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 |   A place where everybody can feel easily offended - my head! |
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I'm gathering quite a collection of blogs. "Invalid Item"  is a bit-of-a-rant. I've got a big gob, and it would be a shame not to use it. "Invalid Item" is just that. It's the product of the bits of me mentioned above  filtered through my subconscious."Invalid Item" dealing with all things to do with battling sexes, especially exes.Want to know something trivial or obscure? Not really bothered about whether it's right or wrong, as long as it's believable? ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** WELCOME TO THE HUMAN GOOGLE!  I may never have mastered the art of tying shoelaces, but I win every time I play Trivial Persuit. Friends place bets on how many people I can, unintentionally, upset on a night out. I am the place where boundless enthusiasm meets embarrassing arrogance. Important Information - Please Read I realise some folk do not get Satire. I love a little baffoonery and believe, rather like the jesters of old, you can say quite a lot more than kings when people think you are an idiot. If you are literal minded, best not read on. If you can tell your arse from your elbow, and recognise when an attack isn't an attack then please read:
Heck, even if you can't tell your appendages from one another, read it anyway: who am I to tell you what you can do and what to take from my writing?  The XGC rating is due to the unknown content of many minds - it may be fluffy bunnies or....not! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED Welcome to my world! Acme  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** http://twitter.com/acmetweet Skype me at acmetoo template thing-a-ma-bob: {c:green}Write{/c}: {c:green}Edit{/c}: {c:green}Kids{/c}: {c:green}Relationships{/c}: {c:green}Physical{/c}: {c:green}FFF{/c}: |
| There is a twang of Mancunian bubbling up through the town boundary. No one is safe. Gone, is the beautiful basal Coronation Street, "Eh up, luv. Happen tha's mizt buzz t'ut' top of't'hill" Replaced by the high-pitched nasal whine of, "ay, yoose. Ye've mist the buss te top ofthe 'ill." Being on a boundary between Manchester speak and Oldham speak, it's more noticeable when one dialect is in ascendancy than the other. In the days of Frasier, Daphne Moon made Oldham proud. Now with Shameless as the tv de jour, it's the day of the Manc. If you're American a comparable, if extreme, example would be North Carolina vs Jersey. 'Donut' is the Manchester version of 'Don't' 'Noah' is the Manchester version of 'No' 'Toy-eh-let' is the Oldham version of 'Toilet' but those crazy Mancunians are doing without the integral '-eh-'  Honesty, the youth of today... what ever happened to good, old-fashioned butchering of the English Language? |
| ... hit you right up the bum, that's amore When the moon and the stars, fly right up your arse, then it's love... I am useless at remembering lyrics, and often resort to a dalliance with Karaoke Tourettes when compelled to shower (usually by husband wearing a peg on his nose), or driving me Rover and listening to those wild young things (John Snow) debating on Radio 4. I feel so darn forgetful though, because I used to know hundreds of songs, and have now turned into an pale imitation of my father, where I tra-la-la-la-la all the missing bits. Because I like tradition, I've passed this butchering of lyrics onto Acme Jnr, who has turned Jamelia's Superstar into the following: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2wmrbsDg9A I don't know what it is, That makes me eat my chips, Could be the mushy peas, Or the salt and vinegar, The gravy is so yummy in my tummy, yeah! just keep eating to the rhythm baby Oh yeah mmm its so delicious mmm tasty and its so nutritious mmm I'm so hungry I could die mmm here, I'm standing in the line I like the way you eat it - a-oh, a-oh, a-oh I like the way you eat it - a-oh, a-oh, a-oh Wrapped up in a piece of paper had enough so saved 'til later. I don't know what it is, That makes me eat my chips, Could be the mushy peas, Or the salt and vinegar, The gravy is so yummy in my tummy, yeah! just keep eating to the rhythm baby Ace  Family daftness is heredity. Well, actually, it might not be my on my father's side as apparently the popular beat combo, The Who, really did make a record called, Boris the Spider  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8dSBWysmnM ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Time to start writing again. I realise that blogging is writing, but I itch for a fantasy world where anything can happen. Looking over the majority of my latest blog entries, I have noted that a lot of whinging , rather than writing  . While I obviously felt the need to do so, I'd much rather play with words and be saved by them. If I need saving that is? Actually, I always need saving . . . usually, from myself  I feel like the personification of Brian Blessed. Okay, bear with me. If you don't know who Brian Blessed is, he is, among other things, a BLOOMIN' BOOMIN' GREAT ACTOR! If you've seen 'I, Claudius', he's the Emperor Augustus. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bvt-Jq1jP44 A-n-y-way, Brian Blessed is so much larger than life that he could easily be a sort of human verb, which, in my book, makes his actorly, behavioural traits capable of becoming personified ('cause otherwise you couldn't personify a person... could you ?)So, if you are still with me, now imagine an operatically-shaped, bearded man, in full sail (ship-ification?), as as someone's personality. Well, you end up with me. I have a Blessidian Personality. This means that I will be; quick to anger, and equally quick to soothe; fascinated with the heavenly, while mired in the earthy; radiant with life, joy, and beauty, while in need of a shave. Like Blessed's Augustus, I have locked horns with my Anthony, and now I'm back to eating figs, telling knights to get married and trying to get on with running the Empire; the Acme Empire while my wife (probably another part of my psyche) tries to run the bloody thing through me. I've done all these made personality tests, like most business/college types have, and my kids have in the back of their girl mags. But being a big fan of Robert Graves' books and then the BBC TV series, I think doing a 'Which Member of the Imperial Family Are You?' test would be ace. Take the indepth test below to find your seat in Imperial Rome !1 - Someone stands in the way of you getting what you want. Do you: a. Kill 'em b. Kill 'em, but only if it's official and signed in triplicate c. call in a favour from the baker, to tell the midwife to get some poison to ... eventually kill 'em d. Hide from them and hope to the gods that someone else will take them out e. Screw 'em (either meaning) f. Invite them to a 'dance off', and let them giggle at your wiggles, before running a red hot poker up their jacksie and seeing if they can still keep time with the music g. Kill 'em with Boom and Bluster, then go and eat figs and smile at babies. 1 - Someone tells you off. Do you: a. Sulk b. Take it on the chin; it's just part of the job. c. Smile. Take notes, find a bigger stone to throw back and pocket it for another occasion. Smile some more. d. Let them; they might feel better and leave you alone. e. Screw 'em (either meaning) f. Nod sagely, smother them in honey and then throw 'em in a beehive g. Tell 'em off . . . louder and more telli-off-er-er. I would continue, but I've got to go and do stuff. Choose the one you picked most. a) Tiberius = miserable sociopath and recluse b) Germanicus = by the book loyalty c) Livia = manipulative, inventive, can get what she wants d) Claudius = survivor at any cost e) Julia = horny old bint f) Caligula = mental, but to show stopping proportions, mental, mental, mental g) Augustus = Acme |
| Today was the launch of the Writing Cafe WDC has helped me improve my creative writing so much, as well as introducing me to some great friends and reading material, that I wanted to make a physical version. Sure, Mavis Moog  and I are trying to organise meeting up with UK WDCers at the Manchester Literature Festival, but other than joining a Creative Writing Course, or a Writing Group, there is little on offer as laid back as this place. I began to think of how I might take the best features of WDC (a supportive and mutually beneficial community of varied writers/skills) and transfer it to an off line meeting of people. Setting up a cafe culture seemed sensible. Somewhere where you could grab a coffee and a sack, along with maybe a workshop, or a review forum. The Writing Cafe became almost tangible in my head, and today it became a reality. Okay, so most of the clientèle were my family, but I also managed to re-connect with two old writing buddies and chew the fat over pastrami deli-wraps and poetry appraisals! Both my buddies and I looked at how it ran today, and what would improve it next time out. Hopefully, we'll eventually be able to plough any Cafe profits back into the group and run our own contests/fund events/bring in workshop providers etc., but that's big dream stuff. Today was all about seeing if we were still interested in coming together to write, talk about writing, read, review, enthuse... well, three of us is a start. Next week I visit with the local library service and see if they can see the Cafe as a fantastic opportunity to reach grass-roots, community writers  It sure is exciting. And if it fails? Well, at least I've given it a shot ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| The Illuminations proved most illuminating. They were ace, of course. Thousands of people turned up for the World Fireworks heat (German Team tonight), as well as to take in the many bulbed splendor of the gawdy and delightful lights. I took Nana Lena, the girls and Cousin C (twin sis' 8 year-old gal). 5 people meant a car full, so that was the cap. It's always weird when I go back to Blackpool. I have such strong childhood memories and attachments to places. The switch on didn't occur until 8pm, so we set off from Manchester at 5pm, drove the 1hr 20 distance and went to a 'carvery'. Carveries give you Sunday Dinner (Yorkshire Pudding, roast beef, or ham, or turkey (or all three), more veg than you can poke a fork at, and a huge thick pot of bubbling gravy. Oh, and you can go for seconds when it comes to veg ). The bad side effects being:1) That Christmas dinner snooze pulling at your eyelids. Not good if you have to drive in stop start traffic before a motorway journey in the dark. 2) Farting. Not good if you have 5 people in a tin can who have all eaten cabbage. Bear with me. We have to go back to my recent outing at the cinema for the Batman film: Hubby was HUGELY upset with me because of my reactions to rudeness at the cinema. All cinema audiences are a temporary a community. A community who can share communicable diseases in an uncovered cough, or the noise of chewing with your mouth open until tutted at and nudged by embarrassed loved ones, but ultimately we are a community who has to consider the other fella: treat folk as you would like to be treated yourself, and don't wear a large feathered hat and sit at in front of a short guy. Well, someone forgot to pass on any parenting rules to a kid sat next to me and separated only by the aisle. I could have sat there all night, gently seething and righteously tutting and not enjoyed the show, but I didn't. I got up, politely told the kid to think about the other cinema goers and 'would you mind keeping the noise down, please?' Hubby freaked, "You've got me into a kicking now," He spat under his breath. I sat there on the pins he gave me, and guess what? The kid was quiet, we all enjoyed the show, and no-one got a 'kicking' at the end. Hubby and I have had this kind of conversation before. Something along the lines of: "It's nothing to do with you. Stop poking your nose in, or someone will chop it off. Who made you the people police? Do you have to embarrass me?" Back to tonight. The 5-10 miles-per-hour illumination route takes about an hour. We were queuing to begin at one end, which happened to be the 'chippy' end. Bispham is famous for fish and chips. So, those car drivers who hadn't dined first, bought take out trays of chips. I was waiting for the traffic ahead to move past one of the parked cars, so that I could over-take it and rejoin the queue. The driver of that parked car finished his chips, opened his door, and dropped the tray on the road. He was parked right next to a litter bin. I didn't even think. The traffic was stationary, so I got out, picked up the litter. He saw me (obviously - I was fiddling about under his car) and opened his door. I handed it to him, smiled and said: "I believe this is yours? You're parked right next to a litter bin." Then I got back into my car. He looked normal. His wife looked normal. His 7-8 year old son looked normal. His 15-16 teenage girl looked normal... well, until she stuck her head out of the rear window and started shouting and swearing at me. I really am my own worst enemy. Not once did I think of the vulnerable position I was in. All I knew was that man needed to be reminded of how to treat the small patch of planet he was lucky enough to be on, and what kind of example he was setting for his family. "Who the f**k, are you? The litter police." "Yes, I f**king am. And the cinema police, the don't swear in front of my children police, the couldn't you re-cylce that police and the what-ever-needs-saying-but-isn't-said police, too" Twin sis and her hubby were not pleased that Cousin C had to see Aunt Acme on one of her 'campaigns'. But then, neither was Hubby, when he got the story from the kids. However, when Acme Jnr said, "I'm glad you told that man to take better care of my planet, and I bet he'll think twice before he throws his rubbish out of the window again." I could have kissed her. Then came her punchline: "And I bet he'll check first to see if any nutty women are going to tell him off." Yes, it hurts that twin sis can be such a snob about, well, about me! Hurts even more that hubby wishes I wasn't such a mouthy t**t. But I can't help myself. I watched hurricane warnings of New Orleans before I set out for my bit of British fun. People in the Caribbean have died because of Gustav, and the kind of litter in its wake won't be due to lazy shits who should show a bit of gratitude and respect for what they have. I watched the Mayor's press conference, warning that looters will go straight to prison instead of jail, because such thoughtless and selfish law breaking could not be treated to a 'free pass' this time around. Good. I don't for a minute think some guy with a used take-away tray can be compared to hurricane crimes, but putting your foot down and saying, 'No. That's wrong. If you won't police yourself then I will.', has to start somewhere. All my thoughts go to those in the path of the storm. In a really weird way, I hope that all those who have evacuated have to worry about are opportunists, more than they have to worry about loved ones and what the storm will take from them. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| An Urban Astronaut is not just an adventurous traveler through an urban vacuum. They include ordinary people who face new frontiers to make the world better for those who follow in their footsteps. I think most people on WDC know my awe and pride in how my mother is facing her battle with cancer. In fact, I can think of a couple of people on WDC who are close to my heart and fighting the same fight with a spirited determination and optimism, which makes me feel a right wally for being so bloody miserable on their behalf! A while back, my mum put herself forward for 'phase 4' drug testing. Phase 4 meant that the phase1 trials hadn't killed anybody, the phase 2 trials hadn't maimed/mutated anybody, and the phase 3 trials might have actually helped somebody. Phase 4 is what you get when they want to really measure effectiveness, fiddle about with doses and get that list of side-effects together for future sales packaging. My mum has eight tumours. All of them reside in the space where her womb, and part of her bowl, lost in a different battle with the same recurring C, should be. She laughs at her tig-tag-toe scaring and tuts at the Chemo lines and collection of wigs, but she needs that 'Dunkirk' spirit and so we smile along wither her, even though it crushes me. They are hard little devils, these tumours. They have been known to pop into existence 12 months after an 'all clear', or in one case, 9 years later! This time they have dug themselves in and are not going anywhere. They grow like teenagers. One day you're wagging a finger over them. The next, they are looming over your head; from golf ball to grapefruit in mere months. She isn't being operated on again -- not to remove them, anyway. Mum puts up with her uninvited parasites and now fights the trouble they cause, rather than take them on directly. I don't say anything, but the one on her spine worries me most. There will come a times when she loses the use of her legs and becomes wheelchair bound, and possibly in a lot of pain. She's an avid walker and fan of countryside pursuits. For years Cancer Research has been ongoing for all kinds of tumours and my mums kind has finally got a possible solution. I say solution, because it isn't a cure. The way the drug works is based on current drugs for male prostate cancer sufferers: blood flow is reduced/stopped to the tumour. Cutting off the blood supply to the tumour makes it stop growing, or significantly reduces the rate of growth. My father-in-law has had prostate cancer for years, but has been told he has a much higher chance of dying of old age related illness, long before his cancer can see to it. Mum's cancer trials think they have managed to use the same technique. She starts 'Phase 1' drug trials on Monday. "Erm, doesn't that make you the first human experiment?" I asked. "Oh, no. Of course not! There will be at least six other patients doing it with me. So, we'll all be first." "Ah." "I wouldn't worry about it, dear," she sing-song'd with a motherly smile. "I'm sure if the rats had died they wouldn't be trying it out on us." "Naturally." "Naturally." Well, that seemed a end to the conversation, but I'm here on a Saturday afternoon with two more sleeps until mum goes to Christies. Her mum, my Nana Lena (92), is coming for Sunday Lunch tomorrow and we'll take our minds of things by taking the kiddies to see the Illuminations. Gawd, I love going back to my shiny, tacky, neon place of birth. Where grown men can by fake titties on the sea front, sticks of rock with Blackpool written all the way through, and a hat which reads, 'Kiss Me Quick; Hug Me Slow'. I love being born beside the seaside, beside the sea: (Basil Rathbone is for life, not just for Sherlock, yer know...) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmJVXHLjVhk The Blackpool Illuminations were turned on by Dr Who (David Tennant) last year and by the boys from Top Gear (consumer trials of cars) last night. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYVK2wUe7zM My Nana Lena grew up during the war in a boarding house on the promenade. She and her sisters used to get into all sorts of mischief. In fact, one of my first stories here on WDC was about one of her shockingly wonderful stories of war time Britain:
One of my favourite Blackpool memories of childhood is the following poem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-ucFB6awSw Oh, don't panic about my morbidity; the cowl I'm wearing is in bad taste about something else ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Flagellate: someone who whips themselves, especially as a religious act. Whoa. I've always been attracted to that which scares me. I think being scared is an essential part of being human. I just read and reviewed a horror story of billwilcox which made me read it through mental cushions, like I would view a horror movie at home. I couldn't stop myself; even though I'm scared and uncomfortable, I have to know what happens next. People are like that. I have had the recent pleasure of meeting a writer on WDC, who scares the crap out of me. Not, as I might have led them to mistakenly believe, because their drive, energy and pursuit of perfection compels me to examine my own short-comings, but because they embody the spirit of determination that I will never had. I can't remember who said it, but that has never stopped me quoting before! Better a death for a reason than life without purpose. I am a self-confessed writer without purpose. I feel compelled to write, but have no specific aim in mind. This makes me one of those dreaded 'Jack of all trades, and master of none'. Now, imagine you like cake. I can see you are with me on this train of thought  I like cake. I eat cake. I like cake. I have no cake to eat  But, I have a recipe from someone who can make cake! I make cake, using the basic ingredients divulged. I make an interesting cake with all the wrong things in it that I happen to like. I eat the cake. I like the cake. It is not of the quality I originally liked, but in someways this makes it better, because it tastes like my cake. I have a surfeit of Acme cake and am happy. Someone else bakes a cake. Oooh! I like their cake!  I invite myself to eat it, they let me, and we both eat their cake. At this point two things can happen:  they take their cake home to eat it all up for themselves and I starve of cakeOR, I go off and remember what I wanted my own cake to taste like.To me this is an example of modern day flagellation. I damn well am Marie Antoinette, and I WANNA EAT CAKE However, I've remembered that my cake is a bit of a Sweedish Chef thang: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qT_n__vsguk Whereas michellekeyes is like a MetaphorSquared in waiting. Now, comes the flagellation.I love her (MetaphorSquared ). I love her beyond weird sex things that don't count (I'm not that kind of animal), but I can love will all the power of million poets, whether that infatuation is based on cake mix, long legs, preferred poets, or any other kind of clever dalliance which dazzles me. But there is something about that woman, MetaphorSquared , who first donned boxing gloves on her suit-case and captivated me with her powerful command of the English Language, and enthralled me with her lavish attention. I don't deserve that kind of care; I'm a flitting thing, who sticks to nothing, bar a love of History. I discover new love around every corner and feel it just as intensely, only honouring it by acknowledging the fact it never replaces what went before it, just that each love is different. With that in mind, I fell head of heels in love with the writing of Bernie Thomas , just as hard, just as true, just as transient. Then hbar , Mike Day , aralls. I will point out that before them, my reading muse was equally in love with SendintheClown , Lauriemariepea , the last cicada  and Smiling Jack , but I don't consider myself to be a WDC literary cheat. These are all writers who have captivated me, enriched me and become well thumbed notches on my reading bed-post. I add michellekeyes to that post now, and love company she keeps, but she scares me.She scares me because she represents the very thing I find attractive, and she shares that connection with all my other loves. It is the very thing I run a mile from: she is a wordsmith. Someone who mercilessly pounds and shapes words into metal, substance, form, reason, emotion, character -- belief. I can fall into the words of her creation and rush through them giddily; chiding myself for being so hasty and not allowing myself to take my time. I can't even edit her work analytically because each time I read and re-read I'm lost in the worlds of her making. I think she'll forgive me. I have turned from mentor to fan. I'm lucky to be able to enjoy so much, and all for free! Not only that, but to converse with these wonderful writers as if I were a friend, and not just a reader of stories, is invaluable. I log off each night and know that I am lucky to have access to writers who I would happily pop on a bookshelf next to my own well thumbed and well loved, purchased novels Flagellation: I beat myself up over my good intentions. I would love to provide assistance to every single writer listed above, or not, but there is no way that I could. I hang on every word you have ever written. Thank you to everyone who isn't mentioned and has given me pleasure. You know who you are; I have manners enough to tell you when you've blown me away |
| No, seriously, do you? I don't. It sounds vaguely Mexicany, but then so does Amerillo . . . I can remember doing geography at school and 'Places on the Planet' was fake geography to me. Sure, I could tell you all about magma flow, tectonic plates and trans-migratory patterns in human habitation patterns based on ice flow, but don't ask me the name of the capital of Peru. I quite pride myself on 'human google' status. There is something pretty ace about being picked first for pub quiz teams, but this geography thing is a real chink in my armour. I like being a jack of all trades and a master of none, but on the last quiz outing, only my vast knowledge of cinematic 'tag' lines, saved my bacon with the inclusion of a 'Name that US state!' round. Tall-a-flippin-hass-ee, what the heck kind of name is that for the sunshine state ?Promise you won't cheat? Cross your heart and hope to die; stick a needle in your eye? Go on, I can see you, you know... NO PEEKING ON WIKI  Name the state capitals of these seven states: Maryland Iowa Delaware Connecticut Kansas Kentucky New York I'm sticking with History as my favourite humanities subject  |
| I love that saying about ' being like a bear with a sore head'. Yup, that was me yesterday, but I'm nothing if not bouncy, so am back on top form today. It's weird, I was saying to lovely Lornda that I'm getting rather superstitious in my old age. I was nervous about my 2,000th review, like I was rendered mute by my 100th blog. The Comedy All Sorts has had a break over August, which happily means that we go straight from round 12 to round 14 . . . like those hotels without a thirteenth floor I wouldn't mind, but my superstitions aren't actually based on anything; they are more like new compulsions. I can remember being a kid and wanting to freak out my little sister, so as we traveled to school one day, I looked at her in horror as she chatted banally while our bus went under the local rail tack. "What's wrong!" she cried, seeing me shake my head and cover my mouth with my hand. I waited until we had cleared the bridge, "You were speaking as we went under the bridge! The Broodie Birds in the eaves will come for you in the night and rip out your soul!" 1 Now, my stomach contracts with fear if I think a syllable might have escaped my lips when traveling under bridges. I know it's my superstition, but it's my superstition! I make stuff up all the time. "No cauliflower with mashed potato... not if you don't want your eyeballs to be pecked out by sheep, kids!" So, go on? Am I the only one with the bizarre side-line in creating new superstitions, or do other folk create them too...? Footnotes |
| Just a quickie. I don't lose it often (my temper, that is), but the down side to having a long fuse is the incredibly HUGE bomb attached to the end of it. I don't often make blog entries private (erm, kinda defeats the object of blogging - well, to me anyhoo), but I'm taking some advice (how terribly grown up of me !) I am waiting for 24hrs to see if I can calm down. If I look at the entry 24hrs from now and think, ooh-er, it might have more use of the F-word than a Naval crew on shore leave. Perhaps I was a tad excessive in my grumpiness...?, then maybe I'll edit it. If, on the other hand, I think, oooh, Sunshine! Looks like you picked the wrong review-whore to f... f... fiddle with, then I shall up my blog rating to XGC and let rip the heaving bosom of a war-fuelled Acme (picture me like one of Wagner's Valkyries, but with a touch of 'I don't like my job - well, not when bits of 'em fall off like slices of steak, all over by best battle bra' grumps.) In one more review's time I will reach my 2k figure, and the previous entry has soured the moment a little for me. In fact, here's my run down on where helping my fellow writer with my reviews has got me so far:  Ding-dong! No, not bell, or enthusiastic Tommy Trinder impression when totty goes by. Ding-dong as in "Round One!". Locking horns with people who say: "Oh, you don't want to review like that: review like this! " - Acme follows site guidelines: shag the lot of ya - Oh-my-God-she's-talking-to-them-as-if-they-are-human! Some folk (rhymes with fesprit), seem to have a bit of a hypocritical attitude to reviewing. Why can't reviewers take the piss out of reviewing? Fine, if the people taking the piss don't review themselves, how the hell do they know what they're on about? But, then again, who gives a crap? We're all allowed opinions (well informed or not), just don't take 'em so seriously! There will always be people who don't review and consider reviewing to be some kind of disease. Let them, there will always be reviewers who review because they care, and want to promote better writing. And they have just as much right to take the piss out of their own institution as you have to make it boring and deadly serious. Sure, some writers want serious reviews, but most of 'em just want good ones . Heck, I have tits, but I still take the piss out of women? I love history, but I still take the piss out of that. It's my nature. If I review, it's only natural I want to lampoon it in some way. See here for further insight:
You gave them a 5 even when they didn't use the prompt ! I don't know how I can look at myself. I enjoyed what they wrote and couldn't find a fault. Will they win the contest? Nope, but I'm not going to penalise their work, unlike a contestant from the Comedy Contest wanted me to do when I gave a Honourable Mention to the best written thing in a recent round. " - - - " The joyous response of the ungrateful reviewee. I can think of a certain WDCer (rhymes with 'plindorian') as my favourite example of 'too darn rude to acknowledge your efforts!' Ages ago (nigh on a year?) she won a 5 x review package from me. I sent her an email to congratulate her on a successful bid and asked if there was anything in particular she wanted me to review. She told me anything was fine. I gave her 5 reviews and I guess she didn't think she needed to thank me because they were bought and paid for. Fair enough - but I'm no whore, and like to do extra tricks for free. Found a great item in her port during my reviews and gave it a ribbon! Did I get a 'thank you' for that? Did I crap! But I made sure I added it to the next auction package so at least she'd have to pay for it if she wanted me back again Guess what? She did ! Maybe that was her way of saying thank you All I know is, the best way of saying thank you, is usually to SAY, "THANK YOU!"With all the flack I get for reviewing; from 'you must review MY way!' brigades, rude people who never take the time to say a simple 'thanks', and other reviewers who expound the theory that all reviewers are equal, but some are more equal than others, it's a bloody wonder why I do it. Not really. I'm obviously a mouthy and opinionated twit2 who likes the sound of her own voice The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen. So, my question is this: Do you review? Footnotes |
I am having a great time catching up with with my old rock buddy ( See below ). Don't think I'm being shocking host by blogging in his company: both he and hubby are cracking open tinnies and watching Liverpool FC play Standard Liege in the third qualifying round of something-or-other One of our dinner conversations revolved around 'Swan Songs' and we all picked the song to linger in the hearts of the funeral party, once we have joined the choir invisible (yes: we're a cheery bunch aren't we). My Hubby went with 'My Oblivion' by the Tindersticks http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXTakGW1z5c Bret went with 'This is Yesterday' by the Manic Street Preachers http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGzybat3gzk&feature=related And after much debate as to whether I should consider the kids request of 'Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead', I went for the one song which, for some odd reason, makes makes my voice catch if I ever try to sing-a-long with it: Roxy music, 'Oh Yeah' http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFK5IoEr-QY&feature=related Now, on any given day, I could give you twenty-eight other choices in one breath, but I won't. It wouldn't be fair, because I would like to ask you what your funeral dirge will be ?** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
I've seen too many crazy sights, I've had too many crazy nights, I didn't want the scars to show, In those moments only mothers know. ~ the Chameleons 'P.S. Goodbye' http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2jqAvb0Jjc&feature=related I've been on a bit of a nostalgia trip. See, I'm a messy person. Please don't confuse that with unhygienic; you could eat of my floor... once you found it When we moved house, six years ago, we built a recording/artist studio and my book cases became shoe-horned into the dining room. Well, I had never thrown a book out, so we couldn't actually eat our dinners (elbows kept knocking off whole rows and you don't wanna know about Spaghetti nights ). Hubby told me he would share the studio and give me writing space and a huge cupboard for all of my stuff . I was brutal. The charity shop didn't know what to do with itself when I turned up with an overflowing Rover with the contents of a mobile library. Anyway, the 'stuff-for-keeping' was shouldered away in the new cupboard. After half a decade of nagging me to clean it out, I thought I ought to show willing. I got straight on the blower to zwisis, "Oh, my, goodness! I've found a life I forgot I lead!" Bless, she was most encouraging of my enthusiast trip down memory lane Amongst two old novels and a stack of family recipes (Nana's mum's chutney theoretically mean they span two centuries), I found all my own band stuff! Looking at the pictures and seeing those faces is amazing. Of course, I'm still as hot (only a little wider, older, and mumsier). Lincoln = From right to left The young, light-curly locked lad (Jamie - Drums), is now a strapping hottie. The McCartney, arm-folder (Rob - Rhythm Guitar), is now a sensible big business type The moody fella in the middle (Bret - Vocals/lyrics), is coming round for dinner on Wed and has carved out a career in a garden centre. The sexy drummer-girl (Mand - Lead Guitar/lyrics & music), is now a Rover Driving Parish Adminstrator. Beautiful Dave (Rob's little brother - Bass Player), snogged my little sister and is still involved in the music industry as a guitarist in Nine Black Alps http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMV0kKLQS20&feature=related) ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Ooh, can't be long... I promised hubby I wouldn't be on WDC all night Thing is, I've missed the internet... on the week my mobile phone died, and I found myself in the middle of the middle of the middle of nowhere Who knew I was such a city girl? Not me, that's for sure. I had this Enid Blighton, George from the Famous Five, feeling about myself. All I needed was a group of lads to call sissies, a dog on a piece of string, and a couple of jam sandwiches with lashings of ginger beer and I was set. Well, that was then and this is now. Guess what I've discovered I am now? I'm F.O.A.M.Foam is just like is suggests: All bubbles and no substance something insubstantial on the lipsFat Old And Middle Aged Oh, don't panic: I'm not wallowing in it, or anything. It's just a statement of fact. One which I'm rather pleased about, as it now means I can be the grumpy old woman I was destined to be. You know the type: I can officially dance badly at family dos to the horror of the kids I can spit on a handkerchief to wipe muck from babies faces ooh, I can actually own a handkerchief I can by Tenna Lady wee-wee pads and have hot flushes I don't have to worry about 'muffin tops' on my jeans... 'cause I can wear the kind that do up under your breasts! I can have said breasts lolling about freely without hinderence I can pinch the cheeks of handsome college boys and be suggestively embarrassing I can tell complete strangers to pick up their litter and look huffy and affronted I can go grey disgracefully I can let one slip and blame the dog I can swear mildly in front of the VicarOh, and the list continues. See, unlike some kids who couldn't wait to 'grow up' and get married, I would look whistfully at the mean old ladies throwing full cobs of bread at ducks in the park pond. I would see them berating schoolboys and sexually harrassing post men and would wish I smelled like wee and had cats for friends. Now, all my dreams can come true, because I am foam Ooh, and the holiday was ace! I've got loads of material for new stories ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Why do I have to be last in line for new movies? kiyasama has seen the new Batman film twice and given it ace reviews, which just makes me thirstier than a terrier locked in a car in mid-summer I was a big Graphic novel fan in my *cough* youth and loved Frank Miller, Niel Gammon and the gang. Alan Moore's always had one of the fondest places in my heart, due in no small part to the Watchmen GN. Here's a youtube trailer (the reviewer at the end says it all)http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4blSrZvPhU My ultimate "I wish they'd make that movie..." has to be Button Man. John Wagner's writing is pitch perfect and matched beautifully with Arthur Ranson's illustrations. I think I would have to cultivate a pretty good excuse to fly to a premier and beat Kiya to a review of that! I know the option was taken on it some years back, but they only last a year, don't they? Anyway, if anyone does find out anything Button Man Movie related is ever in the pipeline, let me know! ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| "Make mine an Espresso..." There is no doubt about it, there is a real buzz rippling through literature circles which has nothing to do with caffeine. With the promise of a book printed, bound, and in your hands, on demand within three minutes, it will be interesting to see how the Espresso Book Machine changes the lives of writers, especially self published ones. On Demand Books, press proudly boasts "What Gutenberg’s press did for Europe in the 15th century digitization and the Espresso Book Machine will do for the world tomorrow" and it is easy to get caught up by the possibilities of future publishing. Britain is watching its trials in the US very carefully. "The EBM is a fully integrated patented book making machine which can automatically print, bind and trim on demand at point of sale" - ODB - such a little statement with such far reaching implications. The fist I heard of the new kid on the digital printing block was a chance Radio 4 interview as I dashed between clients. The topic of the changing book market, from bookstore footflow, to e-books, is not new. In fact, since the recording industry's rude awakening to downloaded material out-stripping store-bought sales, the book industry has been a lot more alert to technological advances. No-one seriously thinks the bookstore will disappear from the high street, any time soon, but most acknowledge they will have to change their remit in order to keep up. How that happens is a little harder to foresee, but there is already talk of a 'coffee-house' culture springing up. As if proof of the interconnectedness of everything was ever needed, my husband has been researching coffe-houses for his own project, there already seems to be a large proportion of them which host 'poetry readings', 'literature events', and are attached to bookstores. But is this a pipe-dream? Will the reality be a Wall Mart purchase point, and less traffic in the independent book stores/coffee houses? It is a relatively cheap machine, at $100,000 dollars, and printing at a penny a page, so it won't take the the larger corporations long to establish themselves. According the On Demand Book website, there is already a EBM in the UK , but Newstand (the company which have it) is a magazine subscription site... it makes me wonder how quick the traditional publishers are going to have to act to ensure they don't miss out on the possible market share available. Things change so fast and no industry member can afford to sit still, but what about the authors? What kind of impact will the EBM have on the writers? "Because the traditional supply chain will be severely abridged, the cost to the user will be less and the returns to publisher and author will be greater." Then it is more important that authors take the time needed to establish good contracts for Print On Demand resources, especially if, as indicated in the ODB literature, "On Demand Books is a strategic partner of Lightning Source Inc., a subsidiary of the Ingram Book Group (the world’s largest wholesale distributor of books) and the industry’s premier POD distributor of books. Through our partnership, the EBM has access to Lightning’s digital database of more than 500,000 titles (with publisher’s approval). In addition, the EBM has access to more than 400,000 public-domain books through the Open Content Alliance (a joint effort by Microsoft, Yahoo, Adobe and the Internet Archive to create a digital database of high-quality scans of out-of-copyright books) and titles from other repositories. Content is expected to increase substantially as more EBMs are adopted by bookstores, libraries and other venues across the globe." - Speech given at the Brooklyn College Library, Jason Epstein June 6, 2007 I'm probably not the only one thinking, what about e-books? Surely, it's easier to access those than to journey out and wait for a bound and printed version. Epstein's argument is one of human beings being creatures of comfort who like touching things, "New technologies will radically change the way books are distributed. They will not fundamentally change how books are written and read." I'm not sure I agree with that, using the music industry as a key indicator of people wanting the content more than the CD case, even if it does come with pull-out poster and limited edition sticker collection. After all, e-book pages can be printed, and many readers read to read not read to own. I hope it is a good as it looks. I hope writers will get a bigger audience and readers will get a wider choice. I hope I can look back on my excitement of imagining my town getting its first Espresso Book Machine, and see that excitement justified when I can get hold of a copy of one of my WDC friend's books and read it over coffee, while I wait for a public reading by the author at my local coffee-house. I am optimistic about its possibilities, and being an old guitarist from a band who missed out on the power of digital recording, marketing, distribution, and a world wide audience, I look forward to seeing the future unfold with me as a part of it! http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/aod/radio4_aod.shtml?radio4/youandyours_fri http://www.ondemandbooks.com/home.htm http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6346866.html |
| ... is there such a thing? I've found my self on the Tony Robbins high road over the past few weeks, as I've been attending some pretty head-frying business seminars and training days. The two day 'Leadership' one was quite an event and incorporated oodles of quotes which I now attribute to myself3. It did have some good material which I'm sure I'll assimilate into my thinking, but I also had a lot of fun doing the 'play' stuff: group work, Lotus Blossoms and psychological exams (erm, I'm sort-of-similar to Hitler, but not quiet as middle of the road as Stalin... makes you think, don't it? Well, makes me think *gulps and hides World Domination signature*). Hitler had similar Leadership skills/personality qualities as JFK and Gandhi. Upon finding this out, the first thought I had was, I wouldn't listen to anything the man could have to say, if he were alive to say it, but I'd listen to Gandhi; he was nice. And that's the point, really. One of the desirable traits of an effective leader is an 'affable personality' -- folks have to like 'em. I finally get why the popular girls at school were followed: they were nice to the right people at the right time and used the Leadership tactic of "shared common enemy". That common enemy being the 'fro headed chick who wanted to learn all the lyrics to every Smiths song - ever, and giggle over Quantum Mechanics (see earlier, Nobel Prize winning blog entry ). Oh, don't get me wrong, I was popular too, once I learned how fascinated boys were at my athletic prowess in sustaining a handstand for over thirty seconds4. But, I never presumed to be a natural leader. I assumed a natural leader to be all balls, banging fists, and autocratic visionaries; in short: a bully. And maybe that is what is once was. The high-horse, wall-eyed majors and iron ladies would steer the weaker to green pastures. Happily, those bullies are now becoming dinosaurs in business. I, and everyone else present at the Leadership event were agog (yes, agog. So, you have some indication of how very seriously to take me ) by this excerpt from the Guardian about Steve Ballmer, Microsoft CEO:Microsoft employees - who would talk only on condition of anonymity - describe how Ballmer can become excessively angry in meetings, the most famous example being when one member of staff, Mark Lucovsky, told his boss he was quitting to join Google. In a sworn affadavit to a US court, Lucovsky described how Ballmer responded by throwing a chair across the room and shouting: "Fucking Eric Schmidt [chief executive of Google] is a fucking pussy. I'm going to fucking bury that guy. I've done it before, and I will do it again: I'm going to fucking kill Google." http://www.guardian.co.uk/business/2008/jun/27/microsoft.microsoft I can't reconcile to like the man because of his personality, and yes, it does impact on the quality of his statements: I just don't give his thoughts any respect, because I cannot give his bullying behaviour any respect. Now, I recognise this is a failing in me, because I am closing myself off to something which may provide an important insight, or a new learning experience. My own pig-headedness gets in the way. I am cursed with a trusting and giving personality; one which assumes the best of folk, and which only gets withdrawn when I am 'disappointed' by them. Sadly, it then becomes hard for people to get back into my good books5, so to speak - not that it's impossible, just that it takes time. Guess what? There's a leadership style tag for that too (Management by Exception). I assumed this would be my highest scoring type and I would have to try my hardest to be aware of it. When the scores came back, it wasn't the highest scoring area of my Leadership Style, but it was up there. http://www.businessballs.com/ Oh, and I'll leave you with a quote by my other Nobel Prize pony: "Everybody can get angry - that's easy. But getting angry at the right person, with the right intensity, at the right time, for the right reason and in the right way - that's hard." (Aristotle) ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Footnotes |
It's my One Year on WDC Anniversary today I've had some lovely gifts, c-notes, Merit Badges and realise how bloomin' lucky I am to have such fabulous friends. A BIG THANK YOU to all those who made it so special. I wanted to share this poem I received from THANKFUL SONALI 17 WDC YEARS!  They always know how to get a smile out of me I wanted to write you a poem But rhyming words, I don't know 'em What rhymes with one year? Can't think of anything, dear. Hmmm. Racking my brain It is quite a strain. What rhymes with "WDC BIRTHDAY"? I simply am not able to say! Okay, let's try another tack Since rhyming skills I do lack. What rhymes with June Twenty Eight? Don't know, this isn't great. One last time I'm going to try To get those rhymes going, oh my What rhymes with 28 June? Uh - uh - no, nothing, so see you soon!  Sonali Hurrah for birthdays, cake and cheer |
| Right-oh. I think Acme's Budgie Theory (see last blog entry) *cross fingers the Royal Institute will ask me what my plans are this Christmas*6 pretty much establishes my credibility in the field of quantum mechanics. Keep this in mind as today we explore "The Judy Blume Effect" I was a book snob. There is no nicer way of putting it. I believed an author should be dead at least a century before I could read their book. Here's how I got there: Judy-bloody-Blume "The Judy Blume Effect"7 Twin sis, Victoria, got a bra before me. Why? Because, at 11 years-old, she had boobs and I didn't. I didn't want a bra, until I wasn't offered one and then I cried on the loo for hours (hours my smug sister spent shopping8for 'lady things') But that's not the point. The point is this: Victoria embraced the girlie girl within and started to read kiddie chic lit (Judy Blume). I remember her and her girlfriends gathering at lunch-time in the playground to read excerpts from "Are you there God? It's me, Margaret." I tried a couple of times to join in, only to be told by one or more of them, to "Go away and grow up; you're too little." "I'm only fifteen minutes younger than her!" I would cry back, "And Fiona is three and half months younger than me..." "Have you got a bra?" "Erm, no, but I can bloody read." "Oooh, Amanda swore! MMMIIIIISSSSS!!!" I would go home, console myself with the radio -- which was crap in those days, except for Radio 4... actually, it's still pretty crap, except for Radio 4 ... anyway: I would lie there listening to "The Book at Bedtime", or some wonderful murder, and think how on earth can I get back at them... The butterfly effect of Judy Blume, peer book censorhip, began to waft it's wings9I went to the village Library and looked for the real grown-up books -- not some teen fiction, oh-no-siree! And when Victoria and her cronies wanted to read my real grown-up book I would give 'em a witty retort along the lines of: "So, you want to read about Odysseus, do ya? Well, have you been fighting in a foreign land and lived on an island with a gorgeous witch for a few years, before going back home and kicking a bunch of freeloaders out of your house? Have you, eh?", but I just knew some clever bastard would say, "Nope. Have you?" Either way, it set me on a trail to snobdom in my defiance of Judy Blumers everywhere... and inadvertently gave me a good base in the classics, before someone waved a mind-blowing book under my nose. Douglas Adams might be more famed for the Hitchhikers series, but it was Dirk Gentley who introduced me to the interconnectedness of everything10 It rang true of my early reading literature (erm, Aristotle. Did I really think that might make those girls let me in to their little group? "Ooh, she's got the one on metaphysics; about the whole being more than the sum of its parts. Swap you for a Nancy Drew?") The Judy Blume Effect blossomed into a huricane of book reading where I felt I should move away from the "Dead for a hundred years" category and into, "Would my sister read this?" book choices. If I could go into a book store and see 'Sci-Fi for geeky teenage boys!' I bought it and fell into a world of make-believe I've never wanted to come out of since. Anyway, that is my Judy Blume Effect Theory, but it would be lovely to know how, once upon a time, you guys chose to read the books you read? Were you a book snob? Are you still a book snob? Are you a closet Sophie Kinsella fan, like me? Do you know the name of every single Judge sent out into the Badlands outside of Mega City One? Is there a secret stash of Agatha Christies hidden between the spines of your Steinbecks? Oh, and BTW, I think my brain is burning because it was so wonderfully stimulated by chatting to Mavis Moog today (in the really real flesh!) Clever, pretty, delightful hostess and entertaining conversation? I bet she's shocking at something... the universe wouldn't let her exist otherwise...** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Guess what? Auntie Victoria bought Acme Jnr a book for her 11th birthday: Judy Blume "Are you there God? It's me, Margaret." She's letting me borrow it when she's finished and I must say I am looking forward to finally reading it, after several decades, and a century turning, since I was censored by my sister's gang Footnotes |
| How do get to where you are going? Odd, but last night's wine soaked version of me found myself pondering BIG concepts while I chewed the fat with lovely zwisis. We have shared some thoughtful emails, but nothing quite beats three litres of Greek wine as a philosophical lubricant 11Like many people who are fascinated with science, I have no idea how it works; this makes liking it even better. Douglas Adams wrote something, could have been Dirk Gently, about physics being ace because those who understood it could create light by flicking a switch. The science fiction side of science makes just as much sense to this old addled brain than 'real' science does. I used to have Mike Okuda's technical manual for the NCC1701D (yes, there really is one) and that made a heck of a lot of sense. In fact, I'm surprised we are not all surfing through space on the crest of a warp bubble as we speak. I was sixteen years old and failing physics and chemistry beautifully, when something came along and bowled me over: QUANTUM THEORY! Now, here was a branch of science I could sink my teeth into! http://www.mtnmath.com/cat.html  Click the link to find out all a person could wish to about my favourite theoretical quantum idea: Schrodinger's CatI have adopted it in into Acme's Budgie12. It is my scientific quantum principal on writing (erm, it's still a little rough, but can be smoothed out) Basic Principles of Acme's Budgie An Author's muse is the budgie. The budgie is placed in a lead lined box and random atoms of radiation bombard it. There is a point where the budgie is not alive or dead, but is in a suspended, budgie-limbo of possibility. Opening the box will give us a clear idea of what state the budgie is in, and all other possibilities are lost. Similarly, if the Author is in the box, instead of the Budgie, then the Author will be an observer to the state of themselves as if the box were open. The quantum budgie exists in all possible states until that box is open. Now, that budgie (muse) might be the GAN13, or it might be crap. The Author can believe the budgie will be a failure, or a massive success, but because of the speculation around which state it is in, we would ruin a huge number of possibilities by opening the box. Still with me...? Right. So, if the box is the an author, and the budgie is the content of that Author's writing, then should that author try to make something of their writing? Let's face it, for every successful writer in Acme's Budgie, there are an infinite number of other, less enjoyable outcomes. Is it best to leave the box closed? Seriously, some folks like closure, like to have goals, like to know. Other's like put their faith in the windshield, and their Budgies in boxes. I bimble through life, just-sort-of-letting-it-happen. It's my way. I have frustrated my mother, teachers, lovers, friends, family with my apathetic ability to be happier in the plodding possibility of everything, rather than fulfilling any real outcome. My hubby is not a fan of quantum Acme. Hubby likes phone calls, route planners, itineraries and to see if possibilities can be turned into realities. I like possibilities to be themselves. When I discovered Sarah was going to be in the same country as me I had to meet her. How did I get to her? I booked the time off work, arranged to meet up where we could and play it by ear. I didn't kill her, because I'm not an axe murderer; Turns out, neither is she. There are a million different possible outcomes to Acme being the wheel, but four miles are the same as 400 to me and I live on an island which means wrong turns are not the end of the world (unless a cliff is involved ). There were a million different possibilities and outcomes to meeting a person from the internet, 200 miles from where you live and reliant on the kindness of strangers, but what am I going to do when I want to have such fabulous friends in my life? I didn't open the box. I took it with me.We talked about a lot of things; writing, Zimbabwe, the North of England, Geoff Chaucer, Neil Diamond and quantum cats v quantum writers. It was great to finally meet a fellow WDCer, and one whose writing has left a huge impact on me. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Footnotes |
| Imagine a female version of the Artful Dodger. A kid whose snotty, mucus trails leave a shiny line of 'clean' against the soot of her face. That was me as a child. http://www.snoopy.com/comics/peanuts/meet_the_gang/meet_pig_pen.html Now, the twin sister is the anit-dirt. Somehow, she can't help but stay clean. Even sandy beaches hold no fear for her as she slaps on the coconut oil. On one occasion, we both stepped out of a doorway onto a street at the same time and a used fast-food serviette slapped its ketchuppy load against my t-shirt. When we went to 'Go Ape' (playing like monkeys in trees - ACE!)* she looked like one of Charlie's Angels. Every zip wire I went whizzing down saw me land backwards with my knickers filling up with forest floor. Victoria? Nope. She didn't break a nail, run her mascara, or have to shake a stone from her shoe. The reason I'm blogging about cleanliness, or lack of it, is because someone took a ride in my car today and joked about needing a Tetanus shot... erm, they had a point. I was reading Mavis Moog 's blog about 'the naming of things' and thought there was no way on earth I could name my car, because then I would have personifed it. If I did that then at best I would be guilty of neglect, and at worst, auto-abuse. Because I'm taking that car to visit the South of England, and I am acting as an ambassador of the North, I cleaned it today. Oh - my - gosh -  I think I could have asked for a cheaper motor insurance quote on the grounds of the litter in the foot-wells and door holders acted as chassis reinforcements and side impact barriers... I found... no, wait - you do not want to know what I found... Suffice to say, it is now clean and pretty with 'useful' things in the boot and not 'precious' things in the glove-box (I'm a fat Hobbit, so precious = food) Acme Jnr asked me why my Halls Mentholyptus Mints were in liquid form... "Science," I explained, and she seemed satisfied.I saw Victoria's car at the week-end. Even with a toddler, the weekly-shop, and pre-teen with gastro-enteritus, it still had that 'new car' smell and no distinguishing dirt eyebrows on the windshield where the wipers do their thing. Ah, dirt genetics. The same science which mushed up my mints, is laughing at me now. * go easy on this: it's the first ever thing I ever wrote on WDC:
See you in a few days time with stories of fantastic Zimbos and Hobbits in the Shire ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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