So I'm joining a convent in Smethwick on Friday

God decided everyone had suffered enough and as the bad solicitors began to muddle through the necessary paperwork to register the little flat correctly with the Land Registry, he sent a zephyr which whipped through the gloomy Norbury offices of the bad solicitors, completed the forms and carried them off the Land Registry, where it put them into the hands of a registering operative who immediately got to work.

This surprised the bad solicitors and pleased them as they were able to get back to Jeremy Kyle, who was shouting at an Elizabeth Duke loyalty card holder as usual. Normal service having resumed, the bad solicitors were, as usual, completely stretched by the simple question the good solicitor put to them some time later; 'Have they cleared the property then?' he asked, as Mr & Mrs Vendor had been extremely slow in achieving this, the week prior.
'I don't know', said the bad solicitor wiping donut sugar from around his mouth, 'I've been a bit busy.'
'Well are the Vendors ready to complete the sale tomorrow, now the property's been registered?' asked the good solicitor?
'I don't know' said the bad solicitor, starting to sound like a Speak & Spell from Texas Instruments. 'There're are a few things to do, I think, before we can complete. I'm not sure if Mr & Mrs Vendor are ready'
'What things?' asked the good solicitor.
'Well their mortgage will have to be redeemed' posed the bad solicitor.
'They haven't got one!' exclaimed the good solicitor, 'It's clear possession. The flat only cost them fifty-three pence! They bought it from the council because of Margaret Thatcher!'
'Oh' said the bad solicitor. His attention distracted by the television screen. A woman in velour had launched herself at another woman, pulling her hair, as men with shirts labelled, 'SECURITY' tried to remove her from the set.
The good solictor waited for his opponent to speak for a second before asking: 'So are you going to do anything about completing this transaction tomorrow? My eager client has been waiting months!'
'I don't know', said the bad solicitor one final time as he absent mindedly hung up the phone and shouted, 'Geewaaaaan! Give 'er a slap!' at the television.

Updated by the good solicitor, the eager client determinedly called the handsome estate agent, who was once again disturbed at the extent of the bad solicitor's ineptitude. He in turn called Mrs Vendor and swiftly relayed this fact-finding conversation back to the eager client; 'Mrs Vendor was perplexed as to why I was calling her', said the handsome estate agent. 'She said her solicitor called her early today and asked if she would go in to their gloomy Norbury office tomorrow to complete and finalise the transaction.'
'So they are ready to complete tomorrow then?' said the eager client, bemused.
'It would seem so.' said the handsome estate agent.
'Then what is the bad solicitor on about?' asked the eager client.
'Your guess is as good as mine' said the handsome estate agent.

So what really is the situation, boys and girls? Has the property been cleared of all furniture? Will Mrs Vendor's visit to the bad solicitors gloomy Norbury office result in full completion of the sale tomorrow? Find out in the next gripping instalment of, The Bad Solicitors of London Town.

So I escaped, I knotted sheets together... to make a moped

Still under the influence of God, or Stephen Fry as he likes to be known these days, the bad solicitors obligingly replied to the good solicitor's fax requesting the occupation under license and agreed to the terms, but God couldn't influence some of the contents of this fax or the stupidity of another party in this sorry tale, which the contents related.

Earlier, Mr & Mrs Vendor had mumbled hesitantly down the phone to the bad solicitors when they had called to put the good solicitor's occupation under license plan to them. 'What was that you said?' said Barry the stand-in, 'Something about furniture?'
Mr Vendor was looking at his shoes now and Mrs Vendor was nervously twirling her hair around her finger. 'We haven't moved our furniture out yet.' murmured Mr Vendor.
Barry the stand-in's sense of shame and anxiety, which God had freshly installed in him upon his involvement in the tale, intensified and he felt a flush creep across his face, as he considered how he was going to report back to the good solicitor, that although they as the vending parties had been working together towards a completion date of Friday 21st September for over two weeks, the property was not actually ready for the eager purchasing client to take possession.
'We could have it cleared for Monday, suggested Mrs Vendor.
'Oh dear' said Dave the stand-in, who was listening into the conversation. 'The good solicitor isn't going to be happy and neither is his client.'

The good solicitor stared at the fax and took in yet another tale of incompetence and disorganisation from the bad solicitors and began to weep. Knowing his eager client had taken the day off work to move on Friday 21st and that a friend had done likewise and travelled across from Gloucester (the provinces) to assist on 'Moving Day', he picked up the phone and dialled the eager client's number.

The eager client wasn't happy, but remained sanguine and resigned himself to yet another week of waiting, as he advised the good solicitor that Monday was no good to him as a moving day due to him having a job to go to and that his life was not entirely dedicated to the simple act of acquiring and moving to a new flat. No, it would have to be the following weekend and another week at work would have to pass before he could finally begin the process of taking occupation of the flat he so longed for.

But will the week pass without further incident? Will the flat be cleared for occupation by the following weekend, finally permitting an exchange of contracts? Will the process of living under licence take place and run smoothly until all registrations are complete and the property is transferred to the eager client's control? All will be revealed as we continue the saga of, The Bad Solicitors of London Town.

When are they taking the pins out? ...They're not

When the lease didn't arrive on the third day, the good solicitor, asked God to smite the bad solicitor. God didn't agree to this, preferring a less energetic solution.

God instead forced the stand-ins to answer the telephone and finally tell the truth. 'Actually', said Dave the stand-in, looking at his shoes and kicking the floor, 'there isn't a lease.' The good solicitor was astounded. 'What do you mean there isn't a lease?' he asked, eyebrows raised so far they nearly tipped backwards and fell of the back of his head.
'Well', said the bad solicitor stand-in. 'When Mr & Mrs Vendor bought the flat five years ago -' he paused and looked up at God through his eye-lashes in a way reminiscent of a certain dead princess, 'we didn't register the lease with the Land Registry.'
'What?', said the good solicitor, his eyebrows desperately clinging onto the top of his head.
'Well there was a season of Murder She Wrote reruns on TV at the time and we sort of watched them back to back and erm, forgot' admitted Dave the stand-in.
'You can't possibly mean that the current owners have lived in the property for five whole years without being registered as the owners!' barked the good solicitor.
'Yes', said the Dave the stand-in.
'And in all the five years you never got around to completing the registration, as you are required to do in your role as conveyancers?'
'No' said Dave the stand-in, now very red in the face. 'But our knowledge of the adventures of Jessica Fletcher is second to none!'
'I don't care about that!' exclaimed the good solicitor. 'What am I going to tell my eager client? He's expecting to move in tomorrow and this could take another four weeks!'
'I don't know', said Dave the stand-in. 'He can have our Diagnosis Murder DVDs if he likes.'

The good solicitor devastated, hung up the phone and immediately started hatching a plan to allow the poor beleagured client a solution. 'I know', he thought, 'I'll get my client occupation of the property under license until this registration is sorted out. We'll exchange contracts, subject to the registration and he can move in. It'll mean he'll have to pay Mr & Mrs Vendor some money as a kind of rent for the first few weeks, but at least he'll be in there as he wishes. Then, when the registration is complete, I can complete the sale and request mortgage funds.' Then he laughed to himself as he wondered how the bad solicitors were going to explain to Mr & Mrs Vendor that they were unable to complete the sale because they forgot to register the property to them all those years ago and they technically do not own it at the moment. 'Ha ha! I wouldn't like to be in his shoes!' laughed the good solicitor, as he sat down to work on his proposed solution to make sure it happened as he planned.

But will Mr & Mrs Vendor allow the eager client to live in the flat before completion? Will they accept the meagre £100 per week fee suggested for permitting the eager client to live in the flat? You'll find out in the next instalment of, The Bad Solicitors of London Town.

Well you might as well wait for Maurice Chevalier

After a short time, the handsome estate agent confirmed that there was indeed a lease knocking around in the bad solicitor's office. Indeed the good solicitor was promised by Barry the stand-in at the bad solicitor's office, (Dave was at the doctor's having his impetigo checked) that the document would be put in the special legal document exchange system and sent overnight to the good solicitor's bright and tidy office in Brixton.

However, Barry the stand-in had to pop out towards the end of the day to buy a tubi-grip bandage for his leg ulcers and clean forgot about putting the lease into the document exchange system.

Barry the stand-in came into the dark and dingy Norbury office the next morning and joined his colleague Dave in ignoring the telephone ringing, preferring instead to read a copy of Top Santé he had bought at the chemist. The phone rang all through an interesting article about Gloria Hunniford's battle with grief and through the topical searchword which was quite difficult today - a lot of words on the diagonal and running back to front; it was two hours before he actually found the word colostomy nestling in the bottom right hand corner, using the m from thalidomide.

The phone rang again whilst he was making his morning coffee and seemed to ring unabated all through his lunch-hours as it was still ringing when he got back from Norbury's finest tavern and settled down with a Dick Francis.

Meanwhile, having realised that the copy of the lease was not going to arrive as promised, the good solicitor decided that there was no point in waiting to receive the Office Copy Entries from the bad solicitor's office and requested his own from the Land Registry. The cost of £6.00 to do this was more than worth it, he thought, rather than put his eager client through more delays. After all, the Office Copy Entries, should always be scrutinised to ensure that no CCJs are listed against the little flat, or that there are not multiple mortgages registered against the address.

The good solicitor's client having been informed of another day's inactivity in Norbury was further angered and worried, but simply began to pray that Barry the stand-in would remember before Friday to prove to the good solicitors that the property is indeed legally available for sale, by sending the lease across to the good solicitor's office in Brixton.

But will he, children? That's the question I put you to bed with tonight. Now settle down, you've got your glass of water. I'll leave the night light on.
Sweet dreams...

Well you know they've only a gas mantle in the back

Once there was a Prime Minister called Margaret Thatcher, who by way of a piece of legislation, sold a council flat to a grateful, hard working couple called Mr & Mrs Vendor. Mr & Mrs Vendor, being capitalists and having purchased this flat for next to nothing, seized upon the opportunity of renting it out and making an income whilst they languished in the luxury of another place they bought in leafy Streatham. Soon though they thought it might be nice to kiss the flat goodbye and turn it into cold hard cash. They wished that like the princess and the frog, they had magic to perform this transformation, but in its absence turned to estate agents and conveyancing solicitors. The estate agent was handsome and efficient and soon found a buyer, eager to move in. Once a price had been agreed the matter was passed to the solicitors.

This was where trouble began. For whilst the buyer’s solicitor was good and kind, the other solicitor was fat and lazy and ate donuts. This bad solicitor worked in a dark office in deepest Norbury and although he called himself a conveyancing solicitor, he actually spent most of his time watching re-runs of Holiday Showdown on ITV2. He sat on his fat @rse for a number of months letting the file of a certain ex-council flat gather dust and crumbs from his donuts.

One day he was requested by his clients who were wondering what he was up to all these months, to complete the ex-council flat transaction as soon as possible, as, being capitalists, they’d quite like to receive the money for it. They no longer had a tenant in the flat and it was beginning to cost them serious money for the first time ever. Without looking up from The Best of Most Haunted, he passed on this request for an early completion to the good solicitor who worked hard in a bright office in Brixton.

The good solicitor said ‘ok, that would be lovely, I have been trying to get hold of you to exact this very thing for the last three months, but I have only been able to get your assistant. I am glad we are getting the ball rolling at last. Have you got the basic information that we’ve been asking for all this time, so that we can do as your client would like and put this transaction through quickly? Our client is also eager to move in.’

‘No!’ said the bad solicitor, ‘I’ve been busy scratching my balls whilst watching Jane McDonald on Loose Women, so I haven’t had time. Oh, and I’m going on holiday now so my friend Dave the stand-in will have to help you, bye!’

The good solicitor then tried to contact Dave the stand-in, who looked at the bad solicitors files and said, ‘Off the record mate, I shouldn’t tell you this, but my colleague, the bad solicitor, should have asked for all this information months ago. It’s quite basic.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ said the good solicitor. ‘My client will not be happy. Do you even have a copy of the lease to show me? You know, the fundamental document that proves ownership of the flat?’

‘The file doesn’t say that’ said the bad solicitor. ‘We might have, but then again, our clients might have it at home, or we might not have one at all. I really couldn’t say.’

‘Look, Dave the stand-in’ said the good solicitor, ‘you’ve really got to get this to us if we are going to be asking the big bank based in Yorkshire and Scotland for one-hundred-and-thirty-and-a-half-thousand pounds on Friday. They really won’t like giving it out to me to buy a flat that might technically not exist or not be in the correct possession of Mr & Mrs Vendor. They’re quite funny like that.’

‘I’ll have a look in a cupboard and write to you in a few days’, said Dave the stand-in.

The poor good solicitor turned to his angry client and told him of what Dave the stand-in had said, off the record, and the client was furious. He immediately went back to the handsome Estate Agent and asked him to call Mr & Mrs Vendor and tell them how poor their solicitors had been and ask them whether they do indeed have a copy of their lease. Obligingly, and because he was eager to get his commission from the sale, the handsome estate agent contacted Mr & Mrs Vendor and asked.

What do you think, Mr & Mrs Vendor will say, children? Will they be able to get sight of the Lease to the good solicitors in time for the end of the week, or will dark forces continue to rule over the land of South London, forcing ever more delays and frustrations into the paths of the good people?

Tune in soon for another instalment of, The Bad Solicitors of London Town.

I wanted love poems, but you wouldn't write them...

A Fable Poem for Boys

By Mr Kenneth

***

Saul and Paul had a fall

from the tallest garden wall

They were up there with a gun

they thought that they would have some fun

***

But the fun it did not last

Their destined fall approaching fast

they'd climbed and climbed and sat astride

the garden wall, it wasn't wide

***

The boys took aim at the neighbour's cat

but neighbour took offense at that

And came running over face aflame

You little rascals! What's your game!

***

As the boys in haste descended

their mischief known and all fun ended

Paul slipped and toppled; grabbed Saul's arm

and this was where they came to harm

***

Saul in turn, all balance lost

like a pancake that's been tossed

flipped and fell down through the air

taking Paul down by his hair

***

Oh! The pain, it was dementing!

once the ground they were indenting

Even neighbour winced a bit

when he heard the bones a-split

***

Only cat was unmoved and blithe

...until it met the garden scythe

***

As they'd landed Saul on Paul

crashing down from garden wall

a rake flicked up and launched a ball

The ball bounced up and made a pass

right toward the greenhouse glass

Neighbour's wife, scythe in hand

had season's seedlings neatly planned

so cast aside the lethal blade

as she dived and quickly prayed

that ball and glass would not meet up

and in her hand she'd swiftly cup

the errant ball, to save her glazing

such a save, it was amazing!

***

But lady luck not full on-side

The placid cat of course had died.

Airborne scythe spun without cessation

and led to feline decapitation

***

So next time you go in search of fun

avoid the wall and spurn the gun

Like Saul and Paul you could fall flat

And there are simpler ways to kill a cat

We professionals notice

It's striking how writers of continuous drama programming disregard the confines of physical setting and go their merry way, presumably thinking, 'Joe Public never clocks a darn thing'. Well let me tell you, Mr Writer, Joe Public may vote for the wrong people continually in reality tv shows, and sign ludicrous petitions on the No. 10 website, but they notice an over-crowded house when they see one!

The houses on the old side of Coronation Street generally have 2 upstairs bedrooms. There is no scope for a third as none of them have that back wing over the kitchen that many terraces have. All the kitchens are little single-story extensions. It's a wonder they manage to accommodate an upstairs bathroom, but I believe this to be next to the back bedroom, which must be considerably smaller thant the front one as a result.

The only extension bedroom-wise was in the baldwin's old place, where Curly created a room in the loft for his telescope (there have also been discussions of Les doing the same for Chesney, but whether that came to anything I can't remember).

Obviously, downstairs front rooms are being used in some cases. I am confident that Blanche lives in the front room at the Barlows and Sean lives in the front room at Eileen's and I think Tyrone might still use the front room boudoir that Jack and Vera made for him and Maria years ago.

But even taking this into account, the houses are appearing to accommodate far more people than they could possibly hold without the residents of coronation street bunking in together like it was the war or something!

Violet upon her split with Jamie Baldwin moved back in with Eileen Grimshaw, where she lived when she was involved with her son Jason. (a strange decision regardless of its over-crowding consequences). Now one assumes that Eileen, being a woman of a certain age and head of the family would occupy the larger room across the front of the upstairs. Jason her son would occupy the room he once shared with older brother Todd. When Todd's gay friend Sean Tully moved in, I believe he occupied the front room. Now, given that Jason is now heavily involved with his brother's ex-girlfriend, one assumes that Violet is no longer in the room she occupied in her last spell in the house. Moreover, I doubt that Eileen's maternal feelings to Violet extend to inviting her to share her bedroom and doubt that Sean would wish to compromise his albeit laughably minimal sex-life by having his best friend sharing a bedroom.

So where does Violet sleep? In the living room? I see no evidence of a sofa-bed as per Ian Beale's one bed flat days in Eastenders. If one begins to consider how the Barlows accommodated Peter and Adam as well as Blanche, Ken, Deirdre, Tracy and Amy now Tracy's house is a murder scene, then the mind just begins to boggle.

Coronation Street obviously lies on a rift in the space time continuum. (Don't even get me started on the fact that the interior of the Rovers' kitchen is in the middle of Rosamund Street when placed in relation to the exterior!)

Go round t' back o' Tesco's, it's stale bread day

I don't know precisely when it set in.

• It could have been when I awoke and remembered I had to go to work and have evening fieldwork to do both tonight and tomorrow
• It could have been when my bad half made me stay in bed when my weaker good half really wanted to get up and change sheets, have proper breakfast and generally make myself feel good before starting the day
• It could have been when, because the clean sheets were in a laundry basket in an obstructive position on my bedroom floor, I kicked the leg of my bed with my bare foot causing a certain amount of discomfort to my toes
• Perhaps it was minutes later, when despite going through exactly the same washing and drying routine with the head hair yesterday, a completely different and wholly unsatisfactory result was achieved, approximating a strange, wavy helmet with a sticking out piece on the right-hand side. Rather like this, if it had a strange sticking out piece on the right-hand side.

Whichsoever, since that point I have been feeling all negatived up and need some seriously positive vibes my way for this day to shape up any better.

Pam has asked us not to film the ceremony

It was interesting to reveal to people that I was going on a Hen Weekend. Their reactions usually went along the lines of:

'Are you sure you don't mean stag weekend?'

This of course was met with a:

'No, if I had meant stag weekend, I would have used the word stag, which is quite a different word, what with it starting, ending and containing completely different letters than the word hen and denoting a completely different animal and gender of animal.'

This was usually followed by something along the lines of:

'Boys don't traditionally go on Hen Weekends'

Which I was sharply able to counter with:

'Well, girls don't traditionally marry other girls either though, so in this case we can simply dispense with the tradition and just enjoy ourselves.'

Other person left saying 'ah', red-faced; pointless conversation terminated.

The weekend was marvellous by the way. Clay Pigeons got shot and the clutch on a Land Rover got severely singed as we almost buried the thing in mud, whilst driving blindfold in a field. Haven't had so much fun (or sparkling, grape-derived beverages) in a long time. I knew some, had met others briefly before and yet more others were total strangers, but everyone got on famously (probably owing to having some boys around!) and by the end of the weekend we had decided that we had become the Hen Clique and would not really bother speaking to anyone else come the wedding itself. In fact, we might call eachother Heather and have done with it.

Outfit buying this weekend. Got to find something in black, white or a mix of both to go along with the imposed theme. Oh and I must get a gift off the internet. Rather looking forward to the whole thing! Although I might avoid talking about it lest someone is to utter the question, 'so who do you know at this wedding, the bride or the groom?'

Thermal bodybelt

Today I have not been doing enough work. Granted, I am light on my 'to do' list, but really, I given my rantings about promotion in the last post, why am I not being proactive and energetic?

However, by the miracles of the internet I have learnt a lot about Lebanon (It would seem that Adrian Monk, or at least the actor who plays him is one of Lebanon's more notable sons - notable by Mr Kenneth lowcultural standards at least) and discovered that Selina Scott (where the hell did she disappear to? thought I) now has a company designing mohair socks. Groovy.

Gym tonight with Igor, my corpulent and hirsute personal trainer. Is he Russian you ask? Well he sometimes has to skip stretching and run off, say I.
Ta-ta-boom. I thang yaw!

Travelling overland to Morrocco - But why?

I’m in a very odd mood, the sort that my old therapist would have something to say about. I just feel like I’ve had a moment of clarity and I’ve realised exactly where I am and I just keep looking at the people around me at work and thinking, I am not the same as you (in many ways I am better) and yet I can’t get into the swing of this business like you can and be really successful.

I feel like it’s breakpoint. I either get successful in this and get promoted and on a wage worthy of someone my age in this business with 7 years experience or I get the hell out and do something where my creativity and writing/verbal ability is more recognised and valued.

I wonder if I'll do anything about it this time. Watch this space.

Grey eggs? Is that an Arab custom?

I miss my Saturday lie-ins. Yes, they are lie-ins, not lay-ins as others I know would have it; for I know the law as far as correct language and terminology is concerned and will enforce it with my last breath (Marshmellow pronouncers beware!). For the second weekend running I find myself setting an alarm that even King Earliest I of the Earlybird people would raise an eyebrow at the thought of considering.

Last Saturday it was work that had me out of my fetid pit at an indecent hour of a weekend - eliciting the consumer response to a self-assembly mattress from the consumers of Southwest London; don't ask! - but this Saturday I am at least more fortunate that my early start was for social purposes, in order that two timely trains could convey me to where I now find myself lounging, in the newly acquired domestic environs of a friend in the provinces.

A three course meal is being prepared in an adjacent room, for this evening and there just so happened to be a laptop handy, so I thought I'd put my foot on the throttle and motor out into the information superhighway. I've so far made my way down the list of tip-top taps you will note on the left, just checkin' in as t'were and now I thought I'd post a mini-missive here as well. How do you like that? ....What! Well sod you then!

Sorry, tired and crotchety, must be these early starts! Yawn...

Well he's that tall, I hadn't room to hoover!

I've been busy lately, socially speaking and it's been rather good. I have a steadily increasing stack of tickets to events I have recently attended, on my mantle piece and one could almost detect a sense of satisfaction and peace of mind in my demeanour upon reflection of this, if one were nuzzling one's mood detection antenae round my person. Now anyone who knows me would probably be impressed by that. (Not to mention relieved: 'tendancy to moan' would probably be on my school report if my friends were my teachers and the world had gone a bit back to school surreal dream flavoured)

Last night I had the pleasure of getting plastered in Fortnum & Mason. That place has been going for almost 300 years, you know? You didn't? Oh well, don't say you don't learn anything from Mr Kenneth. Yes, 1707 it was when Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason batted round the idea of opening up a little shop on Piccadilly in London. They've put a big new shiny staircase in since last year, which would please the old gents no end, I'm sure.

Anyway, you're probably wondering how it was that I got drunk at the aforementioned emporium of Mr F and Mr M - well if you're not, then why are you still reading? Go on, surf away, see if I care! There are some midgets wrestling on a clip from Jerry Springer on YouTube so I believe - Well for those of you still sitting on your hands in anticipation, it so happens that the management of London's most Royal Warranted department store open it up for an evening, a couple of times a year to promote their goodies.

Customers can buy tickets to the event for £20 and upon admission, they are welcomed and coats taken, to afford a comfortable stroll around the environs. Functionaries continually ply them with sparkling wine and canapés and other shop dollies of the highest calibre serve up samples of the finest edible bits and doings. The smoked salmon, the cheeses, the sausages, the aged balsamic vinegar, the marmalades, the chocolate, the shortbread, the yule log, the spiced tea, the nougat, oh, the delights! And the fantastic thing is, the ticket entitles the bearer to £20 of goodies, so one gets one's money back in the finest comestibles! (The idea being you'll spend more than your £20 and make return visits, so that they make their money back)

Anyway, with a beer both before and after this escapade, I woke up at 4 this morning with the TV on and a card of paracetamol tablets under the duvet with me. I can think of more appealing bedfellows to wake up next to, but a good night was had by all, I think, so I can't complain. Oops! There I go again with that positive outlook. My friends will be having fainting fits!

The blue Samsonite please!

Right, well; new blog format, new approach. Mr Kenneth is no longer speaking in the third person as of now thank you very much. It was quite exhausting to keep a check on when relating first person experiences and what's more it was probably only evidence of my deep-seated reluctance to get close to strangers and extend my personality to them.

I will also make an effort to write off the cuff rather than treat each blog entry as some kind of linguistic epic of perfection. (Not that they ever were for a second, judging by today's re-reading)

I've been in 2 plays since writing my last post. That is to say one play followed by another play, so in terms of self-projection the journey has begun. It's ludicrous on the one hand to be a noisy, opinionated performer kind of a person and on the other be writing in the third person and be too timid to ask a cab driver to turn the heating down. (I know! I was sweating like a navvy's crotch and he was wearing a quilted jerkin!) I really am full of contradiction and the more I can make the two halves join and reach some kind of equilibrium the better.

I've also been on a naturist holiday for goodness sake, so it's not like I'm some shrinking violet. Perhaps shrinkingly violent is the apt oxymoron here.

The top and bottom is less analysis of one's self, one's work, one's personal life, one's habits etc and more getting the hell on with whatever takes my fancy, thank you very much.

More soon you might be led to expect. We shall see.

Life?... You mean real life?

None of Mr Kenneth's favourite blogs have updated today, so in a fit of impulse here he is updating his own! Shocks and horrors all around.

Now what to say... Well he has a new laptop now and he thought to himself this might encourage blogging. It hasn't so far and he purchased it sometime before christmas - even now he is creating a post from his work pc! (On work time as well - well!) However, one never knows does one, whether this could be the start of something enduring.

It's the time of year for new starts and all that isn't it?

With a bra-slip and a jersey two piece...

Terrible news! Mr Kenneth can't get it out of his head! He's spinning around! Poor little smiley Kylie.

Still, it seems to have been caught early and recovery rates from this form of the disease are good, so it shouldn't be long before she's back out there in her ostrich feathers, belting them out with a voice that belies her size. She's a bit like a bumble bee in that respect. Physically speaking, she shouldn't be able to sing like that, but by some miracle, out comes the locomotion like a locomotive!

Mr Kenneth doesn't consider himself an out and out pop junkie, music-wise. No, his Zen Touch (buy one, they're better than iPods) is full of all manner of eclecticism. (Blur to Burt Kaempfurt, Doves to David Holmes) However if something has that indefinable fab-pop quality it gets past the internal review board and makes it into the Kenneth collection. Our Kyles is Primary Colonel In Chief of the Pop Regiment at present. Long may she reign! Colour Sergeant Gwen Stefani assisted by the 411 platoon might step in and help out while she's on sick leave.

There'll be tears on Mr K's pillow though.

April sees Mr Kenneth getting stressed with work and wanting to leave - again. This constant tension is somewhat taking the shine off high points to life like the fact that he's been so privileged as to be granted access to Kylie's Showgirl Tour at Earls Court on Saturday.

He is excited about seeing the queen of pop once again, but the tension is always there in the background. It would help if he just got on and did the frickin work of course, but as usual procrastination rules and instead he writes his blog and composes quizes for his friends.

Such is his silly existence...

Ooh, I am pleased!

Mr Kenneth apologises for his lack of posts. It is inexcusable and he should be shot. That's all he'll say on that subject.

As well as weaving Victoria Wood references into his online persona and the very fabric of this blog - ever wondered what the post titles were all about? No? Well sod you then! - Mr Kenneth has almost been living Victoria Wood these past few months. How gay is that? (Quite gay indeed, no, really)

He meant to blog at the time, but as well as all that palaver with the entry into the BAFTA thing, he has also seen Acorn Antiques, The Musical two times (twice, that is to say one time and then another time) and somewhere in the last couple of months also stayed in a hotel which he discovered only upon arriving was a conversion of the venue where he first saw the great VW perform live for the very first time. It was Victoria Wood mania, it really was! (The venue was Manchester Free Trade hall in case you're interested, you are? Ooh I am pleased!*) It seems the venue was also famous for being the one Bob Dylan first chose to 'go electric', causing riots or some such kerfuffle. But who cares about that (No, of course you don't and quite right too!) Anyway it's now a Radisson Edwardian and a reasonable job they've made of the conversion if you call keeping the facade and ramming a tower block up through the roof 'reasonable'. Mr Kenneth would link to the hotel, but there isn't a decent photo of the building itself and one luxury hotel bed looks much the same as another in Mr Kenneth's business travelling opinion. The musical in case you are wondering about that is fantastic - a fan's dream, Mr Kenneth could gush if you wanted. (No, he thought not.)

So with a rubber glove keyring, an oversized, overpriced t-shirt with an appropriate catchphrase slogan thereon and stomach muscles extra-toned from all the laffing as souvenirs of his Wood period, Mr Kenneth aims to come up for air after this VW immersion and see what the real world has to offer for a while.

He thinks it'll be a lot better than being dead, at any rate.

*First person usage to be excused in case of quotation from VW material

Bug hutch!

Gaspard Ulliel

This is the photograph which should have been inserted between yesterday's paragraphs, but Mr Kenneth has yet to get used to the bits and doings that surround such insertion activities. (Oh how art mirrors life! - or some such double-entendre-ish expression like that) Yes, this is the boy from the film - and he speaks all in that French language of his, which is just so... belt buckles! Also speaking French in a rather unexpected fashion is Jodie Foster who appears in the film especially so that people can whisper to eachother in the cinema, "Is that Jodie Foster under that hat? I didn't know she could speak French". Yes, Mr Kenneth imagines that Jodie must've popped over for a French Exchange while she was over here filming the original Freaky Friday. He imagines that Jodie retained contact with her host as a pen friend, popping over for Summer visits, taking as gifts, souvenir Statues of Liberty and Hershey Bars, whilst Dominique would've given Jodie fashion and sex tips, both of which Jodie ignored. Aah, happy days...

And now a message for our viewers in the North...

Mr Kenneth saw A Very Long Engagement with the MALIL last night and heartily recommends it to all. On the one hand there is war gore for the boys and on the other hand there is righteous romance for the boyz. A beautiful film and no mistaking! (Especially the chap, oh so French! - Y'know, funny looking but with a quality that makes one think of belt buckles hitting the floor)

The Curzon Soho doesn't do Orange Wednesdays though, so beware!... If you're going there on a Wednesday and don't want to spend much money.