Thursday, 14 May 2009

Happy Birthday Darling!

I will not post a photo (not because I want to protect his identity, but because he is so devastatingly gorgeous, sexy and desirable –even at his age! –, that I do fear someone else will snatch him!) but today (actually, yesterday, 13 May, but since I haven’t yet gone to bed, it’s still ‘today’ although it’s technically ‘tomorrow’, got it?!) is (was) my best friend’s birthday.

Due to free radicals, pollution and probably some advanced degree of short-sight – as well as the small impediment of his sexual orientation and preference for men -, I will never have his babies (except ‘by IVF from a test tube’, he said! How generous! Thanks, darling! Thanks for being selfish and keeping all those wonderful genes to yourself and not giving the world the chance to benefit from the product of our combined genes, which would obviously produce nothing but gorgeous prodigies, cute little geniuses who can save humanity, the planet, the Universe – because they will know, a priori, that the answer is 42. And mice.). However, that will not prevent me from loving him eternally (and secretly plotting to get him drunk enough one night and rape him. If that doesn’t work, I have Plan B, where I flatten out my breasts, grow hairs on my legs and pretend to be a 19 year old male virgin).

Anyway, I had been preparing to celebrate his birthday since… his last birthday, really, only to find out today that he had decided to cancel it altogether and pretend it wasn’t happening at all. Like that was going to happen! I quickly ran a search for last minute entertainment inspiration in Bucharest on a Wednesday evening. I luckily found the most appropriate option: a musical. And not just any musical, but an ambitious project of the Bucharest Operetta House: Broadway Bucharest.


Now don’t get me wrong. I said the project was ambitious. Not that its ambition was attained. Yes, for an expat or a tourist in Bucharest, it would be a good alternative to lingering in an Irish pub on a rainy Wednesday evening. And if it weren’t for the lack of dance synchronization, the appalling English accents of the cast, the poor sound quality or the lack of voice of some of the artists (or maybe their microphones had been cut off to spare our ears of the even more terrible effect of their singing… Who knows?), the selection of scenes from famous Broadway shows (Cats, Evita, Phantom of the Opera, Cabaret, West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, etc.) would have been extremely entertaining and well chosen. However, if you managed to ignore the orchestra conductor’s erratic and unnecessarily ample arm movements and focus on the actual stage, the costumes were probably the best part of the show. Except the well chosen and exceedingly beautiful costumes, the main merit of the production is the fact that no translation was attempted and the whole show was in English. Well… Sort of… I’m pretty sure the guy who sang ‘Maria’ from West Side Story sang the word ‘fart’ instead of ‘found’.

As in:

‘I've just kissed a girl named Maria,
And suddenly I fart, 
How wonderful a sound
Can be!’

And I actually thought he was the best-looking guy on the stage tonight, too. But somehow, after this song, I had this picture in my mind of him farting while kissing, and therefore abstained from running down the hallways of the Operetta theatre, hungry for an autograph and – God forbid! – a kiss. I therefore retreated with birthday-boy to the restaurant next door where we continued our never-ending conversation about Life, the Universe and Everything (although we both know – and our prodigy children would too – that the answer to all that is actually 42. And Mice.)

My darling, I hope tonight eased your passage into the 45th year of your life. May it be better than your 44th, may you read many more books than in your 44th year (and may you give them all to me afterwards!), may you finally open your eyes and see me for the incredibly sexy human being I really am (regardless of the fact that I don’t have hairy legs or a penis!) and offer me your babies, may you finally accomplish your dream of moving back to Africa (and maybe take me with you to fan you with a huge leaf on the beach while a cute black boy is lovingly rubbing your aching joints and muscles), may you always remain the wonderful person you are and may you love me forever, as I will you.

Happy birthday my darling!


  1. Birthday Boy here! Did I say "boy"? I meant "man" Birthday...Man. Old man. Yes, Old Man. Birthday Old Man here. Ok, that's that established and agreed. I'm old, get over it! I am talking to myself at this point. In fact lately I have been talking to myself quite a lot. At least it guarantees a sensible, coherent and lucid response. Sometimes. Well, not very often, truth be told. But we do chat often (me and me) and keep us (me and me) sane...or not.

    Anyway, strangely (or perhaps not strangely at all for an old person such as I now appear to have been re-hatched as over night), I have never employed the services of a Blog before. I have never "blogged". Not once, ever. Until now. Am I in fact blogging now? Don’t really understand all this techno stuff. Why should I? I am old!

    Andreea, Sweetpea, I read your missive with increasing interest, concern and ultimate bafflement. I feel the urgent need to reply (nay, to “blog” with you) and attempt to offer enhancement, illumination and/or clarification on certain salient points contained within said missive.

    First and foremost (of course) revolves around your already sufficiently hairy legs. Stop putting yourself down. You have lovely legs and I have never hinted to the contrary. The fact that you shave them is entirely a matter between yourself and your barber and warrants no further discussion – except to add that if you go to such scrupulous lengths to rid your legs of unseemly fluff surely it is merely only a hop and a skip up to your belly button, which I noticed last night over our candlelit post-show supper has become rather hirsute. I have to “Hoover” my own every morning; you may want to try it? Having said that, I think it’s kinda cute so let it grow, dear. Arab men love all that, you know.

    You are laboring under a false belief that I may be snatched up by another. Calm yourself, petal: I am all yours and always have been. The only threat you need ever fear is that of a cute young African boy (with hairy legs) happening along and sweeping me off my feet. Not much chance of that in Bucharest! Or anywhere else for that matter! But I live in hope!

    You do pose an interesting question (or, more accurately, a scientific experiment) when addressing the projected image and mental capacity of our offspring were we to copulate (with or without the aid of a turkey baster). Beyond doubt, he would be handsome. An Adonis for sure. Equally for sure is the forgone conclusion that he would indeed be a “he”. Neither of us would want a daughter to follow in our footsteps, now would we? Of course not. No, it would definitely be a boy. Or maybe a hamster. I have never possessed a hamster and rather fancy myself as a good parent to such a rodent. Conversely, I have never sired a giraffe. Maybe we could adopt? We would probably need to move house though at some point as giraffes, I am told, tend toward excessive tallness in their teens. But what child is ever perfect? We would need to prepare for many sleepless nights and years of anguish (as he struggles with puberty, experiments with drugs, plays loud and offensive music, mixes with undesirables, smelly hoofs etc) – except if it were a hamster, of course, given their lifespan of less than three years. In fact, life span is an issue, no? We would want the product of our loins (albeit via a syringe) to care for us in our latter years (mine of which having clearly already commenced with gusto). We would want a kid (a baby goat, perhaps?) that would be around to survive us long after we have departed (and my departure will be far sooner than yours given my advancement in years and already elderly status). I suggest therefore we drop the hamster (in fact throw the hamster out the window) and the giraffe and opt for a tortoise. Tortoises live for over 600 years and only eat a leaf of lettuce every decade. Sorted! Longevity, cost effective and very, very quiet. The perfect product of our combined genes, love and mating. And every tortoise is born knowing the answer is 42.

    The show last night, Broadway Bucharest, was fun. The whole evening was fun and I thank you again from the depths of my more than ample bosom for taking me under your own more than ample bosom and forcing me to enjoy the oblique passage of another year and the welcoming of yet one more. Thank you! I think maybe I enjoyed it more than you for various reasons (the show not the year). Most prominent being my love and appreciation of all the songs they rendered. I am a lover of musicals (of course I love musicals! I am gay!) whereas by your own admission you are quite the opposite and, frankly, hate musicals! You were therefore very brave to sit through the entire performance without walking out (especially after the “fart” fauxpas) and that is a display of your selflessness. I thank you truly for that too. However, it is incumbent upon me to continue your education. I have all the DVD’s and insist that next weekend we watch them all back-to-back until you also become gay and enjoy musicals. West Side Story, Phantom of the Opera, Chicago, The King and I, Moulin Rouge, Cabaret, Rambo, etc. NB. Our tortoise will be introduced to musicals from birth and will grow up (a process that takes almost two centuries) surrounded by love, lettuce and La Cage Aux Folles.

    Finally, I wish to address your opening observation. That concerning my devastating gorgeousness, sexy desirableness…and then you stop!!! Is that it?! What about my outstanding intellect, my erudite turn of phrase, my physique that any other man would donate ALL his vital organs to replicate, my abundant generosity, philanthropic tendencies, my unerring attention to detail, my love of mankind and generally affable tolerance of humans, my pure humbleness and, above all else, painful modesty?? I thought you loved me! But clearly not! You couldn’t even bring yourself to publish my visage! You think I am hideous! No body loves me . Fine! I am packing my trunk and leaving. I am taking the napkins and all the wallpaper - its mine and you never liked it. I am also exercising my rights as the expunged party to take the tortoise, Freda. And yes HIS name IS Freda. I decided. You can keep the cutlery and all the contents of the fridge. You are also welcome to all the books and DVD’s (except the musicals which Freda and I will need to refer to regularly on our travels).

    Who knows where we will end up, both of me and Freda. But we will be fine and may end up running a small beach bar in Togo. Or Plymouth. One thing is for sure though, dear heart, courtesy of your posting I can now add to my CV the addendum of “accomplished blogger”!

    Love you lots and when’s the wedding?

    Anonymous and Photoless Old Man.

  2. Dear Birthday Old Man, you just had to twist that knife a little harder, didn't you? Not only are you taking Freda and deserting me, but you also plot against me with my mother and start pestering me with the marriage question. Well... the answer to that (as well as to life, the Universe and everything) is... not 42, but 'whenever you'll have me'.
    Yours Truly.

  3. Mother of an ageing mescalin drinker14 May 2009 at 12:38

    Hang on in there, approaching-elderly birthday "boy" from yesterday...I'm despatching three tortoises in white coats immediately. They should be with you by 2093, fully equipped with breathing apparatus, incontinence pads, hearing aids and one of those dinky little things that raises you on and off the loo...I think it is called a hoist or winch or something. And, as well as their own accountrements above, they will be bringing some elderly aids for you, too! Well, both of you, and for Andreea as well as she could be in dire need by then. Sounds like you had a wondrous is truly amazing what a pint or two of mescalin can achieve, eh, what, chin chin and up the hatch?! And, have you noticed how handsome, sexy and gorgeous it renders everyone sitting opposite you? These days, of course, I take it intravenously, sitting propped up in front of a mirror...well, it works for me! Are you sure you never had a hamster? Perhaps it was just a gerbil, adopted for the Easter holidays, but no matter, it made a tasty snack for Hannibal who for ever after sneered and cavilled over his Whiskas. And, speaking of whiskers, they tend to go with hairy legs so do be careful when exchanging farting kisses, both of you...well, all three of you, in fact. Well, as I was once referred to as The Wife of a Noxious, Hairy and Spitting Camel, it seems only appropriate that I now look forward to years of knitting scarves, fluffy bootees and woolly hats as Grandmother to a Gangly Giraffe...they are so much easier to buy presents for than tortoises I have always found. Fredas of all sizes, shapes and sexes seem to prefer the unencumbered life, jettisoning jumpers and jodhpurs much as Andreea joyfully casts off her tops after the first mint julep or two. But I could still buy him - the selected Freda - his own little wheelie travel bag, I suppose, just in case there is a dearth of lettuce in Africa. Not quite the same as a neat little knitted ensemble though, is it? Well, dear children, after such a riotous and meaningful night of unabashed revelry and high-spirited frolics, I hope you are drinking gallons of water and eating plenty of protein, fat and carbohydrate...well, a pizza meatfest with extra cheese and sausage, in fact...the best way of avoiding that rather unbecoming prune-look the morning after the night before. Then you will be fit to glue the wallpaper back on the wall or wherever it was to begin with, face the rest of the day, and GET BACK TO WORK!! Love you lots xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  4. Dear rodent/tortoise/giraffe potential grandmother, I do thank you profusely for your wonderful (althought extremely allambicated) addition to my blog. You have proven, once more, that you are indeed the genetic source of all the talents your ageing son posseses, especially in his literary endeavours. Which only represents one more argument (if yet another one were needed, indeed) for our genetic combination and creation of a uber-child. (Sort of a 'Captain Planet' character, really... From all our genes combined, GO PLANET!!!!' Well... maybe that was just my derranged childhood cartoon fantasies talking... as, of course, our uber-child would come into this world in the shape of a hamster, tortoise or giraffe, as we've already established. But I still see no reason why it wouldn't be able to fly. Or wh yit wouldn't be able to do anything at all that he wanted. That's it! Our child will be telekinetic!!! Oh shit! All this talk of children reminds me I quite forgot to 'protect' my eggs during my last intercourse session. What if I'm already pregnant with some animal - other than hamster, tortoise or giraffe?)

  5. Mother of the Ageing Armadillp14 May 2009 at 17:18

    Oh what fun these blogs are! And to think for years I had thought A Blog was an obnoxious and portly biker called Tim. Wonder what happened to him, Son-of-Advancing-Years? Hopefully, he has been made into a pie. Well, the day is progressing, along with the years, and I wonder if one or either or both or all three of you have sobered up yet? That's the trouble with a mid-week have to face the next few days afterwards. Best to have it on a Friday...go on, take a look at the calendar for next month...and keep partying for the whole weekend! Now, as well as pondering the meaning of my double life and coming up with 84, I have decided that you should make full provision for Andreea or Blogfoca or whatever her alias is for the purposes of these Tim good just leaving her the cutlery. The decent thing to do is buy her a set of saucepans, a sandwich board, a Man United shirt, six coasters with pictures on them of Graham Norton in his best psychedelic liberty bodice - he was starring in La Cage until recently, by the way, - a candyfloss making machine, an electric razor with built-in radio and coffee machine, a facial to two at Madame Tussaud's, and..................a cuddly toy, before you tuck Freda under your arm, climb into your balloon and seek your fortune - again - on the dark side of the moon. Or, if you have you read His Dark Materials trilogy, you could adapt her as your daemon and take her with you? Freda, being male, could then play his part as her daemon. Seeeeeeeeeee, easy! Compare the QED!

  6. Hmmm, I'm not quite sure what allambicated is but I hope it something nice...I am fond of lamb, of course, whether on my plate or frolicking around in the fields or nodding in the back of my car so I think that will be a very warm and cuddly addition to the daemonfest. I think anything with four legs and, preferably with wings and furry feathers, would be acceptable to Birthdayboyman but not quite sure how he would view anything plain and simple with just ordinary old skin'n'hair'n'two legs and no wings. You'll have to tell him it is a WookieWotWentWong, on account of the triangular egg, and that it is in desperate need of some TLC...or TCP, tuck it in with Tiggalig, Pigpot, Mama and Pumpkinpuss and he'll never question your wisdom. Trust me....I used to work for a doctor! On the other hand, assuming that it is far too late for "the morning after" pill, hahahaha???? perhaps you should jump up and down, sit in a bath of hot gin and drink a potion made of mustard, a variety of eyes, scales, bile ducts and unmentionable parts from newts, toads, bats and snakes, stirred with the tailbone of a hippogriff and a dinosaur's molar. It will do no good whatsoever but it will make you really appreciate McDonald's triple thick strawberry shakes and teach you to be more careful! But, on a serious note....fah....I hope all will be well. Just going to look up allambicated now. It is probably next to umbilicus, discombobulated and alembic in my Dictionary for the Bewildered....Dominic gave it to me for my 12th birthday.

  7. Birthdaychopoldpersongiraffe15 May 2009 at 10:39

    My head hurts!

  8. longsufferingmotherchop15 May 2009 at 12:21

    To lambbirdyhippiryanosophant. Well, if you will drink the juice of the cactus, cavort in dark places, and share your razor with topless women, WHAT do you expect?! All those years of teachng you to knit doileys, make rock cakes, sing hymns and enjoy PG Tips all seem to have been in vain. What will become of you when I am no longer around to dispense wisdom, send you balls of wool, bags of flour, new tea strainers and hymnbooks, hmmm? I don't suppose you thought of that while you frolicked and gambolled all over arable land, did you, you profligate muggleprune. And now, to top it all, you intend fathering a tortypoint- giraffebird, abandon your knitting and fly off in a balloon, ho hum. Anyway, I hope you and the putative mother-to-be have a good day and a jolly weekend. Land of Hope and Glory, Rule Britannia, Jerusalem...and Away in a Manger, tralalalaaa

  9. OH. MY. GOD.
    What have I started here with you two nincampoopiliterating creatures????

    I will only say this: I ADORED His Dark Materials Trilogy and am already looking forward to the second movie in cinemas. Philip Pullman rules!!! I can't wait to see how they created the creatures in The Amber Spyglass rolling around on what I imagine as some sort of coconuts!!!

    I will not attempt any potions, hopping around or any other techniques which seem to be directed against a potential or even imagined pregnancy. Ever. Babies should be planned, but babies happen too. Babies are babies and should be loved, regardless of how they happened. Period.

    And one more thing: there's many more previous posts on this blog. Has either of you bothered reading or commenting on those? No! You were too busy battling in my webspace, of course! And you can look up allambicated all you want, just as much as I can look up 'Armadillp', 'WookieWotWentWong' and 'ambbirdyhippiryanosophant'.

    Oh, and by the way, Blogging Mum, we were really good on his birthday! Neither of us got even remotely drunk (which is extremely strange if I think of it now!). So no hangover. Which only meant we continued drinking ever since, of course.

    Which reminds me... I'm due in O'Hara soon. Gotta ruch! Taa!!

  10. MummyFootInMouth17 May 2009 at 12:42

    Oooops, Petal Friend of Birthday "Boy". I think I might have inadvertently indicated that abortion is a good thing, especially as a contraceptive measure. That is not at all what I meant at all, as it doesn't fit in with my way of thinking either, and I KNOW that you would never, ever, contemplate such a thing, if and when you find yourself in an eggbound condition, and that you would always love and protect all life, human or otherwise. No, I think I was just entering into the surreal fun and exaggeration of the Birthday BlogBuster, and enjoying myself tremendously as a result. I was also joking about the idea of you and The Birthday Celebrant falling down drunk after a copious intake of cactus we all know that is MY party piece, with or without the benefit of a cactus. I know that you don't drink very much and can party perfectly well without out it. Unlike me - I simply DON'T party! But that is because I have been perfecting the art of curmudgeonality since I was three years old and was taken to see Betram Mills' Three Ringed Circus before going home to my blow out the candles on my birthday cake. A clown tickled my chin, I was sick over his stupid huge shoes and continued to vomit until I was four! I have hated circuses, clowns, puppets and parties ever since. Oh yes, and weddings!! Anyway, I hope I have cleared up any misunderstandings and that I haven't given offence where baby eggs or booze are concerned but think I should probably curtail my enthusiasm for all this blogging stuff and return to pursuits that I understand and are more appropriate to my advanced years...and I am now off to take my goatskin leggings, buskins and jerkins down to the stream and give them a good bashing on the rocks before coming home to grind some new season's grain for my barley cakes. After that I need to take the dinkydino for a walk. He's been a bit off colour since he pecked a lump out of Richard Attenborough's leg. Nice man but he is getting a bit too chewy these days. Hope you have had an interesting and energetic weekend and that the coming Monday morning begins on a bright, productive and happy note. Over and out, Party Girl, have a good week and give my love to Birthday Boy, even though he is well into his 45th year now and looking forward - or, as he always says, NOT looking forward - to the next celebration. xxx

  11. Dearest MotherOfBirthdayBoyToWhomYouGaveBirthOnHisBirthdayThusCausingHimToBeBornThatDayWhichIsHisBirthdaySinceYouGaveBirthToHimAndHeWasBorn,

    Abortion and 'for and against' conversations aren't necessarily things to be discussed here. This space is mostly for fun, and you were right to use it that way. Please don't stop.

    Plus, my own feelings and beliefs have been put to the test so many times on so many subjects, it is extremely hard to even pretend I am such a single-minded, strong person, who will not stray from the right path. Bullshit. Who knows what I would do or would have done if I found out I was pregnant, or if I had been pregnant when I was 16, for instance? (Well, technically, that would have been extremely unlikely, as I was still a virgin at that age and continued to be so for a couple more years afterwards...).

    As for drinking... well, it's no secret BirthdayBoy and I do occasionally try very hard to make both our kidneys and liver show us their true limits, and we would never try to pretend otherwise. That is exactly why, as a useless but somewhat interesting piece of information, I said that on this particular birthday we did not indulge in our aforesaid vice. I was not trying to put anyone's mind at ease. Quite the contrary. I was pointing out a surprising and disturbing fact. Birthday Boy and I will certinaly have to make ammends.