Rodger says that my hips aren’t for the faint hearted so to prove him wrong I decided to put on a wee show at the old folk’s home down the road aptly name - The Rest and be thankful.
I decided to give them a real treat and appeared in my leopard skin strictly no eating beforehand outfit. It has put a lot of women of their cream horns I can tell you.
My entrance caused quite a stir; even the TV was switched off; much to the annoyance of Archie an elderly man with poor fitting dentures.
‘Here I was watching that!’ He said as his false teeth clattered an applause. ‘
‘You got a dancer’ said the carer in a manner befitting Stalin.
Archie declined her offer of ’heading upstairs’ with a ‘you can stickit up your jumper ’ approach. The insult was like a skid on diesel, the carer didn’t even flinch.
So I told him a joke in my best Scottish accent and soon he was begging for some dancing. He said he had never heard a Scottish accent like it before except at the ‘local nut farm’ as he so politically incorrectly put it. Still at 99 years of age I figure you can be as politically incorrect as your false teeth allow you.
You see I am a natural mimic and my southern bell accent has been the pinnacle of many performances. Archie tried to hide his admiration ‘well I’ve no time for any of your pinnacles’ he said ‘I’m wantin my cup of tea.’
At the mention of tea a few of the others woke up and started to sift rebelliously behind their simmer frames ‘tea someone mention tea?’
But it was not long before I had them spell bound again with my sequined leopard skin bra and matching tea tray balancing on my head. ‘Short bread any one’ I said
And do you know not one person answered.
xxxxx
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Charlie
Charlie says he has had a life changing experiences.
The other night he heard strange noises coming from his neighbour’s home.
Apparently the noises where coming from Maggie Stewart’s bedroom, a woman way past her sell by date with an impressive selection of tranquilisers.
Charlie says he walked into to the bedroom to find Maggie displaying bits of her wrinkled body which were best covered up and a terrified looking young man with one leg out of the window.
Apparently Maggie woke up to find the young man helping himself to her ordainments. ‘Any port in a storm’, she yelled and flashed her wares. Maggie’s a woman who’d never turned down an opportunity.
Charlie raced to the window. And before Maggie had the change to yell ‘In the nuts,’ the two men rolling about on the floor. According to Maggie it was better than East Ender’s. Then the young man broke free and with a ‘ya fud’ along with many other incomprehensible words headed for the door.
Charlie follows, tripped and cascaded down the stairs (to quote Maggie) like an avalanche of potatoes.
Charlie says his life flashed before his eyes! He says there was bugger all to see except a couple of spicy quiches and a moment by the bike shed. He said his life was like an advert in the middle of a very boring film.
Maggie Stewart still maintains she would have shown the young man a thing or two.
Not exactly on a par with the enlightenment of the Buddha or apple defining moment of gravity; but for a man who has turned passivity into an art form. I would say a potato has hit him in more than one right place. Apparently he is now dressing up as a woman called Pussie; for the panto. There first dress rehearsal was in front of the youth club from Govan; now that takes balls.
The other night he heard strange noises coming from his neighbour’s home.
Apparently the noises where coming from Maggie Stewart’s bedroom, a woman way past her sell by date with an impressive selection of tranquilisers.
Charlie says he walked into to the bedroom to find Maggie displaying bits of her wrinkled body which were best covered up and a terrified looking young man with one leg out of the window.
Apparently Maggie woke up to find the young man helping himself to her ordainments. ‘Any port in a storm’, she yelled and flashed her wares. Maggie’s a woman who’d never turned down an opportunity.
Charlie raced to the window. And before Maggie had the change to yell ‘In the nuts,’ the two men rolling about on the floor. According to Maggie it was better than East Ender’s. Then the young man broke free and with a ‘ya fud’ along with many other incomprehensible words headed for the door.
Charlie follows, tripped and cascaded down the stairs (to quote Maggie) like an avalanche of potatoes.
Charlie says his life flashed before his eyes! He says there was bugger all to see except a couple of spicy quiches and a moment by the bike shed. He said his life was like an advert in the middle of a very boring film.
Maggie Stewart still maintains she would have shown the young man a thing or two.
Not exactly on a par with the enlightenment of the Buddha or apple defining moment of gravity; but for a man who has turned passivity into an art form. I would say a potato has hit him in more than one right place. Apparently he is now dressing up as a woman called Pussie; for the panto. There first dress rehearsal was in front of the youth club from Govan; now that takes balls.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
SHERYL BLOGS ABOUT ADONIS’S.BELLY DANCING WORKSHOP
I have just started belly dancing classes. To be honest, it was the only class left with a free space and since moving in with my mum three months ago I have been desperate for a night out.
‘Belly dancing’ says my mum. ‘Do you really want to show off your stomach?’
‘Mavis says it not about stomachs,’ I explained. ‘It’s about the music.’
Mavis sporting her new aqua blue highlights said more than that, she said it was just what I needed and after one class I’d be hooked.
Mavis is a no frills sort of a woman whose idea of treating herself is a packet of fags and a half down at the Argyll and her idea of music is anything on radio 2. But since taking up belly dancing Mavis is a new woman, she wears amazing jewellery, walks like a princess and plays Hossam Ramsey on full pelt while heading into Tescos, she’s even talking of going to Egypt!
The class is held in the back room of the Argyll, a pub more known for it’s Karaoke than anything else. Shifty, the barman is opened minded in a Mid Argyll take the mic sort of way. He’s sort of guy who thinks culture is anything written in French and Gaelic is what the French cook mushrooms in, he wouldn’t know art if it jumped up and ripped his nails out one by one. But he seemed fairly impressed when I walked in clutching Mavis’s coin belt and ordered an orange juice and soda.
The last time he saw me, I was clutching a large whisky and singing ‘Island in the stream’; trying to convince myself that losing Martin was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Martin is my ex and he along with a calligrapher half my size is the reason for me now living with a mother who thinks her wheelchair is a racing car and her daughter is a live in home help. She’s even got me cleaning for Mr Rugby the ole boy next door.
The teacher or mentor as he likes to call himself is a young Greek called Adonis. He wears tight cycling shorts with a black sequin scarf tied in a large knot over his groin; his pelvis action boarders on scary.
‘Belly dancing is a gift from one free spirit to another’, he said. ‘Let the drums unleash the woman in you’.
I watched a class of woman unleash more than the woman in them, woman I had known for years. They looked nothing like the dancers I remembered seeing in a James Bond film and nothing like the women I see in the Coop and I had trouble keeping up. I haven’t moved my hips like that since the good old days when Martin was on the scene and into Salsa.
‘Learn to paint the music with your bodies,’ said Adonis rippling his torso to ‘Hobbik Feyya Haram.’. ‘Find the dancer within.’
Adonis showed me (among other things) how to shimmy and said I should ‘do it’ in front of mirror.
‘The last time I did something in front of the mirror’ I said, ‘was in the salsa days with Martin. It required low lighting, a sense of humour and a small bum.’ The whole class laughed, even Adonis and I have been shimmy ever since.
I shimmy in the shower, vacuuming the house; even standing over a fry pan and for a while I forget that I am cleaning.
Mum says the house sounds like an Indian restaurant.
‘Sheryl’ she says, ‘Even if you do have to show your stomach keep going, that drum beat is definitely the best thing to happen to you since that tosser, Martin left and you never know you might even loss a little weight.’
The funny thing is when I shimmy losing weight is the last thing on my mind.
****
Nefertiti replies
Adonis is gone; apparently he was caught in the Argyll Hotel handing out his ‘free gifts’ to a client. It was probably the only time Adonis was caught performing pelvis tilts with no Lycra....
Come to my class honey I’ve seen you dance and you are an inspiration for ordinary looking women. And don’t worry about your size, with the right costume you could, carry it off.
I have just started belly dancing classes. To be honest, it was the only class left with a free space and since moving in with my mum three months ago I have been desperate for a night out.
‘Belly dancing’ says my mum. ‘Do you really want to show off your stomach?’
‘Mavis says it not about stomachs,’ I explained. ‘It’s about the music.’
Mavis sporting her new aqua blue highlights said more than that, she said it was just what I needed and after one class I’d be hooked.
Mavis is a no frills sort of a woman whose idea of treating herself is a packet of fags and a half down at the Argyll and her idea of music is anything on radio 2. But since taking up belly dancing Mavis is a new woman, she wears amazing jewellery, walks like a princess and plays Hossam Ramsey on full pelt while heading into Tescos, she’s even talking of going to Egypt!
The class is held in the back room of the Argyll, a pub more known for it’s Karaoke than anything else. Shifty, the barman is opened minded in a Mid Argyll take the mic sort of way. He’s sort of guy who thinks culture is anything written in French and Gaelic is what the French cook mushrooms in, he wouldn’t know art if it jumped up and ripped his nails out one by one. But he seemed fairly impressed when I walked in clutching Mavis’s coin belt and ordered an orange juice and soda.
The last time he saw me, I was clutching a large whisky and singing ‘Island in the stream’; trying to convince myself that losing Martin was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Martin is my ex and he along with a calligrapher half my size is the reason for me now living with a mother who thinks her wheelchair is a racing car and her daughter is a live in home help. She’s even got me cleaning for Mr Rugby the ole boy next door.
The teacher or mentor as he likes to call himself is a young Greek called Adonis. He wears tight cycling shorts with a black sequin scarf tied in a large knot over his groin; his pelvis action boarders on scary.
‘Belly dancing is a gift from one free spirit to another’, he said. ‘Let the drums unleash the woman in you’.
I watched a class of woman unleash more than the woman in them, woman I had known for years. They looked nothing like the dancers I remembered seeing in a James Bond film and nothing like the women I see in the Coop and I had trouble keeping up. I haven’t moved my hips like that since the good old days when Martin was on the scene and into Salsa.
‘Learn to paint the music with your bodies,’ said Adonis rippling his torso to ‘Hobbik Feyya Haram.’. ‘Find the dancer within.’
Adonis showed me (among other things) how to shimmy and said I should ‘do it’ in front of mirror.
‘The last time I did something in front of the mirror’ I said, ‘was in the salsa days with Martin. It required low lighting, a sense of humour and a small bum.’ The whole class laughed, even Adonis and I have been shimmy ever since.
I shimmy in the shower, vacuuming the house; even standing over a fry pan and for a while I forget that I am cleaning.
Mum says the house sounds like an Indian restaurant.
‘Sheryl’ she says, ‘Even if you do have to show your stomach keep going, that drum beat is definitely the best thing to happen to you since that tosser, Martin left and you never know you might even loss a little weight.’
The funny thing is when I shimmy losing weight is the last thing on my mind.
****
Nefertiti replies
Adonis is gone; apparently he was caught in the Argyll Hotel handing out his ‘free gifts’ to a client. It was probably the only time Adonis was caught performing pelvis tilts with no Lycra....
Come to my class honey I’ve seen you dance and you are an inspiration for ordinary looking women. And don’t worry about your size, with the right costume you could, carry it off.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Nefertiti's Cordon- Bleu
Nefertiti’s La-Cordon-bleu
Rodger says I should ‘do’ the festival to up my profile as a performer
As if my profile needs upping- I have a following- they maybe silent but they are loyal- I mean 3 is a very artistic number
It’s all about quality y not quantity – that’s what I tell him
Rodger doesn’t agree he says I’d rather it more often and a little bland then an annual cordon bleu event.
Sometime I wonder a man in corduroy is not all it cracked up to be. Especial when he insists on wearing them up high - around his waist. There are something’s only Simon Cowel can get away with and an excess packaging around the ‘rest & be thankful’ to my mind is a bit misleading.
La - Cordon bleu rules
Sizzling Nef
Rodger says I should ‘do’ the festival to up my profile as a performer
As if my profile needs upping- I have a following- they maybe silent but they are loyal- I mean 3 is a very artistic number
It’s all about quality y not quantity – that’s what I tell him
Rodger doesn’t agree he says I’d rather it more often and a little bland then an annual cordon bleu event.
Sometime I wonder a man in corduroy is not all it cracked up to be. Especial when he insists on wearing them up high - around his waist. There are something’s only Simon Cowel can get away with and an excess packaging around the ‘rest & be thankful’ to my mind is a bit misleading.
La - Cordon bleu rules
Sizzling Nef
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Nefertiti’s bonfire 10.10.2009
According to Shifty, bonfire night in Lochgilphead is the tits, mind you Shifty says everything the tits after a few.
He says being in the Lantern Parade is an honour and I should be honoured. But Shifty does have a warped sense of wit.
This year the theme is Celtic wars and guesses who’s been asked to be Scotland answer to Boudica?
I get to sit on a horse and scream like a banshee.
My class is going to be so impressed, all two of them. Sheryl says once Lochgilphead has seen me ride a horse there will be no stopping us- every women with a pulsating pelvis will want to join.
****
Nefertiti ‘s pinnacle - Boudica 01.11.2009
It was a horse but not as we know it, I pictured a large white stallion decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree. What I got was a Paper Mache statue of an old hack with a few tea lights wheeled about on top of a hospital trolley-( my faith in the NHS has never been the same since that little slip up they had with testosterone years ago).
The horse was so wide that I had to sit in a yoga position to stay on it. Thanks goodness I have a flexible pelvis – (my Rodger would definitely agree).
It was so high I had a perfect view of the pipe major’s bald patch who was leading the Lochgilphead pipe band.
They ; being the organiser- (anyone in an orange jacket and clip board) insisted on a beard, apparently Boudica had one – I refused, Nefertiti does not do facial hair on any terms. What is the point of going to all that bother of a flexible pelvis and the like if I have facial hair? I eventually relented on the face paint. Little did I realise that I would end up with a face like a constipated brave heart warrior, where any facial expression resulted in me looking like a set of piles stood between me and the relief of said constipation.
So I am perched on this paper Mache horse like a pregnant woman on a bed pan with a 6 foot spear in one hand obeying whatever wind passed and my other hand clutching the impotent reign attached to the horse. The pipe is playing a flower of Scotland – at the front in a desperate attempt to drown out the salsa drums playing at my rear (everything is so hot hot hot with them).
When one of the boys begins to oil the wheels with vigour rarely seen in a student, “you think that wise?” says one of the orange jacket brigade “that trolley’s no brakes”.
Before I had a chance to shout I’m off we were off! Heading for that infamous hill at the top of the main street with a ‘braw view ‘ of the loch and it’s (at least a month’s rubbish) scattered about . No attention is worth this I thought with a ‘questioning help me look’ at my Rodger in crowd. He, reading my expression as something completely different gestured something about prunes. And I realised I was complete on my own.
The wind picked up speed sending my spear plus flag into a frenzy, ‘I getting off ‘I shouted in my best banshee voice. But apart for a ‘your a fanny’ response which I chose to ignore with as much dignity as constipated looking warrior could achieve, no one heard and no one recognise me – So much for the class being impressed; apparently they were in the pub enjoying Shifty’s Happy hour!
Happy hour! Mine was later on that night with ice pack on my flower Scotland and Rodger by my side feeding me prunes ‘You’re Boudica ‘he said ‘was the pinnacle’.
‘Bless his cotton G’string!’
Nefertiti x
According to Shifty, bonfire night in Lochgilphead is the tits, mind you Shifty says everything the tits after a few.
He says being in the Lantern Parade is an honour and I should be honoured. But Shifty does have a warped sense of wit.
This year the theme is Celtic wars and guesses who’s been asked to be Scotland answer to Boudica?
I get to sit on a horse and scream like a banshee.
My class is going to be so impressed, all two of them. Sheryl says once Lochgilphead has seen me ride a horse there will be no stopping us- every women with a pulsating pelvis will want to join.
****
Nefertiti ‘s pinnacle - Boudica 01.11.2009
It was a horse but not as we know it, I pictured a large white stallion decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree. What I got was a Paper Mache statue of an old hack with a few tea lights wheeled about on top of a hospital trolley-( my faith in the NHS has never been the same since that little slip up they had with testosterone years ago).
The horse was so wide that I had to sit in a yoga position to stay on it. Thanks goodness I have a flexible pelvis – (my Rodger would definitely agree).
It was so high I had a perfect view of the pipe major’s bald patch who was leading the Lochgilphead pipe band.
They ; being the organiser- (anyone in an orange jacket and clip board) insisted on a beard, apparently Boudica had one – I refused, Nefertiti does not do facial hair on any terms. What is the point of going to all that bother of a flexible pelvis and the like if I have facial hair? I eventually relented on the face paint. Little did I realise that I would end up with a face like a constipated brave heart warrior, where any facial expression resulted in me looking like a set of piles stood between me and the relief of said constipation.
So I am perched on this paper Mache horse like a pregnant woman on a bed pan with a 6 foot spear in one hand obeying whatever wind passed and my other hand clutching the impotent reign attached to the horse. The pipe is playing a flower of Scotland – at the front in a desperate attempt to drown out the salsa drums playing at my rear (everything is so hot hot hot with them).
When one of the boys begins to oil the wheels with vigour rarely seen in a student, “you think that wise?” says one of the orange jacket brigade “that trolley’s no brakes”.
Before I had a chance to shout I’m off we were off! Heading for that infamous hill at the top of the main street with a ‘braw view ‘ of the loch and it’s (at least a month’s rubbish) scattered about . No attention is worth this I thought with a ‘questioning help me look’ at my Rodger in crowd. He, reading my expression as something completely different gestured something about prunes. And I realised I was complete on my own.
The wind picked up speed sending my spear plus flag into a frenzy, ‘I getting off ‘I shouted in my best banshee voice. But apart for a ‘your a fanny’ response which I chose to ignore with as much dignity as constipated looking warrior could achieve, no one heard and no one recognise me – So much for the class being impressed; apparently they were in the pub enjoying Shifty’s Happy hour!
Happy hour! Mine was later on that night with ice pack on my flower Scotland and Rodger by my side feeding me prunes ‘You’re Boudica ‘he said ‘was the pinnacle’.
‘Bless his cotton G’string!’
Nefertiti x
Sunday, 7 March 2010
the retreat December 2009
11.11.09
Rodger says I am all stressed out for Christmas, he says I should relax otherwise my Pandora magnificence in the panto will not be up to her usual.
So he booked me into a retreat- a dance retreat, next week I will be getting touch with the goddess within and the mother earth out with.
Salutations to the sun
Nefertiti
15.12.09
The retreat was not a great experience.
It was contact dance- no music- just rolling around on the floor with old men and hairy lesbians. Not that I have anything against old men or lesbians, some of my best customers are old and I never comment on their hair. The amount of hair on ones body is all subject to taste, it's just that I don't like a mouthful of it, especially unaccompanied by music.
The couple in charge where into all things "tantric" and were not afraid to show it. They along with a rather attractive Polish man spent their spare time rolling about on the floor like teenagers on Viagra- in the pursuit of the perfect massage. I am telling you it was enough to put you off your camomile.
They suggested we get in touch with our inner animal and make as much noise as possible. We were all given the "freedom" to choose what ever animal we felt was lurking in the corners of one inner child. Cat seemed to be the most popular - something to do with stroking and rubbing.
An elderly gent (who was known to carried his teeth about in a box in his pocket) decided that he was a gorilla - looking for a mate. He stood up, beat his chest and started to growl. It was only after his second coughing fit that the "gorilla" decided that there were probably more advantages to being a cat, and that a good stroke was probably the best he could hope for, even with his teeth in!
That afternoon I tried to leave but was stopped at the gate.
"Don't be afraid of what you feel," they said "this is you chance to heal what is within you just have to be with it!"
Two days later I still had no idea what I was supposed to "be with" but I knew where I didn't want to be- at that retreat - it was cleaning day and the last thing I felt like doing was polish the toilet of said gorilla /cats.
Oh and by the way everyone had a frigging cold!
Since then I have been in bed with a cold dreaming about toothless lesbians and hairy men with toenails even a bird of prey would be ashamed of- not even Rodger's balsamic vinegar rubs make me feel better.
For now, the sun can shove it's salutations
Nefertiti
Rodger says I am all stressed out for Christmas, he says I should relax otherwise my Pandora magnificence in the panto will not be up to her usual.
So he booked me into a retreat- a dance retreat, next week I will be getting touch with the goddess within and the mother earth out with.
Salutations to the sun
Nefertiti
15.12.09
The retreat was not a great experience.
It was contact dance- no music- just rolling around on the floor with old men and hairy lesbians. Not that I have anything against old men or lesbians, some of my best customers are old and I never comment on their hair. The amount of hair on ones body is all subject to taste, it's just that I don't like a mouthful of it, especially unaccompanied by music.
The couple in charge where into all things "tantric" and were not afraid to show it. They along with a rather attractive Polish man spent their spare time rolling about on the floor like teenagers on Viagra- in the pursuit of the perfect massage. I am telling you it was enough to put you off your camomile.
They suggested we get in touch with our inner animal and make as much noise as possible. We were all given the "freedom" to choose what ever animal we felt was lurking in the corners of one inner child. Cat seemed to be the most popular - something to do with stroking and rubbing.
An elderly gent (who was known to carried his teeth about in a box in his pocket) decided that he was a gorilla - looking for a mate. He stood up, beat his chest and started to growl. It was only after his second coughing fit that the "gorilla" decided that there were probably more advantages to being a cat, and that a good stroke was probably the best he could hope for, even with his teeth in!
That afternoon I tried to leave but was stopped at the gate.
"Don't be afraid of what you feel," they said "this is you chance to heal what is within you just have to be with it!"
Two days later I still had no idea what I was supposed to "be with" but I knew where I didn't want to be- at that retreat - it was cleaning day and the last thing I felt like doing was polish the toilet of said gorilla /cats.
Oh and by the way everyone had a frigging cold!
Since then I have been in bed with a cold dreaming about toothless lesbians and hairy men with toenails even a bird of prey would be ashamed of- not even Rodger's balsamic vinegar rubs make me feel better.
For now, the sun can shove it's salutations
Nefertiti
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