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Size matters August 25, 2008

Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.

Darlings, my big computer is broken – feel free to alert the media – and having to use this shitty little laptop with the reaction times of a deaf, sickly tortoise always gives me Sydenham’s chorea, or perhaps St. Vitus’ Dance – I’m forever confusing the symptoms – but then blogging is the only thing in the world I like more than dreaming of unimaginably exuberant, unearned riches so blogging on this two-bit, wheezing piece of toss it is.

Plus, naturally, I’ve been far too busy to blog, what with my new position as Head of Things Olympic for London 2012. I watched the 29th Olympiad with committed dispassion. Until all of a sudden there was a glut of British golds, which meant I had to show the medal table to the Russian several times a day. But the Russians went and spoiled my fun by sneaking past ‘us’ – sorry, I always feel a bit of a wanker sharing in others’ hard-earned victories – in the dying seconds of the games, probably as David Beckham was kicking his ball and that man from Status Quo was guitaring along to that lady sitting on top of a pole. “Well, you should have been old enough to witness the Moscow games,” I intoned gravely, demonstrating my birthright to talk bollocks by dint of having had the common decency to get round to being born earlier than my darling. “We won everything then,” I added, without providing any documentary evidence, but the Russian took my word for it, in awe that anyone he’d got busy with should remember an event so sacred and Soviet as the Moscow Olympics when chemicals were fired into the air – they borrowed them from the East German athletes – to prevent rainclouds forming. “The 800 metres. The 1500. The darts. The snooker. Every god-damned medal worth winning, we won it.”

“I not remyember enysink earlier Brezhnev funeral,” the Russian admitted sheepishly. And asked if I’d like a hot-water bottle.

“Darlink, maybe zet’s vy you mad. Because you so old,” the Russian resumed, putting away his abacus after double-checking his figures and wiping his brow in disbelief.

“Darling, there’s nothing mad about the way I live my life, polluting my internal physical and mental landscapes, living in a (now faulty) virtual bubble, stumbling from crisis to crisis and then writing it down for strangers to read. Anyway, I feel decidedly between crises at the moment. What you call a personality disorder, I call a personality.”

But an awful worry to be told you’re bonkers. Well, not really a worry. Plus, everyone knows that words designed to injure when ushered into play by a beloved must have their truth-content made subject to at least potential dilution by a factor of, say, a billion. Just to be on the safe side. But then the seed of doubt. It at least provides a distraction between avoiding work, worrying about something or other and thinking when I can next get stark-raving hammered.

“Bugger, now there’s a thing,” I exclaimed internally as I sat sanely sticking pins in voodoo dolls of my neighbours in full view of everyone on the balcony and wondering if I could sell the ash from burning my tax bill on ebay as a work of art. “What if the Russian’s right?” I let out a haughty snort of derision at the very possibility! “But what if bonkersness is as boring as this? And as relatively slow? The descent into madness might not be rapid at all. And at such slow motion, the change is so gradual that it’s bound to seem normal.”

Darlings, so do tell me if you see any tell-tale signs. I’m off to write letters to the Stasi with the old bag upstairs. Between you and me, there’s talk of a plot to assassinate Churchill.



1. Valerie in San Diego - August 25, 2008

Why, dear BiB, you are the very epitome of sanity. How could you doubt it? I’m sure being mad has got to have lots of … horns .. and glasses and ribbons and big bright things that explode in front of one’s eyes. Or maybe I’m mixing it up with Mardi Gras. I do that sometimes. And anyway, who wouldn’t want to assassinate Churchill? It must be true.

2. bowleserised - August 25, 2008

You are no more mad to me, as I told you at 4am this morning when you appeared in a shimmering apparition through my bedroom wall, shortly before turning into Winston Churchill and dancing the hotsy totsy.

3. Mr D - August 25, 2008

OMG, someone’s stolen BiB, and replaced him with demented Thatcher’s lovechild. Now give him back!

4. bowleserised - August 25, 2008

“than me”

5. BiB - August 25, 2008

B., dear sane darling, I had to google hotsy-totsy and then google-image it and instantly got to a ‘hot naked pictures women’ page. (Quick, everyone, do likewise. Even factoring in the gayness, I didn’t find the pictures that hot at all. Closer to cold, if anything.) That’ll learn me to deactivate safe search so that I can find topless pictures of Prince Harry!

Mr D, I saw that story about Mrs. T. having finally come out, or being outed by her daughter – in a book, don’t you know – as barking. I did hear a rumour, if it isn’t awfully naughty to mock past PMs’ afflictions, that when what’s-his-face, that Ingham geezer, would visit her years after her downfall and since Reagan’s death, she would say, “OK, Sir Bernard. Take a memo for Ronald.” Or something like that.

Valerie, too true. Or, if this is what madness is like, I’m going to have to seek compensation from somebody. I mean, there aren’t voices. Little green men. Imaginary rabbit friends or anything. Madness should signpost itself. Come with built-in foghorn sound effects. And, I repeat, be rapid. Now I’m all for gradualism in politics, but if you’re going to lose your marbles, your marbles could at least be good enough to overthrow your sanity in a (bloodless, if need be) revolution.

6. Tim Footman - August 27, 2008

Sydenham’s chorea? A genetic disorder that forces the sufferer to live near Penge?

7. BiB - August 27, 2008

Tim, I was watching the news and dramatic things were happening in Thailand and I thought of you in a bloggerly way. Unfortunately, I had the volume so low for fear of disturbing the neighbours that I don’t have a clue what it was all about.

Lots of places could do with having illnesses named after them, couldn’t they? Croydon ‘flu. Dudley syndrome by proxy. The possibilities are endless.

8. Marsha Klein - August 27, 2008

A school friend of my mine won a bronze medal at the Moscow Olympics (Women’s 4x400m relay).

Does this mean I’m mad, or just really, REALLY old?

Chris Hoy is Daisy’s music teacher’s cousin.

9. BiB - August 27, 2008

Darling, neither. Just that your school produced fine, long-limbed ladies. Were you faster than her in the playground? My old school was also bathed in Olympic glory. Both times – I only know of two – to do with rowing. One of the laureates was the hoary old P.E. teacher’s son. It was, to my knowledge, his only sporting qualification.

(P.S. Can’t decide whether to fancy Chris Hoy or not. All this talk of the Moscow Olympics has reminded me of Allan Wells, though. Phwoar.)

10. Geoff - August 27, 2008

Chris Hoy has the biggest legs in the British Olympic team. That settled the dilemma on whether or not to fancy him for me, anyway. Although I’ve also become rather partial to some of the posh totty in the rowing and sailing too.

11. BiB - August 27, 2008

Ooh, I haven’t had a good gawp at his lallies yet. Must see if I can find them on google images. (*googles ‘lallies+Hoy’*)

Chigishev, a huge weight-lifter, was my pet fancy of these games, though I’d probably be scared to be in the same room as him. Oh god. Must do some sit-ups and press-ups.

12. Marsha Klein - August 28, 2008

” Were you faster than her in the playground?”

Oh God, no. I was (and still am) a hopeless runner, although I was rather good at the obstacle race at primary school!

Allan Wells, eh? Whenever I think of that race, I remember his wife (and coach) Margot “Come oan Allan!” Wells yelling her lungs out in encouragement. I think at the time, that got as much t.v. coverage in Scotland as the race itself.

13. BiB - August 28, 2008

Marshypops, it was the spouse Olympics. Wasn’t there also endless coverage of Steve Ovett making funny signs with his hands after every success? He was fingering ILY – I love you – to his wife… Rather sweet. I plan to bollock the Russian the next moment I see him for never fingering me ЯЛТ.

14. Tim Footman - August 29, 2008

All’s well, BiB. I’m well away from the unpleasantness, in BKK’s equivalent of… well, Sydenham, I suppose.

15. BiB - August 29, 2008

Tim, hooray for the suburbs! Whenever Berlin gets a little bit exciting, i.e. May 1st, I am swaddled in blissful suburban ignorance. Wouldn’t be aware at all if it wasn’t for the odd helicopter flying overhead.

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