Les Questions

Darling Harlem Hotbloggers,

I have been somewhat selfish...

My desire to regurgitate fact-paste to my little owlets has led to you, my raisons d'etre, having to endure a somewhat Prix Fixe Menu. Now my wiselings are starting to grow in knowledge and spread their wings I feel it's only fair to open up the floor to a Prime Minister's Question Time styled, all you can ask, Buffet...

I can fully appreciate that when faced with such a Pandora's Box of Knowery (or Knower's Ark, if you will?) the questions will come thicker and faster than Usain Bolt's undergarments but please, before you flap out a finger spasm across your keyboards, Mother Owl would like to lay down a few ground rules:

1. Please, no questions about otters; I fear the otter and actually hold something of a flame for the chap who pummels one with a spade at the end of Ring of Bright Water.

2. All questions about former game-show hosts must be prefaced by words Ham!Ham!Taliban.

3. Soothe me with your word asks.

4. Questions such as: Can ears?, Mine is this are?, Is it a dog?, and Cheese? will be tolerated but subject to availability.

5. Please, no questions of a wholly sexual nature. Semi or bi - sexual are open to the consideration of yours truly.

6. I especially like questions on the effect of tinned meats on the Crusading Europeans of the 6th, 23rd and 14th Centuries.

7. If you feel you can't pluck up the courage to ask me a question quite yet, why not practice on some less formidable character, such as a rabbit, whelk, house-brick or member of the judges panel on television's Strictly Come Dancing?

8. Children say the funniest things. Please don't allow them to write on my blog.

9. Lastly.

Firm but fair, I think you'll agree. So don't hold back, attach the candle of inquisitiveness to the miner's helmet of self improvement and probe the rich vein of fact which runs through the darkest recesses of Cavern Gibbons.

But remember...

Knowledge is not love,

Cash is.

x

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

Cow

Although, I'm sure, perfectly fascinating to rural types and television chefs, cows, unlike most farmyard animals, have never really seized my imagination nor been the spur of much more debate than 'with what shall I accompany my mustard'. A state of affairs which was recently thrown into the blender with half a pound of fruit, a little ice and a touch of honey and switched to full power until smooth. You see, a dear, nautical friend and former lover of mine, Colonel Semillon Pandasberg was, due to his exclusive knowledge of local luncheon, recently recalled into service in the South China Seas. A great fancier of all things bovine, the Colonel was, for many years, denied, by his occupation, his one true ambition: to own his own cow. After his retirement, of course, a cow was duly stolen on his behalf and the two had lived happily in a converted goat-shed near Sparnsbury for almost a week. It tore his mighty heart off to have to leave his beloved Mrs. Pandasberg after so intense a period of courtship but the Colonel has always been a man of ferocious dedication to duty and so a suitable Bovinder (a portmanteau coined by yours truly; sounds almost Indian in its exoticism, doesn't it?) had to be found...

Now, I know what you're thinking: The cow was immediately shipped to Barbara Gibbons, as no other being could possibly be a match for such a task. A hood of truth which duly came to pass but only after three other keen souls had tried and failed to take on this burden of a beast; Lady Funbury Van Pokeshardy, Soupy James and my close ally and part-time nemesis, Dr. David Champignons. It transpired that, although very willing and rarely afraid to get their hands grubby, none of this team could quite cope with the intensity of the milking process (Soupy James even developed an acute phobia of cud).

So, I found myself, ostensibly a lady of urban persuasion, almost literally saddled with a heifer, of a size hitherto unseen in the politer quarters of West Polspott, and very little inkling of how to undertake the upkeep of said agricultural abomination. I turned, naturally, to the internet and, during my 17 hour period of research, unearthed some quite startling facts about our milky friends with which I would like to share with you with which with:

Moo: Cows have uncles but rarely aunts.
Moo: Cows, left to their own devices, will fight over snacks and the news.
Moo: Cows have three special powers each, which must never be milked.
Moo: Contrary to popular belief, cows can't be doing with meadows.
Moo: Cows! Cows! Cows! was one of Spandau Ballet's lesser known hits.
Moo: Cow milk is actually the third most popular milk, worldwide, after squirrel and eagle.
Moo: Cows can talk Jive.
Moo: Everyone knows that cows have four stomachs but few know that they also have three hearts, six spleens, eleven teeth, fourteen knees and an organ simply known as 'the Infant Hitler's Frog'.
Moo: Buttercow! Buttercow! Ra! Ra! Ra!
Moo: Cows have absolutely no concept of caramel or Liza Minelli.

I think it goes without saying that I ate the cow and wrote a forthright letter to the Colonel telling him as much.

But, hotbloggers, do, please remember:

Mother's milk is not love...

cash is.

x

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

tonight...

I spent the night in love.....

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

Bird.

Dearest, darling bloggers chaud,

For one dark moment back there as I fought an 18 stone man, bare chested and shiv in hand, for little more than honour and bragging rights, I thought I mightn't make it...

Whimsically enough, it was the thought of you all, waiting, faces illuminated by the pale glow of a computer screen, yet again, barren of a blog update, yet again, you, logging on to my page only to have to settle for sifting through past bloggages for any missed nugget, which could shed light upon the mirk-filled mine shafts that constitute your lives; it was YOU who brought me through.

Needless to say the prison governor was so impressed by the ensuing display of fructal ingenuity that he wasted no time in dispatching his very best carrier pigeon, clutching a note urging the prominent M.P. to whom it was addressed to lobby for my immediate release from the bosom of Her Majesty, on the grounds of displaying (and I quote verbatim) "an almost super-human talent for improvisation with a slice of dried papaya, a skill which should not be shielded from the public for one moment longer".

In the end it was academic, as every last one of the charges was dropped and my immediate release was secured by no less than Princess Andrew herself. I do, however, retain a deep sense of debt towards the govnor and will always remember fondly, the brief hours we spent in her rare dark-wood clad office in the small hours, prior to my release.

Every cloud, my dears, every cloud....

My suffering is your supper so sip the silver-lining soup from my overflowing terrine of prison facts:

1. Prison is a git.
2. Prisoners are measured every hour to ensure compatability.
3. Cake is banned in most prisons, although numerous make shift, improvised "Bakes" are rife (a state of affairs which saved my baking powder on no less than four occasions, although I can't say I'm proud of what I did).
4. Children have their own prisons called Public Schools.
5. All prisoners are required to dance for their food in order to break the will and keep order; the better the choreography, the larger the portion. Officers take a very dim view of contemporary but a good Jazz routine could earn an inmate up to 3 extra bread rolls.
5. At any one moment, 9% of prisoners must hum.
6. Over half of Britain's prisons are made of recycled gym equipment.
7. FIGHTING!
8. Prisoners are required to clean the teeth of the inmate in the next cell three times each Wednesday.
9. A condition know as 'Bird Leg', common amongst long term inmates, renders the victim unable to smell meats on his or her release into "normal society".
10. Prison is like a lung.
11. Over 32%.
12. Inmates refer to people on the 'outside' as: "Uncle Peter's lazy cream".
13. Every new inmate must suffer an almost semi-pleasant initiation rite involving mustard and a carp.

I do sincerely hope that this has opened your eyes to the Shackleton High Seat Chair of an institution that is life on the inside.

But remember my little pumpletts:

Freedom is not Love...

Cash is.

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

Whip it up...

Dearest Hot-Bloggers,

I receive literally some requests for almost so many things here at Gibbons head quarters but one rather desperate plea from an unfortunate Hot-blogger bitten hard by this stabber of a recession caught my attention and, I'll admit it, almost brought a tear to my thigh. For young people, in the current economic climate, eating out seven nights a week can be a virtual impossiblity so, unless one wishes to venture into the realms of the polystyrene, one simply must exercise a culinary muscle or three.

Alas! My great grandmother's recipe for money pie died along with her mind but I'd like to share with you another merkin tappingly good recipe which fell quite by accident into my leopard-skin clad lap. The first time I encountered the recipe for this extraordinary dish was whilst kayaking the archipelago off the Western coast of Norway; I subsequently stumbled across it again whilst bathing a young elephant named Keith at a bear sanctuary close to the source of the Ganges; and finally, cut up into sections and distributed among the assorted undergarments of no fewer than nine prominent conservative party members around the late Thatcher era. Each time the exact details of the dish would vary slightly (one would use queen where another would use ham) but the ingredients (and method) detailed below are the culmination of years of my own tinkering.

So at the behest of young Ned I practically humbly offer you:

Auntie Label's 'Six Cock Trebuchet'!

Ingredients:

Sleeping Jims - 9 should do.

A quarter tspn of lummock.

Sweet cheese (as sweet as will allow).

About half a pint.

CHICKEN! CHICKEN!

Babies - exactly 3 cups (that's 106 feet in impervious measures).

4 dozen quarter halves and a third of six.

Fresh daisy dangles (I can't emphasise how important freshness is in this regard).

A pinch of ponce.

Seagulls to taste...

The Method is very simple.

Fork extremely thoroughly and serve well out of reach, turning.

I do hope this has gone some way to help my dear, impoverished children as I would so hate to see beefless bones cluttering my cyber-kitchen.

But, my little bottygolblins, do, do remember:

Manna is not love - cash is.

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

x

Hot Ice

Well my dear Hot Bloggers,

The lady's not usually for turning but last night with a detailed ordinance survey map of Sunday's blog translated into electrical impulses and crackling on the end of my slender fingers, I was forced to U-turn with all the grace of an ice dancer in second place at the 1984 Olymics...

Bear with me; this tangled skate lace of mixed metaphors is leading me somewhere...

After viewing a harrowing account of the breakdown of one of the greatest love affairs of all time I knew my dip into the lives of some of the lesser know saints could wait. So I bring you:

AN HOMAGE TO SIR JANE TORVILL AND DAME CHRISTOPHER DEAN!
(please excuse my use of capitals, I believe it all rather uncouth and reserve it solely for revelations of only the most extreme magnitude)

As it's 25 painful years since we last took Olympic gold in the pairs category of ice-dancing I've decided to mark the anniversary of possibly the most important event in the history of these isles with a twelvefold fact belch!

So open all the windows and turn the thermostat down low, flood the kitchen, tune the wireless to Bolero FM, don your tightest lycra skimpies, drop to your knees and clutch your laptop like she's Christopher Dean as I fill your tights with ice facts:

6.0 - The iconic, purple costumes worn on that fateful day were actually spun from pure cat hair and held together with dreams.
6.0 - Jane Torvill can't see beef.
6.0 - Christopher's fans call him Deano lovely lumps, king of the hard water .
6.0 - Jane has an uncle who fears the ice and has consequently never seen her dance.
6.0 - Christopher Dean's skates were sharpened with the tears of children, not as much of a problem as you might think when taken into account the propensity for weeping amongst the youths of the 1980s.
6.0 - Both ice magicians discovered that they could understand birdsong from a very early age.
6.0 - A particularly energetic powerslide, performed by Jane Torvill once caused a blizzard in Ghent, Belgium. Three old people were hurt.
6.0 - Torvill and Dean were originally hired to be the stunt doubles to Jon Heder and Will Ferrell in the popular ice dancing documentary Blades of Glory but the deal broke down due to an argument over Winnebago styles.
6.0 - Christopher Dean 4 Jane Torvill.
6.0 - Christopher gorges on bell peppers and readybrek for a week before filming begins on each series on Dancing on Ice.
6.0 - Jane Torvill can skate for over 13 miles before having to reapply mascara.
6.0 - Much speculation was made over the true nature of the relationship between Chrstopher and Jane but I can reveal that they were actually married by accident whilst performing a demonstration show on a frozen tarn, high in the Nepalese Himalayas. As far as I'm aware neither of the frosty sailors have any knowledge of the union so you might like to let them know next time you bump into them down at any Nottingham branch of the budget supermarket - Lidl.

Well I don't know about you my little snow persons but after that I need to wrap myself in a silver blanket, clutch the dog between my thighs and settle down in front of the fire with a nice cup of hot Bovril (invented by James Dean, Christopher's father).

Please do write to me if you need any remedies for ice burns as a result of today's icecapades and remember -

The rapturous applause as you make your victory lap of the rink with flowers raining down around you is not love

- cash is.

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

x

Thunderously exciting news....

Well my miniature, fire-cracker, chilli hot-bloggers what betterer day to begin the impartation of child-spankingly good advice, lesser-known tit-bits and semi-supine musings that is Mrs. Barbara Gibbons (and Friends) than this, the 197th birthday of King Valentine?

As I'm sure you're all well aware, King Valentine, the 11th Marquis de Trouser was the inventor of the heart but his many achievements certainly didn't stop there. So, without further a do here are a few other saucy slivers of information that you might not know about my favourite 'Prince of Fluids' -

1. His real name is Kensington.
2. He also invented (in strict order of importance): Peas, Jungle Gyms, Liver, Small Cows, The Name Simon and six other household appliances.
3. He wore a furry cap, which he would doff.
4. He came out at night.
5. He was in love with soup.
6. He would regularly slip into his time cupboard in order to saddle up Peter Mandelson circa 1986 and ride him (like a taun-taun) through the woods behind Asda.
7. He owned Threshers.
8. He could make a kind of jam reputed to be able to make a man weep.
9. He couldn't whistle unless touched by bats.
10. A small chain of supermarkets in Asia is named after him.
11. There are no fewer than 11 different ways to pronounce his name.
12. He had no genitals (though it never stopped him trying).
13. He devised a method of divining power-rangers.
14. Kent!

Remarkable man, I think you'll all agree.

Hope this has whetted all of my children's (for you are all my special children) appetites for a petit forkful of Souffle d'Amour.

Remember:

Chocolate is NOT love - cash is.

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

x