Dear Mr Jon Richardson (Comedian Extraordinaire and Swindonia-Dweller),
Having watched your impeccably cute and hilarious self on Graham Norton recently; I can’t help but think that we might be a perfect match. I know you are incredibly hard to please, what with your OCD issues and all. I know you remain stringent in your beliefs that relationships, no matter how in love you are, will end in hideous, heartbreaking catastrophe. I even know you live alone in Swindon having spent the last seven years single (how?). But you see, I too, have a morbid fascination with the tragedies and woes of love and all that comes with it, albeit along with a more hopeful outlook. I too, have used my rather hilarious heartbreak stories for the literary entertainment of others, another common stepping stone on which we both totter; AND am burying myself in the dark and tragic novel I am currently author-ing, on which I believe you could be heavily influential.
I am meticulously clean and tidy (aside from my office – but that’s really a size issue - I say office, think cupboard), but not to the compulsive levels of your self-diagnosed disorder, therefore, balancing out a future heavenly homelife, complete with alphabeticalised and chronologicalised CDs and DVDs and labelled tins in perpendicular positioning.
There is also the small factor of you being extremely gorgeous, a little bit grumpy and Northern; all of which I have developed quite the penchant for. In fact, since first setting eyes on your slightly awkward frame and boyish locks Mr Richardson, on an episode of Have I Got News For You; I can oft be found fantasizing about our sweet, but spotless, Yorkshire cottage, in which I am fussing around you and your beer-belly of contentment, pinnied and trussed up in true pin-up housewife style. There will be your dogs, my cats, our creative and neurotic children, casseroles bubbling in the oven and book deals flying through the letterbox.
Sounds a little too good to be true, I know. So what say we stick the finger up at The Big Plan and other such neurosis, and try proving ourselves wrong by making each other happy?!
Let me know your thoughts, or your next available dates in Londinium. I look forward to hearing from you
Miss Musing
And back to reality…
Am currently sat, in the sun-trap of my parent’s back garden, amidst the wafting smoke of the first BBQs of the season and the persistent leg-brushing of my ADHD-ridden cat – it’s 6pm, tea should be in the bowl, crunchy topping added by now. For me, there is a calmness around my life at the moment, a sort of enjoyable peace that comes with not being stressed at work and not worrying myself stupid over things that I simply cannot, for the moment at least, control. The book is happening, the holiday is much in discussion. And Kopparberg’s Strawberry and Lime cider is in existence. Life is good.
April is shaping up to be my favourite month of the year so far. Not only have I been in the presence of the Great Min (see last Blog); I’ve had the pleasure of working with Steffi, my wonderful new ASM for a full three weeks now, gave Lovemenot the bestest Birthday weekend known to man, made a decision to pursue a career as a Burlesque star AND been touched, literally, by the legend that is Thomas Peter Meighan…of Kasabian (best band ever) fame! It sure is tough being me…
We saw March out with a weekend of celebrations for Lovemenot’s big Two Four. Of course she was treated to only the finest champagne breakfast and homemade cupcakes, all lovingly put together by yours truly during the day, plus a leisurely jaunt around the hidden trinkets of Angel High Street. But a night out at Queen of Hoxton, followed by some impromptu salsa dancing at Drunken Monkey, after narrowly escaping a childish brawl between two teenagers in the street, pretty much fitted the bill for our Friday night. East London sure is fun when the bouncers get chucking.
I was the one in the dusky playsuit with deep purple lipstick and an aversion to old men with backpacks (Lovemenot was being too nice, what with it being her Birthday and all). You were the boy with the beautiful face and the oversized 8 Mile-inspired clothing, I envisaged a checked shirt and fitted jeans, but you had disappeared before I got a chance to Gok your wardrobe or, in fact, correct your friend on his sideglancing Jessie J comment. Shame!
The fun didn’t end there, despite a full weekend of work for me. As usual I managed to drag myself to work, after another 4.30am finish, only to Red Bull it up for another cosy pub night the following evening. Sunday, we were treated by our lovely friend, to tickets to the highly acclaimed Hurly Burly Burlesque Show. A contemporary burlesque romp starring the impeccable Miss Polly Rae and directed by William Baker (he’s best friends with Kylie, don’t you know) that, was not only thrilling to watch, but re-ignited my secret desire to learn and perform the art of burlesque under my already devised pseudonym. Lady Amelie Fatale…coming soon to a run down pub near you?
It was only the week later that on a random lunch break stroll, I got over excited at a Facebook post from Kasabian stating that living legend Tom Meighan was flying back from San Francisco to DJ, for one night only, at Proud 2 (Proud’s little sister venue neatly tucked away at the O2 complex). Not only that, but the first 25 people to email would get free VIP guestlist places. I didn’t think it was possible, considering the post was an hour old, that I would be one of the lucky 25, but chance overtook me and I emailed straight away. Only to get an immediate response confirming that I was on the list and could bring up to 15 friends with me. In the end there were not 15 of us, there was me and there was Lovemenot and a bunch of lame excuses from everyone else, so screw them, we were off to party with Tom.
After we had got over the architectural marvel that is Proud 2, in all its chandeliered, artistic walled glory; we hit the dance floor to vintage MJ and the likes. There were checked shirts left, right and centre and an excellent DJ set from Alex of Hot Chip fame. God he’s miserable.
There was a boy. He had all the usual trappings to send me off in a whirlwind of uncontrollable lust. Slightly short and elfin in appearance, he was slumped over the bar when Lovemenot and I left the dancefloor, and the empty stares of Alex from Hot Chip, to refuel with water. I should have seen it coming when he asked Lucy if he knew her – here we had a wasted little player, perhaps one to steer clear of. But no, he had to open his mouth and tell me I was ‘beautiful in a Pulp Fiction sort of way’…in a Northern accent. Cut to Lovemenot trying to drag me back on to the dancefloor in anticipation of Tom’s arrival. He was James, he was 23 and he was barely coherent. We kissed, he slurred, I was unsure what was going on but he was very very cute and I was very very keen to talk to him some more. Lovemenot was near enough tapping her feet, having been abandoned for a short while, so we had another cheeky kiss and went our separate ways, I was hopeful of spotting him again in the crowd.
Just a few minutes later…the crowd was surging (or perhaps Serge-ing!) forward, the lights were low and I spotted a familiar wasted face in the crowd…drunk James…he was back….and had no recollection of who I was WHATSOEVER. So much so, that he was chatting Lovemenot up right in front of me, and when she waived his advances, he immediately turned his attentions to the poor girl directly in front of us. One can only assume that under his poor Rowley-imitation looks, he had little to no personality and perhaps a psychological need to be wanted by everyone (short men often have this problem, I find). Another one smacked straight onto the Twat Pile.
Of course I couldn’t possibly finish this Blog without mentioning the arrival of Mr Meighan himself. The lights had dimmed, a random DJ man was building the crowd up and there were scores of screaming men and women. Then he appeared, beautiful as ever and probably on something. Having been front row at a Kasabian gig before, I was in full anticipation of Tom’s charismatic stage presence and unrivalled sex appeal. I was not disappointed as he Jaggered it up next to his DJ friend sending out heart shapes to the crowd and dancing like a mad man. Divinity derives from Leicester my friends.
Cut to nearly the end of the evening, the world literally slowed down as the delectable Mr Meighan, having nearly wrecked half the equipment, stepped out from the behind the decks. He was mincing towards the front of the stage, where I was swooning next to Lovemenot, hands outstretched. Lo and behold, as if in a dream, Meighan’s hands grabbed both of mine. In that moment, much like 2009 when general lyrics were thrown in my direction, we were connected. Sad as it seems, these moments all still mean a lot to me. Thank you Tom, thank you.
As I sit finishing off this rather rambling entry, the sunshine is still streaming through the clouds, prompting a need to be lying, outstretched in a park, probably dodging footballs whilst listening to acoustic Nirvana. So it seems, for now, that Summer is well and truly upon us. Which can mean only one thing; the ongoing emotional battle between me and the lower half of my body increases to panicking, epic new levels,
Top Half: ‘Why can’t you just look half decent in a bikini or a pair of shorts fair arse of mine?’
Bottom Half: ‘Because we love the finer things in life like mochas…and cheesecake…and wine. Plus you lie about going running.’
Top Half: ‘Don’t start with that, I was told this was down to genetics.’
Bottom Half: ‘People lie, a bit like you about the running. White mocha for the journey is it? Best make it skinny.’
All this inner turmoil, whilst trying elegantly to prise half of my maxi dress away from my handbag straps which are, currently, trapping so much fabric and leaving half my bra exposed. It is not easy trying to look flawless in the summer. Actually.
I am a fan of Summer, Mojito-soaked evenings in beer gardens in particular. What I am not a fan of, however, is elongated journeys spent on London public transport plus heat. Everyone gets hot and bothered, the seats get sweaty and sticky with I-don’t-even-want-to-know-what, prompting rather hilarious en-route arguments between people who, in another life, would probably either completely ignore each other or smile quaintly in the streets of an afternoon. One example of this exhaustive behaviour, on a Number 30 last Thursday eve, was enough to put me off ever bearing and raising children in London.
Having already negotiated my way round a lanky schoolchild trying to push in front of me in the bus queue, I was sat, watching a young couple struggle onto the partially filled bus with a pram; the young Dad of the couple having alighted the bus to courteously ask three old ladies (probably tipsy on sherry and high on gardening tips) to move from the designated buggy area. Of course, with it being hot and everyone being irritable, the young Dad’s politeness didn’t quite have the desired effect as the couple were eyeballed by the Geriatric Loose Women as they nestled their new-born into place for the journey. Yes that’s right, Mrs Hip Replacement, there are other, more important people, than you and your ‘Ladies that Lunch Bunch’ despite what people might say about the youth of today etc. If you can’t handle it, cram into a taxi and be on your merry way. I swore, from that point on, I would never be eyeballed whilst alighting a bus in sweaty Londinium with a Baby Musing staring helplessly out of a Cath Kidston pram. Never.
Well that’s about it from me. With all this Bank Holiday sun - and a disappointing Easter Sunday at work – Lovemenot and I are off to explore Brick Lane, drink mojitos and chase ginger beards in the dazzling sunshine!
Enjoy the Royal Wedding!
Mwah
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