Help me Whitesnake!

Hello lovers of land!  It has most certainly been a rather long and dry season for words on this little old blogsite.  I have been lost for them for a considerable amount of time.  Now I have lots, so please bear with me.

I have been rather a dreamer with regards to career options.  Having fallen into drama school many years ago, I expected fame and fortune to be handed to me on a silver tray (or if not a plastic McDonalds one would have been sufficient), but sadly, it was not the case due to my naivety and a lack of thick skin, nepotism and my general misplacement of talent (I can do a standard Northern Accent, but please don’t ask for anything more).

So thus my fate after Mountview Theatre School was to endeavour the tread of many a school hall, scaring all ages of children along the way with my portrayal of the greats such as Peter Rabbit, Lady Macbeth (in plimsolls) and northern grannies (generally with shakey legs and sporting a shower cap).   I also got down with the senior school kids and told them in a cool and trendy fashion (not really, oh dear) what options were available to them vocationally or academically after school.  One of my characters was called Nurse Scatchitt, an elderly northern lady, who wore a shower cap.    And of course, there was panto in Scunthorpe, where I was cast as the role of the Chinese Empress (with a northern accent much to the director’s surprise, and yes, there was head protection).

Whilst rehearsing for one of these amazing ventures, I met and instantly fell in love, lust and baldness with what is now known as my husband.  In a Palma Violet he is amazingly talented, good natured, mostly understanding, so kind, super sexy and makes me laugh (cliché alert).  We done stuff like marriage, baby and now our life is complete due to our very own cat, Lollie, that would rather lay in a pile of gnu shit than sit on our laps. Life is sweet, gnu shit isn’t.

I have to admit, career wise I was pretty lost at 18 years of age and I still am at the age of nearly (gasp) 43.  Pregnancy seemed a rather good option to not think about career options.  I  took time off to raise my daughter and remember the heady days of switching channels to watch The Chuckle Brothers, simply because the only other option was Iggle Piggle and his farting friends. Darks days brothers. Dark days. Then there was washing up at a residential home. This was not particularly suited to me, as washing up is … well need I really explain!   From thence I worked  for a popular toddlers gym franchise (run by a 30 stone male who thought he was gods gift to all North London Mummies and had no sense business sense nor talent, best I stop there methinks). And presently I take the odd dance class for lots of lovely lady bosses in London. This I very much enjoy (come on, who wouldn’t want to shake maracas for a living) but I still need more!  A little something to call my own so to speak.

There have also been flights of fancy with regards to drama clubs, writing, crap crafts and comedy.  All of which would turn out washed with a tissue in the pocket and ruining the load.

Oh god!  And then there was Simon Pegg!


I had once imagined myself to be the female version of Simon.  He had created this “stuff” that I had always dreamed of, but he did actually do one, and done it and made it good.  I thought that if I ever met him, I would be able to talk to him about similar interests, share a joke, perhaps have a one liner in one of his films, that would eventually turn into a leading role some in some rather quirky indie film that I had penned my kind self …


I met him whilst in a musty cold church hall, wearing old trackies and a green vest whilst entertaining his children on a inflatable bouncy thingy.  All this on less than the minimum wage (and much less than my 16 year old colleague).  There was a lot of other awfulness with regards to this job, but moan, blaa, blaa, nearly broke a toe – you get the point)  I was so embarrassed, that when I actually made eye contact with him, I nearly shate myself (and I think from his shocked expression, he was probably aware of the stench I had secreted).  I spent the rest of the “party” with my back to him, but you will be glad to know that I did finally muster up a miserable “Hello Mr Pegg”, and rubbed his shoulder.  I am mightily glad that he didn’t press any charges.

It was that moment that I thought, bugger!

So therefore and very eventually, it was decided that Kerry Jane (no hyphen) Hegarty was to try and attempt something on her own (Yay!  Third person). Don’t get me wrong, I would very much like to attempt something not on my own, but due being me, I can understand why this will need to be a single “mine” project (but if there is anyone out there like me, let me know, you poor, poor sod). Anyway, enough of Me, myself and that bespectacled bugger looking back in the mirror at me (with a few more lines and a wobble in her cheeks). And so Cake Exercise (a vague attempt at aerobics and dance) is to be born next month. Aerobics (as my exam tutor once told me) is a dying trade, and therefore who better to bring it back from the brink with a bingo wing and a spray of fresh sweat than me, me, me!


There are just a few points that worry me though:-

1. Working with adults. How do I interact with someone over the age of 4? Am I too old for this? What if my legs freeze? What if I have a massive panic attack that lasts for the duration of the class? Some of my loyal friends have said that they will come along and support me for the first session. What if they think I’m shit, the music’s shit, it’s all shit? How long would it take for me to uproot the family and sell the house? Would it stress the cat out if we moved location? Oh, Christ! What have I done? What am I doing? Fuckity, fuck, fuck with fucking knobs. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!


2. Actually, that just about covers it.

As you may have gathered from the above (and perhaps meeting me in the flesh) I am very much a mixed bag of fruit. I am extremely attention seeking, but can suffer from extreme symptoms of stress and self doubt, which is fun for the family and brings Christmas Cheer to none and all.

I’m sure it will be fine.

No I’m not really.

Think that covers it for now. I know this is not much of an ending.

If someone can please tell me to “Get over my Self”, I would be very grateful!




The Rant – Kylie was right


Dear music lovers, I have the most dreadful case of earworm and considering I have not listened to contemporary chamber music since the middle ages, I am currently, as they say, buggered in the drums (and yes, you will agree with me that you have actually heard that expression many times before, amen).  This is the mixed bag of plum chummers that I currently have to endure on a constant loop of musical madness (although some of the words have been changed to protect the innocent) …

Barry Ceiling:

Generally sang in the shower (the acoustics are marvellous).  I have never particularly been a fan of Lionel (or even ceilings if I’m being honest), but it works well when washing those areas other 80’s tracks just can not reach.

“Oh, what a feeling, when you’re dancing Barry Ceiling.”


To be sung in the kitchen, whilst bleaching moustache and other surfaces.

For anyone that is lucky not to know of Archie the Inventor, he is an inventor, he lives in a pink castle and he makes things out of toilet rolls.  I think he may have inherited some money along the way, as his inventions may have been patented, but by Christ they were crap.

“I’m Archie the inventor.  I know how things are done.  I can do absolutely anything.  Inventing up your bum.”

Hilltop Hospital:

A song that can been used for anytime and anyplace.  This hasn’t actually been aired for a number of years now.  I can’t imagine why.  Voiceovers by Paul McShane and Dame Thora Hird (god bless you and goodnight).

“Da, da, da, da, da.  da-da, da, da, at Hilltop Hospit-tal.  If you’re well.  They will make you ill.  Bloody hell down at Hilltop Hospit-tal.”


One more for the shower (generally for an evening spruce as one get slightly sticky throughout the days earworm).  Again, not a great fan of the Michaels (George, Buble, Barrymore, my ex boss), but you are very welcome to come and watch me give the performance of my  showering life for a bottle of Sanex and a cheap bath sponge.

“Love changes everything.  Hands and fingers, teeth and toes.”

And one more …

Life Long Day

Although my version is slightly more up tempo.

So I have decided to invest in some of these.


Not to protect myself (for I realise it is too late for me), but to protect others from my unfortunate Kylie cursing.

Please, make it stop!

Thank you for listening.


Video Wednesday – Or how to make a Complete Tit of Yourself in Three Easy Steps.

Two years ago, I was a bored housewife with a part time job.

Then I had a revelation!

Why not make videos?

Why not post them on Facebook?

And why not send them to Peter Serafinowicz and Marek Larwood and await in anticipation for them to adorn me with self raising flowers and athlete foot lotions of my choosing?

This is why not …

Building the First Bridge to Public Humiliation

At the ripe and slightly off age of 75, I happened to stumble upon one of my all time favourite “youth songs” on You of the Tube.  Although I had never put it into practise, I had yearned to perform a theatrical dancing experience with lights, actions and lady boys.  Unfortunately, being on a budget (and not actually knowing any lady boys by name or address) I was left with what follows as a means to an unsightly end (count yourself lucky, my second choice was the entire album of “War of the Worlds”) …

(Description: Warning! Fingers and suggestive boobs are used in this video.  Not to be viewed by children under the age of 90).

Going for Last Place

Now, yes!  Quite right.  I should have stopped there and then.  But whence placing it on that old devil called Facebook – I was pleasantly surprised and rather overjoyed with at least two people thumbing me in the “likes” region, and I felt elated out of my tiny trousers!  I had hit the heady world of flotsam and famesome!  I, quite frankly, was going to live forever! Why stop now?  I’ve travelled so far (well, actually just up the stars to my spare room).  So, like Michael Palin, I was off on my creative travels once more …

Description: Jenny Chitloose is multi talented in all areas but exceeds in expressive dance and trombone miming.  She likes falling down,  the colour brown and George Michael is her ideal man.

I think the actions speak for themselves here.

Ski Sloping down the Social Ladder

By this time, my number of two viewers had considerably dwindled and I found myself in a much darker and cabbagy place.

Description: Warning!  This video contains bodily fluids and can give you a head rush – Don’t be naughty with your brain!


Finally and thankfully I eventually came to my senses when reading the following critics insightful and concise wordings …

“Ugly c@nt does dancing.  Ugly c@nt can’t dance.  Who the f#rk is this ugly c@nt?”

I don’t know who you are, where you’re from, what you’ve done, but thank you.  Your words have saved many people from scooping their eyes out with a spoon (bless you “Utopia”).

I never did hear from Peter or Marek.


The Rant – The Diary of a Contrary Mary

Hello my Lime Regis Lovers!  The Emporium has a little something for you in the guise of the talented and misguided Louise Robbins (former Bond Girl and Dominic Littlewood impersonator).  A little less known fact about Ms Robbins is that she has also dabbled in the odd spot of impromptu kick boxing and wrestling.  Read on, dear reader, to, erm, read some more …

There is one thing I can put it all down to – pernicketiness.  Great word, not sure it actually exists, but great all the same.  Or perhaps two things – mixing in a tad of contrariness.  And a dwindling supply of patience…  Make that THREE things, alright, but this is not turning into the Spanish Inquisition!


These three make a potent combination, I hear you say.  Yet, by day I am a mild-mannered janitor  – nurse with more than the requisite amount of care, consideration and compassion available for all.


So how does this manifest itself?  When I lived in Londinium for many years, my favourite game was Annoy The Commuter, making even the most dull of journeys enlivened for all involved.  Well, for me anyway…  Please note this game may involve scheming my revenge for any wrongdoings.  These may include such heinous crimes as Rucksackitis – inflammation caused by rucksacks wielded inappropriately on the tube –  to I’m No Pushover – chasing an evil wench who pushed me over to poke her and call her only mildly rude names (well, we all have our limits).  Ha!

Moving away from Londinium I thought I may calm down a bit.  And I did, to some extent.  Now I’m in the merry land of Wiltshire where many folk look and think like this:


the opportunity is not often there and perhaps I have mellowed with age.  Or not.  Recent encounters started mildly – on sharing lifts with those who complained about my musical taste resulted in the next journey involving me picking this little delight for their delectation.

Ha!  A cacophony of noise for their little eardrums!!

And then there was the annoying incident of the scooter in the road in the early evening.  Coming home to my little cul-de-sac after a hard day at work, I realised that some little devil spawn of Satan had left their scooter in the middle of the road.

So, being the safety-conscious, community-minded person that I am, I got out of my car and with a dash of melodrama, I flung it (yes, flung, ha ha!) on the pavement and drove past an open-mouthed mum and kids, giving them my best Paddington Bear glare.  The fact that it was probably nothing to do with them was rather by-the-by…

Now I know why everyone likes to play baddies…  All that adrenaline…  Imagine, in another world I could have evil lightning fingers like the Emperor!


Perhaps the worst (and best) thing is my rejoicing in, and being unapologetic for, my little moments.  The fellow Londoner I met in a pub in Bath, who, like me, automatically creates elbow room by, erm, sticking his elbows out so he can’t be bashed into by drunken staggerers or tube commuters.  Diamond geezer, I may follow his advice and get my elbows steel plated for extra impact!  Ha!


But perhaps there is a little bit of this in all of us.  We all, at times, as Missy Elliot may have said, get our grump on!  Even our beloved Mrs H, who kindly understood me saying that I never take time off in half-term because of “all the bloody kids”.

Oh and of course pernicketiness exists, I looked it up afterwards.  Pernickety ol’ me!


The Emporium wishes to thank the above Ms Robbins for her honest wordings and apologise to all born and bred Wiltshire folk everywhere (but mainly in the location of Wiltshire).

What is not Art – John McKie

I have met John McKie.  From first impressions he seems friendly, calm and focused.  This is obviously a lie.


John McKie shows a scrappy anxiety surrounding his words and pictures.  His work gives off the impression of a frustrated  madman  (or genius, let’s face it, there is very little difference betwixt the two).  I can imagine him, pacing the walls of his Satre cell (oh, hark at me and my 18 year old self), sharing his compact abode with a widescreen television the size and breadth of Buster Blood Vessell  (before his weight loss) which is constantly showing the methane emissions of ITV2 in all its “My Life in Essex Matchmaking” entirety.  Therefore his mind, needing to escape the humdrum celebratory jargon would lead him to the frantic scribbles on paper scraps, card, wife and anything that he can lay his twitchy hands on, and tardaah, an artist is born!


McKies’ work is quirky and funny, thought provoking and easy to relate to.  He takes a mighty Booth shot at politics, religion, the colour orange and cheese sandwiches.  His art is not pretentious  and no real celebrities where harmed or maimed whilst drawing, which is a great pity.

So, before I go back to watching “Jeremy Kyle” on demand (yes, really), here are some Questions that have been answered by the man in question (and answered) …

1. Where do you get your inspiration from (said the wise man)?

I get my inspiration from the media mostly. How the world is presented to us by mostly entities who have a vested interest in us thinking in certain ways and doing certain things. It seems like on the whole our thoughts are directed to fit an agenda and an interesting and for me, sad part of this is that mostly people don’t see it, although many do. I believe very little of what I hear, see or read in our media and it drives me nuts, and I mean, bad nuts. War for profit ran by psychopaths, mindless celebrity stuff to keep our tiny minds occupied, three news stories per day to keep us talking and arguing between ourselves, propaganda, censorship, political correctness to control our thoughts. A lot of my time I’m on a bit of a knife edge, it makes me despair sometimes and laugh at others.  I don’t hold out a lot of hope for us as a species, most of the people who rise to positions where they can decide the fate of others are destructive and lack empathy.  They are power mad psychopaths.  I think that will be our downfall.  The people that I draw are products of this system.  See, I’m quite serious. 🙂


2. Have you met any of the celebrities that you have defaced in the name of art?

No but I enjoy taking the mickey out of them sometimes.  At one time though I used to cut people’s hair and Haircut 100, Anthony Newley, Greg Norman, Viv Nicholson (spend spend spend Viv), Buzz Aldrin, Nick Straker, Clair Torry from Dark Side of The Moon album, Prefab Sprout all had me on their head at one time or another.  I was quite good at doing hair, I had magazine front covers and stuff like that.  I can’t remember who I was then.


c. A penny for Peter Andre? Isn’t that a bit steep in this time of recession?

Okay maybe I was a bit harsh on that one.  2p then.


3. What is the best compliment you have received?

Somebody called me The Gorgeous John McKie on Facebook a little while ago.  Two girls friended me on Facebook too recently and wanted me to run off with them, that was a great compliment but I had to block them in the end because it got too annoying.  Spend Spend Spend Viv asked me out in about 1984.  Somebody said that I suited my glasses and last year someone told me that they liked my shoes.  I think that’s about it.  I get a lot of very nice compliments about my pictures which gives me confidence.


3.3 And the worst?

People sometimes tell me that I look like Grant Mitchell but he always makes grunt noises and puts on a tough face and voice.  I never put on a tough face.  I’ve tried a few times but I always forget.  Someone called my drawings trash once and that took a bit of getting over until I realised that his were unbelievably bad.


i. Da Vinci versus John McKie. Who would win at thumb war?

This is a tough one because Da Vinci was very, very well known for the strength of his thumbs.  I think it would probably be a draw.

*. What are you having for tea tonight?

A cheese sandwich followed by a large piece of wood.

(Tombola). Will there be any leftovers?

That is hard to predict, but I very much doubt it.


Mrs H would like to give Mister McKie a great big one for taking time to answer all of the above.

If you would like further information with regardments to the man himself, please click on the following link:-


Wot ist Gut?

Mrs H’s top hoe recommendations on what tickles her fancy in the world of sight, sound and something else …



Babble by Charles Saatchi (Booth-Clibbon Editions)

An interesting read about the knowledge and opinions that reside in the Saachi Brain. Chapters that at the very most are three pages short, covering such diverse subjects as “Your Last Meal on Death Row” to the delights of “Do you have a Toilet Face?”, with a smattering of personal thinks and thoughts with reference to the art and advertising world. Funny, informative and self deprecating. Reading “Babble” is almost as if you have invited Saatchi and wife to a drunken night of verbal debauchery whilst playing Pictionary and feasting on a Bargain Bucket.



Once (Written and directed by John Carney)

If the heady world of Jazz hands and epic musical numbers is not for you this little cracker is. Unpretentious and shot for a budget of €130,000 (and featuring professional musicians), the film focuses on the love story between a Dublin Busker and an Immigrant Czech flower girl. Due to its success, the film has now been turned into a musical and is presently showing at the Phoenix Theatre in London. Catch the original first on DVD and grab yourself a mansized box of tissues for extra measure. Not for sticky man juice by gubbens! Why do you always have to be so mean?



Here’s Willy Moon (Island Records)

Inspired by the 50’s, but keeping it real with a “brand new beat”, babies and grannies alike are bound to feel a common toe tapping sensation when our Willy’s in the house. If you are a proud owner of a telly box you will be familiar with “Yeah, Yeah”, which has been used to promote the successful portable gramophone player assembled by fruit. His new album features this natty little song, but my favourite so far is his first release entitled “I Wanna be your Man”. It’s short and sweet with a sound not dissimilar to singing in a NHS Hospital corridor that the government has unsuccessfully tried to close down. Our Willy gives a resounding “up yours” to the overproduced singles of the day. Catch the video for some serious dad dancing and a Platoon like moment (with less mess and not so much death). And may I just add, who couldn’t adore a man with such a title, although my personal preference would be to call him “Dicky Bumshow”, but that’s just me and my old fashioned ways.

What Rhymes with Poetry?*

 Nature’s Finest

Words and pictures by Hilary Bennett

Today I saw a lady so grand

Doing a naked handstand.

She had no neck or head

No titties or legs

The lady was, in fact a tree.

I hope you understand.



Wheat Allergies Apply Here,  a Poem (of sorts)

by Jenny Chitloose

I went to a trombone player,

To buy a loaf of bread.

I went to see Leo Sayer,

To buy a loaf of bread.

I went to a sausage maker,

To buy a loaf of bread.

I went to see Cheryl Baker,

To buy a loaf of bread.

I went to see Liberace,

But he was rather dead.

So I went to my local ASDA,

And bought one there instead.


Perhaps that should have been my first port of call, but I wasn’t too sure what time they closed on a Sunday, but as it is they stay open till 5pm, so I had plenty of time.


If you think you can do any better than the quality of work shown above, please drop us a poem at our message centre at The Emporium of Genius Fbook page or contact us at kerry19@talktalk.netWe look forward to mulling over your couplets.

(*Corporate puppetry does)