Up a Blind Alley

Extreme surgery causes me bi-monthly blindness.

Over 8 years I've managed this blindness by BRAILing and learning 'listening'.

Both skills helped during blind and non blind days.

However I report this simply because I've just come out of 'Alice's little hole.....'

I didn't take drugs... my hell was created by subliminal satanic Brail rants that appear on uneven surfaces....

Apparently accessed easily, accidentally and often intentionally by the 'blind' fraternity.

While scaring the innocents and unsuspecting weaker minds and me.

Early August 2009 I was sliding around my Kensington aparment... blindly patting my padded walls and polished floors - enjoying fun recreationional sliding - good for spirits.

THWACK head hits 15th Century French Chifforobe. I hit back. My open hand slid across grainy surface..

Scream SCReam SCREAM - I read a Brail RANT.... Dimpled onto Chifforobe - Hitler/Satan my house keeper McMac? Who wrote this?

Words evocative and smelly, cruel and intelligent, salty and Vinegar....

I ordered McMac to drag me to my room, wrap me up and close the curtains around my bed. Sleep came hard.

Word on the Blind Alley - it's a conspiracy to encourge world domination.

...it's blindingly obvious.... Satan is forcing me to become the Brailinator

Robin Ince doesn't believe.... in me.... CURSES

At the five star apartment complex.

Enjoying tattie eggs... or some such Scottish delight - with Tea.

A beautiful sunny morning in Edinburgh - overlooking Glastonbury Tour's uglier rockier cousin... Lenny the Bruce Rock, Arthurs Needle... i'm not sure of its name - or even if that's what I can see.

Yesterday I got a smack - a big, damp, open handed wallop in the mush.

Robin Ince and his verbal boxer 'Gobby'.

Not only does he NOT believe in Psychics, but as he looked straight through me... I see that he doesn't believe in me!

He has no interest in the Spirits of our ancestors and Robin's anger and ignorance is equally distributed onto the beautiful people of the cloth - ie Miss Orla, ie Me ME MEEEE.

Was I upset? Well.... would a GOD be upset if a Beetle died and smeared it's entrails on the Gods shoes? NO! Dissappointed, regretful of creating such a selfish Beetle... but not UPSET.

Being upset would mean I cared. Would I care for some big brained MAN? Some book reading, friends of Scientist, Communist, break-dancing, fat thumbed, CLARK?!?!?

I'm not stupid, I care for wise and gifted people - all of which care for me FIRSTLY. I'm in their prayers..... can Incy say the same....

Anyway - I had a party in my suite last night. A whole room of Widowers gathered around my burning ring, Candles flickering as the spirits of Pan and Pam, whispered and stroked knowing moments of love to all the old women. Cheekily undressing the ladies of their earthly burdens.

Pearls, Gold, Dignity and Murrgh... a humble exchange for peace and restful sleep.

Miss Orla

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!"