I've been absent from this blog recently but a suitable length of time has now elapsed following that time of the year. The decorations are down, the wrapping paper has been recycled, and the electronic gifts are back with the manufacturer for repair. Christmas is but a memory and what do I have to say about that?
Don't get me wrong, I'm no Scrooge or miser, in fact I fucking love Christmas, but the prospect of sitting home alone is too desperate to contemplate so Battersea Fire Station and the assembled employees of the London Fire Brigade were my home and family for the day.
New Year is almost a week gone by too. What do I have to say about that?
Thank fuck too.
Ok, so I'm starting to sound a bit like a Scroogesque miser now, but New Year.....what's it all about? I've never really got it but once upon a time agreed to take part in the collective belief that one had an obligation to have a bit of a knees up, put past conflicts to rest, and generally have a good time.
I've now dismissed my taking part in that collective belief and just allow my mood to be affected, positively or otherwise, by the acts that Jools Holland puts on on Hootenanny. Previously Jools has secured such musical luminaries as The Eels, Martha Wainwright, Amy Winehouse and Ranking Roger (the geezer with the hat from the 80s Ska band The Beat). All of these artists, and any like them, are enough to make The Subversive Runner a rather happy chappy on New Year's Eve. Any tedious middle of the road bollocks, or idiots with baseball caps on sideways, is enough to turn The Subversive Runner into The Subversive Lunatic With Ideas of Murder Toward Middle of the Road Twats and Idiots With Baseball Caps on Sideways.
Anyway, this New Year's Eve I completed my day shift at the fire station and scuttled off home to plot myself up in front of the sofa with a glass of Vino Collapso and Hootenanny. Jools promised the performances of Imelda May, The Vaccines and Cyndi Lauper- all good stuff. I might have to indulge in some self induced vomiting when James Morrison takes to the stage right enough, but you can't have everything.
My plans were scuppered by a certain Scottish burd with big feet who was visiting Chez Waterman from a strange, far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth.
But I didn't realise that New Year's Eve involved searching my Sky Planner for Bastard BBC Scotland and some burd in a kilt called, funnily enough, Jackie Bird.
|All her own teeth|