Living for Disco

We are sitting in the back of an open landrover, a tarp protecting us from the spattering rain. We have been trundling along in the bush for about an hour and a half, trying to track an elusive leopard that is stalking some kudu amongst the bushes. Our guide stops the car, and stands on the bonnet with his radio scanner, searching for the leopard’s frequency, given off by the collar it wears.

Despite the wild excitement of riding roughshod over entire thorn bushes in a WWII era landrover, my mind wanders. I gaze over at the distant hills, and think that one particular cloud formation resembles smoke from an explosion. I drift off into a reverie in which I think with relief that my house isn’t likely to be the one that has exploded, seeing as it is 200 miles away in Windhoek. Suddenly, an awful thought strikes terror into my heart.

As the scanner makes an increasingly frantic beeping sound, we are informed that the leopard is very close – a matter of meters away. My head, however, is now filled with matters of far greater import. I turn to my friend and whisper loudly “Hannah? Han… can you remember if I turned the oven off?”

One of my very good friends is coming to Namibia tomorrow with her Mum, to spend a few days with me, looking at leopards and cheetahs and other wild things. Yes - it’s that time of year again: my annual leopard-wrestling outing.

Actually, we’re going to this marvellous place. Last time I went we did some leopard tracking, and lo, we found a wild leopard, which we all viewed nervously from the comfort of the open landrover. They’re completely terrifying. You can see in its eyes that if you stuck so much as a toe out of the car, it’d have you.

Then we’re going to Etosha, to look at some springbok, and more zebras than you can shake a stick at.

I will be back on Friday, hopefully with all limbs attached.

It’s been a bit wet recently, which means that the mosquitoes are out in full force. I’ve become an expert in feeling mosquito breath on my limbs, particularly after a camping trip a couple of weeks ago, when I woke up in the morning and squashed seventeen of the bastards inside my tent. It looked like the Mosquito Chainsaw Massacre in there.

It’s a bit unfortunate that this should happen now, because I have run out of DOOM, which always puts itself in the ‘forgettable items’ category whenever I am in the supermarket. This means that instead of being able languidly to exterminate crawly bitey things with a squirt of killer aerosol from the comfort of the sofa, I am forced to leap up and chase them around the house with a rolled up copy of Heat. I might add that this is all that the South African version of Heat is good for. It is, as they say in Afrikaans, vol kak.

It’s particularly bad at night. I used to keep a can of DOOM by the bed, in case of midnight mosquito raids, but now I am DOOMless and desperate. Which is why, the other night after a girly evening involving a lot of rose wine and a chicken curry, I found myself standing in the pitch dark in my knickers, holding a bottle of Mr Muscle orange action bathroom cleaner* in one hand, and Little Dorrit in the other, waiting for the whining sound of incoming bloodsuckers to begin again.

Clearly the wine had made me believe that I had batlike powers of hearing and prey-seeking in the dark. It also fucked with my internal clock – I later realized I’d been standing there for about twenty minutes, wrathfully thwacking the wall with Dickens, and squirting Mr Muscle into thin air like a whisky-sodden trigger-happy cowboy. It was all over the floor when I got up and put my bare feet on the tiles - that stuff gets sticky if you don’t wipe it up.

Life without DOOM – it’s miserable. Miserable I tell you. I have to remember to buy some more.

*works a treat on ants but, apparently, not mosquitoes, flies or cockroaches.

Today, I am going to address some of the questions that people type into google, which then directs them to my blog. It seems a bit of a shame that people have such specific questions, and yet can find no succinct and helpful answer. I feel for them, and so I am going to try and help them out.

1. I am eating OMO washing powder. Is it good?

Dear Strange Detergent Eating Person,

Are you pregnant? If not, what on earth is wrong with you? If you really want to clean out your insides, go for colonic irrigation. To answer your question, I’m afraid that eating OMO washing powder is almost certainly not good for you, if the destructive effects it has on my clothing are anything to go by. In addition, many washing powders contain bleach, which is not known to agree with the human digestive system. I suggest you cease forthwith.

2. How much snot can a person produce?

Dear Bogey-person,

This is an interesting question, and one I have asked many times myself. Apparently, we produce nasal mucus all the time, and swallow most of it unconsciously, so really there is no need to be disgusted by people who eat their snot (no need, but every reason). Apparently, in cold weather, the cilia that keep the snot moving throatwards stop working, which is why we get bunged up. Also, fascinatingly, did you know that the creation of bogeys is a little like the way in which an oyster creates a pearl? The mucus gathers around bits of dust and debris that find their way into our noses, and then hardens. Bingo – a nose pearl. Which is what I will be calling them from now on.

Unfortunately, I can’t answer your question exactly, but still, that was interesting. Wasn’t it?

3. Why maggots living in boob?

Dear GOD! That is horrendous. What are you doing sitting at your computer? Go to hospital immediately.

4. What happens in a lapdancing club?

Dear Sir,

I have never frequented one of these establishments, but I do know people that have. As far as I am aware, people go in and then are charged five times the going rate for a drink. They are also expected to buy drinks (probably champagne) for scantily clad dancers. If you like, for an extra charge, the dancers will give you a ‘special dance’, which involves giving you a really close look at their g-string, and possibly grinding around about an inch above your lap for a while. You then leave, probably about 500 quid lighter. It’s a bit of a mystery to me really, but I’ve heard people like it.

5. How do I pronounce Namibia?

Dear Idiot,

Na as in banana, mi as in do-re-mi or as in me, bi as in let it be, a as in apple. It’s a simple four syllable word, not fucking rocket science. Why do people have such trouble with it?

6. Why do I put myself through this?

A question often asked by people who are either moving house, shopping on Oxford Street on a Saturday, or having to spend a protracted amount of time with lunatic extended family. Can’t help you I’m afraid – it’s a mystery to me too.

As for the two people who found me by typing “giant men and women size of a finger in cinema” and “whirl of reckless joy and impossible transports of fury and indignation”, you are clearly being too specific. And also random. Please try again.

I hope I have been of service!

Well, Mike’s Big Idea has come to fruition, and there is now a shiny new book ready to be snatched from the internet’s virtual shelves, and delivered to bathrooms all over the world.

Yes! Shaggy Blog Stories is now available - a collection of posts from very funny bloggers from the UK blogosphere. And I’m in it! I am! In a book! Me! I’m so excited I’m almost unable to speak.

So rush of and buy it, my friends, please. It’s for a very good cause, and all profits - every penny - go to Comic Relief, who do truly marvellous things. Also, did I mention that I’m in it?

Today’s looking good. It’s Friday. I’m in a book. I have Kate Bush singing Wuthering Heights on my ipod. I’m still celebrating the blog of the day award I won last Sunday. I’m in a book. Also I get paid on Monday so I will be able to afford to eat more than beans.

Hurrah!