A note to me dears.

Ello all. Forgive me please. I know I have been neglecting you all, but I'm coming back, in a big way, like psoriasis, all it takes is a bit of stress and it's back on yer joints askin' yer fingers to take you back like a shamed adulterer, and askin ya to play rough. Ooh I should coco, anyway, Look for more of me, I've got more of my life and loves and other bits to share so please don't forsake me.

Lav Ya Bums, (I really do) especially yours mr. new editor-in-chief.

Lyds

Boxing Lydia

Ello all, Aunty Lyd’s here for my last message of the year. No need to cry though. I’ll be back next year to impart to you my wisdom and life experience.

This week I was trying to think of things that Americans don’t have that I grew up with at home. Three things came to mind: Giant Cadbury’s Christmas chocolate bars that line the shelves of all British supermarkets; crackers with hats, jokes, toys and a snap inside waiting for families to pull at the Christmas day dinner tables; and Boxing day.

Growing up, Boxing Day was synonymous with reunions with family you hadn’t seen since last Boxing Day, Christmas leftovers and fist fights in the back garden. My cousins Thana and Hy-hy always singled me out and when everyone’s attention was directed elsewhere, they would tag-team me, leaving me with a black eye that became known as Lydia’s mysterious yearly accident.

Anyway, this year I’m going old-school on Boxing Day. My dad once told me that Boxing Day started when all the lords and ladies got together the day after Christmas day and gathered gifts in boxes to take to their servants, the paupers and plebs in the community. So here’s my gift list for Boxing Day 2009 and the people I will bestow my presence on. Watch out all.

First there’s Matina. Despite being arch rivals, we always exchange gifts. This year I recorded my own version of the song, “When did I become such a bitch” with a foreword saying I had Matina specifically in mind.

My good — if not a bit fat — friend La Lemmah, expects nothing less than chocolate so I’m wrapping up seven of those giant chocolate bars I mentioned earlier. Should keep her busy for a couple of Christmas evening hours.

My slightly nutty friend Marcella Adroit will receive a coupon for free pet-sitting in case the Rapture comes and doesn’t recognize her 10 cats as righteous enough.

Knobby will receive the best of X-Factor finalists as I refuse to perpetuate anyone’s addiction despite his telling me he wants the boxed set of “Debbie Does… (add yer own location).”

My dear Daddy loves Freddy Krueger and I managed to get him a signed print of Robert Englund and Patricia Arquette from NIGHTMARE 3. It’ll look lovely framed and hanging over the fireplace. Bless.

Well, have you met Mr. Jones? I have, and for making me look glorious the last couple of months, he’ll get an authentic Sasuke outfit for all those gaming evenings he wants to stand out.

My favorite copy editor will receive a button that says, “I have too many guilty pleasures.”

My Editor will get a T-shirt that says “The V is for Vegan,” and my lovely little Editor-in-Chief will get a T-shirt that says “I Heart Ginge.”

Well dears, it’s been, as you yanks say, real. Have a merry chrissy, a happy new year and this Boxing Day, try taking a leaf out of my book and go visit and take gifts to those servants, paupers and plebs of your own.

Laters all and luv ya mistletoe-decked bums.

On Not being Australian.

Ello all. This week I wanted to clear up some fallacies about my person. In my time here in Orem, I don’t go a day without someone asking me where I’m from or guessing that I’m from Australia, South Africa or Sweden (don’t ask).

I wonder if there are many other Australian people out there as that is what I’m predominantly mistaken for. Not that I really mind the Australians, for a bunch who were originally British banished crim’s, they haven’t ‘alf done badly for themselves. They make really good soaps, and I grew up on NEIGHBOURS and HOME AND AWAY.

People always comment on my accent and while I’m proud of my mudder tongue, all this time it does make me wonder if I should affect an American accent just to avoid the nonsense some people come up with.  And by people I mean those members of the race I don’t know. All the friends graced with Aunty Lyds company, have this endearing way of affecting my accent, sometimes without even thinking about it. It just pops out. The accent. The accent pops out, DIRTY.

This leads me to mention Matina. For those of you in the dark, Matina is a transgender drag artist on the East Coast and for a while she was my closest confidante. We had been on a cruise and during the first few days everything had been hunky dory, but then a few days’ later people started looking at me oddly and whispering behind my back. I wasn’t being paranoid, they really were talking about me, I could hear sniggers and whispers (which if you ever do in public don’t bother, people can hear you). Then the day before we were s’posed to come into port, I was in the water closet havin’ a waz and I hear Matina flounce in with someone else and Matina starts spreading awful things about me.

Anyway I burst out of the closet and both Matina and the first mate go really quiet, really quickly.

I slapped her so hard her false eye-lashes popped off. We punched kicked, rolled around on the floor (ugh mingin’ bathroom floors), slapped, poked and I ruined my best sequined Westwood.

“Whossitallabaht?” I shrieked, mascara running, lips smudged and nose bleeding all over the place.

Matina’s reply was haunting. She said she didn’t understand me and that I should speak “proper English...proper American English,” and she left the bathroom limping and black eyed. All I want in life is to be understood and respected. Isn’t that what we all deserve?  To this day I don’t know what had happened to make her act in such a way, but I DO have the notion that we should treat people with respect. I wonder if it had anything to do with my havin’ a pash with her Australian bit of stuff. You can never tell with people from New York.

Laters all, and until next time, Luv ya bums.

30 days of 'Ween: part Three

Ello all you haunted house goers out there. Heres the last part of my Halloween themed article for my column at the UVU Review. Enjoy.  Let me tell you about one of my first haunted houses.

It was the ‘Ween of my fourteenth year and I’d rolled around in the back garden compost heap to get dirty and was painting my fingers and nails dark red. I’d gotten them proper right, as though I’d just scratched my way out of a shallow grave. Daddy said to me, “Leonar…ahem, Lydia, Why do you do the things you do?” I pointed at him and in my best zombie groan, gargled the words, “Aaahhii raaaahhv ooh.” It was that moment he said, “I love you too, but why do you do these things?” This took me by surprise. I hadn’t known my dad knew zombese.

If Dad knew zombese, perhaps he was a lost Halloween soul and I never knew. The shame.
I decided that a haunted house might just be what the doctor ordered and enable the two of us to bond for the first time in our lives. I asked my mate Knobby if he knew of any activities that I could ease Daddy into All Hallows nice and slow. He gave me a name and address and told me the place would cater to newbie’s. The name of the place was actually “All Hallows” which was a nice coincidence. Daddy wouldn’t dress up, but I managed to convince him into wearing a T-shirt that said, “I’m with scary.”

We found All Hallows down Soho, London, tucked in a back alley away from the main streets and I marveled that I’d never heard of it before. We knocked and the door opens to this big man with shades and a cigarette hanging off his bottom lip. I tell him Knobby sent us, he looks us up and down and then says, “Well it takes allsorts, come in.” I was practically shivering with anticipation. We went in the darkly lit hall and the lights flickered. The doors slammed behind us and Dad grabbed my hand.

The first thing we saw were several bodies littered across the floor, all in different states of awful. Dad asked me if they were real and then one with a very convincing face wound grabbed his ankle and murmured something unintelligible. The last body at the end of the hall was the most disturbing. They had made it look like she had relieved herself all over the floor, her nose dripped blood, her eyes flicked up repeatedly into the back of her skull and a small needle hung pathetically from her left arm. Dad clung to my arm telling me he was indeed scared. We walked up some creepy stairs to the next floor and asked a gothic woman and what appeared to be a large six-foot five leather-clad gimp where to go next. They directed us up to the fourth floor. On our way we passed weird freaks stood shaking their heads, a mad doctor with a suitcase dripping blood, assorted shifty characters and rooms full of weird screams that made Dad red in the face. Dad still swears it was chainsaw victims, wink wink. I just told him to enjoy the experience.

Well shock of all shocks, we hear crashes, shouts and sirens going on beneath us. A dozen coppers in riot gear rush through the whole premises ordering everyone on the floor and we both find ourselves at the local nick for being in a house of ill repute. Dad saw the funny side…eventually but in that cell, Daddy and I bonded and now share a passion for ‘Ween. We still speak zombese to one another and Daddy refuses to live anywhere but Elm Street whatever city he moves too.
Laaaahtasss uhhhg, lahhhvaaa bahhhm.

Galliano was my love muppet.

Ello all you fashion-forward lot. A few years ago I was doing the rounds at the Milan, Paris and London fashion scene.

My friends Matina, La Lemmah and I became a part of Galliano’s inner fashion circle. He gave us fashion focus projects so that he could be as informed on the cutting edge of his game. Haute Couture was and still is a big deal in my life. Anyway we learned many things from Galliano, about fashion, life and the art of sewing so I’m going to impart some of this fashion advice for all you students out there.

Bodices: You need a good bodice. Tailor made to fit your particulars and able to lace up the back. These can be sequined, but I think appliqué is so underused at the moment. A nice red and blush lily draping from one breast round to your coccyx would be fabulous. Also a push-up bra underneath might help if you’re a bit flat-chested. Don’t worry it’s more normal than you think.

Dresses and skirts: Now this one can be tricky. Despite what some might say, dresses and skirts don’t always work for all body types. I would suggest a beautiful wrap that parts at the front and trails off to the back in a train. Now, this can be sparkly gold fabric or can be laced with any number of carats cos if you’re like me you just love a bit of gold.

Knik-knoks: Ok, so we have this parting at the front, you’re thinking that you’re a bit exposed. I already thought about that. You need some shiny, tight knic-knocs that cover the prize at the end of yer passion trail. I would suggest black gold. Some people like sparkly bits right there, but unless you’ve got a one track mind and that tracks going only one place, then its best not to draw too much attention.

Head, hands and feet: I love wigs. White ones are my favorite ever since Viv Westwood’s Liaisons Dangeroux inspired shows, and I always like diamonds or opals in my jewelry. Shoes must be winkel pickers or have a seven Inch heel. Heed this advice and you can sing while you win.

Well that’s the men taken care of, now for the ladies. ooh I seem to have run out of time. Um... do all the above, just add a bit of pink.
Laters all, luv ya bum.

30 days of 'Ween: part 2 Horror movies messed me up.

Ello all. As you may remember last week I talked about corn mazes, but this week, we go a bit deeper into the ‘Ween spirit and look at movies that set the mood for all hallows.
Back when I was 12-years-old, me and my mate Berta went to see a movie we thought looked good. We were all ready and waiting for a bunch of blank-slate victims to be dispensed with in all manner of entertaining ways and we got ROSEMARIE’S BABY. Things just weren’t the same after that. I don’t think poor Berta was at a time in his life to be confronted with young women birthin’ Satan’s bastards and had a funny turn. Well the movie gave me chills. I even named my first kitten Minnie Castevet.

Anyway, I was thinking about all those other films I saw that really affected me, so below is my list of the ones that messed me up in some way or another.

WHEN A STRANGER CALLS. Oh— My— Bob. Ya know that old story where the babysitter is in the house alone and then she keeps getting these calls and they’re coming from IN THE BLOODY HOUSE...oh my life, the first 20 minutes of that movie is like...like ooh waaaaahhhhh. What people don’t realize is, for the whole time he’s been chatting to the poor dear, the kids are already with baby Jesus. That contributed.


DRACULA: PRINCE OF DARKNESS. Seeing someone hung upside down to then have their throat slit into a coffin where the ashes of Dracula are waiting to be re-vampified; that contributed.


POLTERGEIST. Clowns, faces melting off, trees that eat you right the hell up, zombie filled swimmin’ pools and Zelda Rubinstein. That all contributed.


SCREAM 2. For a while I thought that if I found myself in a horror film I would survive ‘cause I know how to make the smart choices. People who make the smart choices in horror movies normally survive. But in the scene after Hallie and Sydney have climbed over the killer and out of the taxi to safety, Sydney wants to return and see who is under the mask. Hallie advises against that and says that smart people get out of there. So, Sydney, the silly moo, goes to peek anyway and finds the killer missing. Only he’s not missing, he’s right behind Hallie with a big ole knife. Smart people DO die in horror films and that contributed.


All of this (and more) contributed to the messin’ of Lydia Colt, but also the solidifying of my love for ‘Ween. So settle in with some sweeties or popcorn and watch one of these beauties, and mess, but not on the carpet luv, it’s unsanitary.
Laters all. Lav ya bum.

30 days of 'Ween: part 1

Ello all, it’s that time again. Every year around this period, I start feeling it in my body. Cramps, irritability, anxiety, mood swings, angry outbursts and tender mamas are all signs that my favorite holiday, I like to call ‘ween, is here.

I hear some of you disenters whispering that it’s too early for talk of ‘ween, but no, it’s not too early. It’s becoming more of a regular occurrence for Easter paraphernalia to appear on shelves just weeks after Christmas and Christmas goodies appear on the shelves just after Halloween. I think this is the perfect time to talk about our dark lord’s favorite day of the year. If it’s one thing you yanks do well it’s Halloween.


Back in England, my buddies and I had so much fun at ‘ween. Then I came here, and I thought I’d died and gone to some kind of heaven. There were sweeties, chocolate (despite America not knowing how to make it taste good, I’m not picky), elaborate home and garden shows with the names of all the houses occupants written on little grave stones (bless), corn mazes, and my favorite…haunted houses.
When God thought to create haunted houses, he thought, “well I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but let’s really try messing them up and put it down to adversity building character.” Well, on behalf of all America, thank you God, we owe you one.

Anyway I digress, a year ago I was a corn maze virgin. Friends asked if I done it before, and I said, cheeky beggar…and then said no I never, so off we went.
Wow, I was blown away. There’s not many places that you can be swallowed by an inflatable beast, see a giant pig and be chased by a chainsaw wielding psycho. Back home I’d either have to be at my mate Knobby’s house (say no more), or down the local nature reserve after midnight, only there’s less chainsaw wielding psychos and more future aids victims.

What I’m trying to say though is, don’t be sittin’ on yer arse all month and not be involved in this wonderful time of year. Every week I’ll be here to remind you of your duty to get some ‘ween, so go eat some sweeties and above all, if you’re a corn maze virgin, I think it’s high time you get shucked.

Laters all, lav ya spooky bums.