Making Sense Of Your World

Recovering as we all are from that flurry of Smithiesness – And which of you loonies thinks we should give money in our wills to Moz and Marr? Any donations should surely go to Rourke and or Joyce? I am reminded how Moz dismissed Rourke from The Smiths. It came in the form of a note left by Morrissey under the windscreen wiper of his car, saying “Andy, you have left The Smiths. Good luck and goodbye, Morrissey”*. - we should move on back in the real world, rather than remain within the distant memories of our teenage years lying on the bed in our bedrooms thanking God that The Smiths existed.

I am glad to report that mrs househusbandnot is on the mend, as evidenced by the pile of magazines on our kitchen table on my return home last night. Grazia? Yep, good, although it is printed on weird paper. Heat? Yep, always good for a two minute read and a reminder that I have no idea who most of the people they are writing about actually are, other than Callum Best and that Hilton beast. Time Out? Yep, always useful in a thank you God that I don’t have to go to The Jazz Café tonight kind of way. Psychologies Magazine? Er, hang on mrs hhn. Are you trying to tell me something by buying this publication? (which has the strapline of ‘Making Sense Of Your World’ btw) And it is open on an article about whether or not you really know your partner. (I didn’t even dare to read the other well thumbed article on sexual honesty.)

But we got through the evening, with – or without – the expert advice offered by the stuck in the `70s quacks who write for Psychologies Magazine. (‘Talking Bollox About Your World’) And watched last episode of Shameless and that frankly v odd programme about people going to a clinic in Birmingham with their embarrassing medical conditions and complaints.

And are now preparing for a trip to Denmark tomorrow evening. (My sister lives there, not in nice and civilised Copenhagen, which is populated by some of the best looking people in the world, and where one can sit at elegant cafes , sipping good coffee and watching the world go by in a most civilised manner, before heading off to one of a number of great galleries and restaurants. No, my sister lives on the mainland of Jutland, where people marry their cousins, where the next village to my sister is called Dark, where the only industry appears to be pig and mink farming [there is a mink farm near my sister’s place, just left out of Dark], where the people in supermarkets are so unsocialised that they have no sense of personal space and will stand completely and entirely so close to you that you think they want to have sex with you [or your wallet], where the food consists of..yep, you guessed it, pork and what I can only imagine is mink pate, where it is bone-snappingly cold 11 months of the year, where the next door neighbour wears a tshirt with Gays Deserve AIDS on it, where there are only two tv channels the first of which’s broadcast schedule consists of re-runs of a kids’ programme with two rather ropey looking glove puppets [I think they are supposed to be a dog and a bear] hitting each other, where my sister bought a dog last year which was sold as a terrier/Labrador cross but actually turned out to be a wolf/great dane hybrid giant hound that leaps on people and breaks their arms he is so big, and where the definition of entertainment is waiting until Xmas again when you can scare the children with the Xmas tale of the nasty black man who is going to come and steal their toys.) This is going to be mrs hhn’s first visit to Denmark…


* This just in from The Waunch: “Dude, the will thing on hhn was me, by the way. "Johnny Marr and Morrissey in your '"Will. I am. It was Really Nothing"' compared". I dunno, pearls before swine, innit?”