My name is...

I should point out that Joocey is now Mary Poppins... I just fancied a change of name. So there.

Movin' on...

Having been made aware of the fact my more politically-based rants are 'boring' (a fact I readily accept)I am moving anything that has a hint of liberal lefty-ness over to another blog on:

http://arewescunneredyet.blogspot.com/

Which leaves more space for random thoughts and stories from my little life in Jooceyville....

Which means this blog will be infinitely more eccentric, fun, quirky and plain ol' random from now on. Lucky you.

Just one question...

How can guys watch a movie, like, once and still remember every single line? Yet girls can watch a movie, like, a million times and remember maybe two or three major quotes and the colour of the main protagonist's shoes, but nothing more significant than that? Is this a genetic difference designed to make men remember more things? And if so, why can't they remember their mum's birthday, but they can recall every set of weekly football results for their local pub team from the year of it's inception, in 1802? In fact, why are their memory skills reserved purely for useless facts such as world cup results and movie scripts, rather than anything useful or practical such as, say, shopping lists or things that are really really important and vital to do ASAP. Is it just that we girls are merely designed to remember vital dates and times, and our role on this earth is to remind our good men-folk about their duties as and when required? Or are we girls actually designed to remember the colour of the main protagonist's shoes and dress style just so we can go shopping later and get the exact same match for half the price in the sales?

This week I'm mostly loving...

Britain's Got Talent. What's not to love? Well, sure the flatulist, Mr. Methane, was more than a tad disturbing. How can farting to classical tunes be anything more than a crude pub joke? I love a good well-timed fart joke as much as the next immature idiot, but even I can't justify farting as a 'talent'. Blimey - I should go on the show and write with my feet (Which, incidentally, makes me quadridextrous... and I even invented that word myself. Oh yeah. I'm that fantastic.) because I personally believe that's far more talented than being able to control one's sphincter in time to music.

But anyway, apart from the God-awful Mr. Methane and his rotten stench, I do adore the combination of the almost clinically deluded and the unfathomably talented. That, and the sight of Antn'Dec's post-performance poker faces when they interview the unlucky rejects, who almost always look bemused or enraged at being told their act was utter shit (and smells of it - in the case of Mr. Methane). Gawd bless them; they never giggle or sneer at the performers in the face of their deluded rants that usually follow Simon Cowell's very public dressing-downs. Now that guy really knows how to call a rubbish spade an utterly crap spade, doesn't he? As much as I'd love to hate them, I really can't bring myself to do it. They just seem sooo... lovely.

And of course, there is the genuine undiscovered talents that appear, too. I mean, it's just astounding. Yet they inevitably appear ever so slightly dumbstruck at the possibility that they might be really-quite-good. Even when Simon says it. Which is high praise indeed. He even managed to liken some chap's singing to a dog miaowing, and still somehow transformed that into a completment. In any other alternate reality someone would have lamped him. In fact, in an alternate reality he's probably been murdered in a frenzied rage by some disgruntled pop reject. That, or Dannii Minogue will have taken out a mafia hit on him. She looks like she might have dated some dodgy chaps. (For any lawyers present - Obviously she's a lovely girl in reality, I'm sure of it. She's probably a really nice person with not a hint of an unsavoury ex in her past. Honest.)

Oh yeah, and how come all the ace performances are preceded by little vignettes of them saying something humble, like: "Well, my nan likes my singing, so I thought I'd give it a go.", while the deluded half-wits with no discernable talents inevitably precede their performances with gems such as: "I've got the best dance moves in the universe, and I've won fifteen disco-dancing competitions at Butlins." or "I've been told my singing can move people to tears."? Tears? My tears certainly didn't come from the sheer beauty of your vocal range, I can assure you.

Hmmmmm.... Anyway, on another point - how is it still acceptable in this day and age for someone like Amanda Holden (she of very little 'talent' and much plastic surgery) to consider it her duty to 'preserve' someone's less glamourous image, lest their popularity be spoilt. Why is it any of her business (or ours) if a performer wants to dye their hair and buy a new top? I certainly don't issue press statements regarding Beyonce's new 'do... and if the truth be told, I find Beyonce more than a little over-done. In fact, every press photo I see of her seems to make her look like she's wearing bacofoil and has raided her mummy's jewellery box for the biggest and most garishishly tacky jewellery ever. Plus, how utterly self-satisfied must Amanda Holden be if she feels so compelled to issue sartorial advice to us non-celebs? I could accept the advice from Gok Wan, sure... but from a woman whose facial expressions range from vapid to slightly gawping (and not a hint of wrinklage in-between)? I don't think so.

This week in little ol' Britain...

OMG, this is, like sooo exciting! I mean, OH MY GAWD! I've never actually seen a real proper pandemic. Is this what it looks like? Cold drizzly windy weather and a hint of sunshine in the South? Is it, like, really dangereous? Because the papers say its gonna be HUGE! How cool is that? We might even NOT have a cup final. Is that even allowed? Won't the FA strike about that or somethink?

Yup peeps - this week we are on standby now for a flu pandemic and the big pharmaceuticals are literally skipping for joy. Well, there won't be any redundancies this quarter for those guys, eh? Yup pharmaceutica big-bosses and bankers can now count themselves as the only two professions to remain relatively redundancy-safe in the recession, as the bankers have awarded themselves a payrise, again. And justified it by sending a toffy yah-type with a voice straight from the home counties (and a bank account is Switzerland, no doubt) on to the news channels to tell everyone what a great job they were doing. Yes, yes... of course you deserved it... and the yacht... yes... and the private chauffeur... private school for the kids? Heck, why not? Its not like I'm stuck for cash...

It is now univerally acknowledged that everyone pretty much despises Brown for being a generally curmudgeonly type of leader whose only skill is... no, wait, what is his only skill? (Poor chap. He only wanted to be loved. He's a bit like one of those really unfortunately charmless puppies that end up spending their lives being re-homed because their lack of charisma or ability to do anything vaguely entertaining is mistaken for a more workman-like nature. Its only when the owners take him home and realise, no, he really is a bit crap and boring, and not only lacks the ability to do anything useful, but also doesn't entertain them in a puppyish way, that he finally gets returned to the RSPCA and is perpetually doomed to be returned, unwanted, forevermore. Because, lets face it, no-one wants a puppy that shits on the carpet and doesn't even look doleful or apologetic about it.)

Anyway, Joanna Lumley has been elevated to national treasure status for her celebrity support of the Gurkhas (fair do's - they DID fight for the UK, so why can't they live here? It does seem fair to let them stay here...). The Daily Mail has, for once (cue sharp intake of breath as all white van men countrywide read this), actually supported the concept of immigration (though they make the exception only 'cos these great Gurkha lads fought for Queen and Country, mind...). Nick Clegg managed the unprecendented move of acting more like the leader of the opposition than the leader of the opposition. And the leader of the opposition is now openly being referred to as 'probably the next prime minister' by the press. Its true. Even Jon Snow uttered it. A bit presumptive of them (they clearly haven't considered the might of the Monster Raving Loony Party) but we'll let it go, but only because it might actually be true. Unless Joanna Lumley decides to stand, that is.

And bless, as if they haven't got enough to contend with - wot with having a short-but-simple life scratching around in muck, and then having it all ended just 'cos we fancy a nice bit of bangers and mash - the poor wee piggies are being blamed for flu now. Its hardly their fault. Its not like they can carry a set of kleenex around in their trotters ready to catch a straying sniffle.

So the papers (amidst their mass-flu-panic headlines proclaiming the end of the world is nigh) are reporting that the whole swine flu thing is causing untold political correctness headaches in the Middle East; I guess the concept of a flu virus originating from pigs isn't really not a popular thought there, eh? So the Mexicans are getting the blame instead. Which is does make the whole thing sound a smidging more exotic and glamorous, to be fair, and I might just adopt the name Mexican flu, too. It really does sound ever so much more like something you'd just pick up at duty free, especially if you call it Influenza Mexicana...

Mmmm, in fact it sounds like a rather delightful cocktail: "What did you get in Cancun, darling?", "Oh, just some Influenza Mexicana, and a bottle of tequila for Bob down the road for looking after the cat." "Lovely thought. Who's the Influenza Mexicana for?" "Well... I thought I'd share it with everyone down the local when we get back. I stocked up while I was there. Its soooo cheap out there, I kid you not. Got quite a bit." "Sounds delightful. Do you mind if I try some as well, then?"

It's official - I haven't got a big gob

After a week of complaining to any poor soul that would listen about my toothache and earache, and taking copious amounts of painkillers and antibiotics for my sinusitis, I traipsed back to the doctors with frustratingly sore teeth and he confirmed what I thought was always true: I have very definitely got a small gob. In fact, so small that there probably isn't enough space for my wisdom teeth. I'm going to have to find a dentist to sort it all out. *Sigh* I'm on the waiting list... I'm not holding my breath though (certainly not if there's an 18-month wait).

Nevertheless, I'm still quite chuffed to be able to say that any accusations of me having a big mouth are unfounded and distinctly untrue. Even the doctor says so, so nah nah nah nah nah.

Thankfully I seem to be responding well to the litres of lovely cups of tea my dad has been making. Bless him. He's got the milk-to-tea ratio just right now, although it did take a few tantrums. There's nowt like the combination of tea and codeine to make one get a delightfully fuzzy warm glow. Lovely.

The only downside is the fact I can't drive anywhere - I'm a dippy enough driver without the help of medication. It would be true disaster to combine myself, my forgetfulness, and the spaced-out effects of codeine with driving a vehicle... I shudder to think of the consequences. Of course, as I perpetually attempt to avoid driving anyway, my family think this is all an elaborate ruse on my behalf to get them to act as my chauffeurs.

Naturally that is true - I'd much rather be ferried around like royalty - but I'm hardly going to admit that to them, am I? Plus, this week has been the week of shit weather and interviews in inaccessible places. So I have been reliant on the generosity of family members. Which means my usual illness-induced narky temperament has had to be suspended - and despite feeling like I want to throw myself on the floor and wail loudly at the unfairness of my situation and generally be quite vile and unreasonable, I have had to instead be on my best behaviour.

Its just not fair.

This week I'm mostly loving...

Dr. Who. David Tennant manages to play a time-travelling genius with more than a hint of the unhinged, but somehow makes him sexy, human and has every loveable feature of everyone-in- the-world-ever's best mate. And, despite the fact the doctor's assistant is inevitably placed in huge life-threatening danger in every single episode, they never seem to think he's a monumental pain in the arse. Conversely, he never seems to bitch about them getting themselves into life-threatening danger and irritatingly expecting him to sort it out for them, either. Plus, who better to have on your pub quiz team?

The fact I no longer watch Eastenders. Why in God's name are the Mitchells so damn proud of their 'faahmillee vahlyoos' when the bunch of them appear to be the biggest collection of machiavellian, amoral, self-centred, psychotic, drunk, cheating, lying, arrogant, violent and sadistic fuckheads to ever grace this earth. There appears to be a fractional shred of goodness between the lot of them, and that is apparantly shared round each character alternately, so we only ever get to see a multi-dimensional Peggy Mitchell about once a decade. That, of course, applies to EVERY Eastenders character - but especially applies to anyone of an ethnic origin other than white east-londoner.

Sedatives in the operating theatre. It's like being drunk, but with no hangover. Lovely. Not quite sure if, like when I'm drunk, I loudly mentioned the nice arse on the male nurse. I might have. I can't quite remember. But who cares?

Cups of tea. Who doesn't? But how much nicer is a cup of tea after enforced starvation? And somehow, somehow, the mere existence of tea makes everything just lovely...

Cottages in Gloucestershire. Cottages anywhere are fab. Who wants to live in some rather dull identikit terraced house carefully designed and churned out by Barratt homes? OK, so you get the straight walls and fitted carpets and innoffensive decor of a new home, but where's the cozy eccentricity of something old and slightly decrepit? Give me old and slightly higgledy-piggledy over shiny and new any day. As for cottages in rural Gloucestershire - well, anything overlooking lakes or hills can't possibly be disappointing, can it?

Alan Davies trying to do maths. Its almost funnier than QI, but vastly more educational. Plus, its always fab to see the poodle-haired funnyman trying to look intelligent and passing himself off as more like a bemused puppy eating a wasp.

Hungarian Goulash. The main advantage of even the briefest hospital visit is being able to demand, upon return home, a variety of yummy foodstuffs I would ordinarily have been refused on the grounds of taking too much time or being too unhealthy. Hence the fact I have been able to demand hungarian goulash (a childhood comfort food) and cold ambrosia custard, although not at the same time, of course.