Donkeys Together.

Strangely, after writing that last blog we went to see Ibson’s ‘Enemy of the People’ at the Crucible. A doublethink extravaganza. The mayor fights for prosperity, his doctor brother for his truth while his wife manages to speak in several different regional accents. It was as if different emotional states required her to move around the country. The crowd, when push comes to shove, were shoved; not towards considerations of reality but rather mortality. One’s bread must be buttered on the side that, when dropped, lands uppermost. The play asks us to decide between a Nixon-esque pragmatism and the snowballing irrationalities of a Blair-esque moral stance. The crowd, i.e. society, i.e. us are confused by this no-win choice, but just as we are comforting ourselves on our moral certitude of being powerless Ibson goes on to suggest we too are just as donkey headed as the main protagonists. We the audience leave amused but little more. We remain unlikely to vote in the forthcoming election for the party that canvasses us on the basis that we’re all donkey-heads. Yet we skip from emotion to emotion in the wink of an eye just as the wife managed to travel from Newcastle to Birmingham to Belfast. Whilst I believe our emotions appear first and are basically honest, being unblemished by rational thought, I also believe they should be quickly followed by a moments disinterested reflection. I don’t want to cut my finger in the presence of a person rendered useless by their fear of the sight of blood. So how are we, each in our own personal cognitive enclave, to cope with both emotion, swayed by rhetoric, and reflection, swayed by logic? Which way should the swaying donkey head look? Luckily we are served with another sense. Call it intuition, spirit, gut feeling or meditative instinct; it is a voice far quieter than the ego’s insistent demands. Should poverty, conflict, avarice, envy, ignorance bring the ego to prominence it is little heard. So on my platform of us all being donkey heads together, and much more, I urge you to vote for me.

Doublethink Now.

So John Terry womanises and Gordon Brown gets angry and throws his weight about. Terry’s a footballer and Brown’s the Prime Minister. They wouldn’t do what they do if they didn’t. So why all the denials? Does the Pope wipe his bottom? Do sources close to the Pontiff issue statements categorically denying rumours of tissue usage, urging us to believe in some sort of holy immaculate poo? When a government denies what the majority know to be true it’s time to overhaul the system. That syndrome is usually termed psychosis. It’s when a man who’s elevated to play the role of God starts believing he is God. Wouldn’t they be far better admitting they have, in playing the role assigned to them, done what the role requires? “I do get angry, I do show it and I do admonish people. What do you think I should do?” Or conversely, “Women throw themselves at me, I am well fit and I like scoring. What do you expect?” Just as the Pope might say, “I eat, I’m human, I shit. Deal with it.” What’s amazing is that we think denial works! “I have not just been stabbed, pushed out of a ten story window and crushed by an oncoming train.” OK one wouldn’t be in a position to talk about it but one’s mangled body would be evidence enough that a lie had been perpetrated. But no, we persist in doing it all the time, admittedly to a lesser extent. There before us in the ether of reality is truth but with a little work it can be viewed in such a way that a more convenient un-truth can be woven. Why work so hard? But when in the public spotlight even driven snow becomes just cold, messy slush, the cause of a million hardships. Interviewees are reduced to denial machines when faced with comparison with perfection. How would you respond to the question stroke threat, “Prove to me you are practically perfect in every way or I’ll ruin your life?” Do you lie or be ruined? Hence the typical response, “I’m not saying I’m perfect but I’ve done nothing wrong.” I’m not saying I’m perfect but I am saying I’m perfect. I’ll call it doublethink. Or has that been said before? No you heard it here first, your recollection of hearing it before is mistaken. If you admit to that mistake I’ll ruin your life. Which is it to be?

Amusement park shopping.

Each week as Sainsburys divests you of £100 plus it’s worth remembering their unheralded provision of amusement park facilities. As well as the previously mentioned trolley riding and mobile phone micro theatre there are many more. There’s the straightforward trolley tossing and the advanced long range and over the shoulder tosses for which Mothermouse is justly proud. Frozen lamb joints and loose vegetables are best avoided while small packets of mozzarella are perfect for the beginner. Men have been known to try twelve packs of Grolch but it’s not generally advisable. Isle to isle tosses are Olympic level and I personally haven’t had the courage but imagine they must require careful planning if premature expulsion is to be avoided.  Then there’s peek-a-boo the elderly. Thursday’s always a good day. Old people, being ugly and generally undesirable, lead lonely lives that can be brightened up no end by total strangers gleefully lunging from behind end caps. Here again caution is needed. They can be surprisingly feisty, and of course croak, so good judgment is called for. Making trolley toddlers cry when their mums aren’t looking is not on; it’s hard enough shopping with an indiscriminate shelf snatcher, but their noises can be endearing. For example an angelic eighteen month old made a perfect, “plrucgh” today which brought me great amusement. Asking young, fresh faced assistants for ‘cartyres’ is another one. What? “Cartyres love.” When they look confused back this up with, “in tomato sauce dearie”. If they look like giving in early prolong with, “Well I bought some here last week. They were next to the Alaskan Coffee.” Best to depart when they leave to find their supervisor. General lusting over the young and nubile is of course always very pleasant, provided it is kept within bounds. Hope these ideas enliven your next trolley trundle. Next week, tech talk in B&Q.

A Minor Habit.

I was playing a tune for the first time on my guitar and happened to play a minor third instead of the major. No prob, get it next time, right? No. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. No. What was happening? By getting it wrong the first time I had acquired a micro habit. I had to play it over and over to overwrite wrong habit with the right one. Yes you might be equipped with the finest sensory apparatus in Gods creation but after that it’s all habit. I suspect 99% of what I do is the result of simply applying the most appropriate habit from my extensive collection. I have for example several habits for opening doors. Knob, lever, latch require turn, press, lift, followed by pull or push, or if I encounter an ultra modern door of the 50’s, slide. What we endearingly call experience is in fact just a panoply of habits, simply our magnificent brain serving up the usual suspects. I guarantee if I made a lever handle that required pulling out to release, it would be tantamount to putting a lock on it. A wide vocabulary of experience or habit is very useful, but I believe it’s worth taking the more disparaging view that habit is the source of our responses, not our vast worldly wisdom and understanding. One simply cannot get up oneself to the same degree if one is aware one is just the victim of one’s own repetitions. Politicians, generals, experts of all sorts do not possess the same glowing acumen if they are seen as just trotting out their old habits in new, usually inappropriate situations. Even us lesser mice would do well to challenge the usefulness of our automatic habitual reactions. It is beholden of schools for example to instil good habits of learning rather than attempting to install information because habits last a lifetime where knowledge quickly fades if unused. Schools would do well to listen to parents of children with healthy teeth. They inculcate the habit; they don’t provide information about future tooth decay or trust their offspring will, given sufficient freedom and personal self-esteem, find their own solution. On the other hand rising above habit gives the wondrous joy of spontaneity. So what to do next? Ay yes, get dressed, make a cup of tea, have a fag, put on coat and go to Sainsburys. Have a nice day. 

Cheese.

Apparently Stiffmouse is the father of a son whose longstanding girlfriend mouse is the daughter of another mother or father mouse who is the sister or brother of the mice who have just won £56million on the lottery. That’s CHEESE mouse followers! Yes, ‘family values’ have just taken on a whole new meaning. Caring and sharing is the backbone, the hub, the veritable block thingies in the centre of arches that holds them all up, the pivoting kingpin cornerstone, the very bedrock and foundations of British family life. And by family I don’t just mean those tied together by holy wedlock and bedlock but also those close and tender relationships with certain family members that are, how can I put it, just as economically meaningful. I of course don’t know the mice concerned from Adamouse but my heart feels so close to them in their moment of joy I feel like inviting them on holiday with us. At a time like this one must see past sordid, self-serving avarice and consider their plight. They will feel isolated, lonely and in need of true, selfless friends who aren’t interested in such a whopping amount: an amount of cheese in fact so large that no one or two mice on their own could eat. No, my heart goes out to them. They will be inundated with cheese advisors, insurance, pension and inheritance planning mice who will help them pass on their cheese free of cheese tax. Don’t listen to them; they will make your cheese a complex, worrisome burden. Extra cheese is best used to make life simpler, more fun and more fulfilling. Go go-kart racing. In fact invite your niece’s boymouse’s father along. All mice together, eh! That’s the spirit. Or buy Belize. I can see it now, “Belize for Cheese,” the mouse Mecca of the Caribbean. Turf out the Belizians and fill it with cheese eaters. Sorry I’m getting dizzy.

West Side in Mosside.

Been off to see TomMouse in his Uni’s production of West Side Story. Ah it takes me back. Uni. I’m reminded that the one good thing about undergad girls it’s they have tits, and any young woman who has managed to attain a couple of A to C’s should not wear a bra. Only D’s and above need structural stabilisation, and below that they need to breath to remain perky. I know it’s a right of passage when you’re 13 but no one wants to see your finest assets reduced to a pair of shapeless mounds. It’s like putting puppies in sacks in preparation for drowning. Michelangelo's David would not look the same in underpants, would he? Mammaries apart the production was excellent. Unfortunately the band taking up half the stage hampered the exuberant dancing. I imagine there was many an injury in the wings from flying arabesque exits meeting stationary avinarest cast. Tom played Chino, the emasculated, downtrodden cohort of Bernardo who can’t live up to his luck of being handed the best chick in the place on an arranged plate. And when he finally does manage to strap on a pair and exit the shadows he shoots the hero. Lets face it, this is a no win part. It’s the thespian equivalent of being handed the black spot. But Tom played it well. In fact there was no perceptible weakness in the whole thirty strong cast. Well perhaps one. In every production I’ve ever seen, including the film, Tony can’t sing. It’s not that singing dancing actors can’t be found, it’s that the part requires him to be tall. Maybe it’s the extra elongation of the neck during puberty causes the larynx to become over stretched, but tall guys can’t sing. Five-ten plus, forget it, be a bass player. Bernstein’s single mistake in this masterpiece was to write tunes for a delicately framed five footer to be played by a six footer. Next time Lenny, don’t write soprano parts for the lead bassoon, OK. But even Tony didn’t let the side down, so well done all of you! 
We decide to take a different route home, down the A6 and across to Stony Middleton. The Tomtom didn’t like this. Fair doos though, he never complains. He began insisting we turn round, “In 200 yards turn left, then turn left.” Yes we know that little game. Mothermouse nestles him on her knee, “No sweetheart, we’re not going that way.” Do you ever feel the need to appease your TomTom? Ours is Irish so I’m always expecting him to blurt out, “Bejesus Mother-o-God, what do you think you’re playin’ at?” or, “I know Frank McGuinness you know.” He finally lost it near Carver. After multiple route recalculations he placed us in the middle of a field with not a road in sight; a strange sensation when one’s own visual sensors indicate one is on tarmac doing 50mph. 

Bring back Sec Mods.

Before the days of Comprehensives aspiring to be Grammar schools and Polytechnics, Universities, there were Secondary Modern schools of which I am a proud and thankful product. Sec Mods catered for the working classes who knew their place, where Grammars were for the children of the pushy aspirational; the eleven plus being more an examination of precociousness than intellect. Each accurately catered for their clientele. Sec Mods aimed at preparation for real life where as Grammars aimed to extrapolate their parental group’s esoteric expectations towards university. Thus a ‘spade’ was for ‘digging’ or “a playing card suit; a sturdy hand shovel that can be pushed into the earth with the foot”, or “[offensive] (ethnic slur) extremely offensive name for a Black person”, i.e. education based on either usage or definitions. As education based on usage is useful it became endlessly fascinating to me how I could use mathematics, science, wood and words. The more I knew the more I could do. To know more in some disassociated esoteric way may bring intellectual gratification but not the deeper satisfaction of usefulness. I’m not wishing to portray this demarcation as low, vocational versus high, intellectual, but rather real learning and disassociated learning, and not on the grounds of worthiness but enjoyment and fulfilment. Learning is a lifelong joy that must not be snuffed out by aspirational, inexplicable fact accumulation. If a student can’t offer a good reason for learning what they’re being taught the process is probably for the benefit of the teacher. Or no one. Or maybe the Secretary of State for Education, Mr Balls.

Chicken or Killing Machine?

A few nights ago I was telling to a friend about hypnotherapy. After explaining to him how a therapist might put someone in a trance state he fell strangely quiet. Luckily we both realised what was happening before I might have humorously suggested he was a chicken. Strangely a trance state isn’t something one is aware of, probably because most people are in mild trance states a lot of the time. You’re relaxed and possibly making an exquisite pass to Wayne Rooney for Man U’s fifth goal when a colleague breaks in with some mundane reality. So in a sense hypnosis allows one to talk directly to the inner footballer while his manager is out to lunch. Used for entertainment this can cause people to do all manner of silly things and used beneficially it can stop people doing silly things, like smoking. Imagine then the hypnotic effect of the trauma of military training or a gruesome battlefield situation. It can be too terrible for the conscious mind to deal with but the inner footballer has no alternative. He’s injured and out for the rest of the season. This is the truly terrible penalty we ask of those who fight for us: to lay down their lives or, if they survive, carry a hidden injury to their humanity. It is estimated that more civilians have been harmed by the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in Northern Ireland than by the IRA during the conflict. It is the inner footballer making an instinctive professional tackle in response to some apparently innocuous event. His socialised conscious mind is bypassed as his trained and traumatised instincts take over. As I sit here in my comfortable, protected home I find it hard to place the blame. My throw arcs like a boomerang back to me, the peaceful, innocent protected. Those millions of us who protested against beginning the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan knew something our politicians had the hubris to forget; that conflict, however far away, comes home and walks like a ghost amongst us.

Jewish History at a glance.

I’ve just got a special Valentines Day e-mail from Screwfix. (an online DIY tools supplier) Sorry Screwfix, Mothermouse would not be enamoured by a Wylex Consumer Unit even if it does include a pack of ten 13amp double sockets and five free MCBs. Where was I? Oh yes, Jews. I’ve got nothing against Jewish people apart from the Acidic Jews whose dress code seems to be derived from a 1950’s copy of the Beano. For the life of me I can’t picture the tribes of Palestine 4,000 years ago in bowler hats. But credit where it’s due, Judaism has motored on past umpteen rises and falls of other empires and always contributed far more to human civilisation than their numbers might suggest; a great tribute to the powers of matriarchy, as the definition of Jewishness is based on whether your mother was Jewish. So they’re basically one big family founded on the pushy mothers side. This makes the Jewish psyche complicated. Do they listen to their Jewish God or their Jewish mother?  While God was allotting the Israelites their Promised Land their mothers were saying, “I know my boy but I tell you, think of the banking opportunities in New York.” So it came to pass they all left and became hedge fund managers in Goldman Sachs and God was well miffed as his Promised Land was left to squatters for 3,000 years. As we all know this also, much later, got right up Hitler’s nose as their diaspora took hold and he couldn’t pay his tailors bill and had trouble getting a mortgage on a property in Berchtesgaden. Instead of saving up as you and I might do, he found an altogether more harmful way of solving his problem. As a result the Jewish people were upset and wanted to go home. But the squatters had made themselves right at home in the intervening 2,000 years. Well you would wouldn’t you? Anyway God in the form of the UN created Israel in 1947. Now I may be accused of bias but I would be upset if someone turned me out of my house on the grounds their great, great, great grandparents used to live there many years ago and chosen to leave it to pursue a career in international banking. Not only that but when I generously let them live in the top floor they started camping out in the lounge. So boys, believe in a supernatural being if you like , but for God sake never listen to your mother. 

A Fable

.At art college I became friends with Jim and Gris. I never found out what Gris was short for but Griselda is likely, as my tale will show. Jim was an artist and steam fanatic. His dearest wish was to become a lesbian; an undertaking that even the most optimistic American would consider doubtfully achievable. Gris worked for the Gas Board. They lived on a council estate in Kirby Muxlow. We lost touch but ten years on I decided to drop by. Though the rest of the houses remained neat, only obscured by the odd trike and climbing frame, J&G’s house had a forest of tall windblown saplings in the front garden, impenetrable except for the gate, which had an arch of use above it. Behind the forest was a cobwebbed front door that had never been opened in years. I tried the back, which was opened by a dimly lit harridan. “Yes?” I recognised Gris, just. “It’s B, I was passing.” She smiled and beckoned me in. The house defies my powers of description, a film set dressed for fairytale strangeness. The lounge was filled with an H block of bookshelves leaving only a maze of slim walk spaces between with a little extra around the fireplace where sat Jim in an old high backed green velvet chair. He was dressed in a shock pink leotard and tights. We go to the pub, with Jim adding green velvet trousers and a red velvet smoking jacket over his leotard for decorum. During our walk home, while Jim is relieving himself in a front garden, Gris confides in me, “I’m thinking of leaving him.” You think! We continue and as Jim sleeps his stupor in his chair by the fire Gris says, “Can I show you something?” We walk out the back door to a shed; she unlocks a padlock. In the gloom there is a tarpaulin. She lifts the tarpaulin. Revealed is a brand new Harley Davidson soft tail Sportster. “It’s just been delivered. It’s my dream.” I remember it as if it were yesterday. Shortly afterwards Gris left Jim and I met her the following year at a big motorcycle rally in Peterborough. I remember I bought some gloves. Since then Gris found a lovely man, a fellow motorcyclist and now lives in Norfolk. Jim I imagine is still in his fairytale council house in Kirby Muxlow, trapped by an unattainable wish.

My mate James.

James is at the vets getting his yearly GCSE. (Mercedes; garage, MOT) I sit here unable to do anything but trust my faith in the Norse God, Benz. It’s been a difficult year for James. November he got a cold, which rapidly turned into water on the lung. (flooded passenger side floor) Major transplant surgery was rejected on cost and for a short while euthanasia loomed. But we go back a long way, we don’t give up that easy, me and James. The green mould secondary infections to his other internal organs (seats) was cleaned and lungs (carpets) removed, squeegeed and dried. An internet search of MB Owners Club Norse God parables revealed that a small nipple behind his left armpit (front wheel) could have become blocked. A swift poke with finger released nipple and inner congestion. A contusion of the kidneys (water pump) was replaced along with several major arteries (brake lines) by local garage, who also cleared his larynx. (throttle body) But I don’t like this ‘sitting here and watching time go by unable to do anything’ state. I’m also wondering if I’m taking this anthropomorphising a little too far. Maybe I’m getting inebriated by boredom. It’s an old habit. In Sainsburys it’s trolley riding, softly singing carols in June or making checkout beeps; a mobile is a wonderful opportunity for live street theatre as one answers some fictitious conversation; at work, as I remember, there were elastic bands and practicing different forms of handwriting. It’s unfortunate that these forms of relieving boredom are often seen as insanity because they can brighten many a drab day. The Morrison’s incident for example did not warrant all that rough handling from the security man who’s brain stem reached no higher than his lower back. I walk back to garage. James is now free to pursue further education! Yessee to his MOT! I’m going to enrol him on a pottery course.

Sex. A Synopsis.

In the animal kingdom the two sexes are divided into ‘those that get it’ and ‘those that have it.’ Males ‘get’ the sex and females ‘have’ the babies. Nature has imbued males with the drive for it and females the enjoyment of it, on the basis it can lead to a lot of faff and trouble on their part, and needs a good front end, as it were, to make it all worthwhile. This though leads to much confusion. Males get confused between drive and enjoyment. They often find themselves banging away wondering ‘why am I doing this?’ and conclude it’s because they enjoy it. They come, as it were, to a conclusion and it’s good night all. It’s not so much enjoyment as fulfilling the drive. Females on the other hand aren’t focused on mere drive and are often misperceived as not wanting it. Wrong. They’re focused on what might be round the corner and are in it for the real enjoyment. Now this is far more complex than simply giving in to the coercions of one’s erect stick. They know that a possible baby, like a puppy, is not just for Christmas. It will have multifarious needs. I’m not suggesting, during union, they will be absorbed in considering suitable offspring names but rather a whole panoply of emotional requirements. Hence rich and powerful males who also display tenderness are the best turn on. As we mice say, “Show ‘em your cheese and give ‘em a squeeze.” And connected to these emotions is an erogenisity of such exquisite sensitivity that males can only dream of. Not for them the quick releases of a catapult, but rather the slow burn of a roman candle. If males possessed such erogenous potential they would likely undergo surgery to get to it themselves. Actually the nearest the male can get to a full, rounded female orgasm is watching football. So ladies, next time your partner screams uncontrollably, “Spurs one, Chelsea nil” in his moment of orgasm remember he’s just doing his best to join you in your emotional heights. 

Meerkat Moments.

Csíkszentmihályi, Mihaly to his friends, is not merely a qwerty disaster, not merely the only person in the world sure of getting himself when Googled, he is a renowned psychologist. His fame is ‘Flow’, the psychology of optimal experience. My friend, John, was having trouble with his boiler. The fan was stopping when it should have been going. To cut a long phone call short, “drown it in WD40”, which along with Gaffa tape has saved the world on numerous occasions. Next phone call. “It worked! I’m amazed how I went from despair to elation. Thank you.” As you can see from the diagram he had swung round from 9 o’clock to 2 o’clock in a trice. Take a bow John and Mihaly. I had the skill level and John had the challenge level and together we got to Flow. We had a Meerkat Moment, a “tchix, simple” that makes life worthwhile. It strikes me education seems to miss out the power of tchix, choosing rather to focus on the early evening hours between boredom and worry, with teachers spending their time trying to whip up a stiff meringue from an egg white apathy. Personally I can beat egg whites senseless and not get a result. But the possibility, even imaginary, of a Meerkat Moment would have those peaks standing up prouder than Madonna’s nipples. There is though an axial difference between teachers and pupils. Teachers are strong on the horizontal and students on the vertical; they tend to meet around 0,0 i.e. in apathy. The concept of them meeting in flow is a mere pipedream to all concerned. But is it possible? If one were to start with describing a Meerkat Moment and work back through its constituent skill requirements each with its own “tchix”, might they? Education is after all a very practical preparation for such moment so that they may be enjoyed, not the beating of apathy into the mere shapes of knowledge. 

Heat Hot News.

“She used to be fresh-faced and carefree. Now she’s bitter, exhausted and driving Brad away.” Angelina, that is. Now I know Mothermouse and me outrank Angie and Bradee on the age front on account of mouse years being shorter than LA’s, but we can do those transformation between elevenses and afternoon crumpets. Even quicker if Mothermouse embarks on a second bottle. First for Bradee was Jenee, who we all know is the love of his life because she’s so nice in Friends, even though he doesn’t the thick sod, until Jenee went off with a Portoreecan (even my spell check can’t help there) and had a baby by a dumpster technician’s assistant. Make that twins. No, triplets. Or was that Britney? So anyway Bradee turned to Angie for solace and they had seventeen children by deed poll. For a couple of short years they were seen happily shopping for normal things together with babies strapped to their elbows, and then the cracks began to appear. Bradee was seen ‘on his own’, a sure sign something was up. Angie was caught crying after a friendly photographer asked her to hold his finely diced onion. Rumours began to flow. Bradee had been seen returning home after losing at Fight Club; Angie in dark glasses, and that can only mean one thing. Lucky for us Heat magazine is there to give us these continual in-depth reports. Where would we be if we didn’t know the absolute truth? Meanwhile Girls Aloud ginga singer, Nicola, has made a SHOCK (in pink) confession that her skin is falling off. Though blamed on sun beds I suspect it was Heathrow’s new full body scanner and a male operative making absolutely sure she had nothing on, er, I mean like bombs. So thank you Heat for keeping us aware and informed, and armed with the facts. Oh and Stiffmouse will hopefully soon be performing live at The Gardeners Rest. I’ll keep you posted. 

That girl Britney.

You know how cold it was last night; well Britney was out till 3am! Comes in bright as you like, but Mothermouse couldn’t get to sleep wondering where she was; she’s normally curled up at the bottom of the bed by bedtime. Her sister Betty is the sociable one, happy to chat, lie on your knee and smell bottoms etc but Britney is a girl who believes everything is do-able and she’s the one to do it. A five foot vertical leap up the wall of the shed to surprise a pigeon, ditto from hi-fi speaker to wardrobe top. We’ve found her in the microwave, coalscuttle, even attempting to climb the chimney. I got called. Britney was throwing a mouse about the bedroom; to us that’s attempted genocide. When I arrived Dave, Betty and Britney were triangulated around a little plump mouse slowly swaying. This wasn’t to be his lucky day. Legally it was Britney’s mouse but in its attempt to avoid the devil it did know it ran into the mouth of Dave who was manning the offside trap. Dave, who’s made a virtue out of his disability, is normally Buddhist on account of only having one eye, but when your luck’s in it’s time to make an exception. He had his mouse and growling at all comers. My dilemma: Do I prize open Dave’s mouth to free the mouse and thus reset the situation as before? Do I really stand a chance of getting to it before three very focused cats? I decided to pick Dave up and transport him, closely followed by a feline entourage, to the kitchen, where he might hopefully forget the mouse in mid growl and open up for extra volume. It might then jump free, and find a handy hole between mouse size and cat size. Like Pontius Pilot I closed the door. So anyway what are we to do about Britney clubbing it till 3 in the morning? Mothermouse is considering getting her a mobile. 

On Leaving the House.

I’m going to die. Davina Gee will be talking to the house and calling my name: the countdown will begin. ‘Stiffmouse, please leave the Big Brother House.’ I will briefly pose for photo obituaries and have my final interview with D in the alcove of oblivion as my past is flashed up in video clips. I will disappear and my life re-written in the columns of the narrow sheets by their lascivious historians. Well actually I’ve got a tummy upset and may be over dramatising, and also overly influenced by watching the final of Big Brother last night. But it’s worth bearing in mind that it will happen sooner or later. What will your clips show? Will the crowd boo or cheer? Will Davina Gee look upon you kindly? How have you been in the house? As for me, apart from recognising my own face, I will probably not recognise the rest. I will accuse BB of bias. Why pick out my snide comments, my over enthusiastic nudity, those moments when I was overbearing, inconsiderate, lazy and pompous? That’s not me. There is though, unfortunately, a truth to how others see us, a truth that, as I strut my stage, I don’t immediately recognise. Yet there in the garden, the kitchen, the tasks, is my account magnetised on the videotape of history. And in those captured moments of hubris, procrastination, pride and fear I, like the crowd, will ask of me, “To have been or not to have been. That is my question. Was I noble in my mind to suffer the slings and arrows of those outrageous tasks, or….?” God be praised we have Bill.