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....
Sketty (30 September - ?)isn’t a 17th Century English naval administrator or Member of Parliament. Furthermore, she has never met King Charles II or King James II. This may be due to both being dead at the time of her life. In fact, this isn’t so much a diary but the unedited spewings from the brain of one of the Century’s leading cretins. Some of it may develop into comedy unless I get to spend time in a lovely facility where someone will give me dinner.
Tuesday 28 May 2013
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
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