The Rules of Prostitution

I'm going to apologise for this blog entry in advance.  I've done some quality over-thinking in a sort of 'out of the box' kind of way and it has lead me into a bizarre and inappropriate direction.

Again, sorry.....

Basically I am absolutely stony broke at the moment.  Depressingly broke in fact.  I had somewhat of a tantrum this morning as I left the house, and yelled up to my Tidiness Nazi of a house mate that I may just have to become a prostitute.

I've said it in grumpy jest before but today, in a full on grumpy mood and driving to work, I started to over think the implications of the major life shift I'd so casually bandied about in conversation.   How does one just become a prostitute any way?  I reflected that I could just hang around the docks, only the local ferry workers will have only been at sea for half an hour.  I'm guessing that this wouldn't therefore make any of them desperate enough to want to pay the likes of me.

...and how much would one charge any way?

I am a Stand Up so am hardly naive but I really don't know how much prostitutes charge and whether they have a going rate which adjusts to being down South.  I mean, I'd expect to charge one thing for a bit of a fiddle and something completely different for something more, erm..... 'involved' but y'know, you've gotta be competitive within the market.

How would one carry out market research into the working operations of one's competition?  I mean, I couldn't just go up to random blokes in the street and do a survey. I guess it would be even worse if I approached random women to ask if they were or had ever been a prostitute.  I was talking to my 'mental health twin' work colleague about it and was strangely comforted when she said she had considered and worried about the same issues (we're so alike it's frightening, it really is....)

...actually, I have to say - my mental health twin work colleague horrified me recently by getting cured!  There I was enjoying a bit of  hypochondria expecting her to join in with stories of lying awake in the wee hours just waiting for death due to some random and bizarre head twinge or something but she didn't!  She'd had CBT and had been taught to stop 'CATASTROPHISING' everything!  How rude - the biggest part of my existence is made up of over thinking pretty much everything to one of two final ends - my death or eventual ruin.  I am comfortable with these fears and actually once had a jolt when I realised I had nothing in my life to worry about.

...fortunately this only lasted for about 12 seconds before I remembered something.

So, back to becoming prostitutes.  Mental Health Work Colleague (MHWC) said that she thought she'd be able to do something with the 'Yummy Mummy' type market.  Being short, strange and a bit shit I reflected miserably that I'd have to try to appeal to a more specialised market.  My former Gym Buddy work colleague (of the headless, 3 legged cat skeleton) said that I could advertise that I was new to the game and therefore 'clean'.

Erm, cheers....

I then added that as I hadn't been able to pull for bloody ages I could advertise the non-bucketness of my 'love tunnel'.  The three of us nodded in agreement that this was a definite plus point when working out my potential prostitute tariff/advertising campaign.

With a face twisted with disgust I quietly asked MHWC whether we'd be expected to (cough) give oral sex to strangers.  Leaning forward she contemplated the prospect

MHWC:  ...well, if it was clean looking I might.

Me:  Would we be allowed to spray it or wipe it over with anti-bac hand gel or anything?

MHWC:  That'd sting it wouldn't it?

Me: Well you're the one with the boyfriend - can't you road test it with some and report back the results?

MHWC (uncertain): Erm......dunno really, I'm not sure he'd like it.

Me: Would we be expected to......y'know...

MHWC: What?

Me: Y'know!

MHWC (oblivious): No, what?

Me (whispering and with a traumatised expression): SWALLOW?


MHWC: I guess so, if that's what he wants.  I suppose you charge extra for that

Me: Sounds like we need to design some sort of comprehensive menu or something.  Is that what they do?  I really don't get it.  I mean, it's difficult isn't it?  If some old ropey slag does all that for 10 quid, is anyone going to pay for my prime, sort of unwanted, practically healed up 'lady garden' facility?  I keep it pretty neat but saying that, I did nick it shaving a few nights ago so it might look a bit damaged and scabby in parts...

MHWC:  The only problem is, you'd have to talk to people and take your clothes off and we all know that those are two things you hate doing.

Me (lost in thought): Yeah, 'cause remember that time I had my own aromatherapy business that I closed down?  That was because I didn't like people enough to touch them.  I really don't like people that much and if my punter wanted to chat or touch me in any way I'd probably go a bit strange and get that appalled look on my face, a bit like the shrunken headed hunter in Beetlejuice.  Me screaming, smacking his nob and running off would no doubt ruin his prossie experience and would prevent me from getting some extra dosh to see me through my current financially embarrassed state wouldn't it?

Former Gym Buddy:  I guess you could just do some more gigs and make some cutbacks.

Me: .....

Sigh, how much do prossies charge any way?  I'm still wondering.  It seemed such a good idea when I was in a bad mood this morning.  Hell, I even had my business logo planned.  Of course, a big part of me suspects the punters just jump on and have a good bang.  I don't think they'd appreciate me discussing my menu no matter how nicely set and printed it was.  I guess they'd appreciate the feedback form even less.

DIE CAT DIE (The Tale of the Zombie Cat)!!!!

Dramatic title, eh?  Thought you'd like it.

Gonna share a couple of stories related to cats today.  The first is a cautionary tale and the other is bloody BRILLIANT in a horrible way but it happened to one of my colleagues and therefore it would be wrong of me not to share whilst laughing horribly behind her back.

 

Ok, first the cautionary tale:  My advice to everyone is, even if you think it's dead, NEVER poke a cat with a stick near a main road and some potentially cat loving children.  That's good advice - possibly the best advice you'll be given all day.

What happened?  Well, a colleague and I had to attend a community event with representatives from the local authority and police.  We were all sitting in a specially adapted vehicle with seats and a table awaiting the arrival of 'The Community'.  

No bugger showed .  

After a bit we were all a bit bored, bloated on tea and sick on biscuits.  Oh yeah, how's THIS for hurtful - I ruefully told the gathered agencies that the last time I'd been to this area my beautiful 1971 VW Beetle had tried to kill me by randomly bursting into flames as I drove it.  The police all laughed and advised that they'd 'just' been talking about it!  I'd never met any of them before so they'd just been laughing about it in general without knowing that me,  the poor driver, was about to show up.  They bizarrely stopped laughing when I told them I'd had an anatomically correct skeleton dressed as Santa Claus in the vehicle at the time which I'd had to pull out.  Laughing, I told them I'd been upsetting children by telling them Father Christmas was dead.  

[SILENCE]

I'm sure that's not a crime. I thought it was hysterical - how can you NOT laugh at that; miserable bunch of bleeders.

Anyhoo, one of the guys told us that there was a cat in a blanket around the corner and it had been there for hours.  My colleague and I went to have a look expecting to find a dead cat.  I did sort of look for a stick - if there's the chance of finding anything dead you HAVE to poke it with a stick just so you can scream and run away (no, I don't know why that's important either).  As we slowly approached the tatty looking thing  it did stir and look up but it certainly did not appear healthy.  I inched closer trying to display a  facial expression which would reassure a potentially sick/dying cat.  Clearly, my features didn't quite do it; the cat suddenly leapt into the air, across the car park and into the path of a speeding car. All I remember is the screaming of the child....

So, all we actually did for that community on this day was to force a child to watch it's beloved pet get killed horribly!

...Ah, I'm kidding - that was the FASTEST dying cat on 4 legs.  He made it to the other side of the road by the skin of it's teeth. 

Ok, here's the Zombie Cat story.  It's both horrifying and brilliant at the same time.

A work colleague (and former gym buddy) shared this with me and it's sad so we must read and digest this next bit with dignified expressions on our faces, ok?

It starts off with 'Gym Buddy' (GB) and her daughter discovering that their beloved cat had been run down in the street. They went to collect him in a blanket and, crying, bought him home in readiness to bury in their garden.  GB decided to dig the hole in the lawn so that the cat would be under the grass and in an area which would never be disturbed/dug up accidentally.  They buried him deep.

Next morning, to their horror the cat was lying on the lawn covered in shit, with it's guts liberally scattered around and it's head totally missing! 

[gag]

He was duly re-buried, deeper and with a large slab over the top.

...next day he was again on the lawn now both headless and with a leg missing.

GB put the cat back in his grave, poured bleach all over him (to mask any smell) and put THREE large concrete slabs over him.

It took a couple of days but the decomposing headless, three legged, bleach covered cat again reappeared on the lawn.  This time my gym buddy had enough and decided that they would bag up this beloved former pet and put him in the incinerator.

When her son came home he prepared said incinerator and lit it.  The flame shot up quicker than he expected which made him leap backwards

.....onto the dead cat.

Running around in horror, screaming like a shitty baby, the lad realised he'd never forget that squelching sensation for the rest of his life.  They said a little prayer and stuck the cat in the incinerator hoping that this would finally be the end of the tale and that they would never again be faced with the zombie cat who would not stay buried!

After a few hours GB asked her son whether the deed was done.

.....turns out the incinerator wasn't hot enough.  The family now have a headless three legged cat skeleton to dispose of.

Half Dead

Well, for the people who know me it's no secret that I've pretty much gone totally wrong.  Some of them even know that I've done some stupid shit to myself in the process.

I'm talking specifically about the eating disorder here.

Now don't think this is going to be one of those (whingey voice) "I've got probbbbblems, I've got an eating disorder, I've had a terrible childhood/wasn't breast fed and now I over compensate by punishing myself with food" crappy blog posts.

Fuck that.

I've screwed myself up with my obsession, see-sawed between thin-ness\being a moose and had a bloody good time doing it.  Of course, no one wants to be fat; it's the leprosy of the modern age, and so I've done some major shit to my body/system and FUCKED it over.  I'd like to say I wouldn't change a thing but clearly finding a way to eat like a bastard/contribute to Third World hunger yet stay thin would be my ultimate goal.

Well, to cut a long and frankly boring story short. My digestion is fucked and I frequently puke when I lie down.  Sexy....

For various reasons, I ended up being taken to Accident and Emergency on Sunday.  It was here that I was given 2 bags of fluids and told that my kidneys were getting a bit pissed off.  I related the story to my cousin 'Bakes' AKA my Sister from another Mother/my fellow 'Crash Test Brummie/the person I'm proud to share took it upon herself to punch a baked potato thus losing a fair chunk of skin and also felt the need to touch one of those electric fly killers which shot her across the room (a few days later she tried it again.  I don't know whether she thought something different would happen but it didn't and she again ended up on the other side of the room.  It's for reasons such as this that we really relate to each other). The conversation kinda went:


ME: ...yeah, and when the doctor told me about that, the Tidness Nazi and I had a proper Hollywood Feel Good moment.

BAKES: Really, what happened?

ME: Well, I was all wired up and with tears in my eyes I said that all this shit had to stop as I was killing myself.  With tears in her eyes she said she had to stop drinking as it was killing her.  We sort of hugged and made a pact that I was going to start eating healthily and she would stop drinking.  We're going to the gym, start swimming, take the dog for long walks and basically stop harming ourselves.  This was the wake up call I needed - that we BOTH needed.

BAKES: Cool - what are you doing now?

ME: ....eating all the Halloween sweets.

BAKES: ...and the Tidiness Nazi?

ME: Down the pub.

BAKES: Excellent. Any way, I was lying around yesterday and my legs started to hurt in a weird way.  I became firmly convinced that I'd got deep vein thrombosis and bits of the clot were breaking off and getting into my system.  I absolutely KNEW I was about to die!

ME: Faaaack, what did you do?

BAKES: Nothing.

(on the other end of the phone I was nodding in silent unity)

ME:  Well, when I ended up back in A&E on Monday they put me on another drip and when the bag was finished  they left it for a bit before attaching another one.  I was just sort of sitting there when I noticed the fluid starting to come down the tube in my arm.

BAKES: Oh yeah?

ME: Yeah, and just before the new lot went through I reckoned I saw an air bubble in the tube.  I was really worried that the bubble was heading quickly towards my blood stream, would travel up to my brain and I'd get basically cured of one thing and killed by a freak air bubble accident.  I was absolutely convinced that I was about to gasp my last and I got a bit upset.

BAKES: Faaaack, what did you do?

ME: Nothing.

(again, I imagine she was just nodding her head in silent unity on the other end of the phone)

What I learned?  It's not just me who has an inner arsehole (see previous entry) pre-warning of imminent death.  Furthermore it's not just me who, despite overwhelming evidence, simply doesn't have the inclination or self preservation skills to act on this potentially pre-cognisant spiritual tip off.  Who can be arsed?

Oh yeah.  When I was potentially gasping my last just prior to my first trip to A&E I could hear a tinkling bell ringing.  I became convinced it was the sound of the heavens opening in readiness to take me away.  When it didn't happen I became paranoid that 'whomever' had a look down at me and decided I wasn't worthy, put their stinking bell away and fucked off.  Cheers Heaven.

My Inner Arsehole

I've mentioned it before, I'm mentioning it now and no doubt I'll be mentioning it again in the future; I have an incredibly unhelpful and frankly unpleasant inner voice/voice of my sub-conscience/inner arsehole.  In fact, a lot of the time I think it purposefully works to undermine me in an attempt to turn me into some sort of mental cripple. I came to realise that rather than leave the school yard bullies behind, I've got one living inside my own head!

Fer chrissake......

On the whole though, I've learned to ignore my inner arsehole and just carry on with my head held high.  When I was young it told me that everyone hated me and advised me to set traps and to hide places in order to catch people out!

....yeah, I know.

Listening to this arsehole, I even shut myself in a wardrobe whilst on a school trip.  The wardrobe was in a dorm of 2 bunk beds and I asked one of my 3 room mates to tempt the other two in and then try to persuade them to start slagging me off - WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? What the hell must SHE have thought? Turns out, disappointingly, they didn't have anything bad to say about me - I had planned to jump out of the wardrobe dramatically shouting 'A-HA, I HEARD EVERY LAST WORD YOU SAID!' when in fact, I had to slink out as if it was totally normal for me to have been standing silently in a wardrobe for an hour.  The other thing I learned was, it is really difficult to shut a wardrobe door from the inside.  You have to try and get some pulling speed and then bring your fingers in quickly.  Unfortunately I didn't get my thumb in quick enough and sort of split the skin (yuck!) so not only was I standing in a wardrobe for an hour, I was standing in a wardrobe in pain and covered in blood.  Fucking mental and that's what happens when you have an inner arsehole who you listen to.

I tell you, my inner arsehole was really pissed off when I came to the conclusion that I couldn't give a shit what people thought of me and if they shunned me it actually made life easier and more pleasant.

My arsehole then tried to tell me that monsters were a reality and that when I was out late at night I shouldn't be scared of murderers or rapists, I should fear the unknown and ancient evil.

....again, I know, I know....

My inner arsehole, in more recent years, has concentrated on telling me that every last twinge, ache, strange mark or pain equals my untimely and ultimately painful death.  Yep, hypochondria is the thing I am battling the most at the moment.  Y'wanna hear what this bastard has been saying to me?

Inner Arsehole (I.A.): Hmmmmmmm, you've had that painful gum thing going on for a few days now haven't you?


Me: Yeah, so what?


I.A.: Well, you've probably got some kind of infection which means that all your teeth will need to be pulled out from that side of your head.  It's that or jaw cancer.  Yeah, it's probably jaw cancer and they'll not only have to pull all your teeth but also remove that side of your jaw.  You'll have to have your face reconstructed and it'll never look the same.  You'll be a social pariah and you'll never be able to do stand up or work where people need to look at you again.  You could do stand up with a sort of Phantom of the Opera mask thing on your face only you probably won't be able to speak properly so no one will understand you.  You'll just have to concentrate on comedy writing and you know you procrastinate so rarely get anything serious written.  You are FUCKED girl.


Me: Oh fucking hell......

I.A.: Yeah, well I'm only trying to prepare you.  Oh yeah, I meant to mention your eyes too...


Me: Oh God, don't mention my eyes. It's the contact lens thing isn't it?  You're going to say something about the contact lens thing aren't you?

I.A.: I'm only trying to be helpful and prepare you for the worst.  That weird thing that keeps happening to your contact lenses - the thing where you blink and suddenly you can't see out of one any more?  That deposit that just suddenly forms? The one that looks like an opaque snowflake across the lens?  Well, clearly that's calcium and your eyes are just over producing it.  You've got CALCIFIED EYES lady.  You are going to wake up one day and discover you've lost your sight.  You'll have some freaky yellow covering over them and it'll frighten people who see you.


Me: Yeah, but 'Bakes' (my sister from another mother/my cousin) works at the University Optician Training place and the lecturer type person she spoke to didn't think it was anything serious.

I.A.: So, it's a new disease is it?  Perhaps they'll name it after you.  Oh yeah, I meant to mention that other thing I've been niggling at you about too...


Me:  The dog.


I.A.: You got it!


Me:  So, the dog has randomly started to follow me around and has been uncommonly loving and clingy to me for the past few days.  So what, what can you POSSIBLY make out of that Inner Arsehole?

I.A.: Dogs know y'know.  They KNOW!


Me: Fuck off, Inner Arsehole.  You can't get me on THIS one....

I.A.: Ok then, ignore the fact that dogs can SMELL CANCER!


Me:  Noooooooo.......

I.A.: The dog is saying her goodbyes to you Lady, you've had it.  Wouldn't be surprised if yours isn't one of those stories you hear about when someone suddenly feels ill and they're dead within 2 weeks.  Just thought I'd mention it.


Me: I HATE you Inner Arsehole.  There's a big part of me that pays no attention to the poison you spread and 'sides, most cancers can be easily treated and cured nowadays!

I.A.: ...but not yours and there's always that little part of you which quietly believes me and that's what makes my day.  Right, I'm off now to tell your 'Mental Health' work sistah/colleague that she's got arm cancer, Wisdom Tooth cancer and the BIG disease which we cannot name....


Y'know, I even 'heard' the newspaper report in my head which heralded the Tidiness Nazi and my untimely deaths in a car crash today.  I then thought about whether any of my internet based friends would come and visit me in hospital whilst I lay in the inevitable coma I'll find myself in (should I survive).  I started to worry that people will visit too soon and I won't have lost any weight from only being fed via a drip.  Hell, I need to be looking pale and tragic at this point, not fat and bloated.  I imagine myself to look like a Disney princess in my hospital bed.  Hey, I wonder if someone could get Aidan Turner from Being Human to come and talk to me - once I'd lost some weight and before my muscles go a bit atrophied of course.  It'd just be my luck that he'll fall hopelessly in love with me and I won't have a bleedin' clue.  Great innit?  The reality is, he'd have to have some weird fetish for short, strange, crap haired comedians to fall for me.  Oh yeah, talking about hair - mine is really curly and tangles really easily.  If the nurses brush my hair for the visit I'll have a dreadful frizzy 'fro thing.  Hang on - here's my coma contingency plan

Coma Contingency Plan:

• Ensure nurses don't brush my hair when it's dry.  It needs to be washed, heavily conditioned, given a quick spray of Frizz Ease and then left to dry naturally before being teased into shape with the fingers.  Oh God - the NHS would NEVER do that.  They wouldn't SHAVE it off would they?  I'd look like a frickin' biker.
• MEN - DO NOT READ THE NEXT POINT!  Sometimes, us ladies get a few stray facial hairs which need plucking out.  Please, someone check me over and fix my eyebrows before Aidan shows up.  If you can't get Aidan, Alex Zane would be my next choice; he'll probably be easier to get too as Aidan is in New Zealand filming The Hobbit.  Any way, what I'm saying is, can someone make sure I don't have a goddam BEARD when either of these attractive young men show up to try and wake me from my coma please?  No one wants to turn a handsome man gay after the terrifying realisation that women could be quite so repulsive.
• Could someone also ensure I don't have hairy pits or legs and perhaps put me in my favourite Cookie Monster underpants please?  Whilst they've never proved it to me yet, I like to think of them as my lucky pants.
• Ensure I don't have breath which smells like I've been eating shit all day.

That should do it.  Thanks guys.  I feel better now.

UPDATE: ALEX ZANE, VIA TWITTER, HAS AGREED TO COME AND TALK ME OUT OF A COMA IF NECESSARY.  HE SOUNDED RATHER SURPRISED BUT HAS INDEED AGREED.  I LOVE IT WHEN A PLAN COMES TOGETHER!  

The Fly

I tried on sunglasses today. It didn't go well; I just ended up looking like The Fly so I guess I'm going to have to stick with my old ones which makes me look like one of the Blues Brothers and that look hasn't been acceptable since the 80's.  Damn me and my stupid face...

So, talking about The Fly, the Tidiness Nazi told me the horrifying story of a fly she heard buzzing hysterically which had been caught up in a spider web at the lighthouse she works at.  I'd already had thoughts of flies in my mind from the sunglasses thing but now I was thinking about THE FLY - Brundlefly himself.

Oh, she couldn't reach the high window to save the aforementioned hysterical fly and by the time she'd found a towel to flick up he/she had fallen silent by the way.  No doubt it was victim to a spider's venom (shudder) unless it had fainted.  Can a fly faint?

Y'know, my friend Bison is a  weirdo - I made a random fly type comment a few months ago and he quickly and confidentially shared his knowledge on how one would sex a fly (for those emergency fly sexing situations no doubt).  Who the hell knows how to sex a fly and why would you share this knowledge with a girl? I KNOW now know how to sex a fly; I should stick it on my CV.  That's knowledge I could do without I tell you! I guess ol' Bison has gone past the trying to be sexy and impressing people stage.  Perhaps he thought this WOULD impress me.  Most men flex their muscles, give you 'the look' or charm you by trying to be cute.  Not Bison though, oh no.

He can sex Damsel flies too.

He also likes taking photos of insects having sex.  In fact, my pal Bison is the foremost insect pornographer of his age.

I love my friends

(mostly)

So, back to Brundlefly.  When the Tidiness Nazi told me the story of the hysterical fly it suddenly reminded me of the original 1958 version of The Fly and that horrifying scene at the end with the bloke's head on the fly's body trapped in the web.  Stuck with me for years that did.  Of course, I ended up in a Fly reverie and I got lost in thought longer than one should thinking about what it would be like to be me but on a fly's body.

Oh God.

I'd be phobic of myself for a start.  Can you imagine still having your own thoughts and looking like you facially but having the body of a fly.  At least I wouldn't have to worry about putting on make up.  I'd have no opposable thumbs for a start but hell, I'd still have the same face and it looks pale and I have dark circles around my eyes without make up.  I'd desperately want to use some concealer, mascara and a bit of lippy but then again, I'd have the fucking body of a fly so no one would care about my facial blemishes.  I guess I'd have more on my mind really....

I guess though, in an emergency, I'd be able to seek a lipstick without it's lid on and fly at high speed into the thing hoping it'd get on my lips.  Shit, I've made myself laugh now, how funny would the end of the film be if the guy who saw the fly stuck in the web shouting 'help me' did a double take 'cause the fly had not only my face but one of those crazy woman make up faces on it. Y'know the type; a diagonal smear of pink lipstick over crooked lips and 2 splashes of electric blue eye shadow over the eyes.  Then again, if I'd flown head first into lipstick I'd look ridiculous.  I'd look ridiculous any way with my tangled hair and hairy fly body.

I'd be able to fly about but this would be a small compensation for being a fucking fly.

Hey, I'd be a fly but without the huge field of vision.  I'd be screwed wouldn't I.  I also wouldn't be able to get a fish pedicure.  I'd LOVE a fish pedicure.

All joking aside though, it'd be awful to be mainly fly.  Flies don't have necks do they? Our heads are the wrong shape for a fly body and if, during the 'fly-erisation' process thing I became a neckless fly I'd be even more screwed. No great eye vision and no neck to turn around and look over my shoulder. I guess flies don't have shoulders. Anything could creep up and potentially eat the shit out of me.  I'd end up as just indigestible bits left in a web; a lone wing and a leg. No one wants THAT!

That does it.  If any scientists expect me to get into an experimental transportation device accidentally with a fly they can fuck off and that's my final word on the matter.

I'm tired.

The Joy & Misery of being Winged

Y'know I've mentioned my 'mental health' work colleague (MHWC); the one who shares the same neuroses as me? Well, to be fair, I work in an office of crazies.  The only one who has genuinely been certified as being a bit nuts looked on and shook her head ruefully as we discussed our horror at one day being just 'gone'.  I'd also asked MHWC how her suspected arm cancer was doing as she hadn't moaned about it for weeks.

 She then blamed me for reminding her and the sudden subsequent re-emergence of the 'disease'. 

Of course, all this came after the enquiry about what the symptoms of scurvy were.  At least I've only got some kind of suspected neck sinew tightening disease which they might name after me, tooth ache and soul burning mortification still going on.

Y'know, I'm surprised that I didn't experience spontaneous human combustion after that thing that happened last Thursday; my face has been burning deeply and brightly ever since.  Y'know, had I combusted, all that would have been left of me would be half a leg with a slipper on it and a zimmer frame.  I don't know why, but the photos of people who've spontaneously burst into flames all seem to suggest that they just end up as half a be-slippered leg and zimmer frame combo...

...but yeah, I returned to a thought I often have which is how wonderful it would be to have wings. 

Unfortunately, I've learned that there are stages of madness I have to endure whenever I get a cool thought. 

Stage One: Smiling/nice thought:   My daydream starts off with me thinking of the joy at being able to fly everywhere.

... but then a troubling thought comes into play. 

How does one position oneself when flying; the traditional stretched out, straight arm with a fist leading the way stance?  

Bollocks, I know I wouldn't be bothered to do that!

...and let's face it, you'd look a right sodding nob in your work clothes - not sparkly or superhero-ey in any way, in a Superman pose flying along.  I'm a lazy git and will it take more effort to reach height?  I won't be bothered to put in much effort in so I guess I'll end up flying at about 3ft off the ground, not stiff in any way and therefore with my shoes dragging along the floor and with my arms just flopped in whatever position gravity leaves 'em.  

Stage Two: A bit bloody concerned, actually:   I cried when I had to go to the gym (voluntarily) so what would it be like having to fly?  I don't particularly enjoy exercise and so would I be whining that my wings ached all the time?  

Would I be flying along weeping and getting lower and lower until I just hit the deck? 

What about the effort of going up stairs and needing to get the coordination right so I didn't bang my face up every bloody step or hit the back of my head on the ceiling?  I then started to worry about my clothes.  Does EVERYONE suddenly have wings or just me?  Where would I get clothes with wing holes cut out?  Nothing would look right would they? Wear massive, baggy things to cover them up which renders them totally useless or find something with massive holes in so they poke out properly?  OH MY GOD, don't say I'd have to be nekkid to fly about.  Think about gravity and the hang!  My face'd probably look like Deputy Dawg from below so god only knows what everything else would look like.  I'd have to strategically place bulldog clips around my body. I'd be the miserablest looking flying fucker in the history of ever.

Stage Three: The Horror of it all: Shit, what if the wings aren't feathered but are like.......INSECT WINGS!  I'd be in a constant state of horror and phobic madness screaming like Homer Simpson when he found that dead body.

...I recognise that I think too much.

Finally, this is supposed to be a diary to rival that of Samuel Pepys.  I wonder if he obsessed about having horrible insect wings (can they rip?) Clearly my diary is on the shit side compared to his, mainly because I forgot to diarise the recent riots all over the place.  Erm, so yeah, RIOTS........ALL OVER THE PLACE!  People are saying it's a symptom of 'Broken Britain'.  Not all people, just some people.  The police are pissed off because that nobber Cameron is bringing in an American to tell 'em what they should be doing. I'm pissed off because officially I am a Criminologist (...and a comedian.  A comedy criminologist?) and I can't be bothered to write a stinging piece on the situation.  Hell, I can't even be bothered to be stiff bodied when I fly.

I'm rubbish

Another Humiliating Experience

This happened Thursday just gone and well, I've only just been able to gather the mental strength to talk about it.  When 'the thing' happened I didn't mention anything to anyone for the first few hours as I was traumatised and mentally scarred from the whole situation; a situation which has led me further towards the realisation that I am losing my ability to interact with the human race.  I KNEW hermitude was the only way to go.

Before I tell you, I have to share another phenomena I've discovered.  One that I've realised happens too often when I'm trying to share humiliation with people:

SCENARIO ONE - On phone to my Mother

Me: Oh God Mom, I've had a terrible experience today, I.....

Mom: ...You've shit yourself?

Me: No, I haven't bloody shit myself, I....

Mom: You've farted!  You farted in front of someone!

Me: NO, I haven't farted in front of anyone

Mom: (sounding more than just mildly disappointed): Oh, go one then.  What did you do?

Scenario Two: At home with Tidiness Nazi Housemate/Best pal:


Me: Oh my God, you'll never believe what I did today

Tidiness Nazi: (sounding mortified): Oh God, you didn't shit yourself did you?

Scenario Three: In Office to 'Mental Health Work Colleague':


Me: I've gotta tell you what happened yesterday

Mental Health Work Colleague: You didn't shit yourself again did you?


?

Again!

No, for everyone who doesn't automatically think I regularly shit my pants.......oh hang on, before we go on, and on the subject of pants, I have to say that I have been recently disturbed by the fact that I have TWICE suffered the discomfort of pants up my backside (hungry arse syndrome I believe it's called) with pants normally thoroughly comfortable.  Upon a visit to the ladies powder room (us ladies don't have bodily functions y'know; we emit a perfumed powder) I discovered I'd put my pants on back to front.  TWICE!  Now, I like to have comfortable nethers, it's all part of having a happy day, so this recent development is somewhat disturbing.  Can one just develop 'Pant Dyslexia' or something? In my defence, I have an 'interesting pants' obsession and will just buy pants that vaguely amuse me.  The 2 pairs I seemed to have difficulty with had a cartoon print going all the way around so perhaps it's nothing more than sloppy dressing during the misery that is morning.  The pants in question? A Wonder Woman pair and a Superman pair.  I actually threw the Superman pair away 'cause once I'd turned them around they were still uncomfortable - crotch part not wide enough.  Like I say - one HAS to have comfortable nethers to make it through the misery that is the working day.

So, back to the story.  Since I broke my traumatised silence I have told EVERYONE I have met and they have all cringed - even the Capital Radio breakfast show guys.  I think the reason I have spilled my guts so much is that I am seeking someone - ANYONE who will offer comfort and say that it wasn't THAT bad.

 Thus far, no one has.

Right, here we go.  On Thursday I had cause to go out and deal with something accompanied by a uniformed police officer.  We vaguely know each other and so there was a bit of light hearted banter in the police car and he's a nice bloke. Once the issue was dealt with we returned to the police station and as we pulled up he got another shout to go out and deal with something else.  Things sort of went like this:

PC: Oh, that's a shame; I was going to invite you into the nick for coffee and some cake.

Me: (gutted to be missing out on cake): Oh maaaan, cake?  You've got cake? In these austere times you've got cake in there? That would have been lovely too. I could just go some cake.

We both then walked around to the back of the police car (now parked in the police station car park) and at this point, I don't really know what happened.  Perhaps he took an extra step towards me, I dunno, but I was suddenly gripped with the belief that he was coming in to HUG me?  As you may already know, I have a bit of a fear of human contact and do my best to avoid all humans (and pets actually) as much as possible.  I felt my face flash between horror and 'oh my God, this is really happening!' and made the unconscious decision to act like a proper human being rather than a broken, mentally damaged fool, and so I stiffly stepped towards him with my arms out to receive the aforementioned hug.

At this point HE looked horrified and I realised with blood draining horror that HE WASN'T GOING TO HUG ME AT ALL!!!!!!

Clearly the guy now felt obliged to hug this moronic Brummie short-arse of a girl with shit hair which had been recently dyed a bizarre colour.  FAAAAAACK.  He went in to receive the hug with a combined look of shock and confusion on his face (we were both at work and this is not how one says goodbye after a professional meeting!). God only knows what the PCSO in the van thought OR said to him once back in the nick.

This was the stiffest, most uncomfortable hug of my entire life.  You think that's the worst bit?  You'd be wrong.  In his horror, he kinda turned his face towards me a bit.  On reflection, this was probably for something of an answer as to why I was demanding a hug from him after a simple joint visit somewhere, but I was in' total 'human contact phobia' mode and my phobic brain, upon seeing his face turn towards mine screamed 'OH MY GOD, HE'S GOING IN FOR THE CHEEK KISS TOO!"  at me.

Oh god, I can barely type this any more.

I'll type it quick

....I started to pucker up to kiss him back!

Luckily, he managed an uncomfortable cheek bump instead.  What must he think of me?  Perhaps he thinks I'm a raging nympho or that I was coming on to him?  How can one explain to a person that they are losing their human social skills and had been overcome with the thought of cake when they threw themselves into their arms and sort of demanded a kiss?  Oh God, I keep coming over all cold when I think about it.  I've had humiliations in the past, bloody massive ones but at least they've been pretty private and mostly anonymous.  This one was with a great big copper in uniform with whom I often have to work.  He had to bend over to hug me too 'cause I'm like some sort of sub-normal Hobbit.  Y'think Samwise Gamgee was a bit of a moron.  Meet me, his idiot sister.

Mind Mapping - James Bond

So, I've been hitting London every Sunday for the past few weeks in order to learn techniques which will improve my comedy writing, help me get past the blank page (to be honest, this never happens to me - I've ALWAYS got shit going through my head) and to get my stupid brain a bit more focused.  I've discovered that Mind Mapping is the future (she said grandly).  Basically it's brain spewing in a focused way!  I love it.

So here is my brain spew on the subject of James Bond:

JAMES BOND

|

SEXY WOMEN

 Always get killed after shagging the man - in weird ways - PAINTED GOLD - who knew being painted gold could kill you? Is it economically viable to cover a whole woman in gold just to make a dramatic point with the price it's currently bringing in? Would you have to give her a good scraping before cashing her in at Cash 4 Gold? Does being covered in gold preserve you like a wedding cake or would you go mushy under the gold? MADE TO DRINK OIL - one was murdered by being forced to drink oil - grandmothers used to make kids drink castor oil - drinking castor oil and shitting yourself to death would not be considered a sexy Bond girl death - I'd still watch that film - I'd probably rewind the shitting scene a few times too

|

WENT THROUGH 70'S COMEDIC PERIOD

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NOW VERY SERIOUS

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EVIL GENIUS

Massively furry cat - comedy bald cat - cat owners possibly evil? - Evil Geniuses always seem to have some kind of bizarre affliction or scarred - what does that say about people with disfigurements? It's said that with twins one is always the evil one, what about conjoined twins? Can you become evil by some sort of evil osmosis?

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HENCHMEN

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How does one become a Henchman? Never seen the job advertised - JOB DESCRIPTION "Henchman Required" - who would want to be a henchman? The name HENCHMAN has negative connotations and so may want to be re-named the way 'dustman' was or 'cleaners' or 'Spastics' or something like that - WORK IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE - Island in the middle of the Ocean - leads to marital strife - how would a henchman in a top secret lair get to work every day? Evil Geniuses need to be aware of employment law and cannot discriminate against married potential henchmen, female potential henchmen or disabled potential henchmen - never see wheelchair bound Henchman wheeling themselves along as fast as they could during a chase - would a henchman get post-traumatic stress syndrome after seeing too many horrible deaths? How would one request annual leave or go home whenever they might need to such as to attend their child's parent's evening? Would an Evil Genius think to have an HR department? What would be considered a disciplinary issue which may cause a henchman to get into a spot of bother? Helping the hero out a bit I guess - never seen that happen unless the henchman was a hot woman (leading to the shagging and inevitable weird death) - henchmen always seem to get killed - why would anyone want to be one?  Don't they notice they work for the baddie? Do Henchmen come from a pool of lesser evil people?  People who failed or scored quite lowly in evil tests - school careers advisers never suggest Henchman to the students despite bullies often surrounding themselves with moronic yes-men who would be perfect to train as a henchman - henchman training school - BSc (hons) in Henchmanology

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LAIR

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Hardly able to keep the lair secret as loads of people would have spotted a skull shaped island on Google Earth - who designs skull shaped islands, certainly not someone from the Capability Brown school of design - not a natural feature - Laurence Llewellyn Bowen would be shit at designing an evil lair - what if the designer has been asked to turn a straightforward dead (can they ever be considered dead?) volcano into a giant evil skull?  Supposedly it goes a bit wrong and the Evil Genius isn't happy with the skull face? Would you just invoice him when you'd finished?  He'd just kill you when you'd finished wouldn't he? Oh, and all of your workforce who know the secrets of the lair including the location (they have Google Earth) - peel the little man on Google Earth and get him to walk around the lair - always see the same Henchman smiling in loads of shots where he tried to keep ahead of the camera car - this may be considered gross misconduct for a henchman - what if it goes over budget? How would  you work out the cost of remodeling a whole fucking Island? 

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DEATH

Weird but ultimately slow method of killing their arch enemy which inevitably leads to escape - why don't they just shoot the fucker? Never get James Bond to drink oil, not even Castor Oil which could lead to a long drawn out shitting scene leading to his social death via the medium of shame 

The Procrastinator

In an effort to kill the procrastinator in me once and for all (but I so love it) I have joined up with some other comedians in order to improve and focus our comedy writing.  I think it's fair to say that I love nothing more than to allow my brain to puke a load of rubbish in crappy formats such as this when really I should be forcing myself to once again write constructively. 

...so, here I am, attempting to rein myself in and not just spill the darkest depths of my strange thought patterns (I've learned that the last lot about the bathroom crossed the line of being mildly amusing to actually Sket, you may need to seek some professional help.  I had been thinking people would understand and agree that they too have similar thoughts!) Right, one of the exercises for this week is to write something called 'The 7 Ages of Me'.  I need to pick a theme (the example was living arrangements eg. living with parents, student accommodation, getting your own house, losing said house and living back with parents etc. etc.) and then adding afterthoughts.  I have decided to write about the 7 ages of my mental health.  Shit, there's a definite theme to my life isn't there?  Ok, here goes:

1. Childhood:  As a child I was brave and fearless.  I was scared of nothing as neither the Fates nor my parents had yet been given the opportunity to fuck me up in those extra special ways that only those two agencies, are they agencies, can. I was a mentally healthy and happy child UNTIL it would seem that I developed a fear of taking a shit. Yup, as a child I feared the faeces.  Not actually the faeces itself but the ACT of defecation.  I understand that I would be playing happily, most often in just pants with a towel tied around my neck and a giant S lipsticked across my chest, as I played Superman with the toy lobster I particularly loved.  I do need to question who exactly buys their kid a lobster though. I do have to say that on reflection, I'd LOVE to live in just my pants and a cape only I guess that my housemate would more than likely object which, quite frankly is very rude and judegemental although I can, in a certain light, appreciate that if I refused to wear a bra and had lipstick smeared across my breasts people might talk, and not in a good way.  My housemate might ask me to move out and then I'd be homeless... in just my pants and a cape which might attract the attention of the authorities.  I digress. My Mother tells me that I would be playing happily before stopping, teeth clenched, face scrunched and pretending that it was totally normal to have a sphincter tighter than erm, something really REALLY tight. 
2. AT SCHOOL: By this time I'd met people and was now beginning my life of paranoia.  I fully believed everyone hated me and so felt the need to find out what they were saying.  During a school trip I had been forced to share...........I'm bored now. 
3. COLLEGE: Monsters
4. WORK: Monsters
5. DATING: Don't touch me and Monsters
6. SINGLETON: Something about being found rotted into the carpet covered in flies by TV's Life of Grime crew.
7. OLD GIT: Something about being a piss stained crazy cat lady wearing just my incontinence pants and a red cape with my ancient withered boobs hanging down around my knees

I'm so ashamed of myself.  The procrastinator within me ALWAYS wins. 

The Bathroom

I may have mentioned before that I get bizarre thoughts every time I go into my bathroom.  I've only shared one of the scenarios that haunts my head with you and that's the one where I wonder what would happen if aliens kidnapped me and I was placed in some weird alien zoo in what they think is my natural habitat (the bathroom) and only feed me whatever they have analysed has been in my stomach on the day I was taken.  Yeah, I know.......probably shouldn't be sharing the thoughts I get.

Anyhoo, I have a new bathroom scenario now.  Have you ever seen that film The Mist? It's based on a Steven King story and all the people get trapped in a supermarket by a mist which contains monsters from another dimension or something?  It's always been my dream to be trapped in a supermarket. On my own of course, not with a bunch of freaks and weirdos.  Any way, I was sitting on the loo, looking around and my dog sort of threw herself at the closed door in a futile attempt at making me let her in.  She demands play ALL the sodding time, even when I'm on my knees with my head down the pan bringing my guts up.  I'll eventually turn around and find a squeaky fried egg, a squeaky chop, a formerly squeaky bone and a chewed up plastic Ozzy Osborne dropped around my feet and a ridiculously hairy dog in the 'ready' position (head on floor, arse in the air - you know the type of thing) waiting for me to kick stuff at her.  She's some kind of sheepdog throwback.  It's a nightmare.  Y'know, once I tried to test whether she had any Lassie-like skills and did a dramatic, heart clutching death in front of her to see what she'd do.  Sat on the back of my fucking head, that's what she did. 

...but I digress.  To recap, me sitting on loo, dog banged door.  So yeah, the simple act of the dog banging against the closed door of the bathroom gave my freaky brain the opportunity to start thinking stuff I should really keep to myself.  Initially I got a thrill that I was on one side of the door and if a bunch of small monsters took over the house (no, I don't know why or how either....) they wouldn't have the brain to know that the door wasn't still part of the wall and then I could live in there without them knowing.  I looked around the bathroom as I have done many times before and nodded silently to myself that I could happily live in the bathroom.  I then spied that the window was slightly open.  With horror I remembered THE MIST and then got lost in thought about the little monsters in the house and decided they'd come out of the mist.  SHIT - I needed to close the window before the flying bug things flew in, stung me and made my face blow up until I was dead!  OR the monstrous spiders could get in and their webs burn through you and the man was full of spider-monster eggs and OH. MY. GOD close the window Sket!

I couldn't be arsed to close the window.  Heck, it was only bizarre spewings from my ridiculous excuse of a brain any way.  I worried about my dog (The Kraken - it's lovely when she's asleep.  NEVER wake the dog) and decided that if the monsters came I would be brave enough to quickly open the bathroom door and drag her in rather than live with the guilt of having allowed her to be killed.  Hell, it would be nice to have some company but would she give me away by whining when the hunger got to her.  I'd already decided I'd be able to live on toothpaste for a short time but a dog?  Nah, the dog'd NEVER accept a bit of minty toothpaste for dinner.  If the monsters realised there was someone living behind what they thought was a wall they might attack the door and then I'd be fucked.  I decided they probably wouldn't like being sprayed with water from the shower head but then I'd have to live in just the shower cubicle and never sleep in case they climbed over the top to get me!  What if tentacle monsters or the spiders or something came up through the plug hole?  I'd be fucked!  By the time I was rescued I'd be mental and knackered and possibly blind 'cause I'd had my contact lenses in for longer than the prescripted amount of time! 

...at least I'd have minty breath.

I need to just go to the loo, do my business (of powdering.  I'm a lady and we don't create waste products, we emit a perfumed powder - that's why we have Ladies Powder Rooms) and get the frig out of there. 

Ooh, quickly - Samuel Pepys said something about 'caring not a turd' about something in his diary.  I love this man.  I wonder what he thought about then he went to the loo?

My bit of Pepys-ing.  Peter Falk, the greatest TV detective of all time - COLUMBO died yesterday.  My house mate's mother once told her she was like Columbo which made her proud until the woman said 'Yeah, he was a scruff too!'

...and finally.  I had to attend Court in the course of my work (the work which actually funds my comedy and real life) and thought I'd dressed appropriately.  Unfortunately, I'd put on day glo yellow and orange socks and hadn't realised that, as I sat po-faced with my legs crossed, everyone was blinded by the aforementioned socks.  My manager was sitting opposite and made some comedic comment to our Barrister and I don't really know what happened but I panicked a bit and just spewed out a load of nonsense that I always ensured I wore something bizarre so I could be easily identified if I were murdered and that I was also wearing Animal from The Muppets underpants.  WHY did I say that?  I then went on to reflect that the actress playing me in the reconstruction would have to wear the same socks and that she might feel a bit embarrassed. The Barrister just sat there.  Didn't laugh or acknowledge any of the shit I'd just said.  Neither did the woman in BHS who jokingly told me that the coats were displayed by the nightwear which was a strange place to put them and I'd said it was because we'd ALL, at some time put a coat on over our PJ's to go to the shop...

Oh Christ - why do I bother to get up in the mornings?

Who am I again?

I've heard it all now.  Get this:

(Phone rings)

Me: Hello

Female Caller (in urgent tone): JEAN?

Me: No, sorry you've got the wrong number.

Caller: Is this (states my phone number)?

Me: Yes, that's this number but there's no one called Jean here.

Caller: Well who are you then?

Me: Erm......I don't really want to say 'cause I don't know who you are.

Caller: Well YOU called me!

Me: Um, no.  YOU called me...

Bizarre Caller: YOU called me!!

Me (getting really actually fucking testy): NO.  YOU.  CALLED.  ME  and there is NO ONE called Jean here.  If there were I think I'd bloody well know it but there isn't, ALRIGHT pal?

Bizarre Caller (sounding really rather pleasant and normal all of a sudden): Oh ok, sorry to disturb you.

?

??

I turned to look at a quizical looking housemate, shaking my head slowly and we had a bit of a laugh.  I mean, who gets a wrong number from someone who then sees fit to argue with you over it?  I then started to reflect on how certain the woman sounded on the phone. 

It made me doubt. 

I've gone wrong haven't I?  I recognise this but my unhelpful inner voice is a complete fucking nightmare.  I began to worry that I really was called Jean and that I had Alzheimer's and was just coming out of a fantasy world and back into reality which was ME/Jean, aged 86, sitting in my own piss in some cheap old folks home and the reality of my current life was all fake.  Perfect, fucking perfect.  My whole life is just the mad ramblings of some dementia riddled old woman who couldn't even create a decent fucking fantasy world to disappear into.  Couldn't Jean have imagined me to have decent hair at least?  Couldn't her shrunken brain have provided me with more money and some sex?  Oh god, the sex.  Trust me to have been imagined by some prudish rambling old duffer who couldn't even have a filthy few minutes which had been dragged up from her memory banks for me? 

Yeah, thanks Jean for setting my beloved '71 VW Beetle on fire whilst I was driving it. 

Thanks for the death of Batdog and Batfool. 

Thanks for the lack of sex (I keep coming back to this one don't I?). 

Thanks for that disastrous gig at Komedia when I puked everywhere beforehand and went on stage a bit sorta delirious and completely forget my set. 

Oh, and thanks for the audience being just that bit too far away from the stage to engage with too. 

Oh yeah, THANKS Jean for consistently humiliating me through the medium of faeces.

Thank you for giving me some bizarre phobias that not even I can understand (certain round things.  Possibly organic round things but not berries or normal round things.  See, even I don't know what's going to set me off!)

I've often wondered why I've made some bizarre decisions in my life.  The sort of decisions that I later wonder what the hell possessed me to make.  I get it now, I'm the figment of some one's dying brain. 

Shit......

The Paranoiac

So, I get home from work and the Tidiness Nazi's precious dog is in the house - but no Tidiness Nazi housemate!  Wherever she is, she's taken her car so I guess she's nipped to the shop. I love having the house to myself and would have loved to lie in bed for a bit but decided to have a quick game of 'throw the ball up the stairs' at the dog (just to show the arriving housemate that I do play with the creature despite it being the most aggravating hound on the face of the earth) but alas she does not return and I grow bored.
Then I read the paper.  Still no Nazi

I check my emails.  No Nazi

Hmmmmmm, where the frick has she gone? 

Asking myself a question was the fatal mistake.  It gave my unhelpful inner dialogue an opportunity to start talking to me and interfering.

Inner Dialogue: You know she's been murdered don't you?

Me: Wha?

Inner Dialogue: Murdered.  In fact, her body has probably been upstairs in her bedroom all this time. Hell, she's probably lying there in YOUR bedroom! You haven't been upstairs yet have you, you lazy cow?

Me: Erm...no I haven't. Murdered, really?  Bloody hell.  I don't really think that's what's happened.  I mean, she's just a bit late back that's all and anyway, where's her car? Eh, tell me that!

Inner Dialogue: ...so, you think she's been in a car crash then?  A fatal one?

Me: NO!  She's just a bit late that's all.

Inner Dialogue: That brings us back to her being dead upstairs.  You've been in the house now for the best part of 40 minutes.  Gives you plenty of time to have killed her.  You'll go down for this y'know!

Me: FUCK!  No, I've got an alib...

Inner Dialogue: ...alibi?  Have you, have- you- really?

Me: Yeah.  I've been at work.  I've spoken to people on the phone.  The police can check my phone records and see that at 4.45 I was in Carlton Road talking to Emma at the office.  They will be able to examine the dead flies and lava on her and know what her time of death was and I'm sure I'll be picked up on CCTV SOMEWHERE at that time.  They won't get me for this one, oh no siree...

Inner Dialogue: ...but the killer would want to get away with it so is bound to have planted some evidence that you can't explain that would point the finger at you.  You're being FRAMED bitch!

Me (panic stricken): Noooooooo; they'll never take me alive! I'd never survive in prison.....Actually, I'd love it in prison if they'd let me stay in solitary and never speak to another fucker ever again.  Think they'd let me have some books, paper and perhaps do some Open University and watch tv on my own?  Heaven, I'd be able to conquer my procrastination issues and get some comedy written.

Inner Dialogue (losing the upper hand): Hang on, you can't go down for this - she's a heroine, the papers said so years ago when all that stuff happened and the public would hate you for killing her - you'd be public enemy number one for AGES and the lags would be after you AND how would you do your Stand Up?  It'd kill your mother! 

Me:  Ok, I'll just talk my way out of it all.  I'll be ok 'cause the truth is on my side.

Inner Dialogue: Pah, you always assume that during cross questioning you would be able to go into a Zen like state, say nothing and you'd be really cool.  Now we BOTH know that you're more likely to  panic and confess to anything and everything before the 'bad cop' even enters the room with his scary Gene Hunt routine. 

Me: Yeah, I do confess to stuff I didn't do but I'd definitely 'do' Gene Hunt but only in Life on Mars.  He was a nob in Ashes to Ashes.  Really killed the charac....

Inner Dialogue: ....so what you gonna spend the money on?  The money you're bound to get in her will.

Me: C'mon, that's disgusting.  She's not dead.  I'd sell the house, pay off my debts, quit my job and move back to Brum.  I'm going upstairs to check she's not dead. 

She wasn't up there dead but then I got lost in reverie thinking about if I were murdered and what the coroner would find in my stomach.  All I'd eaten today was a chocolate milkshake, a Thorntons chocolate and a load of ice water.  I'd then thrown the lot up (I have shitty digestion).  When I'd got home I had some ice cream to take down the swelling from puking.  So that was it, my stomach contents would be ice cream and nowt else.  Bloody hell.  I then thought about the last clothing I'd worn - grey trousers, a grey polo neck and a long grey cardigan WHAT WAS I THINKING? I'd look shite on the CCTV clips being shown on TV plotting my last movements.  My hair was a mess too.  What photo would they use of me on the news?  Perhaps that one on my Facebook page showing my new hair; that's the last one but hell, should I change the silly picture I've currently got up there?  It's not very fitting for all the tribute (in the singular) I'd get.  Perhaps that shambolic Stand Up clip on YouTube would shoot me to fame in death (probably not). The CCTV would make me look fat in death too wouldn't it?  Well, unless it was CCTV taken from a flattering angle above looking down so you can see my cheek bones.  The Tidiness Nazi wanders in.  I'd forgotten she'd gone out with our friend Lynne to look at all the places that are supposed to be haunted in the town in order to create a historic ghost walk..

...I thought about being a ghost last night but I've been paraoid and weird enough for one day.

Jesus and the Daves

Just returned from a birthday visit to my Mother which is always an experience.  Experience One involved me having to attend the burial and small funeral service for half a dead mouse she found in the garden.  The ARSE end of the dead mouse at that.  My cousin's cat has recently gone to live with her and despite the evidence being a bit on the circumstantial side, he is the prime suspect.  In fact, not so much a suspect but the official guilty party.  No trial, no witnesses, no nothing - just half a corpse.

The other observation I have involves her TV.  She has about 4 different remote controls and it drives me crazy as I can never work out which one does what!  I don't even know why she bothers; the TV is always set to some US Crime channel and she just watches CSI (NY, Vegas and the dreadful Miami one - how did that ginger arse David Caruso ever get work? He looks like his eyes have been sewn in with red thread, he over acts in a comedy mean and moody way - but he believes it, and is a thoroughly unlikeable person.  Out of the 3 in the franchise, his is the shittest by far), NCIS, Law and Order and god, other similar shows all night EVERY night.  I actually found myself appreciating them, even the one's I'd seen the previous night and knew what was going to happen, and that's why I could never go back there to live permanently.  I might just give up on rational thought in order to sit with an anaesthetised brain watching made up crime.  At least I'll know if someone is poisoning me with Selenium - I'll have horrendous garlic breath. 

...and so to THE conversation.  Before I continue, I have to advise that whilst I love my extended family, they can be very judgemental, mocking and erm.....I won't beat around the bush - EVIL.  I had mentioned to my Mother that I hadn't been feeling very unwell and my (cough) lady internal bits seemed a bit sluggish and, being the hypochondriac that I am, I was assuming I was terminally ill. 

Mother:  You aren't PREGNANT are you?
Me: Well, he hasn't performed that one since Bethlehem actually Mother.

That brief exchange made me reflect and once I again I got lost in bizarre and unnatural thoughts.  I did think that if the Lord was going to pick someone to carry the new Messiah, she'd at least have to be a genuine virgin and not someone who's basically become 're-virginated' due to the very real fact she can't get any!  I then thought about me having a new Messiah and how 'the family' would behave.  Of course, they wouldn't be supportive or believing.  They'd mock us both.  They'd laugh behind our backs and question why he was wearing a dress, take the piss out of his sandals and whisper about his decision to hang about with 12 other guys.  They'd make snippy comments that his hair was too long and that his beard would look like he'd got a vagina stuck to his face.  In fact, his secret family nickname would be 'fanny-face'.  See, I know my family, have heard the stuff they've said about people and know that this would be the way.  No Messiah, new or old would survive my family without ending up with a whole bucket full of neuroses and paranoia's.  My cousin and I have discussed this at length and know that we've gone wrong.  We've only survived by doing strange things for our own amusement and by small acts of evil here and there.  We both know this.  We both know that we're never right.  For fuck sake, she PUNCHED a baked potato and doesn't even know why!  I pissed everywhere at work once 'cause I had to find out whether incontinence pads really worked (they don't.  Well, they do for drips but not for the entire contents of a full adult bladder) In fact LINK to story.

So, in conclusion, I worry for the fate of mankind if I was forced to be the re-virgin mother to the new Messiah. 

Finally, I had a gig in the week and suspect I'd travelled into the world of the strange.  All I knew is that the promotor was called Dave and I only had a sketchy idea of what he looked like.  My cousin and I went into the pub and found a bloke sitting at the bar in the lounge area. 

Cousin Lisa: Hi, we're looking for Dave

Bloke: Oh, I think you'll find him in the bar.

(we duly went next door into the other bar room.  When we got there we discovered that the bar was the same one for the lounge and this bar with one elderly guy serving both rooms.  We could see the first bloke from where we were.

Cousin Lisa (to ancient barman): Hi, we're looking for Dave

Ancient Barman (shouting through to the first bloke): Dave, have you seen Dave?

First Bloke: No, I thought he was in there with you!

(Enter another bloke)

Ancient Barman: You alright Dave?

(Lisa and I perk up our ears)

Ancient Barman to this Dave: Dave, have YOU seen Dave?

Dave: No, dunno where he is...

...and that's how it went.  We did find the correct Dave in the end but the situation made me wonder why all the other Daves didn't just assume they were the Dave we wanted.  Do they spend their family lives never thinking anyone requires them?  As for the gig, it was at a venue I'd never played before.  The set went quite well actually with plenty of audience participation despite the MC quietly whispering an apology to me for killing the atmosphere in the room prior to my set.  Cousin Lisa filmed the set and I might even put it up on YouTube if I can be arsed.  I'll be sure to post a link if I do!

The Blue Ear

If you are a regular reader of my drivel then you will be aware that I surround myself not with sycophants (which would be great) but with hypochondriacs.  If only I could find a bunch of sycophants of my own I wouldn't have to lumber myself with the bunch of arseholes lovingly known as 'my friends (and bits of family)'.  Yep, these people believe themselves to have every life threatening disease on the market (is there a disease market?).  My mother is the best; she's convinced she has both Progeria (congenital disorder which makes you age rapidly) AND Prader-Willi (disorder which causes obesity).  I argue that she's just a greedy old git. 

So, 'Mental Health' work colleague (MHWC) and I were discussing the latest life threatening disease she is facing.  MHWC is still convinced that she has some sort of arm cancer which had in fact been better a few days ago but was now hurting again.  I think we both have a major fear of cancer (there's been loads in my family.  Dunno her excuse) but to be fair, she has started running again recently and so I asked whether it was possible the pain was related to this but no, it's clearly cancer just in the lower part of one arm.  I told her about a weird pain I'd experienced in one of my ears (oh yeah, I consider myself amongst the bunch of arseholes I mentioned earlier) and we, for a moment, had the same thought; who gets pain in one ear?!!!!

Ear cancer!

I reflected miserably that with my luck I'd have to have my ear amputated and would then have to have a cheap NHS replacement which wouldn't match my skin tone.  In fact, if it was an NHS ear it would probably be a cheap blue molded rubbery thing.  My head fell to my chest in misery as I thought about the box of blue ears that the doctor would bring out.  In my mind I saw him holding various specimens to the side of my head and stepping back in order to see how they each looked.  Hell, I just knew they wouldn't have my size and I'd have to have a large 'man' ear until they could track down a replacement.  I later discussed these fears with my pal Bison who told me the blue ear would probably come with a rubber band which would snap around my head to keep it in place.  He then fell silent as if in contemplation before venturing that it would almost be worth having his own ear amputated just so he could have a giant blue ear of his own. 

Y'know, I bet they only have left ears in that box and I'll need a right ear.  I'll have to wear the thing upside down until they find me a lady ear won't I?  Sometimes it's just shit being me...

Oooh ooh, something else to tell you - I was walking down the street yesterday when a bloke stopped to tell me I was beautiful!  Clearly he was either a lunatic or 'played a mean pin ball' if you get my drift.  I tried to carry on walking but he sort of held my arm a bit and asked to look at my eyes properly (!)  I was so appalled I didn't have time to engage my appalled face (think of the great white hunter type with the shrunken head at the end of 'Beetlejuice')

Sket's appalled face



He then told me how much he loved my curly hair.  Clearly my internal 'fuck off' vibe machine was malfunctioning and therefore I was left to deal with the situation myself.  Shiit.

I just sort of let out a ridiculous high pitched laugh, paused and then lamely told him that I once got a gerbil trapped in my hair.

Faaaaaaack.

Still he wasn't put off and shared a story with me about how one of his fish got caught up in some weeds he'd put in the tank.  WHY WAS I HAVING THIS CONVERSATION?  I tried again to escape but he asked my name (like a prat I told him!!!!!), he took my hand, kissed it and I ran away shouting over my shoulder that he was very charming!

I'm never going to have sex again am I? 

The glutton

My Tidiness Nazi housemate informed me she'd been to the chiropractor and had to rest so it was going to be a 'make your own' night tonight with regard to dinner. 

Disaster!! 

I am famed for my inability to cook even the simplest thing.  I think that it's mainly because I can't be arsed to cook and then when I'm hungry I want something immediately and therefore end up with a dinner that is on fire but frozen in the middle.  I will now post a number of pictures of culinary disasters I've had to endure:

 I present: VEGGIE BURGER!

 A lovely OMELETTE!

 A little seasoning to my Domino's pizza!

 MmmMMMMmm, MINI PIZZAS!

Well done Linda McCartney, here is one of your VEGGIE PIES!

So yeah, you can probably guess why I was somewhat nervous about it being a 'make your own' night.  I decided to go with my signature dish; ice cream.  I then decided to have a different flavour ice cream for dessert.  I was happy.  Heck, if this regime goes on much longer then I might end up with Ricketts but hell, I'll be happy.  As happy as a Tap Dancer (who would be unable to stop a pig in an alley).  The only downside to my happiness was the judgemental look on the face of the Nazi.  The good news is that she couldn't stand it any longer and I scored some spaghetti bolognaise out of her disgust! 

In other news, 'Mental Health' work colleague and I had a candid discussion about stuff.  She's got a painful patch on her arm which is clearly arm cancer (only it seemed to be better today) and I shared the story about the time I was startled in the early hours by the unexpected sight of my own vagina reflected in the mirror when I was bending forward.  That sight, at an angle I would never have expected to have viewed it from, has haunted me ever since and I've been obsessed I'm horribly deformed 'down there'.  As previously shared, I've now been unable to pull a bloke for a number of years, possibly due to the fact I accidentally exude 'fuck off' vibes from every pore whenever someone talks to me, so have been unable to gauge the level of horror on the face of any potential sexual partners.  I sort of described it to her in it's full 'angry looking' detail and she nodded sagely and told me it was perfectly normal!  Phew!  She then reflected that perhaps we should get a bunch of girls together for a nibbles and vadge party so we can all sort of have a quick look to make sure we're all the same.  I think that 'Mental Health' work colleague now suspects that if ours are the same and mine might be wrong then perhaps HERS is wrong too! 

It's hard being alive innit?

Over thinking

I've had a lot of opportunity to over think again lately.  I did get lost in thought about how wonderful it would be if I were really supple, bendy and able to form a handstand on my desk from which I'd be able to move my legs in interesting ways such as the splits, twists or scissors.  I shared this with 'Mental Health' work colleague (we share the same neuroses) who absolutely went with it and reflected how wonderful it would be if we were both doing something similar when the MD came down and into the room.  From this I felt some circus skills training would be beneficial to us both, especially as we then decided we needed unicycles.  How wonderful would it be to spend your day on a unicycle wobbling precariously about with bits of paper for people or just turning up and visiting folk.  I had visions of people calling up and asking for 'the one on the unicycle'.  In my mind I was happy, not as happy as when I had visions of me tap dancing at top speed but happy nonetheless.  Perhaps that's the key to happiness - being a tap dancing unicyclist. 

...I'd like to do back flips too but I did a simple forward roll on Friday and then had to suffer the pain of a suspected broken neck for the rest of the day.

Another thought I had was during a really tense 'RE-STRUCTURE' meeting in which we would all find out our potential redundancy fate and I'd have to decide whether to just go for it, trust in myself and just make a career out of my comedy with no wage to fall back on, was how awful it would be if I punctuated the tense silence by letting off an enormous blanket-ripper fart which echoed around the room.  Don't get me wrong, I didn't have a fart in me but during moments like this I have the same thought.  The Fart Scenario thought.

The Fart Scenario thought comes to me in every meeting in which people are silent and concentrating on something.  How would the people react if someone farted really REALLY loudly.  I suspect a couple of people would stifle giggles but most would be professional and would act as if nothing had happened.  That tickles me.  I then wonder if the people who ignored the sound would be so professional if the fart was so stenchful (is that even a word?), let's go for pungent, no ODIFEROUS, that's a good word, that no one could possibly ignore it any more.  I imagine the horrendous choking stench that fills the room and just hangs there.  Yup, that's what I think about during tense meetings.

Sex Slavery

So, I'm off to the London Comedy Writer's Festival for the weekend tomorrow.  For some reason, my mother has it in her head that because I'll be alone I'm going to get kidnapped off the street and sold into sex slavery.  Blimey.  I couldn't even pull a rotten tooth out of the abscessed jaw of a long dead Jackal so I doubt any prospective pimp would eye me up and think I'd be worth the investment of time, criminality, and financial return.  Well, not unless it was for some sort of specialist market I guess.

I was discussing this with my cousin and she agreed that neither of us was up to the ol' enforced prostitution thing.  I ruefully reflected on the hurt I would feel when my imagined punter walked into the room I was being held in and (in my head) I saw him recoil in horror at the sight of my naked body and tatty looking growler.  My cousin likened her own muff  to a barnacle covered figurehead from the prow of a ship.  Y'know, all seaweedy and frightening. We both sort of sat in silence on either end of the phone at this point, nodding to ourselves in understanding and unity.  It's a bloody shame for us.  I became lost in thought and heard the argument with the kidnapper/pimp who would be refusing to give a refund to the horrified punter who would in turn be saying that he wasn't paying good money to have a go on THAT old box and in the end my abductor would kindly tell me he was going to take me back to where he found me as I wasn't earning my keep and he was making a hefty loss on me.  Serves the evil bastard right for picking a victim after an afternoon snorting Charlie if you ask me.  He won't make THAT mistake again!

So yeah, I've probably over-shared.  Collectively, my cousin and I would like to stress that our clunges (?) Clungi (?) Clunga (?), our LADY GARDENS are well tended, fragrant and lovely and if anyone wants to have sex with either of us they would NEVER recoil in horror, no siree (cough) and our inability to pull is down to us being so perfect we seem unobtainable to men.  Erm, it's not because we're repulsive Harpies who've gone weird over time.  Ok, so my cousin did recently punch a baked potato which caused her to lose a fair amount of skin off her hand but y'know, these things happen!  I accidentally burned all the skin off one of my breasts by boiling my pants in a large bowl which I'd placed on a wobbly surface so these things can happen all so easily.  Oh,  and it's not because we exude 'fuck off' vibes whenever we meet people either.  OK, so I kinda DO give off 'fuck off' vibes accidentally quite often but not all the time.  Hell, I should probably stop here.  I'm going to London tomorrow and my Mother thinks I'm going to be preyed on by weirdos.  We'll leave it at that.  I'm not the weirdo.

Tales of the dead

So, my dog died.  He was great actually, he loved being dressed up to look ridiculous to the point I had to spend many an afternoon photo shopping his erection out of the photos I was to post on-line.  Hang on, I'll post a photo of him:

Batdog - Scouser disguise

He was old and sick and whilst it broke the hearts of the Tidiness Nazi and I we had to send him on his way in the end.  Shit.  So, yesterday we took him to the beach to scatter his ashes in the sea.  It was supposed to be a beautiful moment but during this tender moment the tide lapped up around my legs and I ended up with a tide mark of sea water and dog cremains all around the bottoms of my jeans.  That was a precious moment for my memory bank. It put me in mind of when the entire family went to a lovely hill with my Grandfather's ashes, had one of those tender family moments where everyone has a laugh reminiscing about funny stuff the deceased has done, and then scattered him to the wind.

....which promptly changed direction and blew him back into everyone's eyes.  Terrible, it really was (she said, stifling a laugh).

Actually, that reminds me of another dead story involving the dog.  A few years ago the Nazi and I took him for a walk in the local park.  A bit further down the path and to the side there was a solemn group of people standing around a bush.  As we got near they sort of dispersed and walked towards us looking all sad and we realised they had scattered someones ashes around it.  The dog only went up and pissed all over the lot didn't he?  The horror of trying to shout quietly at a pissing dog so as not to alert the crying mourners was a nightmare of biblical proportions (she exagerated).  Looking back at the people, my eyes on stalks, hoping against hope that no one would look back was terrible.  On the way back later a little Yorkshire Terrier was pissing all over them too.  There's a lesson for us all, DON'T scatter your relatives ashes around a bush in a public park.

Here's another pic of the dog.  He's wearing Halloween teeth in this shot and this seems to be everyone's favourite pic of him.:

Halloween Teeth

Oh god, I've remembered yet ANOTHER dead thing to tell you about now!  A while back I learned that my Grandmother's ashes are in my mother's airing cupboard and have been there for bloody YEARS. 

My Grandmother

The family can't seem to find a convenient time or place to scatter them. More recently my Uncle Clive's ashes joined her.  Seems we have another aunt's ashes somewhere in the family too so I'm guessing that is my legacy.  A cupboard of dead relatives.  Niiiice.