#bridgetbythebridge

#bridgetbytheclosedforthreemonthsbridge

 

 

There has been a lot of noise about just how shit 2016 was. Haaaa Chimaamaa the circle of life, it is a path unwinding, etc. Elton speaks the truth of the ancient Gods…and he is the only one 2016 left alive to act as their earthly messenger.

 

In 2016, very sadly, a lot of things departed; Jareth, Snape, His Purpleness, A European Great Britain, the voting intelligence of any human and maybe even the cats not living in an urban UK metropolis, the value of the Sterling, Princess Fucking Leia, George Fucking Michael, Sunshine, New Girl, Australia’s Olympic Gold Medals, Australia’s Eurovision win #wewererobbed The list of leavers goes on!

 

Even more depressingly, a lot of things arrived; Boris Fucking Johnson, Donald Fucking Trump, Zika, The Omnipresent Face of Farage (unfortunately not a cheap chemist cologne), Madonna’s 24 year 4 hour late Sydney show, my third chin and (for those of us dedicated to Sir David A) we were even treated to one of the seven biblical plagues, the South Asian Locusts.

 

Hakuna Ma-fucking-tata.

 

My Little Real Life Pony

 

The slightly warmer world is still turning, the slightly dumber Bieber still has phenomenal abs, the more than slightly destroyed Aleppo looks like it might make it through the end of the month, the slightly millionaire-er Adele is still reigning supreme and Her slightly fluey Majesty is still kicking on strong. #noneofusreallylikechurch

 

And me, not-so-little old Bridget by her closed-for-three-months-of-this-year Bridge. Well I didn’t chuck it all in either. Albeit, there were some pretty close shaves!

 

Would you believe that turning 40 was actually the best thing that happened to me this year?

 

Surrounded by my favourite people, surrendering my little Thamesside flat to family from afar we feasted on fish, we frolicked in matching T-shirts and we Frenched. As in, we went to France.

 

We risked an Air Traffic Control Strike to visit my French Exchange Family and a closed-for-the-holidays museum. The Smartarse saw the birthplace of the A380, Squeal got her Elsa on for the first time in snow, The Art-sist-ologer and I shared a bed for 4 weeks without killing each other. But most importantly, like Madonna in Lucky Star, I was accompanied by my omnipresent duo of back up dancers. Over my right shoulder was my Motherbear, over my left, my lover Bear*. I was safe, I was loved, I was happy. #intakesavillage

 

Unbeknownst to me, “she’s behind you!” that same week, a series of events would unfold that would bring to bear one of the most confidence shattering slaps-to-the-face of my adult life. I am well past it now, and far better off as a result. Looking back at a shitstorm is easy when your plane is jet propelled with pride, with love, with integrity, and with a sense of humour seasoned in more countries, more adventures and more glasses of Pinot Grigio than any little mean girl.

 

And we did so much!

 

Not one but TWO mud obstacle races. I can Clean & Press 40kg, Deadlift 110kg and Single Arm 24kg. That might mean nothing to you, to some it will seem pitiful; but for a woman who has licked, sipped and sucked her way from one end of the globe to the other, it is no insignificant feat. #strongasanox

 

I have a phenomenally satisfying new job. I get to parlay fransay all day. I get to hang out with people who enjoy me; I am teaching and learning again. And I get to do all that on a Mac and iOS. #openingdoorsnotwindows #winkwinknudgenudge

Hairy Coo

 

I spent another year finding firsts.

 

Here at home, I saw The White Cliffs of Dover that are unexpectedly surrounded by the White Council Housing of Dover. At Twickenham I watched Australia founder as the Empire re-conquered her. I ran the Cotswalds, with an actual Princess (Zara, not the clothing kind). I sailed a ferry across the Mersey, I pedalled Penny Lane and discovered the Chav in its native Liverpudlian habitat. I saw a big red Hairy Coo, I ate Haggis, I spied wild seals in the Ness and all that while squired by the ultra-rare Wild Bear in a Kilt. #nopants

 

Further afield… I had a first in Nevada, a city that made me never want to be home harder. In Tokyo, I spied Mt Fuji, scoffed native Sushi and drank enough sake to spew free. In Boston, I wandered around a closed Fenway, ate sickeningly rich Chowder by the Bay and heard that weird accent in their native parlay. In Prague, I ate too much pickled smoked pork, drank so much I couldn’t talk and danced with the Kaiser till we could not walk. #rhyminglang

 

But then, to fill my already overflowing cup, The Body had a baby! He came, he saw, he went to sleep; a lengthy bundle of joy filling my Saturday afternoons with smiles. The Critique and I saw more stars tread the boards. I watched Glenda Jackson make her return to the stage after 25 years. I still can’t drive but I have a license. Adele filled my ears and reduced me to tears. And AG became a Gramma. #goodwillhunting

 

And as if that wasn’t enough to fill a year with joy, there was a third Bridget movie!! She got her Mark Darcy again, she made her family laugh, she drank too much at a party, she wore big pants.

 

And you wonder why this diary is titled #bridgetbythebridge?

 

Happy 2017 everyone.

 

 

Grammie, Lucy & Me

 

 

*I have made it clear in a previous post that similarity in name for Mum and G is completely coincidental; she has called herself that name for many years while I named him after Bear Grylls for their shared passion for drinking water from elephant shit

 

#jumpinmycar

2016 has almost come to an end. I, like many of you, am glad to see the rear end of the year that rear-ended us all. Almost everyone died, almost everyone else voted as if they were dead, and those of us who remain (yes, I did that on purpose), were thankful for a portly, perpetually cheerful English man singing in his car. We made it through 2016 buoyed by the monthly missives from the dimpled grin of James Corden and his passenger seat of Superstars.

For no other reason than fluffy puppy-like distraction in a week of death and darkness and despair, here is the ranked and rated list of 2016’s Carpool Karaoke’s sorted by the highly qualified brain of me. #wellwhythehellnot

17. Britney

I f**king love Britney. Way back when she was being commandeered and subjugated by every one she loved, mother, father, lover, JT, she bleated out choon after red latexy choon. I lamented her demise. I sympathise for the poor poppet who hasn’t known a minute of peace since she first flounced her pink pompoms. But here’s the thing BS; if you want to sit in a car and flog your latest album, you have only one job, you have to sing. You can’t sit there in your pseudo-soft-porn lace bodysuit expecting us to go out and buy your latest glottal-stop-punctuated pop confection if you aren’t going to be real.

16. Demi Lovato & Nick Jonas

Disney kids have been performing since before they could breathe. They lost the art of un-choreographed spontaneity before they lost their milk teeth. They can sing, oh yes they can. But can they be unfettered, genuine human beings? No they can’t. Also, the weird awkwardness of Nick talking about parting with his purity ring was kind of like watching your little brother talk about what he does in his tube sock. #jonasty

15. Selena Gomez

As above, one extra point for being a semi-real human who has had her lips on Bieber. The Rollercoaster was not funny. The Macca’s Drive Thru was not funny. In fact nothing was funny.

14. J-Lo

She was OK, she was actually pretty funny, but when did her music get so shit? What ever happened to Jenny from the Block? Why do all her songs sound like they were rejects written for Rihanna with an iPhone Mambo Ringtone running through the backing track? Why has she been married more times than Liz Taylor? Why does she always have that fringe only over her temples, not in the middle? #thebigquestions

13. Gwen Stefani

There is no doubt that I love her! The original L.A.M.B, my matte red lippie inspiration, she of the Harajuku homage has a superabundance of hits to draw from and can she sing! But, but, but. Why did she have to rely on Dr Doug Ross and Princess Vivian to keep us watching? After dumping Bush for Blake, she has more than enough drama to keep us fixated. All points awarded for singing Queen.

12. Chris Martin

I love him, he sang it all as perfectly as you’d expect. And doesn’t everyone sing to Coldplay in his or her car? BUT! Why didn’t they throw coloured paint at each other? Why no sequin confetti? Why no coloured light wristbands? Why no dad dancing? Why no Beyoncé? Why no Rihanna? Why no rest of Coldplay? #chrisyouarentthatinteresting 

11. Red Hot Chilli Peppers

They could have saved on scriptwriters and spent the entire 15 minutes singing one song after another, or just sung through the track list of Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Their banter with James served only to interrupt the superstar recreation of what so many of us do in a car; sing classic rock songs louder than our vocal chords can tolerate.* Bonus points for Flea bouncing around in the middle seat like a petulant toddler.

 

10. Sia

Would be higher up the list if she didn’t have that warped weird accent. Is she Australian anymore? All other points awarded for having one of the most compelling singing voices in the business. So much so that she can gad about with her face covered and not get arrested by Trump’s anti-face-covering Gestapo. And the songs! One incomprehensible banger after another. Britney, you should watch this.

9. Bieber

Last year’s was better, and longer. I would have given it a firm number 1 (and I’d give him something altogether different). This year Bieb’s has disappeared up his own bum...but he is still a perfect little cherub of male. Boy can move! Boy can sing! Boy should be banned from speaking in public! Boy should take heed of Britney’s cautionary tale!

8. Bruno Mars

Look, I love him too, but is he the most boring human alive? Does he actually have a personality behind all that bling? He would be right down with the Disney kids if it weren’t for the pure unadulterated joy I get from Uptown Funk. Also, does he have eyes? Does he ever take of his shades? Ans, he is 5 foot 5, which means I could look down into his bald spot.

7. Christmas

I don’t like the song. I can’t bear Mariah. Her boobs were so distracting; like two shiny alien heads desperately trying to make their way out of her chest. The only reason this rates as high as it does is because of the other Famouses who mercifully saved us from La Carey Carnage. Adele was there, Gaga too...and even RHCP piped up. Bonus points for the surprise factor.

6. Gaga

The old songs are sooo good…and the new ones sooo aren’t. But god can she sing! And the old songs really are that good. #rahrahromahah 

5. Broadway

Lin-Manuel Miranda is one of the best humans in the universe. Talented, handsome, politically a decent man, and hysterically funny! The back seat was a bit meh, but LMM, wow, what a magnetic human being. One Day More from Les Miserables is the Bohemian Rhapsody of Broadway and I actually cried the first time I saw this one.

4. Elton John

You haven’t lived until you have sung Tiny Dancer at the top of your lungs with the windows rolled down. Reginald Dwight has played a starring role in the soundtrack of my life. Everything else about him is odd, but hey, Tiny Dancer. #holdmecloser 

3. Madonna

You would be betting on me giving her the top spot. And I would. But If I had to rank her entire earthly back catalogue, “Bitch I’m Madonna” would be subterranean, somewhere below all the music ever recorded since forever. I despise that song...and she forgot the words to Argentina. #madgeyoubreakmyheart

2. Adele

Because Adele.

1. Michelle Obama

Missy Elliott popping up in the back of that car was one of the most joyous moments of my 2016. Also, Michelle Obama is a weakening light in the sewer of piss and shizzle that we’ve created for our tiny future adult humans. She can sing, she can dance, and she can combine verbs and nouns in a fashion that makes sense, seemingly all qualities no longer requisite for a first rate FLOTUS.

 

Before I go, a shout out for James himself who is 50% of the reason why this little video that could has become our favourite viral video of every month. Not only has he learned all the words to some really shit songs, he manages a harmony here and there.

 

*Shout out to The Smartarse, Sapphire and Smack back in Sydney who do a pretty mean Depeche Mode behind the wheel.

#alt-literate

 

Alt-boring

I’ve been quiet these past few weeks; I’ve been busy, I’ve been clocking up intercontinental Avios’s, but mostly I’ve been depressed and defeated. I had nothing to say that someone cleverer or wittier than me hadn’t already said/tweeted/snapped or sung. My Facebook feed was a spiralling toilet roll of complaints and curses and pleas for mercy from the relentless media shitstorm that has spewed a bright orange flatus onto the collective consciousness. #hisnamemeansfart

Faced with a daily barrage of disappointment in my fellow humans, I’ve become a hermit of hygge. I’ve retreated into the handful of activities that bring me joy during the four hours of weakening sunlight we are lucky to enjoy in a London midwinter. Rich Buttery Food, Danish building blocks, knitting, Disney Movies, Disney Animation, Disney Songs and reliable, relatable TV. David Attenborough had me cheering for baby iguanas, the former Shadow Chancellor Gangnam Style’d his way onto the nations hearts* and Graham Norton’s sofa is the only Bright Orange object I want to see on any screen of any device that whizzes through my line of sight. #tangerinestings  

This week Graham’s sofa was an allegory for our utopian future state; my alt-reality.

 

A married gay woman of Danish origin, a heterosexual cross-dressing Englishman, an intergalactic female American of (by her own admission) dubious mental health and a Muslim woman of Bangladeshi heritage. All of them were corralled into telling their story, or selling their latest oeuvre, by a Gay Irish man. #favouritetimeoftheweek

When the Baked Sweet Potato-Elect has absolute power, the only member of the couch to whom he’d grant an oval audience is Princess Leia, and only if she was wearing her bronze bikini. #nocostumeforhimtobejabba

Each of the Famouses told their unique story. Sometimes they agreed; Grayson had amazing shoes. Other times they didn’t; Nadiya’s arranged marriage. But despite Graham’s best efforts to bait them with his own special kind of humiliation, often an embarrassing photo dredged from the bowels of Internet; at no point did anyone stand up and chuck a hissy fit. No one threw a punch, no one verbally insulted anyone else, no one threatened to sue, build a wall, banish a race or snatch a snatch.

 

In my alt-reality, my curls don’t flatten while I sleep, cheese has no calories, crying in th office is the ultimate sign of corporate strength, I’m a universally adored writer, I’m a proud mother to a Collie that doesn’t poo and I own a country pile with an outdoor pool. My alt-reality is not alternative; it is not real. It is a euphemism for dream, imaginary, immature and escapist.

Which is why I have no time for anyone or anything or any non-descript-abstract-notion that describes itself as “alt-right”. #drevilairquotes

 

 

Alternative to right is left. I have two arms, a right one and a left one. The only alternative to my right arm is my left arm. There is no right-er arm. My right leg is not my alt-right arm. Right and left, like hot and cold, like yin and yang, like cheese and all-other-food is a binary notion. You are one or t’other.

Unless of course you are a Fascist. In which case you are at best an alt-human, but more specifically, you are a Fascist. You are not alt-right. Your political beliefs are not an alternative to conservatism; you are simply a misanthropic cunt (sorry mum) who believes that your race/nationality/viewpoint/ideology/book/existence is more important than someone else’s. 

I hear you; my obscene rant is demonstrative of my own intolerance of someone else’s viewpoint. Therefore, I must be Fascist too!

I’m not a Fascist. 

I am intolerant of electoral ignorance and jingoistic politics stemming from a midnight tweet rather than debated written policy. I am intolerant of British people with Greek parents or English people with Indian parents or Americans with German grandfathers eschewing immigration. I am intolerant of men and boys who thoughtlessly insert bits of themselves into vaginas, conveniently forgetting there is a uterus at the other end. Promiscuous, repressed, men and boys who invoke divinity when they legislate what happens inside that same organ. I’m intolerant of a twice-divorced practising catholic protesting gay marriage on the basis of her Roman religion. I’m intolerant of votes, elections and referenda based on bullshit and blustering and buses. I’m intolerant of Piers Fucking Morgan simulating vomiting into a bucket at the sight of Madonna twerking.

All this makes me a latte drinking leftie. Intolerant, no. Exasperated, yes. I pay more than my fair share of taxes with no claim for a discount. I am an immigrant, albeit a blue-eyed one and so was my father. I have very strong arms, but no guns. I’m big on self-harm, but I’m not out in the streets harming my fellow man. Although I sometimes stand too close to the door in the tube, I’m not restricting the free movement of others. I’m terrified of spiders, but I’m not peddling fear. I’m just bitterly angry that the alt-smart’s are winning.

I wouldn’t mind them winning if the fight were fair.

I wouldn’t mind them winning if they were going to be alive long enough to see the catastrophic outcome of their Geriatric Exodus. I wouldn’t mind them winning if there were coherence between their Christian-coloured words and their rapist-actions. I wouldn’t mind them winning if they were anyone on earth but Nigel Farage.

 

In the face of ignominious ignorance, I can’t beat them, but I can use their misleading misnomers against them.

 

I’m no longer a liberal latte drinking leftie, I’m alt-Farage.

I’m not a woman, I’m an alt-man.

I’m not angry, I’m alt-happy.

I’m not clever, I’m alt-idiot.

I’m not making up words to justify my own selfish means, I’m alt-literate.

 

 

*Such a shame that the last election didn’t require mastery of the Argentine Tango; the world might be a very different place