Yesterday I travelled to Clifton Hill to pick up a 1950s teach yourself Finnish book which an old friend/colleague had advertised as a veranda throwaway on fb. I thought it might complement my use of the suomi app to get me a little more comprehending of this difficult language (you should see the first three pages of vocab in the book - christ! - which comes after 24 pages of basic explanation). Anyway we talked about how she was slowly chucking out her late father's accumulated books - he was a polymath I guess or a dabbler - and we then discussed the ins and outs of post-divorce or post-mortem stuff dispersal. Of course I'm torn between the luxury of surrounding myself with stuff, and the uselessness of it. But you know in recent weeks I've come to think about one item which has been a constant daily element in my life for probably close to fifty years, certainly more than 40. It's my lurid orange Dreamspun Sherpa blanket, '100% Vonnel Acrylic Fleece'.
Sorry the bed is messy I think I must have thrown back some blankets around 4am possibly a high pressure system before the rain. Then cat anchors kept it in disarray. I just wanted to show how much my Dreamspun Sherpa stays close (of course, in Summer it goes into the cupboard and has a rest for a few months). These blankets first came on the market in '71.
Age 25/3/71
SMH 14/3/71
I texted my mother to ask if she remembered buying these for her family (my memory is, it was a bit of a heralded event and we all got one) and she responded 'Why' then 'No' but also the valid question, 'were they singles', because no this is a double and I always had a single bed when I lived at home.
The lurid orangeness of the blanket is one of its best features and it has indeed accepted and held this bright colour. Christ knows when I last washed it. Never? I also wonder whether the wool industry came down on 'acrylic fleece' the way dairy opposes non-dairy 'milk'.
Right now the blanket is recording in its diary how Helmi is really shitty with Nancy for being on me and on the bed. I imagine she (H) is ready to retire for the day. She just sniffed Nancy then swiped her. Nancy = no shits given seemingly.
I am in this clip from 1:26. What were my parents thinking? I know that Michael Jackson, after talking to my mother in Vegas 34 years later, realised that this early exposure - during which I was in absolutely no physical danger - sealed my future as a celebrity allowing me the opportunity to accept billions of dollars in endorsements in later life, and thus put his own plan in action on behalf of Blanket, who he dangled by one leg from a German hotel balcony in November 2002. Vince Lovegrove was crouched in the bushes four stories below, ready to carry out a scheme which, oddly, was not pre-arranged but in fact entirely happenstantial; he was staying in the same hotel, and had been to see John Waters in Glass Onion, as VInce likes to yell obscenities and throw shit at Johno every time he puts on the show, but he's been banned from all Australian venues. When he saw the incident taking place he accidentally dropped a vial of acid he hadn't got round to throwing at Waters, in the bushes so he wandered in there to take a piss. Both Vince and Michael agreed later that had Jackson actually dropped Blanket, the patented Lovegrove catching ability would have ensured no tragic ensuance.
You will notice that in this clip though cute I have very long arms and legs. This abnormality later corrected itself through the natural life phase of years of gruelling operations in hospitals done by doctors with saws. I recall the headmaster at Auburn South Primary School once asking my mother if there were gorillas in my family, of which she was most offended, being proud of our gorillistic heritage.
Many people ask me today if I am sick of seeing this clip, which is shown whenever I appear on This is Your Life (yes, it's been 11 times now) and similar tributes. Of course not. 'Build Me Up, Buttercup' is a great song which satisfies mind, body and spirit. I often tell the story of Bon taking me to a whorehouse after the taping though as I always add the story is untrue; he merely tossed me an old Esquire in the green room. I wasn't even sure he was tossing it to me; I had been put in the wastepaper basket for safekeeping while Mom went out for a night on the town with Doug Lavery, who had promised to introduce her to his predecessor as drummer for the Valentines, Warwick Findlay.
