You're Not A Celebrity, Get Out Of Here

So, a friend and I had a conversation (over tea and cake) about exactly what qualified a person as a 'celebrity'.

These are the first nine 'celebrities' named on the front page of the UK's OK magazine website:

Jorgie Porter
Matthew Wolfenden
David Walliams
Jessie J
Ben Kelly
Konnie Huq
Sam Faiers
Amanda Holden
Imogen Thomas

Hell, I've only ever heard of two of those people. That said, I'm probably not the best person to ask about celebrities.

Even so, if I've never heard of 'em are they really celebrities?

Naturally we ended up referring to a dictionary:

Celebrity
noun: a famous person, especially in entertainment or sport

Hmm. So, a celebrity is a famous person. But what actually makes someone famous? I wonder what the dictionary has to say about that:

Famous
adjective: known about by many people

Many people, eh? Qualify 'many'.

Many
noun: a majority

I think I know what 'majority' means, but let's check, just to be sure:

Majority
noun: the greater number

Righto. So by my interpretation, a 'celebrity' is a person who is known about by more than 3.4 billion people.

(I know, I know. You're gonna say that I'm casting the net too wide. I shouldn't be using the whole world as my base figure - that's way too divisive. But if we start limiting the pool to people who are likely to have heard of 'em, then we might as well say that I'm a celebrity on the basis that my cat knows me!)

I'm willing to bet that, Jeremy Clarkson notwithstanding, there's not a single so called 'celebrity' on the planet who's known about by 3.4 billion people.

I mean, perhaps George W Bush is. He got a lot of press. Elvis, maybe. But definitely not Matthew Wolfenden. Turns out, he's just a guy.

In Which Mother's Day Is Cancelled, Someone Shits In The Bed And I Develop A Craving For Cream Teas.

I'm really sorry, ladies, but those of you who were expecting cards and presents from your offspring today should prepare for disappointment.

Despite all the advertising by the greetings card industry, there is in fact no Mothers Day this year.

You see, there was a scheduling error. Those idiots in the the calendar department went and double booked the 18th March. Today is in fact Dazza's birthday. It's been Dazza's Birthday on the 18th March for the last 30-odd years and it's not about to change. Here he is with this year's haul:


I have my suspicions about how this horrible Mothers-Day/Daz Day mix-up occurred:


So if you've gone out and bought your mum a card, I'm afraid you're going to have to ask for a refund. They shouldn't have sold it to you in the first place. And if you have received one, try not to be too despondent about the fact that it's a hollow gesture.

Now, my mum puts quite a lot of emphasis on Mothers Day. So that she doesn't feel all put out and everything, I have in fact purchased a card. But I didn't want to fall into the Cabal's ridiculous little trap, so I bought her a card that was far more appropriate for the day:


Now I've set the world to rights, I shall move onto other things.
This week, Rochester has been very poorly. He has kidney problems and they sort of got the better of him. Turns out that he had no potassium in him, which was causing him to be lethargic and dehydrated. Kinda like a hangover...


Anyway, the vet kept him in for a couple of nights, shaved bits of him for some sort of kinky ritual, poked him with all the stuff she could find, charging me a small fortune for the pleasure, and now he's much better. So much so, that when we got him home, he thanked us by coming up to bed with us and liberally sharing his lovely diarrhoea.


There's nothing quite like having to change the bed, clean the carpets and shower at half past eleven at night.

So basically, Rochester has spent all of my savings and then shit on me. Thanks, mate. You're very lucky to live with people who still love you despite being covered in your shit!

One last thing.

When I turned on the telly yesterday morning, James Martin was making Cream Teas. Guess what I had a craving for all weekend?

Luckily, I was able to indulge it...

The Stalky Owl

I've been having quite a traumatic time of it this week. You see, I have acquired a stalker.

It's disguised itself as a really creepy owl, but really it's working for the The Evil Cabal Of Evil. I'm certain of it!


It stalks me when I drink tea in the garden.


It stalks me while I sleep.


It stalks me in the shower.


It stalks me when I use my computer.


It stalks me when I drive.


It stalks me in the kitchen.


It stalks me when I read.


Sometimes it gets it's friends to stalk me.


It stalks me when I watch Telly.


It stalks me when I go for walks.


It even stalks me when I drop the kids off at the pool.

I'm at my wits end. I haven't heard anything from the Cabal all year. They must have something big planned...

When was the last time you saw me eating meat?

Are you sure? I think if you looked carefully, that was actually a bean-burger. Or a veggie burrito.

In fact, my last meaty meal was on 31st January. It was a slightly disappointing steak baguette, and I had it with my good friend Mr Berry.

Veguary was quite a success last year, and people had been asking me if  I would be repeating it this year.

So, I thought I'd try it again. But with a twist to make it more interesting: Covert Veguary. Or Invisiveguary if you prefer.

I told no-one. Well, actually, I did tell one person because I'm basically incapable of keeping a secret. But no-one else knew. Especially not Dr K who, when I told her over a celebratory plate of hot chicken wings at Nando's on the 1st March, was astounded.  Look, here's her astounded face:

She didn't really say that.  She's far too nice a girl for that sort of language.

For the record... here's that plate of chicken wings:

Somehow, I managed it. For a whole month, I ate nothing but vegetarian approved fayre. Blimey, it was hard work doing it in secret. Covert curries. Sneaky sausages. Fajita facades. Falsified feasts, Camouflaged Chineses. All manner of alliteratively ambiguous... er... food...

There were a few tricky moments.  For example, my friend Jo very kindly offered to make us dinner one evening.  She was making chicken fajitas.  Yum.  This presented me with a bit of a dilemma.  I'd either have to feign some sort of illness, or hope that no-one noticed that I was only stuffing my wrap with cheese, onions and peppers.  I kind've imagined the conversation going like this:

My luck was in however and on the day we were supposed to be going over, Dr K contracted a horrible chest infection (no, not my hands...) which had her in agony!  So we couldn't go.  I have to say, I've never been so pleased to see Dr K in such excruciating pain!

But no-one noticed. Well actually - during the course of the month, the lack of meat in my meal was the subject of comment by just two people. But not even they made the connection between that one meal and all the others!

(And before you start claiming that you knew what was going on all along - stop deluding yourself.  If you didn't pipe up then, you can't pretend you'd noticed, you fool!)

I suppose this calls for some profound insight into how people are so wrapped up in their own little lives that they don't have a clue what's going on around them.  They are, but who wants to read a post full of smugness?  There's plenty of other people around being smug about their perceived superiority without me adding to it.

Instead of smugness, how about a picture of some steak:

I love steak and plan to go and eat one really soon.  Who's with me?

Working With The Thunder God

Not content with keeping this blog going, I now seem to be supplying regular articles for The Perturbed Dragon's website.

Here's the one I wrote today about the animating process:

Working With The Thunder God.