Thanks to Tabitha Rabbit commenting on my blog (cheers, TR), which was very flattering in itself and a jolly happy start, I toddled off to her blog and, with a swift scan of a single post:
a) decided I liked it, and
b) discovered a shared interest in Bill Oddie.
To explain, Gary's family are related to the Oddies in an aeons-back-when-they-all-shared-one-village sort of a way, and they are not entirely dissimilar to look at except Gary could also equally be Elton John's younger (straight!) brother and could be fairly described as a very white, very blonde black man. There is colour in his ancestry too, as evidenced by the tiny little curly hairs on the back of his neck, which being fine rather than course can take a very circuitous route to the surface; much like this post so far. Oh, and he has that neck muscle thing going on. You know when some black guys shave their heads and they have this deep, muscular furrow practically from earlobe to earlobe around the back of the head? Yeah, one of them.
Getting to the point, or at least heading off back toward said point for the sake of a pretence at order here: because Tabby commented and because I went to her blog, and because I then went to comment back (which is the polite thing to do even if you don't like someone's blog, except I do like hers so thats a spare happy accident, and a sort of mid-trip treat) I read another comment and through that went googling for Bill Bailey.
I found his blog! No RSS feed, rather infuriatingly, and another reason why I should reassess my reluctance to leave Bloglines and consider Blogroll instead. Or as well - ooh, maybe as well.
Anyhoo; (what a wonderful word; so loathsome that it has become addictive, and no you are not invited to analyse that statement) - anyhoo I read a bit, and guess what? It's real.
By real I mean it's not glammed up and it's not his best attempt at playing the jovial/convivial [delete as applicable] host; a side of himself that he manages to show with ease on TV and that has made Never Mind The Buzzcocks so likeable, to my mind, that I would watch repeats. His blog is not a picture frame for his stage persona, but mutters on happily about cheese and hummous overload on tour, and general work commitments. When the humour and sense of the absurd shines through, it is natural, not glossy; it even appears to be surfacing despite a conscious effort to make the blog 'useful' and to pack it with gig notices. The guy is just plain funny and probably has a little voice at the back of his head, like a ghostly schoolteacher, that occasionally mutters ineffectual admonishments to be sensible.
(Next month I am going to try and go ten days without using inverted commas, semicolons and brackets (thats parentheses to my American friends, not shelf fixings), so do please remind me.)
I like Bill Bailey, a lot. I could qualify that by saying I like the person I believe to be Bill Bailey i.e. the persona I imagined from limited televisual input, but that would be really anal and unecessary, so I won't.
On one level he engenders that sort of familiarity that makes you think of a favourite uncle from your childhood, replete with pipe and slippers and stereo, with a rusty motorbike, a large old house in the London-nearly-suburbs and possibly a shed or upstairs room where he simultaneously makes wine out of carrots, parsnips and dog hair and also preserves things like stag beetles in formaldehyde.
(Oh yes, remind me to jack in the hyphens too (confused readers - 'jack in' means give up, and yes I am having fun now using all the aforementioned grammatical sins as often as possible))
On another level entirely I have to say this:
- Musicians are sexy. Thats just the way it goes. The concept that a man has a musical, ergo spiritual soul somehow makes all sins forgiveable and even endearing, because we women (or sad, hopeless ones like me at any rate) decide that the 'real' man is the musician and not the grumpy sod who just trod on the cat whilst looking for his socks.
- A pair of eyes that sparkle and show cheekiness, wit and a level of self effacement are, umm, a huge weakness of mine.
- Keyboard players tend to have long, strong, dexterous fingers. I'm stopping RIGHT THERE on that subject. Phwoar.
- Add those benefits to a decent intellect, a sense of the ridiculous and a taste for good beer, and heck; where are my jeans, where is the (first) pub, and after a pint and a packet of peanuts do you want to play verbal ping-pong about global warming, football or cricket?
I am allowing myself this post because I have just completed two weeks doing five hours of cardio in a steam bath every day (as a school dinner lady) for a pittance, and am emotionally and intellectually drained. I only have to shut my eyes to see visions of frozen cases of veggie burgers and industrial size tubs of mayo. I am up late (if you call 1 am late) for the first time in a fortnight, and am in one of those 'who gives a flying f-word' moods. I guess I need to write more than I need to think or sleep.
(That's need as in feel an uncontrollable urge, rather than need as in could benefit from the social skill)