The bah humbug traitor

I had decided to hold out against all the Christmas jollification and stuff after all. Too much fuss. Don't like fuss. Bah humbug to fuss. I grrred and growled and told her ladyship that there would be none of that nonsense here. We would do a bit of low key solstice celebrating - maybe hug a small fir tree when no one was looking - but bah humbug to tinsel and glittery things and fairy lights and getting all jolly and jingly.


And then. Shhhhhh. Promise me that you won't tell anyone I said this. Ok. Oh, the shame ...

Yesterday Madame received her parcel full of Wainwright does Judy Garland and she was listening to it last night. Over and over again obviously. I naturally attempted to hide and to block my ears with cushions. But. Half way through The Trolley Song - yes, The Trolley Song - I started to feel all - I think it's called happy. I danced. Bear does Rufus does Judy. Don't you make that face at me. I know. I know. And it could happen to you.

And I woke up this morning with a great need for Crimbo nonsense. I want snowmens and reindeers and fake snow and - no, not santas - Madame is santaphobic - holly and mistletoe and - do I want egg nog? what is egg nog? - maybe egg nog.

But first I'm going to Mr Flynn's birthday party. He's 2 today. Hurrah for Mr Flynn! He does lots of running about and making noise and he's brill!

Rise up. Be a nation. Go back to bed.

So we've had St Andrew's Day and have started to burn down the numbers on our advent candle. Time to look forward to all the glitter and tinsel and stuff that helps us through gloomy midwinter.

Well, I'm looking forward to that - in my own Bah Humbug Don't Make Me Wear A Stupid Santa Hat way. Madame can't see past next week. Oh, when will her copy of Rufus!Rufus!Rufus! does Judy!Judy!Judy! arrive? Gosh! You mean you didn't have the release date marked in big red letters in your diary? We must not mock. I certainly won't be mocking. I don't want to be destuffed and used as an oven glove.

And she's not been well. Yawn. Operation Get Madame Back To Work is about to enter its 2nd week. Hum. Why do I keep thinking of Raise The Titanic? Never mind.

Have a good week. And remember when you are dusting off those decorations - tinsel is never as tasty as it looks.

Sunday of the Bewildered Beast

Suddenly it's Sunday again and I am bewildered. Humph. Autumn. Fine on crisp, bright days but on gloomy, grey days a small bear can become lethargic. Mooching around in jammies and grumping.

Things I have learned this week -

1. Do NOT mock Mr R. Wainwright in Madame's presence. She saw both of his Glasgow shows. Wonderful. Very wonderful. Singing. Dancing. Lederhosen. Played "Poses" so beautifully that it fair broke her flinty little heart. Energy and humour and confidence. She wanted to come home, pack a bag, and run away to Paris.

I wouldn't have minded that part. Unfortunately we only have enough money between us to get to Cumbernauld. And we're not doing that again.

2. Bear favourite to win Turner Prize. Woo hoo! Did get a bit over excited when I first read this. Finally recognised for my Art! I work mostly in crayon and used envelopes. But, no, it's an artist called Mark Wallinger - dressed as a bear and videoed wandering round a Berlin art gallery. Sounds like Big Serious Art to me. None of that messing about with paint malarky.

3. The Time Bandits map made real! I want one. I can't have one. Humpf.

4. Kylie Minogue is a tiny, little person. Have to take Madame's word on this one. She pottered along to Kelvingrove Museum for a nice, quiet afternoon. Kylie exhibition is on. Wanted to see the pretty costumes. Maybe have a nice sit down, cup of tea and a bit of cake with all the other old folk. Oops. Paws up who knew it was the school holidays? Doh. She did manage to wade through a sea of screaming spogs to see the Australian pixie's hot pants and was impressed by the feathers and glitter of the Showgirl costumes.

5. Eddie Izzard looks pretty in a fairy costume and it's fun to play with his fridge when you're bored. Or have things to do but can't be bothered.

I'm sure there were other things but it's Sunday evening and it's all rather hazy. New week ahead.

Cosy crime travel to Wainwright while dangerous blondes lurk

A quiet day. Madame has Wainwright tonight. She has been curled up reading some Evelyn Waugh. A selection of his travel writing.

I'm not that keen on travel books. I would rather be out and doing for myself. But Madame is fond of the quirkier, chattier books. One bloke's trip around the shipping forecast. That kind of thing.

She is also on a cosy crime spree. Working her way through a pile of pretty green and white Penguins. Full of frustrated maiden aunts poisioning curates and housemaids with arsenic filled muffins.

I prefer my crime hardboiled. Chandler. Hammett. Noir. Flickering neon. Neat bourbon. Dangerous blondes.

Bears know all about dangerous blondes.

It's true. No bowl of porridge, no shuggly chair, no freshly made bed is safe while blondes roam free.

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.

Birthday bear!

Happy birthday to us.
Happy birthday to us.
Happy birthday to us!
Happy birthday to us.

Yup. It's our birthday. And, finally, proof that She exsists and is not a figment of my imagination. We have changed a bit since the photo was taken. Many centuries ago. On our 1st birthday.

We've been having a pleasantly lazy day. She has been reading naughty manga and playing with her new phone. She has changed the ringtone several times, accidently called several people - including Partick Police Station - and taken many fuzzy photos, in a variety of styles.

I have been admiring my new birthday outfit - more than a red bow - and looking at my birthday present book - yay! - "Bear: Immortal" by Jamie Smart.

Soon it will be time for us to get our bags packed for our wee holiday. So I'll just say -

Thank you for all the lovely cards and presents and stuff!

Love from me and Her

Bear's Birthday Choice -

Her Birthday Choice (oooooo, wonder who it could be ...) -

fireworks!

Bye, bye, Tiny Blur.



Now he's wild and free (to a good home).

In other news.

Holiday! Birthday! Both coming up soon! Yay! Too much excitement! Too many !!!!!!!

But if you think that's excessive - over to our Wainwright correspondent ...

screeeeeeeaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeerufusglasgowclydeoctobergotticketsoexcitedscreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There may have been more screaming but I blacked out. I don't know. He wore a flat cap well, but, ow, ow, ow ...

Nose now pinged. Must not mock the Wainwright. Humpf.

Before I go and sit in the naughty corner - the fireworks are, of course, from the Singapore Fireworks Festival. I am not aware of any mass celebrations to mark the end of this era - the People's Tone shuffles off without pageants and ceremony. I could be wrong. Maybe somewhere in Britain tonight a sad and lonely figure is trying to light a damp sparkler and raising a cup of warm Vimto.

Rufus Thing ... blah, blah, blah ...

So the Wainwright album arrived on Thursday. The special "limited edition" with dvd. The excitement causes her to skip about like a drunk flump. She is wearing a posh frock.



The purification rituals are performed (bit of hoovering, bit of dusting). Bear is "made comfortable". Finally the blessed disc is listened to. Cake is eaten.

Everything is ok. The album is wonderful. A triumph. Bear agrees. Probably. It's a bit hard to tell, what with the gag and everything.




More cake is eaten. Bear is untied and the order is made - "entertain us, Fluff Boy". He dances.

bring on the dancing bunnies!

Dancing Animals in Love (warning: contains scenes of ... well, er, the habits of rabbits).



The Wainwright album is on it's way. Put out bunting and squeak like a field mouse.

And I'm getting the day off on Friday. Can't remember the last time I had a day off. Not sure what I'll do. I've always fancied having a go at water skiing. Or para-bearing. Would quite like to catch up with the last series of "Extras".

Day off? Humpf. I'll be spending it cowering and cringing in my corner while she eats ice cream, listens to Wainwright, and ogles shoes. And later, when she's manically full of sugar, I'll be made to dance for her amusement ...

young love and a bag of yoghurt

Jomas has got himself a girlfriend.

Madame has got herself a new bag for her yoghurt mat.

What did I get? Nothing. Not even the day off. Holiday Monday and I'm WORKING. Humph. Hang on ...

um, forgot ...

She very kindly spent some time on my Myspace page yesterday and it's now new and improved and bright and sunny. A main theme of Partick Thistle colours - red, yellow and black - with hints of marine blue. And she's added some captions to the pictures.

I am a bear of small brain and short memory. I expect I was distracted by all the Rufus that's going on around me. He's on tomorrow night - the Radcliffe and Maconie show - the always excellent Mr. Radcliffe and Mr. Maconie. The chances of her doing anything else - say, answering the phone or noticing if the house burns down - between 8pm and 10pm tomorrow night will be extremely limited. Radio on and bear on best behaviour. If I want to live to see Wednesday.

And Jomas's new girlfriend is called Lily-Button. Allegedly. Looks like a Gladys to me.

going to some town with that Rufus bloke

In other news:

This year's West End Festival programme is out. Bit dull.

Some election stuff happened but I didn't get a vote so I don't care. Humph.

It has been very sunny. Some people got to have a day off. Some people got to have picnics in the park. I didn't. Humph.

However a certain person did have a couple of pints of real ale last night and attempted to exit the pub via a door that wasn't there. That wasn't me. Snork. None of this beer unfortunately, but, if you want to repeat the experiment then I'm told you should try Paradise Ale and something that she thinks might have been called Alchemist's Gold. Tsk.

Someone. Not me - sensing a theme yet? Someone in this house has bought themselves a pair of shiny red Mary Janes on Ebay. I am informed that Mary Janes are a type of shoe. Poor lamb is down to her last 20 or so pairs of shoes so she had to have the Ebay shoes. Or the world would end. Or something.

And a whole year before we get Kung Fu Panda.

bear is by da window

When I signed up to be a toy bear ... actually I don't remember signing anything ... one minute I was minding my own business and next thing ... hum, should I be calling my union or Amnesty? Hum. Any way, whatever, I'm not expecting my life to be all stretch limos, bling and hos. Which is a good thing. Today I was given a "special treat". I was allowed to look out of the window. At the tree outside. My head is just spinning with the dizzying thrill of it all. I'll bet that Snoop Dogg just wishes he was me.

Apparently I will be listening to mostly Mitch Benn this week. Her "I'm so poor. I have no money. I need to buy things to cheer me up" parcel has arrived from Amazon and it seems to be mostly Mitch Benn. This is alright with me because Mitch Benn is very funny and quite furry.

And, while I'm listening to Mr Benn (that name rings a bell), I won't be able to hear Madame wittering on about that Rufus bloke. He has a new album out soon.

Oooooo! Excitement outside in the tree. I think it might be a bird. Or something. No. Just leaves.

chocolate, bears, and grumpy like it's 1953

Latvians, bears and chocolate

Latvians, bears, chocolate and Estonians

I was hoping to get some background information from Jomas on these two items. But he's sulking. How was I supposed to know that he felt like that about the Pet Shop Boys?

Anyway. Humpf. We do all know that polar bears are smug, annoying, and responsible for global warming - don't we? Oh, well. Here's that Knut. Now he might be an iceberg botherer but ... death threats ... that's not big or clever. Sounds like a job for Lawyerbear. A good mauling. It's the only language that these criminals understand.

She's just wandered past. She sniggered. "You're turning into Noel Gallagher, you are. Next you'll be demanding they bring back National Service and rickets." An excellent idea. National Service. Not rickets. Hum.

This'll be middle age then.

Blah. She's bitter. I'm keeping her off the puter and there are new, exciting pictures of that Rufus bloke to dribble over. Rufus in lederhosen. Truly. Unless I was hallucinating.

I could be. She's tapping my head with a teaspoon and singing.

"I'm a little teapot" since you asked.

Badly.

Right. I'm off to write letters to the Daily Mail in green ink about the decline in standards.

If you are free of sugared-up women then you might want to have a wander over to The Weekly - Mr. Nash and Mr. Millington's fine production. Cast out the pesky!

crimes against music, meanwhile, a bear is ignored

Do you know how many photos there are of that Rufus bloke on the Interknit? A lot. Him with long hair. Him with short hair. Him looking serious. Him looking extremely mad. Him in posh suits. Him in leather trousers, just. I think she has looked at all of them this evening. Especially the just leather trousers ones. Humpf. I might as well be chopped socks.

I have mentioned that my head is coming loose. And now my bell is falling out. And it's all Wainwright's fault.

I don't use her name in this blog for several reasons. For instance, if anyone is going to become famous and exploit this for a major merchandising deal then it's going to be me so no point in confusing things.

And she is wanted by Interpol for crimes against Belle and Sebastian. She has, in the past, sneered at the gods of indie pop loveliness. In this town that still carries a mandatory death sentence. You will be taken out to the Botanic Gardens, tied to a tree, smeared with peanut butter and left to the squirrels.

I suggested we try for an insanity plea. She's got the special edition of that "Tatu" album somewhere. That should be plenty of evidence.

But now she's going round dissing Sufjan Stevens. "The musical equivalent of carob". Her words - not mine. She's a goner.

I'd be calling for help but she's got a copy of "Too much" by The Spice Girls (with collectable postcard) and she's not afraid to use it. I think if we all just back away quietly and leave her to her Rufus slideshow ...

A matter of national security

Today she attempted to flood our little flat. She was going to do the dishes, forgot, wandered away in a daze (probably thinking about Rufus Wainwright or chocolate - she usually is) and left the tap running. She's claiming that this is more evidence that we need servants. They'd have to be very small, willing to sleep in the wardrobe and work for no money. Which sounds more like slavery to me. I think it's more evidence that she could be dangerous if she fell into the wrong hands. And she's still not allowed a creme egg.