Happy, happy, joy, joy…

That is all.

Mmmmm, spag

This is really good news. I’m a massive fan of pasta in all its forms – bring on the carbs, mmmm – but warmed up, left-over pasta has to be one of the best meals on this not-so-green-anymore-actually earth.

Actually if we’re being finicky about it, it’s my mum’s warmed up, left-over pasta.

They say the way to a badger’s heart is through her stomach (I’m sure someone said it some time… Look, just leave off, OK? They *did*) so for those who’d like to give it a shot, other culinary delights topping my list are:

• Jacket potato (but the skin must be really crispy), don’t mind toppings, but it’s usually beans and cheese, tuna and cheese or if I’m being naughty, bolognaise and cheese.
• Left over pizza (cold, naturally and only Pizza Express or Dominoes will do).
• Anything with goats cheese.
• Fruit n Fibre cereal (I’ve been known to have got though a whole box in two days…) – in fact I’m kinda partial to most cereals, really.
• Mum’s lasagna (with crusty/burnt bits on the top).

And for desert:

• Apple/Rhubarb crumble (custard optional)
• Banoffee stuff
• Strawberry cheesecake
• Haaaaaagen Daaaaaaz (ideally Cookies and Cream, Pralines and Cream or Strawberry)

Gawd, I’m hungry…

Getting to know you…

Boring post stolen from the Wondrous Lady Woo. Feel free to ignore…

1. My uncle once: called my brother stupid. This is my brother who’s the only one in the family to have got a First by the way. What a cock.

2. Never in my life: been stuck for a “never in my life” thing, apart from now.

3. When I was five: I was engaged to Pierre at nursery.

4. High school was: drug fueled, paranoid and full of bullies.

5. I will never forget: what nasty people have done to me. Yes, I hold grudges. It’s one of my worst traits.

6. Once I met: Lady Diana. As regular readers will know.

7. There’s this girl I know: who bugs the crap out of me, but I don’t want to be rude by telling her to feck off…

8. Once, at a bar: I stole another girl’s boyfriend.

9. By noon, I’m usually: full of carrots, celery and curly wurlys.

10. Last night: I had a very nice time, thank you very much…

11. If only I had: enough money to get my hair cut and go shopping.

12. Next time I go to church: I’ll do the usual, “once you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen em all” and “It’s OK, Jesus will forgive us” comments.

13. What worries me most: the end.

14. When I turn my head left I see: my editor Rich, signs that say “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life” and “Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in heels” stuck on to the side of my pooter, pics of Dave Tennant, a wicked postcard of Flick Mites and a view of somewhere in Italy that I liked.

15. When I turn my head right I see: a colour printer with our teams’ phone numbers on them.

16. You know I’m lying when: I smile or giggle. I can’t lie, basically.

17. What I miss most about the Eighties is: Oh god, everything.

18. If I were a character in Shakespeare I’d be: Beatrice or Titania but I’m prolly more like Bottom.

19. By this time next year: I’ll either be a successful deputy editor or be unemployed and living back in Oxford with my mum.

20. A better name for me would be: the one I changed my name to by deed poll anyway.

21. I have a hard time understanding: most things.

22. If I ever go back to school, I’ll: not take so much shit from wankers, and work harder.

23. You know I like you if: I laugh at your jokes.

24. If I ever won an award, the first person I would thank would be: my fans.

25. Take my advice, never: become a journalist!

26. My ideal breakfast is: Fruit n Fibre with flavoured yoghurt, Crunchie Nut Cornflakes, Co Co Pops.

27. A song I love but do not have is: Kelley Rowland, Work

28. If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: look me up!

29. Why won’t people: understand?

30. If you spend a night at my house: you should know that I have quite a grotty looking bath and my toilet groans when flushed.

31. I’d stop my wedding for: nobody. Hopefully I’d be marrying the right person to begin with!

32. The world could do without: too many Z-listers to mention but currently Trinny and Susannah.

33. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: admit past misdemeanors.

34. My favourite blonde(s) is/are: Blondie and Cameron Diaz.

35. Paper clips are more useful than: blue tack, but not more useful than staples.

36. If I do anything well it’s: self deprecation.

37. I can’t help but: bite off that little bit of skin that’s on the side of my nail. Owch!

38. I usually cry: over the X Factor and hate myself for it.

39. My advice to my child/nephew/niece: Don’t listen to advice from those who aren’t in a position to give it.

40. And by the way: if you’ve read all the way down to this bit you’re clearly very bored.

I know it’s wrong but…

…I lurve these t-shirts. Yes, I know they belong on some annoying fuck-wit Fresher, who’s attending the University of Arsehole, and I’m very much aware of how it’s blatantly some kind of late-twenties crisis I’m developing, but I do like a retro T and denim skirt/cardie ensemble at the moment, and these fit right into that.

I especially like the Dangermouse (fond memories of watching the show with my bro) and Batgirl T-shirts (although I do already have a Batgirl t-shirt, which rocks), so if anyone fancies digging (not very) deep into their pockets and donating to my wardrobe (especially as it’s a little sparse now I’ve gone down a peg or two (literally) then I’d be most grateful.

Naomi Rosenberg

So… Advance apologies for this self indulgent, self-pitying wallowing post but I need to get this out. No one reads this blog anyway, so sod it.

My grandma died yesterday. I’m empty. Just one big blank. At the moment I’m feeling like I need to be around people and not wallow, but then when I do, I feel bad that I’m out ‘having a good time’ but also bad that I’m somehow bringing the party vibe down with everyone seemingly tip-toeing around me… It’s a lovely mixture of guilts, I tell thee!

Of course, the usual sensible stuff is running thru my head. She was incredibly old (94), had an amazing life, was very well cared for, and during her last ten days she was in and out of consciousness and on a morphine drip. So while she wasn’t in any pain, that state of limbo can’t have been nice – for us as well as for her. For the last four years, she’s also been on her own and has missed my Grandpa dearly. I don’t think she ever got over her grief and being so frail made her terribly frustrated after being so active.

But then a big part of me feels so utterly shocked and I just want her back. It’s such a mighty blow. Every year for the last ten or years The Family have said “this will be her last Christmas” and I’ve always disagreed as she was so strong. Last week I was still holding out hope that she’d prove everyone wrong but we were already making funeral plans. It’s a Jewish thing.

In fact, went shopping a few months ago and bought this lovely black lace dress. I took it to the counter, and the girl mentioned how pretty it was. “Yes,” I said, “Plus it doubles up as a funeral dress.” She looked at me as if I’d killed a kitten. But being Jewish, (and also having old rellies) you have to be constantly ready for a funeral, as they have to be buried asap. Whenever I buy anything black I always see if I could wear it to a funeral. Maybe I’m just morbid, but I’m sure it’s the fast-burial, Jewish thing. I remember when my grandpa died, I had to go round the shops looking for a black suit. It was the most horrible experience and one I vowed not to repeat again. I promised myself I’d always have something ready just in case.

At the moment I’m doing my best to get my head down and not wallow. But then I think maybe that’s what’s expected. But then I don’t want to be annoying and no fun. A miserable me pisses even *me* off! I’m also trying my hardest to remember things about her and our time together…

I remember sitting on her bed at Rodean, the beautiful house where my brother and I would spend most of our school holidays (or so it felt), looking through her jewelery with her. Usually, before one of their glittering parties, I’d sit there, watching her putting on her make-up and think she was the most glamorous creature I’d ever seen. The wardrobes in her five-bedroom house are still stuffed to the brim with clothes, shoes, fur coats and stoles. So that’s where I get it from… We’d often sneak into the laundry room or pantry, where she’d find us and gently berate us with her sing-song voice: “Little fin-gers!”

She was the ultimate matriarch – a formidable woman whose bark was far worse than her bite! Originally from New York, she wouldn’t take any crap and would tell you with as little cushioning as possible. But she was also extremely warm, nurturing and kind, with a sharp sense of humour and an wonderfully naughty bitchy streak! She was always beautifully dressed, her hair and nails immaculate, her clothes co-ordinated with her stunning jewels. She loved ginger and couldn’t go into Lakeland without buying some gadget for the kitchen she didn’t need. My knowledge of her early years are hazy. I know she graduated with a degree in engineering, and during the war helped design the Whittle Jet. She was hugely artistic, and her sculptures are scattered around the home at Rodean.

One family tradition that still exists today is one that my brother and I started. On the way to Rodean, you drive up a hill, and the village below drops down, slowly out of view. As it does, it bears an uncanny resemblance to Toy Town, and so it would start with my brother and I, leaning up against the back seats, chanting “Toy Town, Toy Town!” as it disappeared from view. Then, as we rounded the corner to Rodean Crescent, my dad would beep the horn “beep biddy beep beep, beep beeeeeep” and that would signal our next chant: “Grandma, Grandpa!” We’d carry on chanting until they came to the front door, where a couple of big hugs and kisses and “haven’t you growns” would await.

When it came to go home, she’d always give my brother and me a bag of Hula Hoops (supermarket own brand) for the journey home whenever we left. We’d sit at the back of the car, stick them on our fingers like rings and nibble them off. My mum isn’t a fan of junk food and so holidays at Rodean were the only time my brother and I had food treats. Being Jewish, we weren’t allowed pork in the house. Of course, at Rodean, it was pork sausages and bacon for breakfast most mornings. The smell of bacon still reminds me of those days…

Parents and miserable teens

Cor blimey guv’nah it’s been an age since my last ‘diary’ entry. It’s rather fitting though, that this electronic version is more or less like the one I kept as a youngun when months would go by in between entries. However, the content has changed dramatically – there’ll be no whinging about Tom from year nine in here, no siree. Well. Not unless the bastard gets back in touch anyway.

I blame Facebook. It’s far too easy to go in and change my “Badger Madge is…” status than it is to witter on about crap, source pics then upload it here. And it’s easier in a way to get personal on Facebook. “Badger Madge is pissed off” is easy to express and doesn’t lend itself to too much info. Coming on here and explaining exactly why ‘m pissed off a) is a tad boring and b) might piss of others! It’s a tricky one, and something I’ve been discussing with the Wondrous Lady Woo – what to put on your blog, and what to keep secret (or stick on FB).

But it’s high time for an entry methinks. Hmmm… But what to write? There hasn’t been anything of particular bile-worthy material in the news or on Daily Mail TV recently. Oh, except for this.

Of course lazy GMTV blamed teenage girls’ magazines. Funny, nowhere in any issue of Bliss, Sugar or Mizz have I seen articles encouraging girls to cut themselves or vom up their brekkie. Quite the opposite in fact. Sure, so most of their models are skinny little cows, but hey, I managed to grow up a chubby teen surrounded by images of waifs (and the occasional stray) in the hundreds of mags I absorbed, and I managed to totally avoid cutting myself and developing an eating disorder. I knew I could talk to my mum any time I wanted and when I couldn’t, the mags were always there to provde me with down-to-earth advice. I hate it when teenage mags are rolled out as the reason for girls’ problems – in my experience, they’ve solved them.

I’ve never once compared my figure or looks to a model or famous person. But now I’m older, thinner (and singler), I do find the odd insecurity creeping in. I’m happier with my figure than I ever have been, but sometimes I find myself naked in front of the mirror, frowning over my pot belly. But I’d never cross that line. I had the support growing up; I had my feet anchored to the ground and knew there was always an ear (or two) ready to listen (and some chicken soup, a jumper and a cuddle) if need be.

Speaking of parents, and sorry to get personal – this was never intended as a proper diary – my mother has conformed to stereotype and is now on am mission to set me up with a ‘nice Jewish boy’ – preferably a doctor or a lawyer. At lunch the other day, her and the Lady Rachel bonded over a) telling me off for eating too much bread (it was NICE bread, OK?) and b) going gooey over matchmaking. “Do you have any nice, rich single friends for Madge?” Mum asked Lady R, ignoring all pretence and sounding like a reverse (or should that be perverse?) pimp. They decided I was to go clay pigeon shooting with Lady R in a few weekends – and maybe to a polo match next month.

Well, I’m never one to pass on new experiences, and while I most certainly won’t be there desperately looking for a husband, it might be a laugh (the toffs, I mean, and their silly boating shoes and up-turned polo shirts). Of course, the whole experience was even more hilarious when I realised the dress I was wearing was exactly like the dress Julia Roberts wears in Pretty Woman, when they scrub her up to go to the races. Excellent. I am a pimped-out whore.

I understand what Mum’s doing. At 27, her youngest child (her little girl) was more or less sorted. I was living with my long-term boyfriend (marriage and babies on the cards), career was OK (not perfect – but solid). From the outside everything was happy. Reliable. Then suddenly (or to her in any case) it all goes tits up. So naturally she’s doing her best to ‘get me back on track’ and get me sorted. But can’t I just enjoy the free time I have? I argued the fact that I’ve yet to meet a rich man I’ve actually got on well with. I find most of them are egos on legs, have terrible insecurity complexes (and there’s only room for one of us!) or are just terrible bores.

But hey ho. If nothing else, the shooting and polo will give me something to blog about here at least…

Why I heart my mates no.534

Just emailed the girls with “Yes I know it’s ages away, but I can’t wait. Does anyone want to come and see the Sex and the City film with me at the end of May?”

30 seconds later I had four excited confirmations in my inbox.

Grumpy old BM

Browsing around Facebook the other day, I noticed that my darling Badger Bonj had set his status to: “Ben is a work citag”.

“What’s a ‘citag’?” I messaged him.
“It’s predictive text speak for ‘bitch,’ he replied. “Just taking the piss out of how teenagers are apparently now saying ‘book’ instead of ‘cool’, cos that’s how it comes up at first in a text message.”

I didn’t quite know how to reply at first. Are our teens now so used to this fast-paced society that they actually can’t be arsed to press one button, thus making what they want to say clearer? I was quite speechless. For a bit.

It reminded me of something I’ve been meaning to blog about for… oooooh ages. This whole ‘kids are yobs because of binge drinking’ issue, a subject that seems to be on every GMTV ‘news’ agenda, most front pages and several middle class dinner-table conversations.

When I were a lass (yes, we’re here again), I would go out with my mates more or less every Friday from when I was 13 (yes, 13) til I was 16. Most of the time we’d go to our ‘regular’ (I still can’t believe I had a ‘regular’ pub aged 13), which we went to because we knew they didn’t give a toss about ID-ing, or we’d go on pub crawls around Jericho (I call them pub crawls, they were basically ‘drink as much as you can before we get chucked out’ sessions. Sometimes we’d just sit around playgrounds in the town centre smoking joints and drinking cider or we might go to someone’s house and do that. Point was, I spent a good deal of my young teens very bladdered indeed.

But I didn’t beat anyone up (non of us did), I didn’t kick someone to death, happy slap or string a cat up on to a tree.

I know this might be a bit naive, but I genuinely believe that drinking isn’t the key to the anti-social (to say the least – I think murder is the most anti-social someone can be. Somehow the words anti-social doesn’t quite describe just how bad it is!) behaviour that’s going on at the moment. Alcohol is too easy a subject on which to blame.

Yes, my mother allowed me to go to the pub aged 13. Yes she knew I’d be drinking. Yes she frequently picked me up after a night of K Cider-glugging only to have me throw it all up again in the back of her car. But there was a line. And I knew not to cross it. I would never think of using violence against someone (maybe because I’d seen that first hand growing up), I was scared to skive school in case my mum found out, I was home at the time we’d agreed, she always knew where I’d be and with whom… I knew that if I put the wrong foot out of line, I’d regret it for a long time. I wasn’t a good girl. I got into my fair share of scrapes (getting arrested for shop-lifting wasn’t exactly a highlight) but I knew my boundaries, and violence and psychotic acts were very far beyond.

The other day I was walking into town and approached a man and his young son (aged about eight) coming the other way. As I passed, the Dad let out an incredibly loud and rumbling burp, right in my face. This is what I’m talking about. Yes, my dad taught me most swear words I now know. Aged seven. But I also knew that if ever i repeated them, I’d get such a rollicking (haven’t heard that word in ages!). This man didn’t say “oops, pardon,” or show any remorse or embarrassment. In fact it was as if he’d been holding on to it to let it out at just the right time. Yes, funny when you’re at home and messing about, but not in the wider society.

Hate to judge and pull on my Daily Mail garb once again, but I’d love to see what his child is like in seven years.

Old bag

You may have heard on the news today that M&S are going to start charging customers 5p per bag in their food halls. This will follow a period of time whereby M&S will give their reusable/bag for life/I am not a plastic bag/bangwagon bag away for free. And this is due to happen in April. “Great!” I thought. “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on one of those Twiggy bags for ages!” (Yes, I am an evil person, and more more evilness, read on).

I popped into M&S on the way to work htis morning to pick up one of their great low-fat sandwiches, some apples (and as an aside, may I just express that I’m utterly appalled that a bag of Pink Ladies cost £3) and this month’s Elle. But there werne’t any bags at the self-serve check out. “Scuse me,” says I to the till bloke on the next till. “D’you have any bags at all?”
“5p m’ducky,” he said.
“Er… I thought that wans’t happening til April…”
“Ooooh, it’s been on the news aaaall mooooorning,” said one arse-kissing, trout-faced bitch customer. “But you’ve bin doin’ it fer munfs aven’t you luvs?!”
“Oh piss off, you trout,” I thought. “But it said on the news,” I whimpered like a little girl who’s had her sweets stolen by the school bully, “that you’d not be doing it til April…”
“Arrr, they must’ve got their faaaacts wrong then, entthey?” said the til man. (Turns out that it’s actually been trialled in the west since February and there was a huge in-store giving away of re-usable bags at the beginning of the year. No one bloody told me!)

I looked around, and the commotion (mainly due to the arse-kissing, trout-faced old bitch) had caused quite a few people to come over to watch the scene. People were giving me looks like I was some kind of planet-hating, sewage-dumping harpie – and can I just dive in here and say that Mr B and I re-use our shopping bags ALL THE TIME and then when they’re really manky, we recycle them. So I returned to paying for my items at the self-serve check out quietly, trying to ignore the tuts and whispers that were burning their hate into the back of my neck.

And what ho – it turns out that the recycling gods were in my favour! Upon scanning my Elle, the machine priced it as £3.10 when it’s actually £3.30 this month. Result! Yes, so it might have asked me to insert the correct price or confirm theirs, but after that public hanging by plastic bag, I thought I was owed a bit of a discount – my public image had, after all, been tarnished. A bit.

So who’s actually the winner here? Me with my cut-price Elle and the contentment of not needing to shout about my recycling of bags? Or the evil corporate M&S and their shouty, bandwagon-jumping, 5p-per-bag-charging, trout-customer-petting, expensive apple-selling?
Yes, I know. It’s them.

Goth rant

Quite a bit of coverage last week on Dani Graves and his girlfriend/pet Tasha Maltby. The couple even appeared on LK Today with Lorraine Kelly today.

All I want to say on the matter of their relationship is that if it suits them then fine. She seems happy with it (in fact if reports are to be believed, she was the instigator) and she seems to lead (’scuse the pun) a happy lifestyle (no housework, breakfast in bed, plenty of naps – bliss).

But it bugs me that people are holding these two up as freaks and they’re willingly going along with it. Their attention-seeking, and agreeing to go on these programmes to be held up and ridiculed is annoying (although they’re clearly doing it for the money). And when they do it under the guise of goth-dom and “we do this because this is our culture” it actually irks me.

‘Real’ goths – not those who casually throw on a Marilyn Manson T-Shirt and listen to The Mission Best Of album – would call these guys spooky kids, for that is what they are. They’re not giving a good impression of the goth sub-culture, especially in a time when Goths are blamed for school shootings, etc. Why are these try-hards and wannabies always the ones who make it into the media spotlight, and not yer normal everyday goth? They really do give goths a bad name and it frustrates me that tyour typical Mail reader *hack, spit* thinks that these spookies are a true representation of what ‘being’ a goth is. Still, I suppose those people who do need such clear catorgarisation of youth subculture will never be able to understand and need the flashing arrows (ie the dog collars) and the annoying sirens (ie the talking about your ’strange’ sexual doings and wanting to kill yourself).

PS: Graves… what an excellent surname for a goth.