I am in Wiltshire!
Fear not Sassy, the felines have a locum 'tin opener'.
Anyone else feel like raising an eyebrow over the two paedophiles who avoided prison because of new directives on overcrowding, compared to the guys who hacked in to the voicemail of Royalty and got four months?
Mmmm... Let's consider this...
John Reid says to the judges,
"Look, I know sentencing is none of my fucking business but do you think you can ease up on the sending the criminals to prison aspect of the job?
It's a bit full.
How about getting them to paint over graffiti and scrape up chewing gum, or something?
What's that?
Yes, yes I know! Tough on crime and tough on the causes of crime.
Shh.. Someone might hear!"
So, the judges put the phone tappers in jail and let the kiddie fiddlers go!
I have to admit to admiring this as a "making a fucking point" stand.
The last Head of State that I saw, who had the judiciary in his pocket, was stood on a trapdoor with a noose around his neck on fucking youtube.
Before you start getting all 'righteously indignant', have a look at what the judges are trying to save us from.
The 'government' isn't allowed to do that.
Anyway, what did we find out from the voicemail?
Prince William had a poorly knee*.... Jaw dropping news that!
Christ! It could bring down the Monarchy!
"Four months, take him down."
Downloading Kiddie Porn and Noncing?
"I'm releasing you on bail because you pose no obvious threat to the community"
*Has anyone else noticed that William is more often referred to as the 'Heir to the Throne' than Charles is?
This tickles my Inner Conspiracy Theorist.
I reckon that was the deal that was done so Charles could marry Camilla.
The Throne goes straight to William and misses Charles out.
Looking at the Queen Mother, Betty has a few years left yet. I think Charles will abdicate in favour of William.
The whole 'Camilla as Queen' issue will never arise. If it does, maybe the British public would've moved on a bit.
A year after Diana died, who'd have thought they would be married?
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
I'll Take Two Please
Advertising has me baffled again.
Kit Kat are running a campaign focusing on the ‘calorifics’ of the product.
More or less saying that a two finger Kit Kat can be used as part of your diet because it’s not THAT fattening.
Who have they got as the central character in this?
Father ‘fat bastard’ Christmas!
He has found the last chimney a bit tight.
Can anyone else see the flaw in their thinking?
I guarantee you that fucker won’t have lost an ounce by the time we see him next year.
Why choose a character who is universally renowned for being rotund?
I think this should be cleared up concerning the adoption row.
You would expect that all adoption agencies would put a child with a family or couple that are good for the child.
The same with gay couples, you only put a child with them if it will be in the best interest of that kid.
The Catholic agencies aren’t being FORCED to place children with gays.
Just that they are not just dismissed without a word because they are gay. That is the bit that’s against the law.
What happens to those teenagers who are chucked out of home when they come out?
I suppose they are placed with ‘straight’ couples, who if Catholic, will tell this child it is a sin to be who they are.
Wouldn’t a better role model be a gay couple, in a long term, loving relationship?
The argument then becomes something about studies showing that kids brought up with gays are more likely to have homosexual relationships. So What?
What does that really prove? That these kids were raised with the idea that love can go beyond gender?
Oooh, how fucking wicked is that? Being brought up thinking about love.
Damn those gays to hell!
They make it sound like a couple can walk in off the streets and say,
‘We’re gay, we’d like a kid, please’,
And they have GOT to hand one over.
Of course not. Get a fucking grip.
Kit Kat are running a campaign focusing on the ‘calorifics’ of the product.
More or less saying that a two finger Kit Kat can be used as part of your diet because it’s not THAT fattening.
Who have they got as the central character in this?
Father ‘fat bastard’ Christmas!
He has found the last chimney a bit tight.
Can anyone else see the flaw in their thinking?
I guarantee you that fucker won’t have lost an ounce by the time we see him next year.
Why choose a character who is universally renowned for being rotund?
I think this should be cleared up concerning the adoption row.
You would expect that all adoption agencies would put a child with a family or couple that are good for the child.
The same with gay couples, you only put a child with them if it will be in the best interest of that kid.
The Catholic agencies aren’t being FORCED to place children with gays.
Just that they are not just dismissed without a word because they are gay. That is the bit that’s against the law.
What happens to those teenagers who are chucked out of home when they come out?
I suppose they are placed with ‘straight’ couples, who if Catholic, will tell this child it is a sin to be who they are.
Wouldn’t a better role model be a gay couple, in a long term, loving relationship?
The argument then becomes something about studies showing that kids brought up with gays are more likely to have homosexual relationships. So What?
What does that really prove? That these kids were raised with the idea that love can go beyond gender?
Oooh, how fucking wicked is that? Being brought up thinking about love.
Damn those gays to hell!
They make it sound like a couple can walk in off the streets and say,
‘We’re gay, we’d like a kid, please’,
And they have GOT to hand one over.
Of course not. Get a fucking grip.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Liars, Floaters And Dealers
Not wishing to sound whiney, but,
“Where is the fucking snow I was promised?”.
Last night I listened as the weatherman guaranteed me some snow.
The computer graphics definitely showed flakes falling on my little island.
Not a fucking flake.
20 miles along the road, in Chichester, they have snow. Bastards.
We never get any of the ‘good’ weather here.
Schnee, the gritters were out in ‘anticipation’ of the snow.
Birds are now starting to wash up all along the coast.
Covered in oil and shite from that beached ship.
This has brought me to the conclusion that seabirds are fucking thick.
Blue Tits in one part of the country sussed out that if they pecked the tops off milk bottles they would get the cream. Within 48 hours (or something) Blue Tits all over the country were at it.
Morphic Resonance/Memory has been argued as the reason for it.
An Avian collective memory. Wonder what Jung would have made of that?
With this in mind, you’d think the Guillemots would have caught on.
Stay away from the black shit in the water, for fuck’s sake!
D the Dealer turned up unexpectedly. When I say ‘Dealer’, I use the term very loosely.
He rarely has anything to deal. He’s always waiting on this, that and the fucking other to happen. He smells like a wet dog, comes out with totally random statements and calls me ’Man’ all the time.
I inherited him from my brother.
Mmmm… Cheers for that one J!
Amazingly, today, he actually had something to ‘deal’! He swapped some greenery for the use of my printer.
He wanted to print a letter of complaint to his Landlord’s solicitor.
That’s when I started to get ’the bad feeling’.
He’s ex Mayhem and I didn’t hold out much hope for the letter.
Wanting to avoid an Instant Karma moment, I asked him if he wanted me to check it through.
So, I took out all the chav speak, swearing, text speak, the veiled threats, the not so veiled threats, added some punctuation and full sentences.
It was passable, he was happy and I am stoned!
Everyone’s a winner.
“Where is the fucking snow I was promised?”.
Last night I listened as the weatherman guaranteed me some snow.
The computer graphics definitely showed flakes falling on my little island.
Not a fucking flake.
20 miles along the road, in Chichester, they have snow. Bastards.
We never get any of the ‘good’ weather here.
Schnee, the gritters were out in ‘anticipation’ of the snow.
Birds are now starting to wash up all along the coast.
Covered in oil and shite from that beached ship.
This has brought me to the conclusion that seabirds are fucking thick.
Blue Tits in one part of the country sussed out that if they pecked the tops off milk bottles they would get the cream. Within 48 hours (or something) Blue Tits all over the country were at it.
Morphic Resonance/Memory has been argued as the reason for it.
An Avian collective memory. Wonder what Jung would have made of that?
With this in mind, you’d think the Guillemots would have caught on.
Stay away from the black shit in the water, for fuck’s sake!
D the Dealer turned up unexpectedly. When I say ‘Dealer’, I use the term very loosely.
He rarely has anything to deal. He’s always waiting on this, that and the fucking other to happen. He smells like a wet dog, comes out with totally random statements and calls me ’Man’ all the time.
I inherited him from my brother.
Mmmm… Cheers for that one J!
Amazingly, today, he actually had something to ‘deal’! He swapped some greenery for the use of my printer.
He wanted to print a letter of complaint to his Landlord’s solicitor.
That’s when I started to get ’the bad feeling’.
He’s ex Mayhem and I didn’t hold out much hope for the letter.
Wanting to avoid an Instant Karma moment, I asked him if he wanted me to check it through.
So, I took out all the chav speak, swearing, text speak, the veiled threats, the not so veiled threats, added some punctuation and full sentences.
It was passable, he was happy and I am stoned!
Everyone’s a winner.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Adopting A Stance
It just gets better!
The Catholic Church has had a hissy fit.
Now, they say that they are going to have to close all the adoption agencies.
There is NO WAY they are letting Queers adopt children that no one else wants.
Cormac Murphy- O’Connor, the head of the Catholic Church in England has SUCH a good record on matters involving children.
While he was a Bishop, he knew of paedophile priests in his diocese, but just moved them on. One of them he moved to the Chapel at Gatwick Airport. He was later to serve nearly four years for nine sex attacks on boys, one of whom he abused at Gatwick.
What a Prince Of The Church he is.
This all said, it comes down to the idea, that the church are perpetuating, that ALL homosexuals are paedophiles.
Ok then, from now on I will assume that every Priest wants to fuck young boys and all Nuns want to beat seven shades of shit out of you.
Fair enough?
Cormac, why don’t you ask your opposite number in Boston about paedophile abuse?
How much did the Church have to pay out because of those fucking noncing priests?
$85 Million, I think you’ll find. Just in Boston.
Not that they can’t afford it.
The adoption agencies themselves aren’t exactly bathed in glory either.
The Duplessis Orphans in Canada?
Some of those kids were ‘sold’ for medical experiments for fuck’s sake!
With the knowledge of the Catholic run orphanages they lived in.
So, go on, close them down.
Cut your nose off to spite your face.
Wankers.
Other stuff getting on my tits.
Why do people feel the need to ‘chew’ plain yoghurt?
Stand there, right in front of you with the pot and the spoon fucking chewing!
Some people do it when they drink milk.
Watch them.
Turns my stomach.
I just start imagining what would happen if I bit down in to something ‘clot’ like.
The only time you need to chew milk is if there are cereals in it.
Also pissing me off, are the people who use all the utensils and attachments that come with their vacuum cleaner. What’s that all about?
Fuck off!
I didn’t know ours had all that shit ‘til I dropped it down the stairs. It came apart in slow motion and revealed the treasure hidden within!
I am SO glad I can say I don’t have a clue what each one is used for.
The Catholic Church has had a hissy fit.
Now, they say that they are going to have to close all the adoption agencies.
There is NO WAY they are letting Queers adopt children that no one else wants.
Cormac Murphy- O’Connor, the head of the Catholic Church in England has SUCH a good record on matters involving children.
While he was a Bishop, he knew of paedophile priests in his diocese, but just moved them on. One of them he moved to the Chapel at Gatwick Airport. He was later to serve nearly four years for nine sex attacks on boys, one of whom he abused at Gatwick.
What a Prince Of The Church he is.
This all said, it comes down to the idea, that the church are perpetuating, that ALL homosexuals are paedophiles.
Ok then, from now on I will assume that every Priest wants to fuck young boys and all Nuns want to beat seven shades of shit out of you.
Fair enough?
Cormac, why don’t you ask your opposite number in Boston about paedophile abuse?
How much did the Church have to pay out because of those fucking noncing priests?
$85 Million, I think you’ll find. Just in Boston.
Not that they can’t afford it.
The adoption agencies themselves aren’t exactly bathed in glory either.
The Duplessis Orphans in Canada?
Some of those kids were ‘sold’ for medical experiments for fuck’s sake!
With the knowledge of the Catholic run orphanages they lived in.
So, go on, close them down.
Cut your nose off to spite your face.
Wankers.
Other stuff getting on my tits.
Why do people feel the need to ‘chew’ plain yoghurt?
Stand there, right in front of you with the pot and the spoon fucking chewing!
Some people do it when they drink milk.
Watch them.
Turns my stomach.
I just start imagining what would happen if I bit down in to something ‘clot’ like.
The only time you need to chew milk is if there are cereals in it.
Also pissing me off, are the people who use all the utensils and attachments that come with their vacuum cleaner. What’s that all about?
Fuck off!
I didn’t know ours had all that shit ‘til I dropped it down the stairs. It came apart in slow motion and revealed the treasure hidden within!
I am SO glad I can say I don’t have a clue what each one is used for.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Feck, Salvage And Opus Pocus
Today I have been amused by a couple of things and pissed off by one.
First, the news that two Irish islands are fighting about which one should host the first Father Ted festival.
They are the Aran Islands of Inis Mor and Inis Oirr.
It’s just whinging and bitching at the moment, but I’m waiting for it to kick off!
I hope they solve it in a typically Father Ted way. Have a jumper ‘knit off’ or something.
Battle of the Cable Stitch.
The other one is a total ‘Whiskey Galore’ moment some people are enjoying on the beach in Branscombe, Devon.
Hundreds of containers have been swept off the beached MSC Napoli.
The lunch time news showed people wheeling BMW motorbikes away, rolling massive oak wine barrels up the beach.
For some it was a family affair, kids running about collecting shoes and trainers while the parents picked up car parts and huge packets of nappies.
All the roads in to the town have been closed, but it hasn’t stopped people walking down and taking the risk that they grab hold of something smothered in sulphuric acid.
What do they expect?
Smuggling and luring ships on to rocks to be wrecked has been a West Country pastime for 800yrs!
I had to read Moonfleet by J Meade Falkner when I was at school, bored the tits off me!
I see the ‘stunning’ Ruth Kelly is in the news again.
Actually, I should start that, devout Catholic and Opus Dei member, Ruth Kelly is in the news again.
As Communities Secretary, whatever the fuck THAT is, she is trying to mess with the Equality Act that was passed last year.
The Act bans,
‘discrimination in the provision of goods, facilities and services on the basis of sexual orientation’.
Ruth Kelly is trying to get Catholic adoption agencies exempt from having to follow this.
Tony Blair is backing her on this, he also worships with the Church of Rome.
No fucking connection there then.
Curious.
How much more blatant does this fucking government have to get?
First, the news that two Irish islands are fighting about which one should host the first Father Ted festival.
They are the Aran Islands of Inis Mor and Inis Oirr.
It’s just whinging and bitching at the moment, but I’m waiting for it to kick off!
I hope they solve it in a typically Father Ted way. Have a jumper ‘knit off’ or something.
Battle of the Cable Stitch.
The other one is a total ‘Whiskey Galore’ moment some people are enjoying on the beach in Branscombe, Devon.
Hundreds of containers have been swept off the beached MSC Napoli.
The lunch time news showed people wheeling BMW motorbikes away, rolling massive oak wine barrels up the beach.
For some it was a family affair, kids running about collecting shoes and trainers while the parents picked up car parts and huge packets of nappies.
All the roads in to the town have been closed, but it hasn’t stopped people walking down and taking the risk that they grab hold of something smothered in sulphuric acid.
What do they expect?
Smuggling and luring ships on to rocks to be wrecked has been a West Country pastime for 800yrs!
I had to read Moonfleet by J Meade Falkner when I was at school, bored the tits off me!
I see the ‘stunning’ Ruth Kelly is in the news again.
Actually, I should start that, devout Catholic and Opus Dei member, Ruth Kelly is in the news again.
As Communities Secretary, whatever the fuck THAT is, she is trying to mess with the Equality Act that was passed last year.
The Act bans,
‘discrimination in the provision of goods, facilities and services on the basis of sexual orientation’.
Ruth Kelly is trying to get Catholic adoption agencies exempt from having to follow this.
Tony Blair is backing her on this, he also worships with the Church of Rome.
No fucking connection there then.
Curious.
How much more blatant does this fucking government have to get?
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Smokin'
The Harvard School of Public Health studied Nicotine levels in cigarettes from 1997 to 2005.
Surprise, surprise it has increased by 11%.
Keeping in mind governments get huge revenue from smokes.
Some researcher type called Howard Koh said this,
“Cigarettes are finely tuned drug delivery devices, designed to perpetrate a tobacco pandemic.”
I’ve never heard a fag summed up so succinctly or so well.
They haven’t come out directly and said,
‘Oi, you are fucking with the nicotine to make ‘em more addicted‘, that would be way too costly in terms of litigation.
So, in Britain, we have huge public ‘give up smoking’ drives. Ask your doctor, ask your pharmacist, buy a patch type advertising because smokers are a burden on the NHS.
It’s US smokers and our taxed fags that are paying for the National Health Service!
Services that the fucking body Nazis are always using, with their pulled muscles, arthritic knees and Jogger’s Nipple from the fucking healthy run they just did.
You know the people I’m talking about. They are always going for physiotherapy on work time. An appointment that has been 4 months in the coming. It’s always MONTHS!
Ask them about their injury and it’s always some Radial, Medial, Testicostical type of strain, that only comes at a certain (high) level of fitness.
Governments CAN’T afford to lose the smokers.
Smoker’s rarely turn up at their doctor’s complaining of a chest infection or a cough.
We don’t go because we KNOW it’s a self inflicted thing, we’re not fucking stupid.
We don’t want some smug wanker, with patches on his elbows, tutting and telling us we ought to give up.
We fucking know that! Fuck off.
When smokers give up they are always at the doctor, whining.
.. DOC.. What’s the trouble?
..ExSmoker.. I have a hideous cough, I’m really wheezy and it burns when I breathe.
..DOC.. Do you smoke?
..ExSmoker.. Ha! Ha! NO!
NO, I fucking don’t!
Now you have got to treat me without any of the holier than thou shit!
Actually, give a toss. Ha! Ha!
Bring on the real drugs Dr Crippen.
None of that over the counter shite I used to muddle through with. No more Over The Counter crap, Robutussin and the stuff with the aroma of creosote.
(Smells nice. Tastes dreadful. Might even be the national drink of Hungary! Or is that Unicum? Either way, both were hideous and I never refuse a ‘National’ drink, or cough medication if I‘m honest!)
I want antibiotics.
Antibiotics that turn me in to a smorgasbord for MRSA and all that other ‘resistant’ nastiness.
Thank you very much.
I DON'T SMOKE!
All those symptoms a regular smoker would just get on with.
See my point?
The NHS can't afford for the smokers to give up!
Surprise, surprise it has increased by 11%.
Keeping in mind governments get huge revenue from smokes.
Some researcher type called Howard Koh said this,
“Cigarettes are finely tuned drug delivery devices, designed to perpetrate a tobacco pandemic.”
I’ve never heard a fag summed up so succinctly or so well.
They haven’t come out directly and said,
‘Oi, you are fucking with the nicotine to make ‘em more addicted‘, that would be way too costly in terms of litigation.
So, in Britain, we have huge public ‘give up smoking’ drives. Ask your doctor, ask your pharmacist, buy a patch type advertising because smokers are a burden on the NHS.
It’s US smokers and our taxed fags that are paying for the National Health Service!
Services that the fucking body Nazis are always using, with their pulled muscles, arthritic knees and Jogger’s Nipple from the fucking healthy run they just did.
You know the people I’m talking about. They are always going for physiotherapy on work time. An appointment that has been 4 months in the coming. It’s always MONTHS!
Ask them about their injury and it’s always some Radial, Medial, Testicostical type of strain, that only comes at a certain (high) level of fitness.
Governments CAN’T afford to lose the smokers.
Smoker’s rarely turn up at their doctor’s complaining of a chest infection or a cough.
We don’t go because we KNOW it’s a self inflicted thing, we’re not fucking stupid.
We don’t want some smug wanker, with patches on his elbows, tutting and telling us we ought to give up.
We fucking know that! Fuck off.
When smokers give up they are always at the doctor, whining.
.. DOC.. What’s the trouble?
..ExSmoker.. I have a hideous cough, I’m really wheezy and it burns when I breathe.
..DOC.. Do you smoke?
..ExSmoker.. Ha! Ha! NO!
NO, I fucking don’t!
Now you have got to treat me without any of the holier than thou shit!
Actually, give a toss. Ha! Ha!
Bring on the real drugs Dr Crippen.
None of that over the counter shite I used to muddle through with. No more Over The Counter crap, Robutussin and the stuff with the aroma of creosote.
(Smells nice. Tastes dreadful. Might even be the national drink of Hungary! Or is that Unicum? Either way, both were hideous and I never refuse a ‘National’ drink, or cough medication if I‘m honest!)
I want antibiotics.
Antibiotics that turn me in to a smorgasbord for MRSA and all that other ‘resistant’ nastiness.
Thank you very much.
I DON'T SMOKE!
All those symptoms a regular smoker would just get on with.
See my point?
The NHS can't afford for the smokers to give up!
Friday, January 19, 2007
Out And About On Friday
This morning I had to fill in a job application form.
Yep, got to get off my arse and do something.
My ‘retirement’ is wreaking havoc with my health and bank balance. Fucking interest rate thingy bastards!
I only got the form yesterday so it was a bit of a rush job. I hadn’t had enough tea or fags to think about being eloquent so I went with Brutally Honest as an eye-catching approach.
“Reason for leaving last job?” I put,
Artistic Differences. They went for Performing Arts status, I was indifferent.
“How many days off in the last year?” I went with,
Ask the Head at Mayhem, he’ll tell you I was never there.
“Reason why you would be good in this position?” I wrote,
I have a thick skin and a good sense of humour.
I’m not offended by the word “Fuck” in all it’s various uses.
I can think on my feet and adapt quickly, flying chairs, books and pens have honed these skills.
Personal remarks, threats of violence, constant nit picking and being ignored no longer bother me.
I’m pretty good with ‘challenging’ kids too.
Also, I could do the job stood on my head.
I then had an, “Oh Fuck it! What’s the point moment” and wasn’t going to bother handing it in.
Sassy kindly talked me down!
As I entered the school’s front door I was greeted by the receptionist shouting,
“…. because you NEED a note” at some bewildered boy.
Sadly, I thought,
‘Yep. This is what I do..’
Delivering the form caused me to walk up a street I’m usually driven up.
So I paid more attention than usual.
It’s totally different to Albert Road.
There are no restaurants but loads of Take Aways.
Shops that sell products for Afro-Caribbean hair. Wigs and weaves hang in the window.
Places selling second hand furniture and if you are getting any of that ‘Second’ I’d be fucking amazed!
Large, predominantly bald, men stand outside these shops. Looking weather beaten, usually leaning on a fridge, smoking.
You can buy Halal meat, all things Chinese, cheap booze and get keys cut.
There are shops that sell Rizla on a roll, you can get tattooed, have your nails painted and your nipples pierced.
Or vice versa.
It was during this walk I came to the conclusion that my health is suffering.
I got fucking Shin Splints!
A searing pain in the muscle down the front of the shins that makes your feet flop around like you’re breaking them in for someone else.
It also gives you the gait of a Thunderbird puppet.
I fell in behind some old dear with a trolley and tried to look as if she had me trapped there.
The ipod, which had tried to fuck with me earlier by refusing to work, was blaring Primal Scream’s Country Girls directly in to my head and I started to enjoy my day.
I contemplated getting my hair cut and set about choosing a criterion.
I went with looking through the window, seeing who was free and deciding whether I wanted them running their fingers through my hair.
I still have huge hair and possibly, a couple of police complaints!
I bumped in to a one night stand who, scarily, remembered every detail about me.
I had no recollection of her whatsoever, or we would never have been in a 'bumping in to' situation, but I think I fronted it out pretty well.
Yep, got to get off my arse and do something.
My ‘retirement’ is wreaking havoc with my health and bank balance. Fucking interest rate thingy bastards!
I only got the form yesterday so it was a bit of a rush job. I hadn’t had enough tea or fags to think about being eloquent so I went with Brutally Honest as an eye-catching approach.
“Reason for leaving last job?” I put,
Artistic Differences. They went for Performing Arts status, I was indifferent.
“How many days off in the last year?” I went with,
Ask the Head at Mayhem, he’ll tell you I was never there.
“Reason why you would be good in this position?” I wrote,
I have a thick skin and a good sense of humour.
I’m not offended by the word “Fuck” in all it’s various uses.
I can think on my feet and adapt quickly, flying chairs, books and pens have honed these skills.
Personal remarks, threats of violence, constant nit picking and being ignored no longer bother me.
I’m pretty good with ‘challenging’ kids too.
Also, I could do the job stood on my head.
I then had an, “Oh Fuck it! What’s the point moment” and wasn’t going to bother handing it in.
Sassy kindly talked me down!
As I entered the school’s front door I was greeted by the receptionist shouting,
“…. because you NEED a note” at some bewildered boy.
Sadly, I thought,
‘Yep. This is what I do..’
Delivering the form caused me to walk up a street I’m usually driven up.
So I paid more attention than usual.
It’s totally different to Albert Road.
There are no restaurants but loads of Take Aways.
Shops that sell products for Afro-Caribbean hair. Wigs and weaves hang in the window.
Places selling second hand furniture and if you are getting any of that ‘Second’ I’d be fucking amazed!
Large, predominantly bald, men stand outside these shops. Looking weather beaten, usually leaning on a fridge, smoking.
You can buy Halal meat, all things Chinese, cheap booze and get keys cut.
There are shops that sell Rizla on a roll, you can get tattooed, have your nails painted and your nipples pierced.
Or vice versa.
It was during this walk I came to the conclusion that my health is suffering.
I got fucking Shin Splints!
A searing pain in the muscle down the front of the shins that makes your feet flop around like you’re breaking them in for someone else.
It also gives you the gait of a Thunderbird puppet.
I fell in behind some old dear with a trolley and tried to look as if she had me trapped there.
The ipod, which had tried to fuck with me earlier by refusing to work, was blaring Primal Scream’s Country Girls directly in to my head and I started to enjoy my day.
I contemplated getting my hair cut and set about choosing a criterion.
I went with looking through the window, seeing who was free and deciding whether I wanted them running their fingers through my hair.
I still have huge hair and possibly, a couple of police complaints!
I bumped in to a one night stand who, scarily, remembered every detail about me.
I had no recollection of her whatsoever, or we would never have been in a 'bumping in to' situation, but I think I fronted it out pretty well.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
BB POV
Today I have seen a dustbin lid fly down the middle of the street at head height. The aerial ripped off the roof of the house across the road.
Horizontal rain.
People have been killed and injured. The wind got up to 90mph and there were 25ft waves along the seafront.
Crisp packet and leaf tornadoes in my forecourt and clouds moving so fast they made me feel a bit sick. I haven’t seen a single bird and there are usually loads of Magpie’s tormenting Murphy the Murderous Feline. He likes to sit in the window and chunter at them.
According to the news, windows were blown out on the pier and Southsea Common is flooded.
The hosepipe ban has been lifted though.
Right, the Big Brother thing.
I’ve read as much as I can from lots of sources and this is what I make of it.
Yep, there is racist bullying going on.
Why are we surprised at that? You put white, working class wannabe bitches in a house with an educated upper class Indian and expect it to work out?
They cannot ‘compete’ with her on any other level.
She’s gorgeous, speaks 5 or 6 languages and is an absolute star in her world.
Their innate ‘colonialism’ was bound to surface.
I think what people are finding more shocking, is the fact that they thought nothing of it, until it was pointed out to them.
People, who in a million years, would never consider themselves racist.
If you doubt it.
Check out the number of complaints made by the public the 2 days before and the day after the news broke the story.
A lot of people didn’t KNOW to be outraged before they were TOLD to be.
Check out what Ken Russell called Miss Goody and her family.
I think he used the word ‘Guttersnipe’.
Brilliant word! My Nan used it!
Jeremy Paxman was quick to say that not all British ‘white’ people were racist.
Ok. Thanks for that.
In the same way that not all Muslims are terrorists then?
Many of the stories felt the need to point out that Miss Shetty was a Hindu.
Would it make a difference if she wasn’t? Would we mind a little bit less if she was Muslim?
Let’s also not forget why these people are in the Big Brother house in the first place.
I, in all honesty, had never heard of Shilpa Shetty before all this started, Bollywood films are not my thing.
You can guarantee we’ll be hearing loads about her from now on. Anyone fancy a bet on how long it is before we see her in a “Hollywood” film?
Viewer numbers were dropping off. They are up to 5 million again.
Although, Carphone Warehouse has pulled it’s sponsorship.
My inner conspiracy theorist has come up with the idea of 2 Big Brother execs playing a sort of ‘Trading Places’ game with Jade Goody.
A ‘we make her in one series and ruin her in another’ scenario.
If so, one of them has just won a huge bet!
Horizontal rain.
People have been killed and injured. The wind got up to 90mph and there were 25ft waves along the seafront.
Crisp packet and leaf tornadoes in my forecourt and clouds moving so fast they made me feel a bit sick. I haven’t seen a single bird and there are usually loads of Magpie’s tormenting Murphy the Murderous Feline. He likes to sit in the window and chunter at them.
According to the news, windows were blown out on the pier and Southsea Common is flooded.
The hosepipe ban has been lifted though.
Right, the Big Brother thing.
I’ve read as much as I can from lots of sources and this is what I make of it.
Yep, there is racist bullying going on.
Why are we surprised at that? You put white, working class wannabe bitches in a house with an educated upper class Indian and expect it to work out?
They cannot ‘compete’ with her on any other level.
She’s gorgeous, speaks 5 or 6 languages and is an absolute star in her world.
Their innate ‘colonialism’ was bound to surface.
I think what people are finding more shocking, is the fact that they thought nothing of it, until it was pointed out to them.
People, who in a million years, would never consider themselves racist.
If you doubt it.
Check out the number of complaints made by the public the 2 days before and the day after the news broke the story.
A lot of people didn’t KNOW to be outraged before they were TOLD to be.
Check out what Ken Russell called Miss Goody and her family.
I think he used the word ‘Guttersnipe’.
Brilliant word! My Nan used it!
Jeremy Paxman was quick to say that not all British ‘white’ people were racist.
Ok. Thanks for that.
In the same way that not all Muslims are terrorists then?
Many of the stories felt the need to point out that Miss Shetty was a Hindu.
Would it make a difference if she wasn’t? Would we mind a little bit less if she was Muslim?
Let’s also not forget why these people are in the Big Brother house in the first place.
I, in all honesty, had never heard of Shilpa Shetty before all this started, Bollywood films are not my thing.
You can guarantee we’ll be hearing loads about her from now on. Anyone fancy a bet on how long it is before we see her in a “Hollywood” film?
Viewer numbers were dropping off. They are up to 5 million again.
Although, Carphone Warehouse has pulled it’s sponsorship.
My inner conspiracy theorist has come up with the idea of 2 Big Brother execs playing a sort of ‘Trading Places’ game with Jade Goody.
A ‘we make her in one series and ruin her in another’ scenario.
If so, one of them has just won a huge bet!
All Is Sweet
We are into that dreaded time of year when only the really crappy sweets are left in the Quality Street tin.
Sweeties that you only contemplate when you have got the munchies, bad!
I wasted 15 minutes of my life this afternoon deciding whether to suck the chocolate and caramel from the ‘Purple one’ and gob away the nut.
Or go against all my beliefs and accept that orange is an acceptable flavour for chocolate.
I went with the spitting nuts option. (not a line you’re likely to hear me say again!)
Orange and chocolate together is just too wrong.
Terry can keep his ‘chocolate orange’, it’s fucking filth.
Who else won't throw away the QS tin, 'just in case'? Just in case of what, Christ alone knows!
We have had an impromptu dinner party tonight.
Sassy came round for a quick drink and it just grew.
I cooked pasta, then all of a sudden we were partying.
Basically, I'm as pissed as a fart!
We have discussed the idea of an ’Ancestral Memory’.
Which I believe, is what happens in all families, when you have heard the same story over and over again you actually believe it happened to you.
That’s how elephants can find water holes their great grandparents used…
They had heard the stories so often they thought they were fucking there!
As usual, adverts are catching my eye.
This time it’s hair dye adverts.
Some American actress is going on about how wonderful this particular dye is.
Flicking her hair about in slow motion and looking very ‘chestnutty’.
In her ‘Deep South’ accent she tells us it even does,
‘wiry, little ones’.
She has shoulder length hair, so One can only wonder what short, wiry hairs she is referring to.
Are the advertising companies, subliminally, trying to put the ‘Merkin’ people out of business?!
Now for a Housemate rant.
Waiting for weeks and weeks, then stuffing all your laundry in at once, doesn’t work. I’m not even sure the centre gets wet.
For some reason the spin of the machine has the strength of an industrial centrifuge.
This means your 6kgs of laundry are in such a tight ball and wedged in so tight, it’s like trying to undo the Gordian Knot.
Next time I WILL get my sword.
Are we clear?
I will dip into the Big Brother racism debate, but tomorrow, I have had too much Brandy tonight.
Getting in touch with my inner toper! Frankly, I quite like her.
Sweeties that you only contemplate when you have got the munchies, bad!
I wasted 15 minutes of my life this afternoon deciding whether to suck the chocolate and caramel from the ‘Purple one’ and gob away the nut.
Or go against all my beliefs and accept that orange is an acceptable flavour for chocolate.
I went with the spitting nuts option. (not a line you’re likely to hear me say again!)
Orange and chocolate together is just too wrong.
Terry can keep his ‘chocolate orange’, it’s fucking filth.
Who else won't throw away the QS tin, 'just in case'? Just in case of what, Christ alone knows!
We have had an impromptu dinner party tonight.
Sassy came round for a quick drink and it just grew.
I cooked pasta, then all of a sudden we were partying.
Basically, I'm as pissed as a fart!
We have discussed the idea of an ’Ancestral Memory’.
Which I believe, is what happens in all families, when you have heard the same story over and over again you actually believe it happened to you.
That’s how elephants can find water holes their great grandparents used…
They had heard the stories so often they thought they were fucking there!
As usual, adverts are catching my eye.
This time it’s hair dye adverts.
Some American actress is going on about how wonderful this particular dye is.
Flicking her hair about in slow motion and looking very ‘chestnutty’.
In her ‘Deep South’ accent she tells us it even does,
‘wiry, little ones’.
She has shoulder length hair, so One can only wonder what short, wiry hairs she is referring to.
Are the advertising companies, subliminally, trying to put the ‘Merkin’ people out of business?!
Now for a Housemate rant.
Waiting for weeks and weeks, then stuffing all your laundry in at once, doesn’t work. I’m not even sure the centre gets wet.
For some reason the spin of the machine has the strength of an industrial centrifuge.
This means your 6kgs of laundry are in such a tight ball and wedged in so tight, it’s like trying to undo the Gordian Knot.
Next time I WILL get my sword.
Are we clear?
I will dip into the Big Brother racism debate, but tomorrow, I have had too much Brandy tonight.
Getting in touch with my inner toper! Frankly, I quite like her.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Smack 'eads, No 'eads and Knob 'eads
Why do they sit down on the BBC evening news but stand up on the lunchtime one?
The other thing that pisses me off is when they say something like,
‘the time is fast approaching 16 minutes past 6’.
How fast exactly?
A second at a time I should think.
Fucking fool.
One of the items was about the massive rise in hard drug use amongst the British Asian community.
Just go with me for a bit here.
Afghani opium growers were promised money by the British government to STOP growing poppies.
Promised amid fears that:
1.. Money was funding terrorism.
2.. Keeping drugs off British streets.
So, Britain gets them to plant coffee or coriander or something, and doesn’t honour the promise to pay them.
The growers suffer financial hardship and think, “Fuck It” and plant poppies again.
Some of the drugs made from these crops end up in Britain, up the noses or in the arms of British Asians, some of whom are Muslim.
A few of the families send their drug addicted kids off to Islamic ‘schools’ for a cure.
Here they become politicised and come home angry enough to strap bombs to themselves.
Am I alone in seeing the irony here?
There wasn’t a mention of the decapitation of Saddam’s half brother.
One quick mention yesterday with a,
'Oh, by the way. He was decapitated', almost coughed behind a hand.
We had days and days of Saddam’s execution and his went relatively well.
This fucker’s head came off! Came off!
They should have watched Pierrepoint.
According to him, decapitation occurs when the drop is too big for a heavy person.
I seem to remember he looked like a bit of a salad dodger.
The fine people of Pompey have done themselves proud again.
A house in Havant (read, Leigh Park) has been targeted for vandalism and violence. Windows smashed and inhabitants attacked.
The reason?
A rumour got around that paedophiles live there.
In fact, it is an assisted living home for adults with learning difficulties.
Fucking idiots.
There was me thinking the whole of Leigh Park was assisted living housing for the inbred knuckle draggers who were moved out from the slums of Portsea.
Don’t start ‘tutting’! You know it’s true.
Look what happened in Paulsgrove where they put the rest of them (mixing up the limited gene pool).
They burnt down a Paediatrician’s office and not one of their placards had ‘Paedophile’ spelled correctly!
As I have often said, 150 000 people, 5 surnames.
Yesterday I read ‘The Black Sun’ by James Twining. It’s a kind of Da Vinci Code with Nazis and looted treasures.
Today I started ‘The Book Of Fathers’ by Miklos Vamos. I’m only a few chapters in but I can tell it’s going to be a cracker.
Schnee, this is definitely one for you.
The other thing that pisses me off is when they say something like,
‘the time is fast approaching 16 minutes past 6’.
How fast exactly?
A second at a time I should think.
Fucking fool.
One of the items was about the massive rise in hard drug use amongst the British Asian community.
Just go with me for a bit here.
Afghani opium growers were promised money by the British government to STOP growing poppies.
Promised amid fears that:
1.. Money was funding terrorism.
2.. Keeping drugs off British streets.
So, Britain gets them to plant coffee or coriander or something, and doesn’t honour the promise to pay them.
The growers suffer financial hardship and think, “Fuck It” and plant poppies again.
Some of the drugs made from these crops end up in Britain, up the noses or in the arms of British Asians, some of whom are Muslim.
A few of the families send their drug addicted kids off to Islamic ‘schools’ for a cure.
Here they become politicised and come home angry enough to strap bombs to themselves.
Am I alone in seeing the irony here?
There wasn’t a mention of the decapitation of Saddam’s half brother.
One quick mention yesterday with a,
'Oh, by the way. He was decapitated', almost coughed behind a hand.
We had days and days of Saddam’s execution and his went relatively well.
This fucker’s head came off! Came off!
They should have watched Pierrepoint.
According to him, decapitation occurs when the drop is too big for a heavy person.
I seem to remember he looked like a bit of a salad dodger.
The fine people of Pompey have done themselves proud again.
A house in Havant (read, Leigh Park) has been targeted for vandalism and violence. Windows smashed and inhabitants attacked.
The reason?
A rumour got around that paedophiles live there.
In fact, it is an assisted living home for adults with learning difficulties.
Fucking idiots.
There was me thinking the whole of Leigh Park was assisted living housing for the inbred knuckle draggers who were moved out from the slums of Portsea.
Don’t start ‘tutting’! You know it’s true.
Look what happened in Paulsgrove where they put the rest of them (mixing up the limited gene pool).
They burnt down a Paediatrician’s office and not one of their placards had ‘Paedophile’ spelled correctly!
As I have often said, 150 000 people, 5 surnames.
Yesterday I read ‘The Black Sun’ by James Twining. It’s a kind of Da Vinci Code with Nazis and looted treasures.
Today I started ‘The Book Of Fathers’ by Miklos Vamos. I’m only a few chapters in but I can tell it’s going to be a cracker.
Schnee, this is definitely one for you.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Rhyme and Punishment
Well! Who knew?!
How dangerous going for a curry could be.
We all know the dangers of ordering while pissed, when you are convinced that 32 poppadoms between 6 and the hottest thing on the menu are a splendid idea.
Oblivious to the following morning’s Johnny Cash moment. When you don’t fall in the burning ring of fire……
You are in full possession of one.
But, it’s not that.
Bombs can be made from chapatti flour and peroxide used by hairdressers!
BBC News informs me that this is what the alleged, failed suicide bombers used.
(Failed suicide Bomber??? “Yeah I was going to do it, had the bomb, rucksack, train ticket, the lot!.... But wouldn’t you know it, halfway there and the fucking Prozac kicked in”…
The reason they didn’t go off? Too much flour!
There you go, you can all stop worrying about ‘those Muslims who run the Take Away’.
They wouldn’t fuck up the flour!
Asian hairdressers must be shitting themselves waiting for Scotland Yard to come piling through their doors!
Just remember:
“First they came for the hairdressers, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a hairdresser.
Then they came for the Take Away owners, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Take Away owner.
Then they came for me, but I had fucking starved to death with a 6ft afro”
Sleepy Niemoller. (Feel free to imagine umlauts!)
I have been to Marlborough today. There is a fantastic bookshop there.
The owner is one of those great upper class Englishmen who are superior, rude and helpful all at the same time!
Sassy, he would appeal to your inner Parisienne.
I like him because he is no nonsense.
Usually there is something about books on shelves that makes people feel they ought to be quiet and library-like. Same with big shops that have book sections, that’s the quietest area.
Not this guy. The whole shop could hear him being rude to his bank.
“Who are you? Come on, come on, Lloyds or Barclays?”
“Why are you phoning me?”
“What? What? You want me to do what?”
“No. NO. I can’t talk to you now!”
Down went the phone, with real venom.
All the people in the shop became really involved in the book in front of them.
I wanted to applaud.
He couldn’t have given a toss.
I saw the front page of The Mirror today and can’t work out whether to be pissed off or laugh like a drain.
Roy Whiting, murderer of 8 year old Sarah Payne, is complaining that his cell is haunted by Harold Shipman!
The poor bugger is ‘scared witless’.
Really? What, More than Sarah Payne was?..
Fuck him. Leave him in there.
In fact, send in Derek Accorah and John Edward.
One can tell him where the dead are hanging about and the other can tell him what they are saying.
Creepy.
How dangerous going for a curry could be.
We all know the dangers of ordering while pissed, when you are convinced that 32 poppadoms between 6 and the hottest thing on the menu are a splendid idea.
Oblivious to the following morning’s Johnny Cash moment. When you don’t fall in the burning ring of fire……
You are in full possession of one.
But, it’s not that.
Bombs can be made from chapatti flour and peroxide used by hairdressers!
BBC News informs me that this is what the alleged, failed suicide bombers used.
(Failed suicide Bomber??? “Yeah I was going to do it, had the bomb, rucksack, train ticket, the lot!.... But wouldn’t you know it, halfway there and the fucking Prozac kicked in”…
The reason they didn’t go off? Too much flour!
There you go, you can all stop worrying about ‘those Muslims who run the Take Away’.
They wouldn’t fuck up the flour!
Asian hairdressers must be shitting themselves waiting for Scotland Yard to come piling through their doors!
Just remember:
“First they came for the hairdressers, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a hairdresser.
Then they came for the Take Away owners, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Take Away owner.
Then they came for me, but I had fucking starved to death with a 6ft afro”
Sleepy Niemoller. (Feel free to imagine umlauts!)
I have been to Marlborough today. There is a fantastic bookshop there.
The owner is one of those great upper class Englishmen who are superior, rude and helpful all at the same time!
Sassy, he would appeal to your inner Parisienne.
I like him because he is no nonsense.
Usually there is something about books on shelves that makes people feel they ought to be quiet and library-like. Same with big shops that have book sections, that’s the quietest area.
Not this guy. The whole shop could hear him being rude to his bank.
“Who are you? Come on, come on, Lloyds or Barclays?”
“Why are you phoning me?”
“What? What? You want me to do what?”
“No. NO. I can’t talk to you now!”
Down went the phone, with real venom.
All the people in the shop became really involved in the book in front of them.
I wanted to applaud.
He couldn’t have given a toss.
I saw the front page of The Mirror today and can’t work out whether to be pissed off or laugh like a drain.
Roy Whiting, murderer of 8 year old Sarah Payne, is complaining that his cell is haunted by Harold Shipman!
The poor bugger is ‘scared witless’.
Really? What, More than Sarah Payne was?..
Fuck him. Leave him in there.
In fact, send in Derek Accorah and John Edward.
One can tell him where the dead are hanging about and the other can tell him what they are saying.
Creepy.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Green Eyed Monster
As many of you know, Sunday is when I worship at the Church of Sky Sports 1.
Revering one of my gods, known as football.
As you can imagine everybody has an opinion about David Beckham.
So, from the sofa in my Sunday best, (dressing gown and slippers), here is the homily.
David Beckham didn’t wake up one morning suddenly able to do what he does.
He practised for hours and hours on end.
During those teenage years when the majority were out smoking, drinking cider, doing drugs and earning ASBO points.
He was practising.
He was living 200 miles away from home and family, living football and practising.
Eventually, because of practise, he got to play for one of the greatest clubs and his country.
He acquired a ‘high maintenance’ wife.
Week in and week out he had thousands chanting obscenities at him about her. Imagine going to work and all you get is people abusing someone you love.
After the World Cup sending off incident, effigies of him were burnt. He received mail hoping his child would die of cancer.
Think of the injuries he’s had. The strain any sport puts on joints. Next time you see a free kick of his, look at his standing leg.
I have terrible joint problems because of the sport I played when I was younger and I wasn’t at his level or played for as long.
As he gets older he is going to have pain and as his looks go so will his earning potential.
We have all been told that hard work and sacrifice will bring a reward. That’s what he’s done.
Fucking fair play to him. Grab the money and run.
Think back to the public outcry there was when one of the “Heroes of ‘66” was going to auction his winner’s medal. Why was he selling it? Because he had fuck all, except medical bills.
Think about it the next time the lottery is up to 25 million and you are buying a ticket.
You wouldn’t be buying that ticket if you had got off your fucking arse and made yourself world class in whatever your talent is.
Would it be too difficult to see it for what it actually is?
WE ARE FUCKING JEALOUS and we are collectively bullying him. The disease of clawing down anybody who has made good just because it wasn’t us.
Here endeth the lesson.
Has anyone else seen the advert for Dettol Kitchen Spray?
It makes all sorts of claims about killing Bacteria but also claims to kill MRSA.
Has no one thought to let the NHS in on this secret?
If it’s expensive I’m sure a deal can be done with Lidl.
I’d love to see them get a Royal Charter or whatever they are called.
“Lidl, purveyors of fine food with labels no one can read, to HRH the Duchess of Cornwall”.
How cool would that be?
Revering one of my gods, known as football.
As you can imagine everybody has an opinion about David Beckham.
So, from the sofa in my Sunday best, (dressing gown and slippers), here is the homily.
David Beckham didn’t wake up one morning suddenly able to do what he does.
He practised for hours and hours on end.
During those teenage years when the majority were out smoking, drinking cider, doing drugs and earning ASBO points.
He was practising.
He was living 200 miles away from home and family, living football and practising.
Eventually, because of practise, he got to play for one of the greatest clubs and his country.
He acquired a ‘high maintenance’ wife.
Week in and week out he had thousands chanting obscenities at him about her. Imagine going to work and all you get is people abusing someone you love.
After the World Cup sending off incident, effigies of him were burnt. He received mail hoping his child would die of cancer.
Think of the injuries he’s had. The strain any sport puts on joints. Next time you see a free kick of his, look at his standing leg.
I have terrible joint problems because of the sport I played when I was younger and I wasn’t at his level or played for as long.
As he gets older he is going to have pain and as his looks go so will his earning potential.
We have all been told that hard work and sacrifice will bring a reward. That’s what he’s done.
Fucking fair play to him. Grab the money and run.
Think back to the public outcry there was when one of the “Heroes of ‘66” was going to auction his winner’s medal. Why was he selling it? Because he had fuck all, except medical bills.
Think about it the next time the lottery is up to 25 million and you are buying a ticket.
You wouldn’t be buying that ticket if you had got off your fucking arse and made yourself world class in whatever your talent is.
Would it be too difficult to see it for what it actually is?
WE ARE FUCKING JEALOUS and we are collectively bullying him. The disease of clawing down anybody who has made good just because it wasn’t us.
Here endeth the lesson.
Has anyone else seen the advert for Dettol Kitchen Spray?
It makes all sorts of claims about killing Bacteria but also claims to kill MRSA.
Has no one thought to let the NHS in on this secret?
If it’s expensive I’m sure a deal can be done with Lidl.
I’d love to see them get a Royal Charter or whatever they are called.
“Lidl, purveyors of fine food with labels no one can read, to HRH the Duchess of Cornwall”.
How cool would that be?
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
Chants, The Clap And Knickers
A tune came on the radio as I was escaping Portsmouth for my Wiltshire hideaway. I urge you all to listen to it. Listen to it LOUD, you will smile and bop.
T-Rex…. Hot Love (The repeat to fade version)
I was immediately whipped back to a time in my life that is now called ‘pre-teen’, I call it ‘happy’.
Back to a time when being cool in the playground didn’t involve smoking, ‘looking’ the part, swearing and snogging.
You did other stuff.
I played football, Bulldog and Kinger but I wasn’t like the other girls!
There were the girls who wrapped the belt from their coat around a friend’s waist, then “Rode” them round the playground like a horse. Making strange clicking sounds and shouting, ‘Walk On’. Pigtails were acceptable reins during the summer.
There was the group that would produce a huge circle of knicker elastic or elastic bands joined together. Two girls looped this around their ankles and moved 6ft apart. Other girls would then jump on the stretched elastic in a certain order chanting,
‘….. inside, outside, twizzles’ off’.
Whatever the fuck that might mean!
I have an idea for it now, but it’s probably best kept to myself!.
After each turn the elastic was moved higher, Calf, knee etc.
Only got interesting to watch then.
Then there was the ‘angry’ lot. They had a tennis ball in a long sock or leg of an old pair of tights.
They would stand against a wall and fling this thing about like a medieval flagellant, chanting the weirdest shit.
“Nebuchnezzar, King of The Jews, bought his wife a pair of shoes…”
They didn’t sound happy about the shoes.
Get in the way and they’d have your fucking head off.
Having seen the effect of bad shoes on hectic Jewish women, I stayed the fuck away from this lot. I did also think they may have been the “Cossacks” my Great Grandmother used to shout about.
There were the freakish bunch who did a handclapping thing. Clapping hands against each other in a particular order ALSO chanting!
These chants had more to do with ‘Sailors going to sea, to see what they could see….’, than pissed off women in ill-fitting shoes.
Other girls would gather round and take it in turns to try and do it faster. This activity could also be done with another girl plaiting the “Clapee’s” hair. All most strange. The orderly handclapping made me think of my Grandmother and her shouting about Nazis.
I kept away from them.
Last and by no means least.
The girls who did handstands up against the wall!
For some reason it was always the girls with the grubbiest or brightest knickers on.
This is the time in my life when I learned to read the days of the week upside down.
Noticed I was the only girl watching with the boys and found out that some girls wore the same shreddies two days on the trot.
Nobody had warned me against this type of girl!
I made a mental note of them in case of ‘Wet PE’. There was always a mad dash for “Scottish Country Dance” partners and I did not want to be stuck in close proximity to a skanky one.
My hair is now so huge I’m picking up the police frequency, or the voices are back.
Either way, I’m going with it.
T-Rex…. Hot Love (The repeat to fade version)
I was immediately whipped back to a time in my life that is now called ‘pre-teen’, I call it ‘happy’.
Back to a time when being cool in the playground didn’t involve smoking, ‘looking’ the part, swearing and snogging.
You did other stuff.
I played football, Bulldog and Kinger but I wasn’t like the other girls!
There were the girls who wrapped the belt from their coat around a friend’s waist, then “Rode” them round the playground like a horse. Making strange clicking sounds and shouting, ‘Walk On’. Pigtails were acceptable reins during the summer.
There was the group that would produce a huge circle of knicker elastic or elastic bands joined together. Two girls looped this around their ankles and moved 6ft apart. Other girls would then jump on the stretched elastic in a certain order chanting,
‘….. inside, outside, twizzles’ off’.
Whatever the fuck that might mean!
I have an idea for it now, but it’s probably best kept to myself!.
After each turn the elastic was moved higher, Calf, knee etc.
Only got interesting to watch then.
Then there was the ‘angry’ lot. They had a tennis ball in a long sock or leg of an old pair of tights.
They would stand against a wall and fling this thing about like a medieval flagellant, chanting the weirdest shit.
“Nebuchnezzar, King of The Jews, bought his wife a pair of shoes…”
They didn’t sound happy about the shoes.
Get in the way and they’d have your fucking head off.
Having seen the effect of bad shoes on hectic Jewish women, I stayed the fuck away from this lot. I did also think they may have been the “Cossacks” my Great Grandmother used to shout about.
There were the freakish bunch who did a handclapping thing. Clapping hands against each other in a particular order ALSO chanting!
These chants had more to do with ‘Sailors going to sea, to see what they could see….’, than pissed off women in ill-fitting shoes.
Other girls would gather round and take it in turns to try and do it faster. This activity could also be done with another girl plaiting the “Clapee’s” hair. All most strange. The orderly handclapping made me think of my Grandmother and her shouting about Nazis.
I kept away from them.
Last and by no means least.
The girls who did handstands up against the wall!
For some reason it was always the girls with the grubbiest or brightest knickers on.
This is the time in my life when I learned to read the days of the week upside down.
Noticed I was the only girl watching with the boys and found out that some girls wore the same shreddies two days on the trot.
Nobody had warned me against this type of girl!
I made a mental note of them in case of ‘Wet PE’. There was always a mad dash for “Scottish Country Dance” partners and I did not want to be stuck in close proximity to a skanky one.
My hair is now so huge I’m picking up the police frequency, or the voices are back.
Either way, I’m going with it.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Nicotine And Rain
Not wishing to sound stereotypically British but the weather is horrendous.
Roofs have been blown off, trees uprooted, power lines are down. Flood warnings are in effect in many places but you can guarantee a hose pipe ban in a few months time.
The wind has taken next door’s back gate straight off its hinges and Mrs Next Door has a face like a slapped arse. She has been bitching at Mr Next Door to get it sorted for some time. (Our walls aren’t thin but she is shrill!)
I lasted as long as I could but my body’s relentless call for nicotine drove me out of the house and into the maelstrom.
I made the ‘skinning up Oregano’ mistake in 1985 and I won’t be doing that again.
The rain was horizontal and the wind so strong I had no choice but to jog. Well, on the way there, anyway.
Coming back against the wind, I think I must have looked like a mime artist pulling myself along on an invisible rope.
When I got in, I had to go through that whole wrestling thing that happens when you try and take off wet jeans. To be confronted with legs the colour of corned beef, the shitty stuff in cans not the proper stuff. Twenty minutes later the sky was blue, the rain had stopped and the ‘hurricane’ had dropped to a gentle breeze. It stayed like that for 10 minutes, the time it takes me to get to the shop and back.
I’m sure I heard G-d chuckling.
Bastard!..
Another advert is getting on my tits. Just for a change!
A little oriental boy sat on the toilet has a total tantrum because a white contraption on the wall isn’t working. His Mum is outside asking what is wrong, all of a sudden he has a pen and writing material (Most unhygienic). He ‘draws’ that the air freshener has run out.
So, basically what they are saying is, “shit stinks“.
No, really?
And air freshener takes the smell away. Well, thank fuck they told me that. I would never have got that one on my own!
Roofs have been blown off, trees uprooted, power lines are down. Flood warnings are in effect in many places but you can guarantee a hose pipe ban in a few months time.
The wind has taken next door’s back gate straight off its hinges and Mrs Next Door has a face like a slapped arse. She has been bitching at Mr Next Door to get it sorted for some time. (Our walls aren’t thin but she is shrill!)
I lasted as long as I could but my body’s relentless call for nicotine drove me out of the house and into the maelstrom.
I made the ‘skinning up Oregano’ mistake in 1985 and I won’t be doing that again.
The rain was horizontal and the wind so strong I had no choice but to jog. Well, on the way there, anyway.
Coming back against the wind, I think I must have looked like a mime artist pulling myself along on an invisible rope.
When I got in, I had to go through that whole wrestling thing that happens when you try and take off wet jeans. To be confronted with legs the colour of corned beef, the shitty stuff in cans not the proper stuff. Twenty minutes later the sky was blue, the rain had stopped and the ‘hurricane’ had dropped to a gentle breeze. It stayed like that for 10 minutes, the time it takes me to get to the shop and back.
I’m sure I heard G-d chuckling.
Bastard!..
Another advert is getting on my tits. Just for a change!
A little oriental boy sat on the toilet has a total tantrum because a white contraption on the wall isn’t working. His Mum is outside asking what is wrong, all of a sudden he has a pen and writing material (Most unhygienic). He ‘draws’ that the air freshener has run out.
So, basically what they are saying is, “shit stinks“.
No, really?
And air freshener takes the smell away. Well, thank fuck they told me that. I would never have got that one on my own!
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Follicles and Molluscs
I’m going mental.
I am in desperate need of a serious haircut. The trouble is, it ain’t that easy!
I have complicated hair. Two crowns and a couple of cow licks. It all grows different ways, mainly out!
I have had hairdressers just suddenly stop half way through the cut and tell me they can’t do it.
I have had one, while using clippers, suddenly say, ‘Ooops’ and step away from me.
I was out of the chair and had her pinned to the wall by the throat, screaming, “Fucking Oooops”, all in the blink of an eye.
Suffice it to say, there are a few establishments where I am no longer welcome.
There was an afternoon when Crisp-e and I did some mushrooms and decided to attack my mop with his clippers! Not an ideal plan and we had to get Yusef the Barber to sort it out! Wasn’t too bad but I did look like a young Arab boy for a week.
All this aside, I NEED a haircut, there are bits going curly for fuck’s sake. I can’t live with that kind of shit going on with my Barnet!
I’m going to have to be careful here, after my Steve Urwin experience, but Ray Mears is getting on my tits.
He has a new programme where he bimbles around Britain doing his ‘hunter gatherer’ bit showing us how our Mesolithic ancestors survived. Eating some of the nastiest looking shit you’ve ever seen. Smacking his lips and saying how wonderful it all is.
Is it buggery.
It’s all stuff you tell kids to stay away from because dogs and tramps have pissed on it.
I do love the idea of being able to mooch around the countryside and know exactly what I could and couldn’t eat. But his delivery and attitude about it is so smug and superior it puts my back up. Makes me want to poke him straight in the eye with one of his ‘tasty’ Razor Clams. The one he has cooked on a hot stone heated by the fire he made from rubbing fucking slow-worms together or something. You’d think a man who dresses straight from Millets would have heard of a camping stove or a Trangia.
I better not bump in to him in Waitrose because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from having a rant if he didn’t have seaweed, snails, slugs and algae in his basket. (All stuff I’m sure Waitrose would have!)
I am in desperate need of a serious haircut. The trouble is, it ain’t that easy!
I have complicated hair. Two crowns and a couple of cow licks. It all grows different ways, mainly out!
I have had hairdressers just suddenly stop half way through the cut and tell me they can’t do it.
I have had one, while using clippers, suddenly say, ‘Ooops’ and step away from me.
I was out of the chair and had her pinned to the wall by the throat, screaming, “Fucking Oooops”, all in the blink of an eye.
Suffice it to say, there are a few establishments where I am no longer welcome.
There was an afternoon when Crisp-e and I did some mushrooms and decided to attack my mop with his clippers! Not an ideal plan and we had to get Yusef the Barber to sort it out! Wasn’t too bad but I did look like a young Arab boy for a week.
All this aside, I NEED a haircut, there are bits going curly for fuck’s sake. I can’t live with that kind of shit going on with my Barnet!
I’m going to have to be careful here, after my Steve Urwin experience, but Ray Mears is getting on my tits.
He has a new programme where he bimbles around Britain doing his ‘hunter gatherer’ bit showing us how our Mesolithic ancestors survived. Eating some of the nastiest looking shit you’ve ever seen. Smacking his lips and saying how wonderful it all is.
Is it buggery.
It’s all stuff you tell kids to stay away from because dogs and tramps have pissed on it.
I do love the idea of being able to mooch around the countryside and know exactly what I could and couldn’t eat. But his delivery and attitude about it is so smug and superior it puts my back up. Makes me want to poke him straight in the eye with one of his ‘tasty’ Razor Clams. The one he has cooked on a hot stone heated by the fire he made from rubbing fucking slow-worms together or something. You’d think a man who dresses straight from Millets would have heard of a camping stove or a Trangia.
I better not bump in to him in Waitrose because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from having a rant if he didn’t have seaweed, snails, slugs and algae in his basket. (All stuff I’m sure Waitrose would have!)
Monday, January 08, 2007
There Was A Young Man.....
I spent most of yesterday watching football, one of my favourite activities!
One of the least attractive aspects of the game takes place during substitutions. While stood on the touchline the sub adjusts his shorts and does this bollock juggling thing.
How this helps their game I’m unsure, but I really don’t like to see it.
So I propose a solution.
The player going off has to arrange the testicles of the one coming on.
I think that will put an end to the practise pretty swiftly.
All we have heard about today is about Ruth Kelly.
Ex Minister for education, face like a Russian war memorial and the sartorial elegance of an unmade bed.
She is taking one of her kids out of a state school and sending him to a 15 grand a year private one.
Apparently he has Special Educational Needs. So, this morning I was sat watching the news wondering what these needs could be. Autism, Down’s syndrome, wheelchair etc. All conditions Schnee and I have encountered at Mayhem.
This boy’s ‘Severe’ learning difficulty? Yep, by lunchtime’s news it was severe, is Dyslexia. Dyslexia! Jaysus..
A pair of coloured ‘specs and he’s good to go.
I can’t see the problem with him staying in mainstream in a class of 35+ each with their own ‘Special Needs’.
With kids throwing chairs, fighting, climbing out of windows, telling staff to Fuck Off, making and receiving phone calls, ripping up books, setting fire to ANYTHING (I’ve seen them try and burn a fire extinguisher!), girls doing their hair and make up, boys sorting out their Fantasy Football teams, walking out when they feel like it. With one Learning Support Assistant for all of them.
Just like everybody else’s “Special” children.
Then, to really piss me off we were told that Mrs Kelly would be paying for this out of her own money.
FUCKING RIGHT SHE WILL!
This afternoon I have been to Devizes, which I’m sure is a lovely place, but I just couldn’t get the, “There was a young man from Devizes….” thing out of my head. I’m sure everybody who saw me thought I was a ‘Care In The Community’ case. Dodgy grin and sporadic chuckling!
One of the least attractive aspects of the game takes place during substitutions. While stood on the touchline the sub adjusts his shorts and does this bollock juggling thing.
How this helps their game I’m unsure, but I really don’t like to see it.
So I propose a solution.
The player going off has to arrange the testicles of the one coming on.
I think that will put an end to the practise pretty swiftly.
All we have heard about today is about Ruth Kelly.
Ex Minister for education, face like a Russian war memorial and the sartorial elegance of an unmade bed.
She is taking one of her kids out of a state school and sending him to a 15 grand a year private one.
Apparently he has Special Educational Needs. So, this morning I was sat watching the news wondering what these needs could be. Autism, Down’s syndrome, wheelchair etc. All conditions Schnee and I have encountered at Mayhem.
This boy’s ‘Severe’ learning difficulty? Yep, by lunchtime’s news it was severe, is Dyslexia. Dyslexia! Jaysus..
A pair of coloured ‘specs and he’s good to go.
I can’t see the problem with him staying in mainstream in a class of 35+ each with their own ‘Special Needs’.
With kids throwing chairs, fighting, climbing out of windows, telling staff to Fuck Off, making and receiving phone calls, ripping up books, setting fire to ANYTHING (I’ve seen them try and burn a fire extinguisher!), girls doing their hair and make up, boys sorting out their Fantasy Football teams, walking out when they feel like it. With one Learning Support Assistant for all of them.
Just like everybody else’s “Special” children.
Then, to really piss me off we were told that Mrs Kelly would be paying for this out of her own money.
FUCKING RIGHT SHE WILL!
This afternoon I have been to Devizes, which I’m sure is a lovely place, but I just couldn’t get the, “There was a young man from Devizes….” thing out of my head. I’m sure everybody who saw me thought I was a ‘Care In The Community’ case. Dodgy grin and sporadic chuckling!
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Burn In Hell
I'm confused. Not an unusual state of affairs for me!
Why, all of a sudden is it wrong that Saddam has been hanged?
'Deplorable', Gordon Brown called it. No world leader seemed to be lining up at the time in his defense. Then the execution HAD to be shown to stop the conspiracy theories.
Now it's an abomination. These people want to make up their fucking minds.
They weren't that squeamish while they were bombing Baghdad, knowing full well that Saddam had done a runner and the army was more or less non existent.
I don't remember anyone being outraged when the mutilated bodies of his sons, Uday and Qusay were plastered over the front pages of papers around the world.
Everybody has seen the Zapruda film where you can see President Kennedy's head come apart. Who complained about that?
I watched the YouTube footage, a few times, he is there on the trapdoor - then he isn't. You don't see him dangling or jerking on the end of the rope. In all honesty, it wouldn't have bothered me if I did.
So, what I can work out is 'they' didn't like people shouting "Go to Hell" at him.
Fuck off.
In America when a murderer is executed, people are invited to witness it. Members of the victim's family can be there.
Do you think they are sat there thinking to themselves,
"Aaah, poor bugger, I hope he goes straight to heaven".
Or are they cheering and thinking,
'Go to Hell, you fucking scum!'
Let's not forget what this bastard did before we become part of the rewritten history of Saddam The Martyr.
To all you 'Peace Nazis', You know who you are..... Grow up!
Why, all of a sudden is it wrong that Saddam has been hanged?
'Deplorable', Gordon Brown called it. No world leader seemed to be lining up at the time in his defense. Then the execution HAD to be shown to stop the conspiracy theories.
Now it's an abomination. These people want to make up their fucking minds.
They weren't that squeamish while they were bombing Baghdad, knowing full well that Saddam had done a runner and the army was more or less non existent.
I don't remember anyone being outraged when the mutilated bodies of his sons, Uday and Qusay were plastered over the front pages of papers around the world.
Everybody has seen the Zapruda film where you can see President Kennedy's head come apart. Who complained about that?
I watched the YouTube footage, a few times, he is there on the trapdoor - then he isn't. You don't see him dangling or jerking on the end of the rope. In all honesty, it wouldn't have bothered me if I did.
So, what I can work out is 'they' didn't like people shouting "Go to Hell" at him.
Fuck off.
In America when a murderer is executed, people are invited to witness it. Members of the victim's family can be there.
Do you think they are sat there thinking to themselves,
"Aaah, poor bugger, I hope he goes straight to heaven".
Or are they cheering and thinking,
'Go to Hell, you fucking scum!'
Let's not forget what this bastard did before we become part of the rewritten history of Saddam The Martyr.
To all you 'Peace Nazis', You know who you are..... Grow up!
Friday, January 05, 2007
None More Pure.....
There is a term that my Grandmother used to use that has really stuck with me, and the older I have got the more I have come to understand it.
“There are none more pure than the purified”.
I first understood it when friends started to give up smoking cigarettes. Those people who used to spark up, close their eyes with almost orgasmic pleasure as the nicotine hit their system and say, ‘Oooh, Yes, that’s perfect’. Or words to that effect.
When they give up, all of a sudden you are the personification of evil. They then get all ‘evangelical’ about it. Tell you about the patches and the gum and how much better they feel. Graphically describe what the ‘poison’ is doing to you.
Well, fucking good for you. Count me out!
Then there are those who give up illegal drugs, especially the ’hard’ ones.
Now, they are different. I have nothing but admiration for those people and the horrors they go through. They can bask in their purification.
There is now a new group of ‘body Nazis’. You read about them in the paper, see them on those shit day time talk shows and you’ve probably met a few.
Those who have gone whining to their doctor about excessive hand washing, butterflies in their stomachs when they have to leave the house, or an inability to get on with what the rest of us call ‘Life’. Who, at some point got themselves to believe that because the doctor gave them the stuff it must be good. These people, when the drugs are withdrawn go into total melt down and would have you believe they are having the full on Ewan MacGregor experience from Trainspotting.
Are they bollocks!
A bit of insomnia is usual and maybe Delhi Belly which lasts for 2 weeks, tops.
(Remember, one of the Housemates is a Pharmacist. This may come as a shock, but they know more than the doctors about how medications work on the system.)
Seeing as these people feel it quite acceptable to inflict their point of view on me, for example, I drink so I’m obviously an alcoholic. I smoke dope, so I’m a drug addicted junkie who would burgle your house as soon as look at you. I’m Gay so I obviously want to fuck everything with a pulse and if you believe the Christian Right, that’d be your children.
I think it’s fine for me to air my views.
Get a FUCKING grip!
Take responsibility for yourselves, stop blaming your parents for everything that has gone wrong in your fucked up life and perhaps consider it might just be something to do with you!
You are living it, not them.
Tablets won’t change it, in most cases they do very little, fuck all at all OR make you worse.
Whinging about it won’t change it. Finding G-d won’t change it. Going to ‘meetings’ won’t change it.
If you feel the overwhelming need to ‘blame’ someone, look in the mirror.
Imagine having to be trained that when someone smiles they are not baring their teeth at you, and it’s a friendly gesture.
That when your hand is shaken and a person says,
‘Pleased to meet you’, it’s just a phrase, most times they don’t actually mean it. How frustrating it is when people don’t do what they say or arrive at an arranged time. 9ish, 10ish, means fuck all to me.
That it is really distressing if an item that has always been kept in a certain place is suddenly moved.
Not only remembering books but the page numbers of certain bits. (handy for footnotes in Uni essays!)
Imagine being constantly tested and told your IQ is extremely high, then being treated like a retard because your ‘Social Skills’ are slightly lacking. Put in classes with Window Lickers and kids who can’t spell their name or put their shoes on the right feet.
Forcibly drugged because no one knows what is ’wrong’ or what to do with you and G-d forbid you are ‘yourself’.
Frustration is interpreted as violence.
That stating the obvious is perceived as rudeness or a subliminal request for a beating.
Forcing yourself to look someone in the eye, otherwise you are thought of as shifty and dishonest.
I’ll stop before I fuck up my Chi! But I will leave you with a quote..
“A lunatic is also a man society does not wish to listen to, and whom it is determined to prevent from uttering unbearable truths”.
Antonin Artaud.
“There are none more pure than the purified”.
I first understood it when friends started to give up smoking cigarettes. Those people who used to spark up, close their eyes with almost orgasmic pleasure as the nicotine hit their system and say, ‘Oooh, Yes, that’s perfect’. Or words to that effect.
When they give up, all of a sudden you are the personification of evil. They then get all ‘evangelical’ about it. Tell you about the patches and the gum and how much better they feel. Graphically describe what the ‘poison’ is doing to you.
Well, fucking good for you. Count me out!
Then there are those who give up illegal drugs, especially the ’hard’ ones.
Now, they are different. I have nothing but admiration for those people and the horrors they go through. They can bask in their purification.
There is now a new group of ‘body Nazis’. You read about them in the paper, see them on those shit day time talk shows and you’ve probably met a few.
Those who have gone whining to their doctor about excessive hand washing, butterflies in their stomachs when they have to leave the house, or an inability to get on with what the rest of us call ‘Life’. Who, at some point got themselves to believe that because the doctor gave them the stuff it must be good. These people, when the drugs are withdrawn go into total melt down and would have you believe they are having the full on Ewan MacGregor experience from Trainspotting.
Are they bollocks!
A bit of insomnia is usual and maybe Delhi Belly which lasts for 2 weeks, tops.
(Remember, one of the Housemates is a Pharmacist. This may come as a shock, but they know more than the doctors about how medications work on the system.)
Seeing as these people feel it quite acceptable to inflict their point of view on me, for example, I drink so I’m obviously an alcoholic. I smoke dope, so I’m a drug addicted junkie who would burgle your house as soon as look at you. I’m Gay so I obviously want to fuck everything with a pulse and if you believe the Christian Right, that’d be your children.
I think it’s fine for me to air my views.
Get a FUCKING grip!
Take responsibility for yourselves, stop blaming your parents for everything that has gone wrong in your fucked up life and perhaps consider it might just be something to do with you!
You are living it, not them.
Tablets won’t change it, in most cases they do very little, fuck all at all OR make you worse.
Whinging about it won’t change it. Finding G-d won’t change it. Going to ‘meetings’ won’t change it.
If you feel the overwhelming need to ‘blame’ someone, look in the mirror.
Imagine having to be trained that when someone smiles they are not baring their teeth at you, and it’s a friendly gesture.
That when your hand is shaken and a person says,
‘Pleased to meet you’, it’s just a phrase, most times they don’t actually mean it. How frustrating it is when people don’t do what they say or arrive at an arranged time. 9ish, 10ish, means fuck all to me.
That it is really distressing if an item that has always been kept in a certain place is suddenly moved.
Not only remembering books but the page numbers of certain bits. (handy for footnotes in Uni essays!)
Imagine being constantly tested and told your IQ is extremely high, then being treated like a retard because your ‘Social Skills’ are slightly lacking. Put in classes with Window Lickers and kids who can’t spell their name or put their shoes on the right feet.
Forcibly drugged because no one knows what is ’wrong’ or what to do with you and G-d forbid you are ‘yourself’.
Frustration is interpreted as violence.
That stating the obvious is perceived as rudeness or a subliminal request for a beating.
Forcing yourself to look someone in the eye, otherwise you are thought of as shifty and dishonest.
I’ll stop before I fuck up my Chi! But I will leave you with a quote..
“A lunatic is also a man society does not wish to listen to, and whom it is determined to prevent from uttering unbearable truths”.
Antonin Artaud.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Limbs And Kitchens
One of the Housemates works for the NHS in the patient transport side of things. Apparently she got a phone call from some bloke who left his false leg on one of the buses.
Which led us to ponder, how do you forget that?
The standing and falling flat on your face would kind of jog your memory, wouldn’t it?
This led us to wonder if he had gone to get a new leg and like us, as kids getting new shoes, wanted to wear it home!
I must ask Mad Matt what his Dad’s preference is when he goes for a new hand.
An advert that is pissing me off…
Some twat stands in a kitchen holding a piece of equipment that apparently sums up them and their kitchen needs. According to the propaganda, from this item, a company can design the perfect kitchen for you.
An uptight looking woman holds up a nutmeg grater or something. From that they can tell she wants stainless steel throughout and a hot plate.
I think she needs a damn good fucking on the butcher’s block, but that’s just my opinion.
Right, I thought, I’ll have some of this.
I want to turn up at the sales room with our huge bag of assorted Take Away menus, 7 tea towels, 5 half used blocks of lard and say,
“Knock yourself out with that, you fucker!”
I’d be interested to see what they came up with.
Something that looks like the bastard child of Burger King and Ken’s Kebabs I should think!
For Christmas, one of the Housemates got a brilliant notebook about procrastination, so I will share some of the ‘Time Wasters’ with you lot.
Here is today’s.
Lesser Known Prequels:
--------------- Over The River Kwai
--------------- Impossible
--------------- And The Sundance Kid
--------------- Of The Third Kind
Have fun!
RIP Sister Annunciata. One of those rare, truly holy Nuns.
Which led us to ponder, how do you forget that?
The standing and falling flat on your face would kind of jog your memory, wouldn’t it?
This led us to wonder if he had gone to get a new leg and like us, as kids getting new shoes, wanted to wear it home!
I must ask Mad Matt what his Dad’s preference is when he goes for a new hand.
An advert that is pissing me off…
Some twat stands in a kitchen holding a piece of equipment that apparently sums up them and their kitchen needs. According to the propaganda, from this item, a company can design the perfect kitchen for you.
An uptight looking woman holds up a nutmeg grater or something. From that they can tell she wants stainless steel throughout and a hot plate.
I think she needs a damn good fucking on the butcher’s block, but that’s just my opinion.
Right, I thought, I’ll have some of this.
I want to turn up at the sales room with our huge bag of assorted Take Away menus, 7 tea towels, 5 half used blocks of lard and say,
“Knock yourself out with that, you fucker!”
I’d be interested to see what they came up with.
Something that looks like the bastard child of Burger King and Ken’s Kebabs I should think!
For Christmas, one of the Housemates got a brilliant notebook about procrastination, so I will share some of the ‘Time Wasters’ with you lot.
Here is today’s.
Lesser Known Prequels:
--------------- Over The River Kwai
--------------- Impossible
--------------- And The Sundance Kid
--------------- Of The Third Kind
Have fun!
RIP Sister Annunciata. One of those rare, truly holy Nuns.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Surf, Mirth And Neurotics
Every now and then, usually during an insomnia bout, I head to Wikipedia to learn something I didn’t know before.
I don’t have a specific subject or idea in mind. I just follow links.
It might be a word I’ve heard on TV or something I read in one of the papers.
Today I surfed into a page on Feminism. Did you know there are 16 subtypes of Feminism? 16! For fuck’s sake! BUT, get this, there is one called Cyborg Feminism! Now there was a link I had to follow.
These are the first few lines that greeted me:
“Cyborg Feminism is a sub-movement of feminism that uses the notion of a cyborg, a machine-organism hybrid, to explore feminism. It is often used as a metaphor for female identity and feminist thought or as a thought experiment (eg. To investigate what happens to gender in a dehumanizing body)”….
What the fuck!?
Maybe it is my lack of sleep, sporadic pain and Diazepam but I was seriously expecting to see a picture of Seven of Nine!
Would I be alone in expecting that?
When I did my degree I took the Gender and Sexuality option. It was that or the French Revolution, we all know about my ‘Franco-hatred’, so that was an easy choice.
I learnt about Ruskin’s pubic hair phobia, Aphra Behn, Camille Paglia and Monique Wittig. I could barely get my head around Postmodern Feminism.
Cyborg feminism? Not a fecking whisper.
From there I followed the link for Human Sexuality, ideal for a good chuckle. The pictures are ‘Arty’ and from ancient texts, The Karma Sutra or something Japanese. Where the ‘Golden Rule’ didn’t apply when it came to depicting male genitalia.
Average sized man, but a dick that looks like a baby’s arm holding an orange.
Mmm.. Drawn by a man methinks.
Female artists appear not to feel the need to whack enormous tits on their women subjects. Or labia like a Bassett Hound’s ears. Well, not that I have seen, but maybe I’m not going to the right galleries! (I must look in to that!)
Surfing on from there I found myself reading up on Personality Disorders.
It’s quite amazing how many different ways a person can be fucked up!
In fact, they are arranged into clusters.
I’ve had diagnoses of a myriad of disorders in my time, but I don’t think about it anymore.
No point trying to work out what or who made you like you are. You just 'Are'.
The main point is trying to understand how you impact on others and work at adjusting that.
I embrace my fucked up-ness, in fact I positively enjoy it! There's no other way.
I don’t have a specific subject or idea in mind. I just follow links.
It might be a word I’ve heard on TV or something I read in one of the papers.
Today I surfed into a page on Feminism. Did you know there are 16 subtypes of Feminism? 16! For fuck’s sake! BUT, get this, there is one called Cyborg Feminism! Now there was a link I had to follow.
These are the first few lines that greeted me:
“Cyborg Feminism is a sub-movement of feminism that uses the notion of a cyborg, a machine-organism hybrid, to explore feminism. It is often used as a metaphor for female identity and feminist thought or as a thought experiment (eg. To investigate what happens to gender in a dehumanizing body)”….
What the fuck!?
Maybe it is my lack of sleep, sporadic pain and Diazepam but I was seriously expecting to see a picture of Seven of Nine!
Would I be alone in expecting that?
When I did my degree I took the Gender and Sexuality option. It was that or the French Revolution, we all know about my ‘Franco-hatred’, so that was an easy choice.
I learnt about Ruskin’s pubic hair phobia, Aphra Behn, Camille Paglia and Monique Wittig. I could barely get my head around Postmodern Feminism.
Cyborg feminism? Not a fecking whisper.
From there I followed the link for Human Sexuality, ideal for a good chuckle. The pictures are ‘Arty’ and from ancient texts, The Karma Sutra or something Japanese. Where the ‘Golden Rule’ didn’t apply when it came to depicting male genitalia.
Average sized man, but a dick that looks like a baby’s arm holding an orange.
Mmm.. Drawn by a man methinks.
Female artists appear not to feel the need to whack enormous tits on their women subjects. Or labia like a Bassett Hound’s ears. Well, not that I have seen, but maybe I’m not going to the right galleries! (I must look in to that!)
Surfing on from there I found myself reading up on Personality Disorders.
It’s quite amazing how many different ways a person can be fucked up!
In fact, they are arranged into clusters.
I’ve had diagnoses of a myriad of disorders in my time, but I don’t think about it anymore.
No point trying to work out what or who made you like you are. You just 'Are'.
The main point is trying to understand how you impact on others and work at adjusting that.
I embrace my fucked up-ness, in fact I positively enjoy it! There's no other way.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
2007
Happy New Year!
Just a minor rant to start with.
If you don’t know the words to Auld Lang Syne, don’t fucking sing it. Simple as that. It stops you looking a twat and cuts down my urge to punch you in your miming mouth.
Also, why on New Years Eve do some blokes think that it’s perfectly acceptable to kiss you right on the lips? Should be ok for me to knee them straight in the bollocks then?.
The other thing that gets on my tits, and this isn’t just a New Year thing, are couples who turn up with just one bottle between them. Sure as shit you are going to drink more than 2 glasses of wine each! One bottle of spirit is acceptable. A bottle of wine that was on the 3 for a tenner offer isn’t. Or the people who turn up with shitty wine and then spend the night drinking your vodka. Tight bastards!
My back is still the enemy and Diazepam my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
Moving around is hellish.
I have to kind of slide out of my chair onto my knees.
Then crawl across the floor to the fireplace, where I pull myself upright using the mantle.
I then stand for 3 minutes doing my impression of an eighty year old with osteoporosis.
When I do manage to walk it looks like I’ve had a ‘Code Brown’ in my underwear!
An attractive look to start the New Year with.
The upside is it can’t get any worse.
Although, I do worry that the medication will run out before the pain does. If that happens, NHS Direct better beware!
I have had a real treat this evening. I used to watch a programme called ‘This Life’. It was about a bunch of 20 something Lawyers living in a house together. I loved it.
Tonight, they aired a one off episode about their lives 10 years on.
Brilliant!.
Cheered me right up.
Just a minor rant to start with.
If you don’t know the words to Auld Lang Syne, don’t fucking sing it. Simple as that. It stops you looking a twat and cuts down my urge to punch you in your miming mouth.
Also, why on New Years Eve do some blokes think that it’s perfectly acceptable to kiss you right on the lips? Should be ok for me to knee them straight in the bollocks then?.
The other thing that gets on my tits, and this isn’t just a New Year thing, are couples who turn up with just one bottle between them. Sure as shit you are going to drink more than 2 glasses of wine each! One bottle of spirit is acceptable. A bottle of wine that was on the 3 for a tenner offer isn’t. Or the people who turn up with shitty wine and then spend the night drinking your vodka. Tight bastards!
My back is still the enemy and Diazepam my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
Moving around is hellish.
I have to kind of slide out of my chair onto my knees.
Then crawl across the floor to the fireplace, where I pull myself upright using the mantle.
I then stand for 3 minutes doing my impression of an eighty year old with osteoporosis.
When I do manage to walk it looks like I’ve had a ‘Code Brown’ in my underwear!
An attractive look to start the New Year with.
The upside is it can’t get any worse.
Although, I do worry that the medication will run out before the pain does. If that happens, NHS Direct better beware!
I have had a real treat this evening. I used to watch a programme called ‘This Life’. It was about a bunch of 20 something Lawyers living in a house together. I loved it.
Tonight, they aired a one off episode about their lives 10 years on.
Brilliant!.
Cheered me right up.