloke didn’t last long. My insecurity was the reason looking back. How could someone like me compete with someone like her?

I don’t know how you would categorise how I felt about her. Envy and jealousy are the obvious ones, but they don’t quite cut it on their own. There was more in there. The woman brought me out in hives.

It’s funny how people like that stick in your mind years on and bring all the worst traits in your personality surging to the surface. Even twenty years on as I read her pontificating again in a magazine this week about work and motherhood.

Over achieving cow.

The Other Meeester M

A week ago I posted a little photo of Meeester and I outside our first ever shared home. A few of my local readers even recognised the street.

There are a thousand stories I could tell about our time there but for now I want to concentrate on one aspect of the place; our neighbour, the Other Meeester M.

Yes, believe it or not, the man across the hall from us shared exactly the same first and last name as Meeester. And it was a nightmare.

The Other Meester was Homunculus of a man of indeterminate age living on the fringes of society. He had one tooth that was apparent, an almost visible haze of age old body odour and a penchant for invading personal space.

His flat smelled of dog shit even though he did not own a dog.

Although I never ever went inside the flat I also knew he didn’t have an inside toilet, as he would use the one on the stairs left over from the times that the now dead tenants of the building used back in the day.

One person that should have been dead but wasn’t, was his mother who still lived with him. I only ever saw her once or twice when she was wheeled out to an ambulance taking her to some old folks' home for respite care. She did look like a corpse but comparing her to Norman Bates’s shrivelled Mummie Mummy would be lazy writing. Suffice to say, she must’ve been in her late nineties at least.

Given that the flat was a tiny one bedroomed flat that only had enough space for a single bed in the bedroom (if our bedroom was anything to go by), questions arose as to just what the sleeping arrangements were Chez Other Meeester and his zombie mother. One could only guess… and then shiver.

The worst thing about the Other Meeester was his attempts to inveigle himself into our daily life. He was clearly a lonely man, and at first you couldn’t help but feel his pain as he tried to chat to you in the hallway. But chatting to him was a mistake, as it only encouraged him to be more of a nuisance and any sympathy you might have had didn’t last long. In no time at all it appeared that every time we opened the front door, there he would be a nanosecond later in front of you, as if by chance.

Soon we became adept at bracing ourselves for our exit out of the flat in record time, getting from flat door to out on the street in a time that Roger Bannister could only dream of. Our friends would be warned to knock on our front window rather than ringing the buzzer and alerting him to the presence of fresh meat.

After a couple of months of avoiding bumping into him, the Other Meeester began to notice that we weren’t going to be his best mates after all, and he turned a little nasty. He began to misuse his identity as the Other Meeester M to accept parcels and letters that didn’t belong to him. The Real Meeester M worried that one day, he would find himself with a completely stolen identity, banished to the fringes of society himself whilst the Other Meeester lived the life that was rightfully his.

The Other Meeester M also started to complain about any noise. Any noise at all. Previously happy to hear the sound of our front door being opened, signifying a chance at much longed for company, he began to complain that we made too much door noise. Previously trying to invite himself in if he heard any music or visitors’ chatter, he would arrive and complain as soon as the radio was turned on, or we had any guests. Our life wasn’t our own. It also belonged to the Other Meeester M.

We couldn’t win because whether our buddy or our nemesis, there he would be; one inch away from your face, stinking of fire-damaged charity shops, rotting carcasses and dog shit with his foam edged toothless mouth dangerously close to spitting distance from your clamped-shut, bacteria-avoiding mouth and nostrils. I think even my pores would seize up in case of infection when he approached me.

Years after we moved out, the spectre of the Other Meeester M haunted us once more as during a mortgage application and credit check, the Other Meeester M’s dubious credit history threatened to stall the purchase of our current house. What a mess and what a challenge to prove that My Meeester M was not the Other Meeester M.

I don’t recall my Meeester having to do a DNA test to prove his true identity. If he had, I would have felt sorry for the poor lab technician dispatched to get a sample scraping from the Odd Meeester M next door. Not only would the poor bloke catch bubonic plague, he might never see daylight or his family again.

Five wee things

My new blog pal AveryGray has memed me.

I'm not generally one for the meme but I had had fun doing this one. I'm also hella busy at work/home so thought this might plug a hole on the Missives for a couple of days until I get my head above water and come back with a killer post.*

A revealing meme called; Five Things.

What were you doing ten years ago?
1) Expecting the arrival of Indy but thinking for sure he was a she. Wrong!
2) Panicking about selling my flat that was too wee for two hoarding adults and a wee fella
3) Working too hard for an evil corporation and plotting the boss’s downfall (unsuccessfully)
4) Watching the junkies hang out their windows on the other side of the street and call each other the C word like it was a term of endearment
5) Planning to kill the junkies who were stopping people buying my flat by hanging out the window and calling them Cs.

What were you doing one year ago?
1) I was in Portugal on holiday with my extended family...and we all survived.
2) I was realising that the contraceptive implant in my arm was making me very ill
3) Deciding that I didn’t want anymore babies
4) Trying out my feeble Portuguese and falling flat on my arse.
5) Body boarding and loving it. The sand does get right in your pants though. Be warned. Sand enemas are not a good thing.

Five Songs you know the lyrics to:
1) "American Pie” by Don McLean ( I used to sing this at parties to clear a room. I am still better than Madonna at it though.)
2) "Name of the Game” by Abba (in fact any Abba- this is just my favourite)
3) "Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues (I sung this on stage with Meeester!)
4) "Every Little Thing she does is Magic” by the Police ( I broke my arm dancing to that in my mum's kitchen)
5) "Baby can I hold you?” by Tracey Chapman (I sung this at parties with my friend Colin when I lived in Germany. I am not allowed back.)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1) Buy a home in Thailand. (see April's archives for the Flying Martini Thai Odyssey)
2) Buy a home in Zakynthos (Junior Misssy was conceived there. Opa!)
3) Go for an extended holiday in Australia with the Flying Martinis
4) Take a year out and try to write a book. God knows what about though. (Knowing me it would be "Rude Signs of the World or something lame like that).
5) Get my kitchen completely smashed down and rebuilt with a garden room. I would wield a slegehammer The rest; wee men would have to do.

Five bad habits:
1) Picking my fingers (OCD alert!)
2) Not listening when someone is talking to me
3) Being devious
4) Not taking library books back
5) Shouting at my husband at certain key points in the lunar cycle

Five things you like to do:
1) Walk my dog
2) Travel with the Flying Martinis
3) Sit round the table with my family and my sister’s family with a big spaghetti and lots of wine
4) Fancy dress up.. Halloween is here and I am planning the costume of a lifetime. Watch this space...
5) Go to the cinema in the afternoon alone and tell no-one cos I should be working

Five things you will never wear again:
1) Leg warmers. No-one looks good.
2) A netball bib (stupid, just stupid. What's the point, you can't run with the ball!)
3) A Christmas party hat (I didn't tong my hair to have it flattened/hidden by a piece of tissue paper)
4) Maternity pants. You've never seen big pants til you've seen matty pants.
5) Hold up stockings (they don’t hold up- will blog that one soon; it's a corker)

Five favourite toys:
1) My Mini
2) My dog
3) My hair straighteners
4) My SKY Plus
5) My gigantic wall mounted kick-ass super- telly

Five things you hate to do:
1) Laundry. The odd sock mountain mocks me.
2) Cleaning. I am the errant progeny of a houseproud mum, where did it all go wrong for me?
3) Argue. I am a woose
4) My accounts. Numbers frighten me. The Inland Revenue even more so.
5) Go to barbecues in winter/when it’s too cold . Why do people do that? Accept that you live in Scotland and put the damn thing away for the next 10 months.


So there you are. I won't ask anyone to do the meme in particular. Just consider yourself invited in general (or not if you can't be bothered).

* Well, we'll see....no promises

Sharp Dressed Man

Meeester and Misssy before they were Mister and Missus (1992)

I met Meeester a long time ago. Sixteen years ago to be precise. It doesn’t seem that long until I look at old photos. Last weekend my sister brought down a suitcase full of unfiled photos and we all raked through them. A recurring theme was, “What the blazes is Meeester wearing?”

From the second I met Meeester I have been saving him from his own sartorial disasters. Here’s a catalogue of the worst ones.

The Boater and Apron Combo
I met Meeester seconds after we both graduated from our respective Universities. I had no job, he had a crappy one in a food court. Study hard, kids; that's what awaits you.

The first example of sartorial inelegance is unfair as it was not Meeester’s choice, but it is worth mentioning all the same. He had to wear a wine coloured apron, white shirt and black bow-tie. Oh, a Dick Van Dyke-esque straw boater hat. The Van Dyke element was not lost on Meeester who would routinely do tap dance routines “Jolly Holiday” style to entertain customers and colleagues. He is the only person I know to this day who was sacked for, “being too cheerful”.

The Kerosene Wardrobe
I may have mentioned that in the past that when I first went out with Meeester his bedroom was in a wasp infested cottage porch. His wardrobe was a large cardboard box that sat on top of a boiler. The boiler leaked all over the box and clothes. Still Meeester wore his kerosene infested clothes for months. He was the world’s first flammable boyfriend. I'm pretty sure that there's a coat somewhere in our basement that still whiffs a bit and may be a catalyst in a future house fire.

The Petrol Pump Jacket
Meeester had a friend who worked in an independent “trendy” clothes shop and gave him a discount. Meeester came back one day with a tight fitting silver zip up jacket with one red and one blue stripe down the front. He thought he looked great. We all struggled to put our feelings about the jacket into words, but then my mum hit the nail on the head when she said, “It’s like a petrol pump attendant’s jacket”. She hated it. We all did. Meeester loved it all the more.

On the run up to Christmas Meeester thought it would be funny to give my mum the jacket as a joke present seeing as the very sight of it upset her. On Christmas morning my mother unwraps the gift and we all have a good laugh at her disgust when she sees the Petrol Pump Jacket. She sees her chance and declares it hers to do whatever she will with the garment. Meeester never sees it again.

The Green Adidas Top
Around the time of the Park Life album by Blur Meeester acquires a bottle green Adidas tracksuit top. This enrages Misssy who is fundamentally anti sportgear worn as everyday wear. It is also neddy* and must go. Meeester loves it all the more.

Just before Misssy enters her last week of pregnancy with baby Indy, Misssy is concerned that Meeester will turn up at the hospital to greet the newborn in the green tracksuit top and enlists the help of Super Auntie-to-be, Misssy A.

Misssy A nicks the jacket and hides it in her car boot.

Indy is born and the tracksuit top is forgotten about until about six months later when Meeester is raking through the wardrobe looking for it. By that time Misssy A’s dilapidated ancient Mini has been sent to car heaven by way of a giant car crusher. With the tracksuit top still in the boot. Oh dear....

Oh and did I mention how wonderful Meeester is?

*International readers, I think you may not understand the word "ned" or "neddy". Ned in scotland means Non-Educated -Delinquent. I believe the word Chav and Schemey are UK synonyms. In US I think the phrase is "white trash". I would delighted to learn more words for this, as living in Scotland, I have many opportunities to use these terms.

The Block

"Oh my God, I've got writer's block!. It's two days since I last posted and I can't think of anything I want to blog about. This has never happened before"

"You should blog about me."

"Ha!"

"No really, here's your new challenge. You've to blog about me and let your readers know how wonderful I am"

That last sentence was said by Meeester five minutes ago.

Challenge accepted*

*Be careful what you wish for.

Bag Hag

It takes millions of individual decisions to make a difference. No small decision should be scoffed at or thought of as being insignificant. Here is mine.

I have made an environmental decision this year and boy am I finding it difficult.

I have decided to stop accepting plastic bags in supermarkets. I have worked out that if I were to carry on accepting them then given a family shop once a week I would use about 500 bags a year. Factor in the once daily trip to the little local shop for stuff I’ve forgotten (booze) and we could easily add another 100. Given that I am currently 38, and that I might live for another 40 years (probably longer, females in my family are like Michael Myers in Halloween- we just won’t die no matter what you do to us), then we’re looking at about 25,000 bags that I personally have used, sent to landfill.

The reason I’m finding it difficult is nothing to do with me; flipping saint that I am. I have a big sturdy range of shopping bags that I take with me on every outing but shop assistants do everything in their power to blindside me. None more so that the Unsmiling Hag at the local shop.

She knows I want to put the shopping in my own bag, she sees me put my big bag on the counter, she has seen me come into the shop with my big bag, she has served me a thousand times where I have said, “Can I put this in my own bag please?” She is my environmental nemesis.

I want to confront her and vanquish her (with a plastic bag, if necessary).

She will put my stuff in a placcy bag if it bloody kills her- she wants to break me and she wants to bag me. God only knows why.

She whips my tins and bottles in there like a speed fueled demon as soon as they are scanned. She gets at least two/three items in the bag before I can say, once a-bloody-gain, “Can I put this in my own bag please?”

I am this close- watch me THIS close, to screaming like a possessed banshee in her face so that her hair blows back like in cartoons, “ I don’t want a bag, you KNOW I don’t want a bag, YOU KNOW ME! I come in here every day- I never want a bag. NEVER! Let's agree that I DON'T WANT AND NEVER WILL WANT A BAG!

"Yes, maybe you think I’m a freak, maybe you think I’m a self-important she devil with the cheek to bring in a Bag for Life. But maybe it’s YOU that is the Bag for Life, eh? Maybe it’s yooooooou!" (I will point in her face at this bit)

"What, are you on flipping commission from the bag makers?? Stop doing it, just stop! I have my own bag. See it? My own reusable bag. You know I do. Stop the fucking nonsense.”

But I don’t. I just say “Can I put this in my own bag please?” and watch her snort slightly as she un-packs the hastily secreted goodies from the plastic bag and reluctantly hands them back to me like this is the first time she has met me.

One further thing, I am involved in fundraising for a school trip. The next event? Bag packing at the local supermarket. I am coming out in hives just thinking about it….

Today’s post is in honour of Blog Action Day which this year is concerned with the environment. You can find out more at:

www.blogactionday.org

And it maybe a small thing, but can I make you think about not using plastic bags anymore please? Go on…go on…go on.

The Funny Torture Concept (TM)

The following scene takes place in the Business Start Up Office of the Royal Bank of Scotland.

Misssy is greeted by a young smart young woman in a dark grey trouser suit.

Bank lady: “Hello Misssy M. Now, how can I help you?”

Misssy: “Well, the reason I’ve asked for this appointment is because I have put together a Business Plan that I would like you to look over for me. Obviously with a view to lending me the start up capital.”

Bank Lady: “Oh yes, is that it there.” (Reaches for portfolio on desk)

Misssy: “Yes, I’ve taken the liberty of printing you a copy. As you’ll see from the front page it’s called the Funny Torture Concept.”

BL: “Yes?”

Misssy: “It’s a working title, I’ll come up with something a bit more zingy later.”

BL: “Okay, I’m intrigued Misssy M. If you could just break down the general idea for me..”

Misssy: “Okay, it’s a bespoke service for the person who has everything really. Have you heard of the Red Letter Day gift service?”

BL: “Yes, that’s the thing where you get once in a lifetime gift experience, isn’t it? It’s not one of those is it, because the market is pretty saturated. Personally I’d rather have gift vouchers”

Misssy: “I agree, there are too many of them. Who wants to go on a balloon ride, anyway? Mine’s different. It’s gifts for people you don’t like.”

BL: “Hmmm…interesting. Go on.”

Misssy: “Well, let me rephrase that. It’s gifts for people you actively want to torture. And it’s anonymous. The recipient doesn’t know they are being targeted and doesn’t link the incident with the gift bearer. But this is the best part. What we do is we video the results and send it to the gift bearer so that they can see the look on the faces of the recipient.”

BL: “Give me an example.”

Misssy: “Of course. Let’s look at Case Study Three on Page 5 of the portfolio. You want sweet revenge on the guy who dumped you, but you don’t want him to know that you’re that bothered by his letting you go. You could go with the old favourite of sowing grass seed on his carpet when he’s on holiday, watering the lot and cranking up his central heating.”

BL: “A revenge classic”

Misssy: “Yes. But with our service you get to see what a holy fuss he makes when he walks in the door to discover he has a living room lawn on his return. But we can also go that step further. Has he an allergy perhaps, does he have a phobia, a traumatic childhood memory? The list is endless. It’s bespoke, we can do anything. It's that personal touch that is going to be our Unique Selling Point”

BL: “I see, but one thing is bothering me. Isn’t this, well… illegal?”

Misssy: “No, it’s anonymous, untraceable and non-violent. You could simply want a dog turd strategically placed on the front step of the home of an enemy. Where’s the harm?”

BL: “But what would be an example of something more severe? I mean you do mention torture….”

Misssy: “I’m glad you asked me that. We have a Gold Service that goes that extra mile. It costs more, but I feel there is a market. For example, we’ve an existing client who was sexually harassed by an ex-boss. She had to leave the company rather than be dragged through the courts.

Understandably, she didn’t want to let him away with it. We placed a honey trap in a bar he frequents. He went for it hook, line and sinker.

Initially, she went for the straightforward get-him-naked-handcuff-him-to-the-bed
-phone-his-missus package. But on reflection, she figured his poor wife should be spared what she probably already knew. Why torture the wife?”

BL: “Exactly.”

Misssy: “So she upgraded. Instead our operative handcuffed him naked to the outside railing of a Russian trawler. We’ve got a video of him being taken into custody in Vladivostok. He apparently had frostbite on his extremities... You may have also seen footage on Sky News. My client was delighted.”

BL: (Standing up) “Well, Misssy, I think I've heard enough. I’ll have my decision with you in writing by tomorrow.”

Misssy: (surprised) “Oh, don’t you want to know anymore?Figures... projections?”

BL: “Well, there’s just one more thing…”

Misssy: “Fire away”

BL: “Will you give me a discount?”



* For those of you who think I've lost my marbles please read this post. It'll explain everything...

There is Nothing New Under the Sun

Here's today's pic- it's me stuck under the Flying Martini pant mountain
and has no relevance to this post whatsoever

This is a lovely thing. Click on it and have a look.

It’s a website that has a little three wheeled contraption that will generate a little three word idea.

It was sent to me by someone who obviously :

1. ...thought the Misssives were needing a bit of help.
2. …thought the Misssives weren’t surreal enough
3. …thought it would be fun to see me sweat a bit
4. ...is a bastard

This person challenged me to write a post on the first thing that came up. So thank you for that.

So what came up?

Funny - Torture - Concept.

I quite like this already and will stew over it for the next wee while thinking of something suitable to write. Maybe something that involves Katie Melua. So take this post as a little herald/warning that in the next 24 hours there will be a Misssives post entitled, "The Funny Torture Concept".

I’m not one for the meme, so I’m not going to go down that route, but if any of my regular readers or random visitors would like to join me in writing a post based on the first thing the random idea generator comes up with, then I’d love to know about it. The comment box, as always is your combined green room, frozen garret and therapy couch; let me know there.

And since I'm writing a meaningless little navel gazing post, can I also take this opportunity to wantonly whore the People Who Don't Blog ...But Should site.

About six eejits (including me) randomly post fake celeb blogs and they are usually screamingly funny*.

This week Kayessjakkay posted as Richard Madely, and one regular reader had to be rushed to hospital after spraining a lung from laughing so much.

There's also a poll to allow readers to choose whose blog they'd most like to read next: this week our lovely contestants are former dictators. Personally I think it's better than PopBitch, Go Fug Yourself and the Daily Telegraph all crammed together in an elevator.

Whoring over. For now.


*The People Who Don't Blog...But Should team accept no responsibility for people who have yet to laugh or scream. It's your own fault and there's clearly something wrong with you.

Elizabeth and Me

I should never be allowed a library card and I am henceforth putting myself forward for voluntary life ban from all libraries.

Something in my psyche makes me unsuitable for membership.

This month I have been sent the final reminder to pay for the books I have borrowed back in May or else some librarian heavy mob is going to sweep by, bundle me into a black mariah and kick the crap out of me.

And I didn’t even want to borrow the book in the first place; it’s that “One for my Baby” Tony Parsons book. I don’t even like Tony Parsons, I think his books make even Ben Elton look like a flipping literary genius. I’d happily help Julie Burchill out in a bar room brawl involving him just because he’s so unbelievably smug. As you know I am handy in a bar room brawl and I reckon squeaky Julie could use me.

Yet here I am with Julie's ex-husband's hardback edition unread by my bedside, a £25 invoice for the unreturned book and a mortal fear of walking past the local library in case my face is on a poster inside.

As with most things, I think this goes back to my youth. My dad used to take me every week to the Clydebank Public Library to choose a book. It was a weekly highlight.

One day, I was in my folks' bedroom trying on one of my mum’s dresses (I was going to write negligee there just to spice things up a bit but in all honesty I just can’t do it. My mum has never been a negligee wearer. Not even in the Seventies when everyone was at it. It would be unfair to brand her one).

I was pretending to be Elizabeth Taylor. I so should have been a gay man.

Anyway, there I was in my mum’s dress, a good quota of her makeup on and I was approached by some adoring fans called Rosie and Cindy (both of the plastic and nylon persuasion) and they simply HAD to have my autograph. I had just split up from Richard Burton and was needing the adulation.

“And where would you like me to sign, ladies. Oh on this Doctor Seuss book? Really? You won’t get into trouble for defacing it? No? OK then…

“Oh I don’t have a pen, my dears. Whatever shall I do?.

“A lipstick, you say? Well, I do believe I have one of those”

So there I am, clutching Avon’s top-selling “Pink Sensation”, camply flouncing about the bedroom signing my Best Wishes to Matel’s finest young ladies. Autographing my little heart out I was, because once I signed one, then a crowd appeared and...well, I couldn’t disappoint loyal fans, could I?

The book was ruined.

Once I came out of my heady celebrity stupor, I realised that I was going to have to come clean and tell my mum what I had done. This wasn’t going to be easy, since I had already drawn on her wedding shoes with felt tip pen some days previously.

On his return from work that day, my dad said he would have to take me to the library and explain what had happened to “the library lady”. I was utterly terrified. He kept me believing this for a day or so, but when the Library Night came I meekly asked him if I could just sit in the car.

He agreed, and I guess he thought my terror was enough of a lesson learned, as he went in alone to pay the price of the book. Looking back, he was probably laughing at me, the way I do when I have to give my kids a row to teach them a lesson, but am secretly laughing my ass off at them.

So here I am, too chicken to just go to the perfectly lovely library ladies with the stinking Parson’s volume and just hand it over, pay the fine and get it off my conscience. I am actually seriously just thinking of paying the invoice and keeping the book, to avoid embarrassment.

I don’t know. What would Elizabeth Taylor do?

Secrets and Lies

What everyone hates about soap operas is the fact that their storylines are too chock filled with outrageous events to ever make any pretense at realism. But isn’t that just because we can’t see into the houses and private lives of our neighbours? Believe me, there's a lot going on.

On brief reflection there is enough material just in our street to get a good few episodes off the ground.

What do you reckon to these storylines?

1. Husband leaves wife after cross continent affair with South Korean scientist. Wife previously unaware of relationship as she serves Christmas dinner to husband’s lover.

2. Police and social work called after chip shop owner allows three year old boy to play on the fenceless flat roof of his two storey building.

3. Wife begs husband of thirty years not to leave her when she finds out he is having a serious relationship with a woman whom he initially met whilst paying for her services.

4. Local (churchgoing) lady has two year affair after 24 years of marriage with family friend. The pair often have sex in fields and golf courses as well as both marital homes. Husband is unaware despite her openly flaunting the relationship in front of him. Worse than that is the suspicion that her daughter has also been involved with the same man at the same time.

5. Woman has to get restraining order on ex-partner after he makes nuisance calls, breaks into her house and sends in slanderous comments about her family to local newspaper.

6. Police raid rented 4 four bedroomed house used by Asian gang to grow cannabis worth over £3 million.

7. Woman is hunted down like a dog after it is revealed that she has been blogging about the secrets of her neighbours.

That’s just one wee street! In one wee village! And that’s not even mentioning the wife swapping that I’m sure goes on with one set of couples. And before you ask we are involved in none of the above (Except 7. Which is more of a premonition).

No really, we're not.

Teenage Kicks

I have found a wonderful piece of Misssy history in the basement. Wonderful yet embarrassing.

From about the age of fourteen I kept a A4 lined sheet of paper on which I would record my Top Ten Men. I maintained it for about six years. It is comedy gold.

Some of the entries make me wonder what the blazes I was on.

Like in 1983, Nick Rhodes from Duran Duran set the adolescent Misssy heart racing. But Nick Rhodes is practically a lady-boy, so I don’t get that. This information would add fuel to the flames of the growing theory my token gay mate, Mr McC, has about me being a closet lesbian (in a see-though attempt to get me to give up my husband). His theory is based on me admitting I practised a kiss on my mate G at 12 and that I cried at “Brokeback Mountain”. Me being in love with someone who looked like Toyah would delight him.

I cannot explain this

The next year I seem to come to my senses and promote John Taylor from Duran Duran to the top of the league relegating Nick to 7th place. Much better. Any 15 year old girl not in love with John Taylor at that time would really need to be taken to a doctor to get checked out.

Oooh even now...even now...

A constant throughout is Sting, yet these days I feel able to lambast the former object of my affection on Celebrity Litigation (my other, funnier blog) with ease. It’s taken me this long to realise Sting is an arse. Still, drummer Stewart Copeland seems to always feature in the lists too, and I still would.

But just look at him in the seventies, he wasn't an arse yet!

I have a fleeting two year dalliance with Dave Gahan from Depeche Mode and then the year after I’m all about the Smiths with Morrissey and Johnny Marr tussling over me in the top two.

This is about the time I started going to gigs and my lust coincides with going to see Depeche Mode and the Smiths live, I reckon. I tell you, that Dave Gahan might have been a smackhead but boy can that man move.

Dave regretting not running off with the sixteen year old Missy when he had the chance

Moving onto the University years I’m all excited about the more dangerous type with Anthony Keidis from the Chilli Peppers, Ian Astbury from the Cult and Peter Murphy from Bauhaus all featuring. But there’s a surprise entry from Robert Smith of The Cure who I must say I would definitely laugh at naked, so I can only assume I wrote that entry drunk.

But naked?

However one person who wasn’t on the list was my first love who featured in my dreams much earlier in my life; Donny Osmond. He was on telly last night being interviewed by Piers Morgan. I wonder how many other women of my age tuned in last night?

Sigh!

A phenomenon in his day, but imagine trying to market the young Donny to today’s teens?

Faceless music industry type: “OK sell this kid to me”

Donny's Manager: “Well, he’s a teenager, former child star, worked in variety, doesn’t drink, lives with his parents, doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, has a variety show with his kid sister, is a Mormon…Hello, hello are you still there? Hello?”

Mind you I went all funny last night when they played a wee snippet with him leaping about to “Crazy Horses”. Much to the delight of Meeester who took the piss out of me in the same way he probably did his sisters back in the day.

Still it could have been worse, I could have been born five years later like my sister, who has to own up to having posters of Shakin’ Stevens all over her bedroom…

You’re not going to live that down, are you? Well not if I’ve got anything to do with it.

Shaky: Wrong...just plain wrong

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Apparently it's intenational delurking day. So if you've lurked or lurk then you've to post a comment and make yourself known. Even if you just popped in to see what the whole duffle coats on nipples comment was about in the last post. Even if you were looking for a former porn star called Misssy M and are now severely disappointed. Just say hello..anything. Then you can go back to lurking, if you want.

That is all.

Dawn of the Misssives

I don’t blog about blogging as a rule. But I have been tagged to write about the evolution of the Misssives by the Flying Tattooed Atheist, Mr American Scot, and he’s bigger than me, so I better get to it. I’m not going to take you on a trawl of previous Misssives, you can do that yourself (good luck with that one! Maybe get yourself a hobby while you're at it?)

I am going to write about The Dawn of the Misssives.

Last year I went on two mammoth trips. In April I took ten college students to Finland for a two week exchange. Then in July I accompanied my husband, a couple of his schoolteacher colleagues and twenty-four school pupils on a school trip to Sri Lanka.

I had never even heard of blogging really. And I had only ever read one blog; that of a friend who blogged about her leukaemia that was discovered whilst she was carrying twins (all now healthy!). It never occurred to me to blog anything.

I have always done a good bit of travelling and during those times abroad, I have been a prolific letter writer and latterly, emailer. Finland was no exception. When you are the the only lecturer in sea of teens/twenty somethings, you need to vent somewhat. So, I wrote a series of emails to a group of friends and family, which helped me not only cope with the responsibility, but see the funny side of potentially horrendous incidents.

All of these stories will come out in the Misssives in time, as each one is worthy of its own post, but I’ll give you an idea of the content of the emails that came forth from the Arctic Tundra of Finland and plopped into the inboxes of my people back home:

1. Oh my god, naked sauna! With the students? You are kidding me!

2. Oh my god, a Finnish traditional food banquet! Bleuuurgh! Fish eyes?

3. Oh my god, Finnish blokes are like something out of Lord of the Rings, I must photograph the worst of them!

4. Oh my god! Two of my male students did a three way with a Finnish girl! And I know about it! Whyyyyy?

5. Oh my god! How do I get out of staying at the dull Finnish male teacher’s house for the weekend?

6. Oh my God, I went ice swimming! I can hang wet duffel coats on my nipples, four hours after! (See photo)



7. Oh my God, I met the presenter of Finnish “Have I Got News for You”, or as they say in Finland “Uuitisvuouto”(see photo!)



8. Oh my God, some of the students are doing my nut in! And I’m not allowed to kill them!

What was annoying about the Finnish emails was that I now have no record of them. I would love to read them now and have a laugh at what we did.

After all these epic emails, my people kept on telling me how funny they were. Mainly, they were laughing fuelled by Schadenfreude, I guessed. So, when Sri Lanka came round, they expected more of the same, but I had to find a better way of doing it.

So, like in most situations where I don’t know how to do something new fangled, I asked my students and they put me onto Myspace, which apparently has a blog function.

For the whole of the Sri Lanka trip I told stories via my Myspace blog, and it did the job just fine. After about two months of being home, I missed the writing part. I wanted to tell more stories; I realised I didn't have to be abroad to have stuff to say. I used the myspace blog and I began to get more and more readers.

Then, I saw my friend Cammy’s blog on something called blogspot and it just looked and felt more serious, so I flipped over to blogspot and this is where you find me now.
I post on here, and I copy the posts over to myspace for my readers there a day later.

I think about blogging the same way I think about tattoos. Don’t decide you want a tattoo and then choose whatever comes to mind to have done like you're at a Pick 'n' Mix counter in Woolworths. Have something so beautiful and personal that you absolutely must have it emblazoned via some permanent medium, like a tattoo.

The same goes for blogging, in my opinion. Don’t just decide to write a blog. Have something you want people to know, stories you want to tell, and then use the medium of blogging to do that.

And don’t blog about blogging. It means you’ve run out of stories.

Damn!