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.