Dreadful Nonsense

Just back from walking the dogs - bring two labradors up a mountain, and you've got an instant recipe for adventure. Today what we managed to do was nearly get lost, actually get lost, find the path again, become too confident, take another path that wasn't the right one, get lost again, panic, notice it's getting dark, panic some more, find something that looks familiar, celebrate, realise that the only entrance - and therefore only exit - will be locked in five minutes, panic some more, spot the car, run, celebrate again, drive off the mountain and realise that your knee hurts.

Much fun.

Edel, my sister, is currently standing behind me and humming "If I were a rich man" and playing with my cardigan. I think it means she wants to be hugged. She says it doesn't.

Five days after Christmas, and I've barely moved. It's utterly fantastic to be home, surrounded by family and dogs and food and warmth and entertainment and company and music and laughter. I have found to my joy that being home is even better than the anticipation of coming home. It's been eight months since I've been home and I am never ever leaving it that long again. Even though, looking around, it feels like I've never left, at the same time I feel that I've missed so much.

And, leaving the late night schmaltz behind for a moment, the latest news in the world of Sharon is that I managed to fall down some stairs yesterday, while shopping with my sister. I got bored in a shop where Louise's friend was flirting with the shop assistant, and wandered off on my own in search of adventure. Instead, I launched myself off some steps and twisted my knee and ankle. I also landed on my make up mirror, smashing it to pieces. I am now looking forward to the next seven years, which everyone tells me will now be filled with bad luck, as if falling down some stairs wasn't bad enough.

And then the bus that I was getting home today caught fire. I am not joking. Roll on the next 2554 days.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Just back in from a walk down the Royal Mile, where I watched a thirty foot orange owl slow dance with a thirty foot blue puffin. Not something you see everyday, there.

Whose stupid idea was it to buy bloody Doc Marten boots in the first place?! I sit here, my feet skinned and shells of their former selves, and all I've done is walk down to the pub and back - a total walk of about 20 minutes.

Kareoke, mind you, was worth the pain. Myself and Jayne nominated our friend Sean, who is a former stage school child, to get up and sing "No Matter" by Boyzone, and he did us all proud, alternating between the Ronan bits and Steven bits with barely a flinch. And then when, half way through the song, we all launched ourselves from the back of the pub to kneel down before him and waive our lighters in the air while screetching the Steven bits in falsetto, he didn't even let that put him off. The boy was born to sing.


I must go and lie down now. I've a very busy day ahead of me, organising bloody train tickets and buying christmas presents. Without my Docs, I hasten to add.

A few people have been asking how the breaking in of my new blue doc boots are going. For those of you who are concerned, it's going quite well, thanks very much for asking. Not painful as yet, although I've not worn them outside the house yet. I've decided that momentous occasion will happen tomorrow, when I wear them down the local pub for the Kareoke night. I assume that I will be drinking a lot - if you've been in the International Bar down by the Meadows in Edinburgh, you'll know why a lot of drink is called for. Particularly on the night when all the locals decide to get up and sing. And I've decided that, anaesthetised by the drink, I might just make the walk back home while my heels start bleeding in protest at being taken out of runners.

The new issue of Comedy Lounge is shaping up fabulously well. We had the brainwave of asking other people to write it for us, and that's going swimmingly, with people from off of the telly writing little accounts of their year, which saves us from doing it ourselves.

Fame at last. The audio clip of myself and Susan on the Jon Holmes radio show - you remember - is now on the internet for all of you who accidentally forgot to tune in (or for the couple of you that did tune in, but were too drunk to remember anything).

You can find it here, in the section from Friday 23 November, called The Pissing Contest. Bear with it, you'll hear us at the end. And before that you'll hear the delightful noise of a Scottish man weeing for over a minute.

I'm beginning to get a little unnerved at the number of people reading this whose ISP IDs I don't recognise, considering this website isn't registered anywhere in the world, to my knowledge.

So, I'm carrying out a little survey - please email me at cluubz@yahoo.co.uk and tell me who you are, where you are, and what you want for Christmas.

Cheers.

Today, 1st December, is a day packed full of action and awareness. First of all, I urge you to BOYCOTT ESSO, today and beyond.

Four simple reasons to support this action? Because Esso -
1. refuses to accept that burning oil causes global warming
2. has undermined international efforts to combat climate change more than any other oil company
3. has donated more money to help Bush get into the White House than any other oil company ensuring he would ditch the Kyoto Treaty
4. is the world's most profitable oil company, but it refuses to spend any of its billions on renewable energy or green fuels


Alongside that, it’s also World Aids Awareness Day so my web log is wearing a red ribbon.



If you see anyone collecting for World Aids Day today – and let’s face it, you will – do give very generously because it’s such a horrifically important cause.