The free-for-all
Snow...
As Katja is presently vacationing, sorry, working in the area, and unable to get to the wondrous modern technology that is t'internet, I thought I'd take it upon myself to announce the joyous news, the news all have waited for, yet few dared to believe would come true. The news that will make all other news of the day pale into insignificance..
Yes, it snowed. It snowed a little yesterday, but it snowed more during the night. We have right roof tops, that look a little like God was making muffins and got carried away with the baking powder over the night. That's right, you come north, you get the white stuff. That's like a motto for the tourist injury, although I do worry that it will attract Pete Doherty as well as those of us who get ridiculously over excited at 3am because they see snow on the roofs of the cars out of the window and feel obliged to start messaging random people to express their jubilation. That sentence was too long, and had terrible structure. This means that upon her return, Katja will subtly edit it and hope I don't notice, because having bad grammar on her blog will just not do. Anyway, that is your daily dose of Katja news, do feel free to marvel at the fact that you got such an update.
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The Return of The Hoolie...
Hello All! Just a quick blog from a web cafe in the centre of the civilised world, Newcastle. Ok, that's a white lie, it's actually the centre of wind, rain and cold right now. After last weeks discussion of it blowing a hoolie, it seems it has returned this week with a vengeance. Luckily I have been spending most of my time revolutionising the thespian world as we know it with my all singing all dancing role, and drinking Gin. Which would seem to be contrary to the ethic of a children's theatre company, but as long as they never see the flask(s), I'm sure it will be OK. Sadly, this could be my time to move on as a local lady with rather unfortunate facial hair and a voice like she gargles on gravel would seem to be gesticulating for my exit. Have a good weekend all, don't do anything I wouldn't do. (But do let me know if you can think of it!)
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Floatykatja on
20.1.07 12:07
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Wild Times In Paris
The floaty one is still pretending to be on tour while actually attending the priory for rehab on a very colorful addiction, so I thought that all my lovelies out there in blogsville would just adore to hear more news from the wonderful world of Lady Olivier. I must say I rather enjoy having the keys to the blog, if it were mine there would obviously be far more lillies and whiteness, but I promised that I would keep my dear De Havilland from applying his frankly marvellous decorating skills.
Anyway, as said, her highness is still off going cold turkey with a selection of b-listers and ex big brother contestants. (I tried to persuade her not to go, but she insisted) Apparently it's been three weeks in there now, poor girl, I've had marriages that lasted shorter, just ask Orville. Speaking of Orville, I got another Alamony payment yesterday and it will be paying for a glittering rock, Mr De Beer is finding me something special, from the vaults, and I shall of course wear it when I collect my Oscar this year, this must be my year, I've fluttered my eyelashes at almost the whole academy, even the ladies.
One of those stuffy old men suggested to me that there are somethings even my eyelashes can't win me, but he obviously hasn't seen the cheque I got from Coco for that campaign back in my heyday. Oh she was marvellous, I never cashed it, it's framed on my wall, I didn't need the money and not everyone was friends with Coco. When we hit Paris, boy did we hit Paris. It's funny though, I was talking to someone in an interview about the good time I had in Paris just last week and they got in quite the excited tizzy, asked if I'd filmed the whole thing and whether Paris enjoyed it as much as I did! I can't possibly think why I would, but apparently everyone is filming their time in Paris nowadays...
Anyway, my pretties, I must be moving on now, stay beautiful!
Kisses!
Lady Ohhhhhhhhhhhh
(I'll explain that nickname later  )
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Lady Olivier on
2.11.06 15:19
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I was tagged, dahlings.
Four jobs you’ve had in your life
1. Being a global mega star
2. Endorsing Things
3. Recieving Awards
4. Being Fabulous
Four jobs you wish you had
1. Cleopatra, I was made for that role, made for it, dahlings, and then Liz got it and I was on the sidelines. Me, sidelined? How dare they.
2. Lorali in Gentleman Prefer Blondes, there I was at the audution singing my heart out and they gave it to some blonde who just wandered in like she owned the place.
3. President. Hillary? Hillary who? Would you really want to be governed by a woman with her taste in clothes?
4. Anything Helen Mirren starred in. She thinks she so fabulous, but she has nothing, nothing on me, I carry my age gracefully and elegantly, why just the other week I was asked for ID while buying my Don Perignon. "Dahling" I said "don't you know me at all?" and the cheeky young heretic claimed never to have seen any of my work. Heathen.
Four Movies you can watch over and over again
1. Anything with me in it.
Four cities you’ve lived in
1. Beverly Hills
2. Malibu
3. New York
4. Paris
Four TV shows you love to watch
1. Television? Isn't that how the common trolls on the street digest my beautifully made masterpieces? as if a small screen could do Lady Olivier justice! Variety said I was magnificent, magnificent, how in the name of Harvey Wienstien can a small screen show magnificance?
Four places you’ve been on vacation/travelled to
1. When I was living in Gay Paris, I went to some place called France, most wonderful wine they had there too.
2. Barcelona
3. Hollywood
4. Hollywood
Four websites you visit daily
1. Lady Olivier Official Site
2. Lady Olivier Fan Listings
3. Lady Olivier Fan Forum
4. Lady Olivier Addicts Anonymous
Four of your favourite foods
1. lettuce
2. caviar
3. radish
4. cucumber
Four things you won’t eat
1. Carbs
2. bread
3. Meat
4. Anything fattening, dahlings.
Four things you wish you could eat right now
1. I could really binge out on some salad.
2. Oh, go on, be bad, beetroot!
3. sugar free, fat free, goodness free Ice Cream
4. YOU. alive.
Four things in your bedroom
1. My four poster bed
2. Leonardo DiCaprio
3. My Pool Boy, Chuck.
4. George Clooney
Four things you wish you had in your bedroom
I wish for nothing, Lady Olivier has all her desires.
Four things I’m wearing right now
1. Diamonds
2. Rubies
3. Sapphire
4. Manolo Blahnik's
Four people you’d really love to have dinner with
1. My fourth husband, rest his soul.
2. Sofia Loren, so she can gaze on real beauty.
3. Michelangelo, I want to be painted.
4. Madonna, we really must talk about getting me a one of those things she's wearing nowadays, you know, an african baby.
Four things I’m thinking right now
1. Damn I'm good.
2. Damn I'm good.
3. Marilyn, who?
4. Damn I'm good.
Four of your favourite things/people
1. My Chinese Crested
2. My Jewels
3. My Walk In Closet
4. My Pool Boy, Chuck.
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Lady Olivier on
26.10.06 17:15
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A poem
As an antidote to the more mopey musings on my blog, here's my attempt at a love poem. FK's blog is a better setting because she's much more optimistic than me. Won't you be... the mystery i can unravel the reason for me to conquer time travel the pin that drops when we ache in silence the flower in the barrel that holds back the violence the music that plays when i'm in the lift the thought in my head that I can't seem to shift the beat of my heart that changes the rhythm the present I get that's the best i've been given the tick of the clock when the work day is finished the love of my life that won't be diminished?
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Cigarette Sigh on
29.9.06 10:16
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Reminiscences of Floatykatja [Pt 2]
My next meeting with Katja was in 1996, in a production of Thoroughly Modern Millie at the Eddie Royle Out Of Eastenders Memorial Theatre on the Old Kent Road. I was playing James Fox and she was playing Mrs Meers, by day the proprietress of a hotel for young ladies, by, erm, day as well an evil white slaver, drugging the young ladies for sale to the Eastern markets. Katja made this part her own. A busy girl, she had the hots for Robert de Niro, Paul Newman, Dustin Hoffman, James Dean, Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. As a consequence, she studied the Lee Strasberg Method, immersing herself in her role, becoming the mysterious Mrs Meers. Not only did this lead to a highly successful and critically acclaimed performance, but also, by February 1997, Katja had sold 44 girls aged between 17 and 25 into slavery in Bangkok, Seoul, Beijing and Kyoto. A further 121 were reported to have been sedated and kidnapped, but escaped when a cargo ship chartered by Katja ran aground off the coast of Madagascar. Furthermore, a staggering 1,007 girls were found in seven laundry trucks parked around the back of the theatre on the day she was finally arrested. She got off on a technicality. by jimmypanic
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jimmypanic on
26.9.06 16:51
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She (capitalised for emphasis)
In honour of our host Ms Floaty Katja, I present a retooled and reinvigorated short story. Cheers, Cigs
She (capitalised for emphasis) A short story for the benefit of Ms FK
In the cold night air, his cracked tooth reverberated like a tuning fork, sending stabbing pains racing like drunk drviers round the base of his skull. Life for him was all in the metaphor, the similies, the words you twist around to make it seem sweeter for all its ridiculousness.
Brittle like an aspirin, he struggled down the road, his scarf flapping in the wind, his eyes red and puffy from the previous night, standing hopelessly with flyers for a club that no one wanted to visit on a road that no one could possibly chance upon. Friday night gushed over him like a blessed relief despite the ranging tides of bulldog boys and tittering tarts swarming around him.
As he rushed down the hill, the neon glow of the club sign beckoned him like a high class hooker, all dolled up and nowhere to go. He slung himself with unconcealed desperation. Inside old 45s crackled out fifties rock'n'roll. The boy with the Morrissey hairdo was tending bar, throwing shapes to himself in the backlit mirrors, studying his face in the optics.
In the corner, She (capitalised for emphasis) was sat with her coeterie of bright eyed accolytes. She was wearing her rockstar sunglasses and Monroe pink stilettos, laughing ostentatiously while she smoked French cigarettes that were all about the theory and nothing about the taste.
Perching himself at the bar, he (lower case denoting defernce) shot her meaningful glances and half talked with Jock, the perennial stereotype, caught up in his whiskey and his fractured memories of Fife. She (upper case and upper class but slumming it) stared beatifically at him and turned away to laugh at some sarcastic quip shot out by a kid with a white boy afro.
The bar began to fill, office workers chameleon spun into tight jeans and battered converse, studded belts and profance hoodies, sweeping into every spare space. He stared over past the optics at his reflection and imagined himself into a noir dream world, the banalities of a Friday night collapsing into tight line melodrama, a detective film monologue racing through his head as he pulled his hat down and reimagined her as Ingrid Bergman.
She (upper case to denote a beauty who doesn't give a shit) was dancing now, spinning like a figure in a broken music box, inspiring devotion, a circle of space around her like a divine streetlight that the mediocre moth boys could flit around but were to scared to touch, afraid they might get their wings burnt. Their entreaties were batted away with grace, a slight smile and a flutter of her eyelashes.
He looked on with admiration but remained rooted, more beer flowing towards him with easy inevitability, cold and pure in its bottles, perfect as it slipped down but darker as the night went on, harder to swallow, the condensation covered capsules ever more intimidating. Soon he was drunk, swaying to the sound of the Who and the Kinks, emboldened by mod fictions, revelling in his button down collar and the shine on the tips of his winklepickers.
Without thinking, he was up and sashaying across no man's land, beyond the no fly zone and into the centre, beside her. She (upper case and upper tax bracket) was devoid of sweat somehow, still moving, ever moving with the perpetual motion of the beautiful view. He circled her, she circled him, the game was afoot as it had been a hundred times before. Anthony twisting with Cleopatra, afraid to put their hands out in case the magic would go, the circuit would short out. Another week of tension after months of locking eyes, spinning around each other their head laden with stupid questions, filled to the brim with the same music their mothers had played in bedrooms before they were even idle thoughts in a daydream, ratcheting their hearts to the beat. A perfect couple in the eyes of the passersby, perfect strangers in the daylight, exchanging nothing but the glances of desperate youth
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Cigarette Sigh on
25.9.06 11:59
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