Y is for (Best of) You: Why I love Dave Grohl #AtoZChallenge #FooFighters #DaveGrohl

Reason 1.  Just because:

Reason 2.  The music, man:

Reason 3.  Dave doesn’t care about looking ridiculous:

Reason 4.  Dave loves his mum.  And she’s just written a book all about how to raise a rock star:

Reason 5.  Even after he breaks his leg on stage, he carries on playing – whilst they plaster his leg:

Reason 6.  The Foo Fighters played a concert in Cesena, Italy, after 1,000 fans invited them with this amazing performance of Learn to Fly:

Reason 7. He’s officially the nicest man in rock:

Reason 8.  This video and this protest against the Westboro Baptist Church:

Reason 9.  Been in a legendary rock band.  Twice:

Reason 10. Oh, so many reasons:

 

 

X is for eXhausted equals eXisting Content: Summer of 83 #AtoZChallenge

I was struggling to find a post for X.  It’s been a busy week at work, I’ve been unwell and I was knackered.  So I decided to cheat.  You’ve got an defective title and an old piece about the local pool that I dug up from a writing course.  Enjoy.

The summer of 1983. No rain for two months and the temperature was hitting 100 degrees. I was only fourteen at the time and it’s been over thirty years, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. Although, for my generation, there was nothing like the summer of ’76 and we still bring it up every summer.

‘Phew, it’s a scorcher today.’

‘You’re not wrong there.’

‘Not as hot as ’76 though.’

‘Hell no, that was the summer to beat all summers.’

This particular day I was slumped on the edge of the kerb, moulding melted tarmac into balls to flick at my brother, when my best friend, Anna, shouted across the street from her bedroom window. ‘Oy! D’you wanna go down the pool?’

The local outdoor pool was possibly the only place to escape the relentless heat. Throwing the last of the tarmac balls at my brother, I ran inside to slip my bikini under my shorts and t-shirt. With rolled-up towels under our arms, we headed off to the pool; hugging the shade of walls and fences, our flip-flops either slapping against the scorching pavement or crunching the sun-bleached grass.

At the pool, a carpet of beach towels was crowned with bodies toasted and burnt, long ribbons of skin peeling off noses and shoulders like strips of masking tape.   Sun cream in the ‘80s was a mere afterthought; we’d maybe go for some Factor 4 Hawaiian Tropic, its exotic coconut smell conjuring up locations visited by Judith Chambers on Wish You Were Here…?

We found a spot in between a family who’d brought all the trappings for a full day at the pool (deck chairs, radio, windbreak, knotted hankies, and a proper picnic with egg sandwiches, pork pies, bottles of cherryade and coconut macaroons), and a group of teenage boys who’d just brought themselves.   We lay out our towels, tucking our purses underneath, confident that they were well hidden from thieves, even though everyone else at the pool had hidden their valuables in exactly the same place.

I peeled off my shorts and t-shirt to reveal my new white bikini. It was almost identical to one I’d seen a photo of Jamie Lee Curtis wearing on Malibu Beach. Anna was wearing a red one piece with a very low cut halter neck. Flicking our hair back and pushing our chests out, we surreptitiously looked to see if we’d caught the attention of the boys. Success. The boys’ eyes followed us as we made our way to the edge of the pool, sashaying from side to side in what we imagined was a seductive manner.

The water was full of screaming kids and old ladies wearing flowery caps but it still looked inviting and refreshing. We counted to three and leapt in. The unheated water was freezing and we screamed as we came up for air.   A couple of minutes were enough before we climbed out of the pool.

The lifeguard, up high on his lookout chair, grinned widely and gave us a thumbs-up.

We shyly waved back. ‘Ooh, he’s lush,’ said Anna. ‘I’ve been trying to get him to notice me for weeks.’

As we made our way back to our towels, the group of teenage boys leapt to their feet, whistling and clapping our arrival.

‘Looking good,’ shouted a tall, blond boy, whilst a chubby boy barked, ‘Honk honk!’ as he made squeezing motions with his hands held out in front of him.

Anna turned to me, a puzzled look on her face, which quickly turned to horror, the whites of her eyes enormous, as she gaped at my bikini. ‘OH MY GOD!’

I looked down to see that my bikini – my glamorous, celebrity endorsed bikini – was now as substantial and see-through as tissue paper.

‘Nice nerps,’ winked Chubby, ‘don’t need to ask if you’re smuggling peanuts.’

I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me, tears streaming down my burning face. The whistles and shouts pursued me as I sprinted to the exit, Anna stumbling behind with our clothes and purses clutched to her chest.   We ran through the gates before crouching at the back of the car park to put on our clothes.

‘Was it really bad?’ I sobbed, attempting to pull on my t-shirt without revealing a single inch of bikini.

‘Nooooo.   It wasn’t that bad,’ said Anna, patting my shoulder. ‘I mean, you could totally see your nipples. And your pubes. But apart from that, it wasn’t too bad.’

‘That’s it. I’m never coming here again.’

And I didn’t. Not for the rest of that blistering summer anyway. When my friends were all heading off for a cooling, revitalising swim, I stayed at home. I might have been hot but that was a hell of a lot better than flashing to the whole town.

When I finally did return the following summer, I made sure my swimsuit was made out of the thickest, sturdiest material I could find.   And if I heard low whispers behind my back (Heh heh, that’s her…totally see-through…saw everything), I just held my head high and remembered that old Mae West quote: ‘It’s better to be looked over than overlooked.’

 

 

 

W is for The Wedding #AtoZChallenge

The bride and groom leave the church.  The bride looks lovely, as all brides do, but this one is especially beautiful.  Ignoring the ‘no confetti’ signs, the guests throw handfuls into the frosty air, where it dances like snowflakes.

The groom catches hold of his bride’s hand and lifts it to his lips.

‘Happy?’ he mouths.  She nods, but her eyes glance away from him.

She whispers in his ear, before walking away to where I wait: silently, patiently.  She takes a single white rose from her bouquet and lays it gently on my grave.

‘This is for you, Mum.’

frost-on-the-tombstone-liz

Another 100 word flash fiction post today. This one is for Friday Fictioneers, using the prompt above.

V is for (Silicon) Valley #AtoZChallenge #siliconvalley

silicon-valley-s2-key-art-16x9-1

Ok, ok, so it’s another post on a TV programme.  I really don’t watch that much TV. Honestly.

It’s more that I only like to watch good TV that’s worth talking about: carefully selected dramas or comedies. No soaps; no shows about DIY, cooking or babies (with the exception of Bake Off); and no shows that involve voting for anyone, whether they’re singing, dancing or lost in a jungle. And I’d gouge out my eyes with the remote control before I’d watch any sort of ‘reality’ TV that features orange, trout-pouted, scary-eyebrowed potty mouths (and that’s just the men. Seriously), with the morals and alcohol tolerance of alley cats. God, I’m old.

However, I heartily recommend Silicon Valley.  Warning: if you don’t like juvenile humour, swearing (tastefully done, of course) and tech talk, don’t read any further and definitely DON’T watch it.

But if that doesn’t put you off, then read on, because it is hi-la-ri-ous. I don’t often LOL at things I see or read – be it on the internet or in real life/TV (same thing) – but I do at Silicon Valley, which follows a group of young men who found a startup tech company.

The funniest episode, ‘Optimal Tip to Tip Efficiency (Emmy nominated, folks!), features a scene where our heroes are presenting their product at a technology competition. As they prepare for their slot, it’s not looking hopeful. One of the guys attempts to motivate the team with the declaration that they’re going to win even if he has to pleasure every member of the audience. What follows is a scene of problem-solving genius as they attempt to do the math on how long this would actually take him and if he could manage to complete his task during the presentation.

The group take the dick dilemma as seriously as any computer conundrum, filling a whiteboard with equations and diagrams to determine the ‘Mean Jerk Time’.  A mathematically sound paper has even been written, demonstrating exactly how they could achieve satisfaction.  Pure class (but only if you like dick jokes, deadpan humour, swearing and are not easily offended etc etc).

New series of Silicon Valley on Sky Atlantic on Monday nights at 10.10pm.

U is for Yew #AtoZChallenge #SixWordStoryChallenge

After my success last week (payment on its way to the click farm), today’s A-Z Challenge post for U* is another Six Word Story.

The prompt was Leave.  I may have misread it:

Yew, oak…you did say ‘leaves’??

*Yeah, I know.  But it’s my blog, my rules.

T is for The Trip: Three Line Tales #AtoZChallenge #3linetales #thetriptospain

Another mash-up for today’s post.  It’s my first entry into Three Line Tales (pretty self-explanatory) using the photo prompt below, which reminded me of the lovely Michelin starred restaurants that Rob Brydon and Steve Coogan are enjoying as they constantly bicker, joke and try to outdo each other with their impressions on The Trip to Spain.

But what are they actually thinking?

Rob: Steve is so good at doing Mick Jagger, he was nominated for an Oscar and he’s got all his own hair;  I’m just a light-entertainment whore and I can’t even do that as well as James bloody Corden.

Steve: Hmmm, I’d kill for a burger and a milkshake…and a large brandy…when can I mention Philomena again?

Rob: Oh, shut up and kiss me, for heaven’s sake. 

 

 

 

S is for Saturday #NoTimeToWrite #AtoZChallenge

Busy day so haven’t had time to come up with anything but don’t want to miss a day of the A-Z so it’s a picture round-up of my Saturday.*

*Yes, HWW, this post is a cop-out and not up to scratch.

**Ah, Slimming World, thou art a cruel mistress.