Bloody hell. Even I'VE got on my own nerves just lately and my extreme grumptitude and twitchiness culminated yesterday in 2 separate people buying me presents in an attempt to appease me! My pal Bison, when he heard, likened the situation to primitive tribes people making offerings to an angry deity! How rude! He then went on to wonder why they don't seem to appreciate that I'm some sort of PRINCESS! Again, HOW RUDE! Just 'cause I demanded he make me a crown for Christmas. I have a vision of me wearing it when I perform stand up. Of course, I wouldn't make reference to the fact I'm wearing a crown 'cause it would be the most natural thing in the world for me.
I guess you will be wanting to hear about my appalling behaviour now.
This isn't an appalling bit but a couple of days ago I had to visit a family at home. A nice family in fact, but as I got up to leave their 12 year old son sort of launched himself and flung his arms around my waist, giving me a gigantic hug! Well, I have a fear of being touched at the best of times and this situation made me turn proper mental. I made a sort of forced high pitched laugh and at speed said
"Oooh, I don't get hugged very often. Never in fact. Actually, I'm more likely to be found diving out of the way as people drive at me at high speed!"
What the hell was I talking about? For.God.Sake!
...that hasn't happened for AGES now.
I then sort of stumbled out of the house, still giggling in a weird forced, high pitched manner, got into my car and nearly crashed. See? I've gone wrong - someone only has to be nice to me for a split second and I turn into bumbling idiot!
The next day I was in a near fatal, terrible car accident. Before I tell you about that I have to share my worries about ants. Consider the ant. When one comes into your house or something and you let it out somewhere else, does it find it's way home or does it try to move in with new ants. If I transported an ant to another town and released him what would happen? Where would he live? Do they have their own hollows within their colony or do they just curl up together? Would they know he was an out of towner and shun him or would they sort of say hi (in ant language). I dunno, I just worry.
So yeah, the car accident. It was a weird one. The car was covered in frost and I just sort of leaned in and put the key in the ignition to get the de-frost thingie going. Unfortunately it shot to life and hit the wall, still making a high pitched revving sound and dragging the front of the car along the house. SHIT! I only had one bum cheek in the car at this point so I quickly got in and turned the steering wheel away from the house but then it shot forward, hit a stone post, sped across the pavement and into the main road. As the car was still totally iced over I could see nothing as I sat trying to regain control over the runaway vehicle. I have an outstanding memory of being in a beautiful white cave but traveling at high speed whilst trying to stop. Eventually I did stop it, half in the road and half on the pavement. When I exited the car I saw a woman with a car full of children with her eyes on stalks sort of stalled in the middle of the road. I'm bloody lucky I tell you. Kids pass my house to go to school - didn't hit one of them or any other pedestrian, I missed the woman in her car, the row of parked cars on the other side of the road, the HOUSE on the other side of the road and a large street sign. Furthermore, I didn't get to put my seat belt on and could have gone through the windscreen. Bloody hell!
I still don't know what happened. I never leave my car in gear and I'd have had to have my foot on the accelerator. All I can assume is that it wasn't fully out of gear and popped back in and that as I wasn't sitting in the seat properly I perhaps did press the accelerator. That or else the car is possessed. My last car was possessed and it eventually tried to kill me in a fiery ball.
As for the grumpiness, yeah, I've been grumpy, twitchy and confrontational. So confrontational in fact that one of my work colleagues bought me a Hello Kitty toy after I had turned my grumptitude on her yesterday. I actually called my housemate (the Tidness Nazi) to warn her that I was pretty much evil. She promptly went out and bought me some baby gerbils! She knows I love and miss having little gerbs around. They cheered me up no end.
Today I was less grumpy, more twitchy and I ended up throwing myself to the floor a number of times and lying there pretending to be dead. My colleagues declined my request to draw a chalk mark around me. I eventually got back up and pulled my dress up over my head in an act of disrespect and defiance. Between you and me, I even mooned at some of them when I felt they were being mean and un-supportive. I can see that this isn't proper behaviour for a lovely lady like me but when I'm twitchy I can't control myself. Y'know, I don't think I can be trusted to wear a dress....
Sketty (30 September - ?)isn’t a 17th Century English naval administrator or Member of Parliament. Furthermore, she has never met King Charles II or King James II. This may be due to both being dead at the time of her life. In fact, this isn’t so much a diary but the unedited spewings from the brain of one of the Century’s leading cretins. Some of it may develop into comedy unless I get to spend time in a lovely facility where someone will give me dinner.
Thursday 16 December 2010
Sunday 12 December 2010
Wouldn't it be weird..
Oh Lordy, my internal dialogue has been off on one again. Sorry, I have to write it down so it gets out of my head. This time it wasn't so much a 'What would I do if....', it was more of a 'Wouldn't it be weird if...'.
Ok, it started off when I was in the shower and, for some reason, I began thinking of that film with Arnie. Oh shit, what's it called? Hang on............Predator? It's the alien one and it couldn't see him when he was wet. I started thinking how weird it would be if suddenly my house was over-run with weird small aliens who killed everyone else but couldn't see me 'cause I was in the shower. For a while I figured I'd just watch them through the glass with a smug look on my face as they ran around the bathroom, giving them the finger 'cause I was safe. Then the realisation hit me that for this to happen I'd have to not be shocked to see the aliens and have advanced knowledge that it was the water thing that was keeping me safe. I then thought that I'd end up with trench foot as I'd have to live in a running shower for god knows how long! What would I eat? No nutrition in Radox Lavender shower gel. At least I could have a wee.
Then I began to think about an alternative alien fear (what's with the aliens thing?). What, right, if I was in the bathroom and aliens decided they wanted me for some kind of alien zoo type thing. I think I was thinking about A.I. at this point but I can't think of the part this might relate to. Oh hang on, it's the end when they want to understand about human life at the time the little robot kid was around. Yeah, so I'm in the bathroom and they detach it and fly it away to wherever but they don't understand humans very well so they scan me and every day provide me with exactly the same thing I've already eaten that day.
I'd be buggered if I was scanned yesterday. I had 2 stale biscuits of a nondescript variety. They were the shit ones left after all the good ones had been scoffed from a selection tin, 3 slices of pizza and some bacon flavoured crisps. I then threw up (due to my shit digestion). That was it, apart from some water, no goodness, no vitamins or minerals and definitely no roughage! Bloody hell, I'd have Rickets after 4 days if I had to live on that lot for the rest of my life. Rickets and impacted bowels no doubt. I vowed to myself that I would eat some more varied foodstuffs just in case this scenario should ever happen. Oh yeah, and I'd need to ensure I introduced some sweets into my diet for the same reason. Eternity in an alien zoo with no feckin sweets would be hell on not-earth.
I recognise this stuff sounds like the ramblings of a strange person but I'm sure everyone thinks things like this, they just don't tell people.
There was something else I wanted to share but I can't remember what it is now. Perhaps tomorrow
Ok, it started off when I was in the shower and, for some reason, I began thinking of that film with Arnie. Oh shit, what's it called? Hang on............Predator? It's the alien one and it couldn't see him when he was wet. I started thinking how weird it would be if suddenly my house was over-run with weird small aliens who killed everyone else but couldn't see me 'cause I was in the shower. For a while I figured I'd just watch them through the glass with a smug look on my face as they ran around the bathroom, giving them the finger 'cause I was safe. Then the realisation hit me that for this to happen I'd have to not be shocked to see the aliens and have advanced knowledge that it was the water thing that was keeping me safe. I then thought that I'd end up with trench foot as I'd have to live in a running shower for god knows how long! What would I eat? No nutrition in Radox Lavender shower gel. At least I could have a wee.
Then I began to think about an alternative alien fear (what's with the aliens thing?). What, right, if I was in the bathroom and aliens decided they wanted me for some kind of alien zoo type thing. I think I was thinking about A.I. at this point but I can't think of the part this might relate to. Oh hang on, it's the end when they want to understand about human life at the time the little robot kid was around. Yeah, so I'm in the bathroom and they detach it and fly it away to wherever but they don't understand humans very well so they scan me and every day provide me with exactly the same thing I've already eaten that day.
I'd be buggered if I was scanned yesterday. I had 2 stale biscuits of a nondescript variety. They were the shit ones left after all the good ones had been scoffed from a selection tin, 3 slices of pizza and some bacon flavoured crisps. I then threw up (due to my shit digestion). That was it, apart from some water, no goodness, no vitamins or minerals and definitely no roughage! Bloody hell, I'd have Rickets after 4 days if I had to live on that lot for the rest of my life. Rickets and impacted bowels no doubt. I vowed to myself that I would eat some more varied foodstuffs just in case this scenario should ever happen. Oh yeah, and I'd need to ensure I introduced some sweets into my diet for the same reason. Eternity in an alien zoo with no feckin sweets would be hell on not-earth.
I recognise this stuff sounds like the ramblings of a strange person but I'm sure everyone thinks things like this, they just don't tell people.
There was something else I wanted to share but I can't remember what it is now. Perhaps tomorrow
Monday 6 December 2010
Dating
I guess most people are aware that I'm terminally single and although I bang on about it quite a lot, it really doesn't bother me. To be honest, I'd lose a sizable chunk of my act if I met someone and do believe I genuinely have gone a bit wrong by now.
I doubt having a bloke would work for me much any how.
As I've said in my act (accidentally, the first time, after getting carried away and asking the audience if anyone was up for a shag, and then becoming scared by the overwhelming positive response), I'm probably all healed up now and wouldn't be good for anything. I was discussing this with people at work today and revealed that, over the years, I have been able to collect a whole heap of hang ups and now, the only bloke I think I could relax with would have to be that kid who plays a mean pin ball (you know him, the deaf, dumb and blind one).
Of course, the sensible part of me says that I can't go on like this and that I need to have word with myself. I should slap myself until I beg myself for mercy but then I wouldn't GIVE myself mercy, I'd just keep on slapping until I cried, tears of pain mingling with confusion as to why I wasn't stopping with the auto self flagellation.
Anyhoo, the bit of me that says I should change made me join a dating website a few months ago. I decided to be totally honest and put on my profile that I'm a bit crap, my car tried to kill me, I'm prone to grumpiness and I don't want anyone who can only write their profile in text talk (morons), is needy, or soppy in any way. I also said that until I was convinced any potential date wasn't a cannibal I would only be meeting them in a busy pub where they were free to feed me. I didn't think I'd get any responses but bloody hell, the pile of emails frightened the bejesus outta me. In horror, I promptly took my profile down. The thing is, they kept sending me matches to look at so after about a week I decided to just go through these and see, in a no pressure environment, who they reckoned my perfect mates were.
CHRIST ON A BIKE!
No word of a lie, the first bloke had a tracheostomy - a bloody plastic pipe sticking out of his throat! I got matched with a bloke who looked like he was 65, was propped up in a chair and had a sodding plastic tube sticking out of his neck! Yeah, after everything I'd said about looking for a meeting of minds, wanting a bloke with wit and charm, I get a geriatric who was hanging onto life by a plastic tube.
The next bugger looked like he was about 50. Not in age, in stones. He was HUGE yet seemed to be wearing a toupee. Looking closer it wasn't a toupee, I think his head had grown so big his hair had a shrunken look to it. It was also cut in a Friar Tuck style. Fuck me!
The third looked as if he'd posted a picture of himself from the 1970s.
The forth was the epitome of Paedophile Chic.
The fifth had never had a job, had loads of kids and was looking for a 'special lady for fun and frolics'. Piss off mate.
....I went through the list with growing dismay. Bloody hell, who am I kidding any way? What makes me think I've even GOT anything to offer anyone who was 'hanging the right way' in the first place. Perhaps this was Fate telling me to stop thinking I could do any better than a bloke in an ill fitting suit with giant black framed glasses and a penchant for short women who could pass as being 12. Gawd only knows what comments my photo and grumpy profile were getting. I think most of it was made up with what I don't want and some vague nod towards my comedy.
Hell, I dipped my toe in the pool of real life and decided I preferred hermitude. Hermitude, sweet hermitude, you don't judge me for wearing dinner stained pyjamas.....
Oh yeah, just a quickie. Whilst typing this up I was summonsed upstairs by the Tidiness Nazi. I could hear from the tone of her voice I was in trouble so I duly trouped up the stairs, my frightened face appearing slowly above the banister. She was in the bathroom, her face set.
"Wha........?"
She didn't speak, she just silently pointed towards the shower. I slowly entered the room and looked at the giant turd glistening in the cubicle.
"I'm not picking it up!" she huffed before leaving the room.
Honestly, I didn't do it. We have a perfectly acceptable toilet in the same room!
I doubt having a bloke would work for me much any how.
As I've said in my act (accidentally, the first time, after getting carried away and asking the audience if anyone was up for a shag, and then becoming scared by the overwhelming positive response), I'm probably all healed up now and wouldn't be good for anything. I was discussing this with people at work today and revealed that, over the years, I have been able to collect a whole heap of hang ups and now, the only bloke I think I could relax with would have to be that kid who plays a mean pin ball (you know him, the deaf, dumb and blind one).
Of course, the sensible part of me says that I can't go on like this and that I need to have word with myself. I should slap myself until I beg myself for mercy but then I wouldn't GIVE myself mercy, I'd just keep on slapping until I cried, tears of pain mingling with confusion as to why I wasn't stopping with the auto self flagellation.
Anyhoo, the bit of me that says I should change made me join a dating website a few months ago. I decided to be totally honest and put on my profile that I'm a bit crap, my car tried to kill me, I'm prone to grumpiness and I don't want anyone who can only write their profile in text talk (morons), is needy, or soppy in any way. I also said that until I was convinced any potential date wasn't a cannibal I would only be meeting them in a busy pub where they were free to feed me. I didn't think I'd get any responses but bloody hell, the pile of emails frightened the bejesus outta me. In horror, I promptly took my profile down. The thing is, they kept sending me matches to look at so after about a week I decided to just go through these and see, in a no pressure environment, who they reckoned my perfect mates were.
CHRIST ON A BIKE!
No word of a lie, the first bloke had a tracheostomy - a bloody plastic pipe sticking out of his throat! I got matched with a bloke who looked like he was 65, was propped up in a chair and had a sodding plastic tube sticking out of his neck! Yeah, after everything I'd said about looking for a meeting of minds, wanting a bloke with wit and charm, I get a geriatric who was hanging onto life by a plastic tube.
The next bugger looked like he was about 50. Not in age, in stones. He was HUGE yet seemed to be wearing a toupee. Looking closer it wasn't a toupee, I think his head had grown so big his hair had a shrunken look to it. It was also cut in a Friar Tuck style. Fuck me!
The third looked as if he'd posted a picture of himself from the 1970s.
The forth was the epitome of Paedophile Chic.
The fifth had never had a job, had loads of kids and was looking for a 'special lady for fun and frolics'. Piss off mate.
....I went through the list with growing dismay. Bloody hell, who am I kidding any way? What makes me think I've even GOT anything to offer anyone who was 'hanging the right way' in the first place. Perhaps this was Fate telling me to stop thinking I could do any better than a bloke in an ill fitting suit with giant black framed glasses and a penchant for short women who could pass as being 12. Gawd only knows what comments my photo and grumpy profile were getting. I think most of it was made up with what I don't want and some vague nod towards my comedy.
Hell, I dipped my toe in the pool of real life and decided I preferred hermitude. Hermitude, sweet hermitude, you don't judge me for wearing dinner stained pyjamas.....
Oh yeah, just a quickie. Whilst typing this up I was summonsed upstairs by the Tidiness Nazi. I could hear from the tone of her voice I was in trouble so I duly trouped up the stairs, my frightened face appearing slowly above the banister. She was in the bathroom, her face set.
"Wha........?"
She didn't speak, she just silently pointed towards the shower. I slowly entered the room and looked at the giant turd glistening in the cubicle.
"I'm not picking it up!" she huffed before leaving the room.
Honestly, I didn't do it. We have a perfectly acceptable toilet in the same room!
Wednesday 1 December 2010
Eyebrow
It wasn't a proud moment.
...sitting outside the gym quietly weeping at the prospect but unable to turn around and drive away. The thought though, it wasn't that bad, I mean, I could picture myself in there and I wasn't averse to that thought. It was my legs really, they wouldn't allow me out of the car and then my tantrumy part decided to get involved by doing the dry crying out loud thing which preempts the actual crying. I decided to phone the Tidiness Nazi to tell her what was going on. She laughed (which wasn't very helpful) and told me to toss a coin. I couldn't be arsed to do that so she offered to toss a coin for me and I had to duly listen to said coin bouncing across the floor. Heads for home and slovenliness. Tails for gym, good health, a firm body and possible sex again one day.
"It's HEADS!"
"WA-HOOOOOOOOOOO!"
I drove home wracked with guilt but went straight upstairs and put my pajamas on. Well, it appears that's ME done for the day. Sloth always wins. I am comfortable with Sloth. Sloth rules.
Leading up to this moment I have had to spend the day with the knowledge that I woke up with half an eyebrow mysteriously missing! I didn't even know until I sat in front of my mirror ready to put my make up for work this morning. I couldn't believe it - it looked bloody ridiculous. Can you have alopecia of just the eyebrows? Or eyebrow. Or eyeb (that's half an eyebrow)?
(Sigh) I just hope it isn't cancer of the whole eyebrow area or something. I do have to admit that when I'm bored or stressed I do mess with my eyebrows by rolling them about and generally interfering with the things. I'm not the kind of person who draws in eyebrows 'cause they just look like stupid drawn on eyebrows - they fool NO one! My cousin (and sister from another mother) advised me to just go ahead and draw it back in but not to use indelible marker like she once did (or was that nail varnish on her lips?)
All I had available was a green highlighter pen...
If you read my last entry you will know that I have an unhelpful and ridiculous inner dialogue which rarely shuts up going on through my head most of the time. During quiet moments I can't help but engage with it and today it was eyebrow obsessed. I was imagining just shaving off my entire eyebrows and drawing them on in a quizzical shape which would then render me constantly, well, 'quizzical'. I was then lost in thought thinking about drawing a pair of straight thick eyebrows (or a massively thick uni-brow) so I could look a bit bizarre and mean.
Or a pair of pointy black eyebrows. I actually like that design and am giggling at the thought as I type this. How brilliant would it be to walk into a room, have a conversation with someone, excuse yourself and then return with differently drawn on eyebrows which would reflect the nature of the discussion. OR RIGHT, MAGNET IMPLANTS AND FULLY POSEABLE THICK BLACK LINE EYEBROWS WHICH CAN BE CHANGED/MANIPULATED AT WILL!
Actually, that's what happens with normal eyebrows isn't it? I really need to stop listening to my stupid inner dialogue. Paul Carrick from IT will take the piss out of me at work tomorrow again now won't he? Damn!
...sitting outside the gym quietly weeping at the prospect but unable to turn around and drive away. The thought though, it wasn't that bad, I mean, I could picture myself in there and I wasn't averse to that thought. It was my legs really, they wouldn't allow me out of the car and then my tantrumy part decided to get involved by doing the dry crying out loud thing which preempts the actual crying. I decided to phone the Tidiness Nazi to tell her what was going on. She laughed (which wasn't very helpful) and told me to toss a coin. I couldn't be arsed to do that so she offered to toss a coin for me and I had to duly listen to said coin bouncing across the floor. Heads for home and slovenliness. Tails for gym, good health, a firm body and possible sex again one day.
"It's HEADS!"
"WA-HOOOOOOOOOOO!"
I drove home wracked with guilt but went straight upstairs and put my pajamas on. Well, it appears that's ME done for the day. Sloth always wins. I am comfortable with Sloth. Sloth rules.
Leading up to this moment I have had to spend the day with the knowledge that I woke up with half an eyebrow mysteriously missing! I didn't even know until I sat in front of my mirror ready to put my make up for work this morning. I couldn't believe it - it looked bloody ridiculous. Can you have alopecia of just the eyebrows? Or eyebrow. Or eyeb (that's half an eyebrow)?
(Sigh) I just hope it isn't cancer of the whole eyebrow area or something. I do have to admit that when I'm bored or stressed I do mess with my eyebrows by rolling them about and generally interfering with the things. I'm not the kind of person who draws in eyebrows 'cause they just look like stupid drawn on eyebrows - they fool NO one! My cousin (and sister from another mother) advised me to just go ahead and draw it back in but not to use indelible marker like she once did (or was that nail varnish on her lips?)
All I had available was a green highlighter pen...
If you read my last entry you will know that I have an unhelpful and ridiculous inner dialogue which rarely shuts up going on through my head most of the time. During quiet moments I can't help but engage with it and today it was eyebrow obsessed. I was imagining just shaving off my entire eyebrows and drawing them on in a quizzical shape which would then render me constantly, well, 'quizzical'. I was then lost in thought thinking about drawing a pair of straight thick eyebrows (or a massively thick uni-brow) so I could look a bit bizarre and mean.
Or a pair of pointy black eyebrows. I actually like that design and am giggling at the thought as I type this. How brilliant would it be to walk into a room, have a conversation with someone, excuse yourself and then return with differently drawn on eyebrows which would reflect the nature of the discussion. OR RIGHT, MAGNET IMPLANTS AND FULLY POSEABLE THICK BLACK LINE EYEBROWS WHICH CAN BE CHANGED/MANIPULATED AT WILL!
Actually, that's what happens with normal eyebrows isn't it? I really need to stop listening to my stupid inner dialogue. Paul Carrick from IT will take the piss out of me at work tomorrow again now won't he? Damn!
Monday 29 November 2010
What would I do if...pt1
Hey, I bet this is nothing bloody Pepys got to write about, OH YESH, take THAT Sammy boy!
Right, I went to the gym. It broke my heart but I've started paying by Direct Debit and if I don't squeeze some more attendance in by the end of the month then that singular trip 2 weeks ago will have cost me £34 which is a bit excessive for 70 minutes worth of misery. It's bloody cold at the moment and it wasn't until I got to the changing room that I realised I'd got stupid underwear on. I had on a thick pair of tights and a 'body' thing on which meant I had (sorry to be graphic) no pants on. I realised that there wasn't enough support for my stupid boobs in the body but, did I want to take it off and wear a sports bra but no pants? No way. Did I instead want to wear the body with a sports bra over the top? Nah, that'd look bloody stupid. I decided to just wear the body under the gym gear and allow potential bounce.
The gym was quiet and it wasn't until I got onto the rowing machine that my stupid inner thought process kicked in. I haven't mentioned it over here before but much of it seems to follow a similar pattern.
"What would I do, right, if an armed gunman or terrorists burst in now......"
(yeah, I know)
I mostly get that thought at work and have, over the years, worked out a number of brilliant hiding places which of course depend on how much time I've got before the gunman/men get to me. The work thing is ok, they have to get through reception and another office before they get to me and (sorry any colleagues potentially reading this), I'll hear the gunfire and hopefully be on my toes and off to the disabled toilet before they get too near. The disabled toilet is my number one choice of hiding place as there is space to stand away from the locked door so if there is a huge shotgun blast at it I can stand well out of the way and when the gunman looks through the hole I can hide just a little way out of sight.
Anyhoo, we were talking about the thought process I was forced to endure of myself whilst going backwards and forward on the sodding rowing machine. I think I'd got to the "What would I do, right, if an armed gunman or terrorists burst in now......" bit but that was followed by
"...and decided to kill everyone apart from me and one bloke of my choosing!"
This thought had come straight after the realisation that I was the only woman in the gym and there were 5 blokes. For some reason, my bizarre inner thought process had decided that the gunmen needed an even number of hostages - one woman, therefore one bloke. Don't ask me why, I still don't understand my inner thoughts, they are like a separate and really quite strange person I have to endure. I looked around at my choice (secretly and via the giant mirror which takes up one wall). Bloke one was definitely out - he looked like a horrible farmer. Bloke 2 had buck teeth, blokes 3 & 4 were pals and I've seen them around a lot. One is obese and his friend is not. I rowed away considering them both. I figured the fat bloke probably hadn't had ANY breaks in his life and had lived a life of misery. His friend, I reckoned, probably loved himself and only hung around the fat bloke to make himself look better. I then noticed that the non-obese bloke was actually a bit chunky himself so wondered if he had lost loads of weight and was instead mentoring the fat bloke. Nah, he's an arse - I'd choose the fat bloke.
...but then again, the fat bloke might have emotional problems and have become the size he was by 'eating his feelings'. Who the fuck wants to be chained to a radiator with a crying fat bloke?
I then considered the final bloke who had a shaved head, loads of tattoos and interesting 'un-shaved-ness' about his face. Hmmmmmm....... he looks like the kind of bloke who'd have a plan and would see me through the ordeal alive. He does look quite like a wife beater too but hell, he's quite muscular and interesting looking. He's also using weights so he.....well, I don't know what that would mean apart from he's quite muscular and strong which I'd already established. I moved onto the stepper machine and continued to glance at him via the big mirror.
Then he stood up and was only about 4 fucking feet tall!
Shiiiit, it's going to have to be the fat bloke. Thank God I didn't put my bra on over my 'body'; if the gunmen had decided to chain us to the radiator (what radiator?) in our underwear I'd have been a laughing stock!
After another 10 or so minutes some more women drifted in and I realised with horror that there were now 6 women to 5 men! What about the terrorist rule about having equal men/women hostages? The choice would now be with the men - each one would have to choose a woman to live and the one left behind gets the bullet! I desperately looked around at the other females, weighing them up against me. The horrible farmer bloke would probably choose her, the bucktoothed bloke seems to know that one, she's young and fit (the bitch), Oh thank god - she's really quite hag-faced. Hopefully she'd get left behind un-chosen. Then I looked at my own reflection - oh Lordy, I looked like shit! Dark circles around my eyes, a potential emergence of a conjoined twin on my face (or a spot, I can't decide), tangled hair and a hint of desperation (or madness? No!) in my eyes.
I decided I'd start smiling at the fat bloke so he'd pick me if ever this scenario occurred. Of course, why armed terrorists would raid a small backwater gym in Shitsville I haven't decided. My inner thought process hasn't provided me with this information.
Finally, I discovered that Sammy Pepys married his wife when she was 14 years old - the beast! Then again, that was probably old in those days. I also learned that he was sent to the Tower of London for writing to the French! Blimey - thank god that changed, they FORCED me to have a French pen pal when I was at school. She was called Claudine (I think) but she mainly talked about Madonna rather than anything which might be considered Revolutionary.
Right, I went to the gym. It broke my heart but I've started paying by Direct Debit and if I don't squeeze some more attendance in by the end of the month then that singular trip 2 weeks ago will have cost me £34 which is a bit excessive for 70 minutes worth of misery. It's bloody cold at the moment and it wasn't until I got to the changing room that I realised I'd got stupid underwear on. I had on a thick pair of tights and a 'body' thing on which meant I had (sorry to be graphic) no pants on. I realised that there wasn't enough support for my stupid boobs in the body but, did I want to take it off and wear a sports bra but no pants? No way. Did I instead want to wear the body with a sports bra over the top? Nah, that'd look bloody stupid. I decided to just wear the body under the gym gear and allow potential bounce.
The gym was quiet and it wasn't until I got onto the rowing machine that my stupid inner thought process kicked in. I haven't mentioned it over here before but much of it seems to follow a similar pattern.
"What would I do, right, if an armed gunman or terrorists burst in now......"
(yeah, I know)
I mostly get that thought at work and have, over the years, worked out a number of brilliant hiding places which of course depend on how much time I've got before the gunman/men get to me. The work thing is ok, they have to get through reception and another office before they get to me and (sorry any colleagues potentially reading this), I'll hear the gunfire and hopefully be on my toes and off to the disabled toilet before they get too near. The disabled toilet is my number one choice of hiding place as there is space to stand away from the locked door so if there is a huge shotgun blast at it I can stand well out of the way and when the gunman looks through the hole I can hide just a little way out of sight.
Anyhoo, we were talking about the thought process I was forced to endure of myself whilst going backwards and forward on the sodding rowing machine. I think I'd got to the "What would I do, right, if an armed gunman or terrorists burst in now......" bit but that was followed by
"...and decided to kill everyone apart from me and one bloke of my choosing!"
This thought had come straight after the realisation that I was the only woman in the gym and there were 5 blokes. For some reason, my bizarre inner thought process had decided that the gunmen needed an even number of hostages - one woman, therefore one bloke. Don't ask me why, I still don't understand my inner thoughts, they are like a separate and really quite strange person I have to endure. I looked around at my choice (secretly and via the giant mirror which takes up one wall). Bloke one was definitely out - he looked like a horrible farmer. Bloke 2 had buck teeth, blokes 3 & 4 were pals and I've seen them around a lot. One is obese and his friend is not. I rowed away considering them both. I figured the fat bloke probably hadn't had ANY breaks in his life and had lived a life of misery. His friend, I reckoned, probably loved himself and only hung around the fat bloke to make himself look better. I then noticed that the non-obese bloke was actually a bit chunky himself so wondered if he had lost loads of weight and was instead mentoring the fat bloke. Nah, he's an arse - I'd choose the fat bloke.
...but then again, the fat bloke might have emotional problems and have become the size he was by 'eating his feelings'. Who the fuck wants to be chained to a radiator with a crying fat bloke?
I then considered the final bloke who had a shaved head, loads of tattoos and interesting 'un-shaved-ness' about his face. Hmmmmmm....... he looks like the kind of bloke who'd have a plan and would see me through the ordeal alive. He does look quite like a wife beater too but hell, he's quite muscular and interesting looking. He's also using weights so he.....well, I don't know what that would mean apart from he's quite muscular and strong which I'd already established. I moved onto the stepper machine and continued to glance at him via the big mirror.
Then he stood up and was only about 4 fucking feet tall!
Shiiiit, it's going to have to be the fat bloke. Thank God I didn't put my bra on over my 'body'; if the gunmen had decided to chain us to the radiator (what radiator?) in our underwear I'd have been a laughing stock!
After another 10 or so minutes some more women drifted in and I realised with horror that there were now 6 women to 5 men! What about the terrorist rule about having equal men/women hostages? The choice would now be with the men - each one would have to choose a woman to live and the one left behind gets the bullet! I desperately looked around at the other females, weighing them up against me. The horrible farmer bloke would probably choose her, the bucktoothed bloke seems to know that one, she's young and fit (the bitch), Oh thank god - she's really quite hag-faced. Hopefully she'd get left behind un-chosen. Then I looked at my own reflection - oh Lordy, I looked like shit! Dark circles around my eyes, a potential emergence of a conjoined twin on my face (or a spot, I can't decide), tangled hair and a hint of desperation (or madness? No!) in my eyes.
I decided I'd start smiling at the fat bloke so he'd pick me if ever this scenario occurred. Of course, why armed terrorists would raid a small backwater gym in Shitsville I haven't decided. My inner thought process hasn't provided me with this information.
Finally, I discovered that Sammy Pepys married his wife when she was 14 years old - the beast! Then again, that was probably old in those days. I also learned that he was sent to the Tower of London for writing to the French! Blimey - thank god that changed, they FORCED me to have a French pen pal when I was at school. She was called Claudine (I think) but she mainly talked about Madonna rather than anything which might be considered Revolutionary.
Tuesday 23 November 2010
Shovel Weirdness
So, I came home from work today and was excited to see that the Tidiness Nazi was out which meant so were the ferkin' dogs. I love it when the dogs are out. Pet ownership is a lifetime of misery if you ask me (not that anyone ever does). I think I'm possibly being a bit harsh, the old dog (Batdog) just lies around and stinks. The other one, the young dog, is the thing which makes my home life a total misery. Bloody cute and hairy but too much energy and relentless? FUCKING relentless. All sodding night, running up and down, dropping toys on your lap, at your feet, on the floor, everywhere. I call her The Kraken 'cause NO ONE wants to awaken The Kraken when it's asleep! The Kraken has Border Collie in her so she's basically a stupid looking sheep dog. When I have a shower the dog, one toy at a time, drops stuff into a small mountain at the cubicle door then disappears. Well, you think she's disappeared, turns out she's in 'the position' all focused, alert and ready to chase the thing or herd it somewhere. Last shower I had the dog had 'assumed the position' and must have been there for 40 minutes not moving, just waiting..........
So yeah, got home and felt more excited at having the place to myself than I should. I notice a shovel by the front door but guessed the Tidiness Nazi had cleared the blocked drain or something. Got through the door, grabbed my post, stripping off as I did and grabbed a handful of chocolates which I necked as I legged it up the stairs preparing to put my pyjamas on and get into bed for a crafty hour of watching tv undisturbed. Lovely. Unfortunately, I only got about 40 minutes of respite before the hairy, licky one burst into my room and jumped all over me (yeah, the stupid creature loves every hair on my head for some reason). I heard the Tidiness Nazi downstairs.
"Did you put the shovel by the front door?" She yelled up.
"Erm, no. I just got home from work. I thought YOU had done something with the shovel."
"No it wasn't me"
(weird - someone has randomly put a shovel by our front door!)
A couple of minutes later the Nazi came into my room. I managed to push the Kraken off my head/chest area where she'd decided to sit and smother me with her love.
"Y'know that shovel?"
"Yeah"
"It ain't our shovel. In fact, some one's nicked our shovel from the side of the house and left us with the dirty one by the front door"
"So, you're telling me that some random stranger, between the time you left the house at 2pm and when I got home at about 4.30pm, robbed us of our shovel and replaced it with THEIR OWN shovel?"
"Erm yeah!"
I love the randomness of today's weirdness but y'know what I love even more? The shovel thief decided to alert us to the theft by leaving their own shovel right by our front door. To be fair, if they'd put their shovel along the side of the house where ours was kept we wouldn't have bloody noticed until possibly next year. The shovel thief (or shovel swapper) wanted us to know. Wanted us to know that our perfectly good shovel had been coveted by someone with a slightly less perfectly good shovel. All that was wrong with it was that it was a bit older than ours and was dirty.
I guess I'll be laughing on the other side of my face when the weird shovel covet-er turns out to be a strange murderous stalker and whacks me over the head with the bleeder. Hell, the side of the house where the shovel was kept has a massive shed there which is right under my bedroom window. I'll not be laughing when there is a recreation of Leatherface waving his Texas Chainsaw around in the air (whilst balanced on my shed but with a shovel) outside my window.
Still, I'll sleep through anything.
Then again, I know from experience that I have no survival skills in the wee hours of the morning. When I was a child I had a bulletin board over my bed. Atop this bulletin board I had a horseshoe which had come from one of my relative's horses. Dunno what exactly happened but one morning at about 3am the horseshoe fell down and landed on my young sleeping head. I seem to remember waking up with a start but just lying there waiting for the murderer's next blow. How shit is that? I'd like to think I'm a more pro-active potential murder victim nowadays and would at least grab at the weapon. Then again, I sleep the sleep of the dead at the best of times, least of all when I'm actually being made dead.
So yeah, got home and felt more excited at having the place to myself than I should. I notice a shovel by the front door but guessed the Tidiness Nazi had cleared the blocked drain or something. Got through the door, grabbed my post, stripping off as I did and grabbed a handful of chocolates which I necked as I legged it up the stairs preparing to put my pyjamas on and get into bed for a crafty hour of watching tv undisturbed. Lovely. Unfortunately, I only got about 40 minutes of respite before the hairy, licky one burst into my room and jumped all over me (yeah, the stupid creature loves every hair on my head for some reason). I heard the Tidiness Nazi downstairs.
"Did you put the shovel by the front door?" She yelled up.
"Erm, no. I just got home from work. I thought YOU had done something with the shovel."
"No it wasn't me"
(weird - someone has randomly put a shovel by our front door!)
A couple of minutes later the Nazi came into my room. I managed to push the Kraken off my head/chest area where she'd decided to sit and smother me with her love.
"Y'know that shovel?"
"Yeah"
"It ain't our shovel. In fact, some one's nicked our shovel from the side of the house and left us with the dirty one by the front door"
"So, you're telling me that some random stranger, between the time you left the house at 2pm and when I got home at about 4.30pm, robbed us of our shovel and replaced it with THEIR OWN shovel?"
"Erm yeah!"
I love the randomness of today's weirdness but y'know what I love even more? The shovel thief decided to alert us to the theft by leaving their own shovel right by our front door. To be fair, if they'd put their shovel along the side of the house where ours was kept we wouldn't have bloody noticed until possibly next year. The shovel thief (or shovel swapper) wanted us to know. Wanted us to know that our perfectly good shovel had been coveted by someone with a slightly less perfectly good shovel. All that was wrong with it was that it was a bit older than ours and was dirty.
I guess I'll be laughing on the other side of my face when the weird shovel covet-er turns out to be a strange murderous stalker and whacks me over the head with the bleeder. Hell, the side of the house where the shovel was kept has a massive shed there which is right under my bedroom window. I'll not be laughing when there is a recreation of Leatherface waving his Texas Chainsaw around in the air (whilst balanced on my shed but with a shovel) outside my window.
Still, I'll sleep through anything.
Then again, I know from experience that I have no survival skills in the wee hours of the morning. When I was a child I had a bulletin board over my bed. Atop this bulletin board I had a horseshoe which had come from one of my relative's horses. Dunno what exactly happened but one morning at about 3am the horseshoe fell down and landed on my young sleeping head. I seem to remember waking up with a start but just lying there waiting for the murderer's next blow. How shit is that? I'd like to think I'm a more pro-active potential murder victim nowadays and would at least grab at the weapon. Then again, I sleep the sleep of the dead at the best of times, least of all when I'm actually being made dead.
Friday 19 November 2010
The door
According to Chortle, Jo Brand reckons that lots of comedians are mentally disturbed. I'm not sure I agree. http://www.chortle.co.uk/news/2010/11/18/12170/lots_of_comics_are_mentally_disturbed .
I performed at Belly Laughs, Worthing last night and it went really well. Really REALLY well to be precise and the guy asked if I'd be prepared to travel over there on a monthly basis. I said I would but I know that my inherent laziness will kick in and I'll end up weeping real tears of anguish at having to come up with fresh material every month. I am a prolific writer but I'm a lazy-arsed routine learner. I remember the debacle that was my 'Funny Women' competition set at Komedia, Brighton. Yeah I'd been ill for about a week before the gig and had had spent hours stuck in traffic getting there (it was not only a Bank Holiday weekend, the Brighton Comedy Festival AND it was bloody hot) but I had cobbled together a load of old shit made up of some of my old routines. Minute I got on stage I pretty much forgot everything and had spent the time trying to engage with an audience who seemed to be miles away instead (it was a bloody high stage). It was pretty cringe worthy and I have learned my lesson about ensuring you know what the fuck you are going to say BEFORE you get on stage.
Here are some sad things (sad in a pathetic way) I want to document. Having spent too many winter gigs being lost in the dark trying to find/leave venues I decided to get a Sat Nav and boy, I bloody love the thing. Got to and from Worthing soooooo easily. I picked the man's voice and have named him Timothy. I just wish he sounded hot rather than authoritarian. I guess that with the authoritarian voice I do jump to his commands, I'm sure I'd argue back with a hot guy, decide I no longer fancy him and then get really uncontrollably angry whenever he told me to do something. The second sad thing is that I left the house tonight to go pick up Chinese food but spotted 2 giant red rubber bands on the floor outside the house.
"Ooooh, lovely big rubber bands!" I'd exclaimed (out loud and with no shame), bending over to pocket them before anyone else could.
I'd felt more excitement than I had done all day. What the hell was THAT all about? It wasn't until I was back in the car that I realised how unbelievably pathetic I'd been. Who sodding well covets abandoned rubber bands in the street? I think I'd even looked over my shoulder conspiratorially as I was standing back up to make sure it wasn't a trap or in case someone was about to leap out and claim them for themselves.
Leading up to this moment I'd lain in bed pretty much all day under the guise of having had a late night when in fact, I'm just a lazy bitch. I'd refused to get up to answer the phone, walk the dogs, go to the loo (despite the pain in my bladder) or take food and water. Then, housemate (and Tidiness Nazi) Steph nipped out to the shop. I tell you, no more than 3 minutes after she had gone someone rang the doorbell. Horrified I just sat there in bed, my heart pounding. My brave hero of a dog ran in and hid with me in my room. What the hell were we going to do? There was no one available to answer the door! Breathing heavily and eyes wide with fear I moved to the landing to listen out to see if I could gain any insight of who was at the bloody door. As I moved with stealth the person then KNOCKED! With a muted yelp I ran back into my bedroom and hid hoping that whoever was there would just leave. After a while I thought I was safe and started to venture out of the door again but then the person knocked again only harder as if they knew I was in! OH MY GOD.
Then it sounded as if they were knocking the kitchen window.
The persistence of this person made me seriously consider going down stairs but it was 4pm and I was wearing obvious pyjamas and had make up smeared all over my face. I looked at myself in the full length mirror wondering if I could disguise the fact that I'd wasted a precious day of life by refusing to leave my room but alas, I could not. I miserably picked up the hair slide which had travelled over night to some weird part of my head and miserably tried to fix my nest-like hair as THAT would make me look as if I'd been leading a worthy life all day (sigh). I looked around for a full length coat to hide the obviously pyjama-age but as I didn't have one my search was pretty much useless. I made the decision that even though the persistent door knocker might have some important information to impart I had no alternative but to continue to hide and gently weep with fear over the thought that I might be forced to engage with a stranger or even worse, A NEIGHBOUR! It was a fucking nightmare and it took what seemed like ages before the knocker got back into their vehicle and drove off.
Shit! I hope it wasn't the police telling me Steph had been in a horrific accident and was asking for me (I'd thought with guilt). Turns out it was the postman trying to deliver a parcel. Damn.
Something similar happened last year when I had to hide from an elderly neighbour who absolutely would not stop knocking the door and calling through the letterbox. I had been hiding with my back against the wall and had quietly phoned Steph in fear and panic to tell her of the trauma I was experiencing. Her response? "Answer the fucking door then!" See? No help whatsoever. This woman had been so persistent that I was being drawn to the fact that I would have to answer the door but then how would I explain the huge delay? It's not as if I live in a mansion and had been in the south wing or anything. That had been terrible, I'd have had to crawl on my belly to reach the door but in the end I just put my hands over my ears and said 'la la la la' to myself over and over until she either went away or died on the step. Her voice had been getting weaker and weaker. Oh why won't people leave me alone?
I performed at Belly Laughs, Worthing last night and it went really well. Really REALLY well to be precise and the guy asked if I'd be prepared to travel over there on a monthly basis. I said I would but I know that my inherent laziness will kick in and I'll end up weeping real tears of anguish at having to come up with fresh material every month. I am a prolific writer but I'm a lazy-arsed routine learner. I remember the debacle that was my 'Funny Women' competition set at Komedia, Brighton. Yeah I'd been ill for about a week before the gig and had had spent hours stuck in traffic getting there (it was not only a Bank Holiday weekend, the Brighton Comedy Festival AND it was bloody hot) but I had cobbled together a load of old shit made up of some of my old routines. Minute I got on stage I pretty much forgot everything and had spent the time trying to engage with an audience who seemed to be miles away instead (it was a bloody high stage). It was pretty cringe worthy and I have learned my lesson about ensuring you know what the fuck you are going to say BEFORE you get on stage.
Here are some sad things (sad in a pathetic way) I want to document. Having spent too many winter gigs being lost in the dark trying to find/leave venues I decided to get a Sat Nav and boy, I bloody love the thing. Got to and from Worthing soooooo easily. I picked the man's voice and have named him Timothy. I just wish he sounded hot rather than authoritarian. I guess that with the authoritarian voice I do jump to his commands, I'm sure I'd argue back with a hot guy, decide I no longer fancy him and then get really uncontrollably angry whenever he told me to do something. The second sad thing is that I left the house tonight to go pick up Chinese food but spotted 2 giant red rubber bands on the floor outside the house.
"Ooooh, lovely big rubber bands!" I'd exclaimed (out loud and with no shame), bending over to pocket them before anyone else could.
I'd felt more excitement than I had done all day. What the hell was THAT all about? It wasn't until I was back in the car that I realised how unbelievably pathetic I'd been. Who sodding well covets abandoned rubber bands in the street? I think I'd even looked over my shoulder conspiratorially as I was standing back up to make sure it wasn't a trap or in case someone was about to leap out and claim them for themselves.
Leading up to this moment I'd lain in bed pretty much all day under the guise of having had a late night when in fact, I'm just a lazy bitch. I'd refused to get up to answer the phone, walk the dogs, go to the loo (despite the pain in my bladder) or take food and water. Then, housemate (and Tidiness Nazi) Steph nipped out to the shop. I tell you, no more than 3 minutes after she had gone someone rang the doorbell. Horrified I just sat there in bed, my heart pounding. My brave hero of a dog ran in and hid with me in my room. What the hell were we going to do? There was no one available to answer the door! Breathing heavily and eyes wide with fear I moved to the landing to listen out to see if I could gain any insight of who was at the bloody door. As I moved with stealth the person then KNOCKED! With a muted yelp I ran back into my bedroom and hid hoping that whoever was there would just leave. After a while I thought I was safe and started to venture out of the door again but then the person knocked again only harder as if they knew I was in! OH MY GOD.
Then it sounded as if they were knocking the kitchen window.
The persistence of this person made me seriously consider going down stairs but it was 4pm and I was wearing obvious pyjamas and had make up smeared all over my face. I looked at myself in the full length mirror wondering if I could disguise the fact that I'd wasted a precious day of life by refusing to leave my room but alas, I could not. I miserably picked up the hair slide which had travelled over night to some weird part of my head and miserably tried to fix my nest-like hair as THAT would make me look as if I'd been leading a worthy life all day (sigh). I looked around for a full length coat to hide the obviously pyjama-age but as I didn't have one my search was pretty much useless. I made the decision that even though the persistent door knocker might have some important information to impart I had no alternative but to continue to hide and gently weep with fear over the thought that I might be forced to engage with a stranger or even worse, A NEIGHBOUR! It was a fucking nightmare and it took what seemed like ages before the knocker got back into their vehicle and drove off.
Shit! I hope it wasn't the police telling me Steph had been in a horrific accident and was asking for me (I'd thought with guilt). Turns out it was the postman trying to deliver a parcel. Damn.
Something similar happened last year when I had to hide from an elderly neighbour who absolutely would not stop knocking the door and calling through the letterbox. I had been hiding with my back against the wall and had quietly phoned Steph in fear and panic to tell her of the trauma I was experiencing. Her response? "Answer the fucking door then!" See? No help whatsoever. This woman had been so persistent that I was being drawn to the fact that I would have to answer the door but then how would I explain the huge delay? It's not as if I live in a mansion and had been in the south wing or anything. That had been terrible, I'd have had to crawl on my belly to reach the door but in the end I just put my hands over my ears and said 'la la la la' to myself over and over until she either went away or died on the step. Her voice had been getting weaker and weaker. Oh why won't people leave me alone?
Wednesday 17 November 2010
Being Pepys (sort of)
I guess in the spirit of the great man himself (Sammy Pepys) I'd better actually report something from the news. I'm not a Royalist so it grieves me to waste some of my brain power to do this but (sigh) here goes. Prince William got engaged to Kate Middleton (is that her name? Hang on, let me check.......yes it is). She's pretty and got good teeth. It's probably good to get some new genes into the Royal pool. Hopefully the premature baldness gene will start to phase itself out over the coming generations. As for the ring - Diana's ring, well, I wouldn't want that fucker! It was given to the bloke's beloved mother by a man who never loved her and just saw her as a brood mare to give him an heir and a spare. Remember that engagement interview where he wouldn't say he loved the poor cow? "What is love any way?" or something, that was his answer. I'd have told him to fuck right off there and then. At least the new two look like they at least like each other. I might feel more benevolent if the rumour that we'll all get a day off work for the wedding is true. Wa-hoo, Royal Wedding (said the person considering being a Royalist for the day or, working day. Royalist until 4.30pm).
Enough about the Royals. I've done my diarist's duty.
Oh yeah, I might have mentioned before that people are having difficulties registering to follow this diary. I've also discovered that it's nigh on impossible to leave a comment at the bottom of each entry. Dunno if you have to be a follower or if I need to change a setting somewhere but I'll have a look. I welcome all comments so long as you aren't offering to kill me or sell me a fucking handbag.
So, what else? It broke my heart but I went back to the gym today. Stayed until I did 500 calories but was particularly pissed off 'cause there were CHILDREN in the gym and their voices go through me. Oh yeah, and they were all over the machines I wanted to go on. Who let kids in fer chrissake? I'll tell you what else broke my heart today. SOUP. I stupidly took soup with me to work for lunch. When lunch time came around I wept real tears of grief. Who fucking wants soup for lunch? I ventured out in search of more interesting food and discovered that the guy I thought looked a bit like former Dr Who, David Tenant and therefore was forced to fancy (despite his career of standing on a corner with a sign pointing to McDonalds whilst simultaneously handing out leaflets), actually doesn't. He looks more like a goblin. With a hood on he's hot, without one he's frightening. That upset me too, gonna have to find someone else to have a daily crush on now. Oh the life of a single, barren spinster eh?
Enough about the Royals. I've done my diarist's duty.
Oh yeah, I might have mentioned before that people are having difficulties registering to follow this diary. I've also discovered that it's nigh on impossible to leave a comment at the bottom of each entry. Dunno if you have to be a follower or if I need to change a setting somewhere but I'll have a look. I welcome all comments so long as you aren't offering to kill me or sell me a fucking handbag.
So, what else? It broke my heart but I went back to the gym today. Stayed until I did 500 calories but was particularly pissed off 'cause there were CHILDREN in the gym and their voices go through me. Oh yeah, and they were all over the machines I wanted to go on. Who let kids in fer chrissake? I'll tell you what else broke my heart today. SOUP. I stupidly took soup with me to work for lunch. When lunch time came around I wept real tears of grief. Who fucking wants soup for lunch? I ventured out in search of more interesting food and discovered that the guy I thought looked a bit like former Dr Who, David Tenant and therefore was forced to fancy (despite his career of standing on a corner with a sign pointing to McDonalds whilst simultaneously handing out leaflets), actually doesn't. He looks more like a goblin. With a hood on he's hot, without one he's frightening. That upset me too, gonna have to find someone else to have a daily crush on now. Oh the life of a single, barren spinster eh?
Thursday 11 November 2010
Sweaty Jesus
Years ago someone bought me a Jesus soap on a rope for reasons best known to themselves. For reasons best known to MYself, a few years ago I cut off the rope and stuck googly eyes to it rendering the yellow soap Jesus permanently shocked. I think I even used it to menace someone remotely by telling them that Soap Jesus was watching them and very disappointed. Well, I'm sort of not Christian but I still can't bring myself to throw Soap Jesus away (just in case) so it just sits in my room by the telly. As I was passing I noticed he was all wet and was sort of 'sweating'. Is this an omen. Is this THE Omen? Should I tell some Christians that their deity is sweating as a lesson to them all? I'm guessing that if I did that some fucked up radical group would blame the gays or women priests. They'd conveniently forget about all the paedo priests or the Nuns in the Magdalen Homes who were allegedly (dunno if it's officially allegedly or if I can take it as fact at this point) evil to their charges. No, apparently God and whoever else only get angry by gays and women priests for some reason. This is one of the reasons I can't be arsed with religion.
I think I'll just ignore sweaty Soap Jesus. If he's got a message then he's going to have to think of a better way of communicating with me. For Chrissake (?) he's supposed to be Christ and I guess he's supposed to have an iota of omnipotence so should just sit down and think about his communication skills before he sweats all over a person.
Other than my really rather ridiculous rant about something or nothing I have to confess that I nearly had a proper tantrum at work today which shocked my 'mental health' work colleague pal(remember her? We are almost like twins when it comes to paranoia, hypochondria and over thinking). I'd been out all day and simply walked through the door only to hear "Ah, Sket's just come into the office, I'll put you through." A simple thing but I really rather forgot myself and had an inappropriate tantrum 'cause I didn't want to talk to anyone. There were biscuits which weren't going to eat themselves in that room and I had to TALK to someone? I did though and Mental Health Colleague (MHC) found it hysterical that I'd had a proper tantrum which included bad language and childish pouting/near stamping of feet. The only thing I was able to control was my usual trick of throwing myself to the floor and pretending to be dead when I don't want to do something.
...my friend Nigel spoiled that for me when he proved to be immune to the whole pretending to be dead thing by dragging me by one arm across the floor and making me go running with him a few years back.
After the tension had been broken by the laughter of my colleagues over my behaviour I could do little else but to show my disapproval by doing a couple of over dramatic star jumps and a lunge in the middle of the office. I would have lifted my dress over my head and showed everyone everything I've got as an act of defiance and disrespect, only I've seen myself naked and I wouldn't want to be the cause of a mass outbreak of vomiting and mental instability.
It's a shame for me. I hope I'm not going to be punished now 'cause of the Jesus stuff at the beginning. Heck, I'm always being punished. Let's see what happens tomorrow, eh?
I think I'll just ignore sweaty Soap Jesus. If he's got a message then he's going to have to think of a better way of communicating with me. For Chrissake (?) he's supposed to be Christ and I guess he's supposed to have an iota of omnipotence so should just sit down and think about his communication skills before he sweats all over a person.
Other than my really rather ridiculous rant about something or nothing I have to confess that I nearly had a proper tantrum at work today which shocked my 'mental health' work colleague pal(remember her? We are almost like twins when it comes to paranoia, hypochondria and over thinking). I'd been out all day and simply walked through the door only to hear "Ah, Sket's just come into the office, I'll put you through." A simple thing but I really rather forgot myself and had an inappropriate tantrum 'cause I didn't want to talk to anyone. There were biscuits which weren't going to eat themselves in that room and I had to TALK to someone? I did though and Mental Health Colleague (MHC) found it hysterical that I'd had a proper tantrum which included bad language and childish pouting/near stamping of feet. The only thing I was able to control was my usual trick of throwing myself to the floor and pretending to be dead when I don't want to do something.
...my friend Nigel spoiled that for me when he proved to be immune to the whole pretending to be dead thing by dragging me by one arm across the floor and making me go running with him a few years back.
After the tension had been broken by the laughter of my colleagues over my behaviour I could do little else but to show my disapproval by doing a couple of over dramatic star jumps and a lunge in the middle of the office. I would have lifted my dress over my head and showed everyone everything I've got as an act of defiance and disrespect, only I've seen myself naked and I wouldn't want to be the cause of a mass outbreak of vomiting and mental instability.
It's a shame for me. I hope I'm not going to be punished now 'cause of the Jesus stuff at the beginning. Heck, I'm always being punished. Let's see what happens tomorrow, eh?
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Stoned
So I had a gig in Bournemouth last night. It was a stressful journey, driving in the dark and the rain with barely a clue as to where the bleedin' hell I was going. I'd of course printed off a route planner but hadn't even considered it'd be too dark to read the thing. I found myself lost for a goodly amount of time and only found the venue by accident through just driving about towards areas that looked a bit comedic. Sometimes I just love how the chaos theory works out...
When I arrived my chest felt tight and as I'm still recovering from Consumption (she said, full of hypochondria), I took 2 paracetamol extra before going into the venue to let the promoter know I was there. They were still setting up so I went back to the car for another quick run through of my set.
I started to cough so rifled through my bag to find the bottle of vile tasting Covonia cough medicine and took a massive swig. I'm not really certain what happened next, I sort of became a bit distracted, forgot a chunk of the set (I think I only remembered the first 2 minutes and some of that was a bit ropey) and became unusually nervous.
I went back in and learned that pretty much all of the audience were in fact fellow comedians and as the weather was closing in, there was little prospect of further 'audience-age'. Great. I find that mostly, other comedians tend to make for a shit audience. I suspect they don't like to laugh as they feel they are being disrespectful to their own comedy (unless they're friends with you and need you to laugh heartily at them in return).
As I sat and waited for everything to kick off I realised that my limbs were sort of light and were in fact floating away. I smiled. Then I realised my head was somewhere completely different and I felt good. Well, sort of good. I didn't really know anything and couldn't think. I hadn't a clue what my first line was going to be but still I sat there with something of a half smile on my face in a fuzz of happiness. I sent The Tidiness Nazi (best friend/housemate Steph) a text telling her that I thought I was stoned on Covonia. She helpfully pointed out that I'd taken 2 paracetamol extra tablets about 10 minutes before I'd swigged the cough medicine. Shiit, I'd forgotten about that.
Bleedin hell. Have I O.D'd on paracetamol and Covonia? It feels lovely but through the haze I did realise it wasn't the best state to be in with less than half an hour before I'm meant to perform stand up. Stilllll, it didn't matter, nothing mattered
sigh.......
Oh yeah, I'll have to drive home too.
Bollocks.
All I have to say is that I performed well under the influence of over the counter meds and made it home in one piece. I only got lost 4 times too!
All in all, mysteriously a success. Perhaps Covonia is the key!
When I arrived my chest felt tight and as I'm still recovering from Consumption (she said, full of hypochondria), I took 2 paracetamol extra before going into the venue to let the promoter know I was there. They were still setting up so I went back to the car for another quick run through of my set.
I started to cough so rifled through my bag to find the bottle of vile tasting Covonia cough medicine and took a massive swig. I'm not really certain what happened next, I sort of became a bit distracted, forgot a chunk of the set (I think I only remembered the first 2 minutes and some of that was a bit ropey) and became unusually nervous.
I went back in and learned that pretty much all of the audience were in fact fellow comedians and as the weather was closing in, there was little prospect of further 'audience-age'. Great. I find that mostly, other comedians tend to make for a shit audience. I suspect they don't like to laugh as they feel they are being disrespectful to their own comedy (unless they're friends with you and need you to laugh heartily at them in return).
As I sat and waited for everything to kick off I realised that my limbs were sort of light and were in fact floating away. I smiled. Then I realised my head was somewhere completely different and I felt good. Well, sort of good. I didn't really know anything and couldn't think. I hadn't a clue what my first line was going to be but still I sat there with something of a half smile on my face in a fuzz of happiness. I sent The Tidiness Nazi (best friend/housemate Steph) a text telling her that I thought I was stoned on Covonia. She helpfully pointed out that I'd taken 2 paracetamol extra tablets about 10 minutes before I'd swigged the cough medicine. Shiit, I'd forgotten about that.
Bleedin hell. Have I O.D'd on paracetamol and Covonia? It feels lovely but through the haze I did realise it wasn't the best state to be in with less than half an hour before I'm meant to perform stand up. Stilllll, it didn't matter, nothing mattered
sigh.......
Oh yeah, I'll have to drive home too.
Bollocks.
All I have to say is that I performed well under the influence of over the counter meds and made it home in one piece. I only got lost 4 times too!
All in all, mysteriously a success. Perhaps Covonia is the key!
Saturday 6 November 2010
Grumptitude
Who the frig am I kidding? I've just had an 'Effervescent B-Active Orange flavoured tablet' which says it is rapidly absorbed to support a busy and engergetic lifestyle. I've lain around the ferkin' house all day doing sod all. I haven't been to the gym in over a week and I actually caught myself in the week saying (out loud) that I couldn't wait to go home so I could go to bed.
Lazy bitch
Y'know what aggravates me? That advert for First Direct bank which shows some idiot child pretending to talk like a whale at school and the teacher tells her off for always talking too much. The point of the advert is that this idiot child goes on to work for First Direct where she talks to customers all day and that First Direct should be applauded for hiring people who love to talk and give customer service. To me, the point of the advert is that the aggravating idiot child did nothing but fucking talk all day at school and therefore ended up working in a call centre.
Here's another thing. They just advertised Piers Morgan's interview with Susan Boyle. Jesus Christ, she looks like the Witch of the Waste from Howl's Moving Castle and how is anyone supposed to sit and listen to her bizarre voice for an hour or however long the show is on? You can barely understand a word she says and she's proper WEIRD. I am starting to conclude that her 15 minutes are NEVER going to end. Wonder if I have time to find a Betting Site which will give me good odds on some contrived question coming out which will make her cry like a shitty baby. I reckon it'll be a re-hash of her sudden decision to announce that at some stage in her life she tried to off herself. Purleeeeeese.
Ok, ANOTHER aggravation. Another ad too. That one for Perle De Lait yoghurts. The woman with the pretend French accent screws her face up into a proper gurn to tell us that she used to eat sour yoghurt and that it was horrible but then she found Perle de Lait and that's lovely so she's well pleased with herself. Why would you eat anything that was so bloody horrible it made you look like that? Just stop eating the fucking yoghurt. Eat a turd of shit instead love, I bet it makes you wince but won't taste as bad as you'd have us believe the sour yoghurt was. Jeeeeeez, adverts nowadays, they must think we're all a bunch of morons.
Ok, now to complain about my stupid tits again. Y'know, I wear a bra and suddenly it's too big so I get a smaller one. This one presses the buggers flat to my chest and I can't breathe so I get one the same size as the one that was previously too big. THIS one won't do up around me. Wha? WHY? Have I got some sort of 'Manimal' transformation taking place within my body that it is a significantly different size every sodding day? I had to go to a party thing last night and wore a halterneck dress. Having stupid big tits I had to get a strapless bra for the occasion. The cup size is the only thing that remains constant in my weird breast scenario. Well, previously, last night the bra swamped them to the extent I could have got both in one cup. STUPID tits.
I'm in a right bad mood today. Got a headache, woke up with a false eyelash stuck to my brow and god only knows where the other one got to. Put my contact lenses in and was rendered blind! Then I realised I'd again slept in yesterday's pair. Having 2 contact lenses on one eye is weird. One corrects the vision, the other uncorrects so I guess that's puts me back to square one. If I'd put a third lens on then I'd be able to see again. Perhaps I'll try that tomorrow. It'll look like a telescope on each eye but hell, it's something to do innit?
Lazy bitch
Y'know what aggravates me? That advert for First Direct bank which shows some idiot child pretending to talk like a whale at school and the teacher tells her off for always talking too much. The point of the advert is that this idiot child goes on to work for First Direct where she talks to customers all day and that First Direct should be applauded for hiring people who love to talk and give customer service. To me, the point of the advert is that the aggravating idiot child did nothing but fucking talk all day at school and therefore ended up working in a call centre.
Here's another thing. They just advertised Piers Morgan's interview with Susan Boyle. Jesus Christ, she looks like the Witch of the Waste from Howl's Moving Castle and how is anyone supposed to sit and listen to her bizarre voice for an hour or however long the show is on? You can barely understand a word she says and she's proper WEIRD. I am starting to conclude that her 15 minutes are NEVER going to end. Wonder if I have time to find a Betting Site which will give me good odds on some contrived question coming out which will make her cry like a shitty baby. I reckon it'll be a re-hash of her sudden decision to announce that at some stage in her life she tried to off herself. Purleeeeeese.
Ok, ANOTHER aggravation. Another ad too. That one for Perle De Lait yoghurts. The woman with the pretend French accent screws her face up into a proper gurn to tell us that she used to eat sour yoghurt and that it was horrible but then she found Perle de Lait and that's lovely so she's well pleased with herself. Why would you eat anything that was so bloody horrible it made you look like that? Just stop eating the fucking yoghurt. Eat a turd of shit instead love, I bet it makes you wince but won't taste as bad as you'd have us believe the sour yoghurt was. Jeeeeeez, adverts nowadays, they must think we're all a bunch of morons.
Ok, now to complain about my stupid tits again. Y'know, I wear a bra and suddenly it's too big so I get a smaller one. This one presses the buggers flat to my chest and I can't breathe so I get one the same size as the one that was previously too big. THIS one won't do up around me. Wha? WHY? Have I got some sort of 'Manimal' transformation taking place within my body that it is a significantly different size every sodding day? I had to go to a party thing last night and wore a halterneck dress. Having stupid big tits I had to get a strapless bra for the occasion. The cup size is the only thing that remains constant in my weird breast scenario. Well, previously, last night the bra swamped them to the extent I could have got both in one cup. STUPID tits.
I'm in a right bad mood today. Got a headache, woke up with a false eyelash stuck to my brow and god only knows where the other one got to. Put my contact lenses in and was rendered blind! Then I realised I'd again slept in yesterday's pair. Having 2 contact lenses on one eye is weird. One corrects the vision, the other uncorrects so I guess that's puts me back to square one. If I'd put a third lens on then I'd be able to see again. Perhaps I'll try that tomorrow. It'll look like a telescope on each eye but hell, it's something to do innit?
Monday 1 November 2010
Filth
I'm sick at the moment. So is Tidiness Nazi housemate Steph so it's probably best we paint a big cross on the door to warn others that there be disease within the dwelling.
....or did they do that to tell the Angel of Death to fuck off?
I may be getting my biblical/actual plagues mixed up but hell, I'm delirious. I'm sick I tells ya!
Having been sick for the past few days I have lived a wonderful, hermit-like existence pretty much alone in my room. It's been bliss (apart from the feeling crap thing). I've laid there drifting in and out of sleep having the most fantastically vivid dreams and even coming up with THE most fantastic/award winning stand up routine of my career. Of course, I've forgotten the bugger now so fame and comedy glory remain tantalisingly out of reach. I do remember that part of it was to do with the time I was startled by my own genitalia very early one morning but that's another story.
Anyhoo, back to this story. To recap, I lay in bed enjoying the peace and solitude (coughing) alone in my kingdom. It took a while but when I sort of looked around with fresh eyes I realised, that my kingdom was actually somewhat of a dump. There is the paint splash over my lovely hippy rug where I accidentally tipped all that paint over myself whilst being extra careful not to spill paint over my stuff, there is the chunk of newly/un-uniformly painted wall that I left about 2 months ago 'cause I decided I hated the colour, there is all the stuff from the wardrobe I decided I no longer wanted piled up against the wall (and falling down all over the place), there's a wall shelf hanging off with a few things still precariously balanced on top, a pile of clothes atop the old holiday suitcase, a pile of clothes on top of the laundry basket (clean) and a load of clothes hanging out of the laundry basket (dirty) but there are also books balanced on the clean clothes on top and it's all very precisely balanced. Then there's all the floor crap. I won't even go there. I sat up and sort of looked around and realised that my attempt at de-cluttering my life had failed. There, I admitted it.
I then noticed the layer of dust on some of the long term crap and with a wry smile and nod to myself concluded that rather than look like a haven of peace and tranquility, my room contained so much dirt it was akin to an episode of Time Team. I bet if I moved the pile of boxes and books I'd be able to release Tony Robinson back into the community. No wonder he hasn't been seen for a while...
Thinking about it, I desperately need to change my bed sheets which I've sweated fever into. They are so disgusting there is a definite outline of my body on them. Like a slob's Turin Shroud. I have to admit, this isn't the first time I've had Turin Shrouding of my bedclothes. If only I had the gift of shame I'd erm, be ashamed.
....or did they do that to tell the Angel of Death to fuck off?
I may be getting my biblical/actual plagues mixed up but hell, I'm delirious. I'm sick I tells ya!
Having been sick for the past few days I have lived a wonderful, hermit-like existence pretty much alone in my room. It's been bliss (apart from the feeling crap thing). I've laid there drifting in and out of sleep having the most fantastically vivid dreams and even coming up with THE most fantastic/award winning stand up routine of my career. Of course, I've forgotten the bugger now so fame and comedy glory remain tantalisingly out of reach. I do remember that part of it was to do with the time I was startled by my own genitalia very early one morning but that's another story.
Anyhoo, back to this story. To recap, I lay in bed enjoying the peace and solitude (coughing) alone in my kingdom. It took a while but when I sort of looked around with fresh eyes I realised, that my kingdom was actually somewhat of a dump. There is the paint splash over my lovely hippy rug where I accidentally tipped all that paint over myself whilst being extra careful not to spill paint over my stuff, there is the chunk of newly/un-uniformly painted wall that I left about 2 months ago 'cause I decided I hated the colour, there is all the stuff from the wardrobe I decided I no longer wanted piled up against the wall (and falling down all over the place), there's a wall shelf hanging off with a few things still precariously balanced on top, a pile of clothes atop the old holiday suitcase, a pile of clothes on top of the laundry basket (clean) and a load of clothes hanging out of the laundry basket (dirty) but there are also books balanced on the clean clothes on top and it's all very precisely balanced. Then there's all the floor crap. I won't even go there. I sat up and sort of looked around and realised that my attempt at de-cluttering my life had failed. There, I admitted it.
I then noticed the layer of dust on some of the long term crap and with a wry smile and nod to myself concluded that rather than look like a haven of peace and tranquility, my room contained so much dirt it was akin to an episode of Time Team. I bet if I moved the pile of boxes and books I'd be able to release Tony Robinson back into the community. No wonder he hasn't been seen for a while...
Thinking about it, I desperately need to change my bed sheets which I've sweated fever into. They are so disgusting there is a definite outline of my body on them. Like a slob's Turin Shroud. I have to admit, this isn't the first time I've had Turin Shrouding of my bedclothes. If only I had the gift of shame I'd erm, be ashamed.
Saturday 23 October 2010
Plaything of The Fates (again)
Y'know those times we all dread? The times we (well, not me 'cause I'm a laydeeee - cough) allow an unguarded fart to fall from our arses. They always seem to rip out in a satisfying manner only for you to realise you aren't alone! That recently happened to a rellie of mine (you know who you are!) I had a similar but 'un-guilty' experience which is, in fact, just as bad.
Right, I was at the gym and had worked hard so was a bit on the sweaty side. Being a fucking short-arse I had to get on my tippie-toes to get on the exercise bike (even though I'd lowered the saddle to dwarf height) and well, I sort of dragged my arse across the seat and, to my mortification, it made a squeaky sort of loud fart sound! It wasn't a fart but by fuck it sure sounded like one and there were people there - REAL people who I don't know. No one moved (other than to continue exercising) or looked my way but my reaction was as if I really had let out a gigantic fart and no matter how much I squidged around on the seat I couldn't reproduce that sound in order to prove my innocence. I looked at myself in the giant mirror and could see the fart-guilt written all over my face. I wondered how people would react if I jumped down from the bike, stood at the front and explained to everyone that I wasn't guilty of a fart crime but then people might not have heard me after all and then they might believe I WAS guilty of the fart. What a dilemma. I just continued pedaling in the sure knowledge that every time those people came to the gym and saw me they'd associate me with farts and there's nothing I could do about it.
Other than that, I had a couple of food related accidents. We ordered a lovely pizza and I was attempting to add a little salt (which some people find weird). The salt was still in the container it came in and had become a little damp. All I did was smack the thing a bit hard but the lid came off and the entire pot of salt landed on my frickin' dinner! I did try to brush it off and carry on eating but it was so horrible I could feel a salt related Stroke coming on so had to throw it away. Sigh. The next day I put a plastic pot of pumpkin soup in my bag and rushed off to work. Fuck (I'm rather sweary again aren't I?) knows how I did it but the plastic container split and I ended up with a bag full of mushed pumpkin. It looked as if I'd vomited into the thing. I have done that before (only it was purple from over-drinking pernod and black. Jesus Christ, what had I been thinking?) I wonder if I can post photos to this thing...
I wonder if Samuel Pepys ever diarised his own humiliations or discussed farting. I'll tell you something else that arsehole Pepys never did - took photos of dirty toilets! Did they have cameras in those days? Well, ok then, did that arsehole Pepys ever sketch a dirty toilet and then paint it in oils? Did they have toilets in those days? I'm probably getting confused with Black Adder and the woman who preferred to 'crap out of the window'. Blimey, do you think Pepys crapped out of a window? Nah, he'd have a poe. Any way, I am slowly collecting pictures of dreadfully unloved toilets. You may wonder why. So do I.
PS. I don't know why Pepys suddenly became an arsehole in this diary. He was probably a totally ok bloke (despite being rich and powerful).
Right, I was at the gym and had worked hard so was a bit on the sweaty side. Being a fucking short-arse I had to get on my tippie-toes to get on the exercise bike (even though I'd lowered the saddle to dwarf height) and well, I sort of dragged my arse across the seat and, to my mortification, it made a squeaky sort of loud fart sound! It wasn't a fart but by fuck it sure sounded like one and there were people there - REAL people who I don't know. No one moved (other than to continue exercising) or looked my way but my reaction was as if I really had let out a gigantic fart and no matter how much I squidged around on the seat I couldn't reproduce that sound in order to prove my innocence. I looked at myself in the giant mirror and could see the fart-guilt written all over my face. I wondered how people would react if I jumped down from the bike, stood at the front and explained to everyone that I wasn't guilty of a fart crime but then people might not have heard me after all and then they might believe I WAS guilty of the fart. What a dilemma. I just continued pedaling in the sure knowledge that every time those people came to the gym and saw me they'd associate me with farts and there's nothing I could do about it.
Other than that, I had a couple of food related accidents. We ordered a lovely pizza and I was attempting to add a little salt (which some people find weird). The salt was still in the container it came in and had become a little damp. All I did was smack the thing a bit hard but the lid came off and the entire pot of salt landed on my frickin' dinner! I did try to brush it off and carry on eating but it was so horrible I could feel a salt related Stroke coming on so had to throw it away. Sigh. The next day I put a plastic pot of pumpkin soup in my bag and rushed off to work. Fuck (I'm rather sweary again aren't I?) knows how I did it but the plastic container split and I ended up with a bag full of mushed pumpkin. It looked as if I'd vomited into the thing. I have done that before (only it was purple from over-drinking pernod and black. Jesus Christ, what had I been thinking?) I wonder if I can post photos to this thing...
I wonder if Samuel Pepys ever diarised his own humiliations or discussed farting. I'll tell you something else that arsehole Pepys never did - took photos of dirty toilets! Did they have cameras in those days? Well, ok then, did that arsehole Pepys ever sketch a dirty toilet and then paint it in oils? Did they have toilets in those days? I'm probably getting confused with Black Adder and the woman who preferred to 'crap out of the window'. Blimey, do you think Pepys crapped out of a window? Nah, he'd have a poe. Any way, I am slowly collecting pictures of dreadfully unloved toilets. You may wonder why. So do I.
PS. I don't know why Pepys suddenly became an arsehole in this diary. He was probably a totally ok bloke (despite being rich and powerful).
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Too much thinking
I've been really twitchy today. Weirdly twitchy in the kind of way I felt a bit like I wanted to shout out random abusive words or jump high into the air and kick like a Ninja (in my mind I'd have looked like a Ninja. In reality I'd have looked a complete dick). I did ease some of the pressure by calling my sort of 'mental health twin' work colleague a motherfucker, a wanker and a moron. Don't worry, she appreciated it and we laughed heartily as we abused each other in the office. I seem to recall being called a tosser, a twat and an arsehole.
At lunch time I went upstairs to the staff room and ended up laughing loudly in the face of another work colleague who had been sitting there quietly eating an orange. I, in fact, could not stop laughing for a while when I realised I'd walked into a previously quiet room in minor hysterics and had therefore shocked a colleague. If you can't shock a colleague every day then I don't know WHAT you can do! I felt I had to offer her some sort of explanation as I then became, through my tears of laughter, paranoid that SHE would be paranoid that I was laughing at her. The thing is, as I'd run up the stairs I'd got the handle of a spoon in my mouth (yeah, well....I could have just held the spoon but I've got a life to lead and it was all too much effort to use a gripping action at lunch time), and, as I'd bounced up the stairs I remembered the thing at school where people always yell that you shouldn't run with a pen in your mouth or with scissors in your hand. I was then whisked away into another reverie where I could see myself falling backwards on the stairs with a look of shock on my face, spoon handle still in my mouth and arms flailing as I blindly tried to grip at something to stop me from falling. I then saw myself lying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs sort of dead with a spoon handle jammed into the roof of my mouth and either out of my eye or into the base of my brain (yeah, my own demise - hysterical. These flashes only lasted for about 6 stairs. Wonder if I achieved some sort of ridiculous reverie record). I, of course, shared this with my bewildered colleague who really didn't see what was so funny and I agree, it wasn't really funny but y'know, it sorta was. You should have seen the look on my face as I was falling - BRILLIANT!
She then, in a flash of weird paranoia (this is what my place of work is like) said I can't die on the stairs as they'd all think she'd pushed me. I agreed and said I would therefore intend to live and I'd blame her only no one would understand what I was saying as I'd have a big fuck-off hole in the roof of my mouth. As I impersonated how I'd sound, my colleague was busy worrying about how she'd get the blame for it all and said I would still be able to write my blame for her down and then she'd lose her job. I totally love the fact my mid-morning insanity spread to another. I am also proud that I recognise that my mind hasn't been right today. Hello, I'm Sketty and today my mental health is a bit fragile in a freaky rather than sad kind of way!
So, after lunch time my twitchiness continued and I shared with my original (and complicit) work colleague that I often fantasise about throwing myself to the floor and screaming loudly over and over whilst twitching and flailing about. She agreed that this would be lovely. I then asked whether, when she's dealing with an arsehole or someone really moaning and it saps your will to live, whether she's ever suppressed the desire to just flash her vadge at them by way of a response before just walking away. She laughed and said that it would be brilliant.
Then, to be serious we discussed that these were the thoughts of proper crazy people and that the only thing that set us apart was our 'self control chip'. We're both hypochondriacs so we then spent the rest of the afternoon silently worrying that as we grew older our 'chips' might start to fail and then we would genuinely become like those people who walk around town shadow boxing at the heavens, flashing our 'lady garden areas' at strangers or randomly shouting or laughing. Or, right - the 'chip' might just fail during times of stress and we would (I say 'we', on reflection, I was doing most of the talking and my colleague may have been humouring me. Nah, she was right there with me!) just do it at work and wreck our careers!
Bloody hell, I got debts and she wants a new car!
Mental Health Colleague started to bite her bottom lip with worry and said that we'd get taken away and put away somewhere. This in fact sounds lovely. Taken away and put in a bed (with Valium? She'd asked, perking up) YES.
"So Sketty, where do you see yourself in 5 years time?"
"Medicated and in a secure unit please!"
Lovely. I hope the dinners are nice.
I now have to discuss why I posted all of this on-line with myself. I think it was cathartic - I needed to get rid of it all just so I can lay the twitchiness to rest. I do actually feel better but I did go to the gym for the first time since just before I went away. It broke my heart but I had to go. I've noticed that over time I've lost weight and toned up somewhat by my stupid tits remain the same ridiculously gigantic size. Stupid tits :(
At lunch time I went upstairs to the staff room and ended up laughing loudly in the face of another work colleague who had been sitting there quietly eating an orange. I, in fact, could not stop laughing for a while when I realised I'd walked into a previously quiet room in minor hysterics and had therefore shocked a colleague. If you can't shock a colleague every day then I don't know WHAT you can do! I felt I had to offer her some sort of explanation as I then became, through my tears of laughter, paranoid that SHE would be paranoid that I was laughing at her. The thing is, as I'd run up the stairs I'd got the handle of a spoon in my mouth (yeah, well....I could have just held the spoon but I've got a life to lead and it was all too much effort to use a gripping action at lunch time), and, as I'd bounced up the stairs I remembered the thing at school where people always yell that you shouldn't run with a pen in your mouth or with scissors in your hand. I was then whisked away into another reverie where I could see myself falling backwards on the stairs with a look of shock on my face, spoon handle still in my mouth and arms flailing as I blindly tried to grip at something to stop me from falling. I then saw myself lying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs sort of dead with a spoon handle jammed into the roof of my mouth and either out of my eye or into the base of my brain (yeah, my own demise - hysterical. These flashes only lasted for about 6 stairs. Wonder if I achieved some sort of ridiculous reverie record). I, of course, shared this with my bewildered colleague who really didn't see what was so funny and I agree, it wasn't really funny but y'know, it sorta was. You should have seen the look on my face as I was falling - BRILLIANT!
She then, in a flash of weird paranoia (this is what my place of work is like) said I can't die on the stairs as they'd all think she'd pushed me. I agreed and said I would therefore intend to live and I'd blame her only no one would understand what I was saying as I'd have a big fuck-off hole in the roof of my mouth. As I impersonated how I'd sound, my colleague was busy worrying about how she'd get the blame for it all and said I would still be able to write my blame for her down and then she'd lose her job. I totally love the fact my mid-morning insanity spread to another. I am also proud that I recognise that my mind hasn't been right today. Hello, I'm Sketty and today my mental health is a bit fragile in a freaky rather than sad kind of way!
So, after lunch time my twitchiness continued and I shared with my original (and complicit) work colleague that I often fantasise about throwing myself to the floor and screaming loudly over and over whilst twitching and flailing about. She agreed that this would be lovely. I then asked whether, when she's dealing with an arsehole or someone really moaning and it saps your will to live, whether she's ever suppressed the desire to just flash her vadge at them by way of a response before just walking away. She laughed and said that it would be brilliant.
Then, to be serious we discussed that these were the thoughts of proper crazy people and that the only thing that set us apart was our 'self control chip'. We're both hypochondriacs so we then spent the rest of the afternoon silently worrying that as we grew older our 'chips' might start to fail and then we would genuinely become like those people who walk around town shadow boxing at the heavens, flashing our 'lady garden areas' at strangers or randomly shouting or laughing. Or, right - the 'chip' might just fail during times of stress and we would (I say 'we', on reflection, I was doing most of the talking and my colleague may have been humouring me. Nah, she was right there with me!) just do it at work and wreck our careers!
Bloody hell, I got debts and she wants a new car!
Mental Health Colleague started to bite her bottom lip with worry and said that we'd get taken away and put away somewhere. This in fact sounds lovely. Taken away and put in a bed (with Valium? She'd asked, perking up) YES.
"So Sketty, where do you see yourself in 5 years time?"
"Medicated and in a secure unit please!"
Lovely. I hope the dinners are nice.
I now have to discuss why I posted all of this on-line with myself. I think it was cathartic - I needed to get rid of it all just so I can lay the twitchiness to rest. I do actually feel better but I did go to the gym for the first time since just before I went away. It broke my heart but I had to go. I've noticed that over time I've lost weight and toned up somewhat by my stupid tits remain the same ridiculously gigantic size. Stupid tits :(
Saturday 9 October 2010
Dead woman's case thing pt. 4 San Diego
Evenin' all. Had a nice long lie in today, blew off going to the gym (heck, I'll go tomorrow) in order to lie in bed watching re-runs of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and to be appalled that the hairy dog which I had earlier discovered had eased me against the wall and taken over most of my bed (complete with her head on my pillow)was now licking her arse next to my face. Pet ownership really is a misery. Nothing else noteworthy happened today so I'll get straight into the next part of my travel journal.
Monday 20th September 2010 - San Diego: Spent most of last night puking [this is a lovely start to my journal isn't it? You'll soon discover the full extent of my shitty digestion] and being wide awake. My chest feels like it's had a good kicking. I coughed and coughed all night from the reflux I get but felt surprisingly chipper today. Everyone else on the tour is actually very pleasant [take note of this sentence and laugh heartily as my opinion rapidly changes].
Had to be on the bus for 8am - what a godforsaken hour to be setting out when on holiday! Actually, it turned out to be ok and we were taken on a tour of San Diego. Beautiful architecture and interesting. Very Mexican and at the harbour really military. Had photo stops at a giant statue of a sailor kissing a nurse which was inspired by the famous photo taken of V.J. Day and put on the cover of Time magazine. Also loved the Bob Hope entertaining the troops memorial (with sound). As a stand up I felt a lot of warmth for this memorial and could only dream of having such an appreciative audience (oh, and talent no doubt). We also stopped somewhere else but I couldn't see the point of that one, it was just a grassy area near the bay. Mom and I took the piss out of the abundance of joggers running, no, NOT running; staggering along at less than crawling speed and with pained expressions on their stupid faces. I've run in the past - I was forced to by my friend Nigel who was immune to my crying and pretending to be dead whenever he came around, and I can confirm that even in that state I wasn't as ridiculous looking as the joggers I saw during that stop! Mom and I have already got a nickname for an actually very pleasant woman on the trip who's genuinely got no ankles - Cankles. Her husband is Mr Cankles (for calves/ankles). We're wicked bleeders we really are.
Stopped and had some cake and fed all the little sparrows (I bloody love little cheeky sparrows). They must have found the cake a little dry as they all flew to a nearby fountain and drank heartily before coming back for more cake. Gawd bless 'em. At the end of the tour we were given an hour and a half to look around Old San Diego which was really Mexican and, I thought brilliant but Mom didn't care much for any of it so we didn't spend much time in the shops which were full of stuff for the Day of the Dead festival. I figured housemate Steph (the goth) would love some of the stuff but then realised it was a bit too bulky to carry PLUS it was potentially just ebay fodder I'll hang on and see if I can find any thing Steam Punk for her. I know I'm worrying my mother with my inability to eat without puking and I don't want it to be an issue as I know I get good days and bad days. I was able to get a cheese salad for lunch (at a place called O'Hungry's) and kept it all down (thank fuck for that). Felt better once I'd eaten.
My phone is really pissing me off. Been getting loads of Twitter updates and Steph's attempt to stop them failed and now I'm getting phone updates from all 94 people I follow. It's a fucking misery and because I'm abroad it's costing me a fortune! I know it's pissing my mother off. Note to self: Dump Twitter when I get home.
After this tour we were sent on a harbour tour. Sat on top deck and it was really rather pleasant until the boat turned around and sailed into the wind. Bloody Brass Monkey's (for non-UK people that means it was cold enough for 'balls' to drop off). Mom was disappointed that we saw just one....oh I can't think what it's called now - bird with a big beak that hangs down and fills with fish. I've got 'Gannet' or 'Heron' stuck in my head but it's neither of them. Perhaps I'll remember before I finish. We did get to see a bunch of fat seals basking on a platform. That was cool. We hung on in the wind freezing our tits off until the boat turned again but it was still bloody cold so we decided to go below decks. Found a diamond ring on the floor but gave it to the foreign woman with bad teeth and poorly applied lipstick who had been sitting there. She didn't thank me, miserable freak-faced cow. [I'M GOING TO EDIT OUT THE NEXT PART OF THE JOURNAL AS IT MAKES ME LOOK REALLY BAD. MWHAHAHAHAHA!]
Back on shore we were given a couple of hours to explore Seaport Village which was really cute and interesting but there was nothing really to buy. There was a pet shop full of dog costumes (if only Batdog wasn't so old and the Kraken not so mad I've have got the shark costume or the ear of corn one), a Pirate shop run by a bloke dressed as a Pirate (is there much call for Pirate stuff on a daily basis?), a Christmas shop which aims to remain open ALL year and another that just sells wind chimes. All lovely shops but how do they survive? I can't imagine the wind chime shop would get much repeat business as, let's face it, once you've got something dinging in your garden you don't really need something dinging at a slightly different pitch a yard away.
...or is it just me? Have I no imagination or magnificence to my soul?
Did buy a giant chunk of fudge for us both - I had Rocky Road and Mom had Maple and Walnut. Came to nearly $14!!!! Fuck, had I inadvertently walked back into the Pirate shop or even the Daylight Robbery shop? Robbing bastards. Did have the most perfect ice cream in the world though. Cop this for perfection:
Ben & Jerry's (I've got your attention already haven't I?) IMAGINE WHIRLED PEACE in a choc and nut waffle cone. I died and went to heaven until I started to feel sick 'cause it was too big and rich. Like a proper girl though I carried on eating the bugger. Then a really tatty, death's door type pigeon started to hang around. I gave him a bit of cone and where there had previously been NO wildlife for miles, a bunch of other pigeons came down so we just left. My betting is they keep 'Brian' looking sickly and send him out to look pathetic around the tourists. The legend (amongst pigeons) that is 'Brian the Bait' !
Oh yeah, we found Kettner Boulevard. Probably named after yet another sodding rich and unknown to my bit of the family relative. The Fates really do like to yank my chain about how my portion of the ancestry pool did shitly for themselves and therefore left no legacy for me to live off and become arrogant about. I'd LOVE to be rich and arrogant. People say that I wouldn't be the person I am today had I not experienced the shit I've experienced but I say 'who gives a shit?' Who WANTS to be me with my personality. I have to edit down my journal posts so as to hide the fact I'm really rather horrible and judgemental. I might be nice and rich if only my ancestors had got off their arses and worked a bit harder at saving Kings or inventing stuff. Lazy bunch of dead bastards....
Mom gave a homeless guy $5 but he was so out of it he didn't even look up. I think she felt bad for him 'cause I'd pointed out that he'd got a packet of Uncle Ben's dry rice in his shopping cart. Where the bleedin' hell is he going to cook that? He also had a pot of mustard.
For dinner I had linguine in a creamy pesto sauce and was able to keep it down (yay for my digestion!). Heard my mom fart in the night and discovered it was a gentle little whisper of fart. Started to form a theory that when at rest and the 'ring-piece' has no real tension to it, farts are unable to 'rip' themselves out and into the world. Would like to research this but wouldn't know where to start and I don't know who would be interested in the findings.
PELICAN!
It was a Pelican. It's now 5am and I'm wide awake. Can still hear fucking Twitter messages coming through.
Monday 20th September 2010 - San Diego: Spent most of last night puking [this is a lovely start to my journal isn't it? You'll soon discover the full extent of my shitty digestion] and being wide awake. My chest feels like it's had a good kicking. I coughed and coughed all night from the reflux I get but felt surprisingly chipper today. Everyone else on the tour is actually very pleasant [take note of this sentence and laugh heartily as my opinion rapidly changes].
Had to be on the bus for 8am - what a godforsaken hour to be setting out when on holiday! Actually, it turned out to be ok and we were taken on a tour of San Diego. Beautiful architecture and interesting. Very Mexican and at the harbour really military. Had photo stops at a giant statue of a sailor kissing a nurse which was inspired by the famous photo taken of V.J. Day and put on the cover of Time magazine. Also loved the Bob Hope entertaining the troops memorial (with sound). As a stand up I felt a lot of warmth for this memorial and could only dream of having such an appreciative audience (oh, and talent no doubt). We also stopped somewhere else but I couldn't see the point of that one, it was just a grassy area near the bay. Mom and I took the piss out of the abundance of joggers running, no, NOT running; staggering along at less than crawling speed and with pained expressions on their stupid faces. I've run in the past - I was forced to by my friend Nigel who was immune to my crying and pretending to be dead whenever he came around, and I can confirm that even in that state I wasn't as ridiculous looking as the joggers I saw during that stop! Mom and I have already got a nickname for an actually very pleasant woman on the trip who's genuinely got no ankles - Cankles. Her husband is Mr Cankles (for calves/ankles). We're wicked bleeders we really are.
Stopped and had some cake and fed all the little sparrows (I bloody love little cheeky sparrows). They must have found the cake a little dry as they all flew to a nearby fountain and drank heartily before coming back for more cake. Gawd bless 'em. At the end of the tour we were given an hour and a half to look around Old San Diego which was really Mexican and, I thought brilliant but Mom didn't care much for any of it so we didn't spend much time in the shops which were full of stuff for the Day of the Dead festival. I figured housemate Steph (the goth) would love some of the stuff but then realised it was a bit too bulky to carry PLUS it was potentially just ebay fodder I'll hang on and see if I can find any thing Steam Punk for her. I know I'm worrying my mother with my inability to eat without puking and I don't want it to be an issue as I know I get good days and bad days. I was able to get a cheese salad for lunch (at a place called O'Hungry's) and kept it all down (thank fuck for that). Felt better once I'd eaten.
My phone is really pissing me off. Been getting loads of Twitter updates and Steph's attempt to stop them failed and now I'm getting phone updates from all 94 people I follow. It's a fucking misery and because I'm abroad it's costing me a fortune! I know it's pissing my mother off. Note to self: Dump Twitter when I get home.
After this tour we were sent on a harbour tour. Sat on top deck and it was really rather pleasant until the boat turned around and sailed into the wind. Bloody Brass Monkey's (for non-UK people that means it was cold enough for 'balls' to drop off). Mom was disappointed that we saw just one....oh I can't think what it's called now - bird with a big beak that hangs down and fills with fish. I've got 'Gannet' or 'Heron' stuck in my head but it's neither of them. Perhaps I'll remember before I finish. We did get to see a bunch of fat seals basking on a platform. That was cool. We hung on in the wind freezing our tits off until the boat turned again but it was still bloody cold so we decided to go below decks. Found a diamond ring on the floor but gave it to the foreign woman with bad teeth and poorly applied lipstick who had been sitting there. She didn't thank me, miserable freak-faced cow. [I'M GOING TO EDIT OUT THE NEXT PART OF THE JOURNAL AS IT MAKES ME LOOK REALLY BAD. MWHAHAHAHAHA!]
Back on shore we were given a couple of hours to explore Seaport Village which was really cute and interesting but there was nothing really to buy. There was a pet shop full of dog costumes (if only Batdog wasn't so old and the Kraken not so mad I've have got the shark costume or the ear of corn one), a Pirate shop run by a bloke dressed as a Pirate (is there much call for Pirate stuff on a daily basis?), a Christmas shop which aims to remain open ALL year and another that just sells wind chimes. All lovely shops but how do they survive? I can't imagine the wind chime shop would get much repeat business as, let's face it, once you've got something dinging in your garden you don't really need something dinging at a slightly different pitch a yard away.
...or is it just me? Have I no imagination or magnificence to my soul?
Did buy a giant chunk of fudge for us both - I had Rocky Road and Mom had Maple and Walnut. Came to nearly $14!!!! Fuck, had I inadvertently walked back into the Pirate shop or even the Daylight Robbery shop? Robbing bastards. Did have the most perfect ice cream in the world though. Cop this for perfection:
Ben & Jerry's (I've got your attention already haven't I?) IMAGINE WHIRLED PEACE in a choc and nut waffle cone. I died and went to heaven until I started to feel sick 'cause it was too big and rich. Like a proper girl though I carried on eating the bugger. Then a really tatty, death's door type pigeon started to hang around. I gave him a bit of cone and where there had previously been NO wildlife for miles, a bunch of other pigeons came down so we just left. My betting is they keep 'Brian' looking sickly and send him out to look pathetic around the tourists. The legend (amongst pigeons) that is 'Brian the Bait' !
Oh yeah, we found Kettner Boulevard. Probably named after yet another sodding rich and unknown to my bit of the family relative. The Fates really do like to yank my chain about how my portion of the ancestry pool did shitly for themselves and therefore left no legacy for me to live off and become arrogant about. I'd LOVE to be rich and arrogant. People say that I wouldn't be the person I am today had I not experienced the shit I've experienced but I say 'who gives a shit?' Who WANTS to be me with my personality. I have to edit down my journal posts so as to hide the fact I'm really rather horrible and judgemental. I might be nice and rich if only my ancestors had got off their arses and worked a bit harder at saving Kings or inventing stuff. Lazy bunch of dead bastards....
Mom gave a homeless guy $5 but he was so out of it he didn't even look up. I think she felt bad for him 'cause I'd pointed out that he'd got a packet of Uncle Ben's dry rice in his shopping cart. Where the bleedin' hell is he going to cook that? He also had a pot of mustard.
For dinner I had linguine in a creamy pesto sauce and was able to keep it down (yay for my digestion!). Heard my mom fart in the night and discovered it was a gentle little whisper of fart. Started to form a theory that when at rest and the 'ring-piece' has no real tension to it, farts are unable to 'rip' themselves out and into the world. Would like to research this but wouldn't know where to start and I don't know who would be interested in the findings.
PELICAN!
It was a Pelican. It's now 5am and I'm wide awake. Can still hear fucking Twitter messages coming through.
Friday 8 October 2010
The dead woman's case thing pt.3 - Bring Out Your Dead
Hello again. There's quite a bit of death in my travel diary today but I'll get to that in a bit.
....you want it now don't you? You awful lot. What is it with people and their morbid fascination with death? Talking about death (she said with morbid fascination) I had a weird head twinge this afternoon. It wasn't a twinge I was familiar with and so got lost in thought wondering whether I was about to have an embolism and drop dead at work which would be an awful place to breathe your last. My mind wandered to my underwear and I realised with a slight amount of shame that, having been away and not having fully dried my holiday laundry, I was down to the last dregs of my underpants and was in fact wearing some dreadful pink things with a run in them and weird faded patches. I then concluded that perhaps I was internally acidic and wondered how one becomes more alkali. After a while I came out of my reverie and noticed the weird twinge had gone so that was alright then. No death for me today, no siree!
Oh yeah, the work colleague who had the 'arse' with me couldn't keep up the pressure she'd put on herself and broke down to be nice to me. I'm quite upset really, if yer gonna decide you've got some principles then bloody stand by them and give me the evil eye, stand with your back to me, ignore me, just don't give me the cold shoulder for ONE measly day over an issue that really doesn't affect you and which is actually quite funny! Sigh, people nowadays just don't have enough bitterness coursing through their veins, I tell you!
Any way, here's pt. 3 of the travel diary:
Sunday 19th September 2010 - Mom and I were the last people down for the coach to Heathrow. Bleedin' hell! Mom apologised to everyone when we got on board and one person kindly told us we may be last but weren't actually late (phew!). Prior to getting on the bus and after realising the staff were waiting for just us, my Mother went a bit panicky and, well I don't know what she was trying to do, but she seemed to set off walking in a determined fashion to somewhere in the distance. Once stopped, the driver started to laugh and leaned in towards me saying
"Make sure your Mom has a wee before she gets on the plane"
Random. I was kinda glad my haunted case fell over on him now.
Check-In went smoothly and they accepted the passport I never thought I'd get after behaving like a total cretin at the American Embassy (you know I'm a dual national don't you?) and answering simple questions about myself incorrectly and signing my name in a totally different script than my usual signature before laughing like a machine gun in a panicked high pitched voice with wide eyes. During the wait to board we did nothing but run everyone down - people with kids/strollers a bloke in a woollen hat, a snot-faced woman, people stretched out on the seats, people eating like pigs - you point 'em out, we'll insult them quietly to each other. Y'know the film Love Actually? It opens and closes with an airport and talks about all the love which can be found there. Not where I was sitting. The stench of flatulence and burgers was all around, but love? Nah, kids having tantrums and me willing parents to lose it and hit them. THAT was EVERYWHERE around the area we sat. The thing that particularly peeved my Mother was the amount of hand luggage some people had with them. Actual suitcases on wheels in some cases! Who needs to drag so much shit around with them?
So, we got on the flight and I got the window seat which was great. It was next to the wing so I couldn't help but think about William Shatner on that Twighlight Zone episode where the monkey thing pulls chunks off the thing. Still, you don't hear about monkey things on wings very often so I guessed everything would be ok so long as the ailerons and Petot tubes took care of themselves (I really must stop watching Air Crash Investigation). It's ALWAYS the ailerons or the bleedin' Petot Tubes that cause the crashes on that show. They should...well, I don't know what they should do but whatever they should do they SHOULD do it and fortunately, on my flight they DID!
I was excited to find an episode of 'Rev' on my little telly. Despite my atheism (or am I a heathen?) I loved this sit com staring Tom Hollander. He was adorable in the show, bless him (she said slightly ironically). I also watched 'Shrek Ever After', 'How to Train Your Dragon' and 'Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang'.....shit, I just realised I regressed during that 11 hour flight. My vegetarian dinner was shit - they got confused and thought I was vegan. It was a vegetable masala and I HATE spicy food. I had my headphones on so didn't realise how loudly I said
'Well, they can shove that shit up their arses!'
I also sort of accidentally called the fat bloke across from Mom a 'greedy fat bastard' as he'd stuffed 2 desserts down his neck in record time. I think I embarrassed her but to be fair, she did have dinner all down the front of her. We did actually swap dinners and I had my Mom's penne pasta meal. After dinner my mother realised she had forgotten to put her anti-thrombo socks on and so asked for some assistance from me. There wasn't a fat lot of room and unfortunately I almost popped her hip out of it's socket whilst pulling at her leg in order to put the sock on for her. I wonder what we looked like in between the evil laughter, the horrified looks in my direction and the painful acrobatics. Oh yeah, there was a woman sitting just in front who kept turning around to look at us. We got into the pattern where we kept looking at her to see if she was looking at us but then she'd look around catch us staring at her! Mom won't go to the loo now because SHE'S there. I could do with a wee too.
Just to round off I'm going to confess something. One of the things that worried us most about the journey was that we were smuggling bits of 2 dead relatives into the country in my mother's luggage (in ash form). Having an American passport I got through immigration first and so went to collect the baggage. Found mine no problem but my mother's? No where to be seen. I was getting more than a little concerned that we'd caused an international incident and that I would be escorted to a side room where rubber clad, unforgiving fingers would want to explore my special places.
Then I found it.
Left Los Angeles and decanted to hotel in San Diego.
....you want it now don't you? You awful lot. What is it with people and their morbid fascination with death? Talking about death (she said with morbid fascination) I had a weird head twinge this afternoon. It wasn't a twinge I was familiar with and so got lost in thought wondering whether I was about to have an embolism and drop dead at work which would be an awful place to breathe your last. My mind wandered to my underwear and I realised with a slight amount of shame that, having been away and not having fully dried my holiday laundry, I was down to the last dregs of my underpants and was in fact wearing some dreadful pink things with a run in them and weird faded patches. I then concluded that perhaps I was internally acidic and wondered how one becomes more alkali. After a while I came out of my reverie and noticed the weird twinge had gone so that was alright then. No death for me today, no siree!
Oh yeah, the work colleague who had the 'arse' with me couldn't keep up the pressure she'd put on herself and broke down to be nice to me. I'm quite upset really, if yer gonna decide you've got some principles then bloody stand by them and give me the evil eye, stand with your back to me, ignore me, just don't give me the cold shoulder for ONE measly day over an issue that really doesn't affect you and which is actually quite funny! Sigh, people nowadays just don't have enough bitterness coursing through their veins, I tell you!
Any way, here's pt. 3 of the travel diary:
Sunday 19th September 2010 - Mom and I were the last people down for the coach to Heathrow. Bleedin' hell! Mom apologised to everyone when we got on board and one person kindly told us we may be last but weren't actually late (phew!). Prior to getting on the bus and after realising the staff were waiting for just us, my Mother went a bit panicky and, well I don't know what she was trying to do, but she seemed to set off walking in a determined fashion to somewhere in the distance. Once stopped, the driver started to laugh and leaned in towards me saying
"Make sure your Mom has a wee before she gets on the plane"
Random. I was kinda glad my haunted case fell over on him now.
Check-In went smoothly and they accepted the passport I never thought I'd get after behaving like a total cretin at the American Embassy (you know I'm a dual national don't you?) and answering simple questions about myself incorrectly and signing my name in a totally different script than my usual signature before laughing like a machine gun in a panicked high pitched voice with wide eyes. During the wait to board we did nothing but run everyone down - people with kids/strollers a bloke in a woollen hat, a snot-faced woman, people stretched out on the seats, people eating like pigs - you point 'em out, we'll insult them quietly to each other. Y'know the film Love Actually? It opens and closes with an airport and talks about all the love which can be found there. Not where I was sitting. The stench of flatulence and burgers was all around, but love? Nah, kids having tantrums and me willing parents to lose it and hit them. THAT was EVERYWHERE around the area we sat. The thing that particularly peeved my Mother was the amount of hand luggage some people had with them. Actual suitcases on wheels in some cases! Who needs to drag so much shit around with them?
So, we got on the flight and I got the window seat which was great. It was next to the wing so I couldn't help but think about William Shatner on that Twighlight Zone episode where the monkey thing pulls chunks off the thing. Still, you don't hear about monkey things on wings very often so I guessed everything would be ok so long as the ailerons and Petot tubes took care of themselves (I really must stop watching Air Crash Investigation). It's ALWAYS the ailerons or the bleedin' Petot Tubes that cause the crashes on that show. They should...well, I don't know what they should do but whatever they should do they SHOULD do it and fortunately, on my flight they DID!
I was excited to find an episode of 'Rev' on my little telly. Despite my atheism (or am I a heathen?) I loved this sit com staring Tom Hollander. He was adorable in the show, bless him (she said slightly ironically). I also watched 'Shrek Ever After', 'How to Train Your Dragon' and 'Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang'.....shit, I just realised I regressed during that 11 hour flight. My vegetarian dinner was shit - they got confused and thought I was vegan. It was a vegetable masala and I HATE spicy food. I had my headphones on so didn't realise how loudly I said
'Well, they can shove that shit up their arses!'
I also sort of accidentally called the fat bloke across from Mom a 'greedy fat bastard' as he'd stuffed 2 desserts down his neck in record time. I think I embarrassed her but to be fair, she did have dinner all down the front of her. We did actually swap dinners and I had my Mom's penne pasta meal. After dinner my mother realised she had forgotten to put her anti-thrombo socks on and so asked for some assistance from me. There wasn't a fat lot of room and unfortunately I almost popped her hip out of it's socket whilst pulling at her leg in order to put the sock on for her. I wonder what we looked like in between the evil laughter, the horrified looks in my direction and the painful acrobatics. Oh yeah, there was a woman sitting just in front who kept turning around to look at us. We got into the pattern where we kept looking at her to see if she was looking at us but then she'd look around catch us staring at her! Mom won't go to the loo now because SHE'S there. I could do with a wee too.
Just to round off I'm going to confess something. One of the things that worried us most about the journey was that we were smuggling bits of 2 dead relatives into the country in my mother's luggage (in ash form). Having an American passport I got through immigration first and so went to collect the baggage. Found mine no problem but my mother's? No where to be seen. I was getting more than a little concerned that we'd caused an international incident and that I would be escorted to a side room where rubber clad, unforgiving fingers would want to explore my special places.
Then I found it.
Left Los Angeles and decanted to hotel in San Diego.
Thursday 7 October 2010
Travelling with a Dead Woman's Suitcase pt. 2 - Heathrow bound
It's occurred to me that 'Travelling with a Dead Woman's Suitcase' isn't the most pleasant of titles for a travelog but well, that's what happened. My Mother, helpful as ever, said she had a decent spare suitcase I could have and it was great. It wasn't until we'd left that she happened to casually mention the case had belonged to her neighbour's mother.
"Oh, doesn't she want it back?" I asked innocently
"No, she's dead"
"I'VE GOT MY STUFF IN A DEAD WOMAN'S SUITCASE?"
"Oh calm down - it's not like she died IN the case or anything!"
"Yeah, but......well, it's weird. A dead woman went places with her stuff in that case and now some stranger has it. Some random neighbour's daughter who she never even met or anything. It's awful."
"I don't think she ever used it actually"
"Oh great. Some woman, full of hope and joy, bought a suitcase with holidays on her mind and what, she just snuffed it? Oh God, that's even worse. I've stolen the happiness that woman was going to have with that case. Why don't I just poke through her stuff and find her holiday novel and sunglasses. Then I can fully flick 2 fingers up at her. Great, the case is going to be haunted by a woman scorned." (I wept ridiculously)
[SEE HOW I CAN NEVER BE APPEASED ONCE I'VE STARTED?]
Well, in actual fact the case was just a case. It was a shit case as it would never stand up but I suspect its original owner was a bit wobbly on her wheels too. Perhaps that was the legacy - I had a case that knocked everyone else's over whenever they were stacked up. Like a parent at a school Nativity, I would watch from afar (the coach window) as all the cases were taken out and lined up only for mine to forget its words and screw the whole thing up for everyone else.
What the hell AM I talking about? Shut up Sket.
Anyhoo, today. As I mentioned yesterday I was due back at work and it was clear that one person wanted to show that they were angry and were choosing to pointedly ignore me. It makes me laugh to think they thought I'd care, for, let's face it, the fewer people who talk to me, the less I have to talk back to anyone, and in my book that's a result! Yay to the colleague who dropped me in it whilst I was away!
Right, here's the next bit of my holiday journal. It's not very interesting but the good stuff will come up soon enough:
SATURDAY 18TH SEPTEMBER 2010: Nightmare morning. My mother was stressed 'cause her cat Jasper shit and vomited all over the house overnight. Then a number of people turned up at the house to see me before we left AND other people kept calling to wish me a nice holiday/happy forthcoming birthday. My Mom was obsessed she wanted the house to be immaculate before she left and all the visitors were a stressful intrusion for her.
Anyhoo, we were ready in time for the pick up by the tour company (it was a door to door service) and had to go and pick up another couple in the Shirley area of Birmingham. My Mother was at the point of explosion as we drove through Sparkbrook which was an area she knew really well as a youngster and was now like another country (if you get my drift). As she's become older my Mother has become increasingly intolerant towards pretty much everyone. We were taken to The Park Hotel at Heathrow airport ready for tomorrow's departure. The hotel is large but the room quite basic. I felt we got bleedin' ripped off with our dinner at their 'Bravo Bravo' restaurant. Despite allegedly having 20% off, we had a bill of £50 for one roast dinner, a tiny salad and 2 non-alcoholic cocktails. Robbing bastards. I had the salad and as I have shit digestion couldn't eat that much and so felt really bad. We can get a roast dinner for less than 4 quid around here! Back in the room I had a lovely long soak in the bath and we watched CSI shows all night before going to sleep. Unfortunately my Mother had a bit of a panic attack 'cause the windows wouldn't open and she wanted air. I'll admit to being a tad grumpy seeing her scratching at the window. Note to self - must be more tolerant and understanding.
"Oh, doesn't she want it back?" I asked innocently
"No, she's dead"
"I'VE GOT MY STUFF IN A DEAD WOMAN'S SUITCASE?"
"Oh calm down - it's not like she died IN the case or anything!"
"Yeah, but......well, it's weird. A dead woman went places with her stuff in that case and now some stranger has it. Some random neighbour's daughter who she never even met or anything. It's awful."
"I don't think she ever used it actually"
"Oh great. Some woman, full of hope and joy, bought a suitcase with holidays on her mind and what, she just snuffed it? Oh God, that's even worse. I've stolen the happiness that woman was going to have with that case. Why don't I just poke through her stuff and find her holiday novel and sunglasses. Then I can fully flick 2 fingers up at her. Great, the case is going to be haunted by a woman scorned." (I wept ridiculously)
[SEE HOW I CAN NEVER BE APPEASED ONCE I'VE STARTED?]
Well, in actual fact the case was just a case. It was a shit case as it would never stand up but I suspect its original owner was a bit wobbly on her wheels too. Perhaps that was the legacy - I had a case that knocked everyone else's over whenever they were stacked up. Like a parent at a school Nativity, I would watch from afar (the coach window) as all the cases were taken out and lined up only for mine to forget its words and screw the whole thing up for everyone else.
What the hell AM I talking about? Shut up Sket.
Anyhoo, today. As I mentioned yesterday I was due back at work and it was clear that one person wanted to show that they were angry and were choosing to pointedly ignore me. It makes me laugh to think they thought I'd care, for, let's face it, the fewer people who talk to me, the less I have to talk back to anyone, and in my book that's a result! Yay to the colleague who dropped me in it whilst I was away!
Right, here's the next bit of my holiday journal. It's not very interesting but the good stuff will come up soon enough:
SATURDAY 18TH SEPTEMBER 2010: Nightmare morning. My mother was stressed 'cause her cat Jasper shit and vomited all over the house overnight. Then a number of people turned up at the house to see me before we left AND other people kept calling to wish me a nice holiday/happy forthcoming birthday. My Mom was obsessed she wanted the house to be immaculate before she left and all the visitors were a stressful intrusion for her.
Anyhoo, we were ready in time for the pick up by the tour company (it was a door to door service) and had to go and pick up another couple in the Shirley area of Birmingham. My Mother was at the point of explosion as we drove through Sparkbrook which was an area she knew really well as a youngster and was now like another country (if you get my drift). As she's become older my Mother has become increasingly intolerant towards pretty much everyone. We were taken to The Park Hotel at Heathrow airport ready for tomorrow's departure. The hotel is large but the room quite basic. I felt we got bleedin' ripped off with our dinner at their 'Bravo Bravo' restaurant. Despite allegedly having 20% off, we had a bill of £50 for one roast dinner, a tiny salad and 2 non-alcoholic cocktails. Robbing bastards. I had the salad and as I have shit digestion couldn't eat that much and so felt really bad. We can get a roast dinner for less than 4 quid around here! Back in the room I had a lovely long soak in the bath and we watched CSI shows all night before going to sleep. Unfortunately my Mother had a bit of a panic attack 'cause the windows wouldn't open and she wanted air. I'll admit to being a tad grumpy seeing her scratching at the window. Note to self - must be more tolerant and understanding.
Wednesday 6 October 2010
Travelling with a dead woman's suitcase pt. 1 - last day at work
So, I'm just back from a trip to California and the West Coast. As I'm impoverished (awww, bless me), my Mother paid for the whole thing which was bloody nice of her. She'd been taking trips on her own for the past few years and I guess she wanted a bit of company. Way-hey! I'll come and be your sort of Edwardian 'Companion' type person; how 'Room with a View'!
Anyhoo, I'm back at work tomorrow (she reported miserably) and I've already been tipped off that I've somehow got myself into trouble without even being in the same country. Hell, I wasn't even on the same continent or time zone! Y'know, I don't know why I even bother to speak to people, 95% of them take joyous pleasure at dropping you in it. I'd be really happy living the life of a hermit only I don't fancy living in a cave. I'm sure hermitude isn't dependant on cave dwelling but the alternative is finding a hut in the middle of a forest and I guess there would need to be an exchange of money for that and council tax and well, then I'd have to earn money which would defeat the ultimate objective of telling everyone in the world to fuck right off.
...but I digress.
I've kept a journal and I'm gonna start tagging each separate day on the end of my diary posts. Here's Day 1 which was my last day at work:
Friday 17th September 2010 - Went to work and was supposed to finish at midday but didn't get my scary backlog of stuff done in time. You know how I solved that problem? [NEXT LINE EDITED OUT DUE TO THE VERY REAL POSSIBILITY I MIGHT INCRIMINATE MYSELF AND GET IN EVEN *M O R E* TROUBLE AND THIS TIME WITHOUT THE HELP OF ANY SEEMINGLY FRIENDLY WORK COLLEAGUES WHO LOVE TO DROP ME IN IT]. That's bad isn't it? [SEE HOW I LIKE TO TEASE YOU EVEN FURTHER?] Ah well, I couldn't give a shiny shite.
Anyhoo, I got out at 1pm and rocked up to the ferry terminal [I LIVE ON A SMALL OFF-SHORE ISLAND NEAR TO PORTSMOUTH] but found I couldn't get a sodding boat until 3.30pm! Bollocks! Swollen, sweaty ones at that! Ended up having to go home despite the goodbyes I'd said earlier, and had a sanga with housemate Steph. Went back at the right time and got on the stupid boat. Started to make good time - oh yeah, I was on my way to my Mother's house in Birmingham by the way, but then got stuck in rush hour traffic on the A34 around Oxford. Lost over an hour there so was getting a bit pissed off and my hands were becoming a bit claw-like. Got to my Mother's at 7.30pm only to discover I was the chosen driver to take us and a couple of rellies out for a meal. I still don't quite understand how I got lumbered with the driving after having spent so long on the road.
There is inappropriate journal stuff here that I really don't think I can add to a public diary but heck, I could be dangerous and just do it. Am I dangerous? IS Dangerous my middle name? No, it's Leigh.....
...all I will say is that there was someone 'different' to us at a nearby table and my cousin farted in all knowledge that if it stunk then the 'different' type of person to us would inevitably be blamed. There you go, not so much 'Dangerous', more like 'Dange.....' which is my way of saying I'm a bit dangerous. Don't worry though, I am famed for my usual ability to overshare. I am actually quite surprised at my unusual bout of self awareness.
Anyhoo, I'm back at work tomorrow (she reported miserably) and I've already been tipped off that I've somehow got myself into trouble without even being in the same country. Hell, I wasn't even on the same continent or time zone! Y'know, I don't know why I even bother to speak to people, 95% of them take joyous pleasure at dropping you in it. I'd be really happy living the life of a hermit only I don't fancy living in a cave. I'm sure hermitude isn't dependant on cave dwelling but the alternative is finding a hut in the middle of a forest and I guess there would need to be an exchange of money for that and council tax and well, then I'd have to earn money which would defeat the ultimate objective of telling everyone in the world to fuck right off.
...but I digress.
I've kept a journal and I'm gonna start tagging each separate day on the end of my diary posts. Here's Day 1 which was my last day at work:
Friday 17th September 2010 - Went to work and was supposed to finish at midday but didn't get my scary backlog of stuff done in time. You know how I solved that problem? [NEXT LINE EDITED OUT DUE TO THE VERY REAL POSSIBILITY I MIGHT INCRIMINATE MYSELF AND GET IN EVEN *M O R E* TROUBLE AND THIS TIME WITHOUT THE HELP OF ANY SEEMINGLY FRIENDLY WORK COLLEAGUES WHO LOVE TO DROP ME IN IT]. That's bad isn't it? [SEE HOW I LIKE TO TEASE YOU EVEN FURTHER?] Ah well, I couldn't give a shiny shite.
Anyhoo, I got out at 1pm and rocked up to the ferry terminal [I LIVE ON A SMALL OFF-SHORE ISLAND NEAR TO PORTSMOUTH] but found I couldn't get a sodding boat until 3.30pm! Bollocks! Swollen, sweaty ones at that! Ended up having to go home despite the goodbyes I'd said earlier, and had a sanga with housemate Steph. Went back at the right time and got on the stupid boat. Started to make good time - oh yeah, I was on my way to my Mother's house in Birmingham by the way, but then got stuck in rush hour traffic on the A34 around Oxford. Lost over an hour there so was getting a bit pissed off and my hands were becoming a bit claw-like. Got to my Mother's at 7.30pm only to discover I was the chosen driver to take us and a couple of rellies out for a meal. I still don't quite understand how I got lumbered with the driving after having spent so long on the road.
There is inappropriate journal stuff here that I really don't think I can add to a public diary but heck, I could be dangerous and just do it. Am I dangerous? IS Dangerous my middle name? No, it's Leigh.....
...all I will say is that there was someone 'different' to us at a nearby table and my cousin farted in all knowledge that if it stunk then the 'different' type of person to us would inevitably be blamed. There you go, not so much 'Dangerous', more like 'Dange.....' which is my way of saying I'm a bit dangerous. Don't worry though, I am famed for my usual ability to overshare. I am actually quite surprised at my unusual bout of self awareness.
Thursday 2 September 2010
Stain
So, I noticed a weird brown stain on the head lining of my car near the sun visor thing. It was dry, circular and god only knows how it got there and when. I tried to wipe it off and then started to scrape it with my nail before taking a crafty sniff but unfortunately I could detect no odour. I had no option but to taste the stain. IT WAS MARMITE! How'd THAT happen? I can't remember the last time I had Marmite so how did a mysterious Marmite stain suddenly find it's way into my car?
Aliens
Aliens
Tuesday 31 August 2010
Study
So, I had a flash of inspiration (?) and randomly called up my old University and asked if it was too late to get on the MSc Criminology and Criminal Psychology course. Turns out it isn't and erm, I seem to pretty much be on it once I complete the on-line application form. I don't really know why I've decided to do this and to what end but I feel strangely excited to the point that my rational side is like a tiny voice in the dark that no one is listening too. It's been 4 years since I got my degree and all I did was make everyone's life a misery near the end. I'm going to have to get my head back into referencing, reading, oh god, I just remembered the referencing, the writing, research and deadlines. Oh god, REFERENCING. This is what happened when I went for my degree - I had a sudden idea and acted on it. Perhaps this is all for the good but hell, I don't know how I'm going to fund it. I might have to go down to the docks and prostitute myself. Unfortunately, the nearest dock is the Wightlink ferry terminal and the guys on board have only been at sea for 35 minutes so they won't be desperate enough to want to hire me for any more than a few pennies and hell, we all know how expensive education is nowadays!
Plus they might have scurvy. Can you get scurvy after half an hour without a lemon? Probably not OR, how's this - I could offer a lemon/prossie service.
....I'm joshing, I'm joshing. Everyone knows I've been single for so long I've gone a bit wrong and have become too British and uptight to allow anyone to come at me with their winkie!
So yeah, funding the sudden desire with no planning or thought to get my Masters. Y'know what I said about selling the gingerbread Hitlers in order to fund travel to my comedy gigs, well I might have to give up the comedy (won't be able to afford the travel at all now) and use whatever bits and pieces I can make from the inappropriate gingerbread to pay for the study. Do I want to give up the comedy though?
Do I really HAVE have to give up comedy?
WHY do I want to take my Masters when everyone knows I am the biggest buffoon in all Buffoon Town? Hell, I can't take the dog out without returning to find it caked in shit. I can't clean out a bunch of turtles without flooding the house, I can't grill a veggie burger without setting it on fire (and magically still allowing the inside to remain frozen), can't open a container of paint without ending up wearing it and splattering it all around my bedroom and I can't even boil a bowl of underpants without scalding most of the skin off one breast!
That's another story though as is the time, through a series of bizarre events, I ended up stabbing my ear with a metal nail file.
What the feck makes me think I can be a proper person doing important research and study when I should just stand in front of people telling them about the idiotic life experiences I've had. Honestly, what am I thinking? Someone please save me from myself.
Plus they might have scurvy. Can you get scurvy after half an hour without a lemon? Probably not OR, how's this - I could offer a lemon/prossie service.
....I'm joshing, I'm joshing. Everyone knows I've been single for so long I've gone a bit wrong and have become too British and uptight to allow anyone to come at me with their winkie!
So yeah, funding the sudden desire with no planning or thought to get my Masters. Y'know what I said about selling the gingerbread Hitlers in order to fund travel to my comedy gigs, well I might have to give up the comedy (won't be able to afford the travel at all now) and use whatever bits and pieces I can make from the inappropriate gingerbread to pay for the study. Do I want to give up the comedy though?
Do I really HAVE have to give up comedy?
WHY do I want to take my Masters when everyone knows I am the biggest buffoon in all Buffoon Town? Hell, I can't take the dog out without returning to find it caked in shit. I can't clean out a bunch of turtles without flooding the house, I can't grill a veggie burger without setting it on fire (and magically still allowing the inside to remain frozen), can't open a container of paint without ending up wearing it and splattering it all around my bedroom and I can't even boil a bowl of underpants without scalding most of the skin off one breast!
That's another story though as is the time, through a series of bizarre events, I ended up stabbing my ear with a metal nail file.
What the feck makes me think I can be a proper person doing important research and study when I should just stand in front of people telling them about the idiotic life experiences I've had. Honestly, what am I thinking? Someone please save me from myself.
Monday 30 August 2010
A calamitous life
Well, The Fates have saved me from 2 great and foolish plans. The first to become a police officer (what would even possess me to think a hippy stand up comedian should even consider this as a viable plan?) and the other was to apply for my former line manager's job. I say 'The Fates' stopped me but, in actual fact, it was my ability to procrastinate to world class standards which stopped me from the latter act of foolishness. I got lost in thought at the money for days before I realised I would have to take responsibility for shit and other people's lives. When I tell you the next set of stuff you will realise that in actual fact The Fates have not saved me, they've saved the world from the cretinous buffoonery that is me; Sketty!
Ok, here's the first. Last week best pal and housemate Steph (for that is her name) decided she wished to decorate her bedroom. I had no intention of doing the same but got carried away when I saw all the paint. She can be a bit slap dash so I was a bit smug when I bought some sugar soap wipes, a selection of various sized rollers and erm, well no cloth 'cause they were a tenner. When I came to do my room, which even I will admit is a pig sty, I couldn't be arsed to tidy it up first - for godsake! I've got a life to live, I don't have 3 days to clean up my shit first! Anyhoo, I decided to use an old duvet cover as a sort of ground sheet (I bet that's not what they're even called) so I wiped the wall down (well done, me!) and wrestled the lid off the paint tin. As I was doing this properly and better than Steph was going to do her room I figured I'd use the paint on the lid with a brush to 'edge' the ceiling and door frame. Of course, it was important to move the paint container out of the way at this point. The Fates who like to yank my chain aren't getting me THAT way, oh no siree! I picked up the paint by the metal handle (which had another little turny thing around it) and watched in horror as the turny thing shot to the other end of the handle and I ended up pouring almost a whole pot of paint all down my front and over a chunk of my carpet. Calamity One. Oh yeah, Steph painted her room all gothic-y and had no accidents. I hate people who spoil my smuggery by being better than me.
The next calamity happened this evening. Housemate Steph popped out to the corner store and I chose to take a bowl of water out of the turtle house and clean the filter which was no longer chucking any water out. I had carefully put the big bowl on the floor and stepped over it to unplug the filter, thus kicking the whole fucking thing over (sorry Pepys - bet you never swore in your diary. Note to self: find out if Pepys used profanity in diary). We have wooden floors and I swear there were WAVES in the gigantic flood I had created. I ran to get a dry towel off the washing line and tried to mop the flood up before Steph got home. As I ran through the house with the sopping wet towel hoping to wring it out to have another go before Steph arrived I actually dragged the flood into the hallway and the kitchen. My pajamas were soaked, my socks were soaked and rather than clear up my mess quickly I dragged it around the house. Steph arrived back and apart from just weakly repeating '4 minutes, I've only been gone for 4 minutes', she was struck dumb in horror. She was even more pissed off 'cause this morning she'd mentioned we had no clean towels and had washed all the ones I eventually had to use to mop up the water and turtle shit flood. I take cretinous buffoonery to new and humiliating levels. I find that whenever I'm trying to be most careful that is when I'm at my most clumsy.
Ho hum. Two saves and two fails - thanks Fate
Ok, here's the first. Last week best pal and housemate Steph (for that is her name) decided she wished to decorate her bedroom. I had no intention of doing the same but got carried away when I saw all the paint. She can be a bit slap dash so I was a bit smug when I bought some sugar soap wipes, a selection of various sized rollers and erm, well no cloth 'cause they were a tenner. When I came to do my room, which even I will admit is a pig sty, I couldn't be arsed to tidy it up first - for godsake! I've got a life to live, I don't have 3 days to clean up my shit first! Anyhoo, I decided to use an old duvet cover as a sort of ground sheet (I bet that's not what they're even called) so I wiped the wall down (well done, me!) and wrestled the lid off the paint tin. As I was doing this properly and better than Steph was going to do her room I figured I'd use the paint on the lid with a brush to 'edge' the ceiling and door frame. Of course, it was important to move the paint container out of the way at this point. The Fates who like to yank my chain aren't getting me THAT way, oh no siree! I picked up the paint by the metal handle (which had another little turny thing around it) and watched in horror as the turny thing shot to the other end of the handle and I ended up pouring almost a whole pot of paint all down my front and over a chunk of my carpet. Calamity One. Oh yeah, Steph painted her room all gothic-y and had no accidents. I hate people who spoil my smuggery by being better than me.
The next calamity happened this evening. Housemate Steph popped out to the corner store and I chose to take a bowl of water out of the turtle house and clean the filter which was no longer chucking any water out. I had carefully put the big bowl on the floor and stepped over it to unplug the filter, thus kicking the whole fucking thing over (sorry Pepys - bet you never swore in your diary. Note to self: find out if Pepys used profanity in diary). We have wooden floors and I swear there were WAVES in the gigantic flood I had created. I ran to get a dry towel off the washing line and tried to mop the flood up before Steph got home. As I ran through the house with the sopping wet towel hoping to wring it out to have another go before Steph arrived I actually dragged the flood into the hallway and the kitchen. My pajamas were soaked, my socks were soaked and rather than clear up my mess quickly I dragged it around the house. Steph arrived back and apart from just weakly repeating '4 minutes, I've only been gone for 4 minutes', she was struck dumb in horror. She was even more pissed off 'cause this morning she'd mentioned we had no clean towels and had washed all the ones I eventually had to use to mop up the water and turtle shit flood. I take cretinous buffoonery to new and humiliating levels. I find that whenever I'm trying to be most careful that is when I'm at my most clumsy.
Ho hum. Two saves and two fails - thanks Fate
Monday 2 August 2010
Heaven
So, due to the coalition Government and their cutbacks to public spending I've been saved from my ridiculous and nosy Jackboot Army intentions. Basically, I did actually pass that 5 hour assessment but they decided to only take those who'd passed with a much higher score which I missed by 2%. The most hysterical thing is, according to the feedback, the thing that made me lose marks was the fact that I clearly demonstrated that I didn't really give a shit about people and wouldn't say sorry!
SAY SORRY?
SOD THAT!
The role-play scenarios were based around me being a customer services person having to deal with complaints and issues. I, as I think many would, have a problem with apologising for stuff that clearly isn't MY BLEEDIN' FAULT!
....and that's why I must pursue my comedy career. I don't have it in me to be 'nice' to people which I guess is a requisite when it comes to public service. Blimey.
The only problem I have with the whole comedy thing is funding my travel from the back of bleedin beyond.
BUT, I may have solved this problem with a new business idea.
GINGERBREAD HITLERS!!
Everyone who's seen 'em love's em so let's see if the wider population love and buy them. Bought black icing for the uniform today although I think ol' Adolph wore a bit of a khaki coloured suit. I'll call the business Tasteless Tasties and work on a Sadam Hussain (with detached head) and possibly an Osama Bin Laden but that one might get me killed. That'd be embarrassing, a Jahad on me for dissing Osama.
So, Heaven - yeah. I'm writing a new set about how Heaven is going to potentially be a bit shit if we're not allowed to be ourselves properly. My idea of pure Heaven would involve me carrying my shit-list around with me, searching out celebs and people who've pissed me off and telling them that they what they really need to do is to to learn to fuck right off. I'd start with Cliff Richard, the pious bastard. Problem is, a short slightly dumpy girl telling him to fuck off might spoil Cliff's Heaven experience. There'd be questions asked and then the stupid Saints would get involved and who needs the opinion of some 13th Century twat who was probably murdered by people sick to fucking death of all of his bleating about God? They just wouldn't understand that these 'celebs' who get everything and think the world owes them something NEED to be told what for and it'd absolutely MAKE my afterlife if it could be me.
...actually, I might not make it to Heaven after all.
P.S. in the spirit of Pepys I should have documented stuff in the news. I completely missed out on the Raoul Moat thing (gotta love Gazza for turning up to an armed seige with a dressing gown, beer and a chicken), Snooker player Hurricane Higgins was found rotted into the carpet and covered in flies, the robbing bastard banks have made billions of profits but aren't going to be paying us back after we bailed them out of their mess.
SAY SORRY?
SOD THAT!
The role-play scenarios were based around me being a customer services person having to deal with complaints and issues. I, as I think many would, have a problem with apologising for stuff that clearly isn't MY BLEEDIN' FAULT!
....and that's why I must pursue my comedy career. I don't have it in me to be 'nice' to people which I guess is a requisite when it comes to public service. Blimey.
The only problem I have with the whole comedy thing is funding my travel from the back of bleedin beyond.
BUT, I may have solved this problem with a new business idea.
GINGERBREAD HITLERS!!
Everyone who's seen 'em love's em so let's see if the wider population love and buy them. Bought black icing for the uniform today although I think ol' Adolph wore a bit of a khaki coloured suit. I'll call the business Tasteless Tasties and work on a Sadam Hussain (with detached head) and possibly an Osama Bin Laden but that one might get me killed. That'd be embarrassing, a Jahad on me for dissing Osama.
So, Heaven - yeah. I'm writing a new set about how Heaven is going to potentially be a bit shit if we're not allowed to be ourselves properly. My idea of pure Heaven would involve me carrying my shit-list around with me, searching out celebs and people who've pissed me off and telling them that they what they really need to do is to to learn to fuck right off. I'd start with Cliff Richard, the pious bastard. Problem is, a short slightly dumpy girl telling him to fuck off might spoil Cliff's Heaven experience. There'd be questions asked and then the stupid Saints would get involved and who needs the opinion of some 13th Century twat who was probably murdered by people sick to fucking death of all of his bleating about God? They just wouldn't understand that these 'celebs' who get everything and think the world owes them something NEED to be told what for and it'd absolutely MAKE my afterlife if it could be me.
...actually, I might not make it to Heaven after all.
P.S. in the spirit of Pepys I should have documented stuff in the news. I completely missed out on the Raoul Moat thing (gotta love Gazza for turning up to an armed seige with a dressing gown, beer and a chicken), Snooker player Hurricane Higgins was found rotted into the carpet and covered in flies, the robbing bastard banks have made billions of profits but aren't going to be paying us back after we bailed them out of their mess.
Tuesday 6 July 2010
Lucky Underpants
So, today I had to go for a 5 hour assessment to find out whether I get to the next stage of police recruitment. I'm still traumatised by the whole situation. Considering I deal with anti social behaviour on a daily basis, am bloody good at dealing with people, write loads of reports and am confident in my abilities, I turned into a great big incompetent buffoon who writes and talks a big pile of steaming shit. I don't actually know why a stand up comedian type person would want to become a police officer. I think it's all down to my inherent nosiness and desire to see bizarre things and meet strange people. Clearly this is an unreal expectation - I can see that but heck......it'll be a laugh, surely! Samuel Pepys had interesting things to write and that's why his diary got famous - hell, he wrote about the Great Fire of London. What have I got to write about? Some poor kid on the ferry today who had been lumbered with HECTOR as a name! What would possess a woman in this day and age to call her bleedin' kid Hector. Clearly she didn't want him and intends for him to get beaten up at school every day.
...but I digress, in order to achieve success today I bought 4 new pairs of underpants but then couldn't decide which to wear so I could achieve my goals. In an attempt to establish one pair as being 'lucky' I asked a number of people which of the 4 sounded most lucky - red/white stripes, pink with white spots, red with white spots or white with blue spots. I figured the blue ones were most 'policey' so chose them. Due to the horror that was today I now suspect blue spots are not lucky at all. Damn me and my assumptions. Will choose another pair tomorrow for my stand up tomorrow night in Bournemouth and see if things are better. By God I'll find out WHICH of these godforsaken pants are lucky if it takes me the rest of my life (or the next 3 days perhaps).
...but I digress, in order to achieve success today I bought 4 new pairs of underpants but then couldn't decide which to wear so I could achieve my goals. In an attempt to establish one pair as being 'lucky' I asked a number of people which of the 4 sounded most lucky - red/white stripes, pink with white spots, red with white spots or white with blue spots. I figured the blue ones were most 'policey' so chose them. Due to the horror that was today I now suspect blue spots are not lucky at all. Damn me and my assumptions. Will choose another pair tomorrow for my stand up tomorrow night in Bournemouth and see if things are better. By God I'll find out WHICH of these godforsaken pants are lucky if it takes me the rest of my life (or the next 3 days perhaps).
Monday 5 July 2010
So begins my new Diary
So, hey...first entry in a new blog. I wonder how Pepys started his diary. Note to self - must read the Diary of Samuel Pepys or even Google it. One thing's for certain, I bet he didn't have to go for a paddle in the sea with his elderly dog in order to let the waves wash the streak of globulous diarrhoea from his arse end. I did. Myself and housemate Steph in fact. The globulous lump didn't immediately wash off and with a fair amount of dismay we realised we were going to have to help the situation, so with the long plastic ball throwy stick thing we scraped away in full acknowledgement we were standing in a flow of diarrhoea-ry sea water. Great.
So, went to visit Steph's insane father. I call him Wazza but that's not his name. Funny thing is, he answers to it now. This is a typical conversational exchange with him:
[Location: in my car for I am giving everyone a ride to the local pub for some lunch]
Wazza: Is that your umbrella?
Sket: Erm, yes. It's on the back shelf in my car so yes, yes it is indeed my umbrella.
Wazza: I've got a good umbrella if you need one.
Sket: Well, thank you but I think we've already established that I've got an umbrella and it's on the back shelf of my car. It's also incredibly hot and sunny so there really isn't any need to have an umbrella led discussion.
Wazza: [muttering about umbrella based ingratitude]
Actually, now that I note this brief conversation I realise it is NOTHING compared to some of the conversations we've had with him.
I'm going to leave it here. I've got a very important 5 hour assessment for a new job tomorrow and should really be preparing and showering. Procrastination is a wonderful thing (in the loosest sense of the word 'wonderful')
So, went to visit Steph's insane father. I call him Wazza but that's not his name. Funny thing is, he answers to it now. This is a typical conversational exchange with him:
[Location: in my car for I am giving everyone a ride to the local pub for some lunch]
Wazza: Is that your umbrella?
Sket: Erm, yes. It's on the back shelf in my car so yes, yes it is indeed my umbrella.
Wazza: I've got a good umbrella if you need one.
Sket: Well, thank you but I think we've already established that I've got an umbrella and it's on the back shelf of my car. It's also incredibly hot and sunny so there really isn't any need to have an umbrella led discussion.
Wazza: [muttering about umbrella based ingratitude]
Actually, now that I note this brief conversation I realise it is NOTHING compared to some of the conversations we've had with him.
I'm going to leave it here. I've got a very important 5 hour assessment for a new job tomorrow and should really be preparing and showering. Procrastination is a wonderful thing (in the loosest sense of the word 'wonderful')
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