Boredom And Death Bread

In an interesting role reverse, mrs househusbandnot is working at home today while I am in the office. She has called in approx eight times already this morning with various comments/requests including: "I am cold", "Will you buy some eggs?", "I'm bored" x4, "Should I watch some daytime TV?", and "My remote access won't work". (Welcome - dear wife - to my world.) My suggestions that she turn on the heating, learn the guitar, do some work, go and buy me an XBox, and not to watch daytime TV - since that is the turning point when you should really just give up even pretending to be anything and go out and buy some crack - have fallen on deaf ears. (She just called again while I was writing this post to say she is buying us tickets to Nairobi. She must be bored.)

I am never bored at home on my own. In fact I have not actually been bored for quite a long time. Maybe the odd dull 10 minutes waiting for a train, or waiting for mrs hhn outside the cinema, or watching the last three minutes of the previous TV show before the cricket highlights. But not really bored. I've been mad and angry and frustrated and depressed and sad and nuts and hot and cold lately. But not bored for a while now. (I guess this is some sort of testament to mrs hhn, although I can't work it out since she is currently bored at home.)

In mrs hhn-related news, as part of this diet we are on she has managed to procure some of the heaviest, darkest, driest, nastiest bread known to man (or beast or devil). I have no idea where this Death Bread comes from, but is sure as hell fills you up. Just carrying a small loaf of it from the fridge to the chopping board burns 100 calories. Eating one small slice of it requires both stamina and concentration, such is this bread's density and also complete lack of taste. You really have to work at it to finish a slice. (Naturally, one is not allowed to decorate Death Bread with anything like butter or some other ingredient that would make it all seem a bit less like eating a nutty floorboard. Although I don't really think there is much you could add to the Death Bread to make it any more acceptable to palate or jaw or gut. [A laptop dancer maybe?])
(Ohh, mrs hhn just called again. That's twice in 10 minutes. She will be watching Jeremy Kylie before lunchtime.)

Anyway, I am off for the next few days. Will be back to hhning sometime early next week after the bank holiday. In the meantime, don't watch daytime TV, if you know her give mrs hhn a call (she is available for comment on pretty much anything under the sun after two and a half hours at home on her own), wish me a happy birthday for Saturday, and don't go getting too bored.

Incidentally, cats busted at last.

Cut'n'Paste

I like the idea of cutting and pasting hhn posts, as suggested by - I'm assuming `cos he likes playing with words as well as with celebrities - Brandon Flowers aka The Waunch. (Although mrs househusbandnot informed me the other night that she has been making a few anonymous comments to hhn, so I am a bit confused as to who is who out there in comment land at the moment. [What's with all the anonymity people? It's not like anyone apart from us read this thing anyway.{Although I was at a business meeting this morning and someone told me that someone I used to work with, and may try and work with with again one day, sometimes reads hhn, which was alarming.}])

Speaking of cutting and pasting, I have never been convinced by that whole line from David Bowie about him cutting and pasting lines of lyrics for his songs. (And I also really hate those poems on fridges letter magnets. And I get confused with the tracking options on Word. Maybe I should be getting The Brandon to write hhn?)

On other news...oh there isn't any today

Beyond Goats And Their Cheese

Word up on the goat's cheese discussion people. (Incidentally, I've had that Norwegian cheese someone mentioned. It is foul.)

Things - other than goat's cheese - I can't make my mind up about either:

1) scaffolding - safe or just too dangerous?
2) Stevie Wonder - genius or repeater?
3) Simon Cowell - amusing or twat?
4) Hollyoaks - excellent tv or porn?
5) bluetack - saving grace or ugly smelly mess?
6) bees - world savers or stingy nasty pseudo wasps?
7) ipods - great marketing, crap product or crap product, crap product?
8) air conditioning - soooooooo good, but then you have to go outside
9) toffee?
10) celery - healthy crisp or stringy devil's food?
11) hd television - why have one when no-one broadcasts in hd?
12) football - which I guess means I really don't care
13) sleeping?
14) buckets - you'd have thought they would have come up with something else by now, or at least something that was less ugly
15) telescopes - cool stoner tool, or just a gadget for perves?
16) blogging - whatever
17) Madame B - my wife, or The Waunch, or a man, or a genuine stranger?
18) business cards - see 14
19) Easter?
20) birthday presents - I just don't know what I need in my life, and I only have five days to decide....

Thoughts

Thanks for you various thoughts: helpful if I actually wrote bloke sometimes; hhn is dead because Madame B is on holiday; recipes etc.

But I don't have a heck of a lot to contribute at the moment. Busy working on a campaign I may have mentioned a while back. Finished writing mrs househusbandnot's website for her. Been to see Prince. Going to see him again thanks to cool birthday present of ticket from one of my sisters. Having a few people over for my birthday next weekend. Started new diet. Going for a drink with some of mrs hhn's mates this evening. Going to see the in laws for the weekend...it is hardly earth shattering stuff people. Just like anyone else's London summer really, with a bit more sweat and a bit more note taking.

I have thoughts. Thoughts about why the hell would the Government Of Venezuela is sponsoring a Mayor of London poster for half price fares for pensioners. Thoughts about learning to play I Believe In Miracles on the guitar. Thoughts about the diet bread aka death bread that mrs hhn is making me eat on the diet. (And cravings - real cravings - for diet coke which I am not allowed on the diet.) Thoughts on my hair. Thoughts on the Indian food which I am planning on cooking for my birthday party. Thoughts on the various websites I am working on. Thoughts about going to a complete stranger's house last night to interview her son for a possible radio broadcast. Thoughts on whether or not I NEED an Xbox in my life. Thoughts about mrs hhn, and how sweet she looked this morning as she left for work. Thoughts about how cold the swimming pool was this morning. Thoughts on my next column for that American website I write for. Thoughts on my great unwritten novel. Thoughts on my two mates in California, and how cool it would be to be going over their place this evening for a couple of bottles of Zin. Thoughts on that new tv show Heroes (which rocks, although it is being a bit Lost-like leaving you a cliff edge at the end of every episode). Thoughts on getting old thanks to that bad leg thing I had in Portugal. Thoughts on whether or not to do an evening class in something in September. Thoughts on goats cheese (can't make up my mind about it though). Thoughts on global warming and the Government and billionaires and house prices and mosquitoes and other websites and electricity and wolves and cashmere and water and on-line medical assistance and ipods and t-shirts and the weather and dreams and non-dreams and skin and whisky and the pretty woman who got off the bus in front of me just now. But I'm not actually really doing anything much, other than thinking at the moment. And thinking is what most bloggers do too much of, because they have no-one to talk to, other than that special friend in their head who is telling them to re-read Catcher In The Rye and figure out who to stalk next. Which is why it has been pretty quiet here at hhn HQ (not because I am planning on stalking anyone, but because I have just been spinning around in my own head. I think it is a pre-birthday thang, or maybe that white port mrs hhn brought back from Portugal).

Thoughts anyone?

Legless

Shame none of you wanted to run with the TOFU agenda. I'd have thought a number of you were right in that population and would have stuff to say about it.

Anyway, speaking of TOFU, I pulled or strained or ripped some muscles in my thigh when we were in Portugal this weekend, so am sitting on the sofa back at home like a plum trying to summon up the strength to totter around the corner to my doctor for some advice and hopefully some v strong pain killers. This wound has given my another (like I needed any more) insight into what it is going to be like when we are old and take five minutes to get out of a chair and 10 minutes to get down the road. At the moment I have to lever myself onto the floor from sitting on the sofa or a chair or whatever, and then gradually push myself up onto my feet from the floor. All pretty comical if you are watching it I suspect. And pretty fuckin' humiliating if you are doing it, especially in front of our supper healthy/fit/agile hosts in Portugal.

But mrs househusbandnot and I sat next to a woman on the plane on the way home yesterday who said she was in the first stages of MS, so I guess I should not complain too much (although I am a terrible terrible patient/in pain person [I am not going to deny that mrs hhn has been extremely attentive since I first did myself in, but she did skip off to work pretty sharpish today, eager - no doubt - to get away from my plaintive demands and bear roars every time I get a twinge in my leg.].)

Can't think of any games about Madame B while she is away, which will no doubt annoy her when she gets back from her extremely long vacation. That weekend in Portugal was our summer vacation (for various reasons including my lack of planning or listening to mrs hhn trying to plan nice things), so am a bit jealous of a month away from London and work and buses and the underground and limited lunchtime sandwich choices and those guys trying to give you free papers etc. Assume Madame B is currently trying to concentrate on her second trashy novel of the holiday, but really wondering why her partner has been gone shopping for so long, and wishing she was on line to share her concerns about her partner and the bloke with the cheese stall at the market's underage daughter. Or not. I think she may have gone on holiday with her parents, mostly because she didn't give us any details of her holiday. Bit embarrassing still holidaying with your folks at 30 something.

Right, I am going to drag my weary ass off to the doctor to see what he/she can do to stop me walking like Styx after a heavy night at The Leather Anvil.

T.O.F.U.

So......Prince the other night....you know what guys, I'm kinda embarrassed to say this but to be really really honest I think I am genuinely to old/fucked up (TOFU) to do the whole gig thing anymore. I am:

TOFU to deal with the pre-gig excitement
TOFU to accept that I don't have the best seats in the house
TOFU to queue anywhere
TOFU to spend £30 on a tshirt
TOFU to want to spend £30 on a tshirt
TOFU to even pretend that Prince's female dancers would ever be interested in me
TOFU to queue behind Dutch people (of which there where a large number at Prince gig the other night)
TOFU to be bossed around by sad guys with small cocks aka bouncers (they are particularly oppressive and unpleasant at Th O2 Dome - please be warned)
And TOFU to accept from mrs househusbandnot that telling these bouncers that they were being deeply unpleasant was a bad idea.

And (I wish I was making this up people) I was with my brother in law last night having a cigar (old man's smoke) and a glass of scotch (old man's drink) and I was saying "Well to have been up there in the business for almost two decades, he's got to be pretty talented." I was talking about Snoop Dog...what an old git.

I am going to Portugal for the weekend. Will be back in touch early next week.

Madame B games while she is away please btw.

The Prince Fan Formerly Known As hhn

Hello people. It is me again - rather than the missus - back from the brink of not seeing Prince the other night. Much of what mrs househusbandnot reported was true, although she did miss out The Waunch muttering "If I hear another song about cat fish I am going to get on the stage and kill him" during the Dr John set at the Prince gig the other night. (The Waunch will from now on be referred to here on hhn as Brandon because a girl at the gig took a shine to him because she said he looked like Brandon Flowers. [This girl was not necessarily the finest of judges of lookalikeys since she did admit she'd had a couple of Es, but hey you never know, maybe the drugs do work. Although her boyfriend was literally incapable of stringing a sentence together.]) (In related news, mrs hhn has been pestering me ever since she wrote hhn over the weekend for how many comments she had had. I feel the blog bug germinating in mrs hhn.)

So, I am here now, wiser but sadder that the world does not really work as it promises - or I thought it might anyway - and resolved that I was forced to watch Dr John rather than Prince, and fully aware that all the complaining that I have done (and I have reported at least one organisation to the ASA today I promise you) will come to nothing because it is all one big fucking stitch up out there, and all they want is your money rather than for you to enjoy what you wanted to enjoy.

The consolation - and therefore ironic thanks to Prince - is that I was reminded what fine company The Waunch...sorry Brandon is. There was not one cross word at me for the entire seven or eight hours of not seeing Prince that I forced him through. Indeed (but for the complete disappointment of not seeing Prince in a tiny venue) it was a great evening with a good friend. I count our river boat journey down to the O2 Arena on a completely empty boat as one of the more enjoyable of my London experiences. And the brief discussion we had about our lives as the sun came up on the boat back as similarly important and honest.

And thanks too to Mr No Show for reminding me what a perfect wife I have, who nursed me back from my despondency through Saturday with sausage bagels, and hearty laughs at my comments about "fucking Dr boogaloo John". Without her I would still be angry, rather than just this current contemplative.

And final thanks to that purple c*&t for making me realise that I am perhaps a little too old to be racing around in the middle of the night to gigs that don't happen. I feel older but wiser (if still a little sadder at the state of all things). And older's gotta be good on a week before your birthday.

(Having said all this, I am actually going to the main Prince gig tomorrow night. If you hear he's been Jarvis Cockered on stage, you will know who to blame.)

We live and learn. P.E.A.C.E. hhn

mrs hhn posts at last

In sad news, mrs hhn (me) has been forced to post in place of hhn. hhn is in shock and mourning as his late-night-super-exclusive-Prince-after-show-jam-gig at the O2 last night did not happen. hhn spent most of yesterday in excited mood - he and the waunch braved the boat to east london arriving promptly for the midnight gig. hhn and the waunch waited and waited (hhn was kind enough to text me every hour or so just in case I was trying to sleep) and eventually at 4.30am they took the decision that his purpleness was unlikely to show. (This was after 2 hours of Dr John - personally, I like to think I'd have caved earlier).

They returned on said boat and sat on the embankment 'chatting' until eventually the music obsessed pair went their separate ways. hhn returned to our home at 7am, clumped up the stairs, flung open the bedroom door, and, black as thunder, declared 'He didn't blo*dy play...can you believe it mrs hhn...he was a no-show'. I could believe it, of course, so after patting him sympathetically on his slightly chilled and early-morning damp shoulder I left my beloved hhn to sleep off his distress whilst making him sausage sandwiches and a banana smoothie.

So...hhn recovers slowly, hopefully in time for a blog on Monday. But, all 6 readers that he tells me he has, things are bad. At times like this hhn needs your support. He is so upset that he cannot decide whether it was worse that he-who-shall-not-be-named did not play, that Dr John did play, that the waunch had predicted this n0-show, or that a woman was man-handled out of the gig because she was having a fag in the loos (hhn's sense of fairness and justice has clearly not been affected).

In the meantime, if anyone has a spare husband who isn't depressed because of a pop star or asleep because an all-nighter is tough when you're over 40 do send him my way...

Blokewhosquestions

Responding - as I occasionally do to a challenge as long as it does not involve snakes or fancy dress or my mother in law - thanks to blokewhosubmittedthoughtsonwhatishouldtalkabouttoday, and:

Prince vs. Michael Jackson
I love the story about Quincy Jones getting really frustrated with Jackson's lack of output a decade ago, and organising a meeting between Jackson and Prince, and they all got to the restaurant and Prince and Jackson stared at each other for an hour without saying anything and then Prince stood up and said "I'm done here". One of them went on to be the greatest live entertainer of all time. One of them wrote Waterfalls and Sometimes It Snows In April and I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man and Strange Relationship. The other one didn't. Who's bad?

Bowie vs Reed
Despite recent ventures back into trying to 'get' Velvet Underground, I've never gotten Lou Reed. (And I've always been a bit confused about the whole Lou/David/Iggy/Eno/Berlin thing. Who was high, and who saved who, and who was sufficiently un-horsed out to turn on the reel to reel?) I'd go Bowie because I have a full dance routine to Ashes To Ashes, although mrs househusbandnot met him once and apparently he really smells - something to do with refusing to wear animal-based clothes and his rubber shoes or something. [I saw Eno give a very funny talk about Bowie's wedding in Venice a while back. I know. I know...but in the end of the day Eno seems to have much more of a sense of humour than the rest of them. And Here Come The Warm Jets is my favourite album of all time remember.] I don't ever want to hear Perfect Day ever again btw, and I don't like New York.) And I don't really get Iggy Pop. The Idiot is crap, and the guy from Red Hot Chilli Peppers is better looking. And Lou Reed has annoying curly hair. Although blokewho could play him in a movie.

London Pride vs Adnams Broadside
London Pride (I know approx fuck all about bitter).

Updike vs Irving
I am embarrassed to say I have only ever read Irving, and that was approx 20 years ago. The Waunch collects Updike first editions, putting pillows by the letter box on the day they are due to arrive. I guess I should give him a try, but I have a bit of a block about series of novels, and..well isn't it all a bit American? I've read Capote and The Warhol Diaries. (Enter stage right The Waunch with long tirade re Updike as God...)

Kidman vs Bacall
I used to quite fancy Kidman in that movie when she is a weather girl. (Oi Oi Styx and fancying weather girls reminder.) Bacall I read an interview with last week saying she was bored of men because none of them were Bogey. I'd like to get high with Kidman so she could tell us the real deal about Hollywood and her ex husband(s) and being tall and stuff. Bacall I imagine would be a bit dull and want to eat too late or too early, and probably has a lap dog. I imagine Kidman would give better )(*& and conversation, and would be less high maintenance. Although I have never heard of her current husband.

BDSM vs Watersports
It would be BDSM. Watersports always implies that later one of the rowdier in the group will want to shit on you, or get you to shit on them. And I don't do that s**t.

Sauvignon Blanc vs Chenin Blanc
I'm not a monster white wine drinker, although have - arm twisted - over the years managed to pack a few thousand cases under my belt. I'm also on a weird German grape thing at the moment with white wine. It fits in with my Alpine holidays and learning to play the tuba.

'70's Leeds Utd vs 00's Leeds Utd
Pass. (Assume all 22 of them were/are hairy and common.)

Sculling vs Punting
Having been out rowing with Bad last week and in the process discovering that I am the worst rower in the world, I am tempted by punting. But punting is just for OxBridge poofs, no?

Smoked Salmon vs Smoked Trout
Great question blokewho. Smoked Trout every time. Smoked salmon - like champagne - is invariably warm, over-priced, under-tasty, and under prepared. Smoked trout with some dry toast and horseradish and a pint of London Pride? Heaven.

Black Tea vs Green Tea
Is Black Tea just normal tea? I like Green Tea. we have a tin of it sitting next to the container that contains our black tea which is a cookie jar in the shape of a wolf, and when you lift the lid it/he/she howls at you. You did ask.

Acupuncture vs Massage
Acupuncture rocks. Massage sucks. At a different time in my life, when I was stuck on the floor with a slipped disk and basically alternating between pain killers and scotch and then back to thinking I was going to die, someone suggested acupuncture, and that - along with going to see a faith healer in Streatham - made me realise I had the capacity to actually move back off the floor and up back into the real world. I think everyone should have acupuncture just to be amazed at how it works. Massage is just a bit too Oi Oi and personal and quasi-sexual/non-sexual. I hate it. I have had approx three massages in my life. None of them made me the man I am today.

Palm-reading vs Tarot
Gypssssy....

Silver vs Gold
Silver. No, gold. No, silver. No, gold. No fuckin' idea, although I have a gold and white gold wedding ring, and Prince wrote an album called Gold one time (in band camp). I'm now distracted by those losers who spray paint themselves gold or sliver and go and stand on the South Bank and want us to give them money for standing still. And there is that whole Goldfinger thang with that bird being sprayed with gold and dying on the hotel bed. Gold. No, silver. No, Gold...

Mondrian vs Miro
I think they are both pretty crap - too much yellow, and hanging out with potters, and wishing they could grow a decent beard. Pushed, I'd go with Mondrian.

Rhododendron vs Camellia
Camellia (I think).

Norfolk vs Suffolk
Difficult. I love both. Norfolk has that great coast, whereas the Suffolk coast is a bit muddy and wet and undecided. But Suffolk is a little less gentile and rough around the edges. But Suffolk is a bit too far away from anywhere, with related crap train services. And/but Norfolk reminds me of university days, which is sometimes nice and sometimes not so nice. Suffolk.

Lobster vs Crayfish
I think crayfish are a waste of time. Too little meat for all the hassle of getting it onto your fork. But I prefer crab to lobster.

Floorboard vs Carpet
Floorboards every time. Carpets are too encompassing and neat and expectant.

Muslin vs Shutters
Shutters. (Does muslin still exist anywhere other than in porn movies?)

Built-in vs Stand-free
Built-in. With stand-free you never know if it is going to fall over or scratch the floorboards. And you can never get it exactly central in the alcove or whatever.

Jack vs Meg
Meg. She reminds me of mrs househusbandnot.

Lithium vs Ketamine
I've never had either of them, although not for any particular good reason. At other times in my life I'm sure I would have partaken had the opportunity been there. But I do find all new drugs quite odd. Why would you take something that is designed to tranquilise a horse?

Roll-ups vs Ready-mades
Neither any more (sadly). In related news, the smoking ban has created a weird vibe (in London anyway). I have visions of all smokers getting together and arming themselves and killing the non smokers.

Persil vs Ariel
Apparently Persil is very difficult to pronounce in Hindi.

Soap-cakes vs Liquid soap
I have a bit of a thing about soap-cakes. I think they are going to crumble in my hands or get into my food or fall apart in the box. So liquid soap, although as I pour it into the little holder in the machine I always worry that it is going to drain away before the wash starts.

Tea towel vs Drying-up cloth
Tea towel, because it sounds so nuts when you think about it for more than a second, which I never have before until just now.

Toilet vs Lavatory
Which is the posh one? I never know. And never know what to ask for in a shop or cafe or wherever. Your bathrooms? Washrooms? The Facilities?

Hooker vs Whore
I think I'd rather be a hooker than a whore. It sounds better, more in control and less manipulative or manipulated. And "I was with a hooker last night" sounds better than "I was with a whore" too. (Although hooking is not such a great word.)

Bookmaker vs Turf Accountant
ubet.com

Length vs Girth
Not going to get involved in this one. I will leave it to Madame B and blokewhoishunglikeahorse to fight it out.

Cut vs Uncut
Uncut I think. Although I have a scar the length of my torso that I got from cycling over a barbed wire fence when I was seven. I was wearing a Speedy Gonzales tshirt at the time that the doctor had to cut away from the wound. Everyone should have a decent scar, not least of all so they can be identified when their body is dragged out of the river after the night with the hooker and the crayfish meal that went so horribly, horribly wrong...

Your Patience...

...will one day be rewarded dear readers. Like JK Rowling, I will not let the Hollywood jackals turn hhn The Movie into some American version of the original. I will demand that it be called hhn The Film, and will ensure that each and every one of you is portrayed by a Brit actor. ( Although did Madame B once mention she was French or a New Zealander? Maybe I am making it up in an attempt to make her more exotic.) And Prince will play at the opening night, and you will all get front row seats. And the goodie bag will include play figures of each and every six of you. And you will get stalkers. And be invited onto Celebrity Big Brother and Castaway and that show where you have to learn to dance. And Callum Best will want to &^%$ you. And one of you will do a cook book. And another one could become Patron of The Badger Trust. And another one get God, very publicly. And another go into rehab, equally publicly. And quite a few of you could be the face for those billboard campaigns for anti-balding remedies. And there could be rumours about one of you and Courtenay Love [sp? Can't be arsed to Google her.] And Madame B's gardening partner could sell his story to The News Of The World (for 14 euros). And Styx would finally be able to look Bob Geldof in the eye on equal celeb terms. And The Waunch could finally become the attention of star fuckers rather than the current other way around. And Gervais would regret not having been nicer to Madame B last week. And Bid would pretend that he has been reading hhn all along and try and sue me for not making a play figure of him. And blokewho would become blokewhois. And, and, and...

Back in the real world, pretty excited about going to see Prince this Friday evening. A wing-walker is some bird in a red catsuit that gets strapped to the top of a biplane. Someone - randomly - sent mrs househusbandnot a tiny olive tree in the post yesterday. I saw a fox in the garden below our flat on Monday evening. mrs hhn and I are going to Portugal next weekend. I learned (well the beginning bit anyway) Yellow Leadbetter on the guitar last night. And mrs hhn made a tortilla on Sunday night that made me fall in love with her all over again. (See why I don't write every day at the moment? Any suggestions for hhn content gratefully received.)