A little sexism, anyone? ...

Ok ... so before I get started on today's post, here are the results of the little quiz type thing I had in my last post with regards to who writes better sex scenes in novels, men or women.


Extract A was from "The First Casualty" by Ben Elton

"Ooh-la-la!' she breathed as he smelled the clean aroma of her short bobbed hair and the rain-sodden grass around it.

'Oooh-la jolly well-la!' And so they made love together in the pouring rain, with Nurse Murray emitting a stream of girlish exclamations which seemed to indicate that she was enjoying herself. 'Gosh', 'Golly' and, as things moved towards a conclusion, even 'Tally ho!'

When it was over she pushed him off, stood up and lit a cigarette. It was still too dark to see anything but the glow of the burning tip, and by the way that was moving about Kingsley sensed that she was buttoning herself up.

'Jolly nice,' she said, 'most invigorating.'

He started off fairly promisingly as a comedy writer in the 80's for programmes such as The Young Ones and Blackadder and was a successful "alternative" stand-up with a fondness for Thatcher jokes. But his brand of humour left with the 80's and Mrs Thatcher and he now alternates between writing laughable novels and dodgy West End musicals.

Journalist, Toby Young summed him up with the following quote: "Ben Elton. Do you know this guy? He started out as an "alternative" comedian, railing against Thatcherism and the like, and now earns a fortune writing the librettos for truly awful West End musicals. I mean, his name has become a byword for shameless hackery. He's the biggest sell-out of his generation"



Extract J was from "Mr MacGregor" by Alan Titchmarsh

She planted moist, hot kisses all over his body. Beads of sweat began to appear on Guy's forehead as he became more entangled in the lissome limbs of this human boa constrictor. For fully 15 minutes their mutual passion heightened, with groans, sighs and liquid noises.

Grannies favourite, Mr Titchmarsh is best known for being a TV gardener, which somewhat shows in his writing and goes towards explaining "planted moist", "entangled in the lissome limbs" and "liquid noises" ... you can almost smell and hear the wellies and mud.

Wikipedia tells me that the man who puts the "Tit" in Titchmarsh actually won an award for worst sex scene in a book with the above excerpt.

I don't think anybody's going to be wildly surprised by that.




Extract H was from "The Stone Gods" by Jeanette Winterson

We made love by our fire, watching the snow shape the entrance to the cave. When I touch her, my fingers don't question what she is. My body knows who she is. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known.

There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am. She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.

Oh dear, Ms Winterson, probably best known for her novel "Oranges are not the only fruit" lets the ladies side down with this dreary, lacklustre and passionless excerpt. But at least there are no dubious liquid noises or jolly Tally Ho'ing going on, which is always a literary bonus in my opinion.


Two people got it spot on, Fancy Schmancy and PrincessImp ... so very well done to them! I'm not sure it answers the big question of whether men write better sex scenes than woman, but it does suggest that women are better at spotting a man's cackhanded attempt at describing carnal passion.


Still vaguely on the subject of the battle of the sexes, I was trawling the good old internet for some post inspiration when I came across the following vintage advertisements. Now I wouldn't call myself a feminist, I'm all for equality but there's zero danger of me burning my bra any time soon (being nearly 30 and gravity make that a BIG no, no) ... but these ads were frankly a bit shocking! And it has to be admitted, rather amusing. So of course I thought of my beloved readers straight away, "This will be right up their twisted little alleys" I chuckled fondly to myself ... so here we are. (Unfortunately I've had to squidge the pics right down in size to fit them on the page ... click on them to see the captions)



So first up, no messing around or worrying about anything as silly as delicate, female sensibilities ... Men are better than women!

Yes, apparently not only did our male ancestors like to spend their spare time casually chatting at the top of a mountain, they liked to do it whilst dressed in traditional Tyrolean garb and nonchalantly dangling some poor female from a hanging thread of their rapidly unravelling Drummond climbing sweater.

Women, the ad informs us, are all very well INDOORS, pleasant even! But a bit of a drag on a mountain.











This classic little gem tells us that failed marriages were not, as we once suspected, due to a husband's ambitious preoccupation with his career, his golf clubs or his nubile young secretary, but rather because wives were not paying due care and attention to their "dainty feminine allure".

Never fear though ... help was at hand, thanks to those ever-fragrant, marriage savers at Lysol. Their douches insured feminine daintiness "even in the presence of mucous matter" and promised to protect marriages with "no greasy after effect"

*Editor's note: You will lose kudos points if you use the phrase "something fishy" in your comments










Ladies in the 60's liked their men to blow in their faces ... I guess some things never go out of fashion ..


















This one actually made me gasp out loud (GOL?) ... if you can't see the original text, it says:

"Though she was a tiger lady, our hero didn't have to fire a shot to floor her. After one look at his Mr Leggs slacks, she was ready to have him walk all over her. That noble styling sure soothes the savage heart! If you'd like your own doll-to-doll carpeting, hunt up a pair of these he-man Mr Leggs slacks"


















I'm just surprised the number of mariticide's wasn't sky high in those days ...


















Actually, I don't entirely disapprove of this one :P ...















Boy, oh boy, oh boy ...



















Haha ... look at her grinning through gritted teeth, she's just dying to smush his face in that blender ...















I wonder what those women think when they look back at these ads? ... If they're not all dead from lung cancer after having all those men blowing in their faces, of course ...












Sheesh ... talk about a wish list! Although I must admit to crying every time I try to use my mum's electric can opener and have to stand there in helpless frustration as the tin whirls round and round with no apparent sign of ever opening.




















I've never understood the really militant feminists types, but I'm guessing it was this kind of thing that got them all boiling mad. Maybe they'd had enough of being dangled precariously off of mountains and trying to maintain that crucial feminine daintiness, they didn't want to be walked over by men in crisp, natty Mr Legg slacks or made to wear ridiculous chef's hats whilst lovingly blending their husband's dinners. Maybe they had a point. Attitudes needed to change and I'm glad they have.

But I'm still not going to burn my bra.

Thoughts on Thursday ...

So here we are again ...I thought it was about time I stopped slacking and updated you on all the lovely, exciting, wonderful things that are happening in my life right now ... or I would if that were actually the case, but sadly it isn't, life continues to be a heady mix of work, friends, sunbathing and battling insomnia, which really doesn't make for interesting reading ... so, I'll just do what I normally do, chuck a load of random nonsense at you and hope you don't notice. Or at least, hope that you're too polite to mention it.


First, I'd like to say a big sooper-dooper-looper of a thank you to the lovely Vic of What Were You
Thinking? for the mighty "Vic Award" that she kindly gave me a couple of days ago. You know you've arrived, in blog terms, when someone of Vic's calibre says they like your stuff, even if that person wants to bite your face six times ... yes, that is a bizarre thing to say, isn't it? If you want to know what the feck I'm on about you'll have to go and read her post ... actually, you should do that anyway. Consider that an order ... although I'm English, so consider it more of a hesitant and polite request, said whilst blushing and self-consciously scuffing the toe of my shoe.

Apparently I need to pass this on to three bloggers who I admire ... which is really, really hard! I follow so many blogs now and they're all so cool, plus I can't remember who I have and haven't given awards to :/ ... I'd like to give it to all the blogs I read, but then I guess it wouldn't mean as much. So ... I'm awarding it to:

Kristine at Wait In The Van because her posts make me chuckle on a regular basis

Prometheus at A Misspent Life because he always comes up with interesting and humorous things to ponder on

Mr Condescending at Advice and Humor from Mr Condescending because despite being a bit shocking and ... well, condescending, he always does a good job of his posts and manages to make me laugh and wince at the same time.


Remember I had that whole Twitter dilemma a little while ago? Well I finally gave in and am now "tweeting" in as lackadaisical manner as I am blogging ... hey! at least I'm consistent! I'm still not sure if it's my cup of tea, but maybe it will grow on me. I guess I'll stick with it a little while longer and find out.


It's been really quiet at work this last week so I don't have any guffaw-inducing stories about dodgy old folk to tell you. The scary Brazilian lady didn't return, sadly and since my contract with the company finishes tomorrow my chances of seeing her again are slim. The agency have put me forward for an accounts manager post which I'm waiting to hear more about, so I'm not too concerned about leaving. I'll keep you posted.

There was one mildly amusing episode which I can share with you. It was a particularly slow afternoon and I was sitting at my desk pondering the big questions life is constantly raising (i.e. should I buy those adorable wedge sandals in the red or the black? Is that a grey hair??? And if it is ... should I pluck it out with tweezers? Should I dye my hair an unlikely shade of raven? Or should I just get drunk and cry about nearly being 30? And if Britain's Got Talent ... what the hell does Azerbaijan have?) when the door rattled open and in walked a middle aged gentleman. He was quite posh and was sporting a lovely pink, cashmere sweater that made him look a bit like a golfer and flashed me a big, shiny smile that made me think of Dentagrip adverts.

Him: Hello!

Me: (trying not to grin) Hello!

Him: You've had a bit of a change around in here!!

Me: (slightly puzzled look) Er ... no, I don't think so

Him: Yes you have!

Me: No, as far as I know it's always been like this.

Him: (rather indignantly) You have, I tell you!

Me: (blank look)

Him: You're the estate agents, aren't you!

Me: (looks at him)

Him: (looks at me)

Me: (looks at big plastic ears in the front window)

Him: (looks at big plastic ears in the front window)

Me: (looks at him, raises eyebrows and smiles)

At which point he hurriedly left without saying another word.



Ok, confession time ... I've been reading the Daily Mail.

*hangs head in shame*

I know. You don't have to say it.

The thing is the guy I work with buys it every day ... and work is just THAT boring a lot of the time.

Anyway, I've noticed that they seem to have a thing about the battle of the sexes. They constantly pit men against women in all kinds of ways, today it was "Who Writes Better Sex Scenes?" Apparently somebody's written a book and claimed that "female authors seldom write well about sex" and so the Daily Male (sic) gave a selection of "sexy" snippets penned by famous authors and asked you to judge whether they'd been written by a man or a woman.

God it was awful!

Things like this made me cringe:

Extract A

'Ooh-la-la!' she breathed as he smelled the clean aroma of her short bobbed hair and the rain-sodden grass around it.

'Oooh-la jolly well-la!' And so they made love together in the pouring rain, with Nurse Murray emitting a stream of girlish exclamations which seemed to indicate that she was enjoying herself. 'Gosh', 'Golly' and, as things moved towards a conclusion, even 'Tally ho!'

When it was over she pushed him off, stood up and lit a cigarette. It was still too dark to see anything but the glow of the burning tip, and by the way that was moving about Kingsley sensed that she was buttoning herself up.

'Jolly nice,' she said, 'most invigorating.'

*shudder*

No wonder people think us English folk are sad and loopy (and have bad teeth)! Frankly, it's a wonder anybody outside the UK mates with us.

So what do you reckon? Who wrote that embarrassing piece of literary cack? A man or a woman?


And how about this?:

Extract J

She planted moist, hot kisses all over his body. Beads of sweat began to appear on Guy's forehead as he became more entangled in the lissome limbs of this human boa constrictor. For fully 15 minutes their mutual passion heightened, with groans, sighs and liquid noises.

Seriously ... liquid noises?????


And finally this one?:

Extract H

We made love by our fire, watching the snow shape the entrance to the cave. When I touch her, my fingers don't question what she is. My body knows who she is. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known.

There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am. She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.

ZzzzzZzzzzzzzZzzzzzzz


So were the authors male or female? Let's see what people really think.



Well that's all for now, I'm off to bed for some much needed tossing and turning and sighing and sulking (multitasker MUCH), but I'll leave you with some amusing pictures that will hopefully make you chuckle.

Til next time xx





So, US blog-chums ... is THIS why you voted for him?













Is THIS what got him the women's vote?

(available in Democratic Blue or Presidential Gold)

Poor Spiderman! Now he's wishing he hadn't agreed to wear the Spidey suit his Grandma so lovingly knitted for him.

What were the advertisers thinking???

"Because nothing says "Quality sportswear" like a blow job"


(Yes that is what you think it is on her leg, I'm just as shocked as you are ... fishnet popsocks just shouldn't be worn ... ever!)

Er ...









Ps: My blog chum Diane from Cooking Blind sent out an email today saying she was having some trouble with her internet provider, so if you didn't get the email and are wondering where the heck she is, be reassured that she is hoping to be back amongst us in about 5 days time. Let's hope so, because it's not the same without Diane.

And while we're on the subject of people MIA ... does anyone know where Peggy of Stir Crazy in the Suburbs is??? I haven't seen her post in ages, which is a real shame because I love her blog, I'm missing the daily smiles she provides :( And also Greta of Noodling fame?? Apart from wanting to know she's ok, I'm in serious need of more drain pictures!

"There's one more terrifying fact about old people: I'm going to be one soon" ~ P.J. O'Rourke

She stood outside for ages, grinning in at me through the glass window, I suddenly had the oddest sensation of being on display at a zoo, and by some weird reversal of fortune it was one of the grizzled chimpanzees who were outside, gazing in at me in wonder.

So I was pretty freaked out even before she came through the door.

I'd started off well, giving my brightest, warmest most inviting smile but after a couple of minutes when it was still wholly unclear as to whether she actually intended to come in or was just going to stand there beaming at me, my smile started to freeze into an uncomfortable grimace, a rigor mortis smile that was starting to make my face ache.

I had ample opportunity to observe her. She was ... interesting. She looked to be in her late 60's, early 70's, with a dark tan which gave her the appearance of having been steeped in old tea bags for at least a couple of centuries and accentuated her dazzlingly white dentures and the deep, trench-like wrinkles that lined her face. She was wearing khaki camouflage combat trousers, bright pink Crocs with baby blue socks and a little yellow crop top which exposed more tanned, wrinkled, flabby flesh than anybody would care to see without being heavily armed. She had one of those bellies that has expanded and then succumbed to gravity, sagging grotesquely to create the illusion of having a pair of buttocks on her midriff.

Right then and there I vowed to get back into my sadly neglected exercise regime and stick to it ... until I die.

The guy I work with happened to come through to the front office at that point and stopped dead in his tracks, "Who's that?" he asked curiously.

"I dunno" I said, "but she's kinda creeping me out".

He walked to the door and pulled it open, "Did you need some help?" he asked with a friendly smile, she smiled back at him but didn't speak and didn't move. Thinking there was a good chance she was deaf he asked again, only louder, she finally moved, squeezing past him in the doorway into the shop, "No need to shout" she said, still smiling vacantly, "I'm not deaf". My colleague glanced at me, cleared his throat and said to the woman, "so how can we help you?"

"I'd like my hearing tested" she said, her voice was soft, as though she were speaking from a distance, "I thought you said you're not deaf?" pointed out my colleague, "Well I don't know" she replied, "that's why I'd like my hearing tested".

"Are you experiencing any difficulty hearing?"

"Well I'm not sure ... how much do you charge?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, all our hearing tests are free"

"Three?"

"Free"

"Three what?"

"No, FREE. We don't charge for them"

"I'm Brazilian"

There followed a very long pause, my colleague turned and gave me a quick, pain-filled glance, then turning back to the lady he asked, "Well would you like to book a hearing test, free of charge, just to make sure?"

"Can you go deaf from having your head beaten against a door?"

The stunned, uncomfortable silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.

"Er ... it could cause some damage, certainly ... has somebody ... ?"

"My ex husband used to beat me"

Again he cast an uncomfortable look at me, "Well I'm glad to hear he's an ex husband then!" he said, clearly trying to lighten the conversation,

"Oh yes, he's dead now. I put the finger of death on him and killed him"

I can't even begin to describe that moment, but our faces must have been an absolute picture, my colleague standing there with his jaw brushing the carpet, me sat at my desk with my mug of tea, frozen midway to my mouth. I don't know what I was thinking, but suddenly I heard someone faintly ask "Finger of death?" and was shocked to realise it was me.

She turned to look at me and gave one short nod, still smiling serenely.

"You killed your ex husband with the finger of death?"

My inner voice was screaming at me "What are you doing??? Why are you still talking??? Shut up! SHUT UP!" and by the horrified look on my colleague's face he was wondering the same thing.

She walked over to my desk, leaning against it, her hands calmly resting on the surface and I found myself staring at her fingers, heavily adorned with numerous grubby, gold rings and wondering which one was the deadly "finger of death". Still wearing her unnerving smile she nodded again, "He was no good, I had enough so I killed him".

Now you know I have a thing for all things macabre, and whilst I was more than a little unsettled I was also seriously fascinated, which is why I couldn't help but ask "Er ... how exactly does ...?" only to be rapidly cut off by my colleague practically shouting "NO!" whilst desperately shaking his head and making a slashing gesture across his neck, I scowled at him "What? I'm curious is all!" I said hissed defensively. The lady smiled serenely, "It's ok" she assured him, "I can't tell you exactly how it's done, it's just something you are born with, but if you think very carefully, if you really want the person dead and know where to place your finger ... you can kill them dead". I was on the verge of declaring this kinda cool, but seeing the aghast look of incredulity on my colleagues face I thought better of it, instead I just commented that however it was done it certainly seemed to have been effective. "Oh yes, it works every time" she said calmly. I thought the eyes were literally going to pop out of my colleague's head, trying not to giggle I raised my eyebrows politely and asked, "Every time?". Again she gave that short, sharp nod, and held up three fingers.

"Three times?" exploded my colleague, clearly in spite of his better reasoning, he looked as though he'd rather have bitten his own tongue off than ask this question, but the lady just chuckled, "yes, three times, if I really don't like someone I give them the finger of death. But I like most people"

"Thank God" I heard him mutter, which made her glance at him sharply and suddenly the smile seemed especially sinister. Quickly jumping in to spare him from the digit of doom I asked whether she wanted to book an appointment to have her hearing tested, I could see my colleague mentally praying furiously to any God that might hear him to save him from this ghastly fate and apparently somebody was listening because after a few moments hesitation she shook her head and said she would have to check her schedule and come back to us. Plus she was still concerned about the charge, which instead of reassuring her I noticed my colleague actually agreed and advised her against making a hasty decision and to think about the matter extremely carefully before she came back.

She thanked us for our time and turned to leave but then stood motionless by the door, "Everything ok?" asked my colleague, "It says 'Pull'" she replied, nodding at the door. And indeed it did, on the other side. "Yes, that's for the benefit of people coming in" my colleague said politely but clearly eager to get shot of her as soon as possible. She turned her head, gazing at him still with the unnerving grin, "but it say's 'Pull'". My colleague's answer to this was to stride forward and push open the door, ushering her out with more scared desperation than chivalry. She wandered out, still muttering about the fact it said "Pull". Normally my colleague is a complete schmoozer, he could charm the knickers off a nun and is very tactile, always shaking hands with people as they leave, but this time I noticed he took good care to not make physical contact in any way. The finger of death had him scared. He wasn't taking any chances.

She stood outside for a couple of minutes, gazing in again, grinning, "Why doesn't she just bugger off?" he hissed nervously under his breath as he kept his mouth firmly fixed in a false smile, "she's freaking me out!"

"Just keep smiling" I hissed back, "and stop making eye contact! She's going to come back in!"

"I can't!" came the frightened whimper "she's probably put some kind of Brazilian voodoo curse on me! God! And she's totally ruined the meaning of 'a Brazilian' for me forever" he moped.

I tutted, and muttered "Perv" under my breath.

She finally wandered off and we both breathed big sighs of relief, although we later agreed that the encounter had stayed with us and played on our minds somewhat.

Something else stayed with us, the oddest thing ... a scent that she seemed to have brought with her and then left behind, it was sickly sweet, cloying and definitely unpleasant. I'm not sure, but I think it might have been the scent of death.

"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everday life" ~ Pablo Picasso

Hello blog-lovelies, hope you're all well and happy x

My job, social life and sun-worshipping has kept me offline for the most part but now I have the prospect of a few reasonably easy days ahead of me, the sun has departed for less English climes and with the exception of a couple of niggling little social requirements my friends seem content to leave me in peace for a short while. So ... I thought it was about time I chucked out a post, you know, just so you don't think I'm dead. I have been around, I've managed to read some posts, although I haven't always had time to leave comments, and they're all fablogulous as usual.

I'm still working on the short story that Diane inspired me to have a crack at ... but gosh it's difficult!!! Muchos kudos to Diane for doing hers so well (it was so cool, had that beatnik, "On the road" vibe to it), because it's really challenging. I'm determined to use the names of all the blogs/bloggers I follow which is quite a few now :/ plus so many of you have weird bloody blog titles ... which really doesn't help! Why can't you all call your blogs things like "The" and "Cat" or "Sat", maybe an "On" or even a "Mat"? I mean, come on! Work with me here people!

Anyway, one of the posts that I really enjoyed this week was this one by Mr Condescending in which he shared some of his favourite works of art. We've actually chatted about art before and share similar tastes, and being quite passionate about art anyway Mr C's post started me thinking about my own favourites.



I'll start with the glorious Caravaggio

This painting is titled "Amor Vincit Omnia" (love conquers all)

I love it, Cupid looks so real, so human, not like those sickly sweet, generic cherubs that clutter up Baroque art. Look at that cheeky smile, the careless, inelegant pose, look at his cute little pot belly! He's totally charming and endearing. If somebody's going to hit me in the butt with a love arrow ... I want it to be him. Just imagine the cheeky little laugh he'd have as he did it.










This is "Judith Slaying Holofernes" by Artemisia Gentileschi

I really like her style. she was actually greatly influenced by Caravaggio which I think shows. Look at Holofernes arm, the skin looks so real you could almost reach out and brush it with your fingertips. It's a rather gory subject, Caravaggio himself did a version of the same story, but I prefer Artemisia's because there's so much more emotion behind it.

But it's Artemisia's own story that fascinates me more. She was an amazing woman, she was the first female member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence, which given the attitudes towards women in those times was really quite an achievement. But it wasn't always an easy life, her father who was a respected artist in his own right hired a rather nasty piece of work called Agostino Tassi, a fine artist but a total scumbag of a human being, to tutor her. Tassi raped Artemisia with the help of another man. Although traumatised Artemisia believed he intended to marry her and so allowed the relationship to continue. Tassi however then refused to marry her claiming she was having an affair with another man. An ugly trial followed when her father pressed charges against Tassi and a whole can of sordid worms was opened revealing Tassi to be a thief (he was planning to steal paintings from Artemisia's father's studio), an adulterer (with his own sister in law) and potential murderer (he was plotting to kill his wife). The trial process was brutal and none suffered more than Artemisia, not only was she subjected to a harrowing gynecological examination but she was also tortured in an effort to corroborate the truth of her allegation, they bound her fingers and slowly tightened the leather straps, effectively crushing them, possibly the worst punishment you could mete out to an artist. Later she painted this picture and her experiences, her hatred and anger towards brutal men clearly colour her art with raw emotion.


In his post, or it might have been in the comments, Mr Condescending mentioned Turner and said he rocked, which I was really pleased about because
J M W Turner is one of my absolute favourites. I even love his "fuzzy" stuff as I think it was referred to, I think it's those pieces that capture the most energy and emotion.

This piece is "Slave Ship" and for me is one of Turner's most interesting pieces.

Turner was a great advocate for the abolition of slavery and painted this in an effort to help the cause. The picture highlights how the slave traders of the time would throw the bodies of the dead or sick slaves, of which there were many thanks to the appalling living conditions on the slave ships, overboard. They could then claim insurance on the bodies as the victims of drowning and make a tidy sum. I think Turner's anger and abhorrence for this practice is shown in the violence of the sea, and the colours and harsh, vivid brushstrokes he employed.




I know nothing about this picture. I came across it by accident a few years ago and loved it so much that I've kept in on my laptop ever since, always hoping to one day find out who painted it and what it's called/what it's portraying etc.

If anybody knows, please let me have the details.














This is "Rolla" by Henri Gervex

I like the decadence and languishing sensuality of the subject













This is a portrait of "Dame Margot Fontaine" one of the greatest prima ballerinas of all time, painted by Sir Claude Francis Berry.

Portraits are my favourite genre of painting, all part of my obsession with people watching I guess. And I also love to watch ballerinas dance. Berry has perfectly captured the fascinating mix of grace, strength and fragile vulnerability they all seem to exhibit.

I know Mr C has a thing for ballerinas too, so he should enjoy this one.










This is a "Louise Jopling" by Sir John Everett Millais.

Isn't she beautiful?

He's most famous for the rather twee "Bubbles" (not Wacko's chimp, btw) the Little Lord Fauntleroy lookalike with the pipe and the bowl of Fairy Liquid which Pears Soap shamelessly forced down consumers throats in a tirelessly long running ad campaign. As a consequence he has come to represent the image of bland, sentimental Victorian art, which is rather unfair as he was capable of a great deal more, as this portrait shows.

Louise Jopling was a talented Pre-Raphaelite artist in her own right and was a contemporary rival of Millais'






Probably my favourite artist of all is John William Waterhouse and I have a print of this painting of "Hylas and the Nymphs" in my bedroom.

Hylas was one of the infamous Argonauts, rumoured to be the son of a nymph and the mighty Heracles. A handsome youth, he was kidnapped by the spring nymph Dryope who had fallen in love with him and was lost forever, enthralled and captivated by her beauty and allure.

I fell in love with Waterhouse's work as a little girl, simply because he painted the things I loved, mythological figures such as mermaids, sirens and enchantresses and tragic literary figures such as poor, mad Ophelia from Hamlet and Elaine, Lady of Shallot who died as a consequence of the unrequited love of Sir Lancelot. His female subjects were beautiful, ethereal and feminine in every way and I wanted to be just like them.



This is "Automat" by Edward Hopper.

Probably most people are more familiar with his "Nighthawks" but I prefer this one. She looks so sad, so resigned to being alone and I recognise those emotions, they speak to me and I feel for her.







There's lots more I could include, but then this post would be endless. For instance, I'm not a big fan of landscapes but I love Canaletto's views of Venice and London, they're the closest things we have to photographs from those times and his eye for the most minutest of detail is breathtaking.

I haven't included any really modern art, Hopper is as recent as I'm going to get for now ... mostly because I loathe it with a passion. It's one of my pet peeves.

Here's where I start to rant ...

Rachel Whiteread once exhibited an old mattress off a bed, some other loony whose name I can't remember had everything he possessed crushed and shredded and then placed into plastic bins and put on show, and what about when the Tate displayed Carl Andre's "sculpture" of 120 firebricks laid on the floor in a rectangular formation? Prompting Keith Waterhouse to sum it up rather nicely (even if he did write for the ghastly Daily Mirror): "Bricks are not works of art. Bricks are Bricks. You can build walls with them or chuck them through jeweller's windows, but you cannot stack them two deep and call it sculpture".

And he's right! It's a load of old phooey!

However, I seem to be the only one who thinks so, so I would clarify at this stage, in my defence, that I'm quite happy to look at modern art, and call it art, even if it's not particularly to my taste, IF it has some artistic merit to it. An old mattress and a box of fragmented junk has NO artistic merit to it in my opinion, it's rubbish, quite literally.

If I left an old mattress standing outside my house, how many people would stop and say "Wow! Will you look at that! Isn't that amazing! What a piece of art!"? Not many I'm guessing. Yet if someone with more nerve than talent declares it to BE art, sticks it in a poncey art gallery with a ludicrous, jumped up title like "Contemplation of life and death and Swedish Meatballs" then you can bet all the pretentious art snobs would come running like so many sheep, bleating about how "deep" it is and how it moved them to consider mortality, rebirth and prime cuts of beef. Tossers!

*Takes some deep, calming breaths*

Ok, that's better ... it really IS good to share!

Have a great weekend all :) x