Monthly Archives: March 2010
A Hairdresser’s Salon. I can remember the last time I visited one of these , before yesterday, was in advance of the Oaks in 2008 when Look Here won at 33/1 and I failed to take heed of the Eddie Ahern “sign” as he won as he liked in the last (Bellomi was it?). Please don’t think I haven’t had my hair chopped for 18 months though. It has been subject to a trim, but only under cottage industry conditions and the least said about it the better.
My aim in this post (something that apparently I should state in advance) is to illuminate the “makemea” bit in my moniker. Any self-respecting plain old Diva would clearly have visited the hairdressers since 2008. MakeMes tend to get all busy and distracted with the business of life and forget about stylish coiffures. Anyway with the thought of the car disintegrating in the garage and five assignments to be crafted, I decided what I needed to do now, above all else, was get a trim. So off I trotted like a very unprize pony to Toni & Guy. Well actually, first of all I called to see if they had any appointments.
Oh yes she said. We do – we have Becca 36 and Tash 45. I was dumbstruck, trying to work out who I would choose on account of their age. It seemed all a bit odd frankly. Then I twigged. She had omitted to say pounds. One of those little words that people like me appreciate to set the scene. After clarification, I chose the youngest stylist, figuring that scissors are scissors and hair is hair mostly.
So I arrived, on time for once, tried to walk into the gown like I was going in the stalls, whereas what was wanted was a reverse approach. I seem to remember I always get this wrong. If it’s a reverse job I walk straight in and vice versa. So far, so bad. Do I want tea. No. I want water. I always want water. If I’ve walked half a yard plus I want water. I think I am permanently dehydrated. This has nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol consumption you understand. So I get some water and a round chocolate. I drink the water and stick the chocolate in my handbag – it’s still there.
Then I get asked what I want viz the hair. Then I get asked if I want a drink, so I say yes please, thirst quenched, I’ll have a nice dehydrating tea. Then I issue my precise instructions: I like it long, but take off what you need to. I have a cow’s lick so part it there. Other than that, do what you like. The tea comes with another chocolate. I put the second chocolate in my bag. That’s still there too.
Back to the hair. My do what you want vague carry on cuts no ice or hair at Toni & Guy; they want blood. In fact they need the ins and outs of a duck’s arse before they will chop a lock.
I can’t really relate the next bit properly because it was incomprehensible. I felt like I was in Japan. I also felt like a fakemeamakemeadiva. Did I want a treatment? Did I want a head massage (no I bloody don’t and if you could wash my hair without touching that would be a good start). Did I want it flicked, or voluminous, or with weight, or with or without something I asked her to repeat twice and still couldn’t understand? Did I want blunt ends and layers and blahblahblah…
Listen, I felt like saying. I don’t care what you do to the back because I can’t see it and truthfully I would just like you to take ten years off me at the front because, as it stands, I can hardly bear to look at myself in these fucking awful mirrors you go in for.
As it was I said: no volume thanks, I already have a pointy head. And I pointed to the pointy bit so we were on the same page.
So she spent 5 minutes snipping and about 25 minutes drying, which made me think – this is why they are called hairdressers and not hairsnippers and then I did a forced smile when she showed me the back and thought I look as old as I did an hour ago and I paid her age in guineas plus a tip and went home.
I’ll go again in 2012 for the Olympics. I hope things have changed by then.
At least I can take some comfort in the fact that whilst my eldest is planning to run away, so am I…
There’s that exclamation mark again!
I’m holding the disco moment until after I’ve jumped a ride on the roof of the Tuesday morning zeitgest gravy train.
According to Neil Boorman and It’s All Their Fault over 45s can be blamed for many of society’s current ills.
They, and you know who you are, have enjoyed free education, cheaper housing and better access to jobs whilst consuming oil, emitting carbon and ruining the planet.
In short, Mr Boorman says the Baby Boomers are the richest and most powerful generation that ever lived.
Oh and it’s pouring here: I expect that’s your fault too if you’re over 45.
Inspired I thought. Even more exciting was the filming of the floor and projecting it on to the wall in negative and kaleidoscope images, plus a load of others that I don’t have the technical language to describe. The kids spent a while just staring at their ever changing motionless selves on the wall!
The playlist would always struggle to be all things to all groovers though. From what I can recall it sounded a bit like this:
You can’t go wrong with Marc Bolan but unless it’s I Love to Boogie it’s tricky to dance to.
T-Rex – Ride a White Swan
This was a very exciting video when I was young.
Adam & the Ants – Stand and Deliver
The Motown wish was delivered as a cover by way of
Japan – I’ll Second That Emotion
My schoolgirl world stopped on Tuesday Chart lunchtimes for the weeks that this was at No. 1.
Duran Duran – Is There Something I Should Know?
I swim against the tide with this but I am less fond of
Chaka Khan’s – I’m Every Woman – familiarity breeding contempt perhaps
The controversial opener
Ian Dury and the Blockheads – Sex & Drugs and Rock’n’Roll
The still impossible to dance to Cameo – Word Up
The strange inclusion of Dolly Parton – 9 to 5
And the wrapping it all up with full instrumental to whirl to
The Doors – Light My Fire
The best fun I’ve had in ages, even though I made myself a bit dizzier than usual.
Let’s be straight about this; despite some wild abandon in the staking plan yesterday, this is no Black Hawk Down scenario. It’s a bit more like a sparra lost a tail feather amongst the seed and crumbs on the bird table. Still, a loss is a loss, same as a win’s a win (c) AMB) and however insignificant in the scheme of things I don’t like to leave things on a bum note. So before I head out I am putting plans in place to claw back a little…
2.25 Leopardstown Brazilian Beauty
4.40 Leopardstown Bridge Mountain
2.30 Doncaster Bullwhip
3.35 Doncaster Merchant of Dubai
“Everything is practice.” – Pele
Notwithstanding tall trees, one of the strongest lyrical images I can think of, I am going to lay down today. Then when I get up, I am taking the kids to a Lazy Sunday with a disco featuring the theme: tunes your kids should know. I have high hopes…
I’ll offer 1/4 on there’ll be no Neil Young, but I am hoping for a bit of Motown at the very least.
Because I am in a shocking rush this morning I wrote this in earnest last night:
Who will win this afternoon’s (or is that evening @ 17.45?) richest race.
I had it all sorted earlier, but now I am having a wobble. Here’s the thing. I stood head on to the Rowley Mile two years ago whilst my money rode on Twice Over. He came to win the Craven Stakes in good style just in front of the grandstand and then just didn’t go past the Raven. And we all know how that horse’s career turned out. So Twice Over is good, but I am a bit worried the clue is in the name and I’ll get mugged off Twice Over.
On the flipside Mastery did me a right turn on Town Moor last September. Added to that he is by my new most favourite sire Sulamani. The trouble is, even in my most devoted mindset, I can see that Sulamani is an influence for stamina and the 1m2f is going to take a bit of toe to win.
When I woke up this morning I had a thought pop into my head.
Gio Ponti = Joe Bridge = Bother
Now I don’t know what to do. Think on as someone older and wiser and more Northern might say.
I feel a bit happier back on Town Moor for the Brocklesby. There will be some lovely 2 yos on show, some by new season sires like Proclamation, Librettist and Iceman. Given the ground I am going to take a leap into the complete unknown and side with Diplomasi. He’s not quite yet two and my record in this race is not brilliant, but Clive Brittain is in roaring form, so in a pin-sticking exercise the shiny thing lands there.
3.25 Kempton / South Easter
4.00 Kempton / Jibouti
Brocklesby Donny / Diplomasi
Lincoln Donny / Smokey Oakey – seems a big price for a former winner with his ground. For the real deal as to his chances visit http://www.marktompkins.co.uk. I will not have a chance until later.
Meydan now looks a bit of a mess:
Mastery/Twice Over/Gio Ponti and Gitano Hernando but surely not enough gears…
I have a chicken and orange egg situation. Did my feeling like a fruit of the loop start before the orange theme or has my state of mind been affected by the insidious nature of the colourway. It is obviously catching too because the 5 yo came home with an original computer generated piece of abstract art yesterday featuring the o word. For the record I have not discussed this with her. I guess it is just serendipity.
Before that distracted me I was planning to do an orange top ten. There are quite a few songs with an orange connection, but most of them are shit. I tried to let Johnny Cash past (because I like him) with Orange Blossom Special, but he did not survive the final top ten cull due to some awful harmonica interludes. I have also left out the very obvious REM track because it is too depressing. The three left on the list are not too bad considering the terrible orange curse that benights them…
Orange Juice – *Rip it Up
Van Morrison – Orangefield
The Rudies – Orange Street
NB This is a punter’s anthem.
Just a quick note about yesterday’s post; if Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter lived anywhere near here I would always be inviting myself round for tea. Even with orange hair he is a dote. The Red Queen borrowed a tad too much from Blackadder’s flame-haired Queenie, crushing her r s into w s, but apart from that minor niggle Tim Burton’s Alice is well worth a watch. Furthermore, I now have an excellent reason to start collecting old non-matching china as I will be having my own lunatic tea party in the summer (I really like non-matching, except pillowcases and shoes).
Re: orange it can be troublesome colour for a car. My father once had a Passat. It was orange. At least that’s what I said. It caused an endless debate because no-one else agreed saying it was red. It was not, not red at all, it was the colour of a great big bonfire. My father eventually closed the debate (which had lasted intermittently for weeks) by saying that as he bought it new (the only car he has ever had, excluding company vehicles, to hold that honour) he could categorically state that the car he selected and paid for was in Mercury Red. I still hold that was rubbish, they must have had a mix-up at the garage.
Another way it causes problems is that a car in orange can be accused of general naffness. A close relation once had a Saab 96 in a vibrant orange. The time everyone agreed; this car was an orangey orange with orange bits. This was in the mid-80s. A time of such rampant “style” that anything old was just old and crap. No mention of vintage, unless it was something like an E-type or a Scimitar or a TVR. An old orange Saab was just a damn ugly vehicle.
Until my other, even closer, relation bought a plastic lobster and popped it on the parcel shelf. Genius. Naff orange turned into vintage irony with one strategically placed crustacean.
Sometimes I feel like my head’s been in a deep fat fryer. When that happens life looks like this.
I can get through the inevitable Budget Day waffle if I think of it like a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Of course Darling Alistair looks nothing like Johnny Depp but the Disney Darling likeness is spooky.
I was going to spray paint the whole Budget briefcase orange but I just went for some light defacing in the end. Actually, they should bin that battered thing and give him a shiny tangerine suitcase on wheels. I’m thinking Pucci.