Slapping

People who need slapping up side the head.

Anyone who calls their house Casa Mia, Dunroamin or a combination of their names such as Kenpat.
People who pay £500 for a ticket to hear Barbra Streisand wail, not only do they need their head slapping they need it looked at!
People who carry dogs in bags or ‘dress’ them up.
People who wear sandals and socks.
Tossers who name their children after whole football teams.
Victoria Beckham, in fact she can have one either side of her head!
Anyone who doesn’t pick up their dog’s crap.
Women who wear ballet pumps with anything other than a fucking tutu.

Does anybody else think it is a bad idea to piss off Russia?
Although, the statement from them that, ‘4 British diplomats have been declared Persona Non Grata’ made me chuckle.
It’s been ages since I’ve heard that term.

Six members of the Cabinet have ‘fessed up to smoking dope in their past.
So fucking what?
Why was this the lead item on the national news is beyond me.
Especially when the BBC have been found to be lying, cheating, robbing bastards.

Today is M’s birthday!
Happy Birthday Mate!

Emperors And Gripes

On Sunday the Emperor Dragonfly in M’s pond ‘hatched’.
It was amazing to see!
It has been living in there for 2 years as a really ugly, rampantly carnivorous nymph.
Now, it is one of the most gorgeous looking things that fly at this time of year.
In the photo it doesn't have it's vivid blue colour yet but it was only an hour or so old!
I saw two flying down by the river this afternoon and like to hope that one of them was ours!


A story in the Daily Nazi made me chuckle today. A bloke near Brighton discovers that he and one other neighbour are paying Council Tax at a higher rate than all the other neighbours. Band E while the others are band D.
Bugger that for a game of soldiers thinks this guy and complains at the unfairness of it. The council say, 'Ooh, you're right' and promptly puts UP the tax of all his neighbours!
I'm sure they fucking love him for that!
Another news item that caught my eye was about the funeral of a 55 stone woman. Her family were up in arms because they were charged for two burial plots.
Well, yeah!
She didn't fit in a normal sized hole for fuck's sake!

A couple of things I'm sick of hearing about.
The price of the new 'Harry Potter' book. It should be £17.99 but it can be had for £8.99 on Amazon.
Go to the library, it's fuck all!
It doesn't help that the latest film has just been released either.
I will admit that I've read the books but thank fuck this is the last one.
The other thing getting on my tits is Victoria Beckham.
I find myself screaming, 'So Fucking What?' at the TV.
The Septics are welcome to her and, frankly, fucking deserve the vacuous, vapid tart.

Jazz It Up

The Jazz Festival was absolutely spot on!
We caught the end of one band that were a mixture of jazz and blues.
Then settled into another venue to see a Canadian woman called Katja Gorrie.
She was extraordinarily skinny and looked frighteningly like Celine Dion with a blonde ‘Amy Winehouse’ bouffant.
We managed to cause offence AND get Shh-ed in the Conservative Club.
Some witch-y old tart called Julie Felix was actually singing Vietnam protest songs.
Fucking Vietnam! Get with the program woman!
Apparently, she opened for Bob Dylan at the Isle of Wight festival and if this was anything to go by, was still on the Acid trip.
I think it might be pertinent to just mention what Marlborough is like.
It’s fucking posh!
There are a lot of middle aged men in salmon coloured trousers, checked sports jackets and Sebago deck shoes.
These blokes also liked to play imaginary drums and piano.
Most freaky.
Dressing down for some of them is removing the tie from their usual suit and sticking some trainers on.
It was a nice day so there were a lot of varicose veins on display.

Hungry And Jazz

Housemate Claire and I often discuss who the definitive ‘Dr Who’ is. This usually goes with age.
Whoever was the Doctor when you were a kid is generally your ‘definitive’.
I grew up with Tom Baker as the Doctor and as it happens he was the best!
Then I started thinking about other things that define your childhood and ended up with the question,
‘Where the fuck has Biafra gone?’ In fact where the fuck was it in the first place?
My childhood ‘famine’ place was Ethiopia.
If we left anything on our plates ATM and the Grandmother would bang on about ’Starving Biafrians’.
I thought it was some made up species, like Vulcans or Klingons.
I have since witnessed my sister shouting at her kids about ’Starving Ethiopians’.
I wonder what her kids will be shouting at theirs.
‘You’re not leaving that, there are people starving in France’.
Actually, that’s a little fantasy of mine!

During the lunchtime news I found myself hoping that Victoria Beckham was epileptic.
All those camera flashes, someone should have dropped to the floor break dancing and swallowing their tongue.
If I see HER one more time it might be me.
I think it was the line, ’they arrived amid a carefully managed media frenzy’, that fucked me off.
How does that work then?
How do you have a ’managed frenzy’?

I am in Wiltshire this weekend.
It’s the Marlborough Jazz Festival! A brilliant day spent drinking around different venues in Marlborough town centre, listening to jazz music from around the world.
I’ll gen you all up on Sunday, hopefully with photos.

Cactus And Cleaners

Every now and then I get one of those emails that go around.
Read the questions, delete the ones already there, put yours in and send it on.
One of the questions that always seems to come up is, ‘favourite flower?’
My answer is always ‘the cactus in my bathroom that occasionally flowers’.
It appears to be one of those occasions.
It just sits there for years on end not appearing to be up to much, then all of a sudden,
“TA DA!”
It gets my grin on EVERY time I see it!


I have finished series 2 of ‘Shameless’!
I haven’t laughed as much in ages. I have series 3, 4 and 5 to go as well, because of all that Sky/Virgin bollocks it’s one of those ‘on demand’ deals I get for not going over to Sky.
Well worth losing Bones for!

The bits I recognise from growing up are SO real and extremely well done.
Moving the pissed up Dad’s body out of the way so the rest of the family can enjoy the day, really resonated!
Finding him passed out in the pub.
Finding him battered in the pub.
Finding him unconscious in the street.
Hiding pocket money, birthday money any money really.
Hiding from debt collectors.
Fights with the neighbours, who hated him!
Him disappearing for days at a time playing cards
BUT
Christ, did we laugh!
He said the funniest things.
He never hit us.
We were hugged and told we were loved.
We had the loudest parties, with raucous singing.
And of course, as he often slurred at us,
He’d die for ‘every fucking, pain in the arse, bastard one of us‘.
Bless him!
I loved going to my Dad’s, got me away from the Rapist and the Nutter.
At my Dad’s I wasn’t ‘Weird’ or ‘Hyperactive’, I just fitted in.
“There’s nothing wrong with you Babe, you’re just one of us! Your Mother’s lot can’t cope with that! It’s like sheep trying to raise a wolf!”

Mrs Next Door is now noticeably pregnant and she’s got a cleaner,
‘Just ‘til the baby comes’.
All well and good.
I’ve seen the cleaner three times now and each time she is cleaning the outside of the kitchen windows.
In four years of neighbour-ness I have NEVER seen Mrs Next Door clean the windows.
Ever.
Being my Father’s daughter I can immediately see the problem with this scenario and hear his voice clearly,
“Easy Babe!
You’re going to have to stop her doing that. Himself* will notice and YOU’LL have to do it when he stops the cleaner.
Are you fucking mental? Making work for yourself.”


*In Dad’s head that would be the ‘lazy, useless twat that has got himself tucked up with my girl. She’s TOO fucking good for him. C**T!’
Reverse the gender and it works the same for my brother.

Bitches And Itches

Sassy has done me proud!
While out East on the ‘Fear and Loathing with The Business School’ trip, she has managed to get hold of a sooper dooper dock/speaker affair for John the ipod.
I knew I’d be on a winner, Sassy is an A1 shopper and failing that will find someone who is.
Her cats, on the other hand, are bitches.
One or both has gone Bulimic on me.
Fucking binge eating then puking in protest at having ME feed them.
Fuckers.
Avoided the horror of standing in it, unlike last time.
All under control though Sassy. By the way, I’ve nicked the butter out of your fridge.
Was mid food prep when I realised we had none!

All adverts that begin with the question,
“Itching?”
Then go on to try and sell you a product with a name that is vaguely genital, vaguely medical, should be fucking banned.
I hate them.
BATHE, you dirty, skanky bitches.
Jeez!
Smearing cream on your festering Minge is not going to help.
Other than to provide a perfect growing medium for all manner of assorted nastiness.
Soap and water does the trick. If not, go to the fucking doctor.
The same with any product that needs to be within a metre of your arsehole with an ‘applicator’.
We don’t need to know.
These are not impulse buys. This is specialist shit.
Advertising is supposed to make us WANT stuff we don’t NEED.
I really don’t NEED an itchy ring and I certainly don’t WANT a fanny that requires treatment.

Trash Tree

I’m glad I left the house today.
There is a park at the bottom of the road and someone has started a Trash Tree!
My sister started a Shoe Tree at one of her many addresses and somebody did a Jumble Tree at another.
It only takes one pair of fucked up trainers or a jumper and others will join it, stealthily but relentlessly.
As you can see, this is going to be a Kitchen Appliance Tree.
It could get exciting, but I fear they are a little too far up their own arses round here to get in on the fun.
There are plenty of students though and this should be right up their street.
In certain areas of the city there would be a fridge and a microwave by morning.

Sassy's Grils

Having a mooch through The Sunday Nazi I saw the headline,
‘The Secret Miss England Kept From Her Rivals’.
I was mentally rubbing my hands together and started thinking about what would be a “shock” at one of these events.
‘I bet it’s a cock!’ I thought.
It had to be.
Talk about an anti-climax.
She was deaf I one ear.
One fucking ear!?
Most disappointing.
She could have said she had three nipples, dreadlocked pubes or extra toes, something interesting.
Mutt and Jeff in one ear is pretty piss poor as far as freak status goes.
For me, anyway.

Sassy is away in the East and true to form, she pissed her cats off before leaving them in my care.
She does it so they are all bitter and twisted with ME but love HER to bits when she returns.
It’s sick.
Last time it was the feline horror that is Frontline flea treatment, this time she had their claws trimmed.
At the vet.
A brace of fucked off, middle aged, female cats.
Oh Joy!
The Sassy one insists that her ‘Grils’ are lovely.
The same as parents of monster children do.
(“Oh, He looks like an Angel when he is asleep”
Yeah? Fucking more so after you lift the pillow from his face.)
I have yet to see any evidence of this and it has been a number of years.
The ‘Nice One’ bit me in excitement as I was trying to feed it!
Purred and rubbed, purred and rubbed, then teeth in the leg!
Human Scream of,
“FUCKER!”
Quick reminder to self that it’s not my cat and I CAN’T kill it.
Purr and Rub, Purr and Rub.
If she were a human female, she’s the bitch who would scratch your back knowing it would drop you in the shit with the ‘other half’!
This, it has been pointed out, could be ‘cat sex’ and thinking back, I’ve had some humans as mental as that.
It’s Karma.
The bitterness of all my one night stands and those I never called back, live in Sassy’s Cats.
Don’t fuck with the ‘power’ people, it will find a way to bite you in the arse, subtly, and through your bestest mates.

Seven

Today is the 7th of the 7th 07.
Seven is seen by many traditions as a special or magical number.
So today I’ve been thinking about 7’s and here’s everything that I can come up with, off the top of my stoned head.
I’m sure there will be loads if I can be arsed to check.

G-d rested on the seventh day.
7 is neutral pH and the atomic number of Nitrogen.
Seven Hills of Rome.
7 Dwarves.
Seven Wonders of the World.
7 Deadly Sins.
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!
7 Sacraments in the Catholic Church.
Seven notes in the Western musical scale.
The Magnificent Seven.
7 sides of a fifty pence coin.
Seven Heavens in Islamic tradition.
7 days in a week.
Seven ages of man.
7 colours in the rainbow.
Seven’s, is the name of a card game the Grandfather taught us.
The Secret Seven books by Enid Blyton.
Seven Samurai by Akira Kurosawa.
7-Eleven.
Seven of Nine. Mmmmm..
7 seas.
Seven Sisters. Stars and the tube station.
7 Chakras.
Seven branches on a Menorah.
7 bones in your neck.
Seven Virtues.
There is no M7 motorway in England.

Friday Night, Saturday Morning

I have been out for a drink with the ‘Girls’.
They all still work at Mayhem or are just about to leave.
One I’ve shagged, one I’ve snogged and one I know wears a padded bra, is a shit kisser and definitely doesn‘t have a tattoo where she says she does.
The other three I haven’t touched!
It could have been awkward but it wasn’t.
Amazingly.
It’s also the first time I’ve been out since the smoking ban.
Pubs smell funny but the gardens smell normal.
Weird.
The ban also pushes pissed up loonies into the ‘mainstream’ of Friday night, Albert Road life.
Whereas they used to be contained inside a pub and didn‘t bother anyone, now they are out, talking shit to ‘passers by’.
I walked past one bloke, staggering around his own leg, who said,
“There are only two things that love you in this world. Your Mum and Your Dog. Remember that”.
It was completely random but I told him I would.

Women’s fashion seems to have taken a turn for the worse.
Most girls are either, wearing stuff that an Aunt had as wall paper during the power cuts, or look like photos of ATM during the 70’s.
Both, fucking hideous.
Friday night Men’s fashion hasn’t changed.
There is the ‘builder and plasterer’ chic.
Blokes in Hi-Vis jackets who have been in the pub since 2 that afternoon and there are ‘The Lads’.
The Lads have on good clothes, gelled hair and are highly fragrant.
Something with one name for both, clobber and aftershave.
By the end of the night one of them and one of those covered in dust and rubble will be fighting.
Some blonde girl, with dark roots, will be shouting,
“Leave it *Wayne/Tyrone/Lloyd/Kev/Steve”
(*delete as appropriate)

There are some big birds out there too.
Large girls in crop tops, who say such delightful things as,
“Are you looking at my fuckin’ stretch marks?”
Heaven forefend.
The top made of Cargo netting had drawn my eye long before that, but thanks for pointing out the fake tanned “Gunt“.
I might have missed it otherwise.
Almost put me off my vodka and pushed me in an Oedipal direction, regarding my eyesight.
I came home instead.
I needed a slash and I wasn’t using the toilets there, I didn’t want an opportunity to be caught alone with any of the aforementioned ‘snog-ee‘s‘!

Now, I’m awake. The booze and chemical cosh has not worked.
Time for Nina.
I’ve had 200 micrograms of Temgesic, 20mg of Temazepam and two bottles of wine.
Nothing!

Jazzed

George Melly is dead. Another great character has gone.
I can remember seeing him on TV as a kid. I fell in love with his hats first, then his amazingly outrageous suits and open bisexuality.
My Grandfather wasn’t keen on Jazz and hardly any was played in the house.
He certainly wasn’t too keen on George; “Bloody Shirtlifter!” seemed to be his considered opinion.
The Grandfather’s thoughts on jazz were not much better,
‘5 people on a stage all playing a different tune. It’s bloody noise, NOISE!”
Something about the discordant element of it has always appealed to me.
Especially as it appeared to get on his tits SO much! He never stopped me listening to it though. He would stomp around, grimacing every now and then and saying, ‘Jesus’, through gritted teeth.

George was diagnosed with dementia and then lung cancer. He refused treatment for the cancer and said that, as a Surrealist he found dementia ‘entertaining and appropriate’.
What a brilliant attitude to have.
He’s dead at 80.
A man who lived the width of his life as well as the length of it.
I hope Bessie Smith is singing at the gates, if and when he arrives.
Thanks George.
Thanks for the Bessie Smith in my collection and my array of hats.

Yesterday I watched the whole of the first series of ‘Shameless’.
Today I’m getting stuck into series two.
Absolutely cracking show! I recognise a little bit too much of my Dad though.
Right.
Scatter!

Conversations

The fear of running out of cigarettes at some unholy hour in the morning drove me out of the house this evening.
Every time I go out, I become more aware of why I should stay indoors.
In the Indian shop I pointed at the three shitty bottles of wine that were on offer and asked if there was anything else.
“We don’t have” he said.
“You don’t have what?”
“Wine! No Wine”
I gestured to the rows and rows of it in front of me and told him
I begged to differ!
“No Wine!”
I then went all ‘English’ and started shouting,
“Offer? Wine offer?” OFF -ER?”
“No wine!” he insisted.
I gave up and went to Threshers.

“I want 2 for a Tenner” I told the foetus behind the counter.
“We’re doing buy 2 get one free” he smiled.
“I want 2 for a Tenner”
“Um.. What you’ll have to do is check the prices for £4.99 bottles….”
I stopped him.
“That is Maths. I don’t do Maths. I want two white and one red, do your stuff”.
I went and waited at the counter while he walked the shop. He didn’t know what to do so he chose my wine and made sure I got three for a Tenner!
When I asked for the king sized rizlas he looked at me and smiled with understanding.
“It was too hectic mate!” I said
“S’ok” he said, “We’re sent on courses”.

All the way home I was wondering how that one comes through from head office.

Dear Colleagues,

There are still places left on next months training course,
“The Stoned and Bewildered - How to choose for them and get them out before they a) Whitey or b) Become incontinent”.

I can imagine the clamour to get on that one!

I bumped into Sassy on the way back home.
“Fucking hell of a day! Fucking Work! I’m going to get myself a curry!”
There’s no real reply to that except,
“Nice one”.
I also warned her away from the Indian shop.

Claire had her second lot of chemo today. She saw the consultant yesterday and it seems to be doing its job because the tumour is shrinking.
Excellent news!
Six more to go.

Perchance To Dream

Sleep is elusive.
I’m just on the brink then, BAM! Awakeness.
I thought listening to Vivaldi’s ‘Gloria’ would be soothing. The tune, not his girlfriend. Although…
Is it buggery! Somehow it led to Bells Whisky, (all that is in the house) and perfect lip-synching with the ipod.
I have a sickness, According to ATM, that is.
So, there is no medical basis to her diagnoses, Or to her assertion that I am the spawn of Satan.
At 14, if you reply, “Well, you fucked him Mother” you get a punch in the mouth!
A great one for a reasoned argument is ATM.
I love to lie on the floor, in the dark with headphones on, listening to music.
That is my illness!

That’s what I’ve been doing for the two and a half hours.
Dario G’s, Carnaval Du Paris, has got to be one of THE most cheerful pieces of music ever! I’ve bounced around to that and ‘P.I.M.P,’ fucking love that tune!
I’m slowing down with Nina Simone; ‘Let It Be Me’ has had a couple of goes.
Anything by Nina is wicked for chilling out to.
There is something weird about having headphones on in the dark.
One: If feels like the ground is moving under you and
Two: You hear whispers and can easily convince yourself someone has broken in.
I’ve just put Tamia’s ‘Stranger in my House’ on just to really freak myself out!
That’s it, Bells makes me paranoid. Knocking that on the head!
Off for a dance about.

Dreams, Lies And Dies

The attendance at my ‘Mopping The Fucking Floor’ inset was piss poor.
‘Fuck You‘, seemed to be the general consensus, so I knew when I was beat and left it alone.

Sue Barker’s dream has sort of come true.
Sue, Martina at a desk and who was on the end. Yep, Billie Jean!
Gave us all a chuckle at Sleepy Mansions.
This also means that it’s pissing down in London. They’ve even had fucking Hail, and its heading this way.

I’m a bit worried about this ‘renewed’ Terrorist threat.
Something is not quite sitting right with me.
Nothing I can put my finger on, a bit like being in the Protestant church on Sunday.
It all seems a tad too convenient.
New ’Scottish’ PM.
Scottish police ask for special powers of arrest.
And get them.
Mmm.. Thought that shit went through parliament first?
Was debated, punted up to the Lords, debated there, back down.
No?
I wonder how many Black and Asian doctors have cancelled their holidays abroad in the last few days.
There are going to be some last minute captures out there for some people.
Sorry. I only did a history degree. Doesn’t prepare one for very much.
Marx and unemployment, basically.
It may also have something to do with surfing into the film, V For Vendetta last night.

Saw Cousin Marcus today.
His Grandfather died this morning and he’s pretty cut up.
He had been sat with him, day and night, for days. M went home for a shower and he died.
I managed to convince him that his Grandad had waited until he’d gone and he left a little bit calmer.
Marcus, like me, was brought up with, and by, his Mum’s parents. He was very close to his Grandad.
It brought up all my ‘Grandfather’ feelings and we had a cuddle and a cry.
Then we had a smoke.
Sorted.

Protest And Party

Housemates. I will be running a Bucket and Mop training session tomorrow evening.
Attendance IS compulsory.
You will learn the art of blending various dribbles of ‘Flash’ products with ‘own brand’ products.
Sponsored by the Waitrose and Asda BOGOF offers.
Mop wringing with Vileda and Weider.
You know how to put the kettle on so we can dispense with the ‘Hot Water’ part of the training.
But, this can be added on request.
I will expect you in the kitchen 7.30pm, sharp. No excuses.
Thank you.

Claire shaved her head this evening. Grade one all over.
Her hair has started coming out in clumps so she has made the decision to get rid of the lot.
Her choice. Not the chemo’s.
Her head is very cue ball like at the moment. It’ll blend in if we ever have any sun this ’summer’!
She has accumulated a vast array of hats and scarves and I think I may have a trip down to the joke shop tomorrow for a mega wig.

Sassy has found her 'home entertaining' mojo!
Another party is in the offing.
Whoo Hoo!
She suggested an (Ironic) Diana theme but it has morphed into a ‘Come As A Royal’ party.
Much planning is occurring in Sleepy Mansions. We have a Mary, Queen of Scots, a Catherine the Great and a Marie Antoinette so far.
I’m seeing Robbie as the Tsar!
I'm just trying to get my face right!
Sassy and I have both expressed a desire to see Mrs Crisp-e as ‘Queeny’ from Blackadder!
Crisp-e, you have SO got to make this happen for us!

Shouting Prods

THIS WHOLE POST HAS BEEN REMOVED AFTER A SOLICITORS LETTER.

ACCORDING TO MY LEGAL REPRESENTATIVE (On whom I spent NO money!), I DID NOTHING WRONG BUT PEOPLE POSTING DID.

IT APPEARS YOUR POSTS HIT A NERVE!

PERHAPS THE PARTY INVOLVED WILL THINK ABOUT THE IMPACT OF HIS BEHAVIOUR IN FUTURE.

From the letter it would appear that the quoting of Shariah Law is a worry.

I have to admit to being amused beyond measure by all of this!
I love the interwebs!

Wimbledon, Threesome And Rain

Best conversation exchange of the day.
Sue Barker is sat with Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe.
Wimbledon is rained off so we have been watching a documentary about Billie Jean King.
It finishes and we are back in the studio.
Sue says a little bit about how amazing it is to have them both there. Past champions and rivals, all that bollocks.
Then they all start going on about how wonderful Billie Jean is, the guys ask why she isn’t there with them and Sue Barker says,

“Ooh, wouldn’t that be wonderful? A threesome with Billie Jean on the end”.

Easy Sue! Easy!
I roared with laughter and kept going until I was coughing.
I now sound like Bonnie Tyler.
That was worth every penny of the licence fee!
Connors and McEnroe are brilliant. They bring a ‘fun’ element to stuffy Wimbledon.
It’s like they don’t quite get it.
Very similar is the character in the film Best In Show, who commentates on a ‘Crufts’-like event as if it’s an NFL game.
Brilliant! Wimbledon is funny!

Today really feels like a Sunday.
It’s been SO gloomy all day.
Constant, pissing rain. Cold greyness.
A totally monochrome day.
Even the fucking clips from Wimbledon were in black and white and too small for the TV screen.
Anything earlier than the 1990’s had huge black borders and short shorts.

Shrimp, Booze And Brats

People, I’m in all sorts of trouble.
Mr and Mrs Next Door invited the inhabitants of Sleepy Mansions round for food and booze.
The Chinese relatives cooked up what can only be described as a feast.
The smells were amazing and we got to taste proper Chinese fare.
As some of you are aware I have a love/hate relationship with seafood.
I love it, it hates me.
I know if I eat it I will be violently ill within a few hours but it’s a short lived illness and I’m prepared to go through it.
Last night I had barbequed prawns and squid and it was gorgeous.
The Chinese relatives were brilliant. They cooked, topped up glasses and ran around being the perfect hosts.
I puked my guts up last night and this morning my bowels are in a somewhat delicate state.

We met new people and even met the next door but one neighbour. Through her we were introduced to her sister in law. She is married to the brother of her Dutch husband.
I listened to her for a bit and said,
“You don’t sound Dutch”.
“Oh, I’m not”, she replied “I’m Canadian. I’m from Vancouver”.
“Fuck Off!” I said “One of my bestest mates is in Vancouver! In Richmond!”
“Fuck Off!” she said “I grew up in Richmond!”
It’s a village, people, a fucking village.

At this gathering there was a little boy of about six.
Fucking monster more like.
He came steaming out into the garden screaming and shouting like something possessed.
He could not keep still.
For some reason kids like this home in on me and this one was no different. (Maybe they recognise a kindred spirit!)
I tried to, politely; inform him that I didn’t appreciate being whacked repeatedly with his wind up torch but to no avail.
Swapping seats with someone made no difference; he was determined to get to me.
His Mother, I might just add, was nowhere to be seen and didn’t once try and control her brat.
When I pointed this out to Mr Next Door he leant close and quietly said,
“She has lost ALL her friends because of that fucking kid”.
I was not at all surprised. Little shit.
He hit me again and my patience had been used up.
“Touch me again you little shit and I’ll punch you in the back of the head” I whispered to him.
That’s when I knew he wasn’t right.
Other kids I have had occasion to use this method with stay the fuck away from me!
Not this one.
He stood there, grinning, as if I had given him directions to the seafront in Arapahoe.
I got him to come and sit (I sat, he just jumped up and down like Tigger!) with me and taught him how to play Paper, Scissors, Stone.
The rest of the guests looked relieved that someone was doing something with him.

When he had to go he was really sweet and I got a kiss on the cheek.
His Mother didn’t even say ‘thank you’ for doing her fucking JOB.
“Come on”, she said, “Or you will be too tired for tennis tomorrow.”
A hand on my elbow stopped me from losing it and shouting,
“Tennis? Fucking Tennis? Spend some time with your kid and stop punting him on to other people! You fucking waste of organs!”

Aaaaand Rest.

Kosher-Roo

People, I’m in a bit of a panic.
Is Kangaroo Kosher?
I’ve had THE most gorgeous meal this evening in a pub called The French Horn.
It has recently been taken over by an Australian couple and they have ‘Roo as well as Crocodile Tail on the menu.
The lack of scales and fins put the Croc immediately into the Trief area of the menu, but Kangaroo?
Where does this fit?
It chews the cud but has the wrong feet.
What an animal eats and the shape of its feet are important in dietary law.
It was fucking lovely though! One of the most tender, tastiest pieces of meat I’ve eaten in a long time.
Totally yummers.
Trouble is, I didn’t even think of it’s Kasrut status until I was more than halfway through it.
Even then, it was too tasty to stop!

Ah, fuck it! I’m going straight to hell anyway.

Wilts And Wimbledon

I have been out and about in the fields of Wiltshire. The photo shows a ‘Jessie Eye’ view!
It has been lovely and sunny which seems to have brought out loads of butterflies, swallows and an Emperor Dragonfly.
As we walked up the lane we were warned that at least two dogs have been bitten by snakes recently.
“You fucking what?!” I managed to stop myself from saying out loud.
Crisp-e and I both choose holiday destinations by looking up the danger that is posed to us by the local wildlife.
Especially the small stuff.
If there are insects that can potentially kill us, we won’t go there.
Now I am faced with dangerous bitey fuckers in my own country!
Not fucking funny.

I’ve been watching a bit more of Wimbledon than I usually do.
Is it me, or are the women players getting better looking?
There are the ever present ‘Helga Heifers’ but on the whole they seem to be prettier.
Unfortunately, most are blonde and as many of you know, I don’t do blondes.
There is a ‘but’.
Maria Sharapova.
Not for the reasons you are all thinking, but out of curiosity.
If she sounds like that playing tennis, what the fuck must she sound like in bed?!
You’d need those thighs around your head to save your eardrums!
I want Mauresmo to win with Martina and Billie Jean commentating. There would be a symmetry to that.
Unsurprisingly, Henman is out. Why do people even bother to go along and cheer for him?
Talk about the triumph of hope over experience.

Back to Pompey tomorrow.
Back to rain.

The Damned

http://www.pinknews.co.uk/news/articles/2005-4742.html
What fucking century are we living in?

It gets worse.
http://www.ukgaynews.org.uk/Archive/07/June/2602.htm

When does it start mattering?
When people who read a fucking made up book start spouting their shit about someone you give a crap about?
Maybe when blue eyed people are persecuted, beaten and killed for something they have no choice about?
Do you think any gay person chooses it?
Who would choose a half life, where you can’t really be honest to everyone about yourself?
Who would choose to have complete strangers screaming that you are going to hell?
Or that you were born with ‘an inherent moral evil’?
Who would CHOOSE that?

Remember, what’s in ‘The Bible’ was chosen by a bunch of blokes during the 8th/9th century. They chose the Gospels that suited them and strengthened their positions.
Basically the books that made no mention of the part women played in Christ’s ministry and made any woman he came into contact with a slag.
Except his mother, of course. But they got round that one didn’t they?
A virgin?
My, damned to hell lesbian, arse!

How many of you have said, “Oh, I have a gay friend, they are great laugh, I have no problem with it.”?
But how many of you would do the “No, I’m Spartacus” bit if they were getting seven shades of shit kicked out of them?
In your heads you’d like to think you would.
The reality is a lot different.

Ah, fuck it. I can’t be bothered. Nothing will change and I'll just wind myself up.

Sporrans, Swamps And Sport

The Scottish Sporran has fallen foul of the mental-ness that is European legislation.
A permit will be needed to wear one. They are traditionally made out of Otter or Wildcat fur and they are endangered species.
Some are made out of Badger and more scarily Hedgehog!
Jeez!
Not a mention of the fucking knives that are worn down the sock. Given that at least three teenagers have been stabbed to death in the last few days, it’s a bit fucking rich!

It has rained incessantly for the last 24 hours.
Glastonbury was a complete mud bath.
It always amazes me that people roll around in the stuff. I can never get it out of my head that, until a few weeks ago, cows were shitting and pissing in that field.
E.coli anyone?
Eating there would fill me with horror too.

“What can I get you?”
“Mmmm, I think I’ll have the Botulism Burger with a side order of Salmonella please.”
“There you go, that’ll be £12.50”.

Fuck that for a fun festival experience.
I have camped at Ullswater, in The Lake District, where it rained for three days solid.
I dug a trench around the tent with a dessert spoon to prevent the lot being washed away.
This just caused a torrent to rush through the tent in front. The occupants got a bit bitter and twisted, like I gave a shit.
They should have sorted out their own moat.

Wimbledon started today, so that’s rain guaranteed for the next fortnight.
It also guarantees that my housemates will hear the shout of,
“Married yet Virginia?”
Every time I hear her dulcet tones commentating!

In Memoriam

Last night I was thinking about my Aunty Rosie.
She was a ‘married in’ Aunt and not ‘the full shilling’ as my Grandfather used to say.
His own daughter is way more mental but as I have mentioned before, as an ’Aunt of the blood’ she was ‘highly strung’.
My Uncle had left her but never divorced her. I think it was useful to him when he wanted to fend off various girlfriends and their thoughts of marriage.
He supported her though. Paid the mortgage, paid for her car (including petrol), paid for his kids. She wanted for nothing like that but she only wanted him and never got anyone else.

Rosie was used as an unpaid babysitter for my sister and I during the summer holidays.
We were close in age to her kids and we all got on well. Paul was the brother I wanted and Anna was the sister mine wanted!
She took us on a day trip to France once and allowed my 12yr old cousin, Paul, to drive us all to the ferry port!
We also drank and smoked ourselves absolutely silly.
We used to convince her to drive us to Rowland’s Castle, where there was a hump back bridge.
Paul would push and hold her leg down on the accelerator and we would hit the top of it doing about 60mph!
One time the car bounced three or four times, we twatted our heads off the roof and totally fucked the axle!
Renault 12’s were not built for such abuse.
But laugh? Fuck me did we laugh!
We would spend our summers on the beach at Hayling Island with her. Drinking pop and eating ’sand’ sandwiches.

I was in Portugal when she died, too soon and too young. I missed her funeral.
She is buried a few rows away from my Grandfather and when I visit him I visit her.
I just wanted her remembered ’in words’- out there for the world to see.

Auntie Rosie, you were top drawer and I will never forget you.

Frogs And Fascists

I’m in Wiltshire for M’s first exhibition in a local Gallery. It was a great, pissed up, night and was a real success.
Have a look at http://www.madeinwiltshire.org.uk/.
When she eventually takes the disc in you will be able to see her photos on the website.

The weather today has alternated between monsoon and sunshine with it being unbearably muggy in between.
Most of the tadpoles in the pond have transformed into froglets and have moved out.
It’s horrible walking around trying not to stand on them or even worse, THINKING you are standing on them.


This has pissed me right off today.
Fuck off.
Where in the bible does it say to be a Christian you have to wear a silver ring?
Surely, it says quite the opposite. Shouldn’t she have given the money to the poor?
Why does she need to wear a ring to tell her to keep her knees together?
I saw her on the news and she seemed to be wearing clothes of more than one fabric, that’s a No No (Lev 19:19). I hope she attends a church that has no statues or Graven Images as they are known in the 10 commandments. She better be watching what she eats as well. A pork chop or a prawn will condemn her to hell before she gets a chance to fuck herself silly.
I could go on and on.
Funny how these ‘Christians’ only want to refer to the old testament when they want to Gay Bash.

Bugs, Storms And Spiders

Today has been sunny, muggy and I’ve been reading in the garden.
I was doing a mooch for snails among the fruit trees and saw this bad boy.
I have never seen one like this before. There are loads of different types out there.

The promised rain didn’t start spitting until about six this evening. Seagulls had been heading inland since about 4.30 so I’ve been out in the garden and battened down the hatches.
The thunder is grumbling and rolling in from the Solent and it’s going to be a bad one.
Pompey is quite well protected by the Isle of Wight to the south and Portsdown Hill to the north.
If a storm does come in though, it can’t ‘get out’ and it just bounces around over the Island until it has blown itself out.

As I was sat in my chair typing this, I felt something tickle my arm.
I moved it and a fucking great big black house spider was on me. The laptop was slung to the floor, I jumped up and the bastard shot under my chair.
I don’t mind spiders.
That is, ‘I don’t mind them existing’ but I don’t want to touch them and I certainly don’t want them running all over me.
That kind of shit will make me a bit stamp happy.
I thought I could cope knowing it was under there but I couldn’t.
Moving the chair I accidentally ran the fucker over and killed it.
Now I want to know, how do these things have babies? Are there eggs somewhere and how close to my chair are they likely to be?

Bruises, Tribes And Books

This is the attractive shade of purple my knee is today!
It also shows how shite at leg shaving I am but I held my hands up to that a long time ago.
Knees are fecking awkward shaped things to be messing about with, especially with something sharp.
From the look of it, I could also do with some sun before I get fucking Rickets.

A stroke of channel hopping luck meant that I surfed into one of my favourite episodes of ‘Tribe‘, with Bruce Parry.
A great series that follows Bruce as he totally immerses himself in the life and culture of some of the ‘last tribes’ of the world.
In this episode he spends time with the Sanema people of the Venezuelan Amazon and takes part in their Shamanistic festival.
Basically, his skin is painted and DMT is fired up his nose.
While he is preparing for his experience he comes out with some brilliant lines,
“I haven’t eaten in 24hrs, I’m wearing a second-hand loincloth, I’m covered in red paint and about to take a massive dose of Hallucinogen. Not your usual Thursday.”
Quite, Bruce. Quite.

The day has been gorgeous, although rain and storms of biblical proportions are forecast for tomorrow.
Wellies are going to be a must for Glastonbury, big time!
At 7.15pm I was sat on my apple tree log, with the ipod, a freezing cold bottle of Bud, the warm sun setting behind a horizon of roofs, reading Richard Dawkins’ The G-d Delusion.
Diablo Rojo by Rodrigo y Gabriela was shuffled into the mix and ironically, I’ve never felt more convinced that there WAS a Supreme Being.
I closed my eyes and absorbed the world from my little corner of it.
A moment of pure bliss.

I have finished Bogmail by Patrick McGinley and did The Portable Virgin by Anne Enright in one hit this morning.
Many thanks to Lenten for those.
I will get them logged on www.bookcrossing.com and ‘release’ some and take some to Canada for Schnee to read and release.
Dawkins and Will Self tomorrow.
Fabulous!

Splits And Spits

True to form, last night was a totally debauched affair.
Much, much wine was consumed and we tucked into Sassy’s Tortuga Rum.
Jaysus!
It’s fine until the fresh air gets to you.
As I was staggering up the path to the front door, I put a foot on a slippery leaf and did the splits.
I mean the FULL splits, one leg in front, one behind.
Today I can’t begin to tell you the pain I’m in.
I have strained parts of my groinal area that I’m not entirely sure ARE ’groin’. It’ll be a few days before I’m back on my bike, that‘s for sure!
I had to roll onto my side to get out of the hideous position I was in.
Being pissed out of my brain didn’t ease this.
As I tried to get up I slipped again, smashed my knee and have a painful purple bruise.
Cracking night!
Sassy knocks up an absolutely blinding curry with all the trimmings!

Mrs Next Door has relatives over from Hong Kong.
I think there are about 5 of them.
For such little people they make one hell of a noise moving about.
They seem to stamp everywhere they go in the house, so much so I thought people had broken into mine.
I had Chinese neighbours at my old place and they were exactly the same.
Moved around like a herd of bison.

I watched David Beckham’s last match for Real Madrid this evening. A match Real had to win to take the title and for some reason I wanted Beckham to leave Spain a winner.
They made hard work of it but eventually got the win.
Posh was there with their new best friends, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
What really got on my tits was the need, of all three, to wear sunglasses.
This was an evening match, 9pm kick off, no fucking sun around then even in Spain.
If the lights were so bright they had to protect their eyes, how come the other 80 000 in the stadium didn’t?
Fucking tossers, using up seats that proper fans should have been in.

Tapas And Tunes

This photo shows the reason that Asda online should let me by veg by numbers, NOT by weight.
As you can see Leeks will be playing a huge part in our diet this coming week!


I managed to use quite a bit of it last night.
The BIG little brother and Tashy came round for Tapas-y food. Tashy is a vegetarian so there were only a couple of meat dishes. Nearly all the ingredients we had are considered excellent for those having Chemo as well, which is great.
They also brought their Top 5 cd's with them for me to rip onto the Apple.
This is a new rule at Sleepy Mansions for all who come to eat!
We munched, laughed, drank six bottles of wine and I have 9 new albums.


This is what some of those leeks and potatoes became.
The non posh glass in the foreground is mine. I can't be trusted with the 'crystal' so drink out of, what was once, a Nutella jar!
I almost have a complete set and ironically haven't broken a single fecking one!
It's early days yet and Crisp-e and I haven't got pissed in the garden for a while!


The third dish up is stuffed vine leaves that I make using the Sleepy Mansions vine.
Somehow they taste better because of it.
It doesn't seem to produce nice grapes but I'm determined to eat some part of it, seeing as I have to prune and contain the thing.








This is what it looked like at the end. Minimal left overs for lunch today!
I had my Brother drinking from a Nutella jar by the end and we decided that Poteen would probably taste excellent out of them. We also wondered how much effort there would be involved in setting up a still.
We were onto the Vodka by this point.

Tonight, 'the usual suspects' are all round to Sassy Manor for food and fun.

Lenten.. We will set a place for you.

*f.e.c.... Freaking, Enmity And Chemo

People, I am totally freaking out.
The subject of ‘Heidi’ came up last night.
German girl, hills, goat boys and ‘The Grandfather’, you know the one.
The version I’m talking about is the German one released in 1978.

Katia Polletin played the lead character.
In ‘78, I was 8. I loved Heidi, but with hindsight I realise I had a serious crush on Katia. I knew I wanted to do something with her but I was unsure of what. To me, she was gorgeous.
So, I had a mooch on imdb to show the others the one I meant.
I found her. But no picture, google images supplied that.
Now this is wear the freaking begins.
When I look at pictures of a pretty child, whom I used to fancy rotten, does this make me a FUCKING NONCE!
I DO NOT fancy kids, but I still have the memories of the feelings, the kid I was had.
Fuck, that is a really clumsy sentence and I’m not sure if it makes sense, but I know what I mean.
To make it worse, some fecking ponce in Massachusetts got to my blog by typing, ’Paedophiles in Cobh’ into google search.
WTF!

Katia, never acted again, so there are no pictures of her as an adult! I am sure she is gorgeous.
I need to see pictures of her as an adult.
My sanity depends on it.
So, Katia when you google your name and this comes up, have a heart!
A small passport sized photo will do.

I went with Claire for her first lot of Chemotherapy today.
The appointment was for 9.30am and we were there in good time.
At 10.10am a large, flustered woman, whose trousers were just that bit too short, came and told us there were no drugs for Claire.
The Consultant hadn’t done the prescription.
Fucking Great.
Poor Claire, sat there shitting a brick about the treatment and they tell her it’s going to be twenty minutes longer.
Nice one Dr Caroline Archer, you complete cunt.

We went for a coffee and then, for me to have a smoke, off hospital grounds.
Have to be right off the site. Bollocks.
Back we trundled.
I was getting more and more agitated and sarcastic.
At 11.55am I could contain myself no longer.
I looked at Claire. She knew what was coming, half rolled her eyes and nodded.
Off I went to the desk and asked if there was any FUCKING danger of Claire having a MORNING appointment.
Which for me, was extremely restrained.
If it had been my appointment there would have been constant, far louder swearing and possibly chair kicking.
Actually, I tell a lie.
I wouldn’t be in a NHS hospital, fucking BUPA all the way here!
You can't be TOO Socialist with your health.

12.30pm we were taken through to a suite of rooms with recliner chairs and drip stands.
Claire got a nice corner position and the nurse went through her spiel.
I think on your notes, along with DOB, Bloods etc, should be your level of academic attainment.
Jeez! Talk about being spoken to like an idiot.
When she told Claire she had to take the anti sickness pill after, then see if she felt nauseous, I had to jump in and ask how she would know she felt nauseous, if she had taken a pill to stop that very thing?
I don’t think she liked me.

I went for a wander with ipod ‘John’ and ended up in the Chapel.
The pews were horrible to sit on so I laid down.
I was listening to Elgar’s cello concerto, communing with my G-d. When some Vicar-y type (Black shirt, white collar) slapped my leg and said,
“You can’t do that here”.
I asked him what he was on about.
He told me I ‘Couldn’t just lay there’ and I told him I wasn’t.
He asked me what I WAS doing.
This is how it went.

“I think you’ll find I’m in my Father’s House communicating with him in the way that suits me best.
In fact, I am SO at home here I see this as my ‘bedroom’ (I did the fingers in air thing), so would you kindly fuck off and leave me to it”.
I stuck the headphone back in my ear and he, indeed, fucked off.
Knobber.

2.30pm we got out.
2 fucking 30!
My nicotine levels were so low I was close to a ‘Nicobetes’ hypo.
I lit up in the car park. An amazing social test. At least 6 other people saw me smiled, pulled out their smokes and sparked up!
That’s as near to Revolution as I got today.
It’s a start.

Claire was patient, brave and brilliant and I’m a little fuzzy as to who was there for support…..

*This is the Chemo

Meters, War And Spices

The first face I saw today belonged to the Meter Reader.
A sullen Scotsman who told me what he was here for and that he had a bad back.
It seemed very random at the time but there was method in his madness.
He got me rummaging in the cupboard doing his fucking job for him!
When I stood up, he was leaning against the airing cupboard door, a study in pain.
I gave him one of my Ibuprofen and sent him on his way.
My good deed for the day out of the way early on.
Splendid!

News from the Middle East caught my eye.
I know lots of people, who over the years and various conflicts have thought,
“Fuck it! Build a wall around the lot of them and let the fuckers get on with it”.
It was my Grandfather’s thought on Northern Ireland and a few other places.
Israel had a go at building the wall and everyone was outraged.
Now news from the Gaza Strip is about Arab shooting Arab.
They are getting on with it.

Although, to me, Fatah and Hamas sound like warring factions of a Mediterranean Restaurant’s Starter menu.
I may begin my own Middle Class faction called, The Baba Ganoush or The Falafel Freedom Fighters.
I haven’t decided which will sound more sinister when I do the youtube video in my crocheted balaclava, beheading tofu with a fine Sabatier knife to the soundtrack of ‘All Around My Hat’.

While we are warmongering.
Thatcher has been on the TV today. Falklands Anniversary and all that.
I know she’s had a stroke, but Jesus!
Does it make your voice drop two Octaves? She could sing Bass now!

Who else has a Spice cupboard that is a cross between a Mensa Spatial awareness test, Jenga and a memory game?
Every time I open the bastard door something falls out and hits me in the head or drops on my knuckles.
I get rage-y then and stuff gets thrown around.
Tomorrow everything is coming out of it and rearrangement will commence.

Also, what is the etiquette with Pernod?
Is it Pernod then water or water then Pernod?
See the dilemmas I am presented with during the course of my day!

Hormones, Ponds And Graves

John, my ipod, seems to be having a bit of a crisis.
It’s called ‘John’, after the music god, John Peel.
(All genuflect and hum a few bars of Teenage Kicks.)
This is a sample of the shuffle list from the last couple of days.

* Mornings Eleven - The Magic Numbers
* More Rock ‘n’ Roll - Ruarri Joseph
* I Robot - Save The Robot
* Depeche Mode - Blasphemous Rumours
* Back To Black - Amy Winehouse
* Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd
* Teenagers - My Chemical Romance
* Knights Of Cydonia - Muse
* The Future - Leonard Cohen
* Going To A Town - Rufus Wainwright
* Close to Me (Remix) - The Cure
* The Staunton Lick - Lemon Jelly
* Bang Bang You’re Dead - Dirty Pretty Things
* Robot On Drugs - Save The Robot
* Fly Me To The Moon - Frank Sinatra
* Empire - Kasabian
* Trains To Brazil - Guillemots
* Steal Away - The Furies

See what I mean? The fucker is sentient!
For the most part, I’d say it was a little bit depressed and a bit hormonal.
I wonder if it has synchronised with me?
I’d better not think about that too deeply, not while I’m this wrecked!
Save The Robot would also suggest some MDMA and Cocaine use that ’John’ has kept secret from me.
The last tune convinced me that anyone with a tin whistle, pint of Guiness and a supply of Prozac can write an Irish song.
I missed breakfast this morning and was hungry, I nearly have a fecking Album.

I have ‘planted’ a pond in my garden!
Well, a massive yellow bucket affair from B&Q is now full of water and some bricks.

Just have to wait for creatures to move in now.
The huge old Apple tree trunk that I was going to chop up for logs is now a make shift ‘seat’ and flower bed.

Its' also a place for frogs and newts to mooch about.
Maybe a bog garden if I get some membrane. We’ll see.
Hopefully Crisp-e will sort me out a bunch of Canadian Pondweed and M in Wiltshire will let me have some snails.
I have raided Sassy’s Garden for lumps of white stone to go round the edge. I will have to do another bagful.
For protection.
I found the Tortoise, on his back, at the bottom of the hole this morning and he doesn’t look like he’d be much of a swimmer.

The hole was dug on Sunday and the ‘bucket’ fit perfectly.
If there is anything useful my Dad has taught me, it’s how to dig a hole.
I can actually dig a grave. And have done!
It was one of the tests everyone on his firm had to be able to pass, and as his daughter, I had to be very good indeed.
If you couldn’t dig a grave without the sides collapsing, you didn’t last a week.
Dad’s reasoning being,

“If they can’t be trained to dig a fucking ‘ole, they can’t be trained for fuckin’ much, can they Babe? Get rid of ‘im!”

I have to admit he had a point.
This was back in the day of the Youth Training Scheme (YTS) and Dad could get through two, sometimes three a week!
Jumped up little tossers who thought they were going to be laying bricks their first day.

Shears, Sugar And Shite

I’ve been a bit MIA today.
It’s been nice.
Flitting from thing to thing, starting something and not finishing it until a few hours later.
I’ve been stoned since about 11 this morning and have kept it going, not allowing for any ‘breakthrough straightness’.

I have taught myself how to sharpen garden shears without any life threatening injuries being incurred.
You all know what I can do to myself with Wire Wool.
I used the sharpening stone, WD40 and just tried to remember what the Grandfather did.
There was the temptation to use the brilliant knife sharpening steel that Crisp-e bought me.
As the thought popped into my head I knew it was a bad idea and it would end in stitches.
I listened to Sensible Sleepy.

Now for a Housemate rant.
We are going to have to work out a better system for indicating that something has run out.
There is no plain white flour in the house.
There is wholemeal shite, stone-ground wholemeal shite, Half & Half wholemeal shite, self raising and one that was fucking extinct for a bastard millennia, Spelt or something.
We have endless types of sugar.
White sugar, Icing sugar, Caster sugar, Black Sugar, Brown Sugar. Sugar that looks like bits of amber, sugar that you can’t even get a spoon in and fucking Sugar Cubes!
Plain fucking flour? Is there buggery.

Today was the day the ‘Green Bin’ is emptied.
People, I am indignant.
I had an ‘Admonishment’ hanging from the handle.
A piece of recycled card, that looks like the “Fuck Off, I’m Shagging” signs from hotel rooms.
Apparently, “Today they have noticed I have included….” stuff that cannot be recycled.
Mmmm. Here is a selection from the choice they gave me.
Glass bottles.
Drinks Cartons.
Foil.
Plastic Packaging e.g Food trays, tubs and pots..
Well, you get the idea.
They tell me to go to the Bottle Bank for the glass and just to ditch the other stuff in black bags, for landfill I suppose.

This is where the money is people.
If you have ‘spare’ money invest in any kind of ‘green’ rubbish collection.
Especially ‘Curb-side Collections’.
People are inherently lazy.
‘Where there’s muck there’s brass’ as the saying goes.
I say, Where there’s recycled muck, there’s DOUBLE the brass.
You will make a mint.
To those of you who took my advice, 12 years ago, to invest in Russian Gas companies.
Now do you believe me?
And this is the last ’Freebie’ you get!

Proxy Tutting

This morning I awoke at 6.30am.
I got up had some tea and toast, had a joint, indulged in some light self abuse and went to the 10.15am Mass!

This is where G-d had a little ironic chuckle at my expense and hit me with the instant Karma thing.
It wasn’t until I was well into ‘singing Hosanna to the King of Kings’ that I saw the little white dresses trundling up the centre of the church.
In my head, I did the slow motion, “NOOOOoooooooooo! Fuck Off!”.
It was too late, I was boxed in. Pillar one end, old dears with sticks and handbags the other.
I had to stay.
First Holy Communion.
Pet Catholic hate Number One!
The noise of kids was deafening.
I couldn’t hear the priest, he couldn’t hear himself and I could see him fiddling under his dress to turn up his mic.
I presume that was what he was doing, he got louder whatever he was up to.
I then realised I had unwittingly sat in ‘Tutters Row’, smack bang behind Church Nutter!
He is a rocker, a clapper and an own head slapper.
The Tutters tutted every scream, cry, giggle, hand clap, head slap and Shhh there was!

The joint kicked in, I got my grin on and started to enjoy myself.
I nearly burst when ’Head Slapper’ leant across the front of the woman next to him and started blowing gently into the air.
The lady, on her knees, started to do that shuffle thing, away from him, thinking that this was some kind of Loony Augustinian foreplay.
I thought it was quite sweet.
The sun had caught all the specks of dust in the air and he was blowing them away from himself and her.
I took communion.
This is the Priest I have an arrangement with, if he refuses me Communion in front of the whole church, I will punch him where he stands.
Seems fair to me. He lives with it.
Through all the bits I couldn’t hear, mainly due to the tutting and stick dropping, all I had in my head was this.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxS9qSU-25E

And as she says, “… Even sinners have a soul”.

I don’t know what made me go today.
Maybe I was the ‘proxy’ for an amazingly patient woman in the West of Ireland, who sometimes doesn’t make it because of her husband’s Alzheimer’s.
Somehow, I feel I earn her double points if I go.
Like offsetting your Carbon Footprint.
She gets the cynical, misanthropic, homosexual saying prayers, and she earns serious ‘Holy Miles’!
So, if you feel like offsetting your ‘Catholic Footprint’, have this one on me.
I also took the huge hint and said prayers for four kids, a Dad and a Mum.

Shalom

Rings, Floaters And Flies

I woke up to a gorgeous day and a dilemma.
Do I get straight out into the garden and start doing something, finish scraping the Railings or ease into the day with the BBC’s Saturday Kitchen and a bit of internet porn.
As it turned out I couldn’t concentrate on anything.
My day has felt very disjointed and unsettled.

My favourite line of the day occurred on the lunchtime news concerning Bush meeting the Pope.
The presenter said with a straight face, which leads me to believe it was a bet,
‘The President dispensed with kissing the Papal ring’.
I was on my own and I laughed out loud!
I’m sure he fucking did!

This afternoon I went out in the garden. I cut the grass with shears until I got bored.
I rolled a joint, stuck the Magic Numbers on the ipod and laid down in the cut grass.
I was looking at the shapes the ‘floaters’ in my eyes make. There is one that looks like a cross between a Dragon and a Seahorse. If I move my eyes slightly it moves by bending in half.
Some are just spots that drop, slowly, from top to bottom.
Some dart away as you try and look at them and you are never quite sure what shape they are.
There was not a song on the album I didn’t like. I recommend giving it a go.

I came in to be confronted by one of my absolute pet hates.
Fucking flies.
Why can they get themselves in the fucking house but not out?
Bastards.
Some flies I can deal with, for a bit, but the Raid WILL come out.
But some are SO fucking loud and buzzy.
I have spent the last hour or so, sat with a can of Raid, committing murder.

The Raid certainly takes the ‘Buzzy’ ones down an octave or two but it makes them fucking unpredictable.
They go into kamikaze mode and ricohet off everything.
Then there is the flying 5 inches off the floor stage, finishing with the ‘Breakdance’ back spin that can go on for hours.
With……. A……… Sporadic……… Buzz……..
Long after you have forgotten it’s there!
Late at night, when you are on your own and stoned, it can scare the shite out of you!

Undies, Banging And Words

I had an underwear panic this morning.
I put on a new bra, then wasn’t sure if ‘everything’ was in its usual position.
To tell the truth I’m not really sure what the slide-y things on the shoulder are for or why I need three different settings at the back.
Nothing worse than seeing a chest with one nipple looking for shoes and the other searching for aircraft.
Well, for me anyway.
I nearly trotted down to Sassy to ask if my ‘Bristol’s’ were aligned but thought the question;
‘Do my tits look like they normally do?’ would be a bit hectic with a minor hangover and possibly socially awkward in the long run.

I tried not to think about it and set about Cillit Bang-ing the house to within an inch of its life.
I used a whole bottle of the shit!
Each time I went for a whiz I cleaned a different thing. Bath the first time, then the sink, then the bog. I shut the door and applied the same principle to the downstairs facility.
I find it so boring doing it all in one hit.
Even the doors and skirting boards got done before I could smoke my ‘Inner ATM’ into submission.
I didn’t touch the Hoover, so that’s progress and good weed!

The bra panic returned later in the afternoon, when I opened the door to a male acquaintance I haven’t seen in a while, and he looked straight at my tits before my face.

Why does the word Spinster sound so much more horrible than Bachelor?
Why does Midge Ure always look like ‘somebody else’?
I always think,
‘Oh, that’s Midge Ure’, then I’m not sure it’s him until he’s introduced.
Then I get myself pissed off because I can’t think who he does remind me of.

Shampoo And Shrines

This morning I got shampoo in my fecking eye.
I was so cross!
I had forgotten what a stingy bastard that is, but it immediately transported me back to my childhood.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who can remember being sat in the bath, with a folded flannel over my face, as ATM poured jugs of water over my head.
The flannel was to keep the stingy shampoo out of my eyes.
For some reason I used to hold my breath, thinking that I would drown otherwise!
We then progressed onto the shower contraption with rubber bits that were jammed onto the taps.
Ours was used over the kitchen sink, with the person receiving the ‘hair wash’ holding the things on the taps.
The water pressure would fire them off, soaking all concerned in the process if you didn‘t.
When my Grandmother or ATM washed their hair, they would wind a towel up into a turban type affair around their heads.
I’ve NEVER managed to do that!
They could walk around, vacuum and wash up in theirs; I couldn’t even walk out of the bathroom without it all collapsing.

I have a question.

The Chemist has been in Sligo visiting the Nutty Daddy and the Sane Mammy.
A trip to the shrine at Knock was involved.
Knowing my absolute horror of the place she attempted to buy me a Virgin Mary with a twist off head, full of Holy Water.
I shudder at the thought.
The Anti Terror Laws saved me from that nastiness.
Not allowed more than 100mls of fluid in hand luggage!
Instead, I have a Tricolour-ed stick of ‘Knock Rock’ with every E number imaginable in it!

But back to my question.
Is there a dispensation for Holy Water on flights?

All reading for fun is on hold in the ‘Collective’ at the moment.
Claire, bought and read, The Breast Cancer Book by Val Sampson and Debbie Fenlon.
Claire is a very reserved person and kind offers from people to, ‘introduce her to someone who has been through it’ are just not her.
Like some of us (Not you Crisp-e! Before you get all hectic again!!) pick up our information through reading, Claire is one of those.
She reckons the book is excellent, so we are all reading it.
Sassy after me!
Schnee, perhaps you could suggest it to Canadian Karen and her ‘readers’.
She had her MRI today and starts chemotherapy next Thursday at St Mary’s.
From then on Sleepy Mansions will be a ‘Smoke Free Zone’.
I know, I know…. I bitch about the smoking ban but that I count as the body Nazis bullying me.
Chemo can make people feel really sick.
Smoking stinks.
I don’t want anything in the house to make Claire feel any worse.

On a brighter note..
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Sassy!
The Birthday Cake we started this afternoon has been decimated.

Trains And Popemobiles

Today I suffered the horror that is Great Western Trains.
The train from Cardiff to Portsmouth is really busy.
Loads of students, tourists, skates heading back to Pompey the lot.
How many carriages are there?
Two fucking carriages!
There was no way I was paying £33 to fucking stand from Westbury to Fratton.
The Hippy, who elbowed his way on in front of me, dropped his stinking rucksack and Hoola Hoop (I shit you not! One of those things kids swing round their waists) in the space for wheelchairs and pissed off.
I slung all his shite out of the way and planted myself in the space.
I was working on the theory that a skinny twat with a fucking HOOLA HOOP was going to put up little resistance.
I was right.

My favourite piece of TV of the day was that geezer trying to jump on the Popemobile.
The Vatican say,
‘He showed signs of a Mental Imbalance’.
You think?
What struck me as odd was B16 didn’t even turn round.
This Loon was German; he looked like he was shouting which I presume would have been in Germish.
The man in the white dress didn’t stop waving.
He obviously wasn’t educated by the Christian Brothers; he would have been acutely attuned to any assault from the rear if he had.

As you can see, some of the tadpoles now have arms!

Wilting In Wiltshire

Today has been a gorgeous one.
Frigging hot though!
We walked for ages. Through fields, along the canal had some munch at Pewsey Wharf and back through the village.
Superb!
I faced down a ‘fierce’ Bull with a twig (all I know about bovines I learned from Withnail and I, not great!) and Jessie the Irish hound ended up with cow shite socks.
Some of the fields were quite boggy and shitty.
Along the canal we saw fish, dragonflies, butterflies, crayfish, swallows, and all sorts of bugs and creepy crawlies.
I still haven’t seen a Kingfisher, which is a real bugger!
But I refuse to sit in full camouflage gear for hours and hours just ’waiting’ for a blur of blue to pass me by like an F14!

I love being in the countryside but I do miss the sea.
I honestly believe that there is a split between ‘coastal’ people and ‘country’ people, but each have merits.
I think I must be coastal. The canals and the rivers are great but there is just something about the raw power of the sea.

Jess the Hound trying to 'blend' in with her surroundings! Just after this photo and we'd walked on a bit, the fecker laid down, couldn't be seen and refused to respond to her name.

There's no bossing an Irish Girl!

Up In Smoke

I have been thinking about the impending smoking ban and the absolute glee the body Nazis have when they tell you about it.
Yeah! Alright! I fucking know!
Pasty fucking vegetarians sneering and taking joy in my upcoming difficulties.
‘I’ll be able to report you!” said one, cheerfully.
Thing is, they are going to die too.
Somehow they have it in their heads that by NOT smoking they will live for ever.
I would love it if some PhD student discovered lentils, puy beans and chick peas were stuffed full of carcinogens and other nasty shit.
These people must be contributing to the hole in the ozone layer or do they fart perfume and shit sustainable fuels?
I think not.

To quote the genius Bill Hicks,
“I smoke. If this bothers anyone, I suggest you look around at the world in which we live and shut your fucking mouth”.
Oh yes!

The weird thing is, all these places that will have to ban smoking, I could go into the toilets and shoot up Heroin without a problem.
I can drink myself into a state of violence.
I can gorge myself into a 40 stone monster, incapable of working, and the state would have to support me.
If I had an ASBO, I could flout it constantly and nothing would happen.
If I sparked up a cigarette in an airport I could be detained indefinitely under the ‘anti terror laws’.
What a load of fucking shit.

Derby Day

I wasn’t much impressed with England last night. Yet again, they managed to snatch a draw from the jaws of victory.
It was nice to see Beckham playing at the new Wembley and there were some good individual performances, his included.
But on the whole, they weren’t much cop.
Was Lampard even playing?
Another thing I’ve noticed is to do with National Anthems. Why do South American anthems always have such long intros? Same with Italy, the singing seems to start suddenly, halfway through.
While on the subject of Italians.
FRANKIE DETTORI! After 14 attempts he has won The Derby!
What a horse! What a Jockey!

There was a programme on BBC2 called The Victoria Cross: For Valour.
It was a documentary about the award and those who received it.
People, I cried.
Some of the stories were so amazing, I sat opened mouthed.
The Ghurka in Burma who was the furthest forward, throwing grenades out of his dug out as fast as they were coming in. One blew in his hand, taking off his fingers and shattering his arm.
He was loading and shooting his rifle with one hand. When support arrived, he had repelled the attack and there were 31 enemy dead.
Robert Henry Cain at Arnhem, had a shell more or less explode in his face as he was firing on tanks. He went blind for a bit but when his sight returned he was back at it. Shrapnel was stuck in his blackened face and his trousers had been blown off.

Heroes.

These men didn’t come home with any kind of “Syndrome” or looking for compensation.
They fought for King and Country.
Having taught History I know our kids don’t get told about heroes anymore.
No more Nelson’s, No more Monty’s.
They ‘write’ essays about Vietnam.
I say ‘write’, but they are given a Writing Frame which they basically copy into their own words, if capable, or word for word if not.
As Jeremy Clarkson, who was presenting, said
‘….. and Beckham is a hero for scoring a penalty’.

Loz, Nymphs And Lymph

Today my niece is 18.
I was there when she was born and I thought she was brilliant from the start.
She used to love to read and when she was 5 we found an encyclopaedia under her pillow.
The Sister asked her what it was there for and she replied,
“It’s where I get my information” but with a tone in her voice that said,
‘Are you fucking stupid or what?’ I laughed so much.
Sometimes ATM used to look at her, forehead creased up, point between us and say,
“That, should be yours”.
THAT? Jesus! I’m not sure who that says the most about.
Fortunately, she is a ‘Girlie Girl’ and would go looking at clothes and jewellery for hours on end.
‘Shopping’, ATM and the Sister call it. To my mind ‘Shopping’ implies purchasing something that you have been looking at. I can’t remember that happening too much.
I am so proud that she has managed to break the cycle of her mother and ATM and get past 17, childless.
Nice one Loz. Love you.

Tadpoles have sprouted legs!
Well, some of them have. The newts are very active. The male is covered in spots, his tail is crinkly on top and his belly is bright orange.
His ‘pulling clothes’ according to the book.
Pulled an Emperor Dragonfly nymph out of the pond. Photographed and slung it back.
First one I’ve seen in this form. 2 years they are a nymph then last a matter of days once they hatch out.
Such a shame.

Housemate Claire went for her appointment with the Cancer people yesterday.
She starts Chemotherapy next week but has to have more scans of her lymph system.
I am scared for her, really frightened.
She doesn’t smoke, she doesn’t really drink, she doesn’t do drugs, she runs the Brownies, she is a good person.
It’s not right.

Wet In Wiltshire

I am in a very wet Wiltshire.
The garden has taken off in the fortnight I haven’t seen it.
The tadpoles are still legless and fat but the water boatmen and diving beetles are putting in an appearance.
The Columbines are going to seed but the poppies are bursting out.
We’ve planted out the Tobacco plants I transplanted from Pompey and the bulbs we put in ages ago are coming up.
The bird bath and all the feeders are being well used but nothing in the nest box, yet.
We were so lucky being able to watch the Blackbird nest last year.
The rose I’ve been training up the arch we put in, is in flower and covered with buds.
In short, it’s looking fucking wicked!

I was also a complete tosser and dropped my camera onto concrete.
Not my greatest moment.
My own fault.
It had been precariously jammed into my pocket, and it was pointed out to me that it didn’t look safest way to transport it.
The camera didn’t like it very much, spat it’s batteries out and reset the date and time to somewhere around the turn of the 19th century.
It’s working at the moment, so fingers crossed!
At the time I wanted to punch myself in the head.

Springwatch is back in BBC2.
Schnee check out the webcam’s, for a taste of home!
I want to punch Bill Oddie about the head, violently.
Kate Humble, Eeeesh!
I want to do ‘rude things’, outdoors, with her.

She is very patient with Bill, but she does laugh like she wants him to shut up!
I love BBC nature programmes. I just don’t think they can be beaten.
ATM’s cousin is a sound recordist, who has worked with Attenborough on some of The Blue planet series.
He says that he is brilliant to work with. A really sound, down to earth bloke.
Which was nice to know.

I would have been really disappointed if he was a ‘lovey’ wanker.

Tasty, Pastry And Grrrr

Fucking advertising has me at it again!
Now I want to eat a fucking Skoda, lick it at the very least.
Apart from the Julie Andrews soundtrack, it is a brilliant ad.
A full sized car made from cakes and sweeties.
Murder when I have the munchies!
The trouble is they will now ‘do it to death’ and I’ll end up hating it.

I’m sure I am not the only person who when peeling potatoes, looks in the pot and thinks ‘I’d better do another one, maybe two‘.
What the fuck happens to them when they are mashed.
Five roast spuds seems enough for any person, mash ‘em and there’s barely a spoonful.
Where do they go?
We had quite a bit of left over beef and gravy. I’ve slung it all in a pot with leeks, peppers, herbs from the garden, peas and two cans of Guinness, pastry on top.
Ta Dah! Steak and Ale Pie.

Not that I could eat it because a housemate wanker insisted they knew what pastry I wanted when clearly, they fucking didn’t.
I’m actually beyond angry now, and have that ‘blank’ feeling that Ritalin used to give me.
It’s a tiny ping pong ball sized, leaden knot in my stomach at the moment but it will get heavier, bigger and harder to contain.
I know it’s going to explode out and stuff WILL get broken.
Grrrr..
I ate some of the raw pastry, so I’m bound to get fucking worms, just to top it off.
Starving, with an itchy arse…. Great!

Rage Managed

In the film Peter Pan, the one with Robin Williams, he is with the Lost Boys and doesn’t remember who he is.
The Lost Boys aren’t sure either until the smallest one starts pulling his face about to get a smile.
Then he says,
“Ah, there you are Peter!”
Well, I’ve had that moment with Ian Paisley.
He has got his knickers in a twist concerning Church comments about his ‘pact’ with Sinn Fein deputy Martin McGuinness.
He roared,
“It is the ploy of Satan to attack those whom G-d has appointed as leaders”.
Ah, there you are Ian!
Nothing quite like political debate based on reasoned arguments.

I read today that the Parents of Madeleine McCann are going to meet the Pope in Rome on Wednesday.
Why? What the fuck use is he going to be?
They also said they were not going to leave Portugal without their daughter.
Some old Nazi in a dress can change that then?
If the Catholic Church are taking on this couple as the Catholic Poster Family.
Fucking Hell.
If this couple had adopted their three kids, the other two would be back in foster care by now.
Christ! Can you imagine the public crucifixion if it were a Gay or Lesbian couple?
None of this shit would be happening for them. Muck would be being raked up to smear them.
Used as justification as to why Gay people shouldn’t be allowed to have kids.

I don’t forget that at the centre of this a little girl is missing, but we know who is to blame, even if public opinion has been ‘Managed’ to the point that no one will hear a bad word said against them.
I remember a similar time just after Diana died.
They fucked up, not even absolution from the Pope can take that away.

British Bank Holiday

A new advert is getting on my tits.
This one is for Evian water.
It has a load of cute babies doing some sort of synchronised, Esther Williams swimming thing.
They are in full possession of those cute ‘babies bums’, but at the front they are as challenged as Barbie and Ken.
Don’t get me wrong, I WASN’T looking for anything.
It’s just they were conspicuous by their absence.

It’s a typical Bank Holiday weekend. It’s slashing down with rain, grey, miserable and fuck all worth watching on the TV.
There’s no food in the house, the cats are on tuna, I’ve run out of anti-inflammatory tablets and as kd lang would say,
“…. and on top of all of my tears and regrets, I’m down to my last cigarette.”
The internet is running really slowly. I keep thinking that it’s later than it is. A ‘Double French’ Day, where time just drags and for a moment you think you understand the Theory of Relativity.
In fact, I think I wish it was tomorrow.

On a positive note. A lady Australia contacted me through my flickr page.
She has written a book on garden herbs and she was asking for permission to use one of my photos in her book.
My Chives are going global!
Not a sentence I’d ever imagined I would use.
I was quite chuffed about that. Another one of my photos on there was used in a magazine article about what is happening at the site of the Twin Towers.
Flickr is a great place to look at and share photos but there is a dark side.
Rebekka Guoleifsdottir found her photos were being sold online by a photo printing site, without her permission or remuneration of any sort.
When she posted about it on flickr, the ‘powers that be’ removed her post.
Censorship is all around us.

Queen

Last night I became a Monarchist for a few hours.
The Grandfather would have being spinning in his grave!

We bought ‘The Queen’ on pay per view.
I was absolutely determined I was going to hate every minute, but I lost the housemate vote, yet a-fucking-gain!
I loved the film. I know it is ‘propaganda’ but I loved it.
Prince Philip IS my Grandfather!
His answer to everything was to take the ‘boys’ out for a walk and shoot something!
This is the kind of, spit and Vaseline as a ‘cure all’ man, that I grew up with.
My favourite line was spoken by the Queen,
“No guns Phillip, it is Sunday!”
Brilliant!
The kind of thing my Granddad would do and the kind of thing my Grandmother would say!

The film reminded me why I voted Labour and for Tony Blair, all those years ago.
It also brought home to me that there may have been a purpose to Diana’s death.
If she hadn’t died, her life and impact on the ‘world’ would never have been addressed.
Nothing within the ‘Royal Firm’ would have been looked at or modernised, without the events in Paris.
Her son would NEVER have had the chance to be a ‘Modern King’, without her death, nothing would have changed.

Those who know me well know I am a squinny.
For those of you who don’t know the word, that means, I cry easily.
Only in front of those I ‘Trust’, and am happy in their company.
Some have accused me of keeping my bladder behind my eyes.
For a long, long time I thought this was a ‘weakness’.
Until I was trained that this wasn’t the case. That in fact, to show emotion was a strength.
To ‘show your arse’ as my Dad would say, is very brave.
But still, only a few get that from me.

The Queen was slated for not showing that kind of emotion.
I felt for her, I know how difficult it is.
We know she ‘misjudged’ her people back then, but she made it right.
She did good.
I am now, an Elizabeth II fan.
Don’t fuck with my Monarch! She Rocks!