Lost Thursday

People, I think it may have happened.
I popped a ‘legal high’ pill today and for the first time EVER it actually affected me.
When I say ‘affected’, read, puked up almost continually for an hour or two; then on and off for the rest of the day.
Brutal.
I’d say it took 5 hours for my stomach to settle and I’m just now starting to get something pleasant from it.
Which is a pisser because my fellow tripper got to witness the chundering bit and I’m now having to text him the good bit!
Sorry Dred x

I don’t know why this has started to bother me again, but it has.
Remember those Poster Art things that you had to colour in using four felt tip pens?
The fucking pens always ran out halfway through!
Bastards!
I don’t know of anyone who finished one of the four in the tube with JUST the supplied pens.
A few years later I fashioned something to smoke weed from using one of those tubes!
Not the type creativity they were going for I'm sure.
Perhaps if they had given me pens that worked rather than cheap shite, fuelled by exotic smelling ink, I may have grown up with a modicum of ambition!
Instead, I moved on to Tippex thinners and a lifelong enthusiasm for getting off my tits.

Anyway, onto other stuff.
A few pix from The Mansions garden and kitchen.


The best mutant tomato of the year, so far.



The beginning of the Dorset Naga infused oil.
Crisp-e's recipe.
Using chillies from the plant we share.


The result of four hours at 90 degrees.
This one is for Kevin and Schnee!

I also made a plum sauce which really impressed Housemate Pat.

Capital Madness

I've been to London for the weekend.
Any amount of time, no matter how short, out of Portsmouth is like a holiday.
Number Sixteen was booked at the very last minute and I was off Saturday morning.

As you can see, I began the trip on the train with the breakfast of champions.
It would have been churlish not to!

Number Sixteen had been booked because it had a cracking garden.
Or in other words, somewhere nice to smoke.
On arrival I was informed the garden was closed until 8pm that evening because of a wedding.
Mmmm.
Thought that was livable until I was taken to the room and the Harp player they had hired was about 18 inches from my window.
'All okay?' I was asked.
"Actually? No.
I was 'sold' this room because of the proximity to the garden but that Harp shit will drive me to fucking murder."
He looked afraid.
'Ah. I see. Would you like to see the Duty Manager?'
"Yes"
The Duty Manager arrived and asked what the problem was.
Problem?
I inquired after her hearing and asked for another room.
"There are no other rooms"
Opening the laptop I told her it was all cool as I would find another hotel.
"Give me a minute" she said and disappeared.
Five minutes later she was back.
She had phoned another hotel in the chain and sorted me a room there.
They lowered the price, gave me Champagne and a free breakfast.
The staff were absolutely superb and I will always stay with these people when I'm in London.
Brilliant. Totally Brilliant.

Saturday evening I had a mooch along Old Compton Street or 'Running the Gay Gauntlet' as I now call it.
What an utterly hideous experience.
As with all things, even if you are in a minority, it was dominated by men.
Honestly, I am not a 'man hater' kind of lesbian.
I have a father and brothers for fuck sake, but this was just horrible.
It may come as a surprise to many, but some gay men are as misogynistic as their straight counterparts.
In some ways worse, but that is just my opinion.
I deliberately sought out a 'straight' place and was immediately welcomed and joked with.

On the way back to the hotel I decided to buy some booze so I wasn't tempted by the Mini Bar, or 'Arse Rape Cupboard' as I call it.
£4 for a bag of crisps?
FUCK OFF!
In the Newsagent/Off License was some pissed up English wanker telling the Asian owner that,
"I've killed fuckin' 40 Muslims. You Hear me? Fuckin' 40 Muslims?"
I looked at the shop owner and shook my head and he smiled.
The Pride of English manhood continued until the Asian man said,
"Mate! I REALLY don't care. I'm Sikh"
After racist twat had taken his three cans of Stella and pissed off I was compelled to apologise to the shopkeeper.
'What a prick! I'm SO, SO sorry you have to deal with that shit. We don't all think like that you know?'
His rock set face broke into a smile and he said,
"You're not from London are you?"
I laughed and said,
'Ha! Not any more. How did you know?'
And I think he said the saddest thing I've heard this year...
"Because you give a toss how 'British' (He did the finger thing) people are thought of!"
How fucking unbelievably sad is that?

I'm sure I've said it before, but I think every piece of scum, arrested for racist crimes should have their family tree traced as part of their punishment.
If any of them can get back 4/5 generations without a relative coming from abroad; including Wales, Ireland and Scotland, I'd be fucking amazed!

After that shit, I found myself passing Boujis, where, as I put a cigarette out a tramp asked for one.
I took my foot off the butt I had just stamped on and said,
"Last one mate, but help yourself to that"
He looked disgusted.
'Go and buy some more' he said.
I was gob smacked.
"What? Buy more? So I can give you the 'spare' ones they tape to the front of a pack of 20 for work shy cunts like you?"
'There's no need for that' he muttered as he walked off.

Today I spent some time in the V&A before heading to Waterloo and home.



It was brutally hot today and I had a moment when I thought I was going to pass out.
I slumped down against the outside of Marks and Sparks, concentrating on the floor in front of me.
The smell of stale booze reached me before he did.
He put his face close to mine and I was immediately angry that he was coming anywhere me.
"I wonder if you....." was as far as he got when I looked up.
He jumped back, falling on his arse, hand out as if to ward me off.
"No problem! No problem! I'm going, I'm going..."
When I related the story to Housemates, they said show us the face you used.
I don't really know what it was so I set my face to how I was feeling at the time.
"Yep, you are truly, fucking scary!" they laughed.

Unrelated, and totally magic news; My beloved Spurs are top of the Premiership!

Brighton

The Great Dane and I had a road trip to Brighton today.
The train there is far less crowded than the one to Wiltshire but that may have something to do with them putting on more than three fucking coaches!
Come on Great Western, get a little radical.



Brighton was not quite as I remembered it.
Although, I have to admit I've usually viewed it at nighttime with a system full of, all sorts!
To start with it had an aroma.
Actually it smelled like a portaloo unless you went right down to the seafront, where it was blowing a hooligan.
The Lanes are their usual selves, windows of gorgeous diamonds, but the rest of it seemed seedy, neglected and run down.
There appeared to be plenty of tourists though.

We had a brilliant day mooching and some of us returned home with Bling!

A week In August

It's been quite a week.
I've had to have my cat put down.
Have had a threatening email from solicitors about my blog.
I know? Who'd have thought it!
Couldn't give a fuck though. My gripe was with his Dad, the Vicar.
Fortunately, the good people at 'Spitting Image' summed that one up for me!
Like a give a flying fuck about, Catholic educated, hypocritical, inadequate piece of shit that he spawned!

The rest of my week in pictures.
If it's fruit or veg; Yep, I grew it!



Plums are looking good!




My first ever 'Pumpkin' affair!
Thank you Mr & Mrs Crisp-e for the birthday seeds!
The seeds are called Baby something or other, so it's supposed to look like this.


This is my first attempt at Kohl Rabi.
Not Bad eh?
They seem to be doing nothing for ages them all of a sudden.
Boom!
Kohl Rabi.
Now I have to work out what the fuck to do with them.


The tomatoes are coming thick and fast.
I've given a load away and still have these.
Tomorrow I'm making Gazpacho!



I also had my first attempt at bread rolls.

Had a horrible nightmare last night.
I dreamt I was pegging the washing out and could hear a cat crying.
Suddenly I realised it was Kenny and that I had buried him alive.
Frantically, I started digging him up, only to get him to the surface JUST too late.
I woke up shaking, in a cold sweat.


BUT

The football season really began today and my boys won!
2 - 1 against Liverpool.
Much joy.

The Loss

Kenny was put to sleep on my lap this afternoon.
The vet and his nurse came to us and it was worth every penny.
He went off quietly and peacefully with me telling him how much I loved him.
I buried him under the Pear tree and put a slab on top.
The grief I feel is bordering on overwhelming and is hitting me in waves.
I feel physical pain when I see his bowl, his collar or any other reminder of him.
Murff can’t work out what the fuck is going on and has been wandering the house calling for him.
I don’t think I was in this kind of state when my Grandparents died!
Animals I can feel for; humans, not so much.
When I see adverts for starving children drinking nasty water I just watch without taking too much of it in.
The one for the fucking Donkeys I have to change channel, it upsets me.
I feel like Melvin in ‘As Good as It Gets’, after he has had to give the dog back.
‘Over a cat’

Kenny came along at the beginning of a new start for me.
Before I started at Uni I had an agency job working on the bins.
It was a great job.
If you were on, and could keep up with, a good crew you were home by 11am.
I got on a crew like that.
The ‘foreman’, AG, took a liking to me and we got on well.
Three months in, I was running up a path for a bin and my Abuser walked out of the front door.
I hadn’t seen him for years and I was nearly sick at his feet.
Grabbing the bin, I ran back to the truck and asked AG to take it back.
During lunch, I told him what had spun me out so much.
I went home at eleven and got on with my day.

At 9pm that evening, there was a knock at the door and it was AG.
There was a car with two others from the crew in it.
He just said,
“Come on Lover, there’s stuff you need to sort.”
We drove to the abusers house and the lads got him out.
They then gave me a baseball bat and told me to, ‘get it out of my system’.
I did.
Afterwards we went back to AG’s house for a drink.
During the evening, he opened a cupboard in his kitchen, showing us a big old Pompey cat and a load of 2-day-old kittens.
“Choose one.”
He was the kind of bloke you didn’t say no to.
I saw a little bundle fighting for a booby!
I pointed and said,
“If that’s a boy, I’ll have it.”
He was the ONLY boy.
He was Kenny.

Huge, HUGE thanks to Sassy, who was here with Kenny and me.
Mr & Mrs Crisp-e who were here 2 minutes after.
Richard whose emails were such a support.
Alison, Dan and M, whose texts were so kind.
I will never forget.

One for my baby and one for the road.
Co-op Chablis for my boy.


My eyes are so fat from crying I can't wear my spex and everything has a blurred, watery quality.
The Chablis adds something totally different!

My Boy

My beautiful boy, who is ten today, has to be put down.
He is just too weak for surgery and I can't bear to see him suffer.
I'm in fucking bits and can't stop crying.
Fucking animals.

Chilli Sunday

Today 'The Mob' had a road trip to Chichester for the Chilli festival.
The Mansions now has a half share in a Dorset Naga Chilli plant with Mr & Mrs Crisp-e.
If I'm honest I am frightened by what we could end up doing to ourselves, as Crisp-e comes up with outrageous dares to do with them.
(Kev, we will make you some chilli oil from them!)
I tried some of this stuff and was almost reduced to tears.
My tongue felt like it had been skinned, I struggled for breath and I'm sure my lips swelled.
Completely brutal heat.
Crisp-e, having gone for the hotter choice, was laid very low and had to search out a yogurt based drink!

Atomic Cat

It doesn't matter how many times I see this picture, or others like it, I get goosebumps.
One, because it is just such an awesome sight; and two, I can't believe we actually did it.

I went to the Church discussion about the new Papal Encyclical.
Fuck... Me...
I can't go into it because I'm horrifically stoned and quite calm but this should give you some idea.
Older woman... "I was at a meeting this week where we were voting whether there should be a safe house for Prostitutes. I voted against it because people shouldn't just be sleeping with whoever they like."
My jaw dropped and I did that thing where you look round to see if someone else is mirroring your face.
Everyone was sagely nodding except the priest, who was looking straight at me.
I blinked a few times and the colour drained from his face. My mouth had gone dry.
I couldn't let it go.
"So, let me get this right, you voted against a safe place for abused and exploited women to go because you think they are having sex out of choice? Because they enjoy the act?"
Three people started talking at once, changing the subject.
I looked at the priest and shook my head.
Now I have their measure, I'll definitely be going back.

Kenny is back from the vets.
He has had a liver biopsy and all sorts of tests.
His Gall Bladder is banjaxed but they don't like to operate because of piss poor survival rates.
The biopsy results will be in on Monday.
At the moment he is extremely bald and very, very cross.
He is also totally unaware of what a litter tray is for and is curled up asleep in it.
Prick.


He is still looking very yellow. Poor, Baldy boy.

Vets And Volleys

Kenny is in the hospital in Winchester for a few days.
The quote for the treatment is between £1,430 and £2,540.
As my Dad would say, ‘My ring dropped so low you could have cut twelve washers off of it’.
Which, if you think like me, is a week in the fucking Maldives!
There was talk of him being fed through tubes in his throat, neck and stomach.
MRI scans and ultra sounds.
At no point was I given the opportunity to scream,
“He’s a fucking cat!”
The Dignitas option was never even mentioned.
Not that I want him dead but he’s an outdoors cat.
Him having to spend the rest of his life indoors being fed through a tube does not meet my idea of ‘quality of life’ for him.
My chant of, ‘Thank fuck he’s insured, thank fuck he’s insured, thank fuck he’s insured…’ has taken on an almost Gregorian quality through its repetition.

I did have an absolutely sublime Paolo di Canio moment while we were waiting though.
As I was crouched down trying to comfort Ken, a wasp appeared and tried to get in with him.
I jumped up and away, while at the same time kicking out at the wasp.
Not only did I catch it with one of the sweetest volleys ever, it fell straight out of the air stone frigging dead.
I stamped on it for good measure.
You can't be too careful with a pissed off wasp.
The receptionist sat staring at me, shocked and opened mouthed.
“Did you see that!? I kicked that fecker straight out of the air! I totally OWNED that wasp!”
I am not good with facial expressions but I’m convinced the little voice in her head was shouting,
‘Security!’
She got that smile people have when they are urgently trying to call someone's name through their back teeth.
If that makes sense?

The seafront was gorgeous this afternoon. The sun brought out all sorts.
I even got wolf whistled by a couple of baby dykes, which was a bit freaky.
They'd obviously been to Pride in Brighton over the weekend and had come back all emboldened and proud.
Bless them.

Swine Flu Sunday

Today I went to The Swine Flu Mass.
This involved no wine and not having to touch anyone during the sign of peace.
Bliss.
Mass Nutter was in a bad way this morning, really slapping himself about and shouting out.
The homily pissed me off because it was complete bollocks.
Going on about graven images as we are sat surrounded by the fuckers!
Simony? For fuck’s sake! Did I wake up in 1357?
When the collection came round, I refused to put in citing that very ‘sin’.
There is a meeting on Wednesday to discuss the new Papal Encyclical, I might go along.
Just for mischief.

Feeling a bit like this today.
I chose this version because I was there and Sinead was beautiful!

Specialist Vet with the cat tomorrow.
Let's see how fucking poor he can make me.