Mr & Mrs Turtle's new home. Moved in yesterday at 1500 hrs. Fucking loving it.

This weekend I drank herb tea, went to see Matthew Bourne's reworking of Dorian Gray (amazing), made nut roast to an original 70s recipe. I listened to Radio 4 and read the Observer. I went for a stroll in Dulwich Woods and ate pancakes with ricotta and figs for breakfast. I liked it. It was calm and I did a lot of thinking and spent precious time with the lovely Boo. I now feel good this morning. Centred and contented and healthy.

But fucking hell! I am well and truly a member of that despised and loathed race: the middle class bastards. As a result I now make myself feel uncomfortable and ever so slightly angry. What happened to giro day, smoking fags in front of the telly, drinking Stella Artois? Eating crap? Playing pool? Watching roaches climb the wall? Renting a flat above a shop, cutting my hair and getting a job? Actually following X-Factor? Getting pissed and fighting on a Saturday night? Choosing not to choose life?

I should never have gone to University. I have chosen life. This is a class based identity disaster and there's no fighting it. It's too late for me. Inevitable next stage: montessori schools, recycled nappies, baby yoga, TV rationing, wearing of designer, sustainably produced fucking hemp garments, frutarianism, consumption of fucking Spelt cakes and the inevitable anaemia. *ugh*

*Phewph* Mr and Mrs Turtle are no longer homeless.

Big massive shout out to all the wonderful friends who have provided food, shelter, electricity, washing facilities, job interviews, love and/or all of the above! The biggest shout out goes to Boo, who has provided us with a new interim home while we sort ourselves out. What a rock star. Now all we need to do is secure employment.

Amongst other things, the last couple of months have taught me:

Living without electricity or running water is romantic only for the first five days or so.

People who profess to be workmen may in fact be lying bastard fucking cunters.

Always, always, always steer your boat away from the reeds, even if the engine is smoking and you need to pull over.

If you are contemplating a flight of 11 locks, make sure you wear a raincoat and try to set off before 3pm.

Check your propeller shaft constantly.

Hot Polish ladies make excellent crew, as do Opera singers.

Radio is a good friend and runs off a 10v system.

Two people can live in central London on a budget of £4 a day, but you may get hungry.

Canalside pubs with moorings are excellent for picking up crew.

There are no jerry cans in Northholt.

Devotchka gigs are even more euphoric if you are drinking red wine you sneaked in under your coat.

Being poor can result in seriously bad blisters on one’s feet.

Never pass a stranger in need without offering help, especially if they are pikeys with an engineless boat who appear to be potential knife crime victims.

Booze is an absolute essential in dark times, and dependency is quick to creep up.

And lastly: When the boat floods - abandon ship and do not look back.

RIP Jan Maloney. You taught a generation of rats that it is indeed possible for women to be independent, strong, inspiring, bratty and camp all at once. Tales of inappropriate behaviour such as you going out raving with your hair in pigtails would always entertain. They were usually relayed by your daughter, who is so dear to me, with an indulgent roll of the eyes and the starting phrase: “My mother…”

It was an honour to know you and you will be very much missed. The testimonies at your funeral, from so many different people, were beautiful and apt showing how you touched the lives of so many.

Horrorshow!! Proper horrorshow, mind. Innit?

I was going to write this whole post in Nadsat and then I realised that only a complete cunt would do that.

At the moment it’s all about the consumption. Joyful consumption until replete with other people’s cultural churnings, with only a smattering of guilt that I am not churning out any of my own: Persepolis, Russell Brand’s Booky Wook, Interview with the Vampire, the Bootprints and Fistmarks mix tape, Johnny Cash live at Fulsome Prison, those darlings Flight of the Conchords and venison slow-cooked with port & juniper berries. (Well, that last one was my own at least)

A winter afloat without hot water and under high pressure at work has somehow increased the closeness of the Turtles beyond measure. We are happy as pigs in shit (sometimes literally) and bizarrely still hell bent on being water-pikeys. Having been on our sweet rusting hulk for 13 months now, we are looking to upgrade to something with, perhaps, a wardrobe and heating and a clean water supply. We want to buy our very own vessel, as living under the whim of a stoned landlord is never a beneficial situation.

It’s good to have goals.

Our new boiler has started having mini explosions when we turn the hot tap on. They are at a level that rattles the windows throughout the boat, but nothing has caught fire as yet. It did burn the hairs off my forehead via the pilot light peephole on Saturday.

Perhaps it’s the Burner in me, but I find this slightly exciting & interesting rather than worrying. It was only when I called my Mum and told her about this fun new development in boat life (she freaked out and told me to get it fixed asap) that I realised it is probably something we should be v concerned about.

I think I might have fire withdrawal, intensified by KiwiBOOM news of last week. However, this is no reason to secretly be excited by the prospect of one’s bathroom blowing up.

201 days to go people!

This is the highest point in the South of England and I climbed it on Saturday with a group of people which included a man wearing formal shoes with the heel flapping off and a bulldog called Mutley.

Standing on top of that rock formation being battered by the January wind with Dartmoor at my feet was quite literally a world away from the teeth-numbing sponge-legged hatch-spewing basement-dwelling party monster behaviour of the weekend before.

As Irvine Welsh's 'Juice' Terry would say: "Variety. It's the spice ay life no?"

I quite fancy Stan off American Dad. Is that bad? There's just something about him.

Tomorrow, I am going to a 60th birthday party for which the invite challenged - "See if you can party as hard as a pensioner." As it's the Right Hon Rev Zero hosting and the Lady Zootie as bday girl, I am beaten before I even fucking attempt it. I am going to wear my tail and try and channel some Hunter S. to help me along.

Hooray!!

It’s inspirational, at the moment. God (he/her/it/whatever) seems to be present almost everywhere:

In the teachings of Master Hatsumi and the philosophy of the Bujinkan

At the baptism of a friend’s daughter on Sunday

At the wedding of an old friend on Monday and in the vows they took

In the concept of Brahman & Atman

In the bravery of dear friends when faced with tragedy

In the Messianic Jew Turtle and I met in Southampton bus station

In Paradise Lost, which Turtle is devouring and reading me the bits sans demons

In the Virabhadrasana II posture, taught to me by my Mum last weekend

In the never ending cheeriness of the Thames lock keeper as he spent his Christmas break manually pumping out grumpy Boater’s shit due to a faulty Elsan station

In Tallis’ Spem in Alium

In the study of Genesis

In the prayer flags brought back from Bhutan for us, hung out on New Year’s Day and already fading into the Universe

In Piscine, the Character in The Life of Pi, who worships at Temple, Church and Mosque

It’s food for thought and it’s keeping me busy through the “darkest” month.

Strange times afloat….

I am currently reviewing why (and indeed, if) I am a burner. It is not to go partying, dress up and take drugs, *huge fucking yawn*, although this is what seems to currently be en vogue in the UK burner scene.

If that was my aim, then I would be a raver. Which, my dears, is a lifestyle I deciseively and happily left behind, 8 long years ago, on Millennium eve. Ending up at a filthy warehouse party in Uxbridge with human shit on the floor and the New Year’s Day sunlight revealing the grey, haggard faces of those around me, I chose not to be involved in that any more.

I need to get back out to the desert and rediscover, perhaps get to some regionals. This is not good at all.

"How can it be so cold in here? It's like Greenland in here. We've got to get some booze. It's the only solution to this intense cold. Something's got to be done. We can't go on like this! I'm a trained actor, reduced to the status of a bum! I mean, look at us! Nothing that reasonable members of society demand as their rights! No fridges, no televisions, no phones."

Hahahahahahahaha! Never have the words of Withnail, true hero of our times, seemed more appropriate and relevant to the life of Jessica....

So this morning I was scraping ice off the INSIDE of my boaty windows. Then I had a shower. This was such a hideous experience that I am ashamed to say it made me cry like a puppy being tortured.

How am I gonna be like Sarah Connor if a little bit of ice makes me cry? What will I do on Z day….snivel and beg the New Breeds for mercy and a warm towel? I better toughen up, and quick.

Last night, Tyler invited me to Iraq. That should do it. He said we could shoot an AK47. Turtle doesn't think I'll go but I might just....

This is a picture of a man called Warra, a stranger, smoking out of our duck hatch on a Sunday morning.

Me and Turtle are both in love with him and I am sure you can see why. He turned up in the pouring rain about 9am, the morning after decom like a mini Chris Rock whirlwind and created the best carry-on EVER with his supplies of naughty medicine, thirst for whisky and continual diatribe of jokes about his Aunties in Soweto.

Doing poppers with this guy was like no experience I have ever had before. In fact, if I had not seen this picture on Facebook, I would not be sure that he really exists...

Hooray, Hoorah, it's decom tommorrow!!!! We are hosting a fashion show, I am wearing feathers and postcards, Turtle is a See Monsta, Beave and Pepski are in our spare cabin and it's all going to be completely spiffing!!!

Yip Yip let the year begin....I'm gonna get Pie and Mashed.

A toast in advance to absent blinky kings. Dougal we love ya, I hope Western Australia is coping alright and look forward to creating pube cats with you and your good lady when you get back.

Going to MESStival tonight in Brizzol. A grand reunion for all of us who have flogged flavoured air, nitrous or ephedrine over the summer to stupid punters with too much cash and not enough consumer savvy.

Innit?

I am well tired.

I lay in bed last night after a 12 hour shift with two taxing functions couching my day:

1) Breakfast with member of the Treasury.

2) Private view of homeless people's art.

As my eyelids drooped closed, I tried to ignore the persistent metronome-like drip in the engine room. However, being the type of girl who is naturally para as fuck, this was in no way possible. I pulled on Turtle's wolf coat, some boots and summoned my husband. We clambered along the gunnels in the rain and used our mobile phones to verify the fact that yes, the engine room was in fact 3 inches deep in standing water.

We needs us a bilge pump and we needs it fast.

Here I sit at my desk, doing seating plans and imagining my vintage dress collection at the bottom of the Grand Union Canal.

Posh job + boat dwelling = Well tired & sketchy.

Yesterday was such a perfect day that we jokingly said we should not bother having kids. To be honest, I think I meant it. At the moment, there is only room in this marriage for two…well, three if you count the boat. (Which we do)

I was so happy at having been randomly blessed with the perfect Sunday that I shall record it here for prosperity, and when I am sleep deprived, haggard, wearing mis-matching crocs (God help me!), covered in Play-Doh and chained by the boob to a small demanding blob, I shall look back on this entry (if I have time to go online) and smile wistfully at what once used to be.

Start with a lazy lie-in whilst the rain patters on your cabin window and the kettle whistles on the hob.
Venture out to pick up the papers (ie send husband out). Read for a while by the fire. Drink coffee.
Take boat out on short, blustery cruise. Execute successful pump out. Smash into lock on way home due to high winds. Just enough of an adventure to make you feel happy to be safely moored up again.
Batten down the hatches.
Do some satisfying DIY that involves electric terminals, wiring and a bandsaw.
Have a cup of tea.
Stoke the fire up.
Hand wash scarves.
Make and then eat home-made chicken noodle soup for lunch.
Get sewing machine out and raise hem on exquisite 1940s tobacco silk cocktail dress.
Try dress on and get excited. Try fascinator on with it and hop around the boat with joy.
Stoke the fire up.
Drink wine.
Eat roast lamb with red wine gravy, mashed potatoes and red cabbage.
Watch Casablanca.
Cry.
Eat apple crumble and custard.
Work on plans for musical using Nina Simone hits with husband. ©
Go to bed and fall asleep immediately.

You can’t get more perfect than that on a winter’s Sunday. A message to the haggard depressed me from the fresh zesty me: Never mind, there’s always retirement to look forward to!

Over and out.

Yay yay yay yay yay! I am doing this on NYE. With dear dear burners. Invitation extended to those who are willing/able to indulge in some Steampunk sorcery and insane tea drinking.

Boomshanka.

I am overwhelmed with excitement regarding the seasonal change. The lifestyle we have chosen lends itself well to the onset of winter. Went cruising on Sunday. Hels, Ali G and I sipped on wine by the woodburning stove all gossipy and contented, whilst the pork crackled in the oven. Outside, the rain poured down (on Captain Turtle at the tiller - brave hero that he is ) and the grey canal drifted by.

Boudicca moves to Exeter this week. As another Rat leaves London where we have been so safe and happy for so long, I am pleased that I have finally realised that our most important relationships do not end as we change the direction of our lives - they simply adjust.

So here's a rather large, scrumpy flavoured toast to Boo and Joe, the next stage in the Seven Ages of man (Justice), and the West Country.

PMT + Fahrenheit 9/11: One very unhappy, sobbing, soggy Muffin.

Oestrogen is an interesting hormone. Last time I watched that film I fell asleep, bored. This time I cried uncontrollably from the moment the black people got ignored until the credits rolled.

Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns left me incandescent with rage. I know I should leave Islam alone - due to past relationships it remains a personal issue for me – but I just keep picking at it.

The proverbial scab that won’t heal.

So last night I was just settling down to a Bleach and Polish Frenzy with Marigolds when there was a knock on the hatch. I popped my head out and there stood Woodman from Black Rose (sexy widebeam up the other end) offering us a brand new telly DVD combo machine.

As our DVD is on it's last cheap Taiwanese legs and pissed me off the other night by constantly freezing the more beautifully depraved moments of Factotum, I accepted with squeaks and wide eyes.

I love gifting. Especially when it happens to me. Me, me, me. Oh, and Turtle.

Now: Happy Friday everyone and as you look at the face of Frank Gallagher, great hero of our time, strengthen your resolutions to be more like him in every way and keep this close to your heart as you booze and chuff your way through the weekend. Over and Out.

Hmmm...looking at everyone's photos and smiling tearily is not a good use of office time. Or any time at all for that matter.

However, a long and informative chat with my Sargeant last night left me so happy I was unable to sleep and lay there in the dark smiling and occasionally pinching Turtle out of spite. (We have no electric at the moment due to boating fiascos too tedious to go into right now - it's like camping, but in your own home!!)

Hearing about the family from Pepski was heartwarming and the envy I had expected did not rear it's ugly head. Happy Friday, I love you all. xxx

I am learning to speak Swan. Last night I had two of them jumping up and eating out of my hand - literally. It was lovely. Gonna be a Swan whisperer.

Turtle got scared and ran in the boat. Ha!

Saw (ie drooled over) Alan Cumming as a transvestite, gold-kilted Dionysus in a fantastic production of the Bacchae last night. He was just about the hottest thing I have seen on stage or screen for a long, long time. *sigh*

Left the theatre wishing I was a Maenad, I reckon I would have been pretty good at it.


On a slightly less wild note, it's our wedding anniversary today. We are still so happy, it's remarkable. As a child of the eighties, I didn't dare expect marriage to be so wonderful but my ingrained pessimism is slowly but surely being worn away.


The great thing about this marriage is it is cosy and comfortable but it also incorporates elements of wild booze soaked Bacchan frenzy (Lucy's wedding reception & Reading being prime examples) and I am therefore able to satisfy both my Maenad* and Missus personas. Hoorah! Many Happy Returns to us! ;)




* I would just like to point out that I would not actually rip anyone to shreds or shag a snake.

Two posts in one day...a rare occurence indeed! However, I feel compelled to, as have just seen next year's theme on the BM website:

"The American Dream!" (Without flag worshipping or burning, you understand.)

WTF? I have recently watched a LOT of American Dad and find it almost impossible to respond to this theme with any gravity.

Clever bastards.

So I was just carrying 5 litres of Red Oxide primer, 10 litres of Ocean Deep gloss and 2 simulated mohair rollers through Soho, whimpering as I did so, and narrowly avoiding taking the heads off chinese toddlers (it was fucking well heavy) when my 1950s repro circle skirt blew over my head exposing my pants.

As my hands were otherwise engaged carrying 5 litres of Red Oxide primer and 10 litres of Ocean Deep gloss, I was unable to save my dignity. Whoever thought that living on a boat could be glamorous and practical was an imbecile and a buffoon.

Oh, that was me.

This past week has seen me twitchy, irritable to the point of frequent explosion, gloomy and murderous with that all too familiar doom pit in my stomach. Turtle and I have argued more than ever before – mainly my fault of course. On top of which I have been sleeping deeply at 10.30pm every night and have had no energy to do anything at all after work.

Yup, missing Burning Man was as bad as expected – no, worse. I didn’t expect it to manifest physically. On top of my new super dooper high powered job it was more than I could cope with.

Let the countdown begin!

Yeah yeah I know. Everyone's leaving for the burn in the next few days and isn't that exciting.

No it isn't actually. It's fucking crap.