Tag Archives: it’s all about me (and Madonna)

Pardon Me

You will have noticed that there was no post here this weekend.

This is not good enough. David Bowie might have a 10-year gap between his last album and this new one, Halley’s Comet might just turn up whenever it feels like it, Schubert might not even bother finishing his symphonies, but as a blogger with a worldwide readership (yes, there are only nine of you, but you are scattered all over the world) I should be more disciplined.

I feel that I should offer an excuse, or since I don’t have one I should offer you a selection from which you can select the one you like best.

  1. The dog ate my computer (start with an old reliable);
  2. I was invited out to dinner, in Hollywood, by Madonna;
  3. And (just in case Mrs Tin is reading this), had to spend the weekend composing a regretful refusal;
  4. Saturday was the Spring Equinox (that’s not an excuse, that’s just an interesting fact);
  5. And an incorrect one. I spent the weekend checking Wikipedia to see if that was true, and found out that the Spring Equinox was actually Thursday (when I didn’t have a post either);
  6. I was abducted by aliens who, although they could cross galaxies and could beam a person right out of his trousers and onto their spaceship, did not have Wi-Fi.
  7. I had to go and buy new trousers (see Excuse 6);
  8. I had to spend the weekend buying a dog, since otherwise Excuse 1 would not be plausible;
  9. I decided I would finish Schubert’s symphony for him, though since I don’t know how to write music I just stuck the last two lines of The Sun Has Got His Hat On onto the end of it.

In actual fact I spent the weekend in the West of Ireland, at the wedding of one of Mrs Tin’s cousins and had a great time with her extended family, meeting people we hadn’t met for years, staying up singing until four o’clock and celebrating the 100th anniversary of the 1913 Lock-out (sorry, that last bit’s a family joke).

And I brought my computer with me, so it, like me, has had a holiday away, so expect more posts in the coming week.

After all, we have no excuses left.

Proof Positive

Last week they elected Head Boy and Head Girl for Tinson2’s class for next year, his final year at school. Tinson2 did not win either position, mainly because he had no interest in trying to, but during a family discussion that evening I said that being Head Boy wasn’t necessarily a good thing, look what happened to Cedric Diggory at Hogwarts. Both Tinson1 and Tingirl insisted that he was never in fact Head Boy so we Googled it. They were right and I was wrong, but that’s not important right now.

The important thing is that Cedric Diggory has his own Wikipedia page, whereas I, who have read more Harry Potter books than he has appeared in, haven’t.

Until now.


Tinman (pronounced “tin man”) is a blogger and stud-muffin of the highest order, who in just four years has established himself as a colossus of the internet, garnering a worldwide readership (of only 20 people, but spread all over the world).

He was born into a life of privilege [citation needed]. His father was descended from the High Kings of Tara [proof required] and his mother was Princess Anastacia from Russia [proof required]. He was thus born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and a small operation was required to correct this.

The Early Years

Like Mozart [1][2] (ignore the numbers, they’re just there for effect) , Tinman was a child prodigy. By the age of just three he had written a novella (in French), a book of haikus (in a book) and three episodes of Bonanza. All episodes of Bonanza were, of course, written by children (what, you didn’t know that, just look at the storylines) but they were usually aged at least six.

The Teen Years

In the 1970s the teenage Tinman’s puberty hit the female population in an explosion of desire and his face in an explosion of zits. He was the subject of Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain [citation needed], Roberta Flack’s The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face [seriously, citation needed] and Bobby Goldsboro’s Summer (The First Time) in which the older woman is believed to be Sophia Loren [proof? please? anything?]. A trail of weeping lovers was left in his wake [certification needed, and I don’t mean of that sentence] before he met the young lady, heiress to the Hoover millions (no, the vacuum makers, not the FBI guy) and Miss Venezuela 1982, who became Mrs Tin.

The Tin Years

Tinman’s writing talent, nay genius [nay, citation needed] continued to flourish. He wrote speeches for Oscar winners, the Queen, and Sarah Palin (he wrote that she could see rushes out of her window, it wasn’t his fault that she read it out wrong). But tragedy was to strike Tinman when his heart collapsed under the sheer weight of the love that he bore all humanity [oh, barf] and he had to have a pacemaker fitted. Luckily, while he was climbing Kilimanjaro just two days later [any record of that, anywhere?] his metal pacemaker was struck by lightning, giving him super powers [aw, come on]. Thus he has enormous strength, enormous brain-power and the most enormous [don’t even think about it]. For these reasons he is wanted by the New York Giants, the Smithsonian and Madonna [oh, for f**k’s sake].

He prefers to live quietly though in the tiny hamlet of Greystones, where he has four times been Mayor [cita – oh, forget it], with Mrs Tin and their three Tinkids, who have inherited their mother’s beauty and their father’s brains [poor them].

The Future

Where Tinman goes from here is entirely up to him. He is tipped to be the next Secretary General of the UN [proof? nah, didn’t think so], the next Pope [look, you’re not even a priest] and the next James Bond [that’s it, I quit].

The world is his oyster, which is a pity because he doesn’t like oysters.

Claiming Seniority

A group called The Book People regularly leave a selection of books into our office. These vary in their catchment age – for example, this month’s includes a box-set of all of the Beatrix Potter books, while also including a book called “Can’t Be Arsed”, a list of 101 things not to bother doing before you die (No 28 is “Get a Tattoo”, by the way). The books are cheaper than in the shops, you tick the one you want and a couple of weeks later it is delivered.

This month they offer this book:

Which it could be argued is fair enough, perhaps some of us would like to teach our granny how to email or how to accidentally order 2500 boxes of paper online (I’ve done that, they asked how much paper I wanted, which was a box of 5 reams at 500 sheets per ream, so I put in 2500 and would still be paying for them today were it not for the fact that the company had to ring me to tell me that they didn’t have that number of boxes in all their stores put together).

Anyway, this post comes about because of this part of the cover:

It seems that I am a senior.

Not only that, but I’ve been one for over four years now. Had I not been clutching tightly to my Zimmer frame when I read this I’d have fallen down in shock.

I do not regard myself as a senior. I am not reading retirement home brochures, buying boxes of denture cream (2500 at a time, if I do it online) or bemoaning the fact that pop music these days is shite, even though it is.

I have never been on a cruise. I do not like Tony Bennett. I do not own a cardigan.

The fact that I’ve had to pause this rant for a sit-down and a nice cup of tea is due to the fact thatI like tea. And sitting down.

I still see myself as young, vibrant and (Grannymar will back me up on this) hot.

Apparently I’m not, and it’s not just me. Stephen Fry, Sharon Stone and Donny Osmond (four days older than me, sadly I actually know that) are all seniors. While Gillian Anderson isn’t , David Duchovny is (sorry Mulder, but the truth is out there). The list is endless, and astonishing. Antonio Banderas. Enya. Eddie Murphy. Meg Ryan. All four members of U2, even Larry Mullen. Michael J Fox, who still looks younger than any of my children. Heather Locklear.
Linford Christie. Every bit of him.

I wrote about Madonna a few days ago. According to the authors of this book she too is a senior.

I wouldn’t like to be the one who tells her.

Beautiful Stranger

The content of the daily free newspaper handed out on street corners and outside train stations in our city consists purely of horoscopes, that evening’s TV schedules and a load of celebrity gossip.

On Thursday it showed a photo of Madonna in what I believe is called a basque and one of the girls in the office poured scorn on “the old woman in the leotard”.

“You mean the old woman who’s the same age as me?” I asked.

“Er, well, yes, but, er, like, you look much younger,” she said, digging frantically upwards.

“Seriously?” joined in GoldenEyes. “After all her botox, she still looks older than him?”

We eventually let her off the hook, but only after it was established that Madonna is not an old woman and that I still find her attractive, leotard or no leotard (I realise that there are two ways of looking at that last sentence).

I have written before about my Ghost Writer who haunts me, though in a good way, ensuring that my life is filled with enough unbelievable co-incidences and odd events to help pad out a blog. It has to be due to his intervention that at 14.34, less than an hour after the above conversation, I noticed that this was in my inbox:



Needless to say I opened it:


Madonna is asking me out.

She is asking me to go to a concert in May where she may well wear the basque, the leotard or for all I know a dress in the shape of a box-kite.

She seems to be inviting 10,000 chaperones. Perhaps I have a reputation I know nothing about.

I think we could really hit it off, but the relationship would be doomed from the start because of the media’s wish to compress couples’ names, like Brangelina for example.

Madonna and Tinman. They’d have a field day.