Peeling, Raining And Raging

For some reason the skin on the ends of my fingers has started to peel off.
It’s not sore or anything and appears to be a single layer but I can’t work out why it would start happening.
As a kid I used to suffer with horrendous eczema and even now have occasional flare up’s. Dry patches appear at the tops of my arm or on my hip and the finger peeling isn’t that.
Then again it could be the limescale remover in the Cif. Waitrose had run out of the usual and sent me this shit instead.
The cheek!
How dare they assume I have limescale.

I was meeting Crisp-e at his house, so I got ‘Janis’ out for a ride.
10 minutes before I was due to leave it started pissing down. As mentioned before, cycling in Pompey means you are always against the wind. So today I had that, AND horizontal rain.
I was ‘drownded‘.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long for Mr and Mrs Crisp-e to arrive, but my peeling had progressed to the first knuckle.

‘Janis’ is a boon for Pompey rush hour, if only fat fucking bastard car drivers would move over.
Get off the double yellows will you.
Tossers.
I am ashamed to say I got a bit ragey about this. Having to bump up onto the pavement or stop and push along the kerb.
So I stopped being careful.
Fuck ‘em! I thought.
I had seven wing mirrors in the stretch from the hospital to the junction (between 600 to 800 metres).
I had a few shouts but they were going, fucking nowhere, and I was long gone.
I caught a knuckle and my elbow twice but it was worth it.
Greedy Gobshites.

The wankiest question of the day occured on ‘Sleep Clinic’, BBC2.

“Have you been practising breathing?”

It was out before I knew it.
I yelled at the TV, momentarily forgetting, I was not alone.

“Well, only since some bastard pulled me from a screaming bitch and slapped my arse, you twat!”

After the initial shock, there was chuckling.

Trivial Memories

Last night, I had one of those really rare moments.
A pleasant memory involving ATM.

It was one of those holidays when we were all together, that meant a game of Trivial Pursuit was the law. During the game ATM got the question,
‘who was the fourth Marx Brother?’
A few people did that staring off in to space thing then said,
‘got it’.
You know damn well they haven’t.
Then there are those who will try and act it out.
ATM started whining about it being too noisy to think and if we shut up she’d get it.

I feel it pertinent to add, ATM is very competitive and this was for a pink cheese.
Silence descended with faces being pulled and nods towards Herself.
In that mimed, ‘Ooooh, get her’, way.
Then someone thought it might be good to poke the angry, menopausal lioness.
‘Is there a time limit?’
‘Shut the fuck up! I nearly had it then! See, this is not fair, it’s badgering! You badgered it out of my mind’
My Grandfather, whom we all presumed was asleep said,
‘Is that watching people have sex in their car?’
My sister chuckled and in full Pompey mode said,
‘Weeeee! Bless ‘im! No Pampam, that’s dogging’.
‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ chanted ATM.
Fortunately, Cannabis Sativa had rendered me impervious to my family’s madness and I repeated the question to ATM.
We then had a good three minutes of her mouthing the question and the names of the Marx Brothers she knows to herself.
‘Where does the dog feature in all that?’ asked my Grandfather.
I was sucked in.
‘Where did you find out about dogging Pamps?’
‘Discovery Channel’.
I nodded like this was perfectly normal conversation to have with an octogenarian.
My sister told me that the Uncles had hooked him up to NTL to keep him entertained.
“’ee’s got all the fucking porn channels!” she gleefully whispered to me.
We both looked at him, our beloved pissed up Pampam, back at each other and cracked up laughing.
He just looked up, smiled at us and carried on singing to himself.
I had never loved him more.
(That was our last Christmas with him)

ATM entered the righteous, ‘are we still playing this’, phase.
We piped down and started watching her as she thought.
“I can’t think with you all staring at me! It puts me off.”
My sister, emboldened by vodka, implores,
“Mother! Come on, for fuck’s sake! It’s not that hard, think of all the words that go with Marx.”
ATM’s frown smoothed and she started to smile
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
“Tell us then!” said my sister.
Totally straight faced and without a hint of humour, she triumphantly answered,
“It’s Skid!”

My sister and I cried with laughter. Made all the funnier as ATM couldn’t understand what was amusing.

Sometimes, it’s good to remind myself that there were happy times.

Whacko, Homo And GP's

So, Michael Jackson is ’ready to convert to Islam‘.
I bet they are just fucking made up about that.
All the Imams and Ayatollahs waiting with open arms, just dying to accept their Brother.
HeHeHeHe.

I bet they thought it couldn’t get any worse after Cat Stevens.
‘Morning Is Broken’ is easily denied.
Now all headlines will be,
‘alleged Kiddie Fiddler and Muslim, Michael Jackson….’ or what ever name he chooses.
Does anyone else think he will go for the full Burka as a look?
He’s done the Hijab as a ‘white‘, heterosexual Christian.
Do we really believe the press are really going to restrain themselves from getting *(alleged) Paedophilia and Muslim in the same sentence?
Jermaine, who converted in 1989, thinks,
‘he can do a lot of good…’
Jermaine, Mate. That’s the last thing that will come from this.

There is an advert that has been on for a while.
Now, it is really getting to me and I have to “Mute” it when it’s on.
There are a bunch of “multicultural” kids, asking ‘intelligent’ questions that are supposed to encourage people into teaching.
Science teaching seems to be their focus at the moment.
I’m fine until we get ‘camper than a row of tents’ boy.
Sat with his silent twin.
“What is dark matter?” He whinges.
If it is possible to ‘Mince’ verbally, he does it.
I want to SHOUT out,
“Dark Matter is what the bloke who pulls out of your arse will have on his dick!! You screaming fucking Queen!”
But, I restrain myself.
Barely.

I am sure that there are GP’s out there in the blog-o-sphere.
So, I need to ask this question.
Is it possible to get a ‘cold in your kidney’s’?
This was a massive fear of my Grandmother’s and led to her buying vests huge enough that when tucked in to knickers, (And they HAD to be tucked in.) they hung out of the legs.
I think they would still fit! With the added bonus that my boobs would be in the correct position, now!
It would be also good to know if it is possible to get Haemorrhoids from sitting on a damp kerb, or any kind of concrete or bare brick.

Schnee. Get Heelers to ask Dr Barn. If he doesn’t know this……….

*Just covering myself! The man seems to be short of money.

Star Struck

Unsurprisingly, adverts are pissing me off.
The ‘new’ Tena Lady panty liners.
Thin as a rizla but can hold up to four gallons of water, or something.
One of the lines used is,
“….and no one need know, unless you tell them”.
That’s good then, because before Tena Lady I was wondering how to broach the subject. Jeez!
I’m sure there are loads of women out there who are dying to own up to pissing their knickers.

The thing is they don’t HAVE to tell anyone!
You can tell who they are.
They’ll be the women who cross their legs if they cough, sneeze, laugh or turn on a tap.
I also have the answer for the lady whose ‘contacts are killing her’. Wear your fucking glasses you vain bitch! Don’t waste your money on Acuvue Moist.
Don’t believe the Lyclear propaganda either. The resident pharmacist reckons they are immune to everything.
It’ll be nits and the cockroaches left after the Nuclear meltdown.

Just my opinion.
Why on earth would we want anything to do with the American military on our soil?
(The women of Greenham Common, just on a some sort of camp out, were they?)
Let alone some Star Wars shit they couldn’t get to work last time.
Fucking Hell! Just had a blast from the past!
Remember when we thought Ronald Reagan was a complete and utter trigger happy wanker?
Next time we look at the world map there be a big fucking target where the UK used to be.
Bring back Ronnie!

While on the subject of Septics.
What the fuck goes on with that Judge presiding over the Anna Nicole Smith body custody thing? Sitting there crying his eyes out. Give it 6 months and he’ll have a show, just like Judge Judy.
‘Seidlin Squins’, a court show that you win by making the judge weep!
The sadder your case, the better.
What is it with Yanks and dead, blonde slappers?

A Lotta Bottle

Housemates.. I think we are going to have to establish a new rule.
Whenever anyone leaves the house, they HAVE to take a bag of bottles to the bottle bank.
By anyone, I include visitors to the house, meter readers and window cleaners.
It’s getting out of hand!
I also have to own up to being the reason we have so many peppers. For some reason, I always think we need some.

D the Dealer turned up, sporting a new coat and a new aroma.
It took me ages to put my finger on exactly what it was, then it hit me.
Wet Dog wearing Patchouli oil.
An interesting perfume and one, I feel, Susskind overlooked in his writings.

He opened with one of his usual random statements.
“Did I drop a gold guitar pick here? I keep losing stuff.”
I decided to be as equally random.
“Your Flat’s still damp then?”
He looked blank for a few seconds and said,
“Yeah! Wow! Did J tell you?”
He then started patting himself down, looked at me wide eyed and said,
“Fuck! My phone’s gone.”
I shook my head, held out some currency, a bag of empty wine bottles and he was gone.
Nag Champa gets rid of his smell pretty effectively.

Tonight, Boston Legal was pure gold. I laughed out loud! In their respective roles, William Shatner and James Spader are gods.
It just gets better.

Excitement!

Five minutes ago, over the noise of Terminator 3, there was an almighty crash
quickly followed by the sound of sirens.

I went outside and could see the reflected blue from flashing lights.
At the bottom of the road and just round the corner a car had clipped a lampost and slammed into the walls of some houses.
The car was empty and some poor copper was screaming into a radio.
Being a concerned citizen, I of course took photos and a bit of video on my phone.

A taxi driver then turned up and told me they had been chasing the car for a while.
The police spotter plane is still circling.

It all goes on in Southsea!

Strolling And Foaming

I was out and about this morning. Not for any real reason other than it was a blinding day.
Blue skies, bright and sunny but just a little bit cold.
One of those days that when you step outside you automatically take a deep breath, and smile.
Unfortunately, this made other people cheerful and for some reason, convinced their inner nutter, to talk to me.

My ‘shield of misanthropy’, (Obvious ipod earphones, 1000 yard stare and a surly look) failed me, and some bloke started talking to me.

He was relentless and I had to take them out.
I find “Fuck Off” comes out rather loudly with them in.
It was then that I noticed it.
He was one of those who accumulate white, frothy, nastiness at the corners of his mouth.
This truly turns my stomach.
G-d took pity on me, relieved me of my short term memory loss and gave me full connection with my Random Access Memory.
I remembered advice from Mad Matt, instantly.

The foaming man was rambling on about the weather, the time of year and other shit.
I held my hand up, smiled and politely said,
“Can I just stop you there?”
While he was waiting for what I was going to say next, I put my headphones back in and walked away.
I didn’t look back.
Although, I would have loved to have seen the look on his face.

I have been watching Barcelona v Liverpool.
Does anyone else think that Ronaldhino looks like one of those Aztec dried mummy things?

Light Blue Touchpaper...

Sometimes when I read stuff in the papers I can feel it winding me up as I go. A tight knot in my stomach and I start breathing out heavily.
This is the one that has got me today.

Mohammed Riaz covered his home, wife and four daughters in petrol and burned them all to death. He died 2 days later in hospital from his injuries.
The reason?
He was pissed off because of their ‘Westernised’ lifestyle, clothing and the fact that there were plans to have alcohol at his son’s 18th Birthday.
The son was terminally ill with cancer and they were having the party early. He died six weeks after the rest of his family.
A very sad story all round.
What has fucking annoyed me is that when they did an autopsy on the ‘religious’ Mr Riaz it turned out he had sclerosis of the liver.
Now correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you get that from abusing alcohol, over quite a few years?
Again, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought alcohol was banned in Islam.
Fucking hypocrite.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that there are hypocrites of all religions, but for some reason I find this case particularly galling.

My favourite Europeans have been at it again.
During Manchester United’s match in Lens last night, United fans, fearing a Hillsborough repeat, tried to climb the fence.
There was one entrance, that was also the exit, and the arrival of supporters at the same time caused a bit of a crush.
The French police responded sensitively, with batons and tear gas.
The implication being, that no matter how ‘rehabilitated’ the English fan abroad, they are still there to cause trouble.
Most of the fans were staying 25 miles away in Lille and at the end of the match, found out that the French had arranged no public transport back to Lille.
To me, this helps to prove what I’ve always suspected, the French are one baton charge away from being Nazis!

Schnee’s post has reminded me of a strange conversation I had with a Pompey taxi driver.
As we pulled up outside my house, and I started doing the strange back seat break dance you do when pissed and trying to get money out of your pocket.
Out of the blue he asked me if I knew ‘the lady at number 38 was a prostitute?’.
It wasn’t until I had staggered indoors that I felt outraged!
Why the fuck would he think I’d know the lady down the road was a Pro?
Did he think we got a ‘Neighbour Discount’ or something?
We get all sorts through the door.
Cards for window cleaners, restaurants, beauty salons, people who want to align my Chi with crystals, decorators, all political parties and gardeners.
Not once have I had a ’knob a neighbour’ or ‘roger a resident’ card.
Most disappointing.

Tossed, Beaten And Battered

Today is Shrove Tuesday or as it is known in my house, Pancake Day!
Whoo Hoo!
When we were kids pancakes were filled with Golden Syrup, lemon juice and sugar.
There would be a competition between my Uncle and Grandfather as to who could eat the most. The 23 scoffed by Uncle M is still the family record.
I think I have managed 4 then felt sick.
For a long time I thought that was what everybody had in their pancakes, that it was a kind of law. Like Horseradish with beef.
But as I have got older and shared the day with lots of different people, I have found that each family seems to have their own traditions as to what goes in.
One friend introduced me to pancakes spread with Nutella and then rolled, quite yummy.
Another has tinned mandarins. Mix those with the Nutella and it’s even better, apparently.
So, what will be in or on yours?

Yesterday we got our first look at the letter bomber who was pissed off at people linked to motoring enforcement.
It looked like an old school photo, a particularly dodgy one at that.
For those of you who have played the ‘Exam Invigilation Game’ at Mayhem, he would have got a vote in the, “Stand behind child most likely to be a serial killer” category.
Although, it wouldn’t be a surprise to see him the, “Picture in Paper with tagline, then turned gun on self” group.
It’s funny how sometimes a kid will have a certain look about them.
This bloke had it.

Freaky

I have been totally freaked out by a TV programme tonight.
“The Twins Who Share A Body”.
Abby and Brittany Hansel.
We are talking about one body, two heads.
Two hearts, two sets of lungs but one of everything else.
It just made me think about all those ‘lone’ activities a teenager would participate in.
What if one of them is Gay and the other isn’t?
Or one wanted to be sexually active and the other didn’t?
How do you have a private chat with anyone?
They each worked an arm but couldn’t feel anything in the arm that wasn’t ‘theirs’.
Which brought me straight back to those ‘lone’ teenage activities!
For one of them it’s going to feel like someone else is ‘doing it’!
How cool!
This also made me wonder, if they took it in turns to wipe the shared arse.
They had to take two driving tests and each have a licence.
By the end of the programme I really admired them. They were both very different personalities and absolutely lovely girls.
Their parents have never allowed any tests on them, other than those that have been totally necessary.
They seem to have grown up as normal as is possible in that situation.

How long do you have to own a pair of jeans before they become ‘work jeans’?
I bought a new pair of jeans today with the idea that another pair will have to rotate in to the work jeans position.
I busted the arse out of my last pair.
How do you choose?
It’s the same with a pair of trainers or shoes.
At what point do they become ‘fuck-up-able’?

My beloved Spurs are in to the quarter finals of the FA cup, but have drawn Chelski, which isn’t such good news.
This has made me think of my Grandfather.

My Uncle M sat with my Grandfather’s third wife as she lay dying.
Pampam was in the living room watching football.
When my Uncle went in and said,
“She’s gone Dad”.
He looked up, nodded once and said,
“Bloody Spurs lost too”.

Started watching ‘Heroes’ tonight. I think I’m going to like this!

Artex And Schnorbitz

I am a bit better today and have managed to keep down toast and a Jacobs cracker.
However, my bowels remain in a somewhat, delicate state.

This post is the result of one of the many surreal conversations Sassy and I share. Today we covered Mother/Daughter relationships, Belle and Sebastian, also, for some bizarre reason, Bernie Winters and Schnorbitz and 80’s fashion.

At some point during the early 80’s ATM acquired quite a serious Artex habit.
You know the stuff?
Slapped on walls and ceilings like plaster, then swirled about, patterns and ‘peaks’ made.
ATM blamed my sister and I for any speck or smudge of dirt in the house, so she chose her ‘Texture’ with that in mind.
Her actual words were,
“I want something that will keep these bastards off the walls.”

There had once been a fight and footprints had been left on the walls as we fell down the stairs.
That was also the day we found out just how purple the vein in her temple could go.
We decided it was Imperial Purple. (I Claudius had been on!)

Broken Leather was it’s cheerful name.
Broken bottles, razors and barbed wire was the reality.
Wheeling a bike down the hallway was a mixture of ‘Krypton Factor’ precision and running the gauntlet at a medieval joust to face the Gorgon of Greek myth at the end.
Firstly, the door was absolutely forbidden to slam open in to the wall.
Secondly, Portsmouth doorways are extremely narrow. You have to lift the bike in and then somehow stand behind it and wheel it, by the saddle, ‘no handed’ in to the house.
Holding the handlebars would result on lumps of knuckle flesh being gouged out by this shit on the walls.
Balancing the bike, you had to shut the door using the lock, no kicking or slamming it shut allowed.
No leaning the bike against the wall. No matter how carefully.
Bits of this vicious stuff would snap off and in a perverse reversal of ‘Hansel and Gretel’, would lead a raging ATM straight to you.
The hoover would be already plugged in, waiting for you, when you returned from the shed if there were ’bits’.
Then there is the awkward dogleg at the bottom of the stairs. Heaven forbid you get the line wrong and catch the paint on the banisters with the pedal.
Tippex worked a treat covering these up.
It didn’t last.
ATM was a smoker and after a while it became obvious.
Tippex doesn’t come in ‘White, with hint of 20 a day smoker’. Extremely remiss of them.
If you really fucked that up and grabbed for the handlebars, de-fleshing would commence.
You would snatch your hand back, thereby exposing your elbow to the wall of pain.
It was at this point ATM would appear from the kitchen and you’d get the first hint of which of her split personalities she was inhabiting that day.

See? I bet no one else had this kind of excitement each day!!

Wikifray And RSS

Right.

Will someone tell me how the fuck I get rid of this RSS thing?

I don't know how I got it and I don't fucking want it.

I DO NOT want anything of mine appearing on this 'Fray' thing.

Thank you.

Vomiting, Vichy And Vacuous

People, I’m not well. The fucking French are having their revenge on me, without a French person being involved at all.
I have food poisoning.
Kitsch N D’or, the local French restaurant, has tried to kill me.
I’ve had the shivers, projectile vomiting, I can shit through the eye of a needle at thirty paces and I can’t trust a fart!
I am now empty.
I’m also thirsty and fucking perversely, really hungry.
Sassy saved me from certain mental breakdown by getting my ciggies for me.
She was due to knock the door, so when I opened it and found a middle aged Asian man with a clipboard, I was surprised.
I said,
“You are not who I expected”.
He smiled and started looking at my windows.
“Can I interest you in double glazing?”
I groaned and shouted,
“NO!”
For a moment I considered puking on his shoes, but the other end was in that ‘unpredictable’ phase.
He laughed and said,
“Good, because I want you to sign for this Passport!”.
I just stared at him, and he said,
“You didn’t expect that either!”
That really made me laugh and cheered me up considerably.

While bitching about the French, there is some good news.
Maurice Papon is dead.
He was France’s Budget Minister, 1978-1981.
In ‘81 it came out he had been responsible for sending 1690 French Jews to Nazi death camps.
He also did a runner to Switzerland when he was convicted and jailed for 10 years.
The Swiss sent him back, eventually.
He was freed in 2002 after serving 3 years.
French system is as good as ours then?
Last week he had surgery on his dodgy pacemaker and died a few days later.
I would like to speculate on the surname of his surgeon.
I’d like to think it ended with a Stein, Berg, or a Ski!

So Prince Harry is going to Iraq.
Why is this big news?
So he should. He’s in the frigging Army for fuck’s sake! That’s his job. We don’t pay his wages so he can go out on the piss every night and I certainly don’t want one of my ‘Royals’ mixing with Madonna.
Air miles Andy went to the Falklands.
It’s not like he’s going to be put on the front line, like Mr and Mrs Ordinary’s son, is it?
He is the ‘Spare’ anyway. Just makes the Civil List a bit cheaper.

Well, Well, Britney Spears has shaved her head.
Huge speculation on the news about whether she is mental or is it a publicity ploy.
Mmmm.. Let’s think for a minute.
Possible custody battle with Fed Ex. A few months of hard partying, then rehab.
There are many drinks you can buy to get rid of/mask drugs in the system. I’m sure rehab centres help ‘purify’ the body.
Hair can be tested for drugs and the hair doesn’t lie.
Losing the plot or very clever?

The Rage

I am fucking raging!
I haven’t been able to check my email for a few days and when I did I found a shitty email from my Stepmother asking me not to send,
“Indecent emails as the grandchildren use the computer”.
The email she was referring to was sent TWO fucking years ago and was called ‘Chav Nativity’.
Go on, type that in to a google search and tell me what is ‘Indecent’..
She wants to be asking the fucking Grandchildren what they are doing opening HER email and wondering why it’s taken her 2 years to be offended.
You can delete stuff you thick fucking bitch.
Fucking idiot.
Now people might understand why I want fuck all to do with my family.
I am going to change my name by deed poll.
I want nothing that has come from my Mother or my Father.
Cunty Twat Lips, is a favourite at the moment, but I am open to suggestions.
Especially as ATM was vain enough to give me her name as a ‘middle’ name. I want rid of that SO much.
Grrrr…. Sorry people… The rage I feel about this is something else, so much so I want to go out and find a fight.
Fucking family.
I want a blood transfusion.

Womb With A View

I had a traumatic experience with The Daily Nazi today.
Why the fuck we have to know that the Duchess of Cornwall is ‘having it all taken away’, as my Nan would say, is beyond me.
That is part of my trauma but not the worst bit.
This is.
They printed reasons for and methods of hysterectomy, alongside a picture of her.
I do not need to read the word “Vagina” and then look at her.
Given my current state and vivid imagination…………
Well, you can guess the rest.
I don’t need that in my head.
No one needs that in their head!
*shudders*

The drains are still banjaxed and we traded log cutting for a shower with the lady along the lane.
It’s like camping without leaving the house.
They will be here tomorrow, fingers crossed.

Global Shite

I’ve been thinking.
How does Global Warming impact on those who are ‘Seasonally Affected’?
I’m not seasonally affected to the point I have to have even more annoying light bulbs than the ones I’ve got now. I get a bit down in Winter but who doesn't?.
All I know is I like Spring and that time in May when the coats come off!
Mmmm… Boobies!

Now, Global Warming is impacting on my Libido.
Crappy road surfacing, the vibration of the car, combined with the accidental but perfect positioning of the seam in my jeans; made for a ‘distracting’ hour and twenty minute drive to Wiltshire!
I smiled at people we passed, this doesn’t usually start happening until March.
Spring is early, the sap’s rising people and I’m as horny as hell!

Mel’s house in Wiltshire is an old terraced ‘cottage’ and as such, the pipes are as equally old.
Something has gone wrong and all the waste water from Mel’s is bubbling up in next door’s conservatory.
The toilet is becoming particularly troublesome for them.
I’d let Jessie The Irish Hound out and was waiting for her return, when the usually aggressive ‘Mr’ from next door approached me.
I knew something was afoot when he made eye contact and was smiling.
Basically, he was trying to ask us not to use the toilet because a ‘flush’ ended up in his house.
Not a problem, if the drain people are coming tomorrow morning.
They are not.
Next Monday is the earliest.
No bog, no bath or shower and no sinks until next week?
Fuck Off! There has got to be a Health and Safety issue surrounding this.

I did get some amusement while he was alluding to ‘Feminine Hygiene’ products without actually referring to them.
He went in to what I call, “PC Panic”.
This is the momentary panic blokes have when they think they have been, or are just about to be, Politically Incorrect. They manage to stop themselves but forget to let their faces know.
In this poor fellah’s case it was,

“Shit! Am I allowed to discuss jam rags with the Dykes? Fuck! I should’ve listened to ‘er indoors when she said she’d handle it! Fuck! Oh G-d, can I be sued?”

Bless.

Just A Quickie

So David Cameron used drugs at Eton. Is anyone particularly troubled by this revelation?
I find two things more disturbing than that.
1. He went to Eton
2. The ‘punishment’ he got.
He was ‘gated’ for a week. Whoooo… Fucking harsh that.
Not allowed out and couldn’t receive visitors.
There was no mention of at what point the Police were called.
Although Eton may set him up for dealing with America.
I’m sure an early training in mutual masturbation and a bit of friendly buggery will give him a head start.

I’m not sure Lentenstuffe will agree, but I thought the Ireland v France match yesterday was the best game of Rugby I’ve seen so far.
There were faults and neither team were perfect but there were flashes of brilliance.
Some of the moves were just beautiful. It wasn’t all about the kicking.
Come on Ireland, sort out the defence and it would be sublime.

Had a mooch through some of the details on the site meter and discovered that someone in Birmingham, got to a page on my blog by typing, “Bare Arsed Nuns” into Google!
Excellent!
I am now thinking of bizarre things to search for, so that I can end up at someone’s blog, freaking them out!
Hence the title today.
Schnee, I know you have some odd ones too!

I’m off to Wiltshire for a few days so I will apologise for the lack of blogging in advance.

Yuk And Yum

Due to the complete and utter wankdom of one of the Housemates, I have been introduced to the darker side of ‘House-Keeping’.
Manually evacuating the Hoover bag.
No fucking attachment for that little treat!
Some of you may believe that plunging my hand through a small hole, into unknown depths might offer some thrill.
On occasion, it has.
I can assure you, this didn‘t.
The residue of a human being I can deal with.
Unidentified clumps of hair, combined with other assorted nastiness, weaken my knees and gag reflex.

My BIG, little brother, his girlfriend, Crisp-e and ‘Chelle and Sassy are coming for dinner tonight.
Crisp-e used to teach the girlfriend but fortunately she is trustworthy. The only real problem is that she is vegetarian.
So I have found a veggie recipe and I’m roasting a chicken for the omnivorous.
Crisp-e goes all Captain Caveman if there is no flesh. He will prowl between the two fridges, looking for cooked meats to eat directly from the packet.
He is also a stirrer.
You know the people I mean.
You invite them for dinner, they come in to the kitchen. You turn your back to check the oven, in a flash they are lifting lids and stirring stuff.
Does my fucking head in!
Invite me to dinner at your fucking house if you want to do that.

Off to cook. Maybe more later.

Tunes, Vicars And Tarts

I had a fantastic start to my day.
I got up, made a cup of tea, flicked through the TV channels and found, ‘The Odd Couple’.
There is something about Walter Matthau’s face that just makes me smile.
I can relate to both characters, on some level.
The eternal battle between my ‘Inner Felix’ and my ‘Inner Oscar’.
Brilliant film.
Ok people, think of the tune..
De De De De Deeee Da Da De Da Deeee Duuum..
Got it?
Right. Now try and get rid of it!
I’ve had it all fucking day and being a ‘giver’, I thought I’d share.
Next stage, looking through itunes for it.

Has anyone else noticed, no one runs off with Vicars, Priests or Nuns anymore?
Or if they do, it’s not ’Big’ news?
When I was a kid there seemed to be a headline in the News Of The World every other week involving carnal Curates’, Bishop Casey, naughty vicars and lusty housekeepers.
What’s that down to?
No vocations, aging clergy, or now that the paedophile stuff has come out they don’t need the smoke screen anymore?

Britney Spears is denying ever, EVER having lesbian orgies and I for one, am delighted.
Of course she is and of course she hasn’t.
I’m still traumatised by the images of her flashing her panty parts getting out of the car.
No self respecting lesbian would go anywhere near a fanny that looks like a badly packed kebab.
Not sober, anyway.
Then again, that may just be me being fussy.
Which, I must admit, is a new experience.
We don’t want her! Much the same with Michael Barrymore.
Why don’t the ones who could actually make a difference come out?
People at the top of their career, whatever that may be?
Because of tossers like that probably.

Spew, Soot, And Smiles

Today I helped my Uncle pull down two chimney breasts and fill a skip to overflowing at a house he is renovating.
I’m knackered, covered in shite, the arse split out of my jeans and I have black snot.
Brilliant.
Hopefully I will get some sleep tonight!
Maybe it’s just me, but there is something satisfying about being tired through physical labour.
Although, doubtless, I will be a study in pain tomorrow.

The day started grimly, with me puking in the skip.
Had shellfish last night.
I LOVE it and G-d punishes me for eating treif.
It’s a trade off I can live with.
I was sweeping the floor at one point and found a huge discoloured patch on the floorboards.
I asked if there had been a problem with damp, which seemed the most obvious.
It was while I was kneeling down, feeling the boards, that my uncle informed me the previous owner had died in the room and had lain undiscovered for 8 or 9 weeks!
The stain was the ‘residue’ of him.
Amazingly, I retained what was left in my stomach while my Uncle was bent double with laughter.
The neighbours only noticed they hadn’t seen him for a bit, when the millions of bluebottles he had ‘nurtured’ were trying to get out of the windows.
I got my own back later in the day when I dislocated my knuckle and fixed it in front of him!
A wheelbarrow full of rubble can get spiteful when you haven’t properly discussed hand positions on the, “One, Two, Three, LIFT” bit.

My favourite quote of the day,

“I’m English, and as such I crave disappointment. That’s why I buy Kinder Surprise.”

Bill Bailey.

Best chat up move and line of the day,

You lick the end of your finger and touch the object of your affection, somewhere clothed, then say,
“Quick, let’s get you home and out of those wet things.”

My Uncle.

That kept me smiling all day!

The England match was so boring I nearly turned it over.
Sod’s Law would’ve meant 5 goals in 5 minutes and I would want to beat something.
So, I watched on.
As they say,
“The triumph of hope over experience……. Like a second marriage.”

Genes Reunited My Arse

I am sure most people have had a go at tracing their Family Tree through the internet.
Some people I know have got as far back as the 15th century.
I have been trying to do mine on ATM’s side.
I have got as far back as her grandparents and have hit a wall.
Through remembering old stories of my Grandfather’s and using the census I have found his niece.
The daughter of his eldest sister, Edwina Boyle married to George Macdonald.
She seems to have done well for herself, married well and has a successful business.
She married the half brother of Lord Snowdon.

My Grandfather always said his sister was a social climber.
I have emailed her, written a snail mail letter, all to no avail.
I have made it clear that I have no interest in her immediate family all I want is any information that will further my search in to the Great Grandparents.
Nothing.
Not even a letter to tell me to fuck off.
So, I am writing about it here.
I know my Grandfather’s family were ashamed of him. He fought in Spain on the side of the Communists, something his family found abhorrent.
He married my Grandmother, who was considered beneath him.
This is not my fight.
I just want information.
So, Aline Parsons (or either of her sons) of Womersley Food in Lancashire, how rude are you?
You obviously think you are SO much better than the rest of your family.
You have Irish blood, no matter how much your Grandfather tried to hide that fact.
Do you even know where he is buried? I do.
I’m not proud that I have had to resort to this but your ignorance and extreme bad manners have pushed me to this.
I will put every single one of your names in the search area of this and live happy in the knowledge that my Grandfather was absolutely correct in his summing up of you all.

Brought To Book

As I blogged about before, I feel I didn’t read enough last year.
This year I have started off at a sprint.
I’ve read, The Book Of Fathers, which is a cracking book.
The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cornwell.
The Last Witchfinder by James Morrow.
The Magdalene Cipher by Jim Hougan, this is the one I have the problem with.
As the title suggests there is a touch of The Da Vinci Code about this book. It’s not a challenging read by any stretch but when one of the characters started paying someone in 100 pound notes I wanted to launch it through the window.
When Jim started spelling Ochre, Ocher I wanted to burn it.

Ages ago I looked in to the possibility of being a proof reader but was told it is nigh on impossible, unless you know someone in a publishing house and even then it’s not easy. Exams, tests and the like, which you have to pay for.
So, to read such glaring mistakes makes me fucking furious!
£100 note? Fucking ignorant Septic.
Doesn’t take a lot of research that one. Type British currency in to wikipedia you lazy prick.
Three Scottish banks issue a £100 note and they are not legal tender ANYWHERE.
Grrrrrr…

Bad writing I will suffer, with some vitriol, piss poor spelling gets right on my tits but terrible research is just the worst crime. Maybe that is the History graduate coming out.
There is no excuse for it though.
Has anybody else read John Connolly’s books? Not the Connolly who has Harry Bosch as the hero, the other one?
Schnee, you would love these. Excellent crime mysteries with a touch of the ‘Derek Accorah’s’.
I love these.
I’m constantly disappointed in bookshops, when I find he hasn’t written a new one yet.

Method And Madness

I’m sure you all have your own method for picking up magazines in such a way that all the crap inside falls out and gets left behind.
All the loans shit, flower seed advertising, mini magazines that sell the heated slippers, stuff to revitalise polyester and trousers that have a waist size that is double that of the inside leg.
Just to piss me off, what they are doing now is stapling these things into the magazine.
Pull them out and the staples are raised up ready to slice and dice your skin.
Which is precisely what happened to me today with the television mag.
My hands now look like I have defence injuries from a knife attack.
Bastard ‘What’s On TV’ people and their cheap staples.
That wouldn’t happen with The Radio Times.
Shame I’m too tight to buy it.

I read a story today about Jessica Winfield, a transgendered inmate of the high security prison Whitemoor. She complains of the harassment she gets from staff and inmates.
I was feeling a bit sorry for her, until I read what she was in prison for.
Rape.
Committed when she was ‘Martin’.
My understanding of transgendered people, is that they believe that they have been born in to the wrong body.
Also, like gay people, they suss this out pretty early on and there is nothing they can do about it.
So what the fuck is someone, who believes that there are female, doing raping anyone?
I am not saying that women can’t be guilty of rape.
Just, to my mind, rape seems to be quite a ‘Masculine’ crime.
You see what I mean?

The advert for Virgin credit card is getting on my tits.
Two blokes in a lift talking about the wondrousness of Virgin credit.
They ask a third bloke about it who immediately puts on headphones and starts bopping around.
The two tossers look at each other and one says into the jack of the headphones,
“Why are you pretending to listen to music?”
Which begs my question,
“WHY the fuck are you talking into the jack of the fucking headphones, you wanker?”

This has made me smile.
The Priory rehab place chucked out Jade Goody because she is ‘too angry for anger management’.
Cracking!
Apparently she was being, ‘Antagonistic and attention seeking. She was effing and blinding all the time’.
No? Really?

Flaming

I love watching the Rugby. Especially any Ireland match.
It’s during the National Anthem, as the camera moves along the team, it reaches the number 9 at the point when everybody is singing,
“Shoulder to shoulder, we’ll answer Ireland’s call….”
The number 9 is 5 foot tall and he is wedged between two massive guys. His shoulders reach their waists.
Irony, expressed through the medium of Rugby.
Brilliant.

It hasn’t been that cold today but I lit a fire any way.
I’ve always loved fire and was one of those kids who would set fire to anything.
I carried matches and later, a lighter, before I smoked.
At 3, I got hold of matches and managed to strike one.
I was so shocked by what had happened, I opened the cupboard under the stairs threw it in and shut the door.
This set fire to some old carpet and the cupboard began to smoke.
My Grandfather began shouting,
“Dear Christ, the gas meter!”
The carpet was dragged out and down the garden and thrown in a heap at the bottom.
Oxygen set that bastard off like a bomb.
Next door’s shed caught fire and because he was a sign writer was full of white spirit.
Fuck Me! Did that go up.
That is one of my earliest memories and the start of a life long love of fire.
I have a coal fire in the front room and I love ‘setting’ it.
Bunching the newspaper into loose doughnuts, arranging the kindling on top.
The scratch, flare and burn of the extra long match bursting into life. Touching the flame to the paper and watching it go up.
Lovely!
There is a special twist to my pyromania, that is probably rooted in my Aspergers’ nature.
Once I have lit the fire it is MINE!
I don’t want anyone else poking and prodding at it. I don’t want anyone else adding coal, logs and when I can smuggle it, ‘Turf’ from Ireland.
It is MY fire. I gave it life.

Burning peat is one of the most beautiful smells in the whole wide world.
(Don’t start whining about the environment! I think filling my house with those energy efficient light bulbs, which means bimbling about in a twilight world of semi half light most of the time, entitles me to a fire every now and then.)
I’m burning a bit at the moment, bought from the Hellish Knock International Airport. It’s about the size of a tobacco tin and cost 4 euro.
The briquettes don’t smell the same as the proper stuff, which are like clods of dried earth, but even with this ‘engineered’ sod, I get a whiff of a stone cottage in Mayo. The memory of a freezing cold quarry tiled floor, an inglenook fire place stacked waist high with turf and a pilgrim soul who said,
“Yes….”

Question of the day.... IS a finger of Fudge just enough?

Soundtrack to my day.... Primal Scream
Taj Mahal
Snow Patrol
Amy Winehouse
MC Solaar
Sia

Today Has Been...

I’m back in Pompey.
I am also shorn, clipped and coiffed!
I have my real head back.
Whoo hoo!

Today has been a good day because I’ve seen Sassy, Crisp-e, Mad Matt and we have laughed!
Sassy brought tea, for every time of day, from Raffles Hotel, Crisp-e brought greenery, Mad Matt brought tales from Mayhem and his cheery disposition.
I would just like to take this opportunity to congratulate Daffers.
Not only did she manage to get an ‘Outstanding’ for her teaching during the LEA inspection, she did it wearing odd shoes.
Nice one Daffers, that’s better than the inside out blouse of the last one!
We worked out that Crisp-e has now spent more on cycle locks for his Batty Boy Bike than he spent on the bike itself.
He also came out with my ‘sentence of the month’, so far,

“I drank a can of this stuff called ‘Relentless’, I could see the fucking air in front of me vibrating, kid’s faces were just blurred and people moved like they were in that film, Jacob‘s Ladder.”

We were discussing the myriad of substances we have used to ‘pep’ ourselves up at school.

Today has been a good day because this has made me chuckle. The idea of paedophiles who were “angry and outraged” when they found out the ‘12 year old’ living with them was in fact, 29.
Cracker!
Shame. I think they felt their trust had been abused.

Today has been a good day because England won a game of something sporty.

Today has been a good day because I am wearing new underwear. Both cheeks of my arse are in at the same time and I can be run over without fear of shaming anyone. (Or pulling anyone)

Mildly annoying today.
The child next door has been given a fucking recorder or some sort of blowy instrument. She seems to think ‘panting’/ 'humming' the tune in to it works better than covering the fucking holes and playing it.
I beg to differ.
I hope they manage to sell the house before she moves on to the violin.
That would be too much.

Complete Sentences Please

I am in Wiltshire!
Fear not Sassy, the felines have a locum 'tin opener'.

Anyone else feel like raising an eyebrow over the two paedophiles who avoided prison because of new directives on overcrowding, compared to the guys who hacked in to the voicemail of Royalty and got four months?
Mmmm... Let's consider this...
John Reid says to the judges,

"Look, I know sentencing is none of my fucking business but do you think you can ease up on the sending the criminals to prison aspect of the job?
It's a bit full.
How about getting them to paint over graffiti and scrape up chewing gum, or something?
What's that?
Yes, yes I know! Tough on crime and tough on the causes of crime.
Shh.. Someone might hear!"

So, the judges put the phone tappers in jail and let the kiddie fiddlers go!
I have to admit to admiring this as a "making a fucking point" stand.
The last Head of State that I saw, who had the judiciary in his pocket, was stood on a trapdoor with a noose around his neck on fucking youtube.
Before you start getting all 'righteously indignant', have a look at what the judges are trying to save us from.
The 'government' isn't allowed to do that.

Anyway, what did we find out from the voicemail?
Prince William had a poorly knee*.... Jaw dropping news that!
Christ! It could bring down the Monarchy!
"Four months, take him down."
Downloading Kiddie Porn and Noncing?
"I'm releasing you on bail because you pose no obvious threat to the community"

*Has anyone else noticed that William is more often referred to as the 'Heir to the Throne' than Charles is?
This tickles my Inner Conspiracy Theorist.
I reckon that was the deal that was done so Charles could marry Camilla.
The Throne goes straight to William and misses Charles out.
Looking at the Queen Mother, Betty has a few years left yet. I think Charles will abdicate in favour of William.
The whole 'Camilla as Queen' issue will never arise. If it does, maybe the British public would've moved on a bit.
A year after Diana died, who'd have thought they would be married?

I'll Take Two Please

Advertising has me baffled again.
Kit Kat are running a campaign focusing on the ‘calorifics’ of the product.
More or less saying that a two finger Kit Kat can be used as part of your diet because it’s not THAT fattening.
Who have they got as the central character in this?
Father ‘fat bastard’ Christmas!
He has found the last chimney a bit tight.
Can anyone else see the flaw in their thinking?
I guarantee you that fucker won’t have lost an ounce by the time we see him next year.
Why choose a character who is universally renowned for being rotund?

I think this should be cleared up concerning the adoption row.
You would expect that all adoption agencies would put a child with a family or couple that are good for the child.
The same with gay couples, you only put a child with them if it will be in the best interest of that kid.
The Catholic agencies aren’t being FORCED to place children with gays.
Just that they are not just dismissed without a word because they are gay. That is the bit that’s against the law.
What happens to those teenagers who are chucked out of home when they come out?
I suppose they are placed with ‘straight’ couples, who if Catholic, will tell this child it is a sin to be who they are.
Wouldn’t a better role model be a gay couple, in a long term, loving relationship?
The argument then becomes something about studies showing that kids brought up with gays are more likely to have homosexual relationships. So What?
What does that really prove? That these kids were raised with the idea that love can go beyond gender?
Oooh, how fucking wicked is that? Being brought up thinking about love.
Damn those gays to hell!
They make it sound like a couple can walk in off the streets and say,
‘We’re gay, we’d like a kid, please’,
And they have GOT to hand one over.
Of course not. Get a fucking grip.

Liars, Floaters And Dealers

Not wishing to sound whiney, but,
“Where is the fucking snow I was promised?”.
Last night I listened as the weatherman guaranteed me some snow.
The computer graphics definitely showed flakes falling on my little island.
Not a fucking flake.
20 miles along the road, in Chichester, they have snow. Bastards.
We never get any of the ‘good’ weather here.
Schnee, the gritters were out in ‘anticipation’ of the snow.

Birds are now starting to wash up all along the coast.
Covered in oil and shite from that beached ship.
This has brought me to the conclusion that seabirds are fucking thick.
Blue Tits in one part of the country sussed out that if they pecked the tops off milk bottles they would get the cream. Within 48 hours (or something) Blue Tits all over the country were at it.
Morphic Resonance/Memory has been argued as the reason for it.
An Avian collective memory. Wonder what Jung would have made of that?
With this in mind, you’d think the Guillemots would have caught on.
Stay away from the black shit in the water, for fuck’s sake!

D the Dealer turned up unexpectedly. When I say ‘Dealer’, I use the term very loosely.
He rarely has anything to deal. He’s always waiting on this, that and the fucking other to happen. He smells like a wet dog, comes out with totally random statements and calls me ’Man’ all the time.
I inherited him from my brother.
Mmmm… Cheers for that one J!
Amazingly, today, he actually had something to ‘deal’! He swapped some greenery for the use of my printer.
He wanted to print a letter of complaint to his Landlord’s solicitor.
That’s when I started to get ’the bad feeling’.
He’s ex Mayhem and I didn’t hold out much hope for the letter.
Wanting to avoid an Instant Karma moment, I asked him if he wanted me to check it through.

So, I took out all the chav speak, swearing, text speak, the veiled threats, the not so veiled threats, added some punctuation and full sentences.
It was passable, he was happy and I am stoned!
Everyone’s a winner.

Adopting A Stance

It just gets better!
The Catholic Church has had a hissy fit.
Now, they say that they are going to have to close all the adoption agencies.
There is NO WAY they are letting Queers adopt children that no one else wants.
Cormac Murphy- O’Connor, the head of the Catholic Church in England has SUCH a good record on matters involving children.
While he was a Bishop, he knew of paedophile priests in his diocese, but just moved them on. One of them he moved to the Chapel at Gatwick Airport. He was later to serve nearly four years for nine sex attacks on boys, one of whom he abused at Gatwick.
What a Prince Of The Church he is.
This all said, it comes down to the idea, that the church are perpetuating, that ALL homosexuals are paedophiles.
Ok then, from now on I will assume that every Priest wants to fuck young boys and all Nuns want to beat seven shades of shit out of you.
Fair enough?
Cormac, why don’t you ask your opposite number in Boston about paedophile abuse?
How much did the Church have to pay out because of those fucking noncing priests?
$85 Million, I think you’ll find. Just in Boston.
Not that they can’t afford it.
The adoption agencies themselves aren’t exactly bathed in glory either.
The Duplessis Orphans in Canada?
Some of those kids were ‘sold’ for medical experiments for fuck’s sake!
With the knowledge of the Catholic run orphanages they lived in.
So, go on, close them down.
Cut your nose off to spite your face.
Wankers.

Other stuff getting on my tits.

Why do people feel the need to ‘chew’ plain yoghurt?
Stand there, right in front of you with the pot and the spoon fucking chewing!
Some people do it when they drink milk.
Watch them.
Turns my stomach.
I just start imagining what would happen if I bit down in to something ‘clot’ like.
The only time you need to chew milk is if there are cereals in it.
Also pissing me off, are the people who use all the utensils and attachments that come with their vacuum cleaner. What’s that all about?
Fuck off!
I didn’t know ours had all that shit ‘til I dropped it down the stairs. It came apart in slow motion and revealed the treasure hidden within!
I am SO glad I can say I don’t have a clue what each one is used for.

Feck, Salvage And Opus Pocus

Today I have been amused by a couple of things and pissed off by one.
First, the news that two Irish islands are fighting about which one should host the first Father Ted festival.
They are the Aran Islands of Inis Mor and Inis Oirr.
It’s just whinging and bitching at the moment, but I’m waiting for it to kick off!
I hope they solve it in a typically Father Ted way. Have a jumper ‘knit off’ or something.
Battle of the Cable Stitch.

The other one is a total ‘Whiskey Galore’ moment some people are enjoying on the beach in Branscombe, Devon.
Hundreds of containers have been swept off the beached MSC Napoli.
The lunch time news showed people wheeling BMW motorbikes away, rolling massive oak wine barrels up the beach.
For some it was a family affair, kids running about collecting shoes and trainers while the parents picked up car parts and huge packets of nappies.
All the roads in to the town have been closed, but it hasn’t stopped people walking down and taking the risk that they grab hold of something smothered in sulphuric acid.
What do they expect?
Smuggling and luring ships on to rocks to be wrecked has been a West Country pastime for 800yrs!
I had to read Moonfleet by J Meade Falkner when I was at school, bored the tits off me!

I see the ‘stunning’ Ruth Kelly is in the news again.
Actually, I should start that, devout Catholic and Opus Dei member, Ruth Kelly is in the news again.
As Communities Secretary, whatever the fuck THAT is, she is trying to mess with the Equality Act that was passed last year.
The Act bans,
‘discrimination in the provision of goods, facilities and services on the basis of sexual orientation’.
Ruth Kelly is trying to get Catholic adoption agencies exempt from having to follow this.
Tony Blair is backing her on this, he also worships with the Church of Rome.
No fucking connection there then.
Curious.
How much more blatant does this fucking government have to get?

Smokin'

The Harvard School of Public Health studied Nicotine levels in cigarettes from 1997 to 2005.
Surprise, surprise it has increased by 11%.
Keeping in mind governments get huge revenue from smokes.
Some researcher type called Howard Koh said this,

“Cigarettes are finely tuned drug delivery devices, designed to perpetrate a tobacco pandemic.”

I’ve never heard a fag summed up so succinctly or so well.
They haven’t come out directly and said,
‘Oi, you are fucking with the nicotine to make ‘em more addicted‘, that would be way too costly in terms of litigation.
So, in Britain, we have huge public ‘give up smoking’ drives. Ask your doctor, ask your pharmacist, buy a patch type advertising because smokers are a burden on the NHS.
It’s US smokers and our taxed fags that are paying for the National Health Service!
Services that the fucking body Nazis are always using, with their pulled muscles, arthritic knees and Jogger’s Nipple from the fucking healthy run they just did.
You know the people I’m talking about. They are always going for physiotherapy on work time. An appointment that has been 4 months in the coming. It’s always MONTHS!
Ask them about their injury and it’s always some Radial, Medial, Testicostical type of strain, that only comes at a certain (high) level of fitness.
Governments CAN’T afford to lose the smokers.
Smoker’s rarely turn up at their doctor’s complaining of a chest infection or a cough.
We don’t go because we KNOW it’s a self inflicted thing, we’re not fucking stupid.
We don’t want some smug wanker, with patches on his elbows, tutting and telling us we ought to give up.
We fucking know that! Fuck off.
When smokers give up they are always at the doctor, whining.

.. DOC.. What’s the trouble?
..ExSmoker.. I have a hideous cough, I’m really wheezy and it burns when I breathe.
..DOC.. Do you smoke?
..ExSmoker.. Ha! Ha! NO!
NO, I fucking don’t!
Now you have got to treat me without any of the holier than thou shit!
Actually, give a toss. Ha! Ha!
Bring on the real drugs Dr Crippen.
None of that over the counter shite I used to muddle through with. No more Over The Counter crap, Robutussin and the stuff with the aroma of creosote.
(Smells nice. Tastes dreadful. Might even be the national drink of Hungary! Or is that Unicum? Either way, both were hideous and I never refuse a ‘National’ drink, or cough medication if I‘m honest!)
I want antibiotics.
Antibiotics that turn me in to a smorgasbord for MRSA and all that other ‘resistant’ nastiness.
Thank you very much.
I DON'T SMOKE!

All those symptoms a regular smoker would just get on with.

See my point?
The NHS can't afford for the smokers to give up!

Out And About On Friday

This morning I had to fill in a job application form.
Yep, got to get off my arse and do something.
My ‘retirement’ is wreaking havoc with my health and bank balance. Fucking interest rate thingy bastards!
I only got the form yesterday so it was a bit of a rush job. I hadn’t had enough tea or fags to think about being eloquent so I went with Brutally Honest as an eye-catching approach.

“Reason for leaving last job?” I put,
Artistic Differences. They went for Performing Arts status, I was indifferent.
“How many days off in the last year?” I went with,
Ask the Head at Mayhem, he’ll tell you I was never there.
“Reason why you would be good in this position?” I wrote,
I have a thick skin and a good sense of humour.
I’m not offended by the word “Fuck” in all it’s various uses.
I can think on my feet and adapt quickly, flying chairs, books and pens have honed these skills.
Personal remarks, threats of violence, constant nit picking and being ignored no longer bother me.
I’m pretty good with ‘challenging’ kids too.
Also, I could do the job stood on my head.

I then had an, “Oh Fuck it! What’s the point moment” and wasn’t going to bother handing it in.
Sassy kindly talked me down!

As I entered the school’s front door I was greeted by the receptionist shouting,
“…. because you NEED a note” at some bewildered boy.
Sadly, I thought,
‘Yep. This is what I do..’

Delivering the form caused me to walk up a street I’m usually driven up.
So I paid more attention than usual.
It’s totally different to Albert Road.
There are no restaurants but loads of Take Aways.
Shops that sell products for Afro-Caribbean hair. Wigs and weaves hang in the window.
Places selling second hand furniture and if you are getting any of that ‘Second’ I’d be fucking amazed!
Large, predominantly bald, men stand outside these shops. Looking weather beaten, usually leaning on a fridge, smoking.
You can buy Halal meat, all things Chinese, cheap booze and get keys cut.
There are shops that sell Rizla on a roll, you can get tattooed, have your nails painted and your nipples pierced.
Or vice versa.

It was during this walk I came to the conclusion that my health is suffering.
I got fucking Shin Splints!
A searing pain in the muscle down the front of the shins that makes your feet flop around like you’re breaking them in for someone else.
It also gives you the gait of a Thunderbird puppet.
I fell in behind some old dear with a trolley and tried to look as if she had me trapped there.
The ipod, which had tried to fuck with me earlier by refusing to work, was blaring Primal Scream’s Country Girls directly in to my head and I started to enjoy my day.
I contemplated getting my hair cut and set about choosing a criterion.
I went with looking through the window, seeing who was free and deciding whether I wanted them running their fingers through my hair.
I still have huge hair and possibly, a couple of police complaints!
I bumped in to a one night stand who, scarily, remembered every detail about me.
I had no recollection of her whatsoever, or we would never have been in a 'bumping in to' situation, but I think I fronted it out pretty well.

BB POV

Today I have seen a dustbin lid fly down the middle of the street at head height. The aerial ripped off the roof of the house across the road.
Horizontal rain.
People have been killed and injured. The wind got up to 90mph and there were 25ft waves along the seafront.
Crisp packet and leaf tornadoes in my forecourt and clouds moving so fast they made me feel a bit sick. I haven’t seen a single bird and there are usually loads of Magpie’s tormenting Murphy the Murderous Feline. He likes to sit in the window and chunter at them.
According to the news, windows were blown out on the pier and Southsea Common is flooded.
The hosepipe ban has been lifted though.

Right, the Big Brother thing.
I’ve read as much as I can from lots of sources and this is what I make of it.
Yep, there is racist bullying going on.
Why are we surprised at that? You put white, working class wannabe bitches in a house with an educated upper class Indian and expect it to work out?
They cannot ‘compete’ with her on any other level.
She’s gorgeous, speaks 5 or 6 languages and is an absolute star in her world.
Their innate ‘colonialism’ was bound to surface.
I think what people are finding more shocking, is the fact that they thought nothing of it, until it was pointed out to them.
People, who in a million years, would never consider themselves racist.
If you doubt it.
Check out the number of complaints made by the public the 2 days before and the day after the news broke the story.
A lot of people didn’t KNOW to be outraged before they were TOLD to be.
Check out what Ken Russell called Miss Goody and her family.
I think he used the word ‘Guttersnipe’.
Brilliant word! My Nan used it!
Jeremy Paxman was quick to say that not all British ‘white’ people were racist.
Ok. Thanks for that.
In the same way that not all Muslims are terrorists then?
Many of the stories felt the need to point out that Miss Shetty was a Hindu.
Would it make a difference if she wasn’t? Would we mind a little bit less if she was Muslim?

Let’s also not forget why these people are in the Big Brother house in the first place.
I, in all honesty, had never heard of Shilpa Shetty before all this started, Bollywood films are not my thing.
You can guarantee we’ll be hearing loads about her from now on. Anyone fancy a bet on how long it is before we see her in a “Hollywood” film?
Viewer numbers were dropping off. They are up to 5 million again.
Although, Carphone Warehouse has pulled it’s sponsorship.
My inner conspiracy theorist has come up with the idea of 2 Big Brother execs playing a sort of ‘Trading Places’ game with Jade Goody.
A ‘we make her in one series and ruin her in another’ scenario.
If so, one of them has just won a huge bet!

All Is Sweet

We are into that dreaded time of year when only the really crappy sweets are left in the Quality Street tin.
Sweeties that you only contemplate when you have got the munchies, bad!
I wasted 15 minutes of my life this afternoon deciding whether to suck the chocolate and caramel from the ‘Purple one’ and gob away the nut.
Or go against all my beliefs and accept that orange is an acceptable flavour for chocolate.
I went with the spitting nuts option. (not a line you’re likely to hear me say again!)
Orange and chocolate together is just too wrong.
Terry can keep his ‘chocolate orange’, it’s fucking filth.
Who else won't throw away the QS tin, 'just in case'? Just in case of what, Christ alone knows!

We have had an impromptu dinner party tonight.
Sassy came round for a quick drink and it just grew.
I cooked pasta, then all of a sudden we were partying.
Basically, I'm as pissed as a fart!
We have discussed the idea of an ’Ancestral Memory’.
Which I believe, is what happens in all families, when you have heard the same story over and over again you actually believe it happened to you.
That’s how elephants can find water holes their great grandparents used…
They had heard the stories so often they thought they were fucking there!

As usual, adverts are catching my eye.
This time it’s hair dye adverts.
Some American actress is going on about how wonderful this particular dye is.
Flicking her hair about in slow motion and looking very ‘chestnutty’.
In her ‘Deep South’ accent she tells us it even does,
‘wiry, little ones’.
She has shoulder length hair, so One can only wonder what short, wiry hairs she is referring to.
Are the advertising companies, subliminally, trying to put the ‘Merkin’ people out of business?!

Now for a Housemate rant.
Waiting for weeks and weeks, then stuffing all your laundry in at once, doesn’t work. I’m not even sure the centre gets wet.
For some reason the spin of the machine has the strength of an industrial centrifuge.
This means your 6kgs of laundry are in such a tight ball and wedged in so tight, it’s like trying to undo the Gordian Knot.
Next time I WILL get my sword.
Are we clear?

I will dip into the Big Brother racism debate, but tomorrow, I have had too much Brandy tonight.
Getting in touch with my inner toper! Frankly, I quite like her.

Smack 'eads, No 'eads and Knob 'eads

Why do they sit down on the BBC evening news but stand up on the lunchtime one?
The other thing that pisses me off is when they say something like,
‘the time is fast approaching 16 minutes past 6’.
How fast exactly?
A second at a time I should think.
Fucking fool.

One of the items was about the massive rise in hard drug use amongst the British Asian community.

Just go with me for a bit here.
Afghani opium growers were promised money by the British government to STOP growing poppies.
Promised amid fears that:

1.. Money was funding terrorism.
2.. Keeping drugs off British streets.

So, Britain gets them to plant coffee or coriander or something, and doesn’t honour the promise to pay them.
The growers suffer financial hardship and think, “Fuck It” and plant poppies again.
Some of the drugs made from these crops end up in Britain, up the noses or in the arms of British Asians, some of whom are Muslim.
A few of the families send their drug addicted kids off to Islamic ‘schools’ for a cure.
Here they become politicised and come home angry enough to strap bombs to themselves.
Am I alone in seeing the irony here?

There wasn’t a mention of the decapitation of Saddam’s half brother.
One quick mention yesterday with a,
'Oh, by the way. He was decapitated', almost coughed behind a hand.
We had days and days of Saddam’s execution and his went relatively well.
This fucker’s head came off! Came off!
They should have watched Pierrepoint.
According to him, decapitation occurs when the drop is too big for a heavy person.
I seem to remember he looked like a bit of a salad dodger.

The fine people of Pompey have done themselves proud again.
A house in Havant (read, Leigh Park) has been targeted for vandalism and violence. Windows smashed and inhabitants attacked.
The reason?
A rumour got around that paedophiles live there.
In fact, it is an assisted living home for adults with learning difficulties.
Fucking idiots.

There was me thinking the whole of Leigh Park was assisted living housing for the inbred knuckle draggers who were moved out from the slums of Portsea.
Don’t start ‘tutting’! You know it’s true.
Look what happened in Paulsgrove where they put the rest of them (mixing up the limited gene pool).
They burnt down a Paediatrician’s office and not one of their placards had ‘Paedophile’ spelled correctly!
As I have often said, 150 000 people, 5 surnames.

Yesterday I read ‘The Black Sun’ by James Twining. It’s a kind of Da Vinci Code with Nazis and looted treasures.
Today I started ‘The Book Of Fathers’ by Miklos Vamos. I’m only a few chapters in but I can tell it’s going to be a cracker.
Schnee, this is definitely one for you.

Rhyme and Punishment

Well! Who knew?!
How dangerous going for a curry could be.
We all know the dangers of ordering while pissed, when you are convinced that 32 poppadoms between 6 and the hottest thing on the menu are a splendid idea.
Oblivious to the following morning’s Johnny Cash moment. When you don’t fall in the burning ring of fire……
You are in full possession of one.
But, it’s not that.
Bombs can be made from chapatti flour and peroxide used by hairdressers!
BBC News informs me that this is what the alleged, failed suicide bombers used.

(Failed suicide Bomber??? “Yeah I was going to do it, had the bomb, rucksack, train ticket, the lot!.... But wouldn’t you know it, halfway there and the fucking Prozac kicked in”…

The reason they didn’t go off? Too much flour!
There you go, you can all stop worrying about ‘those Muslims who run the Take Away’.
They wouldn’t fuck up the flour!
Asian hairdressers must be shitting themselves waiting for Scotland Yard to come piling through their doors!
Just remember:

“First they came for the hairdressers, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a hairdresser.
Then they came for the Take Away owners, I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Take Away owner.
Then they came for me, but I had fucking starved to death with a 6ft afro”

Sleepy Niemoller. (Feel free to imagine umlauts!)

I have been to Marlborough today. There is a fantastic bookshop there.
The owner is one of those great upper class Englishmen who are superior, rude and helpful all at the same time!
Sassy, he would appeal to your inner Parisienne.
I like him because he is no nonsense.
Usually there is something about books on shelves that makes people feel they ought to be quiet and library-like. Same with big shops that have book sections, that’s the quietest area.
Not this guy. The whole shop could hear him being rude to his bank.
“Who are you? Come on, come on, Lloyds or Barclays?”
“Why are you phoning me?”
“What? What? You want me to do what?”
“No. NO. I can’t talk to you now!”
Down went the phone, with real venom.
All the people in the shop became really involved in the book in front of them.
I wanted to applaud.
He couldn’t have given a toss.

I saw the front page of The Mirror today and can’t work out whether to be pissed off or laugh like a drain.
Roy Whiting, murderer of 8 year old Sarah Payne, is complaining that his cell is haunted by Harold Shipman!
The poor bugger is ‘scared witless’.
Really? What, More than Sarah Payne was?..
Fuck him. Leave him in there.
In fact, send in Derek Accorah and John Edward.
One can tell him where the dead are hanging about and the other can tell him what they are saying.
Creepy.

Green Eyed Monster

As many of you know, Sunday is when I worship at the Church of Sky Sports 1.
Revering one of my gods, known as football.
As you can imagine everybody has an opinion about David Beckham.
So, from the sofa in my Sunday best, (dressing gown and slippers), here is the homily.

David Beckham didn’t wake up one morning suddenly able to do what he does.
He practised for hours and hours on end.
During those teenage years when the majority were out smoking, drinking cider, doing drugs and earning ASBO points.
He was practising.
He was living 200 miles away from home and family, living football and practising.
Eventually, because of practise, he got to play for one of the greatest clubs and his country.
He acquired a ‘high maintenance’ wife.
Week in and week out he had thousands chanting obscenities at him about her. Imagine going to work and all you get is people abusing someone you love.
After the World Cup sending off incident, effigies of him were burnt. He received mail hoping his child would die of cancer.
Think of the injuries he’s had. The strain any sport puts on joints. Next time you see a free kick of his, look at his standing leg.
I have terrible joint problems because of the sport I played when I was younger and I wasn’t at his level or played for as long.
As he gets older he is going to have pain and as his looks go so will his earning potential.

We have all been told that hard work and sacrifice will bring a reward. That’s what he’s done.
Fucking fair play to him. Grab the money and run.
Think back to the public outcry there was when one of the “Heroes of ‘66” was going to auction his winner’s medal. Why was he selling it? Because he had fuck all, except medical bills.
Think about it the next time the lottery is up to 25 million and you are buying a ticket.
You wouldn’t be buying that ticket if you had got off your fucking arse and made yourself world class in whatever your talent is.

Would it be too difficult to see it for what it actually is?
WE ARE FUCKING JEALOUS and we are collectively bullying him. The disease of clawing down anybody who has made good just because it wasn’t us.

Here endeth the lesson.

Has anyone else seen the advert for Dettol Kitchen Spray?
It makes all sorts of claims about killing Bacteria but also claims to kill MRSA.
Has no one thought to let the NHS in on this secret?
If it’s expensive I’m sure a deal can be done with Lidl.
I’d love to see them get a Royal Charter or whatever they are called.

“Lidl, purveyors of fine food with labels no one can read, to HRH the Duchess of Cornwall”.

How cool would that be?

Barnet Fair

Come on guys!!! This just ain't right..

Chants, The Clap And Knickers

A tune came on the radio as I was escaping Portsmouth for my Wiltshire hideaway. I urge you all to listen to it. Listen to it LOUD, you will smile and bop.
T-Rex…. Hot Love (The repeat to fade version)
I was immediately whipped back to a time in my life that is now called ‘pre-teen’, I call it ‘happy’.
Back to a time when being cool in the playground didn’t involve smoking, ‘looking’ the part, swearing and snogging.
You did other stuff.
I played football, Bulldog and Kinger but I wasn’t like the other girls!

There were the girls who wrapped the belt from their coat around a friend’s waist, then “Rode” them round the playground like a horse. Making strange clicking sounds and shouting, ‘Walk On’. Pigtails were acceptable reins during the summer.

There was the group that would produce a huge circle of knicker elastic or elastic bands joined together. Two girls looped this around their ankles and moved 6ft apart. Other girls would then jump on the stretched elastic in a certain order chanting,
‘….. inside, outside, twizzles’ off’.
Whatever the fuck that might mean!
I have an idea for it now, but it’s probably best kept to myself!.
After each turn the elastic was moved higher, Calf, knee etc.
Only got interesting to watch then.

Then there was the ‘angry’ lot. They had a tennis ball in a long sock or leg of an old pair of tights.
They would stand against a wall and fling this thing about like a medieval flagellant, chanting the weirdest shit.
“Nebuchnezzar, King of The Jews, bought his wife a pair of shoes…”
They didn’t sound happy about the shoes.
Get in the way and they’d have your fucking head off.
Having seen the effect of bad shoes on hectic Jewish women, I stayed the fuck away from this lot. I did also think they may have been the “Cossacks” my Great Grandmother used to shout about.

There were the freakish bunch who did a handclapping thing. Clapping hands against each other in a particular order ALSO chanting!
These chants had more to do with ‘Sailors going to sea, to see what they could see….’, than pissed off women in ill-fitting shoes.
Other girls would gather round and take it in turns to try and do it faster. This activity could also be done with another girl plaiting the “Clapee’s” hair. All most strange. The orderly handclapping made me think of my Grandmother and her shouting about Nazis.
I kept away from them.

Last and by no means least.
The girls who did handstands up against the wall!
For some reason it was always the girls with the grubbiest or brightest knickers on.
This is the time in my life when I learned to read the days of the week upside down.
Noticed I was the only girl watching with the boys and found out that some girls wore the same shreddies two days on the trot.
Nobody had warned me against this type of girl!
I made a mental note of them in case of ‘Wet PE’. There was always a mad dash for “Scottish Country Dance” partners and I did not want to be stuck in close proximity to a skanky one.

My hair is now so huge I’m picking up the police frequency, or the voices are back.
Either way, I’m going with it.

Nicotine And Rain

Not wishing to sound stereotypically British but the weather is horrendous.
Roofs have been blown off, trees uprooted, power lines are down. Flood warnings are in effect in many places but you can guarantee a hose pipe ban in a few months time.
The wind has taken next door’s back gate straight off its hinges and Mrs Next Door has a face like a slapped arse. She has been bitching at Mr Next Door to get it sorted for some time. (Our walls aren’t thin but she is shrill!)
I lasted as long as I could but my body’s relentless call for nicotine drove me out of the house and into the maelstrom.
I made the ‘skinning up Oregano’ mistake in 1985 and I won’t be doing that again.
The rain was horizontal and the wind so strong I had no choice but to jog. Well, on the way there, anyway.
Coming back against the wind, I think I must have looked like a mime artist pulling myself along on an invisible rope.
When I got in, I had to go through that whole wrestling thing that happens when you try and take off wet jeans. To be confronted with legs the colour of corned beef, the shitty stuff in cans not the proper stuff. Twenty minutes later the sky was blue, the rain had stopped and the ‘hurricane’ had dropped to a gentle breeze. It stayed like that for 10 minutes, the time it takes me to get to the shop and back.
I’m sure I heard G-d chuckling.
Bastard!..

Another advert is getting on my tits. Just for a change!
A little oriental boy sat on the toilet has a total tantrum because a white contraption on the wall isn’t working. His Mum is outside asking what is wrong, all of a sudden he has a pen and writing material (Most unhygienic). He ‘draws’ that the air freshener has run out.
So, basically what they are saying is, “shit stinks“.
No, really?
And air freshener takes the smell away. Well, thank fuck they told me that. I would never have got that one on my own!

Follicles and Molluscs

I’m going mental.
I am in desperate need of a serious haircut. The trouble is, it ain’t that easy!
I have complicated hair. Two crowns and a couple of cow licks. It all grows different ways, mainly out!
I have had hairdressers just suddenly stop half way through the cut and tell me they can’t do it.
I have had one, while using clippers, suddenly say, ‘Ooops’ and step away from me.
I was out of the chair and had her pinned to the wall by the throat, screaming, “Fucking Oooops”, all in the blink of an eye.
Suffice it to say, there are a few establishments where I am no longer welcome.
There was an afternoon when Crisp-e and I did some mushrooms and decided to attack my mop with his clippers! Not an ideal plan and we had to get Yusef the Barber to sort it out! Wasn’t too bad but I did look like a young Arab boy for a week.
All this aside, I NEED a haircut, there are bits going curly for fuck’s sake. I can’t live with that kind of shit going on with my Barnet!

I’m going to have to be careful here, after my Steve Urwin experience, but Ray Mears is getting on my tits.
He has a new programme where he bimbles around Britain doing his ‘hunter gatherer’ bit showing us how our Mesolithic ancestors survived. Eating some of the nastiest looking shit you’ve ever seen. Smacking his lips and saying how wonderful it all is.
Is it buggery.
It’s all stuff you tell kids to stay away from because dogs and tramps have pissed on it.
I do love the idea of being able to mooch around the countryside and know exactly what I could and couldn’t eat. But his delivery and attitude about it is so smug and superior it puts my back up. Makes me want to poke him straight in the eye with one of his ‘tasty’ Razor Clams. The one he has cooked on a hot stone heated by the fire he made from rubbing fucking slow-worms together or something. You’d think a man who dresses straight from Millets would have heard of a camping stove or a Trangia.
I better not bump in to him in Waitrose because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from having a rant if he didn’t have seaweed, snails, slugs and algae in his basket. (All stuff I’m sure Waitrose would have!)

There Was A Young Man.....

I spent most of yesterday watching football, one of my favourite activities!
One of the least attractive aspects of the game takes place during substitutions. While stood on the touchline the sub adjusts his shorts and does this bollock juggling thing.
How this helps their game I’m unsure, but I really don’t like to see it.
So I propose a solution.
The player going off has to arrange the testicles of the one coming on.
I think that will put an end to the practise pretty swiftly.

All we have heard about today is about Ruth Kelly.
Ex Minister for education, face like a Russian war memorial and the sartorial elegance of an unmade bed.
She is taking one of her kids out of a state school and sending him to a 15 grand a year private one.
Apparently he has Special Educational Needs. So, this morning I was sat watching the news wondering what these needs could be. Autism, Down’s syndrome, wheelchair etc. All conditions Schnee and I have encountered at Mayhem.
This boy’s ‘Severe’ learning difficulty? Yep, by lunchtime’s news it was severe, is Dyslexia. Dyslexia! Jaysus..
A pair of coloured ‘specs and he’s good to go.
I can’t see the problem with him staying in mainstream in a class of 35+ each with their own ‘Special Needs’.
With kids throwing chairs, fighting, climbing out of windows, telling staff to Fuck Off, making and receiving phone calls, ripping up books, setting fire to ANYTHING (I’ve seen them try and burn a fire extinguisher!), girls doing their hair and make up, boys sorting out their Fantasy Football teams, walking out when they feel like it. With one Learning Support Assistant for all of them.
Just like everybody else’s “Special” children.
Then, to really piss me off we were told that Mrs Kelly would be paying for this out of her own money.
FUCKING RIGHT SHE WILL!

This afternoon I have been to Devizes, which I’m sure is a lovely place, but I just couldn’t get the, “There was a young man from Devizes….” thing out of my head. I’m sure everybody who saw me thought I was a ‘Care In The Community’ case. Dodgy grin and sporadic chuckling!

Burn In Hell

I'm confused. Not an unusual state of affairs for me!
Why, all of a sudden is it wrong that Saddam has been hanged?
'Deplorable', Gordon Brown called it. No world leader seemed to be lining up at the time in his defense. Then the execution HAD to be shown to stop the conspiracy theories.
Now it's an abomination. These people want to make up their fucking minds.
They weren't that squeamish while they were bombing Baghdad, knowing full well that Saddam had done a runner and the army was more or less non existent.

I don't remember anyone being outraged when the mutilated bodies of his sons, Uday and Qusay were plastered over the front pages of papers around the world.
Everybody has seen the Zapruda film where you can see President Kennedy's head come apart. Who complained about that?
I watched the YouTube footage, a few times, he is there on the trapdoor - then he isn't. You don't see him dangling or jerking on the end of the rope. In all honesty, it wouldn't have bothered me if I did.
So, what I can work out is 'they' didn't like people shouting "Go to Hell" at him.
Fuck off.

In America when a murderer is executed, people are invited to witness it. Members of the victim's family can be there.
Do you think they are sat there thinking to themselves,
"Aaah, poor bugger, I hope he goes straight to heaven".
Or are they cheering and thinking,
'Go to Hell, you fucking scum!'

Let's not forget what this bastard did before we become part of the rewritten history of Saddam The Martyr.

To all you 'Peace Nazis', You know who you are..... Grow up!

None More Pure.....

There is a term that my Grandmother used to use that has really stuck with me, and the older I have got the more I have come to understand it.
“There are none more pure than the purified”.

I first understood it when friends started to give up smoking cigarettes. Those people who used to spark up, close their eyes with almost orgasmic pleasure as the nicotine hit their system and say, ‘Oooh, Yes, that’s perfect’. Or words to that effect.
When they give up, all of a sudden you are the personification of evil. They then get all ‘evangelical’ about it. Tell you about the patches and the gum and how much better they feel. Graphically describe what the ‘poison’ is doing to you.
Well, fucking good for you. Count me out!

Then there are those who give up illegal drugs, especially the ’hard’ ones.
Now, they are different. I have nothing but admiration for those people and the horrors they go through. They can bask in their purification.

There is now a new group of ‘body Nazis’. You read about them in the paper, see them on those shit day time talk shows and you’ve probably met a few.
Those who have gone whining to their doctor about excessive hand washing, butterflies in their stomachs when they have to leave the house, or an inability to get on with what the rest of us call ‘Life’. Who, at some point got themselves to believe that because the doctor gave them the stuff it must be good. These people, when the drugs are withdrawn go into total melt down and would have you believe they are having the full on Ewan MacGregor experience from Trainspotting.
Are they bollocks!
A bit of insomnia is usual and maybe Delhi Belly which lasts for 2 weeks, tops.
(Remember, one of the Housemates is a Pharmacist. This may come as a shock, but they know more than the doctors about how medications work on the system.)

Seeing as these people feel it quite acceptable to inflict their point of view on me, for example, I drink so I’m obviously an alcoholic. I smoke dope, so I’m a drug addicted junkie who would burgle your house as soon as look at you. I’m Gay so I obviously want to fuck everything with a pulse and if you believe the Christian Right, that’d be your children.
I think it’s fine for me to air my views.
Get a FUCKING grip!
Take responsibility for yourselves, stop blaming your parents for everything that has gone wrong in your fucked up life and perhaps consider it might just be something to do with you!
You are living it, not them.
Tablets won’t change it, in most cases they do very little, fuck all at all OR make you worse.
Whinging about it won’t change it. Finding G-d won’t change it. Going to ‘meetings’ won’t change it.
If you feel the overwhelming need to ‘blame’ someone, look in the mirror.

Imagine having to be trained that when someone smiles they are not baring their teeth at you, and it’s a friendly gesture.
That when your hand is shaken and a person says,
‘Pleased to meet you’, it’s just a phrase, most times they don’t actually mean it. How frustrating it is when people don’t do what they say or arrive at an arranged time. 9ish, 10ish, means fuck all to me.
That it is really distressing if an item that has always been kept in a certain place is suddenly moved.
Not only remembering books but the page numbers of certain bits. (handy for footnotes in Uni essays!)
Imagine being constantly tested and told your IQ is extremely high, then being treated like a retard because your ‘Social Skills’ are slightly lacking. Put in classes with Window Lickers and kids who can’t spell their name or put their shoes on the right feet.
Forcibly drugged because no one knows what is ’wrong’ or what to do with you and G-d forbid you are ‘yourself’.
Frustration is interpreted as violence.
That stating the obvious is perceived as rudeness or a subliminal request for a beating.
Forcing yourself to look someone in the eye, otherwise you are thought of as shifty and dishonest.

I’ll stop before I fuck up my Chi! But I will leave you with a quote..

“A lunatic is also a man society does not wish to listen to, and whom it is determined to prevent from uttering unbearable truths”.
Antonin Artaud.

Limbs And Kitchens

One of the Housemates works for the NHS in the patient transport side of things. Apparently she got a phone call from some bloke who left his false leg on one of the buses.
Which led us to ponder, how do you forget that?
The standing and falling flat on your face would kind of jog your memory, wouldn’t it?
This led us to wonder if he had gone to get a new leg and like us, as kids getting new shoes, wanted to wear it home!
I must ask Mad Matt what his Dad’s preference is when he goes for a new hand.

An advert that is pissing me off…
Some twat stands in a kitchen holding a piece of equipment that apparently sums up them and their kitchen needs. According to the propaganda, from this item, a company can design the perfect kitchen for you.
An uptight looking woman holds up a nutmeg grater or something. From that they can tell she wants stainless steel throughout and a hot plate.
I think she needs a damn good fucking on the butcher’s block, but that’s just my opinion.
Right, I thought, I’ll have some of this.
I want to turn up at the sales room with our huge bag of assorted Take Away menus, 7 tea towels, 5 half used blocks of lard and say,
“Knock yourself out with that, you fucker!”
I’d be interested to see what they came up with.
Something that looks like the bastard child of Burger King and Ken’s Kebabs I should think!

For Christmas, one of the Housemates got a brilliant notebook about procrastination, so I will share some of the ‘Time Wasters’ with you lot.
Here is today’s.

Lesser Known Prequels:

--------------- Over The River Kwai
--------------- Impossible
--------------- And The Sundance Kid
--------------- Of The Third Kind

Have fun!


RIP Sister Annunciata. One of those rare, truly holy Nuns.

Surf, Mirth And Neurotics

Every now and then, usually during an insomnia bout, I head to Wikipedia to learn something I didn’t know before.
I don’t have a specific subject or idea in mind. I just follow links.
It might be a word I’ve heard on TV or something I read in one of the papers.
Today I surfed into a page on Feminism. Did you know there are 16 subtypes of Feminism? 16! For fuck’s sake! BUT, get this, there is one called Cyborg Feminism! Now there was a link I had to follow.
These are the first few lines that greeted me:

“Cyborg Feminism is a sub-movement of feminism that uses the notion of a cyborg, a machine-organism hybrid, to explore feminism. It is often used as a metaphor for female identity and feminist thought or as a thought experiment (eg. To investigate what happens to gender in a dehumanizing body)”….

What the fuck!?
Maybe it is my lack of sleep, sporadic pain and Diazepam but I was seriously expecting to see a picture of Seven of Nine!
Would I be alone in expecting that?
When I did my degree I took the Gender and Sexuality option. It was that or the French Revolution, we all know about my ‘Franco-hatred’, so that was an easy choice.
I learnt about Ruskin’s pubic hair phobia, Aphra Behn, Camille Paglia and Monique Wittig. I could barely get my head around Postmodern Feminism.
Cyborg feminism? Not a fecking whisper.

From there I followed the link for Human Sexuality, ideal for a good chuckle. The pictures are ‘Arty’ and from ancient texts, The Karma Sutra or something Japanese. Where the ‘Golden Rule’ didn’t apply when it came to depicting male genitalia.
Average sized man, but a dick that looks like a baby’s arm holding an orange.
Mmm.. Drawn by a man methinks.
Female artists appear not to feel the need to whack enormous tits on their women subjects. Or labia like a Bassett Hound’s ears. Well, not that I have seen, but maybe I’m not going to the right galleries! (I must look in to that!)

Surfing on from there I found myself reading up on Personality Disorders.
It’s quite amazing how many different ways a person can be fucked up!
In fact, they are arranged into clusters.
I’ve had diagnoses of a myriad of disorders in my time, but I don’t think about it anymore.
No point trying to work out what or who made you like you are. You just 'Are'.
The main point is trying to understand how you impact on others and work at adjusting that.
I embrace my fucked up-ness, in fact I positively enjoy it! There's no other way.

2007

Happy New Year!

Just a minor rant to start with.
If you don’t know the words to Auld Lang Syne, don’t fucking sing it. Simple as that. It stops you looking a twat and cuts down my urge to punch you in your miming mouth.
Also, why on New Years Eve do some blokes think that it’s perfectly acceptable to kiss you right on the lips? Should be ok for me to knee them straight in the bollocks then?.
The other thing that gets on my tits, and this isn’t just a New Year thing, are couples who turn up with just one bottle between them. Sure as shit you are going to drink more than 2 glasses of wine each! One bottle of spirit is acceptable. A bottle of wine that was on the 3 for a tenner offer isn’t. Or the people who turn up with shitty wine and then spend the night drinking your vodka. Tight bastards!

My back is still the enemy and Diazepam my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
Moving around is hellish.
I have to kind of slide out of my chair onto my knees.
Then crawl across the floor to the fireplace, where I pull myself upright using the mantle.
I then stand for 3 minutes doing my impression of an eighty year old with osteoporosis.
When I do manage to walk it looks like I’ve had a ‘Code Brown’ in my underwear!
An attractive look to start the New Year with.
The upside is it can’t get any worse.
Although, I do worry that the medication will run out before the pain does. If that happens, NHS Direct better beware!

I have had a real treat this evening. I used to watch a programme called ‘This Life’. It was about a bunch of 20 something Lawyers living in a house together. I loved it.
Tonight, they aired a one off episode about their lives 10 years on.
Brilliant!.
Cheered me right up.