Keep It Under Your Hat

You know what really winds me up? Course you don't, haven't told you yet, but I'm gonna, ohhh I'm gonna, I'll tell you alright, don't you worry bout that, you ready? Okay, here goes…

Right, so last December I'm out doing a bit of Christmas shopping, I'm wandering through the town centre, minding my own business – generally browsing up a storm – when all of a sudden this greasy little guy breaks away from a passing group of teens, stops dead in his tracks, points straight at me and shouts, "Ha! Check out Pete Doherty, man!" Now he had caught me slightly off guard to be honest, so I just sort of stood there for a minute staring blankly back at him as he triumphantly lapped up the weasely cackles coming from his band of cronies, before eventually slipping back in amongst them and shuffling off into the distance.

I genuinely didn't know what to make of it at first. Pete Doherty? What was that supposed to mean? He had definitely been pointing at me. Was it because we're both pale? Cos it's true, I am kinda pasty – always have been – but then, it was winter and nobody's exactly a bronzed god around that time of year, so I wasn't having that. Could be a sweat thing. There's no denying it, Pete's a pretty sweaty guy and while I like to think that I'm not normally, I was Christmas shopping and that's tough y'know, there's usually quite a lot riding on your decisions – especially when you're buying for women, because you're essentially out of your element. What might explain it then, is the fact that just previous to this incident occurring, I had been in this feminine looking shop searching for a feminine gift to give to someone, well, feminine (nah, nah, don't worry, it's nothing like that) and I had my choices narrowed down to either a small, but finely crafted ceramic duck (see?) or a big tub of sorta moisturising-relaxation-goo type stuff which looked like crap but smelt like heaven. Hands up, I'll admit it; I was seriously torn on that one for the first three and a half hours or so (look, I did say I was out my element) therefore it's entirely possible that all the pressure had got to me a little and I was now unknowingly sweating. I took off my hat and checked my brow…nothing, so I was ruling that out too. Then it hit me. My hat. I was wearing a pork pie hat.

So that's it, is it? It's come to this. If I choose to wear a pork pie hat, it has to be because I'm attempting to emulate a self destructive young indie musician with a heroin habit which – depending on your opinion – is either systematically destroying his talent, or else always outweighed it in the first place? It can't just be cos it suits the shit outta me? Y'know, if I'd been in the mood or the shape to chase after that gang – and I hadn't been completely convinced that they would've happy slapped me half to death if by some miracle I'd actually caught them – I might have explained to those giggling gimps that traditionally, the pork pie hat is only really connected with one sort of addiction and basically the clues in the name. That's right, when a person wears a pork pie hat they're, perhaps unwittingly, paying silent tribute to a legacy of rebellion and non-compliance stretching back much further than any recent troubled tabloid star with a guitar. What's more, in an effort to stop people attributing my headwear to some passing fashion fad in future, I'm taking this opportunity to officially document the secret history of the pork pie hat, right here, once and for all, just for the record.

You see, though it didn't actually come into existence until the early twentieth century, the origins of the pork pie hat date back as far as North America's first wave of lobbying for National Prohibition in the nineteenth century. It's a little known fact that, along with the supposed evils of alcohol at the time, pork pies were also being accused of having an almost equally negative influence on society. This was largely because, like alcohol, the consumption of pies during this era was staggeringly high, making these two vices in particular a target for both the Methodist and Baptist churches, who considered the excessive intake of each to be symptomatic of the sin gluttony. It's for this reason that still to this day, when overweight people are being taunted, reference is often made to their fondness for pies. Likewise, most people don't realise that even the famous British football terrace chant 'Who Ate All The Pies?' ironically has its roots on the other side of the Atlantic. The derogatory lyrics are said to be an exact recounting of the mercilessly repetitive cross examination inflicted upon one Robert Pinkerton – a famously stout, petty thief from Massachussets, locally rumoured to be of illegitimate birth – by the prosecutor Franklin Tudor-Grape, as he stood trial for a butcher's shop robbery in 1876.

Anyway, thanks to the Eighteenth Amendment of The Constitution, alcohol was finally banned in the U.S by 1920 and pork pies were to follow suit a year later when it was discovered that some bootleggers were soaking the pies in hooch and allowing customers to suck them dry before eating the evidence. To strengthen their case for widening the ban, the authorities hastily commissioned and released a flawed (and since disproved) scientific study, identifying the pork pie itself as a powerfully addictive opiate. Hence just as the outlawing of booze had lead to the creation of underground drinking clubs, so the clamp down on pies lead to the invention the pork pie hat. First credited to infamous bootlegger and mobster Johnny Toenails in 1923, this new variety of hat allowed people to safely transport illicit pies down to the local Speakeasy without fear of arrest, simply by positioning them under the hat (leading to the popularisation of the expression 'keep it under you're hat.') The genius of this new design was it's low centre of gravity and narrow brim, which meant there was little chance of the wind catching it, blowing it off and exposing your crime, as was known to happen in the early days of those daring enough to attempt to 'snack stack' as it was called, under a top hat for example.

There you go. Now you know how the pork pie hat came about. That's all true that is.

Part II: Seal Of Approval.

Actually to say nothing of note happened in London isn't strictly true. I was going to leave this last bit it out actually, as I consider it a bit of a pointless detail – but then I remembered that in fact everything I've ever written in this blog up to and including now has really just been one big collection of pointless details, so it'd be silly to start messing around with the formula at this late stage. Besides, I kinda need to see this written down, simply for myself, if only to try and help make sense of what I read back. You'll understand when you hear it. Right so, to save money on a hotel the in the centre of the city, we decided to bunk down at a little guest house on the outskirts of town. I'm not kidding, this was quite possibly the weirdest place I've ever spent the night and (thanks largely to my drinking habits) that's a pretty competitive list. For a start from the outside the place was like this quaint little cottage – similar to the ginger bread house in Hansel & Gretel I thought – but somehow it had ended up sandwiched between two really tall blocks of ultra-modern looking flats. It seemed properly bizarre, but I didn't really pay that much attention at the time, as I was still sore from the service station and just wanted to lie down. Anyway, turns out that was nothing because when we got to the little room, the whole thing, walls, ceiling and all, were painted the exact same shade of bright primary blue. The place felt a little like the Red Room from Twin Peaks…except blue. I half expected a smurf to appear during the night and start talking backwards. No, but wait, here's the strangest thing; while I was unpacking I happened to look up and see a professionally taken photo of a white baby seal cub hanging on the left hand wall, I turned round and saw another comparable one situated opposite on the right hand wall. You know the type, something like this…

Fair enough I thought, I suppose some people might find that quite soothing. Then as I was turning back round to continue unloading my suitcase, I caught sight of – on the adjoining wall, in between the two pictures of seal cubs – a massive photo of Seal...you know, the nineties soul singer guy...

What's that about?

Part I: Relax, It's Only The Electric Char

A while back now I was in London for a few days visiting a mate. I know, exciting right? – London! Londinian! The Big Smoke! The Bright Lights! The Nation's Capital! - well no, not really actually. It wasn't that great at all as it goes. I mean, I've been there before and it's alright I guess, but I just never stop being disappointed by the sheer lack of stereotypes in the area. Literally nobody you'll meet ever says, 'What a palaver!' nobody says, 'Ave a banana!' and no-one shouts, 'Cor blimey!' or 'Love-a-duck!' It's all a bit disheartening I find. Plus I don't know what they're using to clean their chimneys down that way nowadays, but it sure as hell ain't chimney sweeps, I can tell you that much. I couldn't find a single one and it wasn't for lack of trying. Don't get me wrong, I'm not slagging it off or anything: it's a very modern, multicultural, thriving place – which is brilliant – I'm just saying that, very early on in life 'Mary Poppins' gave me certain expectations of that town, which the reality has just never quite managed to live up to. Maybe that's the reason why almost every time I visit, I can't help feeling that if London really is calling, it must be talking to somebody else.

Still, I enjoy the drive down at any rate. Or at least I usually do – this particular journey was a bit of a pain, tons of delays and diversions and stuff like that, so I was glad when we eventually pulled in to a service station for a break. Always am. See I kinda like service stations...dunno why really, I'm the only person I know who does. They interest me in an odd sort of a way; everyone in them has somewhere different to be and is typically in an incredible hurry to be there, giving the whole place this sort of mad, frenetic energy which is sometimes fun to just sit back and watch zip around you. Nights are good too because when they're really quiet and near deserted, you can use the poignant alone time to just ponder life, the universe and everything, if you're the philosophical type. I'm not though, so I much prefer to spend the hours after dark gliding around on the slidey floors and playing the Dance Dance Revolution arcade machine until my ankles shatter. Once me and a few other nocturnal travellers recreated the Thriller dance routine step perfect on one of those things…and I mean step perfect, absolutely in sync, not one of us missed a move. It was genius. Nobody saw it, I can't prove it – but the important thing is that me, Martha the cleaning lady, a travelling salesman from Ipswich called Gary and the entire night staff at the Welcome Break branch of The Little Chef will always know what we achieved in those early hours.

On this most recent trip however, I didn't have time to stick around like that and was really only in to quickly pick up supplies. But while waiting in the queue to pay for my items, I spotted an advert for the in-station Electric Massage Chair. I had never seen anything like it before and was quite intrigued. The poster claimed that if you had one pound coin and three minutes to spare, the relaxing chair could leave you as stress free as the man pictured. Now you didn't see this guy, but take it from me, he looked almost illegally chilled out, so – bearing in mind the car ride hadn't been the best thus far – I figured I could do to get me some of that before hitting the road again.

When I finally found the chairs they looked comfortable enough; they were big wide, black leather things with a timer and a slot for money in the arm. Hopping on, I inserted the cash…nothing happened. I had expected it to start vibrating or something right away but I couldn't feel anything so I leaned forward to check the arm for any switch I might have missed. Nope. I slumped back in the seat feeling a bit ripped off…and that's when I felt it. These big metal lumps suddenly jutted out the backrest and cushioned only by a thin plastic cover, thumped mechanically into my spine repeatedly. It was agony! They started in the middle of my back, gradually smashing all the way up, before starting an excruciatingly painful vice-like, pincer motion, crushing my neck. I began to seriously wonder if the chair was trying to relax me or recycle me. Then the wrecking balls were off again, slowly beating back down to and working my kidneys. My kidneys! You can't even do that in boxing! I swear to God, if the inventors ever decide to market that thing to the public, they should call it the Sado-9000 and give it away with complimentary nipple clamps and a ball-gag, cos I promise you, that's the only sort of demographic who would be partial to this experience.

It soon became apparent that this process was going to repeat once a minute for two more minutes. I decided at this point I was gonna have to cry out. I was fine with it, I'm not proud like that. Unfortunately just as I was about to do so, a young mum and her child walked up to watch the chair in action and seemed to be pleased by the spectacle. Obviously I couldn't do it now. The blood curdling scream would have scarred the kid for life, so I put a brave face on for the remaining time. After it had finished and the audience was gone, I just sat there limply for a minute until I saw what looked like a station employee coming, giving me a chance to complain. When I sat up to do so she just winked at me, smiled and said "Another satisfied customer, eh?" before walking on. At first I thought she was taking the piss, it was only afterwards when I caught sight of my own reflection, I discovered that – thanks no doubt to the effects of the chair – my face was now locked in a weird lopsided smile and I was winking completely involuntarily.

Hands-On Advice.

Growing up is a pretty universal experience. It’s something almost all of us will have to go through at some stage. It’s not always the smoothest of rides either, which is why I think it’s natural that some older people who’ve already stumbled the chaotic path to adulthood will occasionally try to offer you advice on your own life, even if they don’t know you that well. I’ve actually noticed myself doing it a bit lately, fighting the urge to distribute words of so-called wisdom to strangers when they’re probably no required and definitely not welcome. On one occasion I saw this teenage guy in the foyer of a cinema and just felt like going straight up to him, grabbing him, spinning him round, looking him dead in the eye and saying, “For the love of god, man, do not get another piercing in your face. You look like you’ve been caught in an explosion at a scrap metal factory as it is.”

But I didn’t. I just bit my lip (which incidentally still stings like a bastard, ever since I had it pierced as a teen and it got infected) and left it. You’ve got to let people make there own choices I think. See, when you’re younger, yes, you get a lot of advice and yes, on the whole it comes from a good place, but the vast majority of which will turn out to be utter bollocks. So it’s all a matter quality control really; sifting through the mountain of tired old platitudes, which anyone can spout but will never help anyone do anything, to find those few genuinely valuable life lessons. For example, I’ll always remember this one afternoon, a good few years back now, when me and an elderly gentleman I knew to see though not by name were simply sitting quietly watching the snooker on TV in a pub. All of a sudden, without taking his eyes from the screen, he said to me,

“Aye. The important thing to remember is son, you can always tell a post-op transsexual by their hands.”

I don’t know why he chose that precise moment to share such a gem, but I suppose by this time he was getting on a bit and like all worthwhile guidance handed down to subsequent generations, it was designed to stop me making the same mistakes he had made. Maybe not. Who knows? I do sometimes wish he’d found the time during those long frames of snooker, to cover couple more of the basics though. More traditional stuff, like…oh I dunno…it may be a good idea to look both ways before crossing the road. I had to find this old chestnut out the hard way.

Initially, lying on the tarmac listening to the panicked high heels of the driver approach, I was all set to blame this accident on the inferior capabilities of women behind the wheel – but that was probably just the concussion talking, because in reality the whole, ‘women make worse drivers’ thing is a bit of a myth I reckon…besides, judging by the hands that helped me up, that particular maxim didn’t technically apply in this case anyway, true or otherwise.

Ahhhrrrr N B

Sometimes the English language seems properly weird to me. Like the evolution of some words, the way they start off meaning one thing and end up meaning something else completely different is just mental. I mean I've spoken and written in this stuff for twenty odd years man and boy, but I swear, how the word 'booty' ever made it's way from the world of seventeenth century piracy on the high seas, only to eventually finish up becoming the staple term for a woman's backside in the massively oversexed, dry-humpathon which passes for R&B music these days, is a total mystery to me. Bizarre. Suppose booty had had the same dual meaning all those hundreds of years ago; it would've just been utterly unworkable.

Say you're a pirate right and you're sitting in a tavern when some grizzly old seadog – you know the sort: bad cough, walking stick, eye patch, parrot, the works – hobbles up to you. Says he's a sick man, dying, too feeble now for sea faring and thus he's willing to part with his most coveted possession in return for one last mug o' grog. You agree and the reward turns out to be a treasure map with a very convincing back story to it. So you spend the next couple of months and every last penny you can beg, borrow or steal chartering a good sized ship and hiring a tough but capable crew. Setting sail in due course, you spend most of the ensuing year on a hellish voyage; fighting ferocious seas, fending off rival pirates, battling the Royal Navy and quashing countless mutinies onboard your own vessel by the treacherous crew. Even when you do ultimately reach the strange island detailed on the map, there's still the numerous hostile natives to be disposed of and dozens of brain melting clues to solve before you can pin point the exact location of that all important 'X.' At long last though, after days of navigating through terrain as baffling as it is dangerous, you locate the proverbial sweet spot and start digging. You dig for hours non-stop, without sleeping, all night, into the early hours of the morning. You're exhausted but determined so you just keep on digging, digging, digging, digging, digging, digging until you finally hit…an arse.

A woman's arse. That's all. Just a woman's arse, sticking up out the sand. It's a very nice arse, sure there's no denying it, almost worth singing about even, but that's got to be small consolation after you risked life and limb travelling all this way – after all, that kind of booty isn't going to pay many ransoms or bounties now is it? Imagine the disappointment.

Mind you, thinking on it now, there is another thing that Mr Timberlake and the like have in common with pirates aside from the love of booty - they could both use a shower. A extremely cold one in the case of the R&B artists, if only to calm those dirty rascals down for five minutes and any sort of shower for the pirates really, just to spruce them up a bit.

Stalk This Way.

Occasionally just for a change of scene, I'll go and spend some time at my aunt's place up north. I really like it up that way y'know; it's a spectacularly scenic area and the sky in particular is truly breathtaking. Sky Sports, Sky Movies, Sky Box Office – they're all there. I swear I could gaze at them all day. Genuinely incredible.

Anyway, I was staying there a few months ago for a short holiday and one night I'm just taking it easy as usual – lounging around in the early hours of the morning, flicking through the music channels, when I happen across the video for that Aerosmith single, 'I Don't Want To Miss A Thing.' Now I've never had much of an opinion on this song one way or the other frankly: it's sort of your generic, everyday, fist clenching, orchestral, movie ballad, isn't it really? Although I've heard worse to be fair, so...if it was on the radio I wouldn't turn it up, but I wouldn't turn it off, let's put it that way. Same goes for the T.V in fact, which is why I had already picked up a magazine and was simply letting the tune run casually in the background when – almost without knowing it – I heard those lyrics properly for the first time. I dunno, I think it's like that thing with magic-eye pictures, where you only really see what's hidden in there when you're sorta only half concentrating. Because it was at that precise moment I suddenly noticed that Steven Tyler opens that track with these words:

"I could stay awake just to hear you breathing
Watch your smile while you are sleeping
While you're far away and dreaming…"

Eh?? I don't care how romantic their sentiments are, if someone actually said or sang that to you, I think most people's perfectly reasonable response would be something along the lines of: "Uh…well yeah, you could I suppose...but I...I just…I'd really rather you didn't." See, you'd think at this point he might realise he's coming across as a little odd. Let's face it, who hasn't been there in the past – started a conversation badly despite having the best of intentions; there's no shame in that, everybody's done it at some point. The good news is, it's still relatively early on in proceedings, if he stopped now, he could probably make a half decent stab at salvaging the situation. He could apologise, say that wasn't quite what he meant, say it came out wrong. He could try again and hopefully do bit better so later both parties could have a good laugh about how strange he had sounded before this whole hilarious misunderstanding was cleared up. Does he do this? Does he bollocks. On the contrary as it happens, he goes ahead and cranks the crazy right up from here on out. Seriously, the chorus is even worse:

"Don't wanna close my eyes,
Don't wanna fall asleep,
Cause I'd miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing
Cause even when I dream of you,
The sweetest dream would never do
I'd miss you baby,
And I don't want to miss a thing."

Aw come on! That's not sweet, that's not tender, that's not moving. That's mental. It's not even so much the fact that he's just watching this poor woman sleep, which is unsettling enough, I'm more concerned by the whole, 'Don't wanna close my eyes' bit. Think about that: this man isn't closing his eyes. At all. Not for one second. Never, okay? D'you understand me, he's not even physically blinking. I mean, is that even possible? For god sake it's gotta be like four in the morning, so what exactly is it he think he's gonna miss? What's she gonna do, levitate? Spontaneously combust? Try and escape? Actually, given the circumstances, that last one probably not a bad idea. Mind you, good luck with that – remember we are dealing with a man with no apparent natural need to blink, here. Aside from anything else though, the fact remains, if you were in this woman's position and you happened to wake during the night, for whatever reason – glass of water, call of nature, full blown power ballad being blasted at you inches away from your ear – whatever, this is what you'd see staring out of the darkness at you.

Exactly. Suddenly this song's taking a whole new dimension, isn't it?...and he's not done yet, not by a long chalk. Why's he pouting like that? Ah well, get a load of this from the second verse:

"Then I kiss your eyes
And thank God were together
I just want to stay with you in this moment forever
Forever and ever"

That's right, 'kiss your eyes' There's every chance you're gonna wake up with this singing sociopath slobering all over you peepers – and I think we all know, if that happens, nobody's getting any sleep for the rest of that night. Your left over slumber time just turned into a marathon staring match against the incredible unblinking man. He doesn't want to close his eyes or fall a sleep cos he doesn't want to miss a thing; you on the other hand, you don't want to close your eyes or go to sleep in case Scary McStarey over there makes another attempt to get hot 'n' heavy with your eyeballs. Might as well accept it: it's matchsticks 'till dawn. Just for tonight though, right? Right?? Well maybe. Or maybe, 'Forever and ever.'

P.S – It's just occurred to me that he may be watching this lady so closely on account of her having a serial sleepwalking problem - in which case I've done him quite a big disservice, as in severe cases those people can unwittingly be a real danger to themselves and routinely need to be monitored. It's possible he could be doing her a big favour, regularly depriving himself of rest, all in order to look out for this woman. So if (and only if) this is indeed the reason, I would like to formally apologise to Steven Tyler for the above material. As you were Steve - you don't want to miss anything.

Dead Romantic.

Friend of mine got me thinking the other day when she asked me what I’d do if the world were suddenly to be overrun by the reanimated corpses of the flesh-eating undead. Now I’m sure there are many who would simply have dismissed this question as ridiculous, however it struck me at the time that maybe ‘what to do in the event of murderous cadaver attack’ is one of those things which more people should really take the time to consider, but just would rather not. That’s understandable. It’s similar I think to sitting down to work out a fire escape route or writing your Will – even though you know it makes sense to do it, naturally you put it off. Course you do, it’s morbid, it’s depressing and in a weird way you feel like you’re almost tempting fate. Nevertheless, likewise these two examples, there are several advantages to be found in formulating a Zombie Survival Plan earlier as opposed to later. It doesn't take long for a start, an afternoon at the most, possibly less if you have good awareness of your local area; the layout, strongholds etc. Convenience, is another plus. Once it’s done, it’s done. It’s out the way. You can toss it in a drawer, forget all about it and go on enjoying your life, safe in knowledge that it’s there if and when you need it, even though you probably never will. Probably. Last but my no means least, as every good public safety information video or leaflet will have told you before: it could save your life one day. Still think it’s a nonsense, eh? Fair enough, though just remember what they always say at the end of those disaster documentaries, “ You just never think it’ll happen to you.”

So what’s my plan I hear no-one ask, how would I survive Satan’s armies on the march? Well the simple answer is I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even try. No, no, please, I’m fine with it. You see from the little research I’ve done it would appear that in order to live through a scenario such as this, ideally you need to be the following: fast, sexy, young and a woman. The further you are from this archetypal survivor the less chance you have of being one. Swing and a miss for me on nearly all counts there I’m afraid. Technically I suppose you could possibly live if you were old, moral, world weary and a man – but if that’s the case, you’d better be prepared to nearly make it all the way through this nightmare, come agonizingly close to it’s conclusion and then have to sacrifice yourself for the fast, sexy young woman, causing a distraction so that she can make a fast, sexy getaway and live to be fast, young and sexy another day. I know, it sounds unfair but if your truly world weary you won’t mind that much. I’m doing a little better on the requirements for that one, although putting all that effort in just to fall at the last hurdle for the sake of some high speed bimbo doesn’t appeal to me at all.

That not to say I wouldn’t do anything you understand. I said I didn’t plan to survive which doesn’t mean I can’t be of some use before my demise. By the by, if you think this is the part where I say I’d grab as many guns as I could find, along with as much ammo as I could carry and hit the streets giving it my best gruff voiced action hero – If I’m going to hell, I’m takin a few of you sorry sonofabitches with me! – type act, then you can forget it. Not really my style. No, the fact of the matter is, based on the onscreen evidence I’ve seen, the human race is never more selfish than when faced with an uprising of the deceased. “Ohh, help me!” “Save me!” “Hide me!” “Please don’t kill me!” Me-me-me. What about the zombies? Some of them will have been through hell and back (literally) and might not have been out and about for years, decades maybe, centuries even. Therefore I have decided that what I would in fact do if the world were suddenly to be overrun by the reanimated corpses of the flesh-eating undead is get straight down the office of public records. Once there I will find the names of a now sadly deceased couple whose wedding anniversary falls on whatever date it is when the dead choose to rise. Having located – oh let’s call them Marjorie and…I dunno, Klaus – I’ll head to there twin burial plots (sweethearts after all) where, if they’re already up I shall personally invite them to my house, or if not, leave them a note with detailed directions.

How, you might wonder at this point, have I endured long enough to do all this if I’m so dreadfully slow, so disappointingly unsexy and so completely not a woman? Good question. I can see you’ve been paying attention so I’ll tell you. I have survived using only my wits, my natural resemblance to a zombie, and my neighbours mobility scooter. Why then, you may speculate here, do I not use these advantages at my disposal to try and successfully ride out the disaster to the end? Well...I could do I suppose but chances are mankind has just made it and no more hence there’s probably been a lot of looting, explosions and general anarchy. Think of the mess. I can’t be bothered with that, I don’t even like tidying my room let alone rebuilding civilisation. I guess it could be fun to hang around and repopulate the earth...on the other hand, take into account what we’ve all just been through, nobody’s gonna be in the mood for any of that malarkey for ages. Nah, I’ve made up my mind. Besides there’s no guarantee I’d make it, those scooters have terrible mileage.

Anyway, back at the house – Marjorie and Klaus will be a while, zombies are notoriously slow – I’ll have set the table with the good cutlery, lights down, napkins folded all fancy, couple of candles…I think you see where this is going now. What? It’s their anniversary for goodness sake. Just because it happens to fall on the same day that the gates of hell opened that doesn’t make either occasion any less special. I used to have know a guy whose birthday was Bastille Day and we always took time to celebrate both. It's not quite the same I grant you but y'know. Let’s see, what else could I do? If I’m really out to impress I might gnaw my own fingers off and leave them by a selection of dips to start. Maybe a nice Salsa or Guacamole. Finger foods if you will. Must remember to prepare and set out dips before gnawing fingers off though. Is that everything? Don’t think I need to bother with sorbets really. If I’ve got time I could always baste myself with a nice chicken stock, but after that there’s not much I can do except hop up on the table and wait. I thought I’d let them serve themselves, a buffet of sorts. Obviously, being a good host, I’ll make suggestions while I’m conscious: “Have you tried the liver?” “The knee is excellent this evening.” “Ah, an eyeball, exquisite choice!” That sort of thing. Hmm, have I forgotten anything? Oh the Barry White CD. Actually forget the CD. as they're celebrating and the dead have risen anyway, there's a chance we could talk the man himself into making a personal appearance.