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.
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.
Tuesday 31 August 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)