Oh God, I've been lost in thought over something fucking ridiculous again.
It started about 6 (ish) weeks ago when a random arm pain turned from being a minor irritation to actually entering my conscious as something which I felt should have gone away long ago. This pain, which was throughout my left arm and onto a bit of my chest, became known as my 'heart attack arm'. I complained about it bitterly without taking any positive action.
Well, recently the sharper pains have subsided to simply leave a constant dull ache unless I move my arm in a certain way. The sane part of my brain tells me it's just a strain or something, the insane part of my brain tells me that the only possible answer is cancer.
Arm cancer to be precise.
Of course I know you can't have localised cancer of 'just' the left arm so I haven't been thinking about it too much.
THEN, this morning I had a 3:30am visit from the Tidiness Nazi who wished to inform me that she'd been woken up by my car alarm going off. The car was parked along the main road and it was pissing down with rain. In short, I went out to the car and, well I can't be bothered to go into the entire story but the incident ended with me in a massive temper pushing the car on my own and trying to get enough speed so I could jump into it and jump start it into life.
..which I did.
I returned to bed at around 4am, soaking wet and pissed off but couldn't sleep. It's those 4am moments when you start to *think* that's the real killer. My hypochondria knows no bounds when it's 4am and I've got a random pain which should have gone away weeks ago.
I shared my catastrophising with a work colleague who understands the joy of hypochondria.
Me (miserably): So, I reckon I've got some form of arm cancer or an arm rottening disease but the pain is right up high past my shoulder! They'll have to remove so much of me that I might not be able to wear a prosthetic arm 'cause there won't be anything to fit it on to. AND as I'm so broke at the moment, if I DID get a false arm it's likely to be a cheap comedy pre-moulded rubber one that just hangs there. It'll be an NHS one so it's likely to be an institutional kind of blue colour and it'll be just that bit too long.....
Colleague: You'll just have to stick a twig in the hole then.
Me (perking up): Like a snowman?
Well that was it. I was lost in thought about my snowman arm just jutting straight out of my body with 3 little stick fingers at the end. I forgot about my impending doom and allowed myself to laugh heartily at the vision. I told my colleague I'd have to find a watch with a very small strap to put on my little jutty-out arm. I thought about going out in public and how people would be too polite to say anything to my face. That's something which always makes me laugh - the politeness of the British in the face of something fucking ridiculous. I'm still giggling like a moron at the picture in my head which, fortunately, has replaced the dark thoughts of this morning when I was doom-laden with images of me trying to write with my other hand and wondering whether I'd be allowed to keep my detached arm so I could get it cremated and put the ashes in with my Mother. That'd be something - the cremains of my mother, her cat and my arm in one container.
I even wondered whether she'd get my arm in the afterlife before I got there to join it. That'd piss you off wouldn't it - having to care for a detached arm in the hereafter.
Still, you could look down and enjoy your daughter's new replacement snowman arm!
Sketty (30 September - ?)isn’t a 17th Century English naval administrator or Member of Parliament. Furthermore, she has never met King Charles II or King James II. This may be due to both being dead at the time of her life. In fact, this isn’t so much a diary but the unedited spewings from the brain of one of the Century’s leading cretins. Some of it may develop into comedy unless I get to spend time in a lovely facility where someone will give me dinner.
Monday 11 November 2013
Saturday 2 November 2013
Me and Diogenes
I know it should be 'Diogenes and I' and it's upsetting my OCD to just leave that title but leave it I will.
HELLO there, so here we are again then eh? There's so much to tell including my future death festooned in monkeys, the lobster -v- shrimp costume argument, the having to lose at least half my body weight (she exaggerated) in a year and oh, I dunno, the thing I've picked to talk about today!
...the rest will follow in due course.
So, yeah - gosh, where do I start. Hell, I'll just jump right in. Remember about 18 months ago when I went totally nuts and ended up on meds and seeing a shrink? I did mention that over here didn't I? I can't be arsed to look back over my previous posts but it was around the time I went totally mental and turned up at someone's 40th birthday party crying and in my dinner covered pyjamas and no shoes? Yeah, if you are going to do 'break-down' you have to do it in a totally memorable way. The thing is, the people at the party were so nice they completely ignored these minor details, welcomed me in and gave me food. I calmed down a little bit - food always fixes me, but was gently lead to see my doctor the next day. The upshot was that together with the meds I had to 'see someone'. Someone who wore Hush Puppies to be precise.
Back to the present.
(I pulled myself out of the mire by the way......well, I thought I did. That, it would seem, remains to be seen!)
So, I'm sitting in my litter strewn car waiting for a heavy rain shower to stop. A piece of paper had fallen out of my bag and in my boredom I picked it up and after a cursory glance realised it was some notes I'd made at one of the 'Hush Puppy' sessions. It was weird, I'd pretty much forgotten everything that had been discussed and I think I only attended twice before buying the bald dog and feeling much better. The piece of paper had stuff written on it which Mr Hush Puppy had told me were his early thoughts about what I'd told him about myself and how I was feeling/behaving and he'd told me to go away and Google this stuff so we could discuss it at our next meeting. I remember that I couldn't be fucked to do it so cancelled the next sesh and as you know, Derek the bald dog turned up next.
I'd written one phrase at the bottom of the page. One phrase which the Hush Puppy guy had said was very significant and I needed to look into it for discussion.
The phrase?
DIOGENESE SYNDROME
I Googled it in the car and told my housemate (The Tidiness Nazi) about it when I got home.
Me: .....so, what do you think? That cheeky Hush Puppy wearing bastard INSULTED ME!
Tidiness Nazi: So he said you are on the foothills of developing some sort of squalor and self neglect syndrome?
Me: YEAH, the cheeky bastard! Granted I can admit that some of the symptoms listed ring slightly true - the whole apathy, social withdrawal and lack of shame thing. That's got me ALL over it but the rest can fuck right off!
T.N: It says something about poor reasoning and stupid decision making too doesn't it?
Me: ....your point being?
T.N: Oh, I don't know. Shall we start with the plan to dress up and climb the Himalayas dressed as a fucking lobster despite being a lazy fucker who hates walking or doing pretty much anything? Then there was your plan to become a worm baron with the largest worm farm in the whole of the UK?
Me: That was an eco venture! It's not my fault the worms turned out to be scary.....
T.N: Well, I think that the fella might have had a point.
Me: ....how rude!
So I called my mate Bison in order to get some proper sympathy and reassurance that I wasn't permanently broken!
Me: .....so what do you think? I've been properly insulted!
Bison (can barely talk for laughing): Ha ha ha ha ha, you've gone wrong and it's official! You've got a 'syndrome' named after some ancient Greek bloke who went nuts and lived in a barrel! You'd LOVE to live in a fucking barrel, go on ADMIT it!
Me (not helping my case): I will admit that after reading that bit I did get lost in thought about how snuggly and cool it would be to sit in a massive fuck off barrel on a big soft cushion with a blanket over me just listening to the conversations of other people in the street without them knowing I was there....
Bison (still laughing!!): This is hysterical. Some bloke told you to look into a syndrome he was concerned you had started displaying tendencies towards and you couldn't be arsed, which is one of the symptoms and now you are offended? HAH HAHA HA HA HA HA HA....you've joked you were going to end up as a crazy old lady
Me: ....shit.
Bison: Just remember, I'm supporting you through the medium of laughter (starts laughing again)
So next I spoke to my cousin Bakes who, when I told her about Diogenes, pissed herself laughing too! What the hell's wrong with 'Team Sketty'? They're shit man!
Me: I should go and punch that bastard in the face for saying that I was turning into a Crazy!
Bakes: .......(long pause)......isn't that one of the symptoms?
Me: Shit.....
So there you go, 18 months ago some bloke decided I was on a slippery slope towards turning into the type of person who might walk around town dressed weirdly with a bald dog in a pram collecting newspaper with which I could wrap up and neatly stack my own faeces. Well guess what Mr Stupid-Hush-Puppy-Know-It-All? I've applied for the funding through the Cycle to Work scheme to get a bicycle with a basket on the front to put my bald dog in SO THERE!
...and on a totally unrelated note - here's a picture of the lobster (or possibly shrimp) outfit I'm getting:
HELLO there, so here we are again then eh? There's so much to tell including my future death festooned in monkeys, the lobster -v- shrimp costume argument, the having to lose at least half my body weight (she exaggerated) in a year and oh, I dunno, the thing I've picked to talk about today!
...the rest will follow in due course.
So, yeah - gosh, where do I start. Hell, I'll just jump right in. Remember about 18 months ago when I went totally nuts and ended up on meds and seeing a shrink? I did mention that over here didn't I? I can't be arsed to look back over my previous posts but it was around the time I went totally mental and turned up at someone's 40th birthday party crying and in my dinner covered pyjamas and no shoes? Yeah, if you are going to do 'break-down' you have to do it in a totally memorable way. The thing is, the people at the party were so nice they completely ignored these minor details, welcomed me in and gave me food. I calmed down a little bit - food always fixes me, but was gently lead to see my doctor the next day. The upshot was that together with the meds I had to 'see someone'. Someone who wore Hush Puppies to be precise.
Back to the present.
(I pulled myself out of the mire by the way......well, I thought I did. That, it would seem, remains to be seen!)
So, I'm sitting in my litter strewn car waiting for a heavy rain shower to stop. A piece of paper had fallen out of my bag and in my boredom I picked it up and after a cursory glance realised it was some notes I'd made at one of the 'Hush Puppy' sessions. It was weird, I'd pretty much forgotten everything that had been discussed and I think I only attended twice before buying the bald dog and feeling much better. The piece of paper had stuff written on it which Mr Hush Puppy had told me were his early thoughts about what I'd told him about myself and how I was feeling/behaving and he'd told me to go away and Google this stuff so we could discuss it at our next meeting. I remember that I couldn't be fucked to do it so cancelled the next sesh and as you know, Derek the bald dog turned up next.
I'd written one phrase at the bottom of the page. One phrase which the Hush Puppy guy had said was very significant and I needed to look into it for discussion.
The phrase?
DIOGENESE SYNDROME
I Googled it in the car and told my housemate (The Tidiness Nazi) about it when I got home.
Me: .....so, what do you think? That cheeky Hush Puppy wearing bastard INSULTED ME!
Tidiness Nazi: So he said you are on the foothills of developing some sort of squalor and self neglect syndrome?
Me: YEAH, the cheeky bastard! Granted I can admit that some of the symptoms listed ring slightly true - the whole apathy, social withdrawal and lack of shame thing. That's got me ALL over it but the rest can fuck right off!
T.N: It says something about poor reasoning and stupid decision making too doesn't it?
Me: ....your point being?
T.N: Oh, I don't know. Shall we start with the plan to dress up and climb the Himalayas dressed as a fucking lobster despite being a lazy fucker who hates walking or doing pretty much anything? Then there was your plan to become a worm baron with the largest worm farm in the whole of the UK?
Me: That was an eco venture! It's not my fault the worms turned out to be scary.....
T.N: Well, I think that the fella might have had a point.
Me: ....how rude!
So I called my mate Bison in order to get some proper sympathy and reassurance that I wasn't permanently broken!
Me: .....so what do you think? I've been properly insulted!
Bison (can barely talk for laughing): Ha ha ha ha ha, you've gone wrong and it's official! You've got a 'syndrome' named after some ancient Greek bloke who went nuts and lived in a barrel! You'd LOVE to live in a fucking barrel, go on ADMIT it!
Me (not helping my case): I will admit that after reading that bit I did get lost in thought about how snuggly and cool it would be to sit in a massive fuck off barrel on a big soft cushion with a blanket over me just listening to the conversations of other people in the street without them knowing I was there....
Bison (still laughing!!): This is hysterical. Some bloke told you to look into a syndrome he was concerned you had started displaying tendencies towards and you couldn't be arsed, which is one of the symptoms and now you are offended? HAH HAHA HA HA HA HA HA....you've joked you were going to end up as a crazy old lady
Me: ....shit.
Bison: Just remember, I'm supporting you through the medium of laughter (starts laughing again)
So next I spoke to my cousin Bakes who, when I told her about Diogenes, pissed herself laughing too! What the hell's wrong with 'Team Sketty'? They're shit man!
Me: I should go and punch that bastard in the face for saying that I was turning into a Crazy!
Bakes: .......(long pause)......isn't that one of the symptoms?
Me: Shit.....
So there you go, 18 months ago some bloke decided I was on a slippery slope towards turning into the type of person who might walk around town dressed weirdly with a bald dog in a pram collecting newspaper with which I could wrap up and neatly stack my own faeces. Well guess what Mr Stupid-Hush-Puppy-Know-It-All? I've applied for the funding through the Cycle to Work scheme to get a bicycle with a basket on the front to put my bald dog in SO THERE!
...and on a totally unrelated note - here's a picture of the lobster (or possibly shrimp) outfit I'm getting:
Sunday 25 August 2013
The Lobster Plan
Ok, so several months ago I was given the chance to apply for a place on a team heading out to Nepal to do some charity work. It sounded amazing and something y'kinda have to go for if the Fairy of Opportunity comes a knockin'. On the flip side of this feeling that it absolutely, most definitely was the right thing to do, my inner voice was screaming at me to stop being so fucking stupid due to the whole 'being a lazy fucker who cried walking up an easy path to to the summit of Snowdon' thing. Hell, it WAS winter when I did that and I wasn't motivated to do it in any way; it was part of this whole idea that life is about experiencing shit whether you want to or not.
.....very much like the Nepal thing really.......only much easier.
Shit.
Any way, like a moth to a flame I applied. Once I'd done that and the ramifications hit home I got all worried for myself. I really AM an unfit, lazy sod who enjoys her comforts and doesn't particularly want to do anything. I'm a comedian for chrissake - my body's natural rhythm is to sleep all day and come awake at night to talk shit. What the frig makes me think I could even DO anything worthy and magnificent? I suspect it's all part of the dead mother thing. On my Father's deathbed she promised him that she'd make sure I experienced EVERYTHING. Well, not everything but you get my drift.
The other issue is that I'll have to raise money to fund my trip. Being financially embarrassed I thought about selling some sort of comedy writing/blog of my incompetent misery combined with an account of the inevitable accident, or access to a comedy podcast.
THEN I HAD THE IDEA
An idea of such magnitude it was almost perfect. Nothing could go wrong. I smiled the biggest smile I'd smiled for years.
I'm gonna dress up as a lobster and get people to sponsor me to do shit whilst lobstered up! Stuff like do some grocery shopping or ride a bike through the town AS A LOBSTER. Hell, I've ALWAYS wanted a lobster suit and this gives me both a reason to get one and an excuse to wear it places!
I then had an even better idea. If I raise enough I'll wear it up the Himalayas! Upon hearing of this exciting plan, my friend Alex pointed out that he believed that the first rule of Mountaineering was NOT to wear sandals or dress as any form of crustacean. Another friend countered this with a valid observation - just how many lobsters do you hear about who've fallen off a mountain? NONE, that's how many!
Whilst I have been swept away with this idea there is an inner voice trying to remind me that I'm scared of insects, monkeys, exercise in all forms, scary foreign food, strangers, children, CULTURALLY DIFFERENT strangers, CULTURALLY DIFFERENT children and uphill walking.
The sane and reasoned side of my persona keeps telling the idiot side of me that it's inevitable that I'll end up having to be airlifted off the side of a mountain dressed as a lobster and covered in monkeys by scary culturally different people whilst village children laugh and point.
If I get to go it'll be epic!
.....very much like the Nepal thing really.......only much easier.
Shit.
Any way, like a moth to a flame I applied. Once I'd done that and the ramifications hit home I got all worried for myself. I really AM an unfit, lazy sod who enjoys her comforts and doesn't particularly want to do anything. I'm a comedian for chrissake - my body's natural rhythm is to sleep all day and come awake at night to talk shit. What the frig makes me think I could even DO anything worthy and magnificent? I suspect it's all part of the dead mother thing. On my Father's deathbed she promised him that she'd make sure I experienced EVERYTHING. Well, not everything but you get my drift.
The other issue is that I'll have to raise money to fund my trip. Being financially embarrassed I thought about selling some sort of comedy writing/blog of my incompetent misery combined with an account of the inevitable accident, or access to a comedy podcast.
THEN I HAD THE IDEA
An idea of such magnitude it was almost perfect. Nothing could go wrong. I smiled the biggest smile I'd smiled for years.
I'm gonna dress up as a lobster and get people to sponsor me to do shit whilst lobstered up! Stuff like do some grocery shopping or ride a bike through the town AS A LOBSTER. Hell, I've ALWAYS wanted a lobster suit and this gives me both a reason to get one and an excuse to wear it places!
I then had an even better idea. If I raise enough I'll wear it up the Himalayas! Upon hearing of this exciting plan, my friend Alex pointed out that he believed that the first rule of Mountaineering was NOT to wear sandals or dress as any form of crustacean. Another friend countered this with a valid observation - just how many lobsters do you hear about who've fallen off a mountain? NONE, that's how many!
Whilst I have been swept away with this idea there is an inner voice trying to remind me that I'm scared of insects, monkeys, exercise in all forms, scary foreign food, strangers, children, CULTURALLY DIFFERENT strangers, CULTURALLY DIFFERENT children and uphill walking.
The sane and reasoned side of my persona keeps telling the idiot side of me that it's inevitable that I'll end up having to be airlifted off the side of a mountain dressed as a lobster and covered in monkeys by scary culturally different people whilst village children laugh and point.
If I get to go it'll be epic!
Sunday 30 June 2013
An ever-growing horror...
I share the events of today in the hope that someone will read back over some of the aspects of my life and tell me it's all totally normal. I might then feel better and the suspicions that there is a cosmic conspiracy against me might start to fade. In short, The Fates have again yanked my chain and y'know, I just wish I could have seen my face throughout that half hour.
...for that's all it took. HALF A FUCKING HOUR to make me question my purpose on this planet again. Let me start - oh, and for the non-believers please let me reiterate that everything I write is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (with my jaded comedian's view of the matter).
Let me set the scene. As regular readers know I share a house with my best friend 'The Tidiness Nazi'. I am in fact the 'anti-tidiness Nazi' so I guess that would make me her nemesis in some way. Not only this, I am frequently a monumental fuck up to the point I'm not allowed to use the kitchen if she's not around. There have only been a couple of fires and scaldings.....and an electrocution but I still maintain I'm an adult and should be treated so. I also share the house with an elderly cat who has mental health issues and will not go out during daylight hours, a hairy dog with a form of extreme medical stupidity and a mostly bald dog who not only eats all of the cat's food but also loves me to the point of ridiculousness. Today, the Tidiness Nazi went out for the day and left me in charge of the critters.
Things HAD been going well; I'd cleared the junk off the window sill of my bedroom and had started to put the cat food up there which the cat was enjoying. She now sits in the partly open window enjoying the stuff other cats do when they are outside. The hairy dog was downstairs occasionally woofing at passers by and running in and out of the back yard. The bald dog? Why, he was curled up with me having a lie in.
The time came to get up, do my laundry and consider getting ready to take the dogs for a lovely walk at the creek. I started to bimble about and worked my way downstairs. Hey, the sun's shining and it's a beautiful day. I'd love to eat something but I'm not allowed in the kitchen. Sigh........
I went upstairs and, through the open door of the Tidiness Nazi's bedroom, I spied a line of drips of rather wet dog shit. Turning to my faithful hound I yelled the usual "What have you done!" He, realising he was in for a right Royal bollocking, headed off down the stairs and out into the garden. Tutting, I wearily got the cleaning gear out and made good before the Nazi returned home and we were all collectively in trouble.
I then went into MY room to find.............the most enormous wet dog skid mark I have ever seen. ON MY FUCKING BED! "OH JESUS CHRIST" I yelled out loud this time as I wearily started to strip the bed. As I got to the side nearest to the window I actually stopped with horror.
Yup, the next horror stopped time momentarily. There was partially digested CAT FOOD VOMIT all down the wall, on the floor and all over my stuff which included shoes, a soft turtle toy I use as a pillow sometimes and paperwork. Eyes wide I tried to take in the scene. There was FAR too much vomit for one cat, I've seen cat vomit in my time but I'm sure her stomach couldn't have held THIS much food! Couldn't the little bastard have done it out of the window? Did she invite other cats in THROUGH the open window for a feline bulimia party? I think "FOR FUCKSAKE!" my expletive of choice on this occasion.
...you think this is all?
You'd be wrong.
I stripped the bed and threw everything down stairs ready for the laundry. I was wondering where I would find the mental strength to deal with the wall of vomit but deal with it I must. Even more wearily I went back into the Tidiness Nazi's room to fetch the cleaning stuff......
...It was only NOW that I spotted the enormous turd and a diarrhea IN HER BED - NEXT TO THE PILLOW! The shitty drips had been just a warning of the true horror within that room. I think that one of my eyes started to twitch at that point, my hand became a claw and the words got stuck in my throat. I think I tried to yell "HOLY MOTHER FUCKING FAAACK JESUS ON A FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUUUUUCKING FUCK!" ...or words to that effect, but they just came out as "Jejeje ffffffffffff". Starting to seriously die inside I cleared up the turds and stripped off her bed. By this time the little dog had come to the bottom of the stairs to see what was going on. In an act of wasted breath I yelled at him a bit more until he ran back outside to play happily in the sun.
By this time, my mental capacity was becoming diminished and I stomped around upstairs muttering to myself and thanking the deities for taking the piss out of me again. Heading back into her room I noticed something which made my blood run cold
A shitty partial shoe print on the Nazi's mattress.
Had I not had enough? The more I looked around me the more I noticed there were shitty footprints all over the fucking house.
With dawning horror I looked at the bottom of my shoes. Yes. You are there already aren't you? There was undiscovered shit and I'd trod in it and walked it ALL OVER THE HOUSE.
Fearful of an embolism I said nothing. I tried to clean the bottom of the shoes in the sink but hell, they had knobbly bottoms. OF COURSE THEY HAD KNOBBLY BOTTOMS which meant that the shit was nice and embedded in. I might even have started to laugh manically to myself at this point. I know I uttered no other word as I went around the upstairs of the house on my hands and knees cleaning up my own shitty footprints. I found the other shit site. Foolish of me to have not started at the beginning and worked out that that the sequence was BED - RUG NEXT TO THE BED - DRIP ACROSS THE FLOOR - ONTO SKET'S BED FOR AN ARSE WIPE (horrified cat vomits?).
That's the problem with being a detective - if your first clue isn't the start of the mystery you end up with shit everywhere. Ask Sherlock Holmes.
...for that's all it took. HALF A FUCKING HOUR to make me question my purpose on this planet again. Let me start - oh, and for the non-believers please let me reiterate that everything I write is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (with my jaded comedian's view of the matter).
Let me set the scene. As regular readers know I share a house with my best friend 'The Tidiness Nazi'. I am in fact the 'anti-tidiness Nazi' so I guess that would make me her nemesis in some way. Not only this, I am frequently a monumental fuck up to the point I'm not allowed to use the kitchen if she's not around. There have only been a couple of fires and scaldings.....and an electrocution but I still maintain I'm an adult and should be treated so. I also share the house with an elderly cat who has mental health issues and will not go out during daylight hours, a hairy dog with a form of extreme medical stupidity and a mostly bald dog who not only eats all of the cat's food but also loves me to the point of ridiculousness. Today, the Tidiness Nazi went out for the day and left me in charge of the critters.
Things HAD been going well; I'd cleared the junk off the window sill of my bedroom and had started to put the cat food up there which the cat was enjoying. She now sits in the partly open window enjoying the stuff other cats do when they are outside. The hairy dog was downstairs occasionally woofing at passers by and running in and out of the back yard. The bald dog? Why, he was curled up with me having a lie in.
The time came to get up, do my laundry and consider getting ready to take the dogs for a lovely walk at the creek. I started to bimble about and worked my way downstairs. Hey, the sun's shining and it's a beautiful day. I'd love to eat something but I'm not allowed in the kitchen. Sigh........
I went upstairs and, through the open door of the Tidiness Nazi's bedroom, I spied a line of drips of rather wet dog shit. Turning to my faithful hound I yelled the usual "What have you done!" He, realising he was in for a right Royal bollocking, headed off down the stairs and out into the garden. Tutting, I wearily got the cleaning gear out and made good before the Nazi returned home and we were all collectively in trouble.
I then went into MY room to find.............the most enormous wet dog skid mark I have ever seen. ON MY FUCKING BED! "OH JESUS CHRIST" I yelled out loud this time as I wearily started to strip the bed. As I got to the side nearest to the window I actually stopped with horror.
Yup, the next horror stopped time momentarily. There was partially digested CAT FOOD VOMIT all down the wall, on the floor and all over my stuff which included shoes, a soft turtle toy I use as a pillow sometimes and paperwork. Eyes wide I tried to take in the scene. There was FAR too much vomit for one cat, I've seen cat vomit in my time but I'm sure her stomach couldn't have held THIS much food! Couldn't the little bastard have done it out of the window? Did she invite other cats in THROUGH the open window for a feline bulimia party? I think "FOR FUCKSAKE!" my expletive of choice on this occasion.
...you think this is all?
You'd be wrong.
I stripped the bed and threw everything down stairs ready for the laundry. I was wondering where I would find the mental strength to deal with the wall of vomit but deal with it I must. Even more wearily I went back into the Tidiness Nazi's room to fetch the cleaning stuff......
...It was only NOW that I spotted the enormous turd and a diarrhea IN HER BED - NEXT TO THE PILLOW! The shitty drips had been just a warning of the true horror within that room. I think that one of my eyes started to twitch at that point, my hand became a claw and the words got stuck in my throat. I think I tried to yell "HOLY MOTHER FUCKING FAAACK JESUS ON A FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUUUUUCKING FUCK!" ...or words to that effect, but they just came out as "Jejeje ffffffffffff". Starting to seriously die inside I cleared up the turds and stripped off her bed. By this time the little dog had come to the bottom of the stairs to see what was going on. In an act of wasted breath I yelled at him a bit more until he ran back outside to play happily in the sun.
By this time, my mental capacity was becoming diminished and I stomped around upstairs muttering to myself and thanking the deities for taking the piss out of me again. Heading back into her room I noticed something which made my blood run cold
A shitty partial shoe print on the Nazi's mattress.
Had I not had enough? The more I looked around me the more I noticed there were shitty footprints all over the fucking house.
With dawning horror I looked at the bottom of my shoes. Yes. You are there already aren't you? There was undiscovered shit and I'd trod in it and walked it ALL OVER THE HOUSE.
Fearful of an embolism I said nothing. I tried to clean the bottom of the shoes in the sink but hell, they had knobbly bottoms. OF COURSE THEY HAD KNOBBLY BOTTOMS which meant that the shit was nice and embedded in. I might even have started to laugh manically to myself at this point. I know I uttered no other word as I went around the upstairs of the house on my hands and knees cleaning up my own shitty footprints. I found the other shit site. Foolish of me to have not started at the beginning and worked out that that the sequence was BED - RUG NEXT TO THE BED - DRIP ACROSS THE FLOOR - ONTO SKET'S BED FOR AN ARSE WIPE (horrified cat vomits?).
That's the problem with being a detective - if your first clue isn't the start of the mystery you end up with shit everywhere. Ask Sherlock Holmes.
Monday 24 June 2013
In the event of my death...
I'll admit that at times I've been a bit of a hypochondriac though I usually keep the thoughts of my horrible impending death to myself. These thoughts only come after some sort of unusual and persistent new symptom. A new ache or twinge somewhere unexpected? Cancer. If it's not cancer then it's obviously Necrotizing fasciitis and my insides are turning to mush.
I've had a weird point of pain in my throat for days now. It feels like a mouth ulcer but down my throat. Can you get throat ulcer? Probably not so it's clearly cancer.
....or necrotizing fasciitis and my throat is turning to mush.
Another consideration is that due to my shit digestion and my near constant burning acid reflux my insides are being eroded away. I sat miserably wondering whether, the tumour, mush or acid burn would result in me having to have surgery which would leave me with a gigantic gaping hole in my throat to which I'd have to put a microphone to speak. No one would understand me and all my friends ('ALL', she says) would shy away from me 'cause they would no longer understand a bleedin' word I said. Hell, I know they'd feel guilty but truth is, they would be repulsed by my metallic, nonsensical way of speaking. I'd sound like a train station announcer ALL THE TIME. I'd have to give up work as the public would be terrified of me and my giant neck hole and I'd never do stand up again as the audience would be both repulsed and clueless as to what was going on. On reflection, I'd probably do really well on those BBC or Channel 4 'right on' comedy shows. I could be one of the 'box ticker' comedians. Not funny but inclusive.
Faaaaaack.
I spoke to my pal Bison tonight. We've been 'abusive pals' for years now. If either of us said anything nice to the other I think our friendship would implode. I asked him whether, due to my probable impending death, he'd come to my funeral.
BISON: [impolite pause] Erm......well, it depends on where you're having it really.
Me: You utter bastard. We've been friends for years and you won't even commit to coming to my funeral? You only live at the other end of the country!
BISON: Well, you have to get a ferry.....do you know how much the ferries are? They're wicked expensive aren't they.....then again, there's excellent fossil hunting in your neck of the woods. I could make a holiday out of it and kill two birds with one stone.
Me: [silence]........make a holiday out of my funeral?
BISON: [on a roll] Hell, those fossils aren't going to find themselves; do you think the Tidiness Nazi would let me stay over for a bit?
Me: Yeah, it would be in my room though. THE ROOM I'LL HAVE INEVITABLY DIED IN. You can sleep in my bed next to the stain of me that I left behind. There'll probably even be an imprint of my smiling face in make-up on the pillow so you can feel close to me in death.
BISON: .......yeah, I'd probably bring a sleeping bag.
Me: [incredulous] You have really thought this through haven't you? Actually, while you're there, I'm leaving you all my crap that no one else would want. You'll be able to lie there and take stock of all of your new and shit belongings. Together with my collection of contact lenses, you even get my 'interesting pants' collection which has the added bonus of not just being a pile of interesting underpants, they'll also have been next to my vadge!
BISON: WA-HEY! Can I try on your bras too?
Me: [starting to believe he wasn't taking this very seriously] You could turn up to my funeral wearing my clothes if you really want
BISON: I'll just tell everyone it's what you would have wanted.....
So you see, I can't even get any sympathy from dear friends in the face of real potential, maybe serious disease. Probably. I'm glad now that he's getting some of my most crap possessions. In case my possibly imagined terminal illness turns out to be real (hey, I'll be right one day!), here is a list of items I want recorded that I SPECIFICALLY want Bison to have:
1) The metal wind-up chicken
2) The platypus finger puppet
3) The 2 cat statues and crystal ball on a metal stand which were splattered with red wax after a candle in a glass jar exploded all over them.
4) My hippy rug which bore the brunt of the white paint which I spilled all down me and my belongings whilst trying to get the lid off carefully.
5) The terrifying bald head which is at my flat and which is currently wearing a pink wig and swimming goggles.
6) I know you want it but you can't have Dave the skeleton, currently zipped into a suitcase and in the loft space of my flat which I am secretly hoping will fuck with any police investigators looking into my disappearance should I disappear. Dave has been reserved for my former colleague Amy's small child who has no clue he's getting it.
7) A small statue of a duck which has just hatched from it's egg but is mysteriously wearing a Traffic Warden's uniform.
8) The metal picture of the Beatles with googly eyes stuck over their actual eyes.
9) The godawful plate you gave me depicting 2 kittens and a puppy playing with a tremendously out of proportion shoe
10) The lollypop you gave me of Freud's head. It is still in the plastic wrapper so it looks like he's died from some sort of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
On a final note. After being told he was not a good friend, Bison tried to redeem himself by helpfully suggesting that as I am in BUPA (private health care), if there really WAS something wrong with me then I wouldn't get butchered and end up with a gaping hole in my throat. I'd end up with a nice metallic voice thing similar to Stephen Hawking. When I'd said I didn't want to sound like Stephen Hawking he said that, like a modern day sat-nav, they'd be able to get someone like Ozzy Osborne to voice me.
.....cheers pal.
I've had a weird point of pain in my throat for days now. It feels like a mouth ulcer but down my throat. Can you get throat ulcer? Probably not so it's clearly cancer.
....or necrotizing fasciitis and my throat is turning to mush.
Another consideration is that due to my shit digestion and my near constant burning acid reflux my insides are being eroded away. I sat miserably wondering whether, the tumour, mush or acid burn would result in me having to have surgery which would leave me with a gigantic gaping hole in my throat to which I'd have to put a microphone to speak. No one would understand me and all my friends ('ALL', she says) would shy away from me 'cause they would no longer understand a bleedin' word I said. Hell, I know they'd feel guilty but truth is, they would be repulsed by my metallic, nonsensical way of speaking. I'd sound like a train station announcer ALL THE TIME. I'd have to give up work as the public would be terrified of me and my giant neck hole and I'd never do stand up again as the audience would be both repulsed and clueless as to what was going on. On reflection, I'd probably do really well on those BBC or Channel 4 'right on' comedy shows. I could be one of the 'box ticker' comedians. Not funny but inclusive.
Faaaaaack.
I spoke to my pal Bison tonight. We've been 'abusive pals' for years now. If either of us said anything nice to the other I think our friendship would implode. I asked him whether, due to my probable impending death, he'd come to my funeral.
BISON: [impolite pause] Erm......well, it depends on where you're having it really.
Me: You utter bastard. We've been friends for years and you won't even commit to coming to my funeral? You only live at the other end of the country!
BISON: Well, you have to get a ferry.....do you know how much the ferries are? They're wicked expensive aren't they.....then again, there's excellent fossil hunting in your neck of the woods. I could make a holiday out of it and kill two birds with one stone.
Me: [silence]........make a holiday out of my funeral?
BISON: [on a roll] Hell, those fossils aren't going to find themselves; do you think the Tidiness Nazi would let me stay over for a bit?
Me: Yeah, it would be in my room though. THE ROOM I'LL HAVE INEVITABLY DIED IN. You can sleep in my bed next to the stain of me that I left behind. There'll probably even be an imprint of my smiling face in make-up on the pillow so you can feel close to me in death.
BISON: .......yeah, I'd probably bring a sleeping bag.
Me: [incredulous] You have really thought this through haven't you? Actually, while you're there, I'm leaving you all my crap that no one else would want. You'll be able to lie there and take stock of all of your new and shit belongings. Together with my collection of contact lenses, you even get my 'interesting pants' collection which has the added bonus of not just being a pile of interesting underpants, they'll also have been next to my vadge!
BISON: WA-HEY! Can I try on your bras too?
Me: [starting to believe he wasn't taking this very seriously] You could turn up to my funeral wearing my clothes if you really want
BISON: I'll just tell everyone it's what you would have wanted.....
So you see, I can't even get any sympathy from dear friends in the face of real potential, maybe serious disease. Probably. I'm glad now that he's getting some of my most crap possessions. In case my possibly imagined terminal illness turns out to be real (hey, I'll be right one day!), here is a list of items I want recorded that I SPECIFICALLY want Bison to have:
1) The metal wind-up chicken
2) The platypus finger puppet
3) The 2 cat statues and crystal ball on a metal stand which were splattered with red wax after a candle in a glass jar exploded all over them.
4) My hippy rug which bore the brunt of the white paint which I spilled all down me and my belongings whilst trying to get the lid off carefully.
5) The terrifying bald head which is at my flat and which is currently wearing a pink wig and swimming goggles.
6) I know you want it but you can't have Dave the skeleton, currently zipped into a suitcase and in the loft space of my flat which I am secretly hoping will fuck with any police investigators looking into my disappearance should I disappear. Dave has been reserved for my former colleague Amy's small child who has no clue he's getting it.
7) A small statue of a duck which has just hatched from it's egg but is mysteriously wearing a Traffic Warden's uniform.
8) The metal picture of the Beatles with googly eyes stuck over their actual eyes.
9) The godawful plate you gave me depicting 2 kittens and a puppy playing with a tremendously out of proportion shoe
10) The lollypop you gave me of Freud's head. It is still in the plastic wrapper so it looks like he's died from some sort of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
On a final note. After being told he was not a good friend, Bison tried to redeem himself by helpfully suggesting that as I am in BUPA (private health care), if there really WAS something wrong with me then I wouldn't get butchered and end up with a gaping hole in my throat. I'd end up with a nice metallic voice thing similar to Stephen Hawking. When I'd said I didn't want to sound like Stephen Hawking he said that, like a modern day sat-nav, they'd be able to get someone like Ozzy Osborne to voice me.
.....cheers pal.
Monday 17 June 2013
The bad BAD friend....apparently
Well, it would seem that I am a bad friend. This was decreed before 8am this morning and I feel it is a somewhat unfair assertion bearing in mind I'm so great and everything. I have experience of really bad friends. Some CORKERS of bad friends. Bad friends who've been sooooo bad I've spent hours fantasising over how I would wreak my revenge over the betrayal of friendshiply trust. Much of this fantasising involves me becoming obscenely rich and paying hench-people to create ruination and misery.
....I kinda hate it when friends turn out to NOT be friends.
Anyhoo, as I said, I was decreed a bad friend myself before the day had even started. I thought I was being honest and cute. My housemate; The Tidiness Nazi didn't agree. This is how the day started.
06:20hrs: Alarm goes off and I begin my hour of snooze button/waking up gently. I say 'waking up gently' but I really call it my 'crying time'. I could never just hear an alarm and get straight up, I like to have a significant amount of time just lying and weeping gently up into the atmosphere.
06:40hrs: Second alarm goes off and my bald freak dog jumps from the bed and runs across the landing and into the Tidiness Nazi's room. I hear the sound of her big dog jumping down from the bed and this usually heralds her getting up and letting 'the kids' out for a piddle. There is no other sound...
06:55hrs: Third alarm goes off and by this time I am being driven mad by my dog constantly running in and out of the room crying and NO sound coming from the Nazi's room. I am forced up EARLY which goes against every cell in my Being. Not wanting to be the one who has to tediously go ALL THE WAY downstairs to let the creatures out I choose instead to bang about and cough dramatically in a feeble and ill-planned attempt at subtly waking up my slumbering housemate.
NOTHING
07:01hrs: It occurs to me that the Nazi is dead.
07:03hrs: After some consideration. Well, 2 minutes of consideration and being at least 43% even louder and hearing nothing from the other room I decide to go and investigate. Minus contact lenses, glasses and entering a darkened room I squinted my way across to the bed. The Nazi isn't moving. Yup, dead for sure; there can be no other explanation. Now, at this point an unexpected thought kinda, sorta, accidentally popped into my head. That thought? The realisation that I'd be able to legitimately take the day off work (cough). Hell, actually I'd probably be able to score a couple of weeks of unquestionable compassionate leave! On reflection I accept that after poking my sleeping housemate with a stick, jumping back in fear and, laughingly explaining my thought process to her, I might have come across as a little bit uncaring and not as good a friend as she would hope for. Hell, she should just be grateful she's still alive after all!
I won't say I was disappointed that I'd got another week of work ahead of me - that would be wrong! Well, I kinda was disappointed but not because she was alive, if that's what she was thinking. That too would be wrong. I'd have to find another way of getting legitimate time off work. The whole 'trekking up the Himalayas to do good stuff for charity' thing didn't come off and pretty much everyone who I'd ever met - EVER, mocked me for my laziness and uncharitable nature. Also for my fear of monkeys, insects and frightening strangers.....and unrecognisable foreign food......and children.
The Tidiness Nazi lay in bed looking really quite angry for such an early time of day.
"Yeah, you'd LOVE it if I were dead wouldn't you? I bet you were thinking of all the compensation you'd get!"
"What compensation? I wouldn't get compo if you randomly croaked it in the night!"
"The house - I've left you the bloody house haven't I? You'd get the house to do with as you bloody well please...."
(tutting and looking aghast - which I accept might have been the wrong facial expression to wear at this type of news) "Ah shit, but then I'd just have to spend money I don't have doing the thing up so I could sell it and start living the dream"
....The Tidiness Nazi didn't find this amusing ONE. LITTLE. BIT. What's the matter with her, she was still alive after all AND I'd taken the time to poke her with a stick in order to establish her living/dead status. I could have just gone to work and had done with the matter. To be fair, if the dogs hadn't needed a piss she'd have been potentially decomposing in her bed all day. I didn't mention that.
...I thought my side of the conversation was kinda cute and amusing (she grumbled). I don't know what is the matter with people nowadays
....I kinda hate it when friends turn out to NOT be friends.
Anyhoo, as I said, I was decreed a bad friend myself before the day had even started. I thought I was being honest and cute. My housemate; The Tidiness Nazi didn't agree. This is how the day started.
06:20hrs: Alarm goes off and I begin my hour of snooze button/waking up gently. I say 'waking up gently' but I really call it my 'crying time'. I could never just hear an alarm and get straight up, I like to have a significant amount of time just lying and weeping gently up into the atmosphere.
06:40hrs: Second alarm goes off and my bald freak dog jumps from the bed and runs across the landing and into the Tidiness Nazi's room. I hear the sound of her big dog jumping down from the bed and this usually heralds her getting up and letting 'the kids' out for a piddle. There is no other sound...
06:55hrs: Third alarm goes off and by this time I am being driven mad by my dog constantly running in and out of the room crying and NO sound coming from the Nazi's room. I am forced up EARLY which goes against every cell in my Being. Not wanting to be the one who has to tediously go ALL THE WAY downstairs to let the creatures out I choose instead to bang about and cough dramatically in a feeble and ill-planned attempt at subtly waking up my slumbering housemate.
NOTHING
07:01hrs: It occurs to me that the Nazi is dead.
07:03hrs: After some consideration. Well, 2 minutes of consideration and being at least 43% even louder and hearing nothing from the other room I decide to go and investigate. Minus contact lenses, glasses and entering a darkened room I squinted my way across to the bed. The Nazi isn't moving. Yup, dead for sure; there can be no other explanation. Now, at this point an unexpected thought kinda, sorta, accidentally popped into my head. That thought? The realisation that I'd be able to legitimately take the day off work (cough). Hell, actually I'd probably be able to score a couple of weeks of unquestionable compassionate leave! On reflection I accept that after poking my sleeping housemate with a stick, jumping back in fear and, laughingly explaining my thought process to her, I might have come across as a little bit uncaring and not as good a friend as she would hope for. Hell, she should just be grateful she's still alive after all!
I won't say I was disappointed that I'd got another week of work ahead of me - that would be wrong! Well, I kinda was disappointed but not because she was alive, if that's what she was thinking. That too would be wrong. I'd have to find another way of getting legitimate time off work. The whole 'trekking up the Himalayas to do good stuff for charity' thing didn't come off and pretty much everyone who I'd ever met - EVER, mocked me for my laziness and uncharitable nature. Also for my fear of monkeys, insects and frightening strangers.....and unrecognisable foreign food......and children.
The Tidiness Nazi lay in bed looking really quite angry for such an early time of day.
"Yeah, you'd LOVE it if I were dead wouldn't you? I bet you were thinking of all the compensation you'd get!"
"What compensation? I wouldn't get compo if you randomly croaked it in the night!"
"The house - I've left you the bloody house haven't I? You'd get the house to do with as you bloody well please...."
(tutting and looking aghast - which I accept might have been the wrong facial expression to wear at this type of news) "Ah shit, but then I'd just have to spend money I don't have doing the thing up so I could sell it and start living the dream"
....The Tidiness Nazi didn't find this amusing ONE. LITTLE. BIT. What's the matter with her, she was still alive after all AND I'd taken the time to poke her with a stick in order to establish her living/dead status. I could have just gone to work and had done with the matter. To be fair, if the dogs hadn't needed a piss she'd have been potentially decomposing in her bed all day. I didn't mention that.
...I thought my side of the conversation was kinda cute and amusing (she grumbled). I don't know what is the matter with people nowadays
Tuesday 4 June 2013
BEE RESCUE SQUAD!
This is a quick post and much of the detail will be wrong because someone was telling me something so exciting I barely listened because my mind had run away with itself.
One of my colleagues (let's call her KB) told me that she'd nearly contacted me over the weekend as she and her partner had been 'collecting swarms'. At this point I should probably mention they keep bees.
Before she could continue I felt myself grow taller as I rose to the challenge (which hadn't even been revealed to me at this point). Excitedly, I asked whether she'd needed me to collect bees in my van:
One of my colleagues (let's call her KB) told me that she'd nearly contacted me over the weekend as she and her partner had been 'collecting swarms'. At this point I should probably mention they keep bees.
Before she could continue I felt myself grow taller as I rose to the challenge (which hadn't even been revealed to me at this point). Excitedly, I asked whether she'd needed me to collect bees in my van:
I don't think I really heard what she said as in my mind I could see myself driving along with a whole bunch of bees flying around the inside of my van and a giant smile on my face. Of course, in my mind they were fluffy cartoon bees. I must have said something about having a gang of bees in the van but KB laughingly told me that the bees wouldn't be loose, they'd be in a box.
On reflection, this was obvious if not slightly disappointing. Then KB told me I'd have to have a sign in the window stating that we were carrying live bees in case we were involved in a car accident and someone wondered what was in the box and opened it. Again, my mind was lost at the vision of some poor sap, in a comedy voice asking himself out loud what was in the box and then screaming as a swarm of angry bees who had been in a car crash flew out at him and covered his head as he staggered around shrieking. I decided that even if I did not ever carry a gang of bees I would need a sign that, at the very least, said BEE RESCUE SQUAD. Can one lone idiot be a squad?
Well, following THAT exciting statement, KB upped the stakes by advising she'd thought of me as I'd lately become a qualified Crime Scene Cleaner (I've kept THAT one quiet haven't I?) so would be used to wearing protective gear. Eh? "Well", said KB, "you'd have to wear the full bee keeper gear as you drove in case the bees escaped!"
Oh wow, I could barely contain myself as it was confirmed that the hat was included. Again, I was lost in thought. This time the cute fluffy cartoon bees had been replaced in my mind by a gang of really angry bees. I could see me driving along with other drivers looking on in horror and amazement at the enormous number of bees up the windows and flying all over the inside of my van. What would people think? I'd be driving along, bizarrely still smiling to myself, with a cloud of really angry bees flying around my head. I'd be paying no attention to the internal situation within my van for I AM THE BEE RESCUE SQUAD and nothing phases me.
Foolishly I shared my excitement with my mate Bison and we discussed how cool it would be if I became a mysterious loner travelling the country solving crime with an angry bee posse, or if I just traveled the roads with one bee in a box who would be my friend. I wondered whether picking one bee up and driving it around before releasing it back where I found it would fuck with the bees standing in the hive. Would the other bees consider him a lazy bastard bee for having been out all day but returning home with no pollen? How would a bee communicate to the others that he'd been kidnapped by THE BEE RESCUE SQUAD and taken on a nice day out? It's something I'll need to think about. Bison said that he thought I should crash KB's swarm collection with a dog cage and a net shouting that no one should worry as THE BEE RESCUE SQUAD was on the case now. I reflected that KB and her partner possibly wouldn't appreciate this. How disappointing.
....I still might need to get some cards printed stating that I was the BEE RESCUE SQUAD even if I never carried a bee ever. I feel I might need a flashing light for the roof of the van too.
Tuesday 28 May 2013
The Orgy, the Bomb and the Chemical Burn
Yeah, it's been an eventful few days. Eventful in the loosest sense of the word of course. This is my life we're talking about after all!
So yeah, the ORGY! That's got you a bit excited hasn't it? Just the words have got me a bit excited too but hell, if you're asking whether Sket finally got laid you'll only have to stop and think about the question before nodding your head in quiet contemplation as you reach the inevitable conclusion that it is the most ridiculous question you've ever asked yourself. It was a dream. Not only was it a dream, it revealed that even in my dreams I'm a sexual loser. Yup, the kind of loser who can't even get shagged AT AN ORGY in a DREAM!
It began with me walking down the street with a bunch of guys my dream self seemed to know really well. Someone said something about going somewhere to see a sperm sculpture (?) so of course, we all wanted to go see that! We ended up in some sort of old 70's taxi office where coachloads of fat, over-made up, bleach haired middle-aged women were being shipped in for an orgy. It turned out that the sperm sculpture was a phenomena which created itself during the orgy (eh?). Anyhoo, turns out all the guys I was with (apart from one I actually dream liked) were getting involved. I remember thinking that I'd have my pick of the fellas as I was the youngest female there by about 50 years.
....(sigh) not a sniff of a nob. Nope. All the guys buggered off with the old women. How dream hurtful!
...but hang on - what's THIS? From behind, I felt some gentle hands on my hips. With a big smile I turned around to be faced with
AN
OLD
HOOK-NOSED
Z-LIST ACTOR
....FROM THE 70s!
He was so Z list in fact, I don't even know his name! Been trawling the internet trying to find all the minor actors who ever appeared in Carry On films but no, I can't find out who my dream lover actually was or why the fuck he turned up in my dream! I call him my 'dream lover' but the reality is, in the dream, I was so horrified that he was the only taker of my prime piece of vadge I wanted to go somewhere private so I spent a good part of the dream trawling the place for an empty room. It wasn't happening; the Orgy was too big and there were too many people for the dream space. Becoming dream frustrated I stormed from one of the rooms and turned to my hook nose 'would-be' lover to say that we should just do it any way. Unfortunately, when I DID turn around I was faced with an ancient, leathery old woman who looked to be about 90 years old. Incredulous, I asked her what the fuck she was doing there and why the hell she was following me! She just told me she was all confused and had got lost on her way to the Women's Institute.
....for fucksake! Foiled at having dream sex AND I never got to see the sperm sculpture!
After that disappointment, you wanna hear about the bomb? That's ANOTHER disappointing story to be fair. About 6 weeks ago the Tidiness Nazi made some vegetable soup and I took some to work in a really cool flask I bought JUST because it was metal, orange and retro. I mean, who uses a flask nowadays; builders? I dunno, but I was excited that after about 4 years I was finally able to use the thing. The only flaw to the plan was that when lunch time came I was so disgusted at the thought I'd only got some stupid shitty soup to eat I left it in the refrigerator.
For 2 weeks.
I only remembered it when I spotted the flask as I tried to sneak myself a cup of tea without making anyone else one. I transferred it to my car but immediately forgot it again. Hell, soup is SOOOOOOO forgettable. My sieve-like memory was again stirred when I got into my car on a hot day and ended up gagging on a horrible 'meaty' stench. I dunno how it became meaty as it was vegetable soup but I quickly grew frightened of the orange metal 'bomb'somewhere in my car. If stench was escaping then gas was building up. It was about this time I knew I had to deal with said bomb so with a saucepan on my head (but no facial, body or hand protection) I hunted it down and decided to open it in the garden. I actually wept. Standing in the garden wearing Garfield pajamas with a saucepan on my head and weeping real tears of fear I put a tea towel over the flask and started to unscrew the lid. What I forgot to tell you is that a metal base had already exploded off it and was now detached and twisted. There was also black goo on stuff where I'd left it. The sound of my anguish bought the Tidiness Nazi out of the house. She felt it important to support me via the medium of laughter.
.....any way, seems the gas had already escaped when it blew the base off and released black sludge so it was a real anti climax. It just opened. Sorry.
AND FINALLY - some advice: If you ever dye your hair a dark colour without paying attention to the drips, DON'T then ignore all mirrors whilst spending the day at work where everyone will be too polite to tell you that there are black marks all around your brow. Upon discovery of this social faux pas, in your car, don't then try to remove said marks with a chemical soaked windscreen wipe. You will just end up with a stained face and chemical burns....
So yeah, the ORGY! That's got you a bit excited hasn't it? Just the words have got me a bit excited too but hell, if you're asking whether Sket finally got laid you'll only have to stop and think about the question before nodding your head in quiet contemplation as you reach the inevitable conclusion that it is the most ridiculous question you've ever asked yourself. It was a dream. Not only was it a dream, it revealed that even in my dreams I'm a sexual loser. Yup, the kind of loser who can't even get shagged AT AN ORGY in a DREAM!
It began with me walking down the street with a bunch of guys my dream self seemed to know really well. Someone said something about going somewhere to see a sperm sculpture (?) so of course, we all wanted to go see that! We ended up in some sort of old 70's taxi office where coachloads of fat, over-made up, bleach haired middle-aged women were being shipped in for an orgy. It turned out that the sperm sculpture was a phenomena which created itself during the orgy (eh?). Anyhoo, turns out all the guys I was with (apart from one I actually dream liked) were getting involved. I remember thinking that I'd have my pick of the fellas as I was the youngest female there by about 50 years.
....(sigh) not a sniff of a nob. Nope. All the guys buggered off with the old women. How dream hurtful!
...but hang on - what's THIS? From behind, I felt some gentle hands on my hips. With a big smile I turned around to be faced with
AN
OLD
HOOK-NOSED
Z-LIST ACTOR
....FROM THE 70s!
He was so Z list in fact, I don't even know his name! Been trawling the internet trying to find all the minor actors who ever appeared in Carry On films but no, I can't find out who my dream lover actually was or why the fuck he turned up in my dream! I call him my 'dream lover' but the reality is, in the dream, I was so horrified that he was the only taker of my prime piece of vadge I wanted to go somewhere private so I spent a good part of the dream trawling the place for an empty room. It wasn't happening; the Orgy was too big and there were too many people for the dream space. Becoming dream frustrated I stormed from one of the rooms and turned to my hook nose 'would-be' lover to say that we should just do it any way. Unfortunately, when I DID turn around I was faced with an ancient, leathery old woman who looked to be about 90 years old. Incredulous, I asked her what the fuck she was doing there and why the hell she was following me! She just told me she was all confused and had got lost on her way to the Women's Institute.
....for fucksake! Foiled at having dream sex AND I never got to see the sperm sculpture!
After that disappointment, you wanna hear about the bomb? That's ANOTHER disappointing story to be fair. About 6 weeks ago the Tidiness Nazi made some vegetable soup and I took some to work in a really cool flask I bought JUST because it was metal, orange and retro. I mean, who uses a flask nowadays; builders? I dunno, but I was excited that after about 4 years I was finally able to use the thing. The only flaw to the plan was that when lunch time came I was so disgusted at the thought I'd only got some stupid shitty soup to eat I left it in the refrigerator.
For 2 weeks.
I only remembered it when I spotted the flask as I tried to sneak myself a cup of tea without making anyone else one. I transferred it to my car but immediately forgot it again. Hell, soup is SOOOOOOO forgettable. My sieve-like memory was again stirred when I got into my car on a hot day and ended up gagging on a horrible 'meaty' stench. I dunno how it became meaty as it was vegetable soup but I quickly grew frightened of the orange metal 'bomb'somewhere in my car. If stench was escaping then gas was building up. It was about this time I knew I had to deal with said bomb so with a saucepan on my head (but no facial, body or hand protection) I hunted it down and decided to open it in the garden. I actually wept. Standing in the garden wearing Garfield pajamas with a saucepan on my head and weeping real tears of fear I put a tea towel over the flask and started to unscrew the lid. What I forgot to tell you is that a metal base had already exploded off it and was now detached and twisted. There was also black goo on stuff where I'd left it. The sound of my anguish bought the Tidiness Nazi out of the house. She felt it important to support me via the medium of laughter.
.....any way, seems the gas had already escaped when it blew the base off and released black sludge so it was a real anti climax. It just opened. Sorry.
AND FINALLY - some advice: If you ever dye your hair a dark colour without paying attention to the drips, DON'T then ignore all mirrors whilst spending the day at work where everyone will be too polite to tell you that there are black marks all around your brow. Upon discovery of this social faux pas, in your car, don't then try to remove said marks with a chemical soaked windscreen wipe. You will just end up with a stained face and chemical burns....
Sunday 12 May 2013
Hermitude and a face transplant
I think it's fair to say that I'm feeling somewhat grumpy at the moment. Plagued with the ague (ok, a Cold), a cross painted on the door and awaiting a kiss from the Angel of Death, I find myself in 3 day old pajamas stinking the joint up. I've comfort eaten so much confectionery I'm surprised I haven't got diabetes. Healthy stuff which might actually make me feel better holds no hope of consumption and slowly rots in the kitchen. FUCK YOU BUTTERNUT SQUASH; I'd rather get Scurvy! I've lain in my own crumb laden filth for days now, a smear of melted chocolate on the bed sheet looking suspiciously like I've shat myself in the night looks at me accusingly. Hell, the outline of my body can clearly be seen on the under-sheet in what can only be described as 'Turin Shrouding' of the bedclothes. In short, I am disgusting and, by over-sharing this information, have no hope of being seen as beautiful and mysterious to any potential beau. I will die alone, rotted into the bed, covered in flies with my face partially eaten away by Derek the bald freak dog and Dr X the cat.
....Feeling sorry for myself and further afflicted with 'over-dramatising-itis'.
So, other than my life-threatening Cold and lack of goodness, what else ails me? Well, my car is fucked to the tune of about 500 quid and the house has an underground burst water pipe which is going to cost a fortune to repair once they've pulled up the paved driveway and dug holes all over the place (waves fist at the Heavens). I've decided that Hermitude is definitely the way to go. I can't take much more of this being a 'real' person, I need to live in a cave in the woods. I would say a hut in the woods but the sodding Council would STILL make me pay Council Tax for my shitty branch/mud/turd hut which means I'd still need to do something to earn money thus negating the whole 'being a hermit' plan. I could advertise myself as a Wise Woman and allow people to come and ask my advice/take away potions of healing but then the sodding Inland Revenue bastards would want a chunk and I'd have to complete paperwork and submit income and expenditure forms. Oh, and as we are now in litigious times, some arsehole would no doubt sue me for not curing their dog/causing a tiny rash on their elbow or something which means blokes would come and stamp on my turd hut when they realise I have no possessions to repossess.
...ok, yeah so they used to burn people in the past so being sued shouldn't be something I should complain about. I'm still going to; I'm on a roll.
So there is the cave option. Again, there are financial implications there - fuck this being at one with nature, I would need to get someone in to kill EVERY sodding insect in the vicinity. Not bees though. I listened to something on the radio about some bloke who washed the feet of some bees to fuck with the other bees who clearly knew which flowers had already been visited by smelling the stinky bee footprints of their colleagues. That amused me and bees are important. I think I could tolerate some ants and Ladybirds too.
So yeah. Apart from that I am back at the gym with my original Gym Buddy. We enjoyed it and felt very proud of ourselves for the first two weeks but I know that personally I weep internal tears of anguish when I enter the building now. The gym instructor woman was being helpful last Wednesday and advised us to do sit ups on the mat in the middle of the gym. Fuck that! Gym Buddy said she couldn't because her enormous tits would get in the way and I helpfully added that extreme flatulence would be an issue during any public sitting up activities Gym Buddy and I had already discussed our need to clench throughout our work out.
It wasn't ladylike to share that either was it?
Of course, being at a gym with time to think whilst peddling away my mind went it's usual way and I started to worry about lying on my back in the middle of the gym with my legs bent doing sit ups. What if I DID accidentally fart the most enormous fart I've ever farted in front of everyone? My unhelpful inner voice wasn't content with making me come over a bit dizzy at that thought. It went on to imagine a sudden splat of diarrhoea appearing at my crotch. Fuck me, that would be expensive. I'd have to give up going to the gym, change my name, leave the country and set up somewhere else. You can bet your bottom dollar there is no Extreme Humiliation Relocation Scheme which could be accessed either; those witnesses of serious violent crime get all the breaks.
If I couldn't afford any of that I'd have to go with the whole name change via the internet and a cheap foreign face transplant. I dunno, do places like Bulgaria or Romania do stuff like that for about 30 quid? I imagine the whole thing stapled on over my existing face and the edges hanging down between the rough stapling direct into my skull. I'd return to the gym, holding up part of my face (which wouldn't be a good skin match. Heck, it'd probably be a hairy Bulgarian man's face) whilst dramatically asking people who this Sketty is that they talk about and denying, despite still using my old gym membership card, that it was I who shat myself in front of everyone at the gym.
....I need to rest. I'm talking shit again
....Feeling sorry for myself and further afflicted with 'over-dramatising-itis'.
So, other than my life-threatening Cold and lack of goodness, what else ails me? Well, my car is fucked to the tune of about 500 quid and the house has an underground burst water pipe which is going to cost a fortune to repair once they've pulled up the paved driveway and dug holes all over the place (waves fist at the Heavens). I've decided that Hermitude is definitely the way to go. I can't take much more of this being a 'real' person, I need to live in a cave in the woods. I would say a hut in the woods but the sodding Council would STILL make me pay Council Tax for my shitty branch/mud/turd hut which means I'd still need to do something to earn money thus negating the whole 'being a hermit' plan. I could advertise myself as a Wise Woman and allow people to come and ask my advice/take away potions of healing but then the sodding Inland Revenue bastards would want a chunk and I'd have to complete paperwork and submit income and expenditure forms. Oh, and as we are now in litigious times, some arsehole would no doubt sue me for not curing their dog/causing a tiny rash on their elbow or something which means blokes would come and stamp on my turd hut when they realise I have no possessions to repossess.
...ok, yeah so they used to burn people in the past so being sued shouldn't be something I should complain about. I'm still going to; I'm on a roll.
So there is the cave option. Again, there are financial implications there - fuck this being at one with nature, I would need to get someone in to kill EVERY sodding insect in the vicinity. Not bees though. I listened to something on the radio about some bloke who washed the feet of some bees to fuck with the other bees who clearly knew which flowers had already been visited by smelling the stinky bee footprints of their colleagues. That amused me and bees are important. I think I could tolerate some ants and Ladybirds too.
So yeah. Apart from that I am back at the gym with my original Gym Buddy. We enjoyed it and felt very proud of ourselves for the first two weeks but I know that personally I weep internal tears of anguish when I enter the building now. The gym instructor woman was being helpful last Wednesday and advised us to do sit ups on the mat in the middle of the gym. Fuck that! Gym Buddy said she couldn't because her enormous tits would get in the way and I helpfully added that extreme flatulence would be an issue during any public sitting up activities Gym Buddy and I had already discussed our need to clench throughout our work out.
It wasn't ladylike to share that either was it?
Of course, being at a gym with time to think whilst peddling away my mind went it's usual way and I started to worry about lying on my back in the middle of the gym with my legs bent doing sit ups. What if I DID accidentally fart the most enormous fart I've ever farted in front of everyone? My unhelpful inner voice wasn't content with making me come over a bit dizzy at that thought. It went on to imagine a sudden splat of diarrhoea appearing at my crotch. Fuck me, that would be expensive. I'd have to give up going to the gym, change my name, leave the country and set up somewhere else. You can bet your bottom dollar there is no Extreme Humiliation Relocation Scheme which could be accessed either; those witnesses of serious violent crime get all the breaks.
If I couldn't afford any of that I'd have to go with the whole name change via the internet and a cheap foreign face transplant. I dunno, do places like Bulgaria or Romania do stuff like that for about 30 quid? I imagine the whole thing stapled on over my existing face and the edges hanging down between the rough stapling direct into my skull. I'd return to the gym, holding up part of my face (which wouldn't be a good skin match. Heck, it'd probably be a hairy Bulgarian man's face) whilst dramatically asking people who this Sketty is that they talk about and denying, despite still using my old gym membership card, that it was I who shat myself in front of everyone at the gym.
....I need to rest. I'm talking shit again
Wednesday 10 April 2013
The Turd Mystery
So, I get home this afternoon and the Tidiness Nazi informed me that there has been an issue.
Oh God.
It would seem that she smelled a horrible smell and followed the trail to MY room where she discovered a HUMAN SIZED TURD. Not only that but there was a river of piss too!
I'm sure that things like this don't happen to other people as often as they do me. Well, if they do, everyone else is keeping quiet about it.
Bastards.
So, who committed the shit crime, eh? Let's examine the evidence
Was it my small freak of a dog Derek Ghengis Rasputin Trotsky?
Oh God.
It would seem that she smelled a horrible smell and followed the trail to MY room where she discovered a HUMAN SIZED TURD. Not only that but there was a river of piss too!
I'm sure that things like this don't happen to other people as often as they do me. Well, if they do, everyone else is keeping quiet about it.
Bastards.
So, who committed the shit crime, eh? Let's examine the evidence
Was it my small freak of a dog Derek Ghengis Rasputin Trotsky?
Well, his house-training has been hit and miss and it HAS been raining today. The bald, freak HATES the rain but no, it couldn't be him. He is tiny and yes, as the picture suggests, he was mugged for cheese by a girl. I am lead to believe that the aforementioned turd was so big it would have ripped this suspect's anus apart.
So, could it be the hairy idiot dog Lottie (The Kraken) Hairy McFairy?
Yeah sure she's big enough to produce a giant turd but I have knowledge I wish I didn't of the turdly dimensions produced by this creature. I would stand up in a Court of Law and state, hand on heart, that she doesn't shit human sized shits. She is also fully house-trained and has been for a couple of years.
Hmmmmm.....then maybe it was Twigletti-Spaghetti Victor-Spinetti Serengeti (Dr X)
Well, for a start she's definitely a cat so would a cat's arse be able to evacuate something so big? She's getting on a bit, has mental health issues (day time agoraphobia - don't ask) and therefore a tendency to crap in the house. As I refuse to pander to her craziness she is not allowed a litter tray and is therefore encouraged to go out and shit. This usually results in a crap found in the shower. She has left shower gifts on and off for years now so why would she switch locations to my bedroom? Perhaps she hates me. Then again, cats have tiny arses don't they?
Perhaps it was Julie Gerbie?
...are you MAD? It's a fucking gerbil!
.....could it then have been....
That'd be ridiculous. ALIENS traveled thousands of light years to take a crap on my bedroom floor? Perhaps it's a message for humanity.
Perhaps it was just the Universe sending messengers to tell me I'm an arse hole and the turd was what the Universe as a collective thinks of me.
That leaves ONE person. ONE prime suspect. I'm typing this and can hardly believe it myself!
Of COURSE I didn't crap on my own bedroom floor!
BUT my unhelpful/destructive inner voice, our old friend 'MY INNER ARSE-HOLE' has found an opportunity to tell me I have early on-set dementia and that I have no memory of squatting down in my room and crapping because I've lost my mind. My Inner Arse-hole is loving it and loving placing that small seed of doubt in my mind. I mean I know I didn't do it. Of course I didn't do it but what if? What if there really IS something wrong with me and I'm losing my grip on reality? What's the alternative? The Tidiness Nazi found it so it wasn't her and it wasn't any of the pets nor passing aliens. Ghosts don't shit. I bloody HOPE they don't shit, that'd be rubbish in Heaven wouldn't it? Queuing up on a cloud in a line with Cliff Richard banging on about God and fucking tennis. I'd rather be dead....oh wait.
...so that's it. A total mystery. Either a pet has a tardis like bowel, Aliens disrespected me or I've gone mental. Sherlock Holmes once said something profound that I can't remember but it basically confirmed my Inner Arse-hole's assertion that it was I who committed the shit crime. Clearly. Oh God - I've gone mental, I'm incontinent and am experiencing blackouts.
In Samuel Pepys proper diary type news, Margaret Thatcher, Thatcher Milk Snatcher is dead. The toffs are pissed off so many people are happy and celebrating and all the other politicians are pissed off they have to pretend to be nice. What do I think? Clearly she was a remarkable woman with focus and drive. Shame she destroyed entire communities and spread so much misery really. It'll be interesting to see whether anything bad happens when they parade her through the streets.
Sunday 17 March 2013
Incontinence Memories
Actually, that title is a bit misleading 'cause I'm not unconsciously incontinent but I did once feign incontinence for the purposes of science a few years ago.
In short, tonight I had cause to remember one of my past 'life experiments' and for some reason I thought I'd share this memory with you guys tonight. I'd class this as the experiment which went the most horrendously wrong too. Not wrong in the Marie Curie 'oh shit, I've given myself cancer' type way, more of a Brundlefly - body of a man, head of a fly type of 'wrongness'. In other words, a sort of 'so THIS happened to you and you haven't even got anything good to give to the world from it'.
I don't have the head of a fly by the way. I think it's wise we get that clear from the start. I know that this is the internet and heck, a lot of us hide the way we really look and who we really are on this thing but believe me, I'm not a half fly person vomiting up acid onto my dinner so I can suck up the goo. I don't have an affinity for standing on shit either.
I'm babbling already - sorry. I've been advised to start reducing the length of my blog posts as they've been deemed too long by one comedy agent who believes people don't have the capacity to read too much brain spew in one go, so back to the reminiscing.
People who have followed my writings for years and read previous blogs which I've now lost on-line will remember this story, it's one of my more famous acts of cretiny and just remembering it tonight made me cringe a little bit. Heck, I DO have the gift of shame!
Y'know, (she said, deviating from the point slightly) both my cousin 'Bakes' and I have a weird thing where we have to do stuff we both know is stupid but we HAVE to know what it feels like or whether it truly IS as stupid as we suspect it is. It usually is stupid and it must be genetic 'cause we're the same. Sisters from different Mothers in fact. Recently we had a bonfire in her back garden. She'd been banned from going to the top end of her garden when her Mother wasn't home after having another fire and then falling down a hole and near busting her ankle. Anyhoo, with this ban in place we still had a fire when her Mother was away but had no 'pokey' sticks. She ran off and came back with some really short wooden fencing which not only set on fire pretty much straight away, but was so short the skin almost melted from my face when I leant in to poke said fire. She then came back with some copper piping. I did question the wisdom of using metal in fire as it kinda conducts heat but we both decided 'fuck it' as the pipe was the perfect fire poking length. So YES it got so hot it was difficult to hold whilst retaining fingerprints and YES I was foolish enough to put the pipe to my ear and exclaim that I could hear the fire and it was amazing but enough of that, it's time to reminisce.
.....imagine fog descending and 'going back in time' music playing over it.
So, I was manager of a charity/thrift shop type thing and on the day in question it was pissing rain, the town was empty and I'd got no volunteers who wanted to come out and play. I was alone with an over-active mind prone to bizarre thought patterns and had spent the afternoon opening bags of donation stock.
Unfortunately, on this day I'd been going through literally hundreds of bags of total junk - from stinky clothes best left in the 70's to broken and chipped china cups. As we'd had a lot of rain recently many of the bags were damp and so the whole lot reeked. Still, I was alone, singing along to the radio and hoping to find treasure. I opened yet another bag of old crap - it looked like all which was left from an elderly person's room from a Retirement Home or something. It contained worn hand knitted cardigans, an old and stained piss bottle and an open box of incontinence pads. Niiiiice. What every charity needs; a lovely bottle which once contained piss.
So, I continued my quest. Cameras from the 60's (broken), dolls with one eye, vile looking ornaments which no one should EVER have formed from clay and fired, shit from ancient holidays in Tenerife, boxes with shells fucking glued to the lid (with bits broken and missing) and I dunno, Readers Digest books which had been abridged until they were practically pamphlets. You get the picture....
It was at this point I realised I needed to pee and really should have gone half an hour ago. My bladder felt as though it would burst. It was at this point that I made my fatal and stupid (read - VERY stupid) decision. In my defence though, there was a bloody good song on the radio, my bladder was at bursting point and the bathroom was a corridor way.
...Oh, and the Gods had sent me a present
'Let's see how well these bad boys work' I thought to myself whilst grabbing the box of incontinence pads. As I say, this was purely for future reference. Laziness had NOTHING to do with it - I was a scientist at this point (cough).
I slipped one into my pants and tried to release my bladder. The muscles resisted in a kind of 'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN' MAN?' way but I was adamant that this was one experiment I needed to know the results of.
After what felt like an age I got my bladder to release and the piss came.
I cleaned myself up as best I could and went down to the shop where the Tidiness Nazi was helping out. She'd wrinkled up her nose and made some comment about being able to tell I'd been going through stinky bags of crap so I quietly disclosed what had happened. Well, foolish me for thinking I'd get an iota of sympathy - she burst out laughing and ran away whilst likening me to the crazy old homeless guy who sleeps on the beach. PAH, friends, who needs 'em.
In short, tonight I had cause to remember one of my past 'life experiments' and for some reason I thought I'd share this memory with you guys tonight. I'd class this as the experiment which went the most horrendously wrong too. Not wrong in the Marie Curie 'oh shit, I've given myself cancer' type way, more of a Brundlefly - body of a man, head of a fly type of 'wrongness'. In other words, a sort of 'so THIS happened to you and you haven't even got anything good to give to the world from it'.
I don't have the head of a fly by the way. I think it's wise we get that clear from the start. I know that this is the internet and heck, a lot of us hide the way we really look and who we really are on this thing but believe me, I'm not a half fly person vomiting up acid onto my dinner so I can suck up the goo. I don't have an affinity for standing on shit either.
I'm babbling already - sorry. I've been advised to start reducing the length of my blog posts as they've been deemed too long by one comedy agent who believes people don't have the capacity to read too much brain spew in one go, so back to the reminiscing.
People who have followed my writings for years and read previous blogs which I've now lost on-line will remember this story, it's one of my more famous acts of cretiny and just remembering it tonight made me cringe a little bit. Heck, I DO have the gift of shame!
Y'know, (she said, deviating from the point slightly) both my cousin 'Bakes' and I have a weird thing where we have to do stuff we both know is stupid but we HAVE to know what it feels like or whether it truly IS as stupid as we suspect it is. It usually is stupid and it must be genetic 'cause we're the same. Sisters from different Mothers in fact. Recently we had a bonfire in her back garden. She'd been banned from going to the top end of her garden when her Mother wasn't home after having another fire and then falling down a hole and near busting her ankle. Anyhoo, with this ban in place we still had a fire when her Mother was away but had no 'pokey' sticks. She ran off and came back with some really short wooden fencing which not only set on fire pretty much straight away, but was so short the skin almost melted from my face when I leant in to poke said fire. She then came back with some copper piping. I did question the wisdom of using metal in fire as it kinda conducts heat but we both decided 'fuck it' as the pipe was the perfect fire poking length. So YES it got so hot it was difficult to hold whilst retaining fingerprints and YES I was foolish enough to put the pipe to my ear and exclaim that I could hear the fire and it was amazing but enough of that, it's time to reminisce.
.....imagine fog descending and 'going back in time' music playing over it.
So, I was manager of a charity/thrift shop type thing and on the day in question it was pissing rain, the town was empty and I'd got no volunteers who wanted to come out and play. I was alone with an over-active mind prone to bizarre thought patterns and had spent the afternoon opening bags of donation stock.
Unfortunately, on this day I'd been going through literally hundreds of bags of total junk - from stinky clothes best left in the 70's to broken and chipped china cups. As we'd had a lot of rain recently many of the bags were damp and so the whole lot reeked. Still, I was alone, singing along to the radio and hoping to find treasure. I opened yet another bag of old crap - it looked like all which was left from an elderly person's room from a Retirement Home or something. It contained worn hand knitted cardigans, an old and stained piss bottle and an open box of incontinence pads. Niiiiice. What every charity needs; a lovely bottle which once contained piss.
So, I continued my quest. Cameras from the 60's (broken), dolls with one eye, vile looking ornaments which no one should EVER have formed from clay and fired, shit from ancient holidays in Tenerife, boxes with shells fucking glued to the lid (with bits broken and missing) and I dunno, Readers Digest books which had been abridged until they were practically pamphlets. You get the picture....
It was at this point I realised I needed to pee and really should have gone half an hour ago. My bladder felt as though it would burst. It was at this point that I made my fatal and stupid (read - VERY stupid) decision. In my defence though, there was a bloody good song on the radio, my bladder was at bursting point and the bathroom was a corridor way.
...Oh, and the Gods had sent me a present
'Let's see how well these bad boys work' I thought to myself whilst grabbing the box of incontinence pads. As I say, this was purely for future reference. Laziness had NOTHING to do with it - I was a scientist at this point (cough).
I slipped one into my pants and tried to release my bladder. The muscles resisted in a kind of 'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN' MAN?' way but I was adamant that this was one experiment I needed to know the results of.
After what felt like an age I got my bladder to release and the piss came.
...and came
...and came
...and continued to come
It was like the Red Sea (yellow in this case) closing back in after the parting! It was a urinary flood of BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS; A TSUNAMI OF PISS EVEN!
It was like the Red Sea (yellow in this case) closing back in after the parting! It was a urinary flood of BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS; A TSUNAMI OF PISS EVEN!
...oh and by God it was everywhere; down my clothes, soaking my legs and even in my hair for some reason and still I couldn't stop. The pad had long since washed away, useless against the tide. Eyes closed and with cold horror sweeping over me I realised that yup, I'd done it again! I managed to gather all of my muscular strength and rein in my bladder to dam up up the river. Who knew that an adult could hold so much piss? I certainly didn't! Hell, I know we are all made up of something like 70% water but this was ridiculous. I must have lost 62% right there and then. I should have looked like someone from a bad sci fi film who'd been keeping themselves unnaturally alive for centuries before the hero stops them and they just fall to the floor, go all mummified before turning to dust and blowing away. Where does that small bit of wind come from any way?
I cleaned myself up as best I could and went down to the shop where the Tidiness Nazi was helping out. She'd wrinkled up her nose and made some comment about being able to tell I'd been going through stinky bags of crap so I quietly disclosed what had happened. Well, foolish me for thinking I'd get an iota of sympathy - she burst out laughing and ran away whilst likening me to the crazy old homeless guy who sleeps on the beach. PAH, friends, who needs 'em.
WHAT I LEARNED FROM THIS EXPERIENCE
i) NEVER to confess something like this to another person.
ii) NEVER to think that bodily functions are good to experiment with.
I spoke to someone else about my experiment and he basically told me that incontinence pads are for drips - not for a full adult bladder, and any sane person would realise this.
sigh....
i) NEVER to confess something like this to another person.
ii) NEVER to think that bodily functions are good to experiment with.
I spoke to someone else about my experiment and he basically told me that incontinence pads are for drips - not for a full adult bladder, and any sane person would realise this.
sigh....
Oh, I'd like to add another learning point:
iii) It's probably best not to reminisce about this sort of thing and remind everyone that you pissed everywhere at work once.
...so much for keeping it short eh?
Tuesday 29 January 2013
The misery of The Hobbit
Yeah, so I went to see The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. It's an event innit? Going to be one of those films that goes down in history as a famous epic. I think I enjoyed it but my initial one word review had been
'meh...'
...which is wrong. I wondered why a film which had immersed me so deeply would cause such a shrug shouldery reaction in response. Then I realised; I'd been too immersed and had gone mental (as usual). Yup, my unhelpful inner voice had ruined the whole fucking thing for me by making me over think.
On the whole, the film had too much happening, from being chased by various hoards of 'things' to being in the middle of angry fucking rocks beating ten kinds of shit out of each other. I just know that had I been part of the adventurous group I'd have made the whole thing a hundred times worse for everyone. That's what my brain does, puts me in the middle of stuff but not in a cool way, in an all too real way until the majesty of the thing is ruined.
Of course, after the film my freakish mind had left me feeling a bit traumatised 'cause there was SO much that would have made me mental had I been part of the company. Yeah, I'd be there fancying the arse off Thorin (Richard Armitage) and Kili (Aidan Turner) but I would have wanted them to have seen me as mysterious, windswept and interesting but then I can't do that stuff 'cause I tend to over-share pretty much EVERYTHING that ever happens to me as well as every sodding thought I have.
You can't be mysterious after you've just told a group of Dwarves that you had just had a shit which felt like it had come out sideways. I'd like to think I wouldn't say stuff like that but y'know, I probably would. I still tell people I found a dead squashed ant in my pubes once and that was over 10 years ago! I won't even start with the whole being accidentally startled by my own vagina that time.
Oh yeah. I just need to say that as a bona fide lady I don't shit or have pubes. I have no unpleasant bodily functions and forever smell like roses. I do genuinely go for the Kojak look nowadays so if my pubes had ant killing qualities then I am like a Goddess to them now. Or an ant Saint. That'd be shit wouldn't it; Saint Sket of the ants and the story tells how she rid the ants of the tangled murderous, slightly odoriferous jungle of doom and led them to peace and freedom. Why would I even type that into a blog? THIS is why I am destined to forever be alone. I bet that arse Samuel Pepys never wrote about dead ants in his nethers. No, he'd be too wrapped up documenting the history of his age and telling future generations about life in his day. Well, I put it to you Mr Samuel bloody Pepys if that's even your real name, the people of MY future want to know about shitting and being a moron in the 21st Century. Oh yes. HELL to the yes!
...back to the misery of Hobbit. No doubt I wouldn't have been able to find the shoes I wanted to wear and that would be another thing. See, ol' Bilbo didn't have much warning and if it had been me I'd have wanted to know what kind of weather we'd be expecting. I mean, who wants to lumber a big fuck-off coat around with them if it's going to be warm - we've all been there and it's a misery. Also, I wouldn't have expected to need running shoes to escape from all the hoards of ugly stuff trying to kill me! Who'd even think that? I'd have put hiking boots on and they rub like all fuckery don't they? There are no blister plasters in Middle Earth, mark my words! Oh god my hair too - it's naturally curly but not in a nice way, in a tangley bird nest way. It needs proper conditioning or else it just turns into a big horrible mess. THAT'S not sexy and no way to pull Kili is it? I got a Cockatiel's feet stuck in my hair once and a gerbil another time. I'm vegetarian too but I don't like onions. I'd have been a right misery just banging on and on about my arse hurting on my hairy pony, being hungry, not being able to see 'cause I didn't bring enough contact lenses with me, my hair being a mess, being paranoid that Thorin and Kili were actively trying to keep their distance from me, being borderline hysterical 'cause things were attacking us and once we'd escaped SOMETHING ELSE having a go at killing us. I'd have shin splints from all the running and heck, I'm not fit enough for all this shit. I'd have also been the one complaining that the giant Eagles should have taken us to our final destination not just dumping us on a rock where we could just SEE the fucking mountain. Lazy feathered bastards. Yeah, and in Lord of the Rings, if Gandalf had access to giant fuck off eagles, why didn't he get them to give Frodo and Sam a friggin lift straight to Mount Doom? Yeah, it would have shortened the trilogy quite significantly but that's not the point. I'd have been bloody livid.
So yeah, I think, between you and me, my Wizardly and Dwarven companions would have turned on me themselves after a day.
...and that's why I didn't enjoy The Hobbit as much as I should have
'meh...'
...which is wrong. I wondered why a film which had immersed me so deeply would cause such a shrug shouldery reaction in response. Then I realised; I'd been too immersed and had gone mental (as usual). Yup, my unhelpful inner voice had ruined the whole fucking thing for me by making me over think.
On the whole, the film had too much happening, from being chased by various hoards of 'things' to being in the middle of angry fucking rocks beating ten kinds of shit out of each other. I just know that had I been part of the adventurous group I'd have made the whole thing a hundred times worse for everyone. That's what my brain does, puts me in the middle of stuff but not in a cool way, in an all too real way until the majesty of the thing is ruined.
Of course, after the film my freakish mind had left me feeling a bit traumatised 'cause there was SO much that would have made me mental had I been part of the company. Yeah, I'd be there fancying the arse off Thorin (Richard Armitage) and Kili (Aidan Turner) but I would have wanted them to have seen me as mysterious, windswept and interesting but then I can't do that stuff 'cause I tend to over-share pretty much EVERYTHING that ever happens to me as well as every sodding thought I have.
You can't be mysterious after you've just told a group of Dwarves that you had just had a shit which felt like it had come out sideways. I'd like to think I wouldn't say stuff like that but y'know, I probably would. I still tell people I found a dead squashed ant in my pubes once and that was over 10 years ago! I won't even start with the whole being accidentally startled by my own vagina that time.
Oh yeah. I just need to say that as a bona fide lady I don't shit or have pubes. I have no unpleasant bodily functions and forever smell like roses. I do genuinely go for the Kojak look nowadays so if my pubes had ant killing qualities then I am like a Goddess to them now. Or an ant Saint. That'd be shit wouldn't it; Saint Sket of the ants and the story tells how she rid the ants of the tangled murderous, slightly odoriferous jungle of doom and led them to peace and freedom. Why would I even type that into a blog? THIS is why I am destined to forever be alone. I bet that arse Samuel Pepys never wrote about dead ants in his nethers. No, he'd be too wrapped up documenting the history of his age and telling future generations about life in his day. Well, I put it to you Mr Samuel bloody Pepys if that's even your real name, the people of MY future want to know about shitting and being a moron in the 21st Century. Oh yes. HELL to the yes!
...back to the misery of Hobbit. No doubt I wouldn't have been able to find the shoes I wanted to wear and that would be another thing. See, ol' Bilbo didn't have much warning and if it had been me I'd have wanted to know what kind of weather we'd be expecting. I mean, who wants to lumber a big fuck-off coat around with them if it's going to be warm - we've all been there and it's a misery. Also, I wouldn't have expected to need running shoes to escape from all the hoards of ugly stuff trying to kill me! Who'd even think that? I'd have put hiking boots on and they rub like all fuckery don't they? There are no blister plasters in Middle Earth, mark my words! Oh god my hair too - it's naturally curly but not in a nice way, in a tangley bird nest way. It needs proper conditioning or else it just turns into a big horrible mess. THAT'S not sexy and no way to pull Kili is it? I got a Cockatiel's feet stuck in my hair once and a gerbil another time. I'm vegetarian too but I don't like onions. I'd have been a right misery just banging on and on about my arse hurting on my hairy pony, being hungry, not being able to see 'cause I didn't bring enough contact lenses with me, my hair being a mess, being paranoid that Thorin and Kili were actively trying to keep their distance from me, being borderline hysterical 'cause things were attacking us and once we'd escaped SOMETHING ELSE having a go at killing us. I'd have shin splints from all the running and heck, I'm not fit enough for all this shit. I'd have also been the one complaining that the giant Eagles should have taken us to our final destination not just dumping us on a rock where we could just SEE the fucking mountain. Lazy feathered bastards. Yeah, and in Lord of the Rings, if Gandalf had access to giant fuck off eagles, why didn't he get them to give Frodo and Sam a friggin lift straight to Mount Doom? Yeah, it would have shortened the trilogy quite significantly but that's not the point. I'd have been bloody livid.
So yeah, I think, between you and me, my Wizardly and Dwarven companions would have turned on me themselves after a day.
...and that's why I didn't enjoy The Hobbit as much as I should have
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