I know, I know. You cannot control yourselves. It's fair enough really, being as I am just super fantastic, so I shall forgive you your sins for I am not a vengeful god am don't fancy doing anyone in at this late stage.
SO! ANYWAY!
To the results.
Ah balls, you all know the winner anyway. It was predictable after the first, ooh, ten minutes. Bob seems to have a way with people (that possibly involves headlocks and vast sums of non-existent cash, and other things...) that just can't be beat.
In reverse order, in third place we have the lovely...
Cat!
In second place the adorable and smoochy...
Tippler!
And in first place, the new and undisputed heavyweight champeeeeen of the... no, wait... the new and undisputedly popular winner of Big Blogger with very nice teeth probably, is...
BOB!
With a whopping 45% of the vote, that is some hearty victory you have there. I'm impressed.
And that is well and truly that for another year. I shall be accosting all the evicted and losing housemates shortly to make sure that they send all their winners' prizes to Bob promptly, so don't think you're getting out of this that easily you filthy monkeys. And do make sure that you tune in at possibly the same time although maybe later in the year next year when I will be taking it a bit easier than this time around, cos to be honest with you I'm fucking knackered.
If anyone wants to send me donations or chocolates (or cigars) I won't turn them away. No really. Send me stuff. Please!
Right, back to my beverage(s).
Talk amongst yourselves, and can all the remaining losers and the winner all congregate in the Diary Room for a big fat love-in with me and Supply Blogger and any of the previous housemates who fancy a bit of a knees-up and a chin-wag and any other things that involve two words with a hyphen in the middle.
Big Blogger is a game. I've very much enjoyed playing. Writing the posts has been fun, I've found some new blogs to read, and I feel like I've made some new virtual friends.
I'm delighted to have made it to the final three.
But here's the thing. I know I'm not going to win. And do you know what? I'm fine with that. Because I know some far more deserving people than I haven't made it this far. What I'm not fine with, though, is people making spiteful, silly comments about vote rigging. Why bother? Is anyone really that desperate to win an online popularity contest that they'd go to such lengths? I think not, even if the means exist.
I know I'm stealing Big Blogger's thunder here, but really, people, play nice.
Honestly.
Only a Game - Nichola (From the Original Big Brother, before it became rubbish and people were just after coverage in Heat magazine.)
Well, as Tippler writes there's just over four hours to go before the polls close and, short of a minor miracle, the Bobster appears to have clinched it.
Good work, fella, can't fault it. I've tried everything I can to catch the bugger up (short of paying for one of those poll cheat things, which even I'd draw the line at!) and all to no avail.
He got off to a flyer and has maintained a comfy lead from the start. And as I write it's 249 playing 202, so I concede it ain't possible to catch him. I'd ask the Cat to transfer all her votes to me but she pledged her allegiance the other way from the start. Bloody women.
I guess if I lived in Florida I might be able to demand a recount. But I don't. And who needs hundreds of hanging chads, anyway? One's enough, according to our lass...
So there you have it, it's really been great fun. A right good giggle. So thanks for having me. I'll definitely follow it next year.
21) I have a tattoo of a skull and crossbones (although the dye has worn out of the once-red eyes). But I'm not telling you exactly where it is.
22) I've been arrested and put in a cell three times on suspicion of smoking dope. But I've never been charged - I've never been big on the stuff but I've been at loads of parties wetc with people who have.. I once had a Friday night ruined when eight policemen turned up and searched the house. They had a month-long warrant with one day remaining. Obviously, we were a long way from the top of their list of suspects. Twats. One of the cops went through my bag of smelly washing. Served him right.
23) I have been ironing my own shirts since about the age of nine. One day I'll master the technique.
24) I have supported Manchester United ever since I could kick a football. And, before you start, in the 70s and 80s we were crap. And, yes, I've been to Old Trafford loads of times.
25) I was once kidnapped in the middle of a busy pub in York by masked men who threw a bag over my head, tied me up, bundled me into the back of a vehicle and kept me overnight. It turned out they were members of the Territorial Army who had been persuaded to kidnap me in aid of a music charity I was involved with. Listeners to the local radio station pledged money to keep me in the barracks til the morning. I nearly shat myself at first but they were a good bunch, fed me and gave me beer and fags. It was quite a laugh in the end but I wouldn't recommend it...
26) Three of my last four girlfriends have been American. I am starting to worry about this.
27) I don't wear a watch. Haven't for years. I stop the things, somehow.
28) I'm excellent at remembering song lyrics. And I can hear whole songs in my head - the harmonies, all the instrument parts, everything.
29) Since childhood I've always bitten my fingernails. Recently, I've noticed that I've stopped. There was no conscious decision and no special effort, so I've no idea why. Just wish I could do the same with the bloody Marlboros.
30) I was born on a Thursday. So I've 'far to go'; So I'd best be off, then... So long, it's been a blast.
21) I’m an impulsive and compulsive shopper. I often realise immediately I get home that I don’t actually need or want what I’ve bought, but am too lazy to return it. The local charity shops love me.
22) When people tell me their good news, I smile and say “How wonderful that you’re pregnant/have a brilliant new job/have met your soul mate!”, but secretly wonder when these things will happen for me. Or indeed if they ever will.
23) I don’t like a single sport. Watching or playing.
24) My favourite genre of film is horror. Not cool. Show me a movie where there’s supernatural goings on or a spot of slashing and I’m extremely happy. Unfortunately, none of my friends enjoy horror flicks and not a single one of my many ex boyfriends has appreciated them. I don’t much care. Watching them alone is fine, and means I can screech and jump to my heart’s content.
25) For my height - 5ft 6 - I have surprisingly small feet - a size 4. As well as being small, my feet are grotesquely wide. This means finding shoes can be difficult. Which is a shame, as buying shoes is one of my favourite things.
26) Regardless of the time of year or my footwear of choice, I always have painted toenails. They are almost always red, but tonight I painted them a rather insipid and not quite nice coral colour. Sadly, I am too lazy to re-do them.
27) Five years ago, I had a major crisis and called my mother in absolute hysterics. She told me to stop being a drama queen and said that she couldn’t talk for long as she and my brother were going off to have dinner at the local Beefeater. I could perhaps have understood her haste to get off the phone if they had a table booked at the Ritz, but the Beefeater? I still feel bitter about this, and haven’t ever asked for her help or support since.
28) I have never stolen anything from a shop. I do, however, regularly liberate pens, A4 pads and post-it notes from my office. But surely everyone does that?
29) When I concentrate hard, I tend to poke my tongue out of the right hand side of my mouth. I have been told that this makes me look cute. Really, I suspect it makes me appear more than a little retarded.
I was down the local cash-and-carry last night, browsing the imported cigars and rifling through the pick-n-mix when my eyes casually drifted towards the magazine racks.
I aspied Jennifer Aniston on the cover of Cosmo, as you do, J-Lo on the cover of Marie Claire, also as you do, Rod Stewart and some braindead knitting needle hamming it up on the front of OK!, as you really really shouldn't do, a random pneumatic bimbo gracing the front of Loaded, to which I have no comment, and - Shock! Horror! - our one and only Tippler baring all to the world on the cover of that most sacred of all the glossy shitmags for men, Nuts. And not only that, but further inside was a full-page spread on nipple-slips that focused largely on Paris Hilton, Cat and (sweet Jesus!) Bob. Save my soul!
I was apoplectic, whatever that means, and I almost passed out in a pique of dumbfoundedness!
Quite obviously I had to purchase the offending article, as evidence of this nature is just too good to leave unfingered, whipped my trusty scanner out and hereby present to you the first sighting of the Big Blogger housemates in their natural habitat: The Z-list.
Plus, in case you were wondering, my sausage is far more substantial and meaty than his.
When I was fifteen years old, my parents shipped my sister and me off from our suburban Orange County, California digs to spend the summer with my aunt in the western sticks of Greater Cincinnati. It was pretty much the country -- they only had cistern water and the house was down an unpaved road in the middle of the woods. I stayed in a disused trailer 200 yards away from the house. There was no toilet in my "apartment", so I just had to pee in the woods or walk down to the house if I had to poo. It was the first time I ever felt happy to be on my own and I really enjoyed the independence, even if it was in the remnants of a trailer park.
My uncle taught me to ride a motorcyle that summer, which I'm sure was completely illegal.
I spent most of my 3rd year at college stoned, playing Euchre. I love Euchre, and can spend hours playing it online.
During a Little League baseball game (I was about 10 years old), I won the game by striking out out a boy named Roger, who was one of my school's meanest bullies. For the next few months, I hid behind cars when I'd see him walking home from school because I was afraid he'd beat me up.
I dressed as an old lady during carnival in Provincetown one year. It's amazing how many hot boys will make out with you when you say, "Come kiss your grandma."
I doubt that anybody truly comprehends how lucky and grateful I feel to be where I am today.
I went out for a haircut around 11 o'clock this morning and have just gotten home almost 12 hours later. It's been one of those perfectly amazing, unplanned London days and nobody but me knows it. And, well, Larry, 'cause I made him come out and join me for a couple drinks and a smart (overpriced) al fresco dinner in Soho. I was going to list this as a "nobody knows," but it's not really in the spriit of the exercise so I'll leave it as an unnumbered introduction. A lagniappe, if you will.
Right. Moving on then.
Apparently, I wrote my mother a letter on or about the day my dad moved out in the spring of 1981. I don't remember writing said missive, but I got an email from Mom yesterday saying she'd found it in a box of bob-mentos, and that it still means a lot to her. I shudder to think what I wrote. I was, after all, a very worldly 18-year old college freshman at the time.
I have been "cleared" by the U.S. Secret Service on two separate occasions. The first was in 1981 as part of the event staff for a George W. H. Bush (that's the idiot's father, who was Vice President at the time) speaking engagement at Wittenberg University. The second time was to wait on Ted Kennedy at a private dining function in New Orleans. I can honestly report that Secret Service agents are hotter in the movies than in real life.
One of my biggest fears is having to undergo open heart surgery. My first lover had a valve replacement not long after we moved in together and several of my relatives have had bypass surgeries. Both of my grandfathers died of heart problems. It just all seems so horrible and painfully invasive and I feel like I'm doomed to have to go through it someday. I prefer my pain killer tablets to be cocktail enhancers, not something I need to get through the day.
Despite all odds, I will most likely die from being hit by a bus. I can't tell you how many times I've been walking down the street (in NY and London), listening to my walkman/discman/iPod, all caught up in that day's soundtrack-to-the-movie-that-is-my-life, seen something shiny like the Chrysler Building or Big Ben and thought "wow, can you believe I live here?". I'll then walk right into the street without paying any heed to traffic. Attention Deficit Disorder is a horrible, yet very real and deadly thing.
There is a teacher at school who I am fascinated by — in a do-you-want-to-take-a-shower kind of way.
I met someone a few years ago who changed my life and I grew to love very much. We don't see each other any more, but not a day goes by that I don't wish I could talk to him.
Back when I experimented with the whole sexualty thing (it was college, we all did it), I was told I was quite good at the cunnilingus. This bothers some of my "gold star" gay friends.
I hate the way my teeth look, but I'm afraid they'll look fake if I were to get veneers. And I'm too old to wear braces a second time.
Whenever I have to interact with authority figures, I'm afraid that I'm going to get into trouble.
I have had very vivid recurring dreams where I've murdered people and gotten away with it. I always wake up just before I'm going to be caught and then can't get back to sleep because I'm worried it might have actually happened. It turns out Larry has had similar dreams (although he rarely remembers his dreams .. because he is a freak) so we wonder if maybe we weren't some kind of serial killers in previous lives. This may explain why I'm so intrigued by Dexter.
The bodies are in a blue car which has been pushed into a swampy lake, surrounded by trees, in or near the mountains.
I've never touched a dead person, and when I was asked to be a pall bearer at my grandfather's funeral, I politely freaked and told my mother there was absolutely no way I could carry a coffin.
11) Until I get paid on Monday, I have £2.88 in my purse and no money in the bank. I am frighteningly bad at managing my finances, and it scares me. It is, however, a five week month.
12) My favourite flowers are anthuriums. I always have lilies in the house though, because they’re cheaper and easier to get hold of. Consequently, when anyone sends me flowers, they are usually lilies.
13) I’m dangerously addicted to trashy magazines, and spend a fortune on them. I appreciate that this is ridiculous, as they generally have few articles of interest and they just make me feel bad about my figure. But I can’t stop.
14) When I was ten, my parents bought me a very nice silver ring for my birthday. I lost it in a boating pond. I was terrified of getting a row, so when my mum spotted that I wasn’t wearing it, I told her someone must have stolen it in school when I took it off for PE. There was a huge hoo-ha and an investigation of my classmates, complete with bag searching and a lot of lectures about stealing being wrong. Needless to say, the “culprit” did not own up and the ring was not discovered. I have never admitted this before now.
15) I have slept with two Englishman, one Irishman and a number of Scotsmen. I have never slept with a Welshman.
16) I hate going to the gym, but am also afraid of getting fat. Consequently, I walk everywhere, and do an evening exercise routine each night at home. I am too mean to buy weights, so I exercise my bingo wings away using two large tins. One is three-bean soup and the other is spaghetti hoops.
17) In my twenties, I could often be heard to say that I would never get married and that I saw it as a form of ownership. I fear this has become a self-fulfilling prophesy.
18) I have a minor phobia about going for a pooh in any toilet which is not my own. Yes, I know that everyone has bodily functions and this is stupid, but I can’t help it. Staying in other people’s houses fills me with horror.
19) Like Tippler, I don’t drive. I wasn’t interested at 17 when all my friends were learning, and when I did take lessons in my mid-twenties, I was remarkably bad at it. After 20 lessons, by which time I’d never made it onto a main road, I gave up. My instructor was absolutely delighted.
20) My preferred soap opera is Hollyoaks. Even though I know it’s meant for 16-year-olds.
11) I was once voted karaoke champion at the busy Town Arms pub on the banks of the River Trent in Nottingham. It was 'Barry Manilow' night... The prize - pink champagne.The organisers presented all entrants with a fake nose before they did their stuff. I didn't need one...
12) I have co-written a play that appeared at the Edinburgh Fringe.
13) In 1984 I was co-organiser of the York Rock festival on Knavesmire Racecourse. The line up included Spear of Destiny, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Sisters of Mercy and the Chameleons. It rained, the roof leaked and I had to dry Spear's drumkit with a hairdryer at 7am. Later, Ian McCulloch was punched in the mouth by a security guard. The two incidents were unconnected.
14) I have delivered a speech (on the topic of a lack of music venues) to a full sitting of the York City Council. Afterwards, the Lord Mayor asked me to join his political party. I declined.
15) I have had a piss stqnding next to David Essex. Three times in one night at two different venues. I'd also served him a drink in the afternoon.
16) I've slept in a shop doorway in Driffield on my way back from a Thin Lizzy gig. In the morning, I nicked a bottle of milk from a doorstep.
17) At one all-night party, I once shagged all three sisters from the same family. Without any of them knowing about the others. They found out later, like. I was not invited to any of their weddings.
18) Like Penfold, I am uncircumcised. But unlike Penfold, I've never flashed my nob at any members of REM.
19) I'm a half-Scottish Yorkshirman with Jewish ancestry. So don't even think about asking me to get the beers in. Ain't gonna happen.
20) I once met Princess Diana briefly when she opened a Barnado's in Harrogate. I recall being overwhelmed with one thought and one thought only: Christ, I'd shag that!
I have an odd Pavlovian response which makes me to need to pee whenever I'm within 3 blocks of home. A few years ago, after a night out of drinking, Larry and I got into the lift/elevator of our flat/apartment building and I was overcome by the need to relieve myself. It was either wet myself or jump up and down.
I opted for the later, which caused the elevator to become unbalanced and freeze between floors. The fire department had to be called and, 45 minutes later, we were pulled out of the car, three and one-half floors below ours. I didn't have time to thank and/or fantasize about my uniformed rescuers before I ran upstairs, fumbled with the lock, and had the most soothing piss of my life.
Two days later, the doorman of our building asked if we'd "taken advantage of our alone time" in the elevator, as he thought that might be kind of hot. I told him it might have been if I hadn't had to wee so badly. He said that made it hotter. Eew.
I have been asked to pee on people during sex, and I just can't. Normally though, I'm not pee shy.
In a drunken, jealous rage I made someone afraid for their life ... to the point that they kicked me out of their house (where I lived at the time). I'm not very proud of that, and even though I apologized, I still feel bad about it. My therapist told me to let it go.
I let my therapist go, but still think about that night every now and again ... and am grateful I've grown out of that part of my life.
Seventeen years later, I don't think I've ever been more content.
I don't have my nipple ring any more for two reasons: 1) I took it out before going to the pool at a work conference in Palm Springs 'cause I got tired of answering stupid questions about it; 2) I completely forgot that I left it in the ashtray on the hotel bedstand.
I'm painfully shy about going up to talk to people in a place I don't know, which has led me to keep company with most anybody who'll talk to me in a new environment. This is in sharp contrast to me being a blabbermouth once I feel comfortable around people.
One of my most humbling moments was when my dad said to me, over several Manhattans at a bar I'd been fired from, "did it ever occur to you that I might be jealous of your life?"
Another one of my most humbling moments was being overwhelmed by the Masai Mara. Larry was asleep in the back of the safari Jeep. Joseph was driving in the front. I was in the middle of the open-air vehicle, alone and just thinking about being in the middle of Africa and seeing how beautiful it was. And then I started crying. I'm such a big girl sometimes.
I reckon I've tried, and pretty much enjoyed, every recreational drug there is save one — heroin. I'm afraid I'd like it, and as fuzzy as I can be on the good/bad thing .... that would probably trend towards bad.
For as much of a city boy as I am, living in Yellowstone National Park was probably one of the best experiences of my life. That said, I did miss escalators after about six weeks.
1) I have a blog. Not news to you, but something not many people in my real life know. This means that I am unable to pimp for votes, and that this is effectively a two-horse race between Bob and Tippler. Go Bob!
2) My porn star name is Mischief Marshall. Which I think is quite a good one.
3) On two separate occasions, I have gone to have a tattoo done, and fainted before the needle even came close to my skin. Strangely, despite my needle phobia, I had no problem at all when it came to having my navel pierced. I still don’t have a tattoo.
4) When I meet men, I immediately assess whether or not I would have sex with them. Regardless of their age, status or sexual orientation. I find it helps pass the time in meetings quite nicely.
5) I have a single, wiry dark hair which grows by my right nipple. I pluck it obsessively and live in horror of it poking through the skin on a night when I have company.
6) Since the age of 13, I have needed to wear glasses. My parents bribed me to do well in my Highers with contact lenses. I hated wearing my glasses, so until I got the contact lenses I spent the best part of three years wandering around blind unless my parents could see me.
7) I cried more when my dog died than I did when my dad died. Not because I didn’t love my dad, but because it just seemed easier not to deal with it at the time. I managed not to deal with it at all for six months and then had a mini-breakdown. As opposed to a mini-break which was probably what I needed at the time.
8) I am not allergic to anything. In these times where everyone seems to have intolerances galore, I suspect it would make me a bit more interesting if I was.
9) As a child, I desperately wanted a pony, and my parents wouldn’t buy me one. A sensible decision, as we lived on a housing estate, not a farm. For around six months, I decided I was a pony – called Misty Morning – and trotted everywhere, jumping over things and neighing. I was about four, and my mother seriously worried that I would have to be taken to see a psychologist. Prior to being Misty Morning, I was a dog called Molly and would only eat from a bowl on the floor.
10) I have never officially lived with a partner. This is partly due to a fear of being trapped which stems from a previous abusive relationship. It is also partly due to the fact that I am a selfish control freak and the idea of sharing fills me with horror.
1) I once won The Licensee 'Beer Writer of the Year' award. Presented at the annual Parliamentary Beer Club dinner by ex-chancellor Kenneth Clarke, the fat, Tory bastard. Oh, and I got a thousand quid.
2) I've dressed up as Dolly Parton - complete with plastic tits - and performed a strip tease right down to my boxers in a busy pub in Knaresborough. This was for the benefit of the very first Comic Relief.
3) I was in the first series of a cheesy TV quiz show called Talkabout. It was originally shown in Yorkshire but then went nationwide. I was recognised as far away as Worcester, woo! Incidentally, my colleague and I were on for several days and won about 700 nicker.
4) I've bungee jumped twice but have since developed a real fear of heights. Never again. Not a chance.
5) My first pet was a dog. Named (by me) Nothin'. And yes, I used to run around the neighbourhood when he got out shouting 'Nothin'! Noooothin'!' amid much hilarity.
6) I don't drive. It's not that I've lost my licence, I've just never driven. Not interested. The beer would have to go, for a start...
7) I briefly played for Lancashire as a schoolboy footballer. I would have been the next George Best but I never was because, at the time, he was still around. Oh, and because I was crap.
8) I sang in an all-journalist band called Spike. And supported Shed Seven. They were great. We weren't.
9) I have had three-way sex with two women on three occasions. But never with another bloke.
10) My ex-wife is three months older than my step-mum. That made for a few raised eyebrows at the wedding.
Big Blogger doesn't generally cry but today I'm making an exception. Oh yes, I'm very much in touch with my feminine side and I'm not afraid to let everyone know it.
I even bake fairy cakes occasionally.
Stop sniggering at the back!
They're all fluffy and I use hundreds and thousands and... I said SHUT UP!!
Oh fuck this, time to evict someone.
That someone, as appeared apparent pretty early on and which has come - again - as something of a surprise, is Angelalala with a whopping 46% of the vote. A surprise in that she appeared to be one of the favourites all along, but what can you do eh? The public are a fickle and entirely unpredictable bunch of weirdos, as evidenced by the fact that Ricky Gervais is hugely popular for absolutely no good reason whatsoever.
But that's a whole other can of worms.
So Anglelala my dear, it is with yet another tear in my eye that I must ask you to leave the Big Blogger house immediately. You may try and bribe me with 'a bit of leg', but the lady's not for turning, so it's probably a pointless exercise. You can do it if you want though. Oh, and please pop in and have a word or two with Supply Blogger before the evening's out.
Sniff.
Which brings me on to the final task of this year's Big Blogger. Drum roll please Geoff.
"Your final task is to post a grand total of 30 things about yourself that most people other than yourself, your mother and your nearest and dearest do not know. I've recently had to come up with 18 of the thingsupon request, so I see no reason as to why you lot should get off scot free. I would like you to present these factoids in three small packets of ten a day, so you get this evening to have a think about it, Friday, Saturday and Sunday to post your stuff, and then Monday to try and relax, get the beers in and then settle round the BB coffee table for biscuits, tortillas and dips while I announce the result!
If you have previous engagements then you are free to post the thirty facts as and when you can. I mean, if you seriously want to post thirty seperate posts then feel free, but I may have to have you committed for crimes against sensible blogging.
Oh yeah, and if you've ever done any of these meme things before and you're thinking of cutting and pasting your previous effort then please don't. It's just not cricket is it?
The deadline is obviously next Monday evening at 9pm, as that's when this whole ruddy thing finishes"
There will be a final poll going up shortly too, and this will decide the winner.
The voting is for who you want to WIN. Not for who should be evicted or who should lose, as that would just be daft at this stage.
Now, I know there was a big hoo-ha about pimping and stuff a week or so ago, and normally apart from setting a 'go-pimp' task I wouldn't allow it, but seeing as this is the final week and that you're probably all going to be doing it anyway and that there really is no exact way in which I would be able to monitor it fully, feel free to pimp, cajole, butter up and sleaze your way to the top. If this was the real Big Brother the newspapers and magazines would be doing all the pimping for you anyway, so why should this be any different?
You should all be seasoned professionals at this anyway, plus this whole insane caboodle will all be over soon and I can therefore not get any more grief from anyone ever about whether you can or can't pimp, or whether this rule means this or that or whatever.
Rest assured, I shall be doing a full and thorough review of the rules before the next Big Blogger.
My hero story was sentimental, shmaltzy and involved Bette Midler singing the theme tune to Beaches.
Probably best all round that there's bog all point to me posting it.
Actually, sod it. I'm gonna post it anyway. I'm not dead just yet and, well, it's the principle, ain't it?
Anyone that's read my blog will know that my sis and I took our childhood abuser to court lately. He went to prison and we finally ended three decades of all round crappiness. Sis is known as 'the gobby one', always using her counselling training to confront people and never allowing a fight to go unshouted at. Me, I've always preferred to keep away from them all, let them stew in their own juice as long as they leave me and mine alone. I've just been living my own life in the background and being there for her when banging her head against walls got too much, listening to the endless analysis of conversations with our useless mother and generally having her children so she could study counselling (for me to then type up her essays) or go away for the weekend to have a break from it all.
The day of the sentencing we didn't get a chance to talk alone but later that evening I got an email from her with an attachment. I thought it was going to be one of those stupid amerian spelled fwds and sighed as I clicked it. As I read her text and heard Bette Middler singing I realised it wasn't.
She'd written 'Behind every big mouth is an even bigger heart. Thank you for being mine'
I’m no have-a-go-hero. In fact, I have racked my brains for this task almost as much as I had to to come up with a selfless act. So what follows is barely heroic. More an act of extreme stupidity. But here goes.
The hour was late, and a great deal of drink had been taken. We were on our way home from a party, four lads and myself. Merry, but not utterly plastered. We planned to finish that job with the bottles of Mad Dog 20:20 which were clanking in my handbag. We were students. And poor.
The walk was long, and we stopped off at the kebab shop. I’m not much of a night time eater, and indeed have never had a kebab, so I waited outside. And as I waited, two blokes came along and started being not quite nice to me. One of my lads came to my rescue immediately. The bad men were less than impressed with his intervention. What might be described as a scuffle followed. Fortunately, one of the more sensible of our number rescued all of us. The bad men went on their way.
Kebabs in hand - theirs, not mine - three of us formed a splinter group and started walking. The bad men were ahead of us, and finally turned off down a side street. We thought no more of it. Until we came to the side street. Unexpectedly, the bad men reappeared. What might be described as a full-on attack followed.
And one of the bad men had a claw hammer.
Now, I’m not especially brave, and I have never been involved in a physical altercation before or since. But something in me snapped. I realised that one of the bad men had my friend D pinned over the bonnet of a car and was bashing his head in with the hammer. I found myself clinging to his back, punching, clawing, biting and scratching, and screaming bloody blue murder. All three of us toppled to the ground. There was a lot of blood. The other bad man suddenly realised that they were in fairly serious trouble, and they legged it. Fortunately they chucked the hammer under a car, where it was later retrieved by the police and used as evidence. And, of course, we pretty much knew where they lived.
A long night in A&E beckoned. And interviews with the boys in blue. Funny how something like that sobers you up. We could have drunk the MD 20:20 but thought it best not to. No-one was really seriously hurt, but quite a few stitches were required. The biggest casualty of the whole affair was my red wool coat which was never the same again, despite repeated dry cleaning. The phrase “blood red” is actually wildly inaccurate when it comes to describing colours.
I was deemed something of a heroine by my boys, although thinking back, I was really something of an idiot.
(The following summer, there was a court case. I was more afraid then than I was during the actual incident. The guys did time for it. I was glad. They were very bad men indeed.)
I mean, if you're not a firefighter or a doctor or a soldier, say, then you don't go around saving lives or shoving a bomb up the enemy's arse and winning medals on a regular basis.
It's tough for a librarian, for example, to be a hero in the course of a normal day. Well, the opportunities aren't there as a rule, are they? Unless there's a load of armed robbers running around nicking copies of the latest Harry Potter. Then you'd have to attack them with library cards, or something.
But no, if you've got a normal job then being a hero is surely a case of how you react if, by chance, you ever happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And thus it was that myself and two mates were sitting having a beer in the King's Arms by the river in York. It's a famous pub, the one that floods, but that night it wasn't flooded.
Well, we'd have been fucking silly to be sat in it if it were under eight foot of smelly River Ouse water.
But though it was dry, it was brass monkey weather. Fookin' freezing, in fact. And we were nice and cosy by the fire sippling our pints of Samuel Smith's.
Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream came from outside. As a journalist it is my duty to a) chase ambulances, b) doorstep the victims of tragedy, c) make stuff up and d) run outside to see what the fuck's up when I hear a girl scream.
Even when it's minus three.
So out I dashed, followed by my two mates. There, on the quayside, was a girl. And there, in the river, was her numbskull boyfriend who'd thought it would be funny to jump off the bridge. Ho ho.
He was pissed, it was - as I've mentioned - freezing and the river was flowing fast. And he'd very recently got to the point of realising that the one thing it very obviously wasn't anymore was funny.
Fortunately there was a lifebelt (busloads of drunken Geordies chucking themselves off the bridge every race day had persuaded the local council that the lifebelt was a good idea). So I grabbed it, threw it in the water straight at the plonker's head, screamed at him to grab it and shouted to my mates to drag the guy towards the quayside steps. Then I went to calm the girl down.
A couple of minutes later and the lads had got the shivering piece of shit safely to the side. 'He's alright! We've got him!' shouted one of them. At this point, the winsome wench I was holding in a very protective and heroic manner decided to give me a hearty snog in gratitude for the communal saving of her boyfriend's life.
I even got a quick feel of her tits, too. She was happy to profer them, in fact.
Later, back in the pub, the guys were indignant. 'Hang on, T. Ok, you were the first out, you threw the belt - but we did all the huffing and puffing and pulling. Yet you got the snog AND copped a feel, ya bastard!'
Something heroic. Hmm. What the heck does that mean?
The Cambridge Online Dictionary describes heroic something which is "very brave or great." Doesn't sound like me at all.
There was a guy I worked with at Arnaud's who told people, for a few days at least, that I saved his life. We'd been setting up a dining room, joking around and eating appetisers we'd stolen found from the banquet in the next room. He started laughing at something and all of a sudden began wheezing and coughing and got this panicked look on his face. I went behind him, gave him the Heimlich and out flew a nasty piece of half chewed vol au vent.
"Dude, you saved my life," he said, and proceeded to tell people. All well and good until management started asking why he was eating the vol au vents.
I don't know that I did anything "brave or great" ... I just didn't want to have the guy croak and have to work the banquet by myself.
So I've dismissed this as a heroic deed. You just do the best you can with what you know, and I happened to know the Heimlich Maneuver.
One of my favourite Life Clubs workshops to run is called "You are Your Own Hero." It's all about looking at the qualities you admire in others and realising that you have them within yourself. Rather than ask myself all the workshop questions again ('cause I'm lazy, have to teach all day, and had lesson plans to prepare), I decided to email some of my own heroes and ask what I've ever done that's heroic.
(And one of the things I admire in my heroes is modesty.)
My 16-year-old nephew said, "you're always there for your family." I suppose that is a heroic deed for a teenager, as there probably was nothing more I wanted, when I was 16, than to get away. And now that I live 4,000 miles away, I've probably succeeded. But being so far away, I wonder if I'm really "there" for them?
One of my best and oldest friends (who just whomped the shit out of cancer) said, "staring down the barrel of the medical gun for all these years and not letting it get in the way of living your life well is pretty fucking heroic." Again ... you do what you have to do (and she'd be the first to agree with me on that ... some of us are just lucky.)
And then there's my sister, who is pretty much one of my biggest heroes. She said, "You've shown sooo many people that barely even know you how to laugh keep and going in the face of (pick one) dysfunction, disease, discrimination, terrorism. You listen, and even hear people. I like this about you the most."
Hero schmero. We're all just doing the best we can.
Big Blogger awoke this morning only to find that bedshaped had broken into his super-secure and oh-so provate boudoir and was in the process of attempting to reappropriate the fag ends of my used cigars, as well as pretty much anything else he could get his hands on that would help in the whole 'gettting off one's tits' procedure.
Upon investigation, I found half a length of hosepipe, two empty bottles of Tizer, a large quantity of blu-tack and a black lace bra down his roomy lycra shorts. Obviously, he didn't procure the bra or the Tizer from me. God forbid! And I'm not entirely sure how he was expecting to utilise the rest of his haul either, but that's all rather redundant now because upon being caught in the act he leapt out of my first floor window, did a triple salco dismount down the fire escape, evaded the hounds with a clever sidestep and a wee shimmy, and finally, unbelievably, even managed to outrun Geoff. I know!
So bedshaped has escaped from the house with his bong gear if not his dignity intact. It's a sad day in the history of Big Blogger, but criminals never win. Let this be a lesson to all the children out there who were thinking of stealing my bras nicking some jelly babies from the sweet shop counter. Don't do it. It's WRONG.
bedshaped has been removed from the poll with immediate effect and as was the case last week, if anyone has voted for him and wants to change their vote then please let me know.
Because of this only one person will be evicted on Thursday, so please keep those votes coming in.
BB
Nb. A large portion of this email may (or may not) be total bollocks and may (or may not) be a figment of my overactive imagination, but bedshaped is definitely no longer in the house. *sob*
One minutes it's all "I love you BB!" and the next it's all "I want to kill your first born BB!". And if that's not enough I have to live with the guilt and sadness that evicting all you lovely (and not so lovely) people brings.
Then I have to come up with all these splendid tasks, get the poll sorted out, keep an eye on everything, make sure the design and the sidebar are up to date, read everything, comment a bit, keep you all in your place AND make time to have half a bottle of rum and a couple of cubans every night. Cigars that is, cigars.
Life is hard, I can tell you.
Anyway, it's the last week, we're down to five, and it's task time yet again.
"For your first (and possibly last) task this week, given what's happening in the midlands at the moment and seeing how ordinary people are becoming heroes in the face of such terrible adversity, Big Blogger wants you all to reflect for a moment and tell us about the most heroic thing you've ever done. Simple as that."
The deadline for this task is Thurdsay evening at 9pm. There is a new poll going up in a few minutes, and by Thursday at 9pm (yes, definitely 9pm - I'm not adding an extra half hour on again) we will know who the last two evictees from the house will be and who therefore will be left in the final three. So once it's up, get voting for who you want to be kicked out. Again.
The final task will go up last thing on Thursday, and by Monday night next week we will know who is to be crowned Big Blogger 2007. WOOOO!!!
Right, I've got to shoot off. There are a couple of dusky maidens waiting in my private spa ready to give my feet a nice hearty rubbing, and stuff. Ahem.
Penfold, please join Clare in the Diary Room for shenanigans and, err, shit. You have been evicted thanks to a trusty 20p coin. And 46 people who don't fancy yours much.
Well, the extra half hour did absolutely nothing to affect the vote, which'll teach me to do that again.
So the final result which looks exactly as it did at 9.01pm is as follows:
There are also the re-votes, for the people who voted for Tippler and Joseph and who were allowed to change their votes. In this respect I was a bit disappointed as I only received TWO MEASLY EMAILS from people.
One vote for Penfold, and one for Clare.
Which means that yes, Clare, you are evicted. Where did it all go wrong? I must admit to being surprised by the way the poll went after the top three spurted off into the distance in the first few days of the week, but you really can't predict these things. At least I can't. I'm sad to say it, but here's a boot up the bum, and I expect to see you in the Diary Room shortly, crying gently whilst furiously puffing away at one of bedshaped's homemade bongs.
And would you look at that! With the extra vote for Penfold we have a tie for second place between Bob and Penfold, each of them sitting uncomfortably on 46 votes.
What should I do?
I don't really want to have to toss a coin but I will if I have to. If anyone has any better idea of how to settle on a loser I'll gladly accept your suggestions.
So please, REALLY, the comment box is below. Write in it. NOW.
Welcome to the home of Big Blogger 2007. For the next eight weeks or so we will be watching (well, reading) the housemates as they complete their tasks, eake out a meagre existence, and do everything in their power to convince you, the blogging public, that they should be the ones to win the title of Big Blogger 2007. Who will win? You decide... (I could swear I've heard that before somewhere.)
Click on this link if you require any further clarification. And in case anyone is still utterly confused, here are The Rules.
The Housemates
Check out all the freaky weirdos beautiful specimens we've caged up just for you - and all in the name of entertainment too!
And the newbies too:
The House
It's missing a library, a nail salon and a coffee bar, but other than that it's a design masterpiece. You lucky people!
The Diary Room
Little Blogger AKA Minxy is always about nowhere to be seen, and therefore she won't do you a fantastic line in body stockings. Medium-sized Blogger IS there however and he has the world record for making rollies. So GO! NOW!! Do it, before it's too late!
A Concise History
Click the links to go straight to each task and/or each particular housemate's downright ludicrous response:
If you love Big Blogger in an almost entirely non-physical way then be a good sort and whack one of these attractive Big Blogger-themed thingies into your sidebar.
Our Links
Huge thanks go to Lucy Pepper for her wonderful illustrations.
Plus, even though he's not blogging anymore, let's remember Watski for coming up with this godawful idea in the first place.
AND, if you've got 300 years spare time on your hands you could use it to re-read the whole of the original 2005 Big Blogger event. Go on, I dare you.
The only other place we should really link to is the official BIG BROTHER website. After all, they're the ones who bought the rights to the concept in the first place; we're just adjusting it for our own purposes. I'm sure they'll understand.
So if you want intellectual stimulation and laughs-a-plenty, stay right where you are. However, if you want boredom, drudgery and maybe some tits and arse, go there instead.
I know where I'm going. Okay, see you later...
Legal Mumbo-Jumbo
The idea may not be original but everything else on here is of our own making and 100% original. So don't go borrowing unless A) you link back to us, or B) you ask us really really nicely beforehand.
