I have at least five pairs of shoes in desperate need of repair. Last night I placed all five pairs on my fireplace next to a bottle of diet Pepsi, two blueberry muffins and a handful of chocolate covered peanuts. Unbelievably, I awoke this morning to discover that my shoes were still in desperate need of repair! Even the appetizing repast I had left out remained untouched.
What, I demand to know, were all the friendly elves and goblins who live in the walls doing all night? Probably drunk stupid on toadstool wine, I'll wager: lazy, good-for-nothing little people.
It was the same story when I wanted the couch moved from one room to another. Six walnuts, a can of ginger ale, half a snickers bar, and the bloody couch didn't move an inch! Where, I ask you, are all the brawny ogres who don't mind a bit of heavy lifting? Prowling around at the fairyland disco with a jug of dandelion ale trying to pick up woodland nymphs, I'll be bound!
It is a disgrace that in this day and age you cannot find a single make-believe character to do a fair days work for a fair days pile of junk food.
What is the world coming to? Next thing you know, the witch who lives down the road will have to build a house out of crack cocaine if she wants to attract any plump little children.
My first gig as a one man David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon Tribute Band went extremely badly.
Obviously, "being" David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon on stage demands not only an extensive knowledge of the maestro's highly diverse oeuvre, but also requires almost superhuman talents as a quick-change artiste; and looking back on the show, I think this is where it all went wrong for me.
I began modestly - wearing a long-haired wig with a tight-fitting sailor shirt and bell-bottom trousers, an acoustic guitar slung sullenly around my shoulders. Thus attired, I performed a passable version of Life On Mars.
As the last chord echoed around the auditorium, I rushed backstage, slipped into a pair of diamanté underpants, wedged a wah-wah pedal in my armpit, slapped a streak of red and blue paint on my face, then ran out again and did Ziggy Stardust.
"Ziggy played guitaaaaaaaar!" I wailed, and ran back to the dressing room - desperately out of breath by now with a restless crowd waiting - hustled myself into loud checked shirt and hip huggers, wiped the crap off my face and ran back out again for a Young Americans duet with a voice box: so tired I could barely stand there and croak, never mind sing falsetto.
Somehow I managed to get through it, but then the horrible realization dawned that the next number was a bloody medley!
Rebel Rebel, Golden Years, Boys Keep Swinging, and finally Ashes To Ashes in full clown costume and make-up.
Needless, to say it was a total disaster.
I was still in the middle of singing "hot tramp I love you so" - while playing a synthesizer with one hand, drums with my feet, and strumming with my other hand as I was trying to fit my clown shoes on over my Thin White Duke socks and pulling my novelty Diamond Dogs thong off at the same time - when my mind went blank. I forgot the lyrics to the songs, tripped over my thong, knocked the microphone stand over and fell into the orchestra pit.
Someone yelled "Ground control to Major Tom!" and that was the end of it.
Base camp has already been established on the shores of Lake Tomato Sauce, and tomorrow we make our first ascent of the Hill of Beans.
The Baked Bean section at roughly 5000 feet should be the most arduous part of the climb - difficult, murky terrain with all those weird white chunky bits in it, and we expect to discover the body of the Anne Margaret character from Tommy along the way.
Then we progress to the Green Bean Section (approx 6000 feet), followed by negotiation of treacherously narrow the String Bean Crevasse, followed by the truly breathtaking Mexican Jumping Bean section (variable feet), before our final ascent to the summit of the Hill of Beans and the ceremonial planting of our flag on Humphrey Bogart's nose.
My only hope is that we don't run into the Abominable Beanman.
Comments