pick-me-up

My older brother, yay-son de la mare, once remarked upon picking up one of my guitars and having a strum,

“god (iva)! this is the quietest guitar I’ve EVER played!”

I came over all mutton-ish – I’d been playing his majesty for 14 years but had rarely picked him up in all that time. Quiet guitar. Yes, sir. Silent, if you will…

My brother is a guitar psychic.

He gets vibes off every wood there is and can tell who has been honking on it.

Once he went into a music shop, had a good go on one, then put it down immediately in shock and disdain.

“this is the SADDEST guitar I’ve ever played!” he quipped. Good at phrases, my brother.

Turns out the owner had just tried to top himself…..

Years after the first ‘quiet guitar’ moment, I proudly presented yay-son with my new guitar - my dear Petula – a lovely cheeky ginger little thing.

Unfortunately her predecessor – Derek – had died a terrible death when a deformed housemate of mine wanged him round the head with his gammy elbow and smashed the bastard right up. The neanderthal fixed him, then the guitar, but things between me and Derek became even more estranged…..hence my need for the ginger beauty.

On presenting my new instrument of my affection to my brother, seeking his psychic approval, he had a good old strum on her.

Then he said:

“Gorrrrrrrrrrrrd” (how does one write that without writing ‘good’ I wonder?)

“this is the QUIETIST guitar I’ve ever played”……..

Is my brother a frigging goldfish?

Nope - mice were more our thing. Poor old splodge, died of cancer bigger than ‘er head. RIP. (You’d worry about me if I didn’t mention death).

*my ex-boyfriend the axe-murderer once told me, when plump with protection, ‘never eat food bigger than your head, in an encouragement to fuck me up further*

No, I’ve realised that poor old petula and her broken-backed predecessor WERE both quiet little things. Even though I had sat up all night long tinkling with my dear petula, still she be not loud.

They both WERE quiet guitars……

But not because I didn’t play them - because I didn’t play them WITH A PICK.

That’s a plectrum to those who don’t live in the mid-west, and I ain’t talking chipotle sauce.

The boy was the first to try and make me play with a pick. I was off my head on fat lesbian glitter mdma, and he reported back that no sooner had I got the pick in me chipolatas, I’d dropped it and started blithering around on the floor.

An unsuccess I’m sure we can all agree. From a musical perspective.

Quite a feat for someone with dodgy knees waiting for the knacker’s yard.

But Samson has teased me since then, drawn me in, cajoled me, by leaving a few plectrums around my spaceship.

And all these months later, last week no less, for no real reason, I picked one up. A pick. And I had a go.

And I only went and fucking blew my doors off, didn’t it?!

Wahay! Imagine my new-born neighbours’ delight at me jangling out every song I’ve ever faffed about with. Not fingering this time; out-and-out strumming. Full on.

When I asked him, after being late for a meeting in the flat below, bonking my socks off whilst they disdainfully looked into their coffee, whether I made much noise, good old sheils asked me if I had been ‘treading the boards’. I really didn’t know what that meant. I’d been laying on the floor at four in the morning playing the ukulele whilst the room span for my client. And now I was pissed still and cock-handed, at a service charge meeting.

And when I asked my other neighbour whether he could hear me playing dear old petula, he remarked,

“well……maybe a bit of strumming, but HARDLY oasis”.

Erm, is that an insult? Or am I JUST QUIET!!

No More.

With every song a new life, a new realisation – I can do this! I can play annoyingly loud guitar and hound every dog in town till they listen!

A cherry-pop a minute.

Not only my shall the world come to bear my deranged writing and my cack-handed crayolas, but now my shredded vocal chords for the world to hear.

Yes, no longer is my dear petula quiet, she roars day and night in luminous glory.

And I’ve recorded a song to flog; blog about you.

And I’ve played it live in a pub, with a pick, to the boy. Who remarked that he loves the way I write in the grand reveal. Yes, dear readers, I have truly exposed myself, the boy has the blog. And now the boy is among us - do make him feel welcome. Twisted muse.

And the last time my brother picked up my petula, he remarked upon her beautiful bold sound.

And come January 8th I shall be spreading her twanging love upon a wibbly wobbly boat in east london for a rabble of mafiosos, fashion designers and ruffians. And I’ve literally just picked up my beatles book for the first time – and haven’t picked it apart yet.

My first proper gig.

And my new-found lost-virginity.

To a pick……nearly as satisfying, but not as tasty, as prick.

But I still can't play C sharp.  What a cunt.......

http://soundcloud.com/godiva/blog-about
(meant to be ‘shitty’ weather, but y’know….x)

the tortoise and the tortoise....

When I was four we moved house. The couple we bought it off, (note I was involved in this transaction), had five torti. Tortoises. Tortorti.

Free to roam in a large back garden, life was bliss for them. Rebecca, Sebastian, two others that they took with them, and a baby – tee-toe. Very cute.

Yes, took not they did Rebecca and Sebastian – a gift with the house.

Now this were back in the day when you were still allowed to stuff tortorti up your jumper and round the back with no questions. Always thinking value, you see, always thinking value.

According to wilf, the old mucker who owned the pub at the back of the garden (sounds strange, kept chickens), Rebecca was around 100 years old. Cool. Very likely a complete fabrication but I went with it.

Rebecca was a bit crusty with a hole in her shell. Sebastian was a right smooth mover. Rebecca used to break out of the garden, and one day I was at my friends house four doors down and she strolled in, or I’d see her on the way back from fine fare, walking down the road!

I love tortorti.

Now, I know quite a lot about them. Things you wouldn’t think were true.

Like how high their sex drives can be. Yes, for a slow ancient creature you’d have thought they’d just plop out a few eggs and give em a spray every now and again.

No.

Though we feared he was her son, good old Sebastian decided to hump Rebecca at any living moment he could. His mother. Hurrah for evolution.

He’d get the horn (literally, frightening thing curling out the back of his shell). Then, like some kind of 1980s simulator ride, he’d launch himself up on his claws and absolutely cane it to find Rebecca to give her a little bit of loving.

My mate used to pick him up and put him at the other end of the garden to delay this rape.

But it was only ever a delay. He’d find her, bite her legs and fuck her rotten.

Such was the soundtrack of multiple summer barbeques – his multiple orgasm.

We’d be settling down to charred blue-marked back-of-a-lorry chops, the charcoal taste of the 80s, and it would begin.

“what’s that noise”, would say a prudent aunt. We’d all pause.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEE………………………EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…………..EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE………………EEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

Erm, it’s the tortorti fucking.

Sod the birds and the bees, no wonder I turned out like I did. Behind, all the way, behind all the way…………

Well, as we all know, life has a way of paying back your bad deeds.

Years later I was living in chelsea in mr murray’s flat. I get a call from my dad.

“erm, bad news I’m afraid. I was cleaning out the pond. And I found Sebastian at the bottom of it. And from the state of him, he’d been there for quite some time”.

Lovely, what a romantic policeman’s knock on the door. Not only was my favourite rapist dead and gone, the last image of him in my mind was of a slimy green decomposed swamp monster.

RIP sebastian – you knew not the wrath of your horn.

And what happened to rebecca?

The beautiful rebecca lives on, alone now, probably desperate for a fuck.


MUST WATCH:

Ode to the ill.......


O give me a boyfriend oos got the OCD;
who'll scrub the bathroom floor more compulsively than me
stop time, stop all the clocks on the number 23
smashing glass into spirals as his mind drills into me......

spare me the man with the maniac's depression
who'll get high then crash low during morbid sexy sessions
from the fifteenth floor he'll cling, hanging onto tension
though his words have all gone his dead mother gets a mention

i'll run from the man who has lots of different voices
his unwelcoming friends overriding all his choices
stick an axe in my head but it wasn't him who did it
turn my face for a moment and there's one born every minute

but show me the man that the world describes as normal
try and box me on a shelf where the running order's formal
let his mum and his dad and his sisters all adore me
watch me jump off the edge as the cliff drops down before me

no:- give me a man who is mad in every way
who constantly surprises me - a new brain every day
who exalts me in his worship though his head has gone away
yes the man who's lost forever is the man to make me stay

R.I.P Jimmy x



what went wrong?!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GFlRZBOk6w

drugs don't work   
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRG-CqnMWlI

search for godiva's escapades on FB and add me.....
wanna reminder of the URL?  email godivasescapades@hotmail.co.uk x

hubble bubble....

If you’ve been sitting on my facebook recently you may have noticed that, yet again, old mrs blogger is in trouble, again. It’s wearing me cables thin, I’m getting frayed.

Thank you thank you thank you, by the way, for the kind messages and friend adds – it works. Hallelujah, or I’d be off to the knackers yard for sure. More please. Sit right on it, (search for godiva’s escapades).

Yes. Trouble. Trouble is. I’ve been causing it.

It all started when I proudly went to watch my wife squeeze her box on halloween. Not usually one for forced occasions, (remember g-ma at christmas?), I relish in the delight of turning up dressed like a dead whore to numerous establishments in town and blending in for a change.

And I had the vodka in my bag, as usual. And I managed to reserve a booth - unheard of. And secured two concubines for the evening to assist me in wrecking the joint.

The star of going to the chapel was present, spouting such extremities as ‘your royal blogness’ – though still claiming not to have read about his future demise. He brought a pet with him who had adhd. Fine, just don’t touch me. I said don’t touch me – I’ve just got my blue belt…..

Yes yes, time to digress – the whole kickboxing debacle. After my fight being cancelled I’ve chilled out about it. Kick bitches in the head a few times a week still, occasionally reel when I see veins still popping out of my arms. Pick people up and throw them across the room. Attack concubines in killer heels.

The day before all hallow’s was my kickboxing grading. Passing through streets of middle-class white kids with a bit of hartley’s jam on their straw boaters, (zombies apparently), I was glad that I am happy doing what I do, whilst all around me, others are doing as they do (‘If’’).

I grade. And a few palpitations and dodged flirtations later, I am being presented with my blue belt.

I’ve earnt the highest grade, but now it’s over my mind’s not on the job. And it’s not because I’m knackered. It’s because I’m not bothered. I’ve got a blogumentary to make - ‘yeah, give me the highest grade ya buggers, what’s for tea?’ - and both grown grading men are looking at me expectantly, and I keep bowing on the spot. Which is extremely fun, because they have to bow back.

‘You’ve got to come here and get your belt!’

I’d just been stuck on the spot thinking about chicken dippers, doing my best bow for a few minutes….

After this it was time for my pre-halloween warmup. I decided to go and see ms foto:

I was supposed to have a quiet and innocent fish dinner, then strictly home for filming and blog. But that’s when I ended up drinking sake and doing an abba film shoot in a crumbling regency building with a pair of 3D glasses on. Dancing with overjoyed labradors on the beach. Playing twinkle on the violin in the street that a lush had passed out of her window.

How I ended up stranded like a debauched banshee at samson’s, with a clearance sandwich and half a twirl.

So, still warm from the night before, on all hallow’s eve, there I am, in a busy bar. All my wife’s counsel are there – baked up to the nines, skanking about to dance of the clown, (a song I forced her to write about ex following my miserable howlings). Tits out in george street’s there, and the guy from the music shop who lurches at me tongue first. The gospel man with his adhd sidekick. We sit with the owner of the bar and are soon drinking shots of cough-medicine.

Before I know it I’m being carried out of the bar sideways by two men, and getting double-spanked in public.

Yes, me and my bit of fluff have picked up another speck. Half-italian. Tick. Young. Tick. A bit like ‘the boy’, on a post-coalition budget. I’ve blabbed about the blog. It’s been handed over. We arrange to do a photo shoot of me and my martial girls post-session, sweaty and pumped.

And I think no more of it.

Until tuesday, that is. What is it about tuesdays?

Monday had me all happy-go-lucky, a motorbike ride in my witches costume, crotchless tights and all, along the coast. Lunch with gunter and monsieur henderson, borrowed aviators a must. Squeezing into an extra-small leather £200 dress that got my tits all barbarella. ‘Rock chick’ the effeminate staff commented. No shit, thought this mwag. .Home to studio G to create some filmic mischief.

But tuesday. At work, which is a problem in itself. I text jim to ask for the italian’s number to set up the photo shoot. He replies – just to warn me, jules’ ex is on the war path. The italian’s tipped her off about three men and a little ‘lady’, my offering to them for a lovely night out. I am puzzled – I don’t remember any incriminating evidence? Then jim reminded me – the bit where jules tried to pull a girl ‘with a face like a spade’. Yessssssssss. And jules, if you’re reading this when I published it, Friday November 5th, don’t give the blog to the boy - it’s not monday yet,we haven't done the blogumentary interview. Don’t go changing history before it’s happened eh?! (Now there's a temptation if I ever gave one).

So I ended up deleting the damn thing. My blog post. And that’s a first. But it’s safer. Yes, I can kick arse, but when there’s psychosis involved I’m straight out the back door. Though I must say I am beginning to see the funny side of the whole affair – I said it, I wrote it, they read it, so did the italian, who also said it. I came, I saw, I deleteth.

*For those of you who haven’t read three men, and want the background to this sticky web I’ve spun, drop me an email. Or come and sit on my facebook and I’ll tell you a story.*

But mainly, I’ve been causing trouble with my latest project; the blogumentary. The blog becomes her. You’ll be hearing a lot about this in the next few months:- you’ll most likely be in it in the next few months….

And I’ve planned a scene with ‘the boy’ in it. It’s been three months since I texted him with all my hinges broken, and I said that I would give him the blog in three months so that he could find out what I didn’t say. Because, as you may remember, we didn’t say much to each other. But I said quite a lot on this here forum.

In bed, delirious at three in the morning after my ordeal with the axe-yielder, (hi if you’re reading by the way, you sound like at least two barrels of fun), I cooked up a good ‘un. What if I could get the boy round on the three month date exactly, saying I wanted to film him? What if we then went and did open mic with my steel-stringer that I will have partied with on Saturday? What if I ask the boy to film me singing blog about you at him, surrounded by a pub full of confused onlookers?

And lo and behold, come wednesday it’s arranged. The date is fixed for monday. And come monday he’ll be reading this. Hello. I hope our interview went well. I hope I said what I meant to say on camera. I hope you haven’t launched a campaign that will send me rollicking up a catalonian mountain. Again.

In preparation for this hideous event I’ve created, I’ve read every single blogging entry and edited none. And it’s time. And I should be careful what I wish for. And he’s game - unaware of my alter-ego becoming me, but curiously aware of some serious trouble-making I’ve caused.

So, to ‘the boy’ - I genuinely hope you like this. You were always good at getting me. You like creativity. Dear god please say you do. If you do, sign in as ‘the boy’ and leave a comment. If you do, please write me a song called spank for my blogumentary.  If you don’t, find a way of telling me so my innards don’t erupt, like they do every time I receive a random email from an escapader:

Like (in response to an email entitled mmmmmmmmusicians that you may have received - send me an email to be added to the mailer):

'FUCK OFF, WHO ARE, STOP SENDING ME THIS CRAP'. 

That beautiful, succint use of grammar and language overwhelming me.  Ah?  You don't like me?  I knew it.  It's my friend's husband.  She knows 'who are', mr disgruntled, she knows 'who are'.
Or, thank you ms mushy pea, (portrait to follow when I get my hands on you, interview for blogumentary earnt):

‘your last blog finally pushed me into sharing the joys of godiva with other friends. A thing that was long overdue. I have been loving you in silence for too long. I want you, with spicy fries and mushy peas. Soon, dear god let it be soon xxx’

And somehow, for ‘the boy’, and for all of us, we can choose our attitude. Make peace with the unknown and the known. Let the things that reel out of our control keep on rolling…..let witchery guide us into oblivion…….

postscript: Readers, I invite you to re-read this blog pretending you are ‘the boy’ reading the whole thing. This is the first post you’ve ever read. And somehow, it’s all about you. And somehow, the readers know you already as a character. He wouldn’t be the first…
-----------------------------------------------------------

Which choose your own misadventure will you go for?

Mushy peas: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqaOp7sIy0w

or

Double mushy peas with klithpy bits…(what a dilemma): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrVDViSlsSM

love you, G x