One Coat To Rule Them All

I bought myself a new jacket a couple of weeks ago. I am aware that the number of coats I already own could probably clothe a significant number of people (not necessarily the clichĂŠd 'small country', just a medium-sized office, possibly including support staff) but I decide to splash out a little. It's a sort of khaki-coloured parka from ASOS, one of my favourite online stores which is - depending on the financial time of the month for me - either a heavenly eden of fashionable yet affordable delights or a hellishly unattainable assortment of beautiful garments which I crave but cannot afford even in my wildest dreams (which incidentally can be pretty wild - I had one recently about a group of elves who kept trying to put me and a friend in prison and then set fire to us, which I'm still not 100% sure is the traditional elvish way of killing people but then my knowledge of folklore is admittedly a little rusty).

The problem with the parka, or at least, what my friends see as the problem (I personally see this as a slightly creepy bonus) is that it is quite large, and long, and if I'm going to be perfectly honest it looks a lot like something a flasher would wear. Once I discovered this, I began to pretend to flash my friends, which they did not seem to appreciate as much as I thought they might. One particular friend was particularly uncomfortable with this, and so of course I zoned in on her and insisted on doing it over and over, to the entertainment of everyone else.

Sarah: (pinching her nose) Could you please stop that?

Me: (more pretend flashing) Stop what? This utterly erotic and seductive behaviour?

Sarah: (recoiling and covering her face) Yes! That! Seriously, no more flashing, for the love of god!

Me: But I'm fully clothed. It's not technically wrong.

Sarah: It's still creepy.

Me: I don't understand. (still doing the flashing motion, but slowly and tenderly, like a lover would) Look, I'm unfurling for you. See? Unfurling. Like a gift. Like a GIFT.

Sarah: Go. Away. If I have to tell you again, I will set you on fire.

It probably didn't help that the Fleetch was helpless with laughter in the background and was therefore to blame for encouraging my behaviour. As you have seen from the banana notes, things are often her fault, even things that happen when she is not there.

Speaking of Fleetch behaviour - on one of the crazy weekends we've had recently, as we were heading into a club, without breaking her stride, she flashed a nearby policewoman. I am still not over this traumatic ordeal.

Me: (springing away in horror and self-preservation) What the bloody hell are you doing?! I don't know what kind of odd cultural greetings you have in America, but that's not legal here!

Fleetch: (unfazed) Oh, it's fine. I know her.

Me: (gobsmacked).... I ..... I ....still don't think you're allowed to do that.

The poor policewoman was in the middle of trying to arrest a drunk girl but had time to grin briefly at the Fleetch and I before the club swallowed us up. I'm still reeling from this particular event, but I'm glad to know that I have enough sense (even when drunk) to step away from someone visually molesting the police. Hey, somebody's got to pay the bail, right?

Smells Like Fleetch Spirit

This post has been a month in the making. Well, I say that but what I mean is that for a month I have been telling myself I should write it, rather than actively working on it. Nevertheless, I finally got around to it, so ladies and gentleman, it is with the utmost pleasure that I introduce the friend who is currently staying with me. I refer to her as 'Fleetch' (a combination of 'flatmate' and 'leech', as we are inevitably found hanging around the other's bedroom whispering singsonging phrases like "Hey... WHATCHA DOING?" in a purposefully annoying way) and she refers to me likewise. A fleetch is for life, not just for a summer, so taking one in is not a decision to be made lightly, and not everyone can be a fleetch. It requires a special personality to match your own in such a way that you only have to raise an eyebrow in a certain way for your fleetch to catch on, or utter a certain word in order for your fleetch to know exactly what you're thinking. After some training, your fleetch may be able to conduct whole conversations through the use of subtle facial expressions, although for best results this should not be attempted while drunk.

This month has been incredibly entertaining. We have built up so many in-jokes (that she is actually my sister from another mister, the particular voice we use addressing each other which is reminiscent of Terence and Phillip and suggests that mischief is about to be planned poorly and carried out swiftly, the awful films we've spent hours mocking together, our matching Zombie Protection Squad trucker caps and Red Dwarf 'Chameleonic Lifeforms - No Thanks!' tshirts). I'm sadly very aware that she's probably going back to the States soon and there is a time limit on the fun, which has possibly only increased our enjoyment of it.

Fleetch can often be found cuddled up on the couch with one or more cats in a strange, bestial pack-sleeping formation or simply wandering around the flat singing songs with the word 'fleetch' inserted into them (much like the Muff Game mentioned in a previous post) such as "She Wants To Fleetch", "Son Of A Fleetcher Man" and of course, the classic Nirvana song of the title of this post. In our spare time we've been known to paint bowling pins to look like otters and pirates, spend hours joyously discussing how epic the new hoover is and even more time trying to decide on a theme for the living room - so far we're going with Beach Party and I've already sourced some genius inflatable animals which I fully intend to purchase on my next payday.

My fleetchbro likes to leave me banana notes (please see photographic evidence below) instead of Post-Its, which is an important and economical way of exchanging messages in these hard recession times.

She has also been known to burst into the bathroom while I am brushing my teeth to take mock hiphop photos, because "dental hygiene is important, yo" (more photographic evidence - note I am discovering how uncomfortable it feels to laugh hysterically with a toothbrush in one's mouth) and despite my best efforts she's created an album of these called 'Fleetchsta's Paradise' on Facebook.

In addition to all this wonderousness, today is her birthday, so here's my toast - Fleetch, if I had a glass I'd raise it to you. And then I'd drink it, and you'd pour me another, and it would end up being one of those weekends again where we don't sleep for 36 hours because we're too busy partying with hot foreign girls, watching cagefighting and leaving each other hilarious banana notes( I love those weekends). In short, I hope your shot glass is always full, that your ladies are always fun and open to being verbally abused every ten seconds, and that you'll start your training as soon as you get home, because when I come to visit you next year we're going to party like this again. Furreals.

A Little Respect And A Lot Of Other Stuff

This week, I have been in Oxford - bringing the Scottish flavour to England without the use of shortbread or heroin hasn't been easy, let me tell you, but I've done my best.

On Saturday, Jen (@JenClone) and Alex (@nicelittlestory) and I attended a great gig at Westonbirt Arboretum. Sophie Ellis Bextor was supporting Erasure, one of my favourite bands of all time, and we were all very excited. The were a couple of odd moments during the evening which I feel worthy of bloggage. The first was when The Bextor (note: once I've grown attached to a celebrity and they have proved themselves worthy of my eccentric and perhaps slightly misguided but unconditional adoration, they get assigned a 'The' - see previous extensive notes on 'The Dern') announced that she was about to perform her first release 'Murder On The Dancefloor' and then followed that announcement by saying "which was released in 2001." Imagine the horror. A whole decade has passed since then. I won't deny I had an existential freakout.

Me: Did you hear that?

Jen: What?

Me: Ten years since this song first came out. Oh my god, I haven't done anything with my life.

Jen: Um...

Me: You see that child standing next to you?

Jen: (looking increasingly uncomfortable) Yes?

Me: That child wasn't even born when this song came out. SHE WASN'T EVEN BORN.

It had started off a quite a nice summer evening, if a little cloudy, but soon the weather began to torture us for enjoying '80s electronica. It started with a light refreshing rain, followed by a heavy, drenching shower, finished off with a delightful round of painful, belting hailstones marinated in a chilly breeze. This is really something to savour when you're standing in a forest, jumping up and down in muddy joy with a couple of hundred other people.

Once I'd forgotten about The Bextor and the horrible implications of my own mortality had faded (this took about ten minutes, as the attention span of an otter is short and easily led by shiny things) I was able to relax and enjoy the gig fully. Erasure came on stage and performed brilliantly. They played all the classics - 'A Little Respect', 'Ship of Fools' and one of my personal favourites 'Love To Hate You'. The crowd was a varied mixture of people both young and old, gay and straight, and the atmosphere was lovely. About halfway through the set, a man wearing fluorescent sunglasses pushed in front of us. I happened to glance downwards for a moment, and saw that he was carrying a clear plastic bag, filled with yellowish liquid. I hesitate to relay the following conversation, and not least because of what it concerns, but let's face it, you've heard me talk about worse.

Jen: That guy..

Me: What's in the bag? Is it a goldfish?

Jen: A...goldfish? Who brings a goldfish to a gig?

I admit, I hadn't thought the idea through fully.

Me: What is it then?

Jen: I think it's piss.

Me: I'm sorry?

Jen: Piss. He's carrying a bag of piss.

Me: Why? Why would anyone do that?!

Jen: It could be beer.

We all looked at the bag with reactions ranging from curiosity to plain horror. People around us were beginning to stare at the man with the bag.

Jen: If it is beer, I don't know how he'd pour it.

Me: I'm still stuck on the bag of piss idea. Somehow I can't get past it.

Jen: Hmm.

There was a pause as we tried to bend our minds around this concept.

Me: Do you think he has a bag of piss from every gig he's ever been to?

Jen: What, like a trophy?

Me: Yeah. Like, maybe he has a shelf above his bed where he keeps them all neatly labelled. That's what I'd do, if I had a bag of piss.

People were looking from Piss Bag Man to us for help, as if we would be able to offer answers. We distanced ourselves quickly, making clear we-have-no-idea-either-and-are-frankly-scared gestures. We may never know what he was carrying, since we were afraid to enquire further, so it will remain one of the great unsolved mysteries of our time, however I appreciate all suggestions.

Picnic In The Park

I got a text from my friend yesterday morning, asking if I wanted to come to a barbecue in the park. I'm not normally much of a morning person, but I was already up because I had a hair appointment booked around noon, this time with a real stylist (I got it cheap on Groupon so don't worry, I haven't compromised my haircare ethics), who incidentally gave me a shorter cut on the right side of my head on the basis that it "looks edgy". It actually just makes me look a bit lop-sided. If you can, try to picture a puzzled collie. That's pretty accurate.

In any case, I graciously accepted the invitation, by which I mean I replied with "what you're proposing is actually against the law in this country, so I'll be there shortly". However, I hadn't factored in her ability to give directions which might have worked for a normal person, but had certainly not been translated into Otterspeak for me. Therefore, I got to the proposed park (somewhere I'd never actually been before despite it being about 400 yards from a main road I used to live on) only to find that I couldn't see my friends anywhere.

Me: The east quadrant, she says? My ass, it's the east quadrant (pulling out my phone) Okay, it's fine, I'll just call her. No big deal.

Friend: (picking up) Dude, where are you?

Me: You are not in the east quadrant. At all. When the zombie apocalypse comes, I'm not letting you near the map collection.

Friend: I was speaking in terms of the park itself.

Me: Forgive me for thinking that when you said 'east' you meant 'east' as in compass east. Anyway, where are you?

Friend: You can't see us? Okay, take off your shirt and we'll come find you.

Me: Okay, sure- wait, what?!

Friend: We took a vote and we all agreed that it would make you easier to find. And would in fact be a reward for us for finding you.

Me: This is a children's park. I am right next to a sandpit.

Friend: You're always so full of excuses.

Me: I'll work on that.

It turned out to be a lovely day, even if three of us nearly set ourselves/alcohol/food/grass on fire in an attempt to prove that we were tough and outdoorsy enough to light a disposable barbecue with a firelighter tool. It wasn't until we'd finally managed to get the damn thing lit that we realised we'd forgotten to take the cardboard packaging off it, and let me tell you, if they'd included that as a challenge in one of the Crystal Maze rooms, the program would have benefited from the added suspense and danger. I no longer allow myself to watch Crystal Maze reruns as I can't helping myself hurling the most foul-mouthed and harsh criticism at the contestants ("Steven, you ham-fisted bastarding moron, the long bricks are supposed to slot in the other way! You wasted thirty seconds on reading out the instructions and now this? How can you live with yourself?")

I also discovered that with this particular group of friends, all I need to do to be included in the zombie apocalypse group is to agree to take my shirt off. What was I thinking, trying to impress them with my intelligence and language skills? What need do they have for a Risk strategy expert who is also very good with animals and has an incredibly photographic memory? None! None at all. If only I'd known my appeal from the beginning I wouldn't have had to endure the anxiety about being left behind. At least now I feel reassured. Zombies on, shirt off. It's my new motto.