Whimsical Musings of a Loon

The year 2008 is at it's sunset, so it seems apt to post a photograph I took yesterday of a December sun setting over the Hampshire countryside.

I never saw myself as a rapper. Slim Siany? No, not me, I'd never get the hang of such foul language in public (my mother might be watching). But I quite like wrapping gifts. Although admittedly when you have 3984763984765 begillion to wrap, it is tedious and an annoying chore. This weekend I did a Christmas present wrapping service for donations to Cancer Research Wales. It was good fun actually, and even better to think of money being raised for a good cause. We were set up in a shopping arcade in Cardiff City Centre, and were quite busy, mostly with guys (sorry) dumping a load of gifts and looking as stressed as a size 6 pair of jeans being squidged onto Kerry Katona. It was actually quite random to see how much people donate too. I was astounded by the generosity of many, I mean seriously taken-aback. And then (and I know you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth but) disappointed with others. Having said that, it ALL counts, no matter how big or small, and as I said it

Forget all those woeful sighs, Feast on some nice mince pies! Maybe pour a glass of wine, Unleash it onto, your waistline.

An end of year list, because I am a musical nerd and enjoy compiling these kinds of delights. So nah. Anyway, this list is for the best new musical albums I have heard in 2008. They're not in any particular order, because that's too difficult again. It's been an odd year for me, as I haven't bought as many records as I normally do, and thus haven't listened to some albums I would have liked to have got my ears wrapped around. Martha Wainwright - I Know You're Married... Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes Hercules & Love Affair - Hercules & Love Affair Lindstrom - Where You Go I Go Too Devon Sproule - Keep Your Silver Shined REM – Accelerate NEON NEON – Stainless Style Spiritualized - Songs in A&E No Age - Nouns Portishead - Third Fuck Buttons - Street Horrrsing Sigur Ros - Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust I've probably listened the most to Martha Wainwright's album, due to my inherent obsession with all things Wai

Sometimes I feel I am pretty much walking a tightrope. Every day. There's a Rufus Wainwright song, Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk where Rufus sings about lessons for walking on tightropes . He's not wrong. And then today, I actually see someone walking a tightrope. For real. And playing the violin (quite nicely) at the same time. In fairness, this is one impressive talent. This man needs fame and fortune from Britain's Got Talent. Move aside Paul Potts, a singing embryo and a Hitler impersonator playing the spoons whilst painting a replica of the Sisteenth Chapel ceiling. Tightrope walking brings me nicely onto my favourite film of 2008 (and I seriously doubt I will see a film from now until the 31st of December that will better it). It was Man On Wire , the documentary about the wonderfully eccentric, yet genius Frenchman Philippe Petit, who decided to tightrope walk between the tops of the WTC Twin Towers in 1974. It's a fantastic film, filled with moments of poignan

Jingle Bells, Santa, Frankincense & Myrr, Yes it's *that* special time of year, Christmas, Christmas, it's always the same, Shopping frenzy, busy, insane. Peace on earth? There's not much merry, With a scrum to buy the last cranberry. Panic buy, as if the world will end- But! It's only one day the shops are shut. Homes covered in lights to see, Tinsel plastered over the tree, A smorgasbord of endless plastic, It all looks rather drastic. And seeing the cake that's over iced, What's this to do with Christ? Running around, and trying to jape, Decorations ruined, from years of selotape. Packet puddings, it's a bit of a cheat, Mountain of food that no one will eat. It's so great, have some wine, Everyone's having the best time. Around TV festive specials we group, Or Shakin' Stevens on a continuous loop. Once December 25th is over, forget details, It's off to the shops and scrums, to 'enjoy' the sales.

Today's random crappy graffiti. And apparently Buddy Holly is alive and well and living in Cardiff. Nice. Better tell Peggy Sue.

Smallest book in the world: "All the Times My Dad Didn't Lose His Rag" Over the dinner table Sunday night at my parents' house, Dad pipes up with: "Oh you remember that time I argued with that bloke." Actually Dad, no I don't....there are far too many times to sift through over the years to remember individual occasions... Mind, nothing was better than his gem of a quote later on. "The Sound of Music...I expect those kids are all grown up now." No Dad. Kids in films remain the same age forever more. "I know kids in films stay the same age forever..." he replied to much laughter. Stop digging dad! (But don't change. Ever. I'd miss the comedy).

Gabriel Yared performed a concert at the Millennium Centre on Friday night. Accompanied by the world class BBC Symphony Orchestra of Wales, Gabriel played a selection of his beautiful scores for films such as The English Patient , Betty Blue , Cold Mountain and my personal favourite, The Talented Mr Ripley . It was a heartfelt tribute to the late film director Anthony Minghella, who collaborated with Yared for many films. When I first became seriously interested in music, it was through film and soundtracks that this love grew from. I must confess I was never much of a classical music fan either, until I started watching more films. One of the first classical composers I began to appreciate was Beethoven, (rather alarmingly you might say) because of Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange . I guess this makes me rather Alex-esque. But I promise I am not into 'ultra-violence'. But soundtracks awakened my love of music. Which had always been there, but had been lying dormant. The Talen

Sat right across from me, Drinking hot, steaming tea, Munching on a tasty bun, Whilst reading pages of the Sun. Blackened fingers and thumbs, Covered the table with crumbs. Forgive me whilst I scan, Every detail, Bearded Man. Letting out a disgruntled groan, Trying to text with his phone. And another long, wary sigh, The cake-counter catches eye. Right now I'm your biggest fan, You there Mr Bearded Man. (Drawing and poem by me)

A drawing of me by my good friend. I've never had anyone draw me before. Am I really that bizarrely bug-one-eye-bigger-than-the-other!?

I was channel hopping the other night, which sadly doesn't actually involve any hopping, because if it did it might help solve the obesity crisis across the country/globe. Since the birth of digital boxes, ITV, BBC and Channel 4 now seem to have 34985793487 begillion extra channels. But there still never seems to be anything on TV. Other than reality TV, Jeremy Kyle-style chat shows, cookery shows, house/DIY series and er soaps. I remember back in t'day *cue Hovis ad music* when there were only four channels (well, five really we had S4C in Wales), and I used to manage to watch a considerable amount of televisual delights. Admittedly most of that involved Scott & Charlene in Neighbours. And Mrs Mangel. I loved TV. It was the first thing I thought about waking up, and the last thing I thought about going to bed every night (apart from rugby of course). But in my channel hopping daze the other night, I am sure I found on separate channels, on the same time, about five differe

I knew Santa had extra help, not even Usain Bolt could get around the world that quick. Are we all to be taken for fools?!

Do they? Well actually, they probably do. Look what happened to Titanic. Now, I like boats and I love the sea. We went out on our friend's motor boat on the weekend, one of those rib boats that zip around fast with the air blasting your face. It's all rather a lot of fun. Or can be. Safety first Captain, always; our friend is ultra prepared and he does all the safety checks - lifejackets (aye aye Captain), GPS (aye aye Captain), waterproof radio (aye aye Captain), ipod player (an essential! Aye aye Captain)...ecetera and so forth. But sometimes you just cannot prepare for the unexpected. Unless you're that psychic scouse guy Derek Acorn (or something) on Most Haunted (maybe). We were pootling around Cardiff Bay - speed restrictions in some of the areas naturally, so nothing too fast. We motored over to Penarth, we motored over towards the sailing club, we motored around the barrage. All lovely, all rather nice and refined. We pass many sailing boats (many of whom the sailor

He left the house on one dark day, On his mind perhaps things did weigh, Maybe not and his life did glow, He never returned, we'll never know. He looked older, but was only a teen, At the chippie, he was last seen, Grainy video shows him alone, He disappears from frame into unknown. Photos remain of his handsome face, Last movements are a subject of trace. Memories from those who loved him most, His image, his person, is now a ghost. Questions his family always do vow, Just what does he look like today & now? They suffer in their constant reviewing, For not knowing what he is doing. Amongst all that, dark thoughts of wrong, Someone's foul hand, he is forever gone? Nothing is answered, things left to rue, What happened to him, I wish I knew. (Many people across the country go missing every week. If you have five minutes to spare, please check out the Missing People charity web site here )

Read what? It seems bad form to instruct someone to read something, only then to spectacularly let them down by not providing any reading material. It's a broken promise, it's an anti-climax. Most of all, this is just plain bad graffiti. Does the author not realise the graffiti etiquette that must be strictly adhered to!? At least throw in a trip-esque mural representing a mis-spent youth. Could you imagine the uproar if I did such a cruel thing on this blog? Demand my legions of readers here to read my musings, only to go all minimalist, and just leave an empty space. There would be chaos. The internet would probably implode with the huge weight of apocalyptic disappointment. (In my dreams) But bad graffiti grates like a giant grate at a grating convention. I'll forgive incorrect spelling, and even *shock horror to the teachers amongst us* the misuse of the dreaded apostrophe (There's no excuse for signs and supermarkets though, but I'll stop there before I sound

The cafe in the rain, The people all the same, Fixed seats to the floor, Menus make my heart sore. Tables coated in ancient grime, It's really going back in time. Come to Cafe Melancholy, Serve with a smile and trying jolly. Yellow pictures on the walls, An old man to his paper, drawls. Young worker dreams of being sacked, Handling china already cracked. Italian owner makes a sigh, Of things and changes that go by. Come to Cafe Melancholy, Neon sign, attempt at jolly.

I hate losing. I am a bad loser. Losing is terrible. Wales lost to South Africa at the rugby yesterday. And yet...we should have won. Whenever Wales lose, I always try to work out what is best/worst: to play well, compete and lose to a good team who had that more luck; to get well beaten by a team far superior; to narrowly lose playing badly and beaten by a better team; to lose by 60; to lose to a criminal piece of despicable refereeing. Definitely the latter is the worst way. Possibly even worse than losing by 60 points. So I take crumbs of comfort from this moldy old biscuit of hope that is my optimism when it comes to Welsh rugby. It's somehow gutting to lose a match when you create opportunities but fail to take them though. Which is why I feel particularly peeved this morning, on reflection. All the Ifs and Buts come flooding out, but it's pointless. We lost. At home, the Millennium Stadium. End of. No loss is good in my eyes, no matter how many positives there are. I stil

She stands at the window, outside looking in, She watches the world, her head in a spin. The people, the lives, are bustling en masse, She wants it so bad, but can't break the glass. She stands at the window, outside looking in, The glass at her touch, feels cold to the skin. She catches her reflection, a double-take glance, Who is this person, who never had the chance? She stands at the window, outside looking in, Her decay is shrouded by a face mask grin. No body knows of her utmost fear, Concealed, frozen in an eternal tear. Her demons, with their bony grip are rife, As is the realisation, she's scared of life. Tomorrow she'll return again, alas, One more futile effort to break glass. She stands at the window, outside looking in, She watches the world, her head in a spin. She watches. Watches. And Watches.... But never goes in.

Dear reader, as you may know I spend rather a lot of time in the gym. So much time, I will soon be charged rent and will end up paying their council tax. Anyway, I’m going to the gym today and I have to walk through the main hall to get to the gym itself, and there’s some bowls going on. Indoor bowls. I try to walk through. Big mistake. BIG MISTAKE. Forget hoodies, it’s grannies playing bowls you have to be scared of. ‘Cardies’ - call the Daily Mail, it's the new scare that will hit Britain! It is, apparently, the worst crime imaginable to sneak past at the back whilst a game of lawn bowls is continuing. By a fat old woman on a motorised scooter. I was stared out and feared for my life. They may have been carrying knitting needles and knuckle-feather-dusters.

I read this news article this morning on the BBC web site on Bletchley Park .  It's sad to hear Bletchley Park needed emergency funding. Bletchley is such an important part of British/European history - it was here famously that the German enigma code machine was cracked, a crucial twist in favour of the allies during World War II. Wars can turn on these kinds of efforts, and this was utterly integral towards achieving success. It also saw huge developments in the technology of computers; Alan Turing, the legendary Cambridge mathematician working there. I have always thought something so important to our heritage should be protected and looked after so that future generations can visit and learn what people did for us and our freedoms. It's also a matter of respect of what people had to go through so that we could enjoy these freedoms too. Let's hope Bletchley continues to get the funding it needs to preserve an important part of our history. Recently I visited a place call

Bonfire night. A celebration of a foiled plot to blow up Houses of Parliament, and we do this by...setting off fireworks! An intriguing tradition if you think about it, a free reign to act as roaming pyromaniacs for the night. It's not like we celebrate catching murderers by....well killing things. As a kid, I loved Bonfire Night. One my favourite days of the year. I used to love making a 'Guy' to burn on the bonfire - usually raiding my dad's wardrobe for clothes to dress the Guy up in (often without permission). A strange tradition really, teaching kids to burn effigies on fires. One year I collected a load of  clothes and then thought it would be funnier to dress up in my dad's clothes and pretend to be him all afternoon instead. Luckily I didn't end up on the bonfire.  One infamous bonfire night, my dad was letting off fireworks in our back garden. In my parents' infinite wisdom, they had planted a huge tree in the middle of the lawn (ruining most games

Despite the humour I did feign, I cannot deny you caused me pain, Time moves on and you don't care, Yet hurt is still very much there. The wound feels like it's rubbed in salt, And yet I don't feel it's your fault, You had the head fuck to a tee, But the problem here has to be me. You have moved on with life's flow, The sadness I feel you'll never know, I'll slap you but also won't, I hate you but also don't. The pain you caused can never mend, And this you'll never comprehend. For in this mess I do drown, And worse of all I let you down.

Today's photo of the hour.  It never ceases to amaze me the courtesy people have for one and another...I was rambling along a lovely woodland on Caerphilly Mountain and stumbled upon this delightful message to the masses. How poetic. Future generations are left with this heartfelt and in-depth prose. Unless a Gary Glitter-y personage wrote this and it has an entirely different meaning... And now that means I have to tag Gary Glitter. I never thought that would occur in a hurry.

Another month is over, another new one begins. 2008 is entering it's twilight weeks, soon destined to nothing more than the dust of history books. The year has, and is, going fast. But on the other hand, it seems like a millennium ago when Big Ben chimed twelve and we welcomed in the new year, and all it's anti-climaxes. The summer never really got going, the sun refusing to leave its blocks, whilst the bitter cold has gripped our skin and bones with its icy claws over the past few weeks, reminding us we really are in winter now. I used to love this time of the year as a kid. Hallowe'en, Bonfire Night, then the always enjoyable run-up to the madness of Christmas festivities. Yet as time passes they all fade into insignificance; a barrel of anti-climax, which I always felt but always managed to conveniently forget.  One Hallowe'en in 1992, we visited my Nan in the midlands, and it is still possibly the most terrified I have ever been in my life. I had always been convinc

Spotted in the gym today - the woman who works out on the cross-trainer whilst munching on a chocolate bar. I kid ye not.

I went down a mine the other day. Not that it was a working one. They don't exist anymore, not since Thatcher popped along with her armored handbag, and kindly raped the Welsh Valleys.  Big Pit is now sadly a museum although a terrific one; you're taken down into the mine and shown around by an ex-miner, themselves becoming rare species alone. You have to wear hard hats, you have to carry gas masks. Everything and anything with a battery or electronics is confiscated. You descend in the mine-shaft, which eerily carries you underground against the soundtrack of the drip-dropping of water, the echos and screeching of the mechanics. Underground you see the cramped conditions, you see the harshness, the dangers. Most of all, you paradoxically see the darkness. It is a black blackness that you can only imagine in your deepest and darkest nightmares. That's it.  That's all that's left of the coal industry in South Wales. A tourist museum. There are traces of what was once

Yesterday I came here and said, 'Don't let a plank fall on your head' For it'll get too late for fixing a broken gate. Today I come here to say; When trying to get out the way, Of a falling saw off the sill, Don't step on that nasty drill. Ouch.

Carrying on from the theme of stumbling upon such random things, here is a photo I took in the summer. I was doing a little photography project on the South Wales Valleys, and frankly, it is a hot-bed of brilliant, bizarre occurrences.  I was walking down a small side-road when I noticed this box just sat on the wall. There was no one else around, naturally. I approached and snapped a pic, and as I inspected the box I realised it was....a box of Rubick's Cubes. Of all things, perched on a scabby wall, a box of Rubick's Cubes in the depths of the Welsh valleys. Why, how, or what? And why do I, of all people, keep finding these things? See the rest of the photos...

When putting up a garden fence, Always use common sense. You're sure to always fail, If you use the wrong nail. Try to use your strength and will, But it's wise to try and use a drill. And the law books say, I'm sure I read, Don't get a plank of wood on your head.

I am fed up. Not the good kind of fed up, like eating a good meal or gorging on my favourite food - ice lollies (washed down with jack daniels). No, this is the fed up with life feeling, that stuns your brain and engulfs your body with malaise. But on the other hand, there is a burning itch to do something; ants in your pants, you can't sit still. Restless. But I do not know what to do. I am a model aeroplane kit without the instructions, a self-assembling IKEA shelf without the screws, but a similar wooden existence.  I might become the first person in history to die of boredom. What's the point? I don't use any of my so-called talents for anything. No good, not even eville. It's all a big waste, it's the dripping of a tap that no one can be bothered to tighten; that's my life.  No one even reads this crap.

When out and about on my jaunts and whimsical wanderings, armed with only my camera and a bottle of pop, it never ceases to amaze me the very bizarre and wonderfully random occurrences and things I discover. More often than not, there's a great deal to chuckle about too. I found this sign in Talgarth, Mid-Wales. It is a tiny town in the middle of Welsh wilderness, you can half imagine the music from Deliverance as you stroll down the street. But it houses one or two little gems like this sign, which I have decided is probably one of the best signs I've ever seen. When was the last time the phrase 'car transporter' was used since 1970? I would have liked to have seen a sign on the house next to it 'Car transporter, please hit this house'.... See the rest of the photos from Talgarth

I love driving. No, I do. I'd do it all day long if I could.  But parents and cars do not mix happily. It is not a natural union. My dad hates driving with a passion, he treats driving as a battle between man and car - and will not leave second gear. He even went into second gear from fifth doing 70mph on the motorway once. I needed a change of under-crackers when that occurred, I can tell you that. Tonight we went out for a meal. Mum drove us there. Big mistake alone, as she never goes over 10mph (bless her), but that wasn't the main issue. Coming out of the drinking establishment on Caerphilly mountain, mum attempts to maneuver out of the car park space. She wasn't blocked, there were no cars parked next to hers either side but there was a car behind. Easy. Surely. I think she thought she was driving a tank. That had no windows. Or steering. And that she was blind. And deaf. With her hands tied behind her back. Needless to say, there was a 7,938 point turn, without the tu

No, not the nightclub. The animal. Here I am doing my David Attenborough impression....only at Chessington Zoo/Theme Park last week instead. Given I actually sometimes try to be a photographer(!), this is not exactly the best photo ever.... I do wish I could go on safari one day, see the animals for real. Real, real, as opposed to zoo real, which isn't too real at all. Although at least they aren't those (lying) cartoons. And are alive. I found the Natural History Museum in London last August rather troublesome on my conscience. It all sat very uneasy, like John Candy standing on tip-toe on my knee. All those stuffed animals, beautiful animals...yet all dead. If I want to see dead animals I just go to the frozen aisle in Tescos. Perhaps the taxidermy reminds me too much of Norman Bates from Psycho. And we all know about him. But how wonderful it would be to see the animals in their natural habitat on safari (and also have my own TV show....). Tigers and Lions are my favourite a

Autumn afternoon A Bristol street "yeah but no but yeah but no" October sun beaming down "yeah but no she had big wangers..."

I love Nick Drake. Few musicians have moved me quite like the singer who tragically died way too soon in 1974. He was only 26. His music is beautiful, melancholic, rich, whilst the lyrics are often heart-wrenching. His songs haunt you, his voice sounds often weak but yet still the message is strong. The guitar playing is intrinsic and precise, and yet the melodies seem so simple. Nick suffered from depression, and poured these depths into his songs. They reflect on the sadness of the passing of the time, they concentrate on the evocative way the world is drenched in melancholy. It is the struggle of some in a life that they cannot fit into, they struggle to reach for the surface. Delicate, brittle, fleeting. It is a hopeless fight. My favourite Nick Drake song has these lyrics. Place To Be When I was younger, younger than before I never saw the truth hanging from the door And now I'm older see it face to face And now I'm older gotta get up clean the place. And I was green, gree

My dad has a computer. He bought his first 'real' PC in 1995. When I say real, I mean a modern computer with Windows (which to father, were only contraptions to look through a house wall). I remember the occasion well. It took him approximately 4,9382 weeks to make the purchase, and double that number in visits to PC World. Rumours had it they gave him his own parking space in the car park and suicide rates of PC World workers in Cardiff rose by 98%. Poor dad isn't a natural at technological advances. He struggled to show me how to use the VCR when I was 4, but the most thing I learnt was how to swear; "bloody hell...bloody machine". A year later, I was showing him how to use said machine to record an episode of Dad's Army . This was an important landmark in my life. I realised parents weren't good at everything, in fact, they could be damn awful at things. It was to prove an understatement of the millennium when it came to anything electronic coming into

Why can I conquer the world one moment, and yet cannot barely muster the strength to breathe the next? Why are there times when I feel 10 feet tall, and others I feel 10 centimetres? The extremes play with my head. Some days, the world seems an endless sea of opportunity - stretched out before me like a golden dream; welcoming me with soft hands that beckon me into this perfect existence. Everything fits. The t's are crossed, the i's are dotted. There is nothing in my path, nothing that is, but sunshine, warmth, colours, the possibility. But. Some days, the world seems an endless pit of blackness, bombarding me, engulfing me at every angle. Bony fingers reject my every move, my every thought. Nothing works. The pieces are scattered around, but none belong to the same set. Nothing fits. I do not fit. Before me lies a plethora of obstacles, I am paralysed. I fall before I even make my first step. Is this the same place? How can it be so? But the major question I cannot fathom, I

Insomnia is the disease that has the power to turn sane people loony, and loony people (me) even more insane. I cannot sleep. It's as if my brain refuses to sit down, it's kamikazee, it's too proud to thrown in the towel. So it soldiers on like a dying horse, determined to get to the finish line. I don't have any comprehension over what this finish line my brain feels it has to aspire to, but something tells me this destination is rather far away in space and time. It's like the 100 Years War, only less fun. I must have had about three hours sleep last night. Then I was awoken to an apocalyptic wail, that stunned me into action. For a split second I believed I had arrived in Cold War times - this was the four minute warning wasn't it? The world was about to implode, a boom, a flash of light, and then we'd all crumble into dust. O the humanity! For that split second my confused head was half terrified, half contemplating: "I'm too young to die. There

When I was a wee lass in pigtails, I had so many heroes and idols, it would quite possibly take me a day to list them all down. And then I'd forget some. It would read like one of those gaudy, Friday night-filler TV shows '100 Top Hundredy Hundreds of Hundredy Lists - with Anthea Turner & the cast of Hollyoaks'. (Incidentally, I never had pigtails. Too girly) It would probably be quicker to list the people who WEREN'T my idols. So I guess that leaves Maggie Thatcher and Will Carling. But I think it's intriguing to see who I worshipped and adored way back then. Mostly actors, comedians and sportsmen and women. My first heroes were from watching copious amounts of television - step forward French & Saunders, Julie Walters, David Jason and Victoria Wood. I wanted to be French & Saunders and Julie Walters AND Victoria Wood. All in one. A giant concoction of comedy genius. I would act out little plays entirely on my own, invent characters, impersonate everyo

I struggle to determine my earliest memory. My head is swarmed with cloudy scenes and flashing images, that have no timescale, no sense of coherence or purpose. All things considered, it somehow seems apt. Yet there are several particular scenes that spring to mind when I close my eyes and let my mind drift. My childhood seems a random concoction of 80s bad clothes, wonderful games with my sisters, Lego, Neighbours, my mother’s huge Owl-esque glasses, my Nans, my impersonations of just about anyone, my dad’s random rages over innocuous driving occurrences, and political tensions on television. But if I concentrate really hard, and I mean really hard now, not like in school - when 90% of my brain switched off and dreamt of fame and fortune, 5% thought of impressions I could do of the comically attired teacher parading in front of me in orange pantaloons, while the remaining 5% concentrated on sleeping with my eyes shut – certain memories begin to stand out, they begin to form and play

I am not sure I know either....