Bloglines, Brooker and Banessa

Despite having a Bloglines sub for quite a while, I've remained unmoved by its charms until now. Suddenly the bulb fizzled into life above my head and now I can see the light. I've had a spate of frenzied subscribing to my latest regular reads, so if idle curiousity takes hold of you, I'd recommend checking out my favourite blogs - I have superlative taste in these matters.

One blog I can't find the feed for is Lady Muck, a blogger supreme, who writes a lot about TV and film and is generally amusing. I expect everyone knew all about her ages ago, as I always suspected. She either already has her own column in one of those titles she writes for, or she's quite rightly expecting an offer any day now. Maybe she could go for Charlie Brooker's Guide column. I read the Screen Burn book the other day and hooted snotfully in public places in uncontrollable, uncontainable delight throughout. Now, however, with the advent of a comedy show that's only so-so (I'm watching it more out of loyalty than anything else), I find his columns that bit harder to read.

And don't I just sound like one of those pompous, bitchy bloggers who take delight in slating people for the slightest thing. The fact is, I'd give a virtually redundant part of my anatomy (a little toe, say, or one of my kidneys) to write as well as him.

Anyway, on to more important matters. Vanesita will be returning home soon. Hopefully to relearn the accepted views on fluffy bunny wunnies and poor animals kept in cages (they're for oohing and cooing over in the wild and buying in waxed paper wrappings from the local ethical famer's market, Vanessa. Honestly, you've turned positively heathan.) When I say "return home" of course, I mean home to me in London, in a nice flat round the corner from mine. Not home to bloody Keighley, or Canada, or Japan or any other foreign clime. It's time for Mrs Village of the Wolf (which is the new surname she'll be taking soon. Whatever happened to the rampant feminist I fell in love with?) to come back to my loving arms so we can take London by storm together. Once she's back and settled, and her sexy, swarthy, salsa dancing mucho macho husband has been taught how to recognise when he's being chatted up by a man (he's going to be in for a shock when discovers that straight men in Britain don't know how to swivel their hips), I've got big plans for us. This time next year we'll be supreme beings. Or, at the very least, out on a Friday night.