Last week I asked you for questions, and so it seems only fair that this week I bring you answers. Off we go.
Quick off the mark, Will asked "What’s your middle name?"
It’s Maredydd, Will. It’s one of those names which is supposedly gender neutral, but like Hilary, Leslie or Lauren it has become more associated with lady folk. As a result, Welsh people sometimes snigger when they see it.
Me Over Here then wanted to know "when are we having a go at Covent Garden again?"
When you next come over! Keep an eye out for cheap flights and save up that vacation time! [last summer, I refused to go to a play we’d been planning on seeing because as we were arriving three busloads of teenagers were already excitedly gathering outside, and I am a bad tempered old sod like that]
Cleavers couldn’t sleep at night for wondering "have you ever done a bungee jump, and if not would you?"
I haven’t no, but I think I might. Maybe. I did once try and convince Whitfud to do one of those reverse bungee things in Victoria Park, but he said it was too costly for his tastes. I know I’d never do one off a crane above a car-park or something like that; I still remember that chap in Swansea whose harness snapped. No, it’d have to off a bridge with a river below if anything, like I saw people doing off the Pont de l’Artuby at the Gorges du Verdon once. I know that if the harness snapped or the bungee was too long etc etc I’d probably be dead anyway, but there seems to be something inherently wrong to me about jumping above tarmac (if not safety wise, just think of the aesthetics: a car-park is so drab), and I have a feeling I couldn’t bring myself to. I’m actually wondering if a bungee jump might help cure the suicidal impulses my vertigo sometimes prompts; perhaps my curiosity would be satiated?
Between gasps for air, Dancinfairy beseeched me to cast my mind back to "the last time you laughed so hard you couldn't breathe / snorted something out of your nose / almost did a little wee?" Then she pissed herself.
You know, that’s a pretty hard one to answer. I’m not a big giggler. Even TV shows which I think are hilarious struggle to elicit more than a couple of guffaws from me. I would have to guess it was when I was living in Croydon – so a good couple of months ago now – with The Garfather. Knowing us, it’d have probably been over some coarse scenario of our imagining. Or the evening we attempted to duet Jamiroquai’s Deeper Underground in it’s entirety with (simulated) fart sounds. We are classy like that.
That reminds me. You know what really makes me laugh? You remember that infamous internet video of that guy wearing a white pair of shorts who tries to light one of his farts with a lighter and, well, you know the rest I’m sure (no, not linking...). Well, it’s not the video itself that makes me laugh, but occasionally in quiet moments I’ll ponder upon what became of his life afterwards as his celebrity spread. To my mind that video ends at the wrong moment. I want to see him have to walk home, and then updated installments, charting him having to go into high school the next day, the moment he realised one of his ‘friends’ had downloaded the video to the internet, and so on. I can entertain myself for hours picturing that bloke’s life.
Afe came to me asking "why won't Justin Timberlake return my phone calls?" And then quickly checked he hadn’t left his phone on silent again.
So he’s not calling Afey back, eh? Low credit is my guess.
AMS wondered "would you still go out with your girlfriend if you found out she had a chronic incurable disease where she emmitted toxic nuclear powered farts at regular intervals?" Don’t tell me AMS, you’ve got this friend...
Well, it depends on the girl I’d say. I’ve despised people for much less, but if I liked her enough, sure. I’d have to get a decent cork, and some sort of chamber for thrice daily releases, but I’m sure she and I could work something out. I think she'd owe me one though, so she’d have to concede control of the remote for life. And forever be the one to put the sheet on the duvet; I hate doing that.
I came across Curly sat under a tree, where he’d been for some time contemplating the question "why is Justin Timberlake constantly on the phone to Afe's wife?"
Style tips would be my guess. I mean, did you see her her husband’s moustache? Or do I mean Movtache?
Monica poked her head above the parapets to enquire "why are people so negative on my blog comments?" (To snorts of of anonymous derision and mutterings of “bloody yanks”)
As I’ve said to you before, I think the mere name of your blog riles some anti-American types who have an excess of bile, time and energy, and you’re unfortunate to bear the brunt of that sometimes. The hypocrisy and small-mindedness they accuse America and, by proxy, you of (or vice versa), is evident on your blog only in their own generalisations and churlish manner.
It’s really telling though that most abuse you get – and most negative comments any blogger receives – is essentially anonymous. If people don’t have the conviction to stand by their remarks, I think that speaks volumes.
Oh, and it’s worth bearing in mind the vast majority of your comments aren’t negative: it only takes a couple of bad apples etc.
Monica was on a roll, and then wanted to know "why isn't Simon Pegg madly in love with me?"
If Simon Pegg was madly in love with you, I’m sure it would somehow play havoc with Tim and Daisy eventually getting together (which does happen you know…). Also, if you two were together, lately you’d probably have had to spend a lot of time in David Schwimmer’s company.
Me Over Here’s stomach was growling, so she wanted to know "how willing would you be to send chicken balls, and would they still be good by the time they arrived, and where, just where, is Limbo Bimbo?"
I don’t think it would be overly expensive to send you some chicken balls. It may well be illegal, and depending on how hot it is in Texas at the moment and how often you check your mail, it could potentially be quite hazardous to receive them. So my answer is quite willing, but does that make me nasty or nice?
I’m not sure about Limbo Bimbo, but can I fob you off with some nerdy trivia? In the mid-eighties, British company Amstrad’s word processing software LocoScript introduced the concept of files that were “in limbo”, meaning they had been deleted but the user could still recover them. In later years, Apple Macintosh and Microsoft pilfered this idea with Trash and the Recycle Bin respectively.
Anonymous scuttled up to me and whispered "does anyone who is not a blogger/friend/family member of yours read your blog?"
Well, you tell me Anonymous! I don’t know what proportion of blog readers are neither bloggers themselves or somehow connected to those that they read, but – apart from maybe the really popular blogs and those written by celebrities – I’m guessing it’s quite small. Looking at my stats counter, I’d say that there are currently about fifteen people who visit a couple of times a week who have me bookmarked but, by looking at their location or workplace, I really couldn’t think that I know (be it in real life or virtually). They don’t say anything though, so I have no idea if they have blogs of their own somewhere.
Monica was back, this time asking "would you like to go to the Prince Charles cinema with me this weekend (#16)? We can see Little Miss Sunshine (Sat.) or Shaun of the Dead (Sun.) for like 3 quid."
I actually saw Shaun of the Dead at the Prince Charles the first time round. Is it wrong to not only see a film at the cinema twice, but at the same cinema? I have recently developed a bit of a crush on Kate Ashfield though, after seeing her looking very pretty in a BBC4 adaptation of the John Wyndham short story Random Quest. Someone told me Little Miss Sunshine was very very funny. Anyone know if it is? Remember, I don’t laugh easily.
Another film I saw at the Prince Charles was Kill Bill (both of them I think, actually). I was therefore amused to recently read the following quote by Prince Charles fan, Quentin Tarantino: “The day Kill Bill plays the Prince Charles is the day Kill Bill truly comes home". So there you go.
Anne Emailer wrote to me, posing the question "are you related to anyone famous?"
Huh, I suppose famous is a rather relative term. The only person I can think of – who none of you will have heard of – is my great great (great?) uncle: ‘Uncle Art’ Satherley, one of the pioneers of the US country music industry. We never met, but I’ve been assured that if I visit the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville I will be treated to a free tour. You can buy one of his cds if you like. I don’t think it’s very high in the sales charts presently.
A lustful Anonymous panted "Do you think Craig Ferguson is sexy? Or am I the only one?"
Are you asking are you the only one for me, or do you mean are you the only one who finds Craig Ferguson sexy? I'll assume the latter. No, not especially. But I’m sure you don’t get to be on telly as much as he has and for as long as he has without someone somewhere thinking you are sexy.
And those were your questions. Phew!
5 weeks ago