gggggggupcha, ggella gggella....

I’m sure my fans (like Jesus when he first started out, I have a small but devoted following of around 12 people) were wildly disappointed when I missed last week’s blog post.  I was airborne in more than one sense and unable to write.  Flying over the North Pole didn’t make me feel as high as you’d expect (blasted cloud cover) but I daresay the concoction of Excedrin, Neurofen, Antihistamine and several Bloody Mary’s did. God love Emirates Airlines and the near sexual favours I had to perform to secure my emergency exit seat. Verbal striptease I like to call it.

Because there really is a God out there, I was able to rest up my puffy airline ankles (where did my leg end and the foot begin?) overnight in Dubai.  But I need to start with my moment of arrival. After 17 hours of flying - sitting next to a woman from Iran whom I might add, was clearly competing with me for all the vodka and whiskey on the trolley - I was relieved to land on terra firma. Sitting stationary for an eternity left me unsure of whether my wobbly legs were very light, or very heavy.  Gravity I tell you. Gets me every time.

As we queued in the arrivals hall, I gazed round in wonder.  This, I decided, is what heaven must be like.  Every single surface has a sheen to it, the smell of expensive perfume permeated the air and the upright pillars that supported the well-lit ceiling were (I shit you not) white, with sparkly bits in the mix.  It was as if Dubai’s architectural sultan said “find me every shiny, twinkly surface that has ever been made and bring it hither for my construction”. Wait, was that violins I heard? A “NO CAMPING” sign would have completed the illusion for me.

But for the bad publicity that Islam has suffered over the last 9 years, the immigration officials looked almost angelic in their white Thobes and Ghutra’s.  I felt the effect would have been complete if they could have chosen garlands instead of black igals to hold their ghutras in place. I know black and white is classic but the contrast was all too harsh darling, all too harsh.

If French is the language of love, Italian the language of food and Afrikaans the language of clearing-your-throat, then surely Arabic is the language of cussing.  Why do they sound so pissed off the whole time? The noises they make are akin to someone’s last words as they are being garroted. Ggggggupcha gggella gggella gaaaaaa. Their much shaking of hands, heads and fingers reinforces my assumption.  I prayed they wouldn’t find a stray poppy seed from my breakfast roll amongst my clothes. I can’t imagine what they would sound like if they really were pissed off. 

I reflect on the graffiti that someone scratched onto the elevator door.  Aladdin. I wonder how many there are here? I consider scratching “open sesame” alongside but decide against it - hidden cameras are forever on my mind and I'm pretty sure the UAE has a zero tolerance attitude towards vandalism. I get to my room and flick the light switch.  Nothing.  I immediately assume that this is how they enforce “night-time is bed-time”.  After going through a series of stretching exercises that involve keeping the door open with my toe (picture a small shaft of corridor light) and feeling up every wall surface within reach, I eventually find a nifty little box that says “place card here”. Bingo, but how the hell am I supposed to find the dang box in the dark? Now I'm convinced that there are hidden cameras filming me and I am the butt end of some arabic joke. I'm impressed however, that they are realistic about the heat here. The windows don’t open at all. 


En route to the dining hall I stop at the hotel curio shop.  As you may know, permitted images on decor are limited and there's a lot of geometric shit going down on wall hangings and such, though they clearly have no problem with camels. Apparently, when it comes to Dubai men’s fashion, nothing goes better with metallic than metallic. I spot a leather jacket with fur trim for sale and have to wonder WTF? Do locals turn up the aircon full tilt just so they can have a chance to wear winter fashions? Also, from what I’ve seen on TV here so far, I can only say that costume design in Arabic countries must be a very dull career choice indeed. 

I will end my report on Dubai by saying this; they clearly pay no attention to time – 3am is no different to 3pm for them, their toilets have dangerously high water levels (maybe to encourage bidet use?), and if you want to see crushing crowds – go to the 18carrat section at the airport Gold shop. Oh, and perhaps steer away from anything that says "minced meat".  I don't doubt it.

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real rack

Obviously, as I arrived in the USA this week, I have stumbled upon a myriad of hot topics for blogging. Probably enough to fuel a lifetime of writing, such is the funniness of the American nation.  That might be a bit unfair really, because truth be told I find lots of things funny about lots of foreign nations.  

OK, so after we’ve gone for a powerful power walk, spotted a dolphin, chatted about crap and had a fiercely frozen smoothie, we end up in Belmont Shore.  At least I think it’s where we were. I’ve been very confused since arriving in California because all the neighbourhoods look so similar to me - probably because they are so similar. Even though I am still wearing my sporty “Wheelchair-man Fetish” lycra leggings (which trust me, is a frightening story for another day), we feel smart enough to cruise the shops and check out what’s happenin’ stateside in the fashion world.  After trawling a few costume shops - remember Halloween is round the corner - and pondering the appropriateness of some costumes (Sexy Harem Girl, Hospital Scrubs Girl and Wicked Nurse Knockout spring to mind) we find a really cool boutique called Saga.  

The clothes were great, but what really got my attention was a screen in the shop. Not so discreetly tucked away, it was playing an advertorial on a loop for a product called Pick-Me-Up breast lift tape.  It starts with showing a woman’s breasts, naked as the day they reached puberty. One is covered by something I later found out is called a “Smooth’em Nipple Concealer”,  which actually looks much, much more tragic than it sounds.  At first I thought it was plastic surgery gone wrong.  You know, like they mislaid the poor woman’s nipple during the procedure and decided to put a piece of flat pinkish fabric there instead, hoping of course that she’d never notice.  Then you see a finely groomed woman’s hand niftily placing a oblong shaped, transparent sticker thing over the other breast.  

The finely groomed hand first attaches it along the bottom of the breast, just below the remaining nipple, hikes the breast up and sticks it to the flesh just under the collarbone. Now, although there is a great improvement in breast perkiness, I have to say that it looks like a bad joke waiting to happen. What happens if you are a sweaty person (everyone is in a nightclub, aren’t they?) and this causes the adhesive to become unstuck.  I can just see the scene unfolding.  Guy notices girl in bar.  Guy goes over to chat her up. Guy notices incredibly perky breasts. Girl notices guy noticing incredibly perky breasts. Girl gets all sweaty and nervous because she knows perkiness is fake. Sweat causes adhesive to stop working. Guy notices one breast dropping down un-nervingly quickly to less perkiness. Guy withdraws offer to buy girl a drink. Girl is so embarrassed that she never regains her normal skin tone.  Really, it’s just to horrific to think about. 

Me being the weirdo I am, I quickly write down the www address and vow to look up this product as soon as we’re home.  The site is called purestylegirlfriends.com but it should be called faketitsandarse.com. Here, very briefly, are some of the products you can purchase. Bump and Jump-a-cup (bigger - always bigger - with more cleavage), Bump-a-Booty (pads to sculpt and shape the derrière - because butts always need more padding, right?), Cover-a-cup (who knows) Gather-the-girls (to gather together wayward tits that are holidaying under your armpits) and of course my all time favorites - Smooth ‘em Non or fully Adhesive’s (to squish and cover nipples).

I cannot imagine a guys disappointment, and a girl’s embarrassment, when they finally get into the sack.  Her spell on him will be broken the minute he discovers that not only are her breasts saggy and wayward, but her bum ain’t nothing butt.  It’s like lying about being clever.  Sooner or later you’re just going to sound dumb.

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doesn't taste like chicken...

We went camping this past weekend.  Normally, coming from me, that would be enough said. But camping is a can of worms for another day.  One of the shorties that came on the trip was sick.  He announced it quite loudly when he arrived so I made my kids eat two oranges in quick succession to be on the safe side.  I also threatened them with a fierce lashing if they shared the sick shortie’s bowl, glass or general breathing space. My oldest son got the rotor virus on our first camping trip (who takes a one year old camping? Duh!) and it kind of tainted the whole outdoorsy experience for me.  Again I digress; this is about kids and medicine.

Why do kids need drugs in the first place? Because they get sick. If ever there was a mammoth design flaw, it would be that kids have to get sick at all. Until you’re old enough to read a novel, watch 5 DVD’s back to back and - dare I say - embrace drugs wholeheartedly, you shouldn’t get sick. It should just be a universal truth. Like you can’t get knocked up before puberty.  You know, that kind of a rule.

I feel there’s a big market out there for something like fake medicine for kids.  Something that tastes sort of like medicine, but much, much nicer. The rationale behind my thinking is that by the time the little blighters actually fall ill, taking medicine is old hat. 

The main thing about kid’s medicine is the taste. It seems to be impossibly tricky to make medicine that doesn’t taste like toilet cleaner. Said sick camper confirmed this. He wouldn’t even touch the stuff he normally likes, never mind wolf down the chalky, banana flavoured anti-biotics his poor mother was trying to administer. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure bananas should be banana flavoured. And as for the whole chalky consistency… not really one of the winning textures for oral consumption. Apropos antibiotics, I’ve had a strong feeling for quite some time that they should be made in suppository form. Now that would be a solution. Psst, slip ‘em one while they’re sleeping.  In fact ALL kid’s medicine should be in suppository form. 

  

As for Buscopan, supposedly for stomach cramps, I have a theory. It tastes so vile that it makes you puke your guts out, so the cramps go away. It’s a no gut no cramp theory. I just know it’s manufactured in Lucifer’s Laboratory and the year it was invented it won the “Most Disgusting Medicine Award”. How they expect anyone to get that stuff down, let alone keep it down, I have no idea. 

And lastly, a word of warning; whatever you do, don’t try Omega 3 in syrup form. It seems like a cunningly good idea but know that it tastes like you’ve’ given a dodgy salmon a blowjob. 

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what's in a name...

I have to give my friend Sean credit for this blog idea. I wish I had thought of it first, but I didn’t and it was simply too good to pass up. His mail to me (concisely put I thought) said quite simply, ‘Jamie Oliver has named his latest kid Buddy Bear. (Ok, he actually said brat, but he doesn’t mean it like that. He’s evil but delightful.) The others are called Petal Blossom Rainbow, Daisy Boo and Poppy Honey. After you have finished vomiting, perhaps there is a future article in this.’

Why in the name of God would you set up your own flesh and blood for such ridicule? I remember thinking when Poppy Honey was born that the name was quite cute. You know, because he is a cook and all and doesn’t like to stray too far from foodie words.

But Buddy Bear? Cheese, that’s going to sit really well with him when he’s a strapping teenager. Let’s not even mention that his poor girlfriend/wife/lover will have to call out “Oh Buddy Bear” in the throes of passion. Yup, that’s sexy right there folks. Poor bloke, he’s going to have to introduce himself as “Hi, I’m Jamie Oliver’s son” for the rest of his life. As for Petal Blossom (because we didn’t quite catch the flower theme on the first name) Rainbow (implying rainbow coloured florals?)  and Daisy (again with the garden talk) Boo (Boo, gave you a fright? Boo Hoo? Boo Radley? Boo is close to Pooh?) Quite frankly, there are no words.

It’s not only celebrities who come up with joke-worthy names for their kids. Why, in my very own Grandmothers family, all nine sisters were all called a different version of Sue.  Sue, Soekie, Susanna, Ou Soes, Soesie and who knows what the feck else. It’s like those redneck brothers in that TV show from the eighties.  You know, Newheart…. "Hi, I'm Larry, this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl.  

I suppose I should be grateful for parents who are creative when they decide on names for their children.  A popular inspiration, I’m sure you’ll agree, is when parent’s combine their names to create a wholly new name. Or they combine two names they do like to create one name that neither of them like. Just Google “combining names” and see just how many people out there think this a cunning idea. As one site puts it; There are no wrong names. (Er, I beg to differ) Combining parts of Mom and Dad are what makes this baby special in the first place. (Riiiight.) Still, you have to marvel; Petronella comes from Peter and Ronelle.  Fredella comes from Fred and Ella. Vanessa and Lisette make a stunning Vannette, and joining Jessica and Faye means you get to be… Jessaye.*  Who can guess where names like Shanaaz, Hilette and Denvey originate from.  I’m only grateful Victoria and David Beckham didn’t decide to do this.  Brooklyn (TMI to know where you were conceived BTW) could have been Vivid, and Romeo might have been Davoria.

Needless to say, I knew a girl who changed her name when she was in her twenties.  I wondered why and secretly hoped I’d finally met someone who was on the run from the law.  She wasn’t, poor girl. It was because her parents had named her Griekie.

To end off, just because I’m so fond of poking fun at celebrities and all, I’ve made a list of some of some of my favorites:

Zuma – son to Gwen Stefani. Clearly. Because he’s such a great role model.

Kal-el – son to Nicholas Cage. Because Arabic names are so hip right now.  Let’s not forget the Kal-el was also Superman’s birth name.

Coco – daughter to Courtney Cox.  Very original.  We’d never have guessed.

Peaches Honeyblossom – daughter to Bob Geldof.  Never too far from the hippie era.

Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily – daughter to Michael Hutchence.  An obviously choice because it just rolls of the tongue, doesn’t it?

Teddy Jo, Speck Wildhorse and Hud – sons of John Cougar Mellencamp.  Understandable I suppose. I mean if you voluntarily adopted the middle name Cougar for yourself.  Also, it ain’t southern if it ain’t two names or single syllable.

Apple and Moses – offspring of Gwyneth Paltrow. Ok, I get it. Your names Gwyneth. You wanted to keep it simple.

Zahara Marley, Maddox Chivan, Siloh Nouvel, Pax Thien – football team belonging to Brad and Angelina. We’re so cool, so rich and co good looking we can name our kids whatever we want.

Sparrow. Genderless offspring to Nicole Ritchie. Mmmm. One flew over the cuckoo’s nest?

Hopper – son to Sean Penn – not a lot I can say about this one.

Kyd – son to David Duchovny – very short sighted. Kyd for short time, adult for longer.

Last but not least…

Jermajesty – son to Jermaine Jackson.  Not at all because he was trying to outdo brother MJ’s Prince Michael 1, Prince Michael 2 and Paris Michael.

*I shit you not.  These are real combinations that I found on the web. Frightening.

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allies unite...

I know why wrinklies, specifically grandparents, get along so well with kids - they have so much in common.  True, there are some oldies out there (Grumpy Old Farts - a.k.a GOF’s) who don’t want to ackowledge  the similarity but my advice to them is: make allies where you can. In order to demonstrate my theory, I’ve made a list of  the similarities between wrinklies and kids. This is well researched and written whilst sober. More or less.

They have to wear flat, sensible shoes with non-slip soles. They have to eat food that’s easy to chew and even easier to digest. Under no circumstances serve them spicy food. Upsets their mind before it upsets their stomach. They miss the point. They take a long time to get to the point. They very often can’t see the point at all, even after it’s pointed out. They think they know everything. They pretend to know everything. They’ll tell you everything they think you ought to know.

They have a flexible approach when it comes to time-keeping. No wait, make that a complete disregard for time-keeping. They get cranky in restaurants when the waiter doesn’t come quickly with their food.  They get cranky about quite a lot of things, most of which are things you can do absolutely nothing about.

They make funny noises when they eat. They pee in their pants. Strike that and make it, they struggle to keep many of their bodily fluids where they belong. They don’t always realise when there is food stuck on  their face.  

They are prone to dawdling. They walk slowly on purpose, just to irritate you.  They walk slowly unintentionally, but it still irritates you. They repeat themselves. A lot. They repeat their jokes. A lot. They can make you contemplate pouring your evening drink a little early. They take a really long time to tell a really short story.

They dress themselves in weird clothes then comment on the clothes that other people are wearing. They stare at strangers. They point at strangers. They (seemingly) don’t really care what people think of them. 

They steal shiny things. They lie about their age. They forget their age. They’re quite nosy. They’re petulant when they don’t get their own way. They swear under their breath. They swear out loud at inopportune moments.  They talk to themselves. They’re frightened by loud noises, unless that is, they’re making it themselves. They’re not big on compromise and though they’re actually quite adaptable, they’d rather inconvenience you than inconvenience themselves.  I think perhaps the only thing (other than having a good memory, that is) that they don’t have in common is a blue-rinse. But I’ll bet if you asked a kid, well hell, they'd be all for it.

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my dark side ...

There really wasn’t anything that had me laughing about families or kids this week. Unsurprisingly really, because possibly they’re mostly a bit bloody ho-hum. I managed to steer clear of smack, booze (mostly) and valium which I think is not only noteworthy but proves that I’m really putting my back into this role-model slash mothering business. So what do you do when you feel your week’s been a bit mundane? You experiment with your bodily functions of course. Here’s my brief foray into my dark side.

Over time I’ve read a lot of literature (in retrospect, maybe too much) about the benefits of having a clean colon. Now, I can’t consciously remember ever having gone in there to do a spring-clean myself and apparently All Bran doesn’t actually cut as much mustard as you’d think. Mmm, what to do?  The thought of having someone stick a pipe up my rear-end just seemed too dire as an initial step. What sort of conversation could I possibly strike up with the person doing it I have to wonder?  I decided the next best thing would be to give an “Iso-Osmotic Bowel Clearance Solution” a whirl.

I think the name they give it  - Klean-Prep - somewhat glosses over it’s true potential. It should be called “Complete Overhaul” or “Power hose pipe-wash”, something like that.  To indicate the potency of this stuff I’ll say this. There are four sachets per pack and after drinking the contents of just one sachet – which I hasten to add, gets mixed into one whole litre of water – I was sure that all my innards had pretty much entirely disintegrated.  

You’re supposed to down 250ml of Satan’s Solution every 15 min. Even under normal circumstances, drinking four litres of anything in four hours can make you feel like puking.  Add to that four litres of water, four sachets of evil tasting Iso-osmotic Bowel Clearance Solution and quite frankly, there should be some sort of award if you can keep it all down.  Not least of all because the solution hardly tastes like a solution at all.  In fact it never ceases to amaze me how things that are supposedly good for you – like solutions – taste like they come from bowels of Lucifer, and things that are supposedly bad for you – like chocolate and whiskey – taste like they are made in God’s kitchen itself.

I blame myself, really, for not taking the time to gain more insight into what the experience held.  Here are a few clues I gleaned (after the fact) from the packaging and insert:

1. Eat no solid food for at least 2 hours before taking Klean-Prep.  I can only assume that this is so you don’t ruin your relationship with the foodstuff that you may have consumed. 

2. Klean-Prep is designed to cleanse the bowel and will cause diarrhoea-like watery bowel movements. A more accurate description would be: hold onto your seat because your rear-end’s going to have the kick of a fire hose

3. The first of these liquid bowel movements should occur within 1-2 hours of starting to drink the solution.  How about: 5mins after you get your first 250ml down, you will let out and exceptionally loud fart, one so loud that it has people running for cover, three houses away. 5 min after that, you will start shooting through the eye of a needle.

4. You should stay near a toilet while talking Klean-Prep. They say that like you have any choice in the matter. Even Johnny Depp couldn’t tempt me to stray from the toilet.

5. Nausea, abdominal fullness and bloating may be experienced. Tick. Abdominal cramps, vomiting and anal irritation can occur.  Tick.  The only thing they left out is that it actually affects your vision.  Truly.  Your bowels must be connected to your eyes in some way because I was weeping and the room went blurry. At some stage I think I saw stars.

Amongst other things, unless completely necessary, I now avoid boxes with words like diarrhoea, nausea, cramps, vomiting and irritation. Just spelling them makes me feel them. I’m also investigating whether it’s legal to combine so many types of Sodium (who knew?) into one preparation.  I feel sure there’s should be a law against it.

In closing, I swear so help me God that nothing I have ever ingested (in my past few lifetimes, even) has any aromatic resemblance with what came out in the end, or at the end.  I was left with the horrific realisation that just a few minutes before, that odour actually resided inside me. The bonus of this exercise, however, is that I’m sure that if I stand in front of a fan with my mouth wide open, I will actually be able to whistle out my bum.  Now that’s not something you can do every day.

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the kitchen's closed...

Celebrity parents. It’s enough to make you want to chew your arm off, really.  Of all the truly mind blowing things that celebrities say, the most irritating have to be the things they blab about parenting. 

        

For starters… “We’re very hands on and don’t have a lot of help.”  Um, riiiight.  Let me get this straight. You have like, three to six kids and you don’t have a “lot” of help?  Puh-leeeease.  You and Mr Handsome-pants are away for work (modeling, singing, acting, designing your fashion range, getting caught philandering) for what, 4-8 weeks of the year?  Even if you fly the coop at different times, that would mean for roughly 8-16 weeks of the year, only one parent at a time is responsible for the whole shebang?  

I can only assume that their idea of  “not a lot of help” is very different to mine.   I’m sorry, truly I am, but I simply cannot believe, nor picture, one celebrity parent doing the hard yards with two, let alone six, kids. On their own.  With not a “lot” of help.  Given that they also have to take time out to learn lines, have meetings, socialise, get pampered and preened, rehearse, practice, smoke joints, get pampered and preened, go to the gym and get their plastic surgery done, it would seem that they may just be pony-ing up the truth.  Just a bit. Cheeses. We’re hands on… gimme a break.

My favorite quotes have to be the ones on nutrition.  Heidi Klum – bless her tiny size six bum – was quoted saying something like: “We all eat the same meal, right from the baby to the oldest.  And when the kitchen is closed, the kitchen is closed."  (She did say, in fairness, that the baby’s food is liquidized.)  Given Mrs Seals svelte form, I’d say the kitchen was probably never really open in the first place.  And if it was, it couldn’t have been for very long.  Anyone who has tried to get a baby, toddler or child to settle when they are still hungry, knows that it is a daring statement to say, “the kitchen is closed”.  Unless, that is, the “little bit of help” is getting up to fix a snack for the offending hungry child while the folks aren’t looking.

And then, folks, there’s Tom Cruise.  Poster boy for the Vitamins to Cure Post-natal Depression Campaign.  And all this time I thought he was an actor and not a world famous Psychiatrist!  Shame on me.  Er, Tom dear, it’s called Complimentary Medicine.  It’s supposed to compliment not replace, the other medicine you might need.  Geddit?  You can tell that his split between spending time in the real word and on a set is not quite equal - that green screen may finally be getting to him. Vitamin advice, dear friends, from a man who hasn’t even had the balls to age gracefully. Perhaps I should write him a note telling him that anti-oxidants, vitamins and good nutrition are recommended for staying youthful? Plastic surgery, Tom? Nope, not me. Botox Tom?  Bo whaaat?  Fillers Tom?  Never even heard of them!  Real natural, Tom.  No really, we can tell. Nice one.

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