Put the mouse down and step away from the blog

Deary me. What do we think of the new blog design? Hum. I wouldn't mind but she should be getting on with the ironing. And the hoovering. And paying bills. Any one of several hundred items on her To Do list. Hum.

She's off to Edinburgh on Thursday to see the Warhol exhibition and the Naughty people with no clothes on exhibition. Tsk. It's safe for her to go through now that all that nasty Festival fun has finished.

I'll be staying in bed. I'm enjoying my lazy week. I've been slobbing around in my jammies. Only moving to have the pillow plumped up or to remove a stray Fimble. Still on her way home from NotBearFest.

Only one thing could improve the week. Someone could buy me a copy of Freeze! Armed farm animals! by Gary James. Wouldn't that improve any week?

Escape from BearFest

I've run away from my own festival. It was mobbed. Crazy. Scary. Not fun.
They all claimed they were "on the guest list". And they all have VIP backstage passes. I don't remember any guest list. And how can they all have a VIP pass. That's just P. Not V. Not I.

Ok. I did miss the week they did loveliness and sharing on Sesame Street. And wasn't Oscar the Grouch the coolest anyway?

But - I was expecting the world's most exciting and exclusive festival.

Instead I found all the usual suspects - dodgy old friends, various exes, that bunch of weird knitted rabbits who run a poker school on the top of the bookcase. Don't be fooled - they might look all cute and woolly but they know the cards.

I did try to have fun but it was impossible.

Impossible to move. Small animals kept getting trodden on. Everyone fell off the stage at some point. And the queues. Queues for everything. Queuing at my own festival.

Impossible to hear anything. I swear that some people were trying to dance to the sound of Madame heating up her lunch in the microwave.

An overexcited penguin kept squawking "Hardcore. Feel the fluff." in my ear. And when I asked him to stop he tried to sell me a little bag of white sparkly powder. He claimed it was the proper Lush stuff but it looked like some cheap puff out of Lidl.

Cough. Not that I know about that kind of thing, officer. Honestly. Ok. So I like a little sniff of bath bomb sometimes - they smell so good. And if you tuck one of the small ones into your hoodie (while the hoodie hood is down obviously) then you smell good too. Ok. Can we just change the subject?

Kids - messing about with talcum powder is wrong and naughty. It might seem like fun to cover yourself in the stuff, especially the posh sparkly sort, and pretend to be a wild, crazy iceberg botherer but it leads to trouble - mess, shouting, hoovering. It's not worth it. The same goes for sherbert fountains, tubes of glitter, and icing sugar.

I'm leaving them to it. Just as I left someone had found some jelly and Larry Lamb was going to do his 2-for-the-price-of-1 tribute act - Shakin' Sufjan Stevens. Jomas was telling a silly young pig that he was really Pete Docherty and "would she like to hear some of his poetry?" And, I'm not positive about this, but I think I saw the small one out the Manics lurking by the Comedy Cushion.

I found a comatosed womble and used him to help me climb up over the security fence. I didn't feel too bad. He had had me pinned up against a wall earlier while he explained, with flip chart, flow diagrams, and a powerpoint presentation, exactly why Arcade Fire are the Best Band Ever. Of All Time. Never To Be Bettered. Ever.

I am running away from it all. I'm going to have a quiet couple of days camping in the Wardrobe. Just enough space for me. Got my snuggle bag. Wind-up torch. Good book - anyone else read Kling Klang Klatch?

Provisions? Well, I've got a bowl of Smarties that I lifted from the festival rider. A Chinese bowl of just the red, orange and yellow Smarties. Classy. Shame they don't do black Smarties. Then I could get rid of the orange ones and have red, yellow and black Partick Thistle Supporter Smarties. But that would be too much excitement.

Madame is going to lend me her 3rd-cheapest-from-Argos-and-a-bit-rubbish-really mp3 player. She tells me that I'd probably like Arctic Monkeys. If I could get over all the hype and stuff. I'll give them a go. And the big question is - are the little buttons going to be too fiddly for me to skip all the Rufus tracks? Snork. Only kidding. I just can't hear Poses too many times. Apparently.

Was that the week? was it?

The week's just flown by. Like a lead elephant in concrete tap shoes.

I'm off to BearFest this weekend. BearFest - the world's most exciting and exclusive music festival. By Bear. For Bear. Have got a thrilling new venue - the Big Cardboard Box Stage - thanks to Madame's new toy.

Go on. Ask her about her new hoover. It's black and silver and shiny and appears to work as a vacuum cleaner should. Her previous bit of kit was popular with dust bunnies. It blew the loose fluff round the flat so that it settled in more artistic patterns and left behind the scent of scorched rubber. An excellent Turner Prize possibility but rubbish for housework.

Hopefully this will keep her occupied so she won't find out that shhh Quentin Tarantino is in town shhhh. She loathes, despises, and deplores Mr QT and his work. Him and "his evil little sockpuppet, Eli Roth". I couldn't possibly comment as I haven't seen examples of either gentleman's oeuvre. I want to be Werner Herzog's bear.

I haven't seen all of his films yet. My favourite so far? No. Not the obvious one. Instead - Stroszek. Top film. German angst. American gloom. And then - bring on the dancing chicken! Pretty much something for everyone there.

Nearly time to set off. Not sure if I'll have time to pop back over the weekend. Might be having too much fun. Or jammed inside a shiny new hoover.

Hang on. Wondermark has been to ComicCon. Looks like fun. Comics. Costumes. Action figures. More comics. Oh, no. Disaster. I want to have BearCon. I don't want to go to a stupid festival. I'll just end up wearing a rotten jingly jester's hat, stuck in mud up to my paw pits, with only a tofu and mung bean smoothie to drink while I'm forced to listen to Arcade Fire.

Passing thought - who'd win in a fight? Arcade Fire vs Arctic Monkeys? Or would they merge to form a frightening hybrid - Arctic Arcade Monkeys on Fire?

Meh. Have a good weekend.

Best Sunday Ever!

Have had the best Sunday. Have been to visit Mr Beaver and Flynn and Theo. I was a bit frightened at first. It's been a while since I was carried around by my ears and drooled on. But. Woo hoo! I feel like a young cub again.

Unfortunately I didn't have my swimming costume so I wasn't able to join young Mr Theo in the bath. But I did enjoy watching the adverts with big brother Flynn. He has a brilliant chair that is just the right size for a small bear.

While I was busy they fed and watered wined Madame.










And. Yes, AND! PRESENT! A "Mister Beaver and Bear are pals - brothers in fluff" mug. Painted by Flynn and Theo's mummy, Kim. It's BRILLIANT!

We had a nice walk home. Not raining (for once). The sun was just going down. Lights going on.

Best Sunday. Happy Bear.

Also kept Madame away from the GFT and the chance to heckle Alex Kapranos - him out of Franz Ferdinand - he was supposed to be there to talk about some film. She's had nothing against Franz Ferdinand - "Better than poking yourself in the ear with a pencil, I suppose. Or Oasis."

But she had been reading his book about food - Sound Bites. She wants more. More books. Less music.

And could they reprint this one on edible paper? Or ice it on to a series of donuts? Drizzle it in olive oil and balsamic vinegar on a fresh baguette?

Please, Mr Kapranos, write more about food. Or she will come after you with a pinch of saffron, a bunch of basil leaves, and a meat tenderizer.

Rain clouds, festive fun, and Belgian bears

Outside - wet and grey and miserable. Brilliant! Perfect weather for staying in bed and doing Thinking. BearFest is set for next weekend and I'm right behind schedule. Too much moping and lethargy last week.

I've checked with Madame and it's all sorted. As long as I don't make a mess and keep the noise down. Because she is planning to spend next weekend "contemplating her emotional and financial fecklessness". Hum. Quite. I think that is code for "reading comics and playing with Last FM when she should be paying bills and checking bank statements". Well. Whatever.

She is off to a film festival in a couple of weeks. Can you call spending a Sunday afternoon on Glasgow Green a film festival? I suppose it might not rain. Anyway, the BBC used the magic work "free" so she'll be there. At the Weird and Wonderful Stage if the weather is good. Otherwise the beer tent is a safe bet.

The reason I bring this up - I'm not just aimlessly wittering here - is the list of terms and conditions for festival goers. The one that interests me - something I just hadn't thought about for BearFest - is rule no. 12.

"In the interest of safety please do not bring glass items, barbecues or flaming torches."

Wow. I could have flaming torches at BearFest. I'll have to do some Big Thinking about this.

Before I go I have to introduce you to Mr Bearsac. Interesting sounding chap.

Originally from Belgium - top place is Belgium - beer, chocolate, and comics ... hum, some of Madame's distant ancestors were probably Flemish. Back to Mr Bearsac.

He now lives in England. He has a rather spiffy web site.

Must go. Madame is off out to dinner tonight. She might have to swim there. Hasn't stopped raining. I'm going to stay in and curl up in a nice, fresh pile of laundry. Ah. The joy of tumbly dried socks ...

Still celebrating

Damn those paparazzi. It's a sad day when a small bear can't dance around his own home with pants on his head. I don't care if they did think I was Lindsay Lohan.

Yay! Do the happy dance!

My little blog has reappeared on BurntWombat QuagmirePlatypus FireFox. If I knew where my pants were I'd be dancing round with them on my head. I have a nice black lacy pair that I like to affect in moments of celebration. Hum. Forget I said that. Any way ...

We think we might have a lovely Blogger person to thank because Madame has been banned from pressing any buttons until she can prove that she can be trusted again.

She hasn't been too sulky because her copy of Wormwood: Gentleman Corpse arrived. And she went to see The Diary of a Lost Girl. Louise Brooks did her thing on the big screen and Mr Neil Brand played the piano. It was a magical experience. Madame already has her ticket for Pandora's Box next week.

I had a moment of revelation. Previously on Bear ...

Tom Waits = the sound of fear and loathing. Making a grown animal cry and tremble in the dark. Probably a lovely man. Kind to kittens and always helping the old folk. And yet. Make it stop. Make the gravelly weirdness stop. Please make it stop. Please. Whimper. *exit sobbing bear*

That was previously. I was sulking away quite happily behind a copy of A Liar's Autobiography Vol. VI by Graham Chapman (him out of Monty Python's Flying Circus) when I heard this noise. It was a beautiful noise. It was this noise.

World War B : a crayoned history of the Bear War

I've spent the weekend sulking in my corner. She has been reading World War Z : an oral history of the Zombie War. Appropriate since she decided to brainlessly mess with my little blog and has got it all jammed up on HotHen. DampSquirrel? AirHamster? No. FireFox. That's it. FireFox.

No blog in FireFox. Luckily it's still here in Interknit Exploder. Or there would have been extreme unhappiness. Extreme bear-shaped unhappiness. Berserk type unhappiness.

Virtual distress flares have been sent out to see if "we" can get some help to sort it out. No joy so far but "we" have agreed not to mess with things that "we" don't really understand. Until next time.

Oh, well. I've been thinking about Tony Wilson. Another person who made life fun has gone. Too soon. John Peel. Linda Smith. Douglas Adams. All too soon.

I guess we'll have to pull together and make more fun to fill in the gaps. If you haven't seen the film Twenty Four Hour Party People yet - don't waste any time - it's a good place to start. Raise a glass of something nice to Mr Wilson. Listen to good music. Have fun.

I'm going to go and give Idiot Girl a hug.

A bear called It. And another bear called Pemberthy

Another blogging bear. Yay! Pemberthy. He looks rather charming and civilised. I'm feeling a bit shy about saying "hello".

Civilised. Sigh.

Madame has had the day off work. To "do stuff".

Eating chocolate buttons for breakfast. Sitting around in her jammies, drinking beer, and reading naughty comics. Sticking feathers in her hair and pretending she's a showgirl.

She has finally managed to get us connect up to ... oh, dear ... Godzilla Watervole.

- Would you be meaning Mozilla Firefox?
- 'ullo, little animal. pat. pat. pat. haven't wu got shiny ickle peepers. pat. pat. pat. dance for me!

Let's have some nice, soothing music. Jane by Stephen Duffy. And a little lie down in a darkened room.

the road to BearFest

The ticket for BearFest sold the minute it was released. To me. Yay me!

Lots to do. Who knew that this festival lark was so complicated?

Just one example. The rider for the main act. I thought that all I had to do was to demand a crate of booze and a big bowl of Smarties with the green ones removed. Or is it the brown ones? Not according to Mr Pop. Hum. That's a whole lot of complicated.

And Big Zip thinks he's spotted one of the Manic Street Preachers lurking outside. Or it could have been the postman. Either way Madame will be unhappy. Apparently that Nicky Wire said something rude about the Divine Rufus. She doesn't care if he does look lovely in a frock and eyeliner. That's fighting talk. And the post office have "lost" several items of her mail recently. When they've not been on strike. She could snap at any moment.

Must go. Have to organise a stall selling jesters' hats, dream catchers and Hopi ear candles.

BearFest 2007

We're not going through to Edinburgh. No Fringe frolics. Not my decision. Don't live in a democracy.

Not that I care anyway. Pah. Edinburgh. Glastonbury. Their time has passed. Everyone and their mad auntie is putting on a festival. Why not me? Got the rules here - thanks to nice Mr Marshall at Guardian Unlimited.

They must be aimed at a unique audience. - BearFest will be the world's most exclusive festival. By Bear. For Bear.

They must have unique headliners. - Bear. I think I'm quite unique. I've certainly never met another me. And this will be my only festival appearance this year. Probably.

They must involve camping. - Hum. More difficult. The festival site is probably going to be the pillow end of the bed. She tends to discourage me from camping on the grounds that "She's got to sleep in that bed" and tent pegs leave holes in the mattress. I might manage a cushion cover bivouac.

They must allow moshing and crowd-surfing. - Like I need an excuse. I'm moshing right now.

In the spirit of rock 'n' roll, they must be "socialist". - I am an oppressed minority and I was purchased from a branch of the Co-op. I'm more socialist than a working men's club full of Tommy Sheridans.

They cannot have the Manic Street Preachers playing. - What if they try to force their way in?

Result! I'm all tingly and excited. What if I can't get a ticket? Should I take my ukulele? Will I need my wellies?

I don't think I own a ukulele or a pair of wellies. Disaster.

Right. Must go and practice my juggling. And then see if I can hire Big Zippy and Clanger to do the site security. So much to do.

time for a snooze

I've said sorry. I was a right grump yesterday. Not enough sleep in this house. Not enough hours in the day.

So I've had a quiet day today. She's been busy. Lots of laundry and then off to see the Terence Davies Trilogy. Deary me. It gave her a headache. She doesn't recommend it. Three dull, flat, fuzzy films about repressed misery and stifled lives. See the Bill Douglas Trilogy instead.

I've still got time for a small nap before bedtime. She has to do some messing about with sticky and paper. I usually like to stay out of the way when that kind of thing is happening.

I did sort of offer to help out with my nice new highlighters pens - they were a present from lovely person Angi - but unfortunately they were confiscated following the "Wouldn't Mr Wainwright look better with a pink fluorescent moustache?" incident. And I have agreed that I am jealous of him. Him and his thrilling sideburns.

Ah. Yes. Nap time.

the sound of madness

Much busy. But clever Bear. I am using the sound of Madness to block out the sound of madness.

Madness are a funny old band. It may be unfair but they have had a strange image. Chirpy songs about baggy trousers. Crazy dances. Wacky videos. A touch of the novelty act? Not "serious" musicians like, bless him, Weller or (small bear runs screaming from the room) Waits ?

She brings home Madness - The heavy heavy hits. It was going cheap in Avalanche Records.

We all know the deal with "Greatest Hits" selections? They're for lazy, indecisive people (so we have a lot of them) who can't deal with that scary downloading lark.

There will be the couple of songs that you buy it for - the Greatest Hits. Maybe four or five if you're lucky. Then the OK/Skippable Hits. Bit of filler - dodgy 12" remix of the Greatest Hit? Then something "special" for the fans - obscure B side or quirky little cover - because they have everything three times over already and need an excuse to shell out more dosh (*cough* Elvis Costello reissues *cough*).

Naughty cynical bear ...

Back to Madness. Twenty three songs. And not a single duff one. A big surprise to be honest. There is the big upbeat noise. But there is also sweetness and light. Darkness and disappointment. Worth revisiting if you only remember nutty boys and the heavy, heavy sound.

Or if you need to block out the sound of a deranged and demented woman.

That Wainwright, in what I can only consider a personal vendetta against me, has announced an extra gig. Here. Not somewhere nice and far away. Here. In this city.

Yes. She is going to both nights. No man or small bear can stop her.

I just happened to make a passing query about the cost of the ticket. Sniffle. Some things should never be said. Even in jest. And "I could sell a much loved old friend on Ebay so that I can afford to see some boyish fop and his stupid floppy hair poncing about for two nights in a row in October" is one of them.

She may have phrased it a little differently but I knew what she was saying. Sniffle.

So I've been singing "It must be love" to myself while she reads out highlights from Uncut's audience with RW.

Hang on.

Oh.

She'll have to repeat that last one - hum - Wainwright reckons that Gordon Brown is considerably more sexy than Tiny Blur. To quote the Rufus person - "I think Gordon Brown's really sexy. I think most most women I know feel the same."

Hum. Indeed. Well, that's a thought ...

That's something that will take a bit of pondering. Unfortunately.

Madness. It's all madness.