Karaoke Circus - 100 club - no Photos?

Big Up the West London, East London, Yate, NI, Yorkshire, Canadian, US, African, Dutch, Wallander MASSIVE!

All the rest of you.... Afternoon.

I went to the Chiropodist. It wasn't my feet that were hurting. I actually had a 'lady' issue which caused overwhelming embarrassment...

So rationally I thought.. Start at the bottom and work up/around to the real problem.

When I finally confessed to the Chiropractic clinician (who, with her colleagues was examining my Xray and Google’ing diseases) I received no sympathy.

My 'lady' issue was poo-pooed...

In a fit of tears and anger I ran out and down Harley street - falling into two clowns.

Foz Foster and Baron Gilvan.

They recognised me (In my former life I was a Roadie called ‘Heffer’ the Human Ballast).

Foz and The Baron dusted me down and loaded their instruments and Amps into my arms. Foz climbed on board and using Husky calls directed me to 100 Club on Oxford Street.

Paying me in Cider I was happily sipping, supping and bupping (burping and bopping to the beat).

Then Mr White, on the stage, with the dagger yelled at me to get up! He spoke about my breasts or made some such crack about me feeding a family of Jackals one winter in Alaska (and!??) as I dragged my booze covered body on stage.

Music started, I was handed the lyrics to ‘Nothing Compares to You’ a Sinead/Prince song.

4oo eyes were on me. I was a little Christian Lion in the Pit with hungry Atheists.

I sung and sung, I clawed for Martin White, he was too fast. Foz teased me with shiny objects, blinding and scaring me. Audience jeered (in tune), pounding drums… All building to a crescendo.

Then an audience CHEER! Sound so powerful and overwhelming I fell back, trembling.

Martin grabbed me to make sure I didn’t damage the stage. I was lowered back to the ground and given a cider. All I heard was the peck peck pecking whisper of…. "You should go on Britain’s got talent…. Go on Britain’s got talent".

Many photo's have come out of that night - hundreds. Yet not one of me. Mother said i've a face for Radio. Father always insisted Masks were in fashion.

Wanda (aka Miss Orla’s Manager)

ISMA ALMAS and EDINBURGH

Wow what a week, what a month.

Every God went on Holiday and where did they visit?

ME!

Even my 'Big Ass' Aura and Soul struggled to cater to the Gods.

ThankGod (so to speak) they were in party frolicking mood.

All the talk in the celestial realms is of ISMA ALMAS.

A stand-up comic sent from HEAVEN to delight and entertain THE WORLD.

Edinburgh at The Stand. Every Day. It's simple - do it, watch it, see it, absorb her, draw in, grow, engulf, smother, wrap, feast, lay with and devour this amazing talent.

America Loved Me - No longer a one way affair

So - the Americans have taste.

First Barack and now Miss Orla.

I came and conqured that country. As Paul Revere rightly said 'The British are coming, The British are coming' - yes - came and conqured.

'Violins play softly'

*nod head to beat and click fingers*

Perhaps this little lady Brit didn't get her hands on all their real estate - but if you could measure hearts and minds...I'd say Miss Orla bagged herself a multi-verse of hearts and minds....

...a multi-verse which if you built on...

...buiiiiiltttt ONNNNNNN....

...is bigger than America....

...yeah?....

..Yeah...

...and my multiverse got no recession....

...my multiverse is full of naked men..... that talk like women.... and cook like McDonalds... but don't have calories..... the food that is... I don't want no skinny man..... just naked men.... plural... and multiples... everything must multiple.... apart from me... I don't want to multiply... well not in my kingdom of naked men.... Miss Orla babies crying and embarrassing... no.. I got nude men to wash.. clean down and up... conquered...

ATTENTION - that last extract was from a Miss Orla Jazz RANT. Can be heard on Virgin Records USA JAZZ

ImprovBoston 21st June 7.10pm

Miss Orla is doing America and i'm starting at the capital of Tea Parties - BOSTON!

Come down and see me on Sunday 21st June at Improv Boston:

ImprovBoston, 40 Prospect St. Cambridge, MA, USA, 02139Phone: 617-576-1253

You may be asking what's a Singing Psychic doing at an Improv night - well it's very simple.

25 years ago when ImprovBoston began - an accident occurred on stage that caused the brutal death of an Improviser.

They were creating a scene in the style of a Western Genre - Tumbleweeds, Saloon, Whores, Spitting.... The Gun Fight.

One of the improvisers - not fully understanding the rule of 'imagination' and 'performance' pulled out a real gun and shot the other performer.

Even though the guy with the real gun had pulled his gun slower than the improviser with the 'imagined' gun, tragically that imagined bullet couldn't disarm his opponent - infact it antagonised the real gunman.

Over the last 25 years that slain improviser has been a quiet spirit - only interrupting a few late night performances with flickering lights and eery smells - but recently he's upping the anti.

Pushing the limits of health and safety! (I’m vociferous in my hatred for Health and Safety expunctionists) ....taking batteries out of smoke alarms, pouring water on tiled floors!

He's also interfering with shows - making performer’s fluff lines, throwing in swear words etc.

So I - Miss Orla - have been called in to X'ise the venue, the stage, the hardware, software, people etc.

Come watch me, come touch me, come b me, come come come. Come Comb Come...

Tidal Wave of Lust

Slipping out of the bath I chanced upon a tall Japanese man. As I was in my locked bathroom I was a tad surprised till I noticed he had no feet.

Izanagi handed me my deep purple satin robe and carried me into my bedroom.

As a spirit guide he'd made me stiff and immobile - so I succumbed to his delicate soothing touch as I listened to his concerns.

Shinto Kami Impurity... that's the main points for the western reader - let's just say we need to balance the books. It's not quite a snappy as Ying Yang but it's the same deal - we need to get balanced.

War and Nuclear Bomb building is tipping us on the side of Yang and we need a good dose of Ying. Or mass indigestion and migraines will befall us.

This comes from Izanagi. I'm in no place to question that 'God'. (and yes ladies… he is!)

His solution is simply 'Lust Dust'. He will be sitting on a cloud and “Dust” us with “Lust” – “Dust Lust”.

So people - you heard it first - i've warned you.

Personally I say "Bring it On!"

Boys'R'Toys

Out and about and in and out

Sunny shining evaporate drout

Rivers of Bliss and Mountains of Winks

Summers here

Yes! Muckspredder stinks



When tired of jam and tea, stretch ones legs, pop fingers, grind jaw to the whistling silence of a summer dawn

Smell me in the garden, field me on a bridge, hug me from woodglade trip, bite hard to my rosy lips

Sandals pinch of sand delights, Puppies yap in dusky fright, all the world is out tonight, sleep and lover winter, elope on diamond kite

Aretha and Dusty Springfield entered Manager Wanda

My Manager/Agent/Mentor and sometimes lover (in your dreams Miss Orla) has followed the ways of her number 1 client.

Winning a prestigious pagan event called 'Kareoke III' and beating the likes of Phil Jupitus and Ben Miller.

You decide if (like me) you think she resembles Hitler riding a Pig.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaBQ0MJ5lhs
Her proudest moment.... which doesn't say much.