The Bear Identity - a secret life in pictures

Oh, little blog! I am a bad and unfaithful bear. I have been off having wild and dangerous adventures without you.

I have hung out with rock stars.

There have been mysterious blondes

and glamorous raven haired femme fatales.

Wild parties,

private jets,

and knitting.

All that and trying to stick Madame back together again.

It has been tiring. Occassionally fun. Often frustrating. Worrying. Confusing.

And not nearly enough of this

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.

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.

Camille and the misspent youth

She's dying again. She's hot, feels sick, and everything aches. None of the reassuring coughing and sneezing this time so I prod her with a pencil every now and then. Occasionally she whimpers and asks me to make the horrible, bright, shiny sun stop.

But mostly I've been reading Smax. It is brilliant. First thing by Alan Moore that I've really, truly enjoyed.

I'm having to do a lot of catching up with comics and graphic novels. Thanks to her misspent youth - teenage years wasted wishing she was a Pre-Raphaelite maiden or Myrna Loy - there was plenty of reading but it was all Evelyn Waugh and the Bronte sisters.

Sometimes I could get my paws on one of Uncle S's copies of 2000AD. Have fond memories of Bradley the Sprog.

She had read some of Neil Gaiman's novels - even went along to a signing for Coraline. Her shelves were full of books about illustration. She loved Charles Addams and Edward Gorey. But, comics, well ... that was all superheros and The Beano. Foolish girl.

Bored. There was something by Gaiman she hadn't read. It was in the library. It hadn't been stolen and it was on the shelf where it should be. It was one of the Sandman book.

Doh.

Suddenly she's a comics fiend. She haunts libraries looking for the dusty corner where they keep the naughty books for idiot children. She goes into Forbidden Planet. It's a bit intimidating. She even goes into the scary little comic shop and risks being crushed to death by piles of obscure superheros and barbarian warlords. Very intimidating. And expensive.

She gets excited when a new library opens with a lovely graphic novel section right in the middle of it (and a yummy cafe next door). And goes to a book shop event. Someone called Coll Hamilton talks about his attempts to create comics. Alan Grant and Cam Kennedy have lots to say and Denise Mina is brilliant.

She gets the rest of the Sandman books. And Maus. She could have/should have read Maus years ago. Why didn't they mention it at school?

I like Hellblazer and Transmetropolitan best. Yee ha! Lots of naughtiness. Big and clever. With a packet of chocolate fags and a pair of Spider Jerusalem shades (even if she has to make them for me out of sweet wrappers) I'd be the coolest bear in town.

We keep trying Alan Moore. Everyone says he's the best.

From Hell - it is better than the film ... no well-scrubbed, chirpy, Cockernee prostitutes. Interesting but heavy going.

Watchmen - superhero angst - yawn.

V for Vendetta - bleak, bleak, gloomy, bleak, obscure. Haven't seen the film. Don't imagine there's a break in the action for a big Bollywood style dance number?

Lost Girls - I didn't read this so we'll have to rely on her review - hang on, I'll just get the pencil ... poke, poke - "Beautiful books. Rich artwork. Initially interesting themes but overdone and repetitive."

A few other bits and pieces - Halo Jones and Swamp Thing come to mind. Meh. Whatever.

But now Smax - a bright and funny tale of death, disappointment, and incest. Plays with fables and fairy tales and popular culture. Dwarves play "Malls and Muggers". There's no stops for the cat bus. And the worst death is Dennis. It's fun. Good, old fashioned fun.

Home fun

She's out at a gig or something. I have to make my own entertainment. The best fun a bear can have, without dancing girls, a bouncy castle or a trebuchet, is a tube of glow sticks and a dark room. Be your own rave. Suddenly it's 1988. Second summer of love. Bear is in the house, giving it paw. Acieed!


She's back early. Lights on and sopping wet cagoul right down on top of me. The evening ends with herbal tea and old time radio for her and damp ears for me.

For all the damp bears ...