Murder and mayhem on a Sunday night

Madame has been making us listen to a radio version of The Duchess of Malfi - "coz it's like culture and that". Hum. I listened very hard and I have no idea what was going on.

Lots of people seemed to be mooching about the Italian countryside - between that Malfi and somewhere they keep calling Millen - which might be Milan. I'm not sure. There's lots of verily and prithee and naughtiness involving apricots or *nudge nudge wink wink* apricocks. Oh, my aching sides. humph. Madame says that one probably went down a storm with the crowd at Globe. I don't know how she can know that - she's old but she's not that old.

Back to the play. Some woman - probably this Duchess woman - gets called a strumpet. I think that sounds like a nice cuddly word - crumpets and trumpets are both good stuff but apparently strumpet is a Bad Thing. Perhaps she goes round spoiling crumpets with trumpets. That would be a Bad Thing. But not bad enough for what happens next.

Some blokes turn up to strangle the strumpet and various other people who happen to be hanging around. Then they all take turns to stab, poison and strangle each other and various other people who still haven't cottoned on to what is happening and are still hanging around. Points are awarded for the most gurgling death and someone makes a gloomy speech about life being like chasing bubbles. Quite.

By now I am a very confused and bewildered little bear - distressed by all this mayhem and murder. I need some jolly music to cheer me up. Aha! A little bit of Gillian Welch ...




um. oh. well.

It is quite cheery sounding. For an extremely gory murder ballad.

Right. I'm off to hide all of our sharp and pointy kitchen utensils. This culture stuff is too dangerous for impressionable minds like Madame's. She'll be sticking to Enid Blyton and Girl Aloud from now on.

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.

Billy Pumpkin and the Wet Hen

Spoke too soon. She's still poorly. Moping about like a wet hen.

The things I do to amuse and entertain ...

Apparently. Allegedly. With my ears pinned back. With actual pins. I look like that Billy Corgan out of those Smashing Pumpkins.

Not sure what I am supposed to do with this new found talent. Children's party entertainer? All toy tribute band? The Plushie Pumpkins?

If her boss would like her back then I can arrange to have the door left unlock. Bring a big enough sack and she's all yours.

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 ...