Beads of sweat trickled down Hugh’s manly chest and his sky-blue eyes glistened in the gloom.
“Oh, Hugh!” I sighed.
“Come here, big boy!” drooled Sarah
“Oooooh!” swooned the other 1,200 people sitting in the theatre.

Well… ok, we were watching Hugh in a West End play. Maybe not the intimate encounter I would have liked, but at least Sarah and I had the best seats in the house! We were so close to the stage we could practically lick him. I’m sure Hugh could feel the love emanating from our hot young bodies as he bound towards us in all his manly glory.

Hugh performing on stage in his smalls was, for us, the female equivalent of visiting a strip club. We learned a lot about the wonder of womanhood that afternoon, I tell you! Mmmm, damp.
Mr. Laurie has a new legion of female fans since House took over every TV channel in the galaxy. Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes I forget the good doctor is a fictional character…

Does this ever happen to you? You go to the doctor with a bizarre mystery illness which is a bit like Lupus but isn’t Lupus. You secretly hope you’ll get referred to the crotchety blue-eyed hunk for an intensive course of hands-on treatment. Dr. House may even need to treat you wearing just his underwear! It will be worth bleeding from every orifice just to get an anal probe from Dr. Sexy.

Unfortunately, by the time you’re laying on the examination table with your naked bum in the air, you remember Dr. House isn’t real. Instead, you end up getting prodded by a burly Russian with a white coat and hairy hands, who studied medicine while awaiting his murder trial. There’s no House in this doctor.

Just me then? Oh well. At least I didn’t have Lupus.

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It was a nice afternoon so I decided to take a stroll along the harbourfront. I wandered along dreaming about puppies, unicorns and being spanked by…never mind. A crowd of tourists from the nearby cruise ship pottered around and took photographs of seagulls.

“Yoo hoo! YOO HOO!”

A high-pitched American voice squealed behind me, interrupting my spanking dream.
“Yoo hoo, girl with the red hair! Hi! We really enjoyed your show!”

I turned around to see a chubby couple waving at me and pulling out their cameras. I was confused. I wouldn’t class Tiggyblog as a show. They didn’t look like how I image my readers to be (I assume you are all rather attractive and under 70). I still had stars in my eyes after my recent movie appearance, but that was probably on the cutting room floor by now. Had I been in a show recently? I get forgetful sometimes, but nothing sprang to mind.

The lady tourist flapped her chunky arm and beckoned me towards her.
“We saw the show last night… loved it! I loved your dancing,”
Dancing? Me? This woman was obviously drunk. I mumbled something about being late for rehearsal and fled. I could still hear her shrieking “You hoo, dancer!” as I stumbled away.

I had been a dancer, once. I was four years old and landed the part of “pink rabbit” in the village variety show. I don’t recall much about the performance, although I distinctly remember a rabbit ear falling off and pissing my tutu in sheer panic. Not exactly Bolshoi Ballet material.

I wondered what kind of freak show I had supposedly been dancing in. I couldn’t think of any dance genre requiring a big arse and the flexibility of a tree trunk. What had this misguided couple been watching?

Maybe it was a contemporary dance show? Perhaps I was in an art-house production about 19th century lesbian vegetable pickers, depicted in a pretentious display of arm waving and scary music. I probably played a carrot or something. But my tourist fans didn’t look the type to be watching arty modern dance. Hmm.

This being Nova Scotia, maybe they had attended a traditional Highland show, where ruddy-faced girls kicked their legs like pit nags to the sound of bagpipes. Oh, the horror! I would never dance like that. My boobs are too wobbly and bagpipes make me violent.

Then a horrible thought crossed my mind. Maybe the couple were not what they seemed? After all, they were on vacation, full of cocktails and free to go a little wild… in true maritime fashion, maybe they had disembarked their boat and headed straight for the local strip club? Had they spent their evening watching a “show” involving pole dancing and spanking?

Maybe the club had been packed with curious cruise tourists. And they all thought I was that girl who was dirty dancing in a sparkly thong!

My reputation in this town is in tatters! What must people think? A boatload of Americans think I am nothing but a cheap, pole-dancing slut!

However, the spanking part I can live with.

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I went to my first hair band gig last week, admittedly 20 years late. The aging rockers put on great show with their squealing guitars and screams of “Are you ready to ROCK?” Yes we were. Happily the middle-aged metal masters left their skin-tight spandex pants at home.

But when I was a kid, we treated those Hair Metal Gods with contempt and rejected their call to Rock. With their flying V guitars, bouffant hair and cheesy anthems, they looked more like psychotic Barbie dolls than hard-lovin’ macho rockers. Trying to be cool, we turned to The Smiths and those shoegazing guitar bands DJ John Peel told us to like. But did we make the right choice? Let’s consider the facts…

1. Style

Hair band: Musicians and fans alike dressed like it was Gay Parade Day every day, with glittering spandex, wild makeup, lumpy crotches and enough hairspray to destroy what’s left of the ozone layer completely.

Indie: Only grey baggy clothes were permitted. We were too sad and lonely to bother brushing our hair. What was the point? No-one cared. Only Morrissey styled his hair, but he was probably doing it, like, ironically.

2. Lyrics
Hair band:

Gimme an R! O! C! K!
Whatcha got? ROCK!
And whatcha gonna do?
ROCK YOU!

(Rock You – Helix)

Every lyric was about being ready to Rock, how hard they Rocked and how they were going to Rock all night. Other themes included hot ladies wearing lacy undies (also Rocking), rides in fast cars (while Rocking) and parties full of hot ladies, fast cars and Rock.

Indie:

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such as heavenly way to die
*sob*

(There Is A Light That Never Goes Out – The Smiths
Sobbing – Tiggy)

All songs had to contain references to grief, grey skies, gravestones, girls in graves and gravy. Oh, maybe not gravy. That would have been way too colourful.

3. Gigs

Hair band: Every gig was packed full of explosions, fireworks, flaming guitars and thrusting crotches. Hot ladies in lacy undies would try to have sex with the drummer. While he was still playing.

Indie: Every gig was full of kids shuffling and staring at the floor. Girls in the front row swooned over the skinny singer hoping he may cast a shy glimpse their way. Even the haze of marijuana smoke failed to lift our spirits because we weren’t supposed to be happy, dammit. And if we looked stoned and happy, we were just being, like, ironic.

4. Parties

Hair band: Ozzy and Axl’s barbeques must have been one awesome metal meat-feast with all those mangled bats, doves and pigs. Champagne poured by hot ladies in lacy undies! More coke than Amy Winehouse could shove up her nose in a million years!

Indie: Meat is murder, right? And you can’t eat when your heart is broken. Nothing but menthol cigarettes and a big bowl of despair kept everyone going. Besides, we had to keep skinny.

Realizing I made a huge musical error in my youth, I have decided to make amends with the Hair Metal Gods and head down the Road of Rock. It looks like so much more fun!

Having said that, these lacy undies are killing me…

Sparkly spandex crotches are order of the day over at at Humor-Blogs.com

And don’t forget to head over to the spanking NEW humorbloggers.com – more fun than a boozy metal pool party! Probably!

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Dreams do come true, they say. I hope not. I keep having a recurring dream about dating diminutive Top Gear presenter Richard “Hamster” Hammond. I have no idea why. I’m sure he’s a lovely chap and all, but I don’t exactly lust after him during my waking hours.

Strangely enough, this budding bedtime romance is going rather well. Richard and I have been on a number of dreamy dates and shared a romantic dinner together (I must point out he is always a perfect gentleman and keeps his hands to himself). But why Richard Hammond? I really can’t explain my brain’s logic. I suppose it could be much worse – my unconscious mind could one night confuse him with

Richard Simmons

Richard III

or Keith Richards.

That would be very wrong.

Trouble is, I’m worried where this nocturnal relationship is heading. Everything is going so well, I just know he’s going to dump me. I’m reluctant to go to sleep because I know one night I’m going to hit the pillow and hear “Tiggy, I really like you, but…” Oh, pretend imaginary Richard, how could you do this to me?

I should dream up a plan of revenge. I will attempt to make Richard jealous by secretly dating Top Gear co-presenter Jeremy Clarkson. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Jeremy is much taller and can probably drive faster. That will teach Hamster to play with my dreams!

Knowing how my dreams usually end, Jeremy will probably turn into a huge beetle, eat the Eiffel tower and I’ll end up hitchhiking naked around the Paris Ring Road. And then all my teeth will fall out.

I can’t avoid sleep and my Hamster forever, so I better prepare for the worst. Providing Richard Simmons doesn’t make a nightmarish appearance, I might be able to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and soldier on until morning.

And I must remember never to watch Top Gear before bedtime…

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There’s something wrong with my TV. It only shows CSI. No matter which channel I flick to, I still see Gil Grissom prodding a mutilated carcass. Every fucking channel. The CSI team continues to probe blood-spattered bodies all evening. A perfectly coiffured woman slices into a cadaver and harps on about seminal fluid and slash marks. There’s a time and a place for seminal fluid and it isn’t while I’m eating my dinner.

My faulty TV is now subjecting me to a visual horror show. Sweaty fat guys weld motorcycles, plastic teenies squawk Whitney Houston songs and hyperactive Americans demand I buy Super Bam Power Juicer. Realizing this parade of televisual twats is what constitutes entertainment these days, I’ve decided to cash in and develop my own shows to flog to the networks.

Celebrity CSI: A reality show contestant is brutally murdered. A team of other reality show celebrities don rubber gloves and tap bleeping computers to work out who did it. Of course this being a reality show, the unlucky celeb will be sacrificed for real. The victim’s family should be informed of their loss live on TV – think of the ratings!

Infomovies: Movies are practically two-hour long infomercials these days (yes David “Ooh, product placement all over my new movie! Nike! Buy Nike!!” Schwimmer, I’m talking to you). Why not have movie-length commercials? Get Brad or George to pump the Bowflex® Home Gym for two hours. Throw in a sub-plot involving terrorists, homicidal pirates and a shower scene and you’re on to a Bowflex® marketing winner.

Everybody Loves Everybody: Nice middle class family (with a seemingly endless supply of money) headed by lovable chubby guy called Jim. Crime, disease and ethnic minorities do not exist in Jim’s world, apart from one token black friend who gets all the worst lines. Hilarious plots include:

- Jim sneaking out to watch the ball game – just wait until Mrs. Jim finds out!
- Jim arguing with his cantankerous mother-in-law. She’s not bitter because she’s lonely and marginalized, of course.
- Trailer trash neighbour stealing the lawn mower, barbeque etc. Stupid poor people are funny!

It’s a tried and tested sitcom formula so why do anything else?

Nice Fluffy Family Happy Fun Time: To keep those right-wing religious zealots happy, I’m developing a family show just for them. Imagine a wholesome hour filled with children’s spelling bees, jolly songs about Jesus and how lovely he is, children petting puppies, jolly ladies doing jigs, puppies judging spelling bees and jigging children petting Jesus. And knitting. There should be a lovely knitting segment, with sweaters and spinning and jigging. None of those nasty liberal wool colours like indigo and orange. Just nice shades of beige. Amen.

House on Houses: Cranky medic Dr Gregory House helps young couple get on the property ladder by showing them around overpriced apartments (how the hell young couple can afford them is a mystery). Deal closes just in time for House to rush back to hospital to save a young girl from Lupus etc, etc.

Why struggle for original ideas and innovation when you can make easy money recycling the same old formats over and over? And if it makes Rupert Murdoch and Jim Shaw even more money, it can only be a good thing.
Can’t it?

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