Festive Ham in Ginger Beer & Spiced Cider

Making a ham are you? A nice festive ham? Got a bottle of cola and a bay leaf at the ready?

Well stop that right now. It being the season of goodwill, I have arrived just in time to bring you a new way of preparing your festive gammon, for ‘tis sure to fill your guests with delight, and joy, and some cement.

Under Lock & Key in The Pound

It was only a matter of time before the law caught up with me. Sooner or later, I knew I would have to pay for my crimes, that I'd find myself behind bars.

No, tiny darlings, I have not finally been locked up for my terrible debauchery, or for being drunk in charge of a lawnmower. I have instead been to visit Canterbury’s latest drinking emporium: The Pound.

Miracle Mascara and Fab Facial Oil

Today, I bring you something for the eyes, and something for the skin.

Everyone brace themselves - I think I’ve found my perfect mascaras. I know, I know – you’ve all been waiting for this day, wandering and hoping. I want to thank you all for supporting me through my struggles, it’s been emotional.

Grim Visages - Face Painting for Grown-Ups

Some people let their inner child out at Christmas. I let mine out at Halloween.

And also when I’m drinking gin and eating chicken at 1am and I find out Psycho is on TV.

My delightful friend Al (follow her on Twitter @algriffs) took a jaunt to the British Library at the end of October for a special evening party celebrating their sensational exhibition Terror & Wonder: The Gothic Imagination.

Terror and Wonder: The Gothic Imagination (Pic from The British Library)

A Very British Safari

Get your Christmas lists out, and throw them away. I have a new idea for you.

Sometimes, you’re just sitting there on a Friday afternoon thinking, “hmmm…I wish I could go on safari. In England.”

No, tiny darlings, I haven’t lost my mind. For such a feat is possible. In the heart of Kent, no less.

Recently, I was fortunate enough to do some work through my day job with the screamingly lovely people at Port Lympne Reserve in Lympne, Kent, and they kindly invited me along to a press night showcasing their safari accommodation.* It was the end of the season but once you’ve read this, you will have the edge on booking up the entirety of the 2015 season in advance.

Hence my reference to the Christmas gift. See? See? It all ties together.

I Once Was a Vegas Virgin But I'm Not Now

I have returned, tiny darlings.

Forgive my absence, do. I love this blog more than I love a hot gin on a cold Christmas morning, or the pleasure I get from hurling said gin at my staff while screaming ‘gin is supposed to be cold, you horror stories!!!” Being away from you has been difficult.

The reason for my absence has been that I had been blessed with a new job in tourism PR, a delightful one closer to home and resplendent with lovely people and lots of rewarding hard work. Hence I’ve been focused on my various new tasks and ensuring no one discovers my penchant for almonds. Imagine the shame…

Frolics in the Forest - The Fringe Files Part III

The final installment of my Edinburgh tales, and I have saved the best to last. Well I think it’s the best. If you don’t think so, screw you, it’s my blog and I don’t need you please please please don’t leave me.

When last we spoke, Green Diesel were still dashing across the city for early afternoon and late night gigs, and I was trying to fit in as many shows as possible while also fulfilling my duties as a band-aid. As my tales draw to a close, I bring some more Fringe highlights for you, stories from the band and a particular venue that needs to be written about.

The Fringe Files Part II: Here comes the band

When last I left you it was Sunday night at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and the beau and I were enjoying a last hours of privacy before four days of frenzied music making began.

Such gaiety we had, tiny darlings, exploring the sights like a normal couple instead of two people who practice wrestling finishing moves on each other and sometimes forget how to kiss.

But as the weekend drew to a close, a faint rumbling could be heard across the fair city. Crows cried from the rooftops, dogs howled, mandolins began to play by themselves.

The band was coming…

Edinburgh: The Fringe Files Part I

This month marked my first trip to the famous, frantic, fevered Edinburgh Fringe Festival. And my renewed love affair with alliteration, apparently.

The Fringe has been on my 'must do' list for many years, along with the West Country and various cast members of the film 300. But every August, fate has conspired against me and I've never been able to make the trip. Until this year, when I was presented with a tantalising opportunity...

No, I wasn't acting in anything. Nor was I singing, dancing, miming or semaphoring. I was, instead, given the chance to travel up with my beau’s folk band as they played various gigs across the fair city. Basically, I'd be a groupie*.

Ten Things Not To Do....In A Job Interview

So I recently got a new job. This means that I did not monumentally screw up the interview, and that my various witty remarks were not quite as insane as they sounded in my head.

Perhaps I have finally learned how to be cool in such situations, after so many years of sitting in interview rooms muttering "I'm a people person" while sweating profusely from my ears.

In celebration of my success, I thought I would share with you my top tips on how to avoid disaster in a job interview. I think you'll find them thorough, and applicable to all situations.  

1. When the interviewer asks how you are, don’t bang the table with your fist and scream “I’ll ask the questions, dammit!”
2. When they ask your name, never pretend to be Wagner. 
3. Don’t bring pretty pictures you’ve drawn in crayon to the meeting. Unless you’re an artist. If you’re an artist, that’s probably a good idea. 
4. Don’t, when asked about your personal interests, state ‘Jesus’ or ‘your mum’.
5. If you start crying, don’t say it’s because you have faulty eyes from when a Romanian drug dealer tampered with them on the same night you were called up by the US army to build a bomb to destroy Commi-Nazis trying to sell your only mother into the used car trade. 
6. When asked how you deal with difficult situations, don’t make the international hand gesture for sexual intercourse, and say quietly “I always find a way”.
7. Don’t start sentences when you have no idea how to finish them. E.g. “Outside of work, I am an amateur dramatic…ist.” (This actually happened).
8. Don’t walk in wearing a wedding dress, and say "if I get this job, I'm sure he'll come back".
9. Don't walk smugly around your interviewer's desk before coming very close to their face and saying: "I'm going to enjoy working in THIS office." 
10. Then, when the interviewer points out that you are actually both sitting in a local café, don't deal with the situation by trying to hide in your own shirt.

Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium

“It’s not cat porn.”

No, tiny darlings, this wasn't my response when the beau's grandmother asked what I did for a living. These words came from the founder of the dementedly delightful Lady Dinah’s Cat Emporium, London's first ever cat café.

A place I visited twice. With a camera.

What happens when you direct a play (for the first time)

This post was written on the opening night of my directorial debut with The Canterbury Players in June 2014.

A while ago, I wrote about hay fever. But now I am going to write about Hay Fever. No, not the ailment that's killing me slowly via the nose. I mean the thing that's probably going to kill me by way of a bunch of people kicking me to death while shouting "is it stage left or right, you silly bint?!!"

Yes, tiny darlings. I am directing a play. Namely, Hay Fever by the one and only Noel Coward, and it starts tonight (Thurs 26th June) at The Gulbenkian Theatre, Canterbury.

Excuse me a moment while I vomit profusely from gut wrenching nerves.

The Demon Gin Goes to Junipalooza

It's happened. It's finally happened. Those maniacs...

I've been to tasting events for nearly every liquor under the sun, including some that weren't strictly alcohol....one was a type of comb cleaner, I think....but what has been missing from my life - from the The Demon Gin herself - was a gin tasting.  

If only there was some sort of massive gin tasting extravaganza, I mused, that I could lend my blogging skills to. Ha, wouldn't it be grand to have some sort of event in a warehouse where various distillers hand out tasters of juniper goodness? Oh wouldn’t it be spiffing to wile away the hours, discussing the finer points of all manner okay you can see where I’m going with this.

And lo, God created Junipalooza. 

Babies + Offices = Kirsty

I sit in my office. I hear a strange sound in the distance, like a murder of crows crossed with stampeding elephants. I look up from my desk. 

A woman I barely know is standing there, disheveled but looking oddly pleased about it. I’m not sure if she works here…maybe she's from legal or….Oh Christ. 

In her hand, I see it. A baby carrier. And it’s full.

Allergic To My Own Face

Some of you may be aware that I am directing a show this June. It is Noel Coward’s Hay Fever. Well, this post is nothing to do with that.

No, tiny darlings, I merely bring this up because (ahem, chuckle) it’s rather apt that all my attention is focused on Hay Fever because actual hay fever (ho ho!) is literally killing me it’s killing me I’m going to die from it in the next eight minutes this is not a joke or a witty little anecdote or pun SEND HELP.

A new strain of super pollen has taken over the clouds and rains bloody murder upon me every day.

 

BASTARDS

Tequila Tasting I Will Go

An email arrives in my folder. It reads: “You have won a place at our exclusive members’ only tequila tasting event at Club Burrito.”

I stare at the screen for a long time.

I can’t imagine this is a random coincidence, given me penchant for blogging about local things and supporting local businesses.

But seriously…free booze? For ME? This is like asking The Joker to watch your massive pile of weapons and maps to Batman’s house while you nip to the toilet.

Meh, I’m sure it’ll be fine.  

Do Androids Dream of Dead Parents?

If ever there were 12 words guaranteed to make a person’s stomach churn, they are “I SOOOOO need to tell you all about my dream last night!”

Add the words “It had my dead parents in it” and people will run like UKIP runs from rationality.

As a rule I don’t really discuss my dreams or personal torments with others; I fear I will bore them while not providing enough snacks.

Yet a couple of nights ago, I had one of the most affecting dreams I’ve ever had about my dear departed mother and father. It was beguiling, mesmerizing, and left me wandering the streets (by which I mean my house) muttering “woaaaaaaaahhh”.

I decided I wanted to talk to someone about it. (Pinches bridge of nose at memory of this decision)

What Sounds New - An Interview

My world is flurry of festivals this week. Festivals here, festivals there, festivals in the unlikeliest of places – crypts, cafes, woodland, concert halls. I went down to the kitchen during the night for a glass of gin, and there was a festival happening in my cat.*

The festivities to which I refer are not those giant, camping in a damp field, paying £9 for a beer, constantly fighting the need to urinate, crouched under a campervan at 2am and talking of ‘the sins’ type of affairs.

No, I speak of the local kind. Lots of music, unconventional venues, and the ability to go home at the end of the night instead of fighting your way into someone’s tent while saying “it’s alright, I’ll just curl up at your feet, you won’t even know I’m here!”

Marvellous Miracles - Coconut Oil and White Vinegar

(Forgive my minor absence - I do try to blog once a week, but liquors frequently drunken me and it's very hard to write with a hangover. Plus with Easter and all, I've had a lot of important eating to do.)

Today I am wearing my helpful hat and come to your screens bearing a couple of my so-called miracle products for your delectation. Yes! Roll up, roll up, little children, and gaze upon my carnival cart of wonders! (it’s a piece of lino pulled by a pig).

I call these miracle products not because they heal the sick or turn water into nachos, but because once you discover their effectiveness, you will wonder how you ever did without them. And given their wide availability and low price, you’ll also curse the literally millions of pounds you've no doubt spent on more expensive, inferior products.

Today's products: coconut oil and white vinegar.

A Few Wise Words

It isn’t often I spend a weekend listening to beat poets, seeing tales of the Stour River acted out in a 13th century Franciscan chapel, wondering about who I am in a yurt, searching an island of lost souls, or debating the extent of Al-Qaeda’s control in the Middle East.

This is probably because I spend most weekends seeking out the legendary Emerald Gin that is fabled to flow behind the bins at M&S if you are pure of heart and strong of stomach.

But even when I take a break from such frivolity, the A Few Wise Words Festival isn't on in Canterbury every weekend. If it was….it wouldn’t really be a festival. More of a thing that happens. But I digress!

For those not yet in the know, A Few Wise Words is the spring-time sibling of the larger annual Wise Words Festival (which debuted in Canterbury last September). I was invited to attend its first outing, which ran from Friday 4^th April to Sunday 6^th April in Canterbury’s beautiful Greyfriars Gardens, and around the city streets.

The Wise Words concept was born in 2010, when arts organisation Workers of Art decided to create an event that brought the streets of Canterbury alive through poetry and literature-inspired activities, using the city as its canvas and the people as its inspiration.

When A No Make-Up Selfie Goes Wrong

I knew my kind would not be welcome in the no make-up parade.

You know what I’m talking about. Oh you know. Don’t pretend you don’t know, because you KNOW.

I speak of course of the #nomakeupselfie. Not one of you can have escaped the frenzy, whether you took part or were subjected to the many pictures on you Facebook and Twitter feeds. We were all so selfless in our embracement (it’s a word) of the campaign, and a good job too – more than £8million raised for Cancer Research is a spankingly lovely result.


But now the dust has settled, I shall share the REAL story behind my #nomakeupselfie. When I have finished I hope you will share your stories too.

Things I Have Written While Drunk

I was going through my notes on the iPad last night, and discovered a single page with six words typed on it.

They read: “Monkey description, work out their age!!!”

I could not for the life of me remember why I had written it. It looked as though it had been written a week ago, at about 1am. But that’s silly, because I was nowhere near a monkey last weekend, that I know of. I was in the pub and…

In Which I Fire A Gun

Spring is here, spring is here, life is skittles and life is beer!

Doesn’t it just fill you with joy, the spring weather? The dappled sunlight through stretching trees, the burst of green on brown branches, the smell of freshly cut protestant.

With the good weather comes the need to do things outside. It was for this reason that I agreed, as some of you may have seen on my Twitter feed, to go shooting last weekend.

The Goods and The Goose

Forgive my absence in the last week, I’ve been very VERY tired and drunk.

Actually, I’ve been meaning to post this offering for a while. For a brief moment, a few weeks ago, there was sunshine so I set about town with my camera to capture some charming snaps of Canterbury life.

Long story short, I’m not allowed in the library anymore and I eventually ended up at The Goods Shed. This is a picture heavy post, so brace yourself and your relatives. 

Why You Should Never Wear Anything On Stage

I’m one third of the way through the run of The Canterbury Players latest production – Hobson’s Choice, in case I haven’t screamed this enough.

I may have previously mentioned that I was going lose an extra 5lbs before opening night.

This was because my character is required to wear Victorian dress, and because my chest was not pleased about it.

I was all cocky in the costume shop, having tried on several outfits that either swamped me or refused to even think about fastening over my heaving bosom. Finally, I found a pretty lilac number that looked just the ticket. But it was a little…snug. The director expressed concern...

Director: “Are you sure it isn’t too tight? You have to act in it for a long time, you know.”

Me: “Pfft, it’ll be fine! It just about fits me and I can easily shed a few pounds before the show for comfort’s sake. It’s only tight now because I’m massively hung over and bloated from beer.”

Director: “Oooookay. You’re really sure?”

Me: “Come on, I just lost 20lbs! I can lose another 5lb easily.”

Well I DIDN’T, okay?! I didn’t, I spectacularly didn’t and now my costumes are trying to kill me. I didn’t gain any weight and I’m still the thinnest I’ve been in ages, but that is little consolation when you are gasping for breath and listening to buttons and ribs snap with every miniscule movement. We’re talking boned jackets, pinched waists and sleeves so tight that if someone held a gun to my head and said “do the YMCA now”, I would be fated to die.

Just look at what I (and Becky) have to wear! LOOK!

Don't look

Even Hobson himself is horrified.

None of you will notice my pain should you see me on stage; I’m a woman, I’ve been acting like clothes are comfortable on me since I was 9. But behind the scenes is a different matter. Dress changes are normally an ordered civilized affair, but everyone else’s calm has been violently disrupted by me hurtling into the (mixed) dressing room muttering “fuck it fuck it fuck it” as I fling corsets and rip skirts from my abused body.

But it’s not all bad on the physical front, costume torture aside; I get to pin my hair into pretty curls like a real live girl. I might keep this look for a night out, and when I am in need of sweets that I don’t wish to pay for.

 

You'll see from the picture that this is one of the few shows in which I get to act with the beau (can you see how happy he is about it?).

Not only do we share the stage, but we also play a couple. Which means beau will do his scary ‘romantic’ face (smiling with VERY wide eyes), and I will have to fight the urge to be sick on his shoes.

Gracious!

In truth this has, as ever, been a very enjoyable production to work on and the weeks of rehearsals, set building, and line-juggling have paid off, thanks to the very talented cast and crew. But let's not forget the most important person in the show. Me. ME. I may not be (do the finger quotes) ‘the lead’, or ‘the director’ or ‘sober’, but don't you forget for one minute that it's ALL about me, up there, having to share the stage with Miscriant AND the beau and other people I just plain don’t like*.

So there’s still time, gentle readers, there is still time to come and see it! There’s still time, big shot movie director with nothing better to do, to come to The Whitstable Playhouse and see Harold Brighouse’s much ad’mired comedy brought to life. There is still time to muse out loud “good GOD that woman’s curls looks amazing. I shall have her for me’ next film, and for me’ wife!”

A night at the theatre will soothe your soul.

By the way, it’s more than likely that a door will open at some point when it isn’t supposed to and the whole audience will see at least one actor scratching themselves. Just go with it, it’s am dram. 

*I do like them really**

**I DON’T

Place to Quaff and Quarrel - The Lady Luck, Canterbury

It matters not a jot how long a day I’ve had (travelling back and forth to the Antarctic to tell Lord Thistleface to stop sending me chain letters really takes it out of you). There is always time for a drink or nine at The Lady Luck.

I could never be a one-pub woman, but I have a particular soft spot for this black and red haven in Canterbury's high street. And it’s not just because I usually end up there at midnight with the beau and the shady figure behind Twitter’s Book of Trains, quaffing ales and playing I'm Shipping Up To Boston on the jukebox.

How Do You Do, Procrastination?

My procrastination knows no bounds this week.Normally I can rattle out a rant with relative ease but lately my creative blogging efforts have been limited to nudging my laptop with a stick. 

I never thought I’d long for the day when machines become self-aware. The other day I found myself thinking, “What if I came home from work and found a mysterious message on the laptop screen? Something like, ‘welcome home’, or ‘I’ve been waiting for you’, or ‘your spice cupboard is a disgrace’? At least then the computer could do my writing for me. (sigh) I shouldn’t have bought a white laptop. Black ones are more evil.”

Getting Clean at KITCH

I awoke in a daze.

It was the morning after 14^th February, and I knew I had done something very wrong. Something shameful, and sinful. Something the beau could not forgive. The air was thick with the scent of wine, grease, secret spices, and shame. On the bedroom floor, an empty cardboard box lay open.

The plan had been to spend Valentine’s night alone, as the beau was booked to play folk music for the baying crowds of Kent. He had foisted gifts of chocolate, Prosecco and a sonnet upon me that morning (I had delivered beer and dark chocolate digestives in an Asda carrier bag as a token of my love), and had left for work, not to return for many hours.

It was a rare Friday night in alone, and I had been weak. I had turned to an old vice: chicken. Fried chicken. The kind of chicken that doesn’t have a phone number – just a card in a phone box. It wants the money up front and you’ll need to see a doctor in the morning.

A Tall Tale of Great Minds

A tall tale from 2008. It's not real.

It had been some weeks since his last case had concluded, and Holmes was oddly quiet. When not fixated on an unsolved riddle, he was prone to long periods of quiet contemplation. It was not for me to try to shake him out of this reflective state. I’ll admit I rather enjoyed those quiet times when I could lose myself in books while he journeyed to the depths of his magnificent mind.

So it was that we spent one peaceful evening in front of the fire, me with a glass of port at my elbow and a book in hand, and the great detective sitting across from me, lost in thought. An hour passed in silence, and I felt my mind beginning to drift. It was then, quite unprompted, that he spoke.

“Yes, my old friend,” he said softly, a calm knowing smile on his face. “It was a truly awful piece of fish.”

I shook my head, dumbfounded. “But...”

Holmes held up his hand to silence me, smiling and nodding. “I know, I know. Let me explain how I just read your thoughts.”

I sat open mouthed as he began to speak.

“First, I saw you flicking through the Shakespeare tragedies, and a look of awe and reverence crossed your face. It was clear that you had been reading Hamlet, and you were confused by the sheer brilliance of the words. Then I saw you turn to look at the fire, your mind still lingering on literature, you no doubt thought: ‘what if I burned all of the books I didn’t understand?’ 

"Then, from your glance at the chimney, I deduced you were pondering just how much smoke it would take to make the chimney explode. You then looked down at your shoes, clearly thinking how the word ‘explode’ sounds a bit like ‘toes’ and that if you only had one toe, which one would you want to keep. That was when you glanced at me, knowing how I once lost a bit of my toe when I was nine and my father came at me with a carving knife in a drunken rage, and that I told you that story while standing on London Bridge watching a boat with exactly 25 tourists sailing underneath us. 

"If you take four away from 25 and then divide it by 7 you get three, and it was three years ago I suggested we visit that restaurant in Oxford Street that reportedly serves the best roast beef in England. Your look at the grandfather clock only confirmed this point, and that was when I remembered that we didn’t actually go there in the end because it was shut and you were so hungry that I made you eat that bit of discarded cod I found in a dustbin.”

Holmes reclined slowly in his chair, and nodded softly once again. “Yes, my friend, it really was a truly awful piece of fish.”

I gulped. “Umm, actually....I was just thinking that I need a new watch.”

“OH WELL FUCK OFF THEN!!!!!!!!!!”

He didn’t say much after that. Though he did leap up at random points of the evening and slap me around the face and neck.

Obvious Beauty - A Journey to Dermalogica & Precleanse

Today I bring you guidance on how to make your face so squeaky clean that window cleaners will happen upon you and remark “damn, that is one clean face.”

Oh I jest! This post, in truth, is all about my favourite skin care range, Dermalogica, and the current member of its family I am lavishing attention on. As ever, I advise you to skim through my beauty basics before burying your head in any recommended products, and you should do so at your own risk.

A Week of Days and Tankus The Henge

It is Valentine’s Day later this week, but let’s not forget the other days. Days like Wednesday and Sunday.

There will be no escaping the Valentine's Day massacre betwixt those who believe in cupid and those who think the occasion has an apt abbreviation.The war will be raged in offices, with pink princess hurling stuffed teddies, floral bouquets and champagne truffles at a sea of black-garbed goths, who spew out fire and God-awful songs about female independence while pointedly refusing to shave.

But if you think Valentine’s Day is bad, let’s look at some of the other national days so frequently forgotten at this time of year.

Today (Monday) is…

Umbrella Day

I’m not sure what this means, or what you are supposed to do, but I like to think that it came about in the following way.

Dying powerful man: “I wish…for a special day to mark my passing…”

Son: “Oh father, I will see to it! I will ensure that you are honoured in - ”

Dying powerful man: “And it shall be called Umbrella Day.”

Son: “………you want your day to be named ‘Umbrella Day’, even though that isn’t your name. And you’ve never had anything to do with umbrellas in your career. And you’ve never even owned one.”

Dying powerful man: “Umbrella.”

Son: (To his mother) “How much morphine has he had?”

Mother: “Oh just do it, it’s his dying wish.”

Son: “Seriously? I have to go out and find some way to make February 10^th a day in which everyone in the world gives thanks to their brollies, and the only explanation for my father’s desire to see this happen is ‘umbrella’?”

Mother: “You older brother would do it.”

Son: “Stop going on about Craig! You ALWAYS take his side, just because he once shook hands with Burt Bacharach!”

Tuesday is…

White shirt day

This marks the end of a union strike by employees of General Motors in 1937. Sadly I can’t think of anyone who will realize they are acknowledging it when they dress tomorow morning. But a high proportion of office workers may be labelled communists…

Satisfied Staying Single Day

Of course you are. That’s why you had to dedicate an entire day to showing people how fine you are with it. 

Extraterrestrial Culture Day

This day is officially recognized in New Mexico, and is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard of.

Pro Sport Wives Day

Essentially, the wives of pro-sports stars are recognized for all the hard work they do at home to support and love their amazing husbands. Read the following:

“Many pro sports wives act as silent partners and household managers: they keep their darling athletes focused; determined to win and succeed in meeting their dreams; to create the beautiful feeling of being a winner in every heart in the country. Pro Sports Wives Day is held...to support the cause, all you need to do is make sure that you respect the hard work which these women must go through to aid their husbands as best as possible.” 

Let’s take a moment to picture the disgruntled sports wife who came up with this. And what monumentally stupid thing their husband did to warrant this kind of grovelling. 

And also remember that it only applies to the little ladies who stay at home because pro-sports stars ARE NOT GAY OR WOMEN.

Wednesday is….

Darwin Day

Birthday of Kent’s own Charles Darwin, the father of evolution and annoyer of religious types the world over. Mark the day by constantly asking a Christian to explain thumbs.

Thursday is….

Get a Different Name Day

The perfect day to commit identity fraud, or pretend to be Batman. It WILL hold up in court.

Madly In Love With Me Day

You’re starting to see how the approach of Valentine’s Day affects people’s brains? Created by a self-help guru, this day is geared entirely at ladies on the premise that ‘in order for a woman to show true love to others, she must first be empowered to love herself with apology’.

So….spend all day focusing on how much you love yourself…..then spend Valentine’s Day demanding further attention. Honestly, sharing a day of love is not enough? It's a little bit like playing a sport in a group, but someone who isn’t very good at is ‘allowed’ extra tries or points because because because or they won’t play.

 

Friday is….

Well we all know, but here are some handy alternatives:

Pet theft awareness 

Some people will do anything to cover the fact that they forgot to buy a Valentine’s gift

Ferris Wheel day 

Sit on a ferris wheel and watch the world go by SO ALONE

Donor Day 

In the US, February 14^th is also national donor day to encourage people to register for organ donation. Wherever you are in the world, please become an organ donor. If you haven’t already, stop fanning about with stuffed toys and those giant walking balloons, and give a gift that actually matters 

Saturday is…

World Whale Day

Because you are so fat from the Valentines indulgences. No, no, no, I jest! This is an annual one day festival in Hawaii to celebrate the humpback whale and to raise awareness of conservation threats.

Hippo Day

This one IS because you are so fat.

******

A WORD ABOUT THE HENGE 

 Last night (a Sunday of all things) I went to The Gulbenkian café bar to watch Tankus the Henge.
The lovely Miscriant will publish a fuller post on this gig in due course, no doubt, as she actually brought her camera with her, where as I forgot mine and had eight seconds of battery left on my phone to take one picture. But I wanted to share a few words nonetheless.

I first encountered this eclectic sextet of Londoners at in The Playhouse Tent of last year’s Lounge on the Farm festival. Having co-hosted the Boom and Bang circus’ evening show, zoot-suited front man Jaz Delorean wheeled his smoking-spewing upright to centre stage and he and his cohorts on lead guitar, bass, drums, trumpet and sax embarked on a finale set that blew my tiny mind.

I could have put my enjoyment that night in a Canterbury field down to the festival haze, or the eight pints I’d had that day, or the strange incantation the woman at the octopus curry stall had said over my food when I refused to compliment her glasses. But Sunday’s show reinforced my acclaim.

Their sound is hard to describe - a cross between Madness and a Balkan carnival troupe, with some jazz funk touches and all delivered in a gravelly cockney drawl. The arrangements are tight and the mood is deliciously decadent, plus any band that goes to such lengths to entertain their audiences wins my vote.

I strongly urge anyone with the ability to crawl to go and see this band on their travels. They are everything a great live act should be – larger than life, witty, theatrical, friendly and frighteningly talented. They are also a thoroughly nice bunch of chaps, and were extremely chatty with spectators after the show.

Find them on Facebook, Twitter, Spotify and iTunes.

But don’t listen to me, though, don’t you listen to me, shush, shoo, stop – observe: