Hell is other people

I like the philosophy that suggests each of us has our own personal hell.  I found mine today.

At 3 p.m. this afternoon, having spent a full three hours basking in the sun (hot on the heels of spending eight hours yesterday basking in the sun), I decided I'd probably basked enough.  It was at this point - perhaps sunstroke induced - that I made one of the poorer decisions of my life thus far.  I decided to hop on the tube and go to Primark.

Yes, I'm not sure why either.  A little voice in the back of my head said, "I wonder if they sell those little floral culotte dresses."  Another little voice said, "Let's go see."  I hate those little voices.

The tube wasn't too unbearable, at a moderate 37 degrees centigrade - not bad at all, and I even got a seat.  Off I hopped at Marble Arch into the fiery pits of hell.

People were rude.  Beyond rude.  I got pushed around so much that I picked up an item I had no intention of buying, just so I could wield a coat-hanger for all the morons that were backing into me.

Amazingly, I found a couple of things that looked OK, so I thought I'd try them on.  No.  No, no, no.  What a stupid idea, Laura.  The changing room queue stretched most of the length of the store - at least a half-hour wait.  I thought I'd just buy the items (10 minutes or so wait) and return them if I didn't like them or they didn't fit.

I bought the items.  Then I had what - at the time - I termed my Genius Idea.  You see, there isn't a Primark near where I work, so I'd only be able to get to this one on weekends... and it's always going to be hell.  So, whilst I was in the area, it made sense to see if I wanted to keep the items... And Monsoon opposite had such nice spangly changing rooms.

I grabbed a sundress from Monsoon which I had absolutely no intention of trying on, went to the changing room and tried all my Primark goodies on.  One of them was missing a button.  And my tummy popped out.  This - fashionistas - is apparently "not a good look".  Back it had to go.

Back to Primark I trotted.  Trit trot, trit trot.

I joined the customer services queue.  This queue was actually longer than the changing room queue.  And appeared not to be moving.  I pondered whether or not it was worth it to get £4.84 back.  I decided it was, and opened my book and started to read.

A girl joined the queue behind me.  Right behind me.  Her swollen bag of Primark goodies smacked the back of my leg.  I moved to the side.  She swung it at me again.  It didn't hurt, it was just irritating.  I moved again.  She hit me again.  I gave her "the look".  She said, "Sorry, man."  I am a woman.  That was insulting.

I carried on reading.  She carried on hitting me.  Once or twice I tutted almost audibly.  Every ten minutes or so, after receiving a particularly good Paddington Bear Hard Stare she would apologise.

I queued 47 minutes and finally received my £4.84 refund.  

And, if I've been as bad as I think I probably have been, when Judgement Day is upon us, I shall be forced to queue in Marble Arch's Primark Customer Services queue for eternity.  With a stupid girl with too much make-up and a chav accent swinging her stupid fucking back against my legs for ever and ever and ever.

Prometheus had it easy.

Mini adventure

"Hello, is that Laura?"

I had made the mistake of answering my mobile whilst making a delicious lasagne.  Of course it was delicious.  My lasagnes always are.

It was the Mini people on the phone.  As in the people who had sold me my Mini, not a bunch of teeny tiny people.  That would be weird.  And also, how would I know?  They were on the phone, so I couldn't see their height.

"We would like you to take part in some market research," the Mini person of probably-normal-height told me.  "And we will pay you £40 for your opinions."

That is a lot more than TheBloke (TM) normally pays me for my opinions, so I agreed.

It wasn't that simple.  Of course it wasn't.

"Firstly, I just have to run through a few questions with you to check that you're eligible."

"OK," I said, keeping a watchful eye on my delicious lasagne.  One must always be on one's guard against the Monty Cat who eats human dinners out of spite. And because my lasagnes are so delicious.

"Do you work in Marketing, Market research, Car design, blah blah blah?" asked the average-sized person?

"Nope," I said.  "I worked in Marketing about 4 years ago, but not now."

"Great.  That's fine.  And you're 30?"

"NO!" I might have said that a bit too loudly.  "I am 29."  This is true. I am 29 for another four and a half months and NO-ONE is taking that away from me.

"Great.  Just a few more questions.  If you could be any figure from history, who would you be and why?"

"Sorry?"

She repeated the question.  I said Shakespeare, citing great literature.

"Great," she said, whilst transcribing my answer.

"And, other than clipping a piece of paper, can you give me six other things you could do with a paperclip?"

This was edging towards the surreal.  But luckily I used to play a very similar game as a brainstorming warm-up session, so I was well armed.

"A hairclip.  A tiny stake for baby seedlings.  A flagpole for a mouse. For prizing dirt out from under your fingernails. To pick locks.  A weapon," I rattled off, surprising myself.

"Lovely, thank you.  And would you describe yourself as adventurous?"

"Erm, fairly."

"Bright?"

"Yes, I hope so."

"Articulate?"

"Yes."

"Daring?"

I began to realise I was sounding a bit of an egotist.  "Erm, not very daring, no."

"Chatty?"

"I'm not the life and soul, but I'm happy to talk."

"Would you describe yourself as quiet?  We don't want quiet people."

"I'm chatty enough probably for what you want."

"Great," said the average-height person.  And gave me the top-secret address of a top-secret building I have to go to in Islington next Thursday.  Watch this space.

By the way, the lasagne was delicious.

Cut off

A few years back I used to work in marketing.  It was one of my first ever jobs, and, as my degree was totally unrelated to my chosen career path, I had a lot to learn.

Though let's be honest (at the risk of offending my many marketing friends), marketing isn't that difficult.  You buy more advertising space, you sell more products.  You send more direct mails (letters to you and me), then you sell more products.  You send round more viral emails, you sell more products.  You cut back on your advertising spending, you sell fewer products.  You get the picture.  It's not rocket science.  What I did find interesting though is the anticipated response rates for these various media.

Now, I'm going back four or five years (and relying on memory) so please don't quote these figures on any sort of university paper, because you'll probably get lambasted, but if I recall correctly, these were the approximate expected response rates for a moderately successful advertising campaign:

A direct mail to a targeted audience (i.e. a letter through the post advertising cheap car insurance for under 25s, sent only to customers who are under 25 and you know have a car): 1% response rate
An unsolicited email (i.e. spam): 0.001%
A targeted email (i.e. an email about property for sale in Coventry to a list of people in Coventry looking for property): 2%
A non-targeted leaflet through the door (i.e. pizza menu, regardless of knowledge about whether or not the inhabitants are allergic to pizzas): 0.5%

"All very interesting, Laura," you might lie.  "But how are you going to make a comedic situation from this?  I feel I have learned something today, and that is not why I visit your Plog.  Make it funny and make it funny quickly."

Well.  Today I noticed a flyer had been pushed through our door.  "Aha!" I thought.  I often think, "Aha," but I don't say it as often as I should.  I continued my thinking.  "I wonder if I shall fall into the 0.5% of respondents who are likely to reply to the leaflet."

I picked up the flyer:

"Professional circumcision service... leading the way in safe circumcision practice.  Bookings being taken for this SUMMER!"

I also learned that procedures are carried out by practicing (sic) NHS surgeons, and are carried out under local anaesthetic.  I also learned that as a bonus, apparently, full sterility and safety are adhered to.

Now, I'm no bloke (and I am a proud grammar Nazi), but would you want to entrust the slicing of your organ to someone who doesn't know the difference between "practising" and "practicing" (which isn't even a word)?

That aside, the mind boggles at the sort of response rate they are likely to get from this advertising medium.  What kind of person impulse buys a circumcision?

"Darling, what do you fancy for dinner tonight?"

"I can't be bothered to cook, sweetie.  Shall we order a takeaway?"

"Good idea, darling.  Where are those takeaway flyers?  Ah.  Here we go. Chinese, Indian, circumcision or pizza?  Hang on a moment.  Circumcision? Perhaps I should...  Pass the phone darling."

"Sweetie, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not, darling?"

"You're a girl."

Still, solves that tricky issue of what to get TheBloke (TM) as a present. 

Surprise! 

Child's play

Let's talk about "The Clapping Song".  You know, the barely comprehensible one that starts with 3, 6, 9, the goose drank wine... a smoking monkey and a tram accident involving the death of several zoo animals?  If you genuinely have no idea what I'm talking about, look at this.

Well, all of that is weird enough, but the second part of the song disturbs me even more:

"My mama told me

If I was goody

That she would buy me

A rubber dolly.

My auntie told her

I kissed a soldier

Now she won't buy me

A rubber dolly."

I have a problem with this.  Lots of problems with this.  Essentially, the girl wants a rubber dolly.

Firstly, what the fuck is a rubber dolly?  I Googled it, and there appears to be no such thing.  Let's assume, for the purpose of the analysis that a rubber dolly is a child's toy, made out of rubber.  OK.  The little girl wants a doll, and has been promised one, if she's "goody".  Whatever the buggery bollocks "goody" is.  Let's assume - again - that basically, if she's well behaved, she'll get a toy.

Excellent.  We have a small child, probably no older than eight or nine, or however old it is these days that little girls grow out of dolls.  She's been promised a doll in reward for good behaviour.  Fine.

But then the song takes a bit of a sinister turn.  "My auntie told her I kissed a soldier, now she won't buy me a rubber dolly."

As far as bad behaviour equally withdrawal of the present goes, this I can understand.  There are two other things that concern me.

Firstly, the snitching auntie.  Why was she watching her niece kiss a soldier?  Little bit voyeristic, surely?  Secondly, and more importantly, if the aunt was watching her kiss the soldier, why didn't she step in and do something about it?  We've clearly got a case of paedophilia here - an eight year-old girl being molested by someone in the armed forces.  Instead of the aunt stepping in and helping her niece out of this awful, awful situation, she merely tells the mother, insinuating it's the little girl's fault all along.

So the abused child grows up thinking that this totally inappropriate sexual situation she found herself in was actually her fault, and she deserves to be punished for it.

It is little wonder that she then chooses to take it out by force-feeding geese alcohol and making monkeys get addicted to nicotine.  This was a story that was never going to end well.

Alternatively, we've got a woman who's old enough to legitimately kiss a soldier, who, for some unknown reason (maybe learning difficulties) still likes dolls.

Unless a rubber dolly is a euphemism for a condom.  But how weird would it be for your mum to say she'll buy you one if you're good... and at the first sign of sexual activity, to withdraw the offer, leading - no doubt - to certain teenage pregnancy.

I'm telling you, that family is fucked up.

Car trouble

Ploggers, I apologise.  I have been very poor at updating the Plog lately, with no real excuse.

At first, a couple of days pass - no Plog, no worries, I'll do it tomorrow.  But as two days turn to three or four, and then a week, suddenly the pressure is on to produce something astounding.  And actually, I don't really like that sort of pressure, so I put it off again.  Vicious circle.  Still, I'm here now with absolutely nothing to write about.

*Whistles to self*

OK, well I went up to Sheffield on Thursday night.  The traffic was shit.  Then I came back from Sheffield and the traffic was shit.  I spent nine hours on the road in total, and have come to some interesting conclusions about other road users.

1.  Anyone who drives an Audi is a cunt.  Particularly those little Audis, who seem to think it's absolutely fine to cut you up or change lane right in front of you if their own lane is looking a bit on the busy side.

2.  Anyone who drives a BMW is a bit of a cunt.  And usually has loud music on and is testiculating wildly to their moron friends and not looking at the road.

3.  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a middle-aged Asian man in possession of a Fiat Punto must do 60 miles per hour in the middle lane, with his right indicator on whilst not wearing a seatbelt.   To be fair though, at that speed, in the event of a collision, he's barely likely to brush the steering wheel.

4.  Mercedes drivers seem to think of course you will let them out because their car is better than yours.

5. And finally... I love the Mini.  Miniminiminimini.  I think there's a perception that it's a cheeky little car, because people let me out at junctions far more than they ever did when I had the Corsa or Astra.  People wot drive Miniminiminis are well cool.  People wot say "well cool" generally aren't.

Today was a lovely day.  The sun shone, and I was at my friend Sarah's for a surprise birthday barbecue.  It wasn't a surprise for me, mostly because it wasn't my birthday.  Also, it's difficult to turn up for a surprise party if you don't know about it.  Sarah looked suitably surprised though, and a lovely time was had by all.

Is that a good enough Plog?  Must I try harder?

Paper trail

So my local paper, the East London Advertiser, which I don't think I've ever bought, has won the "Local Paper of the Year Award".

"Ooh," you might say.  "It must be a really, really, really good paper."

"I can't comment on that," I would reply.  "Because I don't think I've ever bought it."

Then I would ask you to think about something... who votes for this award?  Presumably it's either a general public phone-in, or some sort of panel made up of a representative population.

The thing about local papers - and stop me if I'm stating the bleeding obvious - is that they're only available in the local vicinity.  So someone from Tower Hamlets is hardly going to vote for the Peterborough Post or the Loughborough Echo as the local paper of the year.  Because they'll never have read it.

(And also, quite possibly, because the Loughborough Echo only contains stories with headlines like, "Potential bus stop move causes furore", "Man finds moth in garden" and "Youth tried to hit pigeon with stone".  As an aside, growing up in Loughborough, the paper once reviewed a school play I was in.  It only ran for three nights, and the run was well and truly over by the time the paper was published.  The paper gave the play the worst review I've ever seen of any play, ever. It contained the words "dull", "pompous" and "pathetic".  Really, what's the point?  Yes, the play was a bit poo, but it was a bunch of 16 year-old school kids, directed by a bunch of teachers.  Tickets were £4 and the money went to charity.  It wasn't as if they were going to stop anyone wasting their money buying tickets, as the play had finished by the time the review came out.  I'm still angrier about this than I should be.  Especially as I was the only cast member not mentioned by name.  Though perhaps I should be grateful for that.)

So yes, I don't see how any town can win the Best Local Paper award.  I think that was my point.  It might have got lost somewhere.

Boiling blood

Plumbers then, let's talk about plumbers.

Plumbers and I do not have a good history.  My plumber aversion, believe it or not, actually started before I even owned a property.  I rented for a while in Bethnal Green, and the boiler there was on its last legs.  The landlord was very good, but lived a long way away, so called a plumber and agreed to pay for any works... all I had to do was stay in and let him in. The plumber let me down three times.  Three wasted Saturday mornings.  When I phoned him to query, either the phone was in his van, or he couldn't find the parts or - well - any old balls actually.

Then, when I got my own place, the heating system needed works, plus I needed a washing machine plumbed in... queue another raft of wasted evenings and weekends waiting for someone to come round, patronise me, drink all my
coffee and overcharge me for the privilege.

Over the course of the years, I've had the occasional boiler problem, always (so far) covered by boiler insurance.  Last time, however, I had Plumber from Hell.  Let's be straight about something.  Obviously all plumbers are from Hell.  But this one was Chief Daemon.  In a boiler suit.

Don't believe me?  Read about it here:

http://laurasplog.blogspot.com/2008/04/plumb-fool.html

On Friday morning I was without hot water.  "Never mind," thought I.  "I shall phone my emergency plumbing people and they will despatch a plumber pronto!"

I phoned them. They said they could send someone out on Saturday evening. I said that wasn't really what I had in mind when it came to "emergency" insurance.  I shouted a bit.  They sent someone round the same day.

I opened the door.  I recognised the plumber.  It was the same git from before.

"You can watch my car while I'm here," he said.

"No," I said.  "Here is a parking permit.  I am working from home today. Whilst they are fairly flexible with me, I'm not sure traffic warden really fits into my reportable skill sets."

"Whilst I'm reparking the car, clear this cupboard out," he said to me.

I did.  Whilst I scattered disintegrating plastic bags over the kitchen floor, the cleaner tutted at me.

The plumber returned.  "I see you haven't had the remedial work done I said you should."

"Well, we got a second opinion and he said it was fine."

"It isn't.  Look at it.  Does a boiler come out of the factory looking like that?"

"I don't know.  I can honestly say I've never been to a boiler factory."

"Use your common sense."

(I think I must have been born without boiler common sense.  I suppose there are worse things.)

He set to work on the boiler.  The next thing I heard was an indignant "Miaow!", swiftly followed by a, "Stupid cat!".  I returned to the kitchen in time to see a disgruntled Monty Cat being launched across the room by the scruff of his neck.

This meant I had to shut him in the bedroom with the cleaner.  This was ideal for no-one.  The cleaner is allergic to the cat.  The cat doesn't like the cleaner because she makes the hoover make scary hoovery noises. No-one was happy with the outcome.

Least of all me.  When the plumber left an hour later, he had not only failed to fix the boiler but a) couldn't tell me how long it would be until the part arrived b) couldn't tell me if it was covered by my insurance and c) told me I'd probably need several thousand pounds worth of plumbing work done on it before it was even safe to fit the part.

I have had a few days of cold showers and swearing.  I am imagining there may be more to come.

Best blog in the world

What a lovely weekend.  My friend Elinor came to visit and we went for lunch, had a few drinks in a trendy-ish pub, where I felt under-dressed and underglamorous, ate cheese on toast and chocolate, and chatted.  We played Wii and did all manner of weekendy things.

It doesn't make a brilliant story though, does it?  Something I've discovered recently is that mishap and frustration make much better comedy material than"everything's fine thanks".

So, short of anything to whinge about today* (the bastards didn't even tow my car out of consideration to my comedy shortage), I will update you on the latest unusual search terms people are using to find my Plog:

The highest non- "Laura's Plog"ish kind of search is - interestingly - Madam Tamar.  For the last time folks, I saw her ONCE in 1997.  She said I'd get married at 27 (I didn't).  She said I'd go to Leeds University (I didn't).  Should you still wish to go and see her, I don't have her number.  My cousin Nicky is a medium though (profession, not hat size) so if you desperately want that sort of thing, I can put you in touch.  Probably not though, for the person who searched on "Madam Tamar spanking".

Another high entry includes good old "Erica's Wanking Club".  How's the wanking going, Erica?  Keep it up!

"Tamsin Greig pussy".  I get a lot of Tamsin Greig queries.  "Stalking Tamsin Greig", "Where does Tamsin Greig live", "Naked Tamsin Greig".  I have no idea why (other than the fact I've just popped those exact phrases in my Plog).  I would like to make it clear that I am a big fan of Tamsin Greig, but I have no particular wish to know where she lives, and definitely no desire to see her naked.

"Plog sex" is right up there.  That sounds so wrong.  "Would you like it, would you like it, baby?"  "Yes, but not in the Plog.  I'm a Plog virgin, and I've heard it really hurts."

"Bristol University flat caps and ferrets" makes a surprising entry with three people finding the site this way.

"Coalville 14 March 1999".  Interesting.  This was Erica's birthday.  Not Erica of the Wanking Club (unless she's hiding a dark secret from me).  I don't remember what happened though.  Erica might.  She was probably wanking.

"Coalville jacket potatoes".  Ah.  Happy days.  Rancid cottage cheese for only £1.40.

"Does Ann Curry have ticklish feet".  I know no-one called Ann Curry.  But I bet she does.  I bet she also has pubic lice.  (I have no idea who she is.)

"Coalville UK most incestuous town?".  Yes.  Yes it is.

I suppose if I was clever and wanted to lure visitors to my site, I'd "accidentally" drop in phrases like "funniest London blog" or "best blog ever".  But I'm not that bright.  Or am I?  That is enough for now.  You may go away.

*Damn it, I've just remembered I haven't told you my latest plumber story.  Suffice it to say I haven't had a hot shower since Thursday.  And the plumber threw the cat across the floor.  Stay tuned, folks.

Towed-ly unfair

"It's gone," announced a slightly scared-looking TheBloke (TM). 

"What has?" I asked.

"The Mini.  The Mini has gone.  Stolen, towed, I don't know."

"Oh, OK," I said, displaying the wearied calm of one who has lived in London for a while and to date lost three cars this way.

I called the usual number (it's on my Friends and Family discount so I get cheap calls to them) and found out that it had indeed been towed, from a single yellow line on a Saturday afternoon near the park.  As Tower Hamlets Bastards are wont to do.

The lovely Tower Hamlets Bastard on the phone told me that there was a £200 release fee, and there may be other parking fines on top of that.  Deep joy.  TheBloke (TM) looked grim (and a bit pale - I think he was still waiting for the anger).

So, off to Bromley-by-Bow (our friendly local car pound) we trotted, me with my car log book and insurance details to hand.  This is a somewhat familiar routine for me.  Hand over your documentation, hand over your debit card, Bob's your uncle, you get your car back.  (Though last time it was a courtesy car which made things a bit trickier.)

We finally got to the front of the queue.  The lovely lady took my documents.  TheBloke (TM) handed over his debit card.  

"Oh," she said, "our machines aren't working today.  It's cash only."

Now I'm no snob.  I live in Bethnal Green, I've spent a year in Dalston, I actually like the edgier parts of the capital.  But Bromley-by-Bow is a big fat shithole.  The biggest, fattest shithole you've ever seen.  Even if your job is working as a proctologist, looking at big fat shitholes all day.  The place is all concrete, full of gangs of bored teenagers unfortunately failing to get themselves run over on the dual carriageway that slices the grey, graffittied Mecca in half.

Politely, to the lady, I said, "We don't carry round £200 in cash.  You can take my card number and process it tomorrow when your machines are working again."

"Council says no," said the lady in the best Catherine Tate impression I've heard recently.  "There's a cash machine about ten minutes away.  If it's working," she added ominously.

"I'm sure it's not legal for you to hold onto my car when we've got a method of payment ready.  It's not our fault your machines are broken.  If you don't have a method to collect payment, you shouldn't be towing cars."

"What you gonna do, call the police?" said the maybe-not-quite-so-lovely lady.

"I might do," I said.

"You can pick it up tomorrow, if you like," suggested the lady.  This was a possibility.  I certainly didn't fancy walking round the area when all the locals knew that everyone heading towards the pound was carrying £200 cash.  "But it'll be an extra £40 for overnight storage," she said.

TheBloke (TM) restrained me from commiting a fairly warranted act of violence and we marched to the nearest cashpoint.  Which - of course - wanted to charge us £2.50 for withdrawing money and - of course - was out of cash, because I'm guessing several dozens of people were hitting it all day for £200 a time.

We marched another mile to another cash point in an even dodgier area.  TheBloke (TM) withdrew £200 of cash.  We went back to the car pound.  And waited.  And listened to a girl in the queue be told about the cash situation.  "I'm from the BBC," she exclaimed.  "This is ridiculous and I'm going to make a documentary about how shit you are!"  So, Ploggers, if you see a documentary in the near future entitled, Bromley-by-Bow Car Pound: is it shit?, you heard it here first.

Finally we were at the front of the queue again.  We passed the documentation and the £200 to the Tower Hamlets Bastard.  She said, "No, it's £260 pounds.  £200 towing fee, and £60 parking ticket."

"What?" I - let's face it - shrieked, "you said it was £200."

"No I never," she said.

"Well, we said we'd get £200 out of the cash machine and you didn't say it was any more than that."

"Computer says I did," she said.  OK, she didn't really, but that was the gist of it.

Luckily, between us, we scraped together the extra £60 in cash, got our appeals form and drove the Mini home.  (Before this we'd both tried to enter the pound, TheBloke (TM) was practically assualted as the Tower Hamlets Bastard slapped on the window, screaming, "Driver only!  DRIVER ONLY!")

Unfortunately for them, Tower Hamlets Bastards, so inefficient even at bastardry, failed to follow some fairly specific rules and regulations about appeals, (which I found out from this excellent website), meaning that when I chased them up by phone today (admittedly over a month since I put the appeal in), legally they've been forced to refund the lot.

We won't be spending it or gloating too gloatingly until the money is in the bank, but I'm hoping it'll be a case of Laurasplog - 1, Tower Hamlets Bastards - 0.

Watch this space.

Perfect pitch

Attention please, new game afoot, Ploggers!

I wish I could claim credit for inventing it, but I didn't. So there. It seems to have been invented by a chap on Twitter who you can find at by searching PsiBennett, should you wish to.

The game goes like this. Think of a film. Change one letter (only one letter mind) in the film's title and repitch it. (And if you're playing this on Twitter, tag it with #renamerepitch. But we don't need to do that here.)

Clear? Good. Go.

Here are some of my favourites:

Schindler's Lost: Schindler wanders round a pre-sat nav Germany but refuses to stop and ask for directions

The Whining: Moany thriller in which Jack Nicholson goes on and on about how he didn't want to work in a hotel anyway.

Reservoir Jogs: Gentle-paced documentary detailing some of Britain's finest scenic exercise routes

Donnie Darky: Racist drama about a troubled teen and his fascist rabbit.

Jams: Left a generation of children scared of the marmalade ailse. Spielberg at his best.

Flight Club: Brad Pitt accrues loyalty airmiles (strictly speaking, adding rather than changing a letter, but who cares, really?

About a Buoy: Hugh Grant finds himself adrift in this sea-faring adventure (doesn't work with American pronounciation of bu-i. Plus breaks the rules. But I like Hugh Grant, so it's staying)

Also, totally flouting the rules:

Twelve things I hate about you: Julia Stiles remembers two further reasons her boyfriend is a prick.

I think it is your duty as a Plogger to play along. I haven't reposted silliness that isn't my own, so if you've already posted a renamed, repitched film on Twitter, please post again in the comments here if you'd like.

Come on, it's a Bank Holiday. You know you want to. I have more. Don't make me bring them out. We might even have a bit of a competition. Best one wins some chocolate rice crispie cake. Don't say that's not a prize worth trying for.

Happy repitching!

Bookish bookie

Several times by several people I have been called a pop culture retard. I once spent a memorable hour in a hairdresser, having forgotten to bring reading material of my own, and was presented with a stack of magazines.It took me the best part of the hour to work out what a WAG was. And I never did come to a conclusion about why I should care that Posh Spice looked a bit like she was going bald.

My 59 year-old father has far more up-to-date music taste than I do, and many times has told me I should try listening to the Arctic Monkeys or the Killers or some other improbable-sounding popular music group. I do not watch "Eastenders". I could not name all members of Take That (whom I understand these days are somehow retro. I don't understand that either).Even in a police line-up where my life depended on it I couldn't tell the difference between Kings of Leon, Franz Ferdinand and Fightstar.

"But Laura," you might say, "you have just named three very current bands"(or individuals, I'm not sure). "Clearly you have some knowledge of popular culture."

"No," I would reply. "There you are wrong, my friend. Those current names were pulled at random from this list here:http://www.theofficialcharts.com/top40_singles.php. The last CD I bought was Billy Joel. And I'll be honest, I haven't really played it. It was only a fiver, and I quite like 'Piano Man'."

"Oh," you would say. "Oh."

However, when it comes to literary arts, I like to think I can hold my own.I usually read this year's Booker winner, plus several of the nominees; my degree is in literature. I am a member of a book club. I have even written a pantoum and several amusingly-bad Shakespearean sonnets. Fear me.

Today the BBC wrote an article about the new Poet Laureate - Carol Ann Duffy.

They reported:

"She was such a strong favourite to take up the position that bookmakers stopped taking bets on her appointment earlier in the week."

Hold fire. Who... WHO goes into a bookies and says, "£10 on Duffy to be the next Poet Laureate, please."

"OK, mate. Duffy the singer, yeah?" (I only found out about her at Christmas)

"Nah mate, Duffy the poet."

"Right you are... oh hang on, no. Do you mean Carol Ann Duffy? Famous poet on GCSE syllabuses with a weird penchant for other women's jewellery, particularly pearls?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Sorry mate, we're not taking bets on that. Everyone in the bookie community knows she's a sure thing to win it. Sorry bro."

My point is, that the failure to be able to bet on Carol Ann Duffy's appointment was enough of a problem for the British public that the BBC felt it was worth mentioning. Even I wouldn't bet (or care) who is the next Poet Laureate. So who are these hordes of disappointed literary gamblers?

If you've tried to place a bet on a literary figure in any context (perhaps the release date of Ian McEwan's next novel, or whether those crazy cats Pip and Estelle will ever get together), please drop me a line. I'd be fascinated to know which bookmakers you use.