The Return of Kitty

Reader, I married him.

Oh, no, hang about. That wasn't me. That was Jane Eyre.

Hmmm. Well, frankly, i don't know what my excuse is. But I'm coming back. Soon.

What? What? I AM. Jeesus. Talk about trust issues. I'll deal with you later.

In the meantime, keep returning for that new post. Coming soon. Like I said.
And, If you are very nice, I might even let you tweet me your problems.

Hello, are you still there?

Oh good. How are you? Keeping well? Oh. Really? Well, I'm sure it will clear up. Have you tried the cream?

So....still no column. I'm sure you've noticed that. Unless you are a tad goldfish-like and think that the last column is a new one every time you visit. Are you goldfish-like? Because that would make my job a lot easier. Email if you are goldfishlike. But do it now before you forget.

Anyway, as I was saying...still no column. This is beause I have spent the last six months lying supine on my chaise longue eating bon bons with my Russian lover. Not really. In fact, I have been hutched up in a caravan eating cherry lips with the man from the Prontaprint.

Okay, that was a lie, too. I've just been working on something. More of which later. But there will be more columns coming soon. I swear on my fictional Russian lover's life.

In the meantime, there's a Tunnocks Teacake up there for you. Should keep you going.

Kitty

Dear Readers,


You're right, of course. It's unforgivable.
I said there would be a column. There was no such column.



Can you be appeased by a picture of a courgette?

No? Well, that says good things about you, I suppose. I mean, what kind of person could be appeased by a picture of a courgette? Not even a real courgette which, let's face it, is unsatisfying enough, but a picture of one? Not you. Never.

Oh well. All I can do is assure you that Kitty will be back. Sometime this year (I feel slightly safer saying that, there's being so much of it left to play with.)

In the meantime, why not check out some mildly diverting musings about TV by Kitty's cousin

Or, if that is even less satisfying than staring at a picture of a corguette, then click here for guarranteed good times.

Kitty

But here's that courguette again, just in case.

Dear Readers,

Okay, "soon" might have been overstating it. But definitely sometime this year.

In the meanwhile, why not spend some time with Flight of the Conchords?

Kitty

Dear Reader,

Kitty's new column will be uploaded soon.

In the meanwhile, why not spend some time with Morrissey?

Dear Kitty,

I met my idol last week. Things did not go well.

I watched him play this amazing gig and then queued up afterwards to get my album signed. All the while I was waiting I was thinking: “just be cool, be casual, don’t go babbling, don’t tell him how brilliant he is, he probably hears that all the time, don’t be another one of those moon-faced sycophants, he must get so bored of that, and hey, he’s just a regular guy. One who writes the most incredible songs and has a God-like mastery of the electric guitar, true, but just another human being all the same. No need to be fazed what-sooo-ever.”

Thing is, I was so determined not to fawn that by the time I got to the front of the queue and he asked my name I just grunted something unintelligible and glared at a spot behind his head.

Now I have an album signed to someone called Barry and terrible flashbacks whenever I play it.

Why did I have to be such an arsehole?

Perry, Brixton

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Dear Perry,

It is never a good idea to meet one’s idols. But if one of you had to be an arsehole, it’s best that it was you.

I mean, at least you know you’re an arsehole. Imagine how much worse it could have been if you’d managed to strike up a conversation with your hero only to find that he was racist or homophobic or pronounced “kettle” “kekkle.” Entire record collections, not to say lives, have been ruined in this manner. Whereas, lo! Everything is still exactly as it should be, with your man shining and unimpeachable on his pedestal and you gazing up at him, only from a slightly greater distance than before due to feeling marginally smaller.

Still, that probably isn’t much consolation since right now your dreams are obviously dashed; not only that dream of talking to your idol without collecting a disappointing pseudonym but also that more ambitious one in which you mention to him the influence of Allen Ginsberg on his early work, he recognises you as a kindred spirit, invites you to the after show, persuades you to sing backing vocals on his next album, gives you the keys to his gite and demands that you marry his sister. You may be surprised to hear that this is a dream held identically by his entire fanbase, with just a slight variation on the location of the gite.

Of course, it would have been different for you. I mean, you actually ARE a kindred spirit. If only you'd managed to make eye contact whilst simultaneously forming a coherent sentence, you'd be swimming in that outdoor pool with Delores right now. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?

No, you wouldn't. But at least you can still clutch to your heart the possibility of such an outcome, which is more than can be said for the rest of the queue, the eloquent dolts.

And don't worry that your idol now thinks you are a fuckwit, since presumably he will have experienced fans at each end of the adoration spectrum, from the ones who paint his portrait, stalk his mother and hold on to his ankle at the end of a show to those so determined to mark themselves out as intelligent and creative souls that they spend the whole gig with their back to the stage pretending to be engrossed in a packet of Mini Cheddars, a tactic which - and this may be worth noting for future reference - bends so far back on itself to avoid crazy fandom that it ends up cosied snugly next to it.

Kitty

Dear Kitty,

I love you. I thought you were mine alone.
But now I hear something about you being nominated in the Manchester Blog Awards

I’m stunned. Who are these people? What do they know of your witty fonts or your enchanting hypertext links or the way your hair curls over your polo neck just so?

I don’t want to share you. I can’t. I won't. Not after what happened with my last girlfriend.

So I’m afraid it has come to this: give them up or the dog gets it.

Your No 1 Fan

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Dear No 1 Fan,

Call yourself my No 1 Fan? Have I taught you nothing? Don't you know that the tighter you try to hold onto something the more likely you are to lose it?

I understand your annoyance. Upon finding something to love, most people’s immediate reaction is panic that it might be taken away. In all but three cases this is directly linked to an incident in 3rd year juniors involving a rubber shaped like a hamburger and a very deep puddle.

Alas, such early mental scarring leads to all manner of behaviours, not all of them dog-friendly (and let’s leave aside for the moment the fact that I don’t have a dog, being, as I am, a cartoon character. With allergies.)

The problem here is that fearing the loss of something often brings it about.

Take jealous partners. They fall in love. They are jubilant for approximately a nanosecond. But they're fundamentally unable to believe that life can be so good to them. Instead, they become convinced their girlfriend is going to leave them for someone else. Someone better read or with nicer hair or, indeed, hair. They watch her fervently. They call her fifteen times a day on increasingly flimsy pretexts. They start checking her pockets and hacking her emails and cross referencing her receipts with her Filofax and her menstrual calendar. They break down sobbing on a Friday night and scream that they know their partner is seeing someone else and why can't she just put them out of their misery and admit it?

Eventually, their partner leaves them for someone else. (Strangely, the misery continues unabated.)

Of course, the jealous would say that they knew all along that this was going to happen.

Followers of The Secret would suggest that the jealous attracted this eventuality with their pesky negative thought patterns.

I would hazard that they were probably dumped because they were acting like a psychopath, an approach which rarely enamours one to a new beau, no matter how luxurious one's hair.

Since even hypothetical canicide comes under my psycho umbrella, I'm afraid that you are going to have to learn to let go. Particularly since an advice column with one reader is more accurately described as a counselling session and I shall have to start charging you £45 an hour and making you talk about your mother.

So - what to do? As in all times of great uncertainty, let's look to Sting, who once sagely stated: "If you love someone, set them free." If they come back, they are meant for you. If they don't, they were never yours to begin with.

You are not allowed to shoot them down and stuff them, just to make sure.

Kitty