How to Dump Your Apostrophe

I know the Pitstop belongs to Moptop and that therefore, as a sign of possession, my blog should be entitled Moptop's Pitstop.

However, in losing this one, single, not-all-that-significant apostrophe (and, on my honour, I promise not to lose any more), I have also lost an ampersand, hash, zero, thirty-nine, semi-colon which - you must admit - is a mouthful in anyone's language. (Note how I kept my promise there).

The language that insists on using ampersand, hash, zero, thirty-nine, semi-colon instead of a perfectly simple apostrophe is, I believe, called HTML and a lot of fuss and nonsense it is too. On other bloggers' blogs, it wrote my blog title as MOPTOP & # 0 3 9 ; s Pitstop (only a bit more squashed).

Now, I am not known for my tidy, fastidious nature but you must admit that inserting arbitrary symbols, numbers and a semi-colon is taking things too far. If HTML can manage a semi-colon, then why not an apostrophe? It's almost the same. In fact, an apostrophe's even less bother as it doesn't have a dot.

I expect that if I had a semi-colon in my blog title - for example, Moptop; a mop with a top - or even a colon - Moptop: a mop with a top - HTML would have to further complicate matters by writing ampersand, hash, squiggly line, bracket, bracket, zero, ten, sixty-six (and all that), apostrophe - just to be awkward.

So, having clarified the situation, you can see the loss of this one apostrophe (a measly one at that) will not lead to the collapse of civilisation, the Internet or life as we know it. Though Lynne Truss might get a bit miffed.

How To Dump Your Girlfriend

... is the title of a very funny book by Manchester-based writer/comic/poet/compere, Julian Daniel. Recently, I attended a promotional reading of this book in a LIBRARY.

(Libraries are a Good Thing as Broken Biro will confirm, not least because people who work in libraries provide me with a quip that I shall never grow tired of. )

Anyway, at the end of the reading, Julian asked the audience to share stories of dumping or of being dumped. I once pushed a boy (Peter Bird) off a wall and ran away but, as earlier that evening he had cracked a bullwhip in his bedroom causing his mother to come charging up the stairs and crashing through the door, I feel that was wholly justified - though hardly interesting enough to share with a literary audience. (No offence).

And then I remembered The History Teacher. A man so obsessed with sport that he locked himself in the bathroom on Saturdays in case I distracted him whilst he was writing down the football scores in his spiral-bound notebook.

The relationship wasn't going well - Leeds United was not on top form that season - but I didn't have the courage to end it. So I avoided him. I particularly avoided talking to him. For months.

I worked in a theatre box office. Not answering the phone in case it was The History Teacher was tricky ... but I managed it. I could rely on colleagues - "Could you get that, please?" - on customers who were queuing up to buy tickets - "I'll give you the concessionary rate if you'll answer that call for me" - or simply ignoring the ringing phone altogether. (Apologies if you tried and failed in 1987 to book a subscription ticket for Camille, Little Shop of Horrors, Season's Greetings, Noises Off and The Sea).

The only time it got really problematic was when customers took messages and I had to return calls.

"What does that say? Your handwriting's dreadful."
"Erm, C.O.C.U.P. I think ...?"

Mrs Cocup (long O) was most irate at my mispronunciation of her name and took her custom elsewhere.

Eventually, of course, The History Teacher did get hold of me. I let my guard down and answered the phone on a match day. Gently, ever-so-carefully, I broke it off. Surely he'd got the message by the long silence?

"I just assumed you were having trouble with your wisdom teeth," he said.

Right then, Tom Swifty

"Can you help me prepare the apples?" Tom appealed.

"But I'm nervous about cooking with spices, " she said gingerly.

"We'll just use the one herb," he said sagely.

He opened the cupboard and they stared at the contents.

"Bisto? Oh..." she said gravely.

"Own brand Cream Crackers?" he snapped.

"And where's the tinned pineapple?" she asked fruitlessly.

"I shopped from memory," he said listlessly.

He closed the cupboard door.

"You think I'm dull, don't you?" he said bluntly.

"I think you need to see a doctor," she said patiently.

"Why? Because I'm losing my hair?" he bawled.

"Because you've gained a lot of weight," she said heavily.

"I've had a bad leg," he said lamely.

"Let's change the subject," she said topically.

They surveyed the kitchen.

"When did you last clean this fridge?" he said coolly.

"I have no idea," she said thoughtlessly.

They consulted the recipe book.

"Once upon a time ..." she said grimly.

"You might need glasses?" he speculated.

"Everything in this bloody book is drizzled with sodding oil," she said crudely.

"We could make soft, smooth dumplings," he suggested wantonly.

"Or homemade soup?" she said uncannily.

They gazed at a photo of raspberry tartlets.

"I could eat one hundred and forty-four," he boasted grossly.

"Me, too," she agreed.

"Then we'll have to double the ingredients," he added.
"Perhaps use a little less sugar, darling," she said sweetly.

He moved over to the dresser.

"Shall I play a CD? How about some Crosby," he said probingly.

"He peaks at average," she said meanly.

He took a deep breath.

"I want to date other women!" he said unsteadily.

"You Irishmen are all the same," she said wryly.

The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But ...

Oi! Poets! This post is for your benefit. Dedicate your next book to me, chuck a percentage of the royalties my way (cash only), place laurels on my brow, scatter rose petals where'er I walk - the usual poetic shenanigans. You'll be begging to do all this and more in an attempt to convey your deepest, most sincere gratitude.

Why? Because I've found out where you've all been going wrong.

There is simply no point in sending off poems to competitions, sealing the envelopes with a hopeful kiss, and waiting for your genius to be discovered. Or submitting poems to magazines, pestering editors with manuscripts, trawling round the literary festivals or (shudder) networking.

Only a dunderhead plays that game.

The real Poetic Genius invents competitions and poetic crowns, then awards them to himself. He claims to have appeared on the same platform as the Big Name Poets. (He was moving the furniture but that's by the by). He says he has been given the keys to New York and the padlock to Birkenhead. He has taught poetry to the brightest of young minds.

And it's all true ... because he says so.

With this in mind, I should like to draw your attention to my ALL NEW! Poetic CV.

(CLEARS THROAT)

Moptop is a well-regarded poet who has gigged extensively throughout the known universe.

And Wirral.

She was poet-in-residence at the Sydney Opera House where she became a personal favourite of Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. She has been given the Freedom of Bootle, Walton Vale Shopping Centre, several engraved pens and umpteen blessings by The Pope. She is well known down The Docks.

Seamus Heaney is a meany unless Moptop opens for him.

Carol Ann Duffy gets huffy when Moptop's name is mentioned.
(Moptop turned down the job of Poet Laureate).

Kanye West and Eminemineminem have both said (separately), "She taught me how to rhyme, bro, ya dig?"

Roger McGough and Brian Patten say (in well-practised unison), "There's only one Liverpool poet: Moptop. We've been living a lie all these years."

Moptop has taught poetry at all of the Oxford and Cambridge Universities, and was visiting Prof. of Poe. at Harvard, Yale and Cal Tech in 2006, 2007 and 2008 respectively. In 2010, she will be made Temptress of India - a new role created in her honour for her series of mind-altering poetic essays, Lay Me on a Poppadum and Lick Me.

Winner of the Frowst Award for Poetry in 2009, she was awarded a Caithness Glass rosebowl and a cheque for $100,000 (Canadian) in a ceremony organised by the Liverpool Couture Company and the Deadwood Poetry Society.

Her other poetic triumphs include:
1st ~ National Pottery Competition, 2001
1st ~ Carduff Academi, 2002
1st ~ S.T. Elliott Prize, 2003
1st ~ Foreword Prize for Best Ever Poem in Britain, 2004
1st ~ Foreword Prize for Best Ever Poem of the 20th Century, 2005
1st ~ Foreword International Prize for Best Ever Poem in The Known Universe, 2006

And others far too numerous and tedious to mention.

Her most recent book, The Girl Who Tried to Shag Cumulonimbus, (Fabre & Fabre) was chosen as a Poetry Book Society Book of the Month - for sixteen months running - and is now in its 24th edition. It has sold (in hardback) 1.8 million copies, is a set text on the GCSE syllabus in Kent and is studied extensively in Albanian schools.

She has written 37 books in total, many of them published.

Moptop turned down the offer of permanent residence in Dove Cottage, Grasmere, as she (generous to a fault) wanted to give other poets a chance.

Currently Poet-in-Residence at Costa Coffee (Bold St.), Moptop is working on her next book, the climax of which will be her epic 1400 stanza poem (title as yet to be decided) on the subject of Afternoon Tea.

Lusts of the Flesh #5

Today's Lust of the Flesh was experienced yesterday. Yesterday afternoon to be exact.

Tea to the English is really a picnic indoors. ~Alice Walker

Take two bad friends, two teapots, tea-cups and saucers, loose leaf tea (Earl Grey & Scouse Breakfast), a three-tiered glass stand, finger-sandwiches (no crusts), homemade shortbread, coffee cake, orange cake, buttered fruit loaf, scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam (no honey), and little pink cubes of quivering, sugar-dusted Turkish Delight. Mix in a view over the Albert Dock, some scurrilous conversation, a waiter with a propensity to dampen trousers and there you have it - Afternoon Tea.

A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwards. ~A.A. Milne

In 1944, Great Grandma Nicolson took afternoon tea in a tearoom in the Kyle of Lochalsh. Upset at having been 'overcharged' for the mean slice of Dundee cake she had consumed, she is alleged to have swept the remaining contents of the cakestand into her capacious handbag. This charge has made it into print - Memories of Raasay (Berlinn) - but, of course, every Moptop family member denies the allegation conceding only that Great Grandma Nicholson did go a bit strange and did, in her latter years, do the gardening in her nightdress.

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea ~ Henry James.

Coffee shops are all very well, but they don't encourage lingering. Noisy, clattering places, with metal machines that hiss and spurt like geysers. No towering cake stands - plain baking at the bottom, tiny fancy cakes at the top - but engorged muffins (as painful as they sound) and rocky biscotti (ill-designed for frail British teeth).

How much more civilised the world if we stopped each afternoon for tea? Sipped and spoke? Politely shared the last meringue?

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future. ~Thich Nat Hahn

Then let us meet in the Maritime Museum! The top floor dining room, riverside. I’ll be there at three, just in time for afternoon tea.

Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things. ~Saki

The All NEW Banned List!

Delight in my misfortune if you will, but after creating an ongoing Banned List on this blog, I have now been issued with my very own Banned List. It has been constructed by the Banshee and the (not so very) Small Boy.

1. If I am going to insist on listening to Kanye West's Gold Digger in the car I am not allowed to

a) sing along or 2) appear to be dancing whilst waiting at traffic lights.

2. In fact, any dancing to Kanye West's Gold Digger is BANNED unless it is

a) conducted in the kitchen with the blinds down and 2) whilst no-one else is in the house.

3. Never again am I allowed to say "Goodness, the language in this song [Gold Digger] is dreadful. We couldn't play it to Grandma, could we?"

4. Similarly, I am BANNED from saying "Kanye West's very inventive in his rhymes, isn't he?" on the basis of listening to one song [Gold Digger].

5. I am not allowed to ask who Busta or Usher is as - apparently - I have already had this question answered several times.

6. I am BANNED from reading out any Top Sentences whilst Banshee's friends are in the house. This rule was constituted this evening after I read out my current Top Sentence* whilst Banshee and friends were in the middle of eating. It was not the digestive process per se that caused the upset. It was the nature of the Top Sentence.

Do not read on if you are in the middle of eating.

*Current Top Sentence: Flies swam in the ceiling lights and the toilets spat out their usual stink of clitoris sweat and warm shit.

6a) I am BANNED from saying clitoris in public.

(I was tempted to misspell the final word in the previous sentence for comic effect, but feel this post is already verging on gratuitous).

Overheard Conversation #11

Location: Bookshop on Bold Street: the Children's Section.
Characters: Yummy Mummy and a Small Boy (aged 5-ish)

Small Boy: But why do I need a diary, Mummy?
Woman: Because it will help you remember how to write, darling.
Small Boy: But I know how to write, Mummy. We do it at school all the time.
Woman: Yes, but it's the school holidays now and Mrs Jones said you had to keep a diary because last year you forgot how to write.
Small Boy: But I don't want a diary! I want the Thomas book!
Woman: You can have the Thomas book if you choose a diary.
(BEAT)
Small Boy: What's a diary?
Woman: A book you write in.
Small Boy: Oh. (BEAT). I've got one of those.
Woman: No, Benjy, that was your sister's French book. It was really very naughty of you to write in it.( SHE HOLDS UP A RED NOTEBOOK). How about this one?
Small Boy: Don't like red. (BEAT). Hate red. Red is yucky.
Woman: Well, there's lots of colours here to choose from ...
Small Boy: Pink. I want a pink diary.
Woman: Pink?
Small Boy (FIRMLY): It's my favourite colour in the whole world.
Woman (SIGHS): How about this nice blue one?
Small Boy: Pink. That one.
(HE WALKS OVER TO THE SHELF AND SNATCHES THE PINK NOTEBOOK HIS MOTHER IS ATTEMPTING TO HIDE BEHIND OTHER NOTEBOOKS).
Small Boy: This is a lovely diary, Mummy. (BEAT). I'm going to write in it now.
Woman: Let's wait until we get home, darling.
Small Boy: But I want to write now!
Woman: Benjy, Mummy has to go to Marks & Spencer's to get Daddy's cake.
(SMALL BOY IS NOW SEATED AT A BRIGHTLY COLOURED PLASTIC TABLE AND IS OPENING THE PINK NOTEBOOK).
Small Boy: I'll wait here.
Woman: No, you have to come with me, darling.
Small Boy (WAILS): But I want to write in my diary!
Woman (WARNING): Benjy ...
Small Boy: I'll forget how to write, Mummy! (BEAT). I think I've already forgotten a little bit.
Woman (EXHALING LOUDLY): Five minutes. Five minutes and then we have to go.
(SMALL BOY REACHES FOR A POT OF CRAYONS IN THE CENTRE OF THE TABLE, DELIBERATES, THEN CHOOSES A RED CRAYON).
Small Boy: I'm going to write hello. (BEAT). How do you write hello, Mummy?
Woman: Huh.
Small Boy (FORMS THE LETTER CAREFULLY): Mmm ...?
Woman: Eh.
Small Boy: Mmm ...?
Woman (WANDERS OVER TO THE BOOKSHELVES): Luh.
Smal Boy: Mmm ...?
Woman (CALLING): Luh.
(SMALL BOY SHRIEKS AND COVERS HIS MOUTH WITH HIS HAND).
Small Boy (UPSET): I've got a swear in my diary!
Woman (CONFUSED): What?
Small Boy (WAILING AND JABBING AT THE PAPER WITH HIS FINGER): I've got a swear in my diary!
Woman (REALISING AND SMILING): No, that's not a swear word, darling. Hell isn't a swear word.
Small Boy: Oh. (BEAT): Is it just fucking by itself, then?
(WOMAN GASPS)
Small Boy (SLOWLY): Fucking Hell.
Woman: Stop that!
Small Boy (VERY SLOWLY): Fuck-ing Hell.
Woman: I said stop that!
Small Boy (QUICKLY): Fucking Hell.
Woman: Your tongue will go black and fall out of your mouth!
Small Boy (SINGSONG): Fuck-ing He-ell, Fuck-ing He-ell ...
Woman (GRABS BOY'S ARM AND YANKS HIM TO HIS FEET): Stop that this instant! You're making Mummy very cross!
Small Boy (SMILES. BEAT): Fucking Hell -
Woman: I'll tell Daddy!
Small Boy (LOUDER): Fucking Hell.
Woman: I said stop it!
Small Boy (NOW CHANTING): Fucking Hell, Fucking Hell, Fucking Hell.

(WOMAN DRAGS SMALL BOY DOWN THE STAIRS AND OUT OF THE SHOP. THE PINK DIARY IS LEFT ON THE TABLE).

Roll credits