Wednesday, November 28

Mish Mash Bosh

Randomness currently keeping me awake...

I hate this template but can't make my ideas work properly within the parameters of the medium. Does this make me an artist?*

When I was young a neighbour gave me nightmares when she showed me her 'freaky hair'. Not, this time, a creation of the other neighbour who'd learned hairdressing from watching her cousin and earned pin money ever after by butchering the barnets of people too skint, tight or idle to walk up to the local poodle perm parlour**, no. This was a single,




that grew

a n d g r e w

u n t i l i t w a s a b o u t f o u r i n c h e s l o n g! A a r r g h h!

My recall of this comes because I have one of my own now. It's sprouted on a part of my body that doesn't get shaved or Veeted but, as I'm not bonkers enough to be proud of it like my mad ex-neighbour (RIP, btw), I pluck the bugger as soon as it starts showing above it's fine, blonde counterparts. Open up, blog readers - do you suffer from a rogue follicle? I'm not saying we ought to put them on our CVs or anything but maybe we can work towards acceptance if we group together, eh?

Freaky-hair neighbour was mother to three sons - one of whom was the best teenage friend I never slept with and, sadly, all of whom became card-carrying members of the National Front - as well as the breeder of the second dog I'd ever known.

Tara was the most beautiful, pedigree Staffordshire Bull Terrier *** (bear in mind this was nearly three decades ago and neither chavs nor crack-dogs had been invented) that grew up alongside me and died just after I moved out. I was devastated at losing her and remember noting amongst the wall-punching, gut-wrenching grief, that this was the first time I'd ever seen my brother cry.

My gorgeous dog has been here for six weeks now and is such an integral part of the family I can't remember life without her.

I seriously suggest that people adopt a dog before having children, parenting would've been so much easier if I'd used dog training methods on my offspring. If only I'd known about simple, reward-based behaviour modification and the security of knowing ones place in the pack rather than all that emotionally clouded 'everyone is equal' crap that wore me out and causes constant squabbling and bruises between siblings.

Talking of bruises, Cake and I went to our final self-defence with bouncers session of 07 on Sunday. Putting all we'd learned together meant that things got a little, er, rough. She and I grappling and rolling over the floor was fun as well as instructional, however I came off a little worse against one of the blokes. A knee in the face is not pleasant, nor is your trainer insisting you carry on the bout even as you try to snatch a blood-stemming tissue from a concerned Cake! Still, at least the stars I was seeing stopped my brain registering the pain going on as he inflicted this massive contusion on my left arm...

The other bruises aren't so big but still there will be no short sleeves for me when I meet the Bingers this weekend! Oh yes, Bings are still going strong and I'm going up north to meet his parents and a fair few extended family Saturday night. Nervous, much? Halp!

*Anyone that says piss artist gets a dig, right?

** Yeah, ok. Guess whose mother was so tight that sis and I got sent across the road to Butcher Babs with a pound note when there was an occasion coming up?

*** This links to information about the dog we originally wanted to adopt but couldn't because he hadn't passed the 'safe with kids' test.

Monday, November 19


This post is a homage to Mr Angry.

It's my offloading just a few of the things that make me want to punch some people in the stupid face until my whole forearm is warm and sticky with their blood, creating a pleasing contrast with the bone that's gradually disintegrating under my well aimed fist. Cos, all said and done, I'm really not very happy.

1- People saying an hotel, an homage, an anything starting with the letter h. The letter h is not a fucking vowel, when and why did people start changing the rules?! Bastard newsreaders, I bet it was them for a children in need joke or something - and everyone fell for it! Except me. Mark my words, when I die I'll be remembered for being the lone voice championing the letter h as a consonant. I'm so fucking brave it's untrue.

2 - People who are good at what they do being shit at teaching it. Then, worse, getting petty and personal when they're called on it by the people that rely on them - i.e. the students that paid a lot of good money to be taught something solid not just sold a load of fucking seminars to learn the same stuff from someone better at disseminating knowledge! Know your limits or face the consequences, cunts.

3 - Waiters that handwrite 'optional 10% service charge £9.70, optional new total £106.90' on a printed resturant bill with, oh yes, both optionals underfuckinglined. Cos obviously, I'm that fucking stupid. Buddy, if you're going to be pedantic about your tip then at least get your sums right for fucks sake, 10% of £97.20 is £9.72! Also, if you're going to insult me by assuming I either won't tip you or won't tip you enough for your frankly, pathetic, teenaged and hormonal service, don't you fucking dare look shocked when I wink as I leave the precise change under the car park refund ticket. You started it, arsewipe.

4 - People. They're absolute total bastards, each and every all of them. Why can't I just have the world to myself for fortnight or so?

Grr! Grr! And thrice grr!

Friday, November 16

It's life, Jim

For the purposes of this post I assume that if you're reading, you actually do give half a shit.

Y'know why I've not blogged for eons? Cos life fucking sucks.

Not as well as I do, obviously - golf balls, hose pipes blah blah blah - but it still sucks like a freshly emptied Dyson. And it makes me think...

Who wants to read that being class rep at college is actually more a test of how much you can 'bad news sandwich' feedback to 2 out of 3 tutors than winning a popularity vote?

Who gives a rubbery yellow fuck that nursing a teenager through GCSE prep is actually more painful than nursing him nearly two decades ago with engorged tits and sore nipples ever was?

Who wishes to know that my learning how to throw time-to-breathe legal loopholes at creditors is much easier than growing the cojones to print and post the letters that will initiate a battle of words against many nameless minions with templates as weapons.

In between all the crap, I'm having fantastic sex with the best man I've ever known.

Which is nice.

You know it's bad when your life is so boringly difficult you can't even blog it.

Sunday, November 4


Bill Gates knew what he was doing when he integrated this game into windows. I've never been a card player despite my East End roots but lately even I can lose myself, engrossed in using a spade to dig for a diamond, placing blacks on reds and just gagging for the opportunity to free up a stack and lay a king.

When you're running a one minute mental mile just to slide backwards slightly slower and trying to look like a duck at the same time (oh you know, all calm on top with any leg flailing carefully hidden just under the surface), when all the cunty little things in life join forces and become more than the sum of their parts, turning into one absolutely fucking huge, monster sized, fire-breathing beast with many massive and extremely sharp fangs, when every new day just brings another sledgehammer or six to join the band of carpenters in your head that attempt irony as they bang 'we've only just begun' on every synapse and serotonin uptaker you possess.

When all around you are keeping their heads because you are losing yours silently..?

That's really playing solitaire.