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.
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Monday, 11 November 2013
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!
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.
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....
Thursday, 29 November 2012
Anti-Christ Kettner
The conversation kinda went like this:
...Oh, I need to say there is a bit of over-sharing at the beginning and for that I apologise.
...back to the conversation. It kinda went like this:
ME: Oy, I'm late for my [insert female monthly biological process]. I'm never late so clearly I MUST BE PREGNANT!
Colleague: ...but you haven't had sex have you?
Me: Well, no but there can be no other explanation can there? Blimey, I'm actually going to be a Mother!
Colleague: ...so are you telling me it's the Second Coming and that you are in fact carrying the new Messiah or something?
Me: Faaaack, yeah I'll be FAMOUS.......hang on though, isn't the Second Coming supposed to be the anti-Christ?
Colleague: ....erm, I dunno.
Me: I'm almost certain that the Second Coming is supposed to be bad in some way. It's supposed to herald the end of the World or something........do you think I'd still qualify for Child Benefit?
Colleague: ?
Me: Well, if I gave birth to a kid who heralded the end of the world I'm guessing everyone would be massively pissed off and I might get denied my rightful entitlements!!!
Colleague: Erm, I don't think the Benefit Agency would be allowed to discriminate and, well, it would be up to them to prove that your kid was going to bring about the end of the World as we know it. I'd be inclined to not offer up that kind of information if I were you.
Me: YEAH! ....and if it turns out he's red or something I might be able to qualify for some kinds of disability benefit for him. How funny would it be to push yer red kid about in a pram and watch all the other mothers and old ladies recoil in horror. Oh God, I hope he has head horns too, that would be hysterical.
...Of course, at this point I got lost in thought at the prospect of my bald red child. I kinda hoped he would get the head horns. Oh God, what if he had HOOVES! Where would I even be able to get shoes for the poor little fucker, I'd have to get him shod but then Children's Services might have something to say about me getting someone to nail metal onto his feet. I'm a bit of an old hippy and I'd want to dress my child 'Anti Christ' up in tie dye and ecologically friendly clothing but I guess that'd be a bit of a piss take if he's going to end everything. There'd be no point in following any worthy causes. Then again, me being me I'd probably accidentally instil in him a cracking sense of procrastination and inherent laziness. I mean, who can be arsed to bring about the end of the world when there are pyjamas to be worn and beds to slob around in. Ending the world sounds a whole load of energy, planning and evil. I can do the evil (I had to sack my Lettings Agent recently and I could hear myself being a bastard to him - actually I'll tell you about that in a minute). So yeah, for all my personality faults I'd actually become the ultimate heroine who does genuinely save the entire planet! Let no one diss my extreme slobbery, lack of motivation and ability to convincingly look dead when I don't want to do something. All of this will be YOURS my son! I hope my inevitable worshippers embrace my bed based philosophy.
*****Ok, quickly - the idiot Lettings guy - let's call him Jonathan, has taken 2 months to tell me that people like the size of the upstairs of the house but think the downstairs is too small. He didn't seem to get it when I pointed out they are exactly the same fucking size. Anyhoo, I returned to the house which is on the other side of the country to me only to discover huge spots of black oil all over the newly cleaned carpet. I called him up
"Jonathan, I don't know who you've been showing around my house; the fucking Tin Man or some kind of leaking Android but there is black oil all over the carpet and I'm actually livid"
"Erm, it was probably a bird which had flown down the chimney"
"What, and then it flew vertically back up again? Stop shitting me Jonathan"
The upshot was he tried to blame some mystery person who might have had keys to the place. That person could only have been me as there were no other keys out there. Why do people try to treat me like I've had a brain injury? Sorry, did I pull up in a Sunshine Coach and start licking the windows? No, so take your fucking sign down and give me the keys back. The new Lettings company have found someone within a week. (shakes head in wonderment)
and that's it. Oh yeah, I wouldn't REALLY call my son 'Anti-Christ' He'd definitely get beaten up every day at school and that might fill him with a feeling of rage and vengeance which might undo my laziness training. I'd probably call him Trevor. I don't like the name but you would NEVER read about an evil entity called Trevor
...Oh, I need to say there is a bit of over-sharing at the beginning and for that I apologise.
...back to the conversation. It kinda went like this:
ME: Oy, I'm late for my [insert female monthly biological process]. I'm never late so clearly I MUST BE PREGNANT!
Colleague: ...but you haven't had sex have you?
Me: Well, no but there can be no other explanation can there? Blimey, I'm actually going to be a Mother!
Colleague: ...so are you telling me it's the Second Coming and that you are in fact carrying the new Messiah or something?
Me: Faaaack, yeah I'll be FAMOUS.......hang on though, isn't the Second Coming supposed to be the anti-Christ?
Colleague: ....erm, I dunno.
Me: I'm almost certain that the Second Coming is supposed to be bad in some way. It's supposed to herald the end of the World or something........do you think I'd still qualify for Child Benefit?
Colleague: ?
Me: Well, if I gave birth to a kid who heralded the end of the world I'm guessing everyone would be massively pissed off and I might get denied my rightful entitlements!!!
Colleague: Erm, I don't think the Benefit Agency would be allowed to discriminate and, well, it would be up to them to prove that your kid was going to bring about the end of the World as we know it. I'd be inclined to not offer up that kind of information if I were you.
Me: YEAH! ....and if it turns out he's red or something I might be able to qualify for some kinds of disability benefit for him. How funny would it be to push yer red kid about in a pram and watch all the other mothers and old ladies recoil in horror. Oh God, I hope he has head horns too, that would be hysterical.
...Of course, at this point I got lost in thought at the prospect of my bald red child. I kinda hoped he would get the head horns. Oh God, what if he had HOOVES! Where would I even be able to get shoes for the poor little fucker, I'd have to get him shod but then Children's Services might have something to say about me getting someone to nail metal onto his feet. I'm a bit of an old hippy and I'd want to dress my child 'Anti Christ' up in tie dye and ecologically friendly clothing but I guess that'd be a bit of a piss take if he's going to end everything. There'd be no point in following any worthy causes. Then again, me being me I'd probably accidentally instil in him a cracking sense of procrastination and inherent laziness. I mean, who can be arsed to bring about the end of the world when there are pyjamas to be worn and beds to slob around in. Ending the world sounds a whole load of energy, planning and evil. I can do the evil (I had to sack my Lettings Agent recently and I could hear myself being a bastard to him - actually I'll tell you about that in a minute). So yeah, for all my personality faults I'd actually become the ultimate heroine who does genuinely save the entire planet! Let no one diss my extreme slobbery, lack of motivation and ability to convincingly look dead when I don't want to do something. All of this will be YOURS my son! I hope my inevitable worshippers embrace my bed based philosophy.
*****Ok, quickly - the idiot Lettings guy - let's call him Jonathan, has taken 2 months to tell me that people like the size of the upstairs of the house but think the downstairs is too small. He didn't seem to get it when I pointed out they are exactly the same fucking size. Anyhoo, I returned to the house which is on the other side of the country to me only to discover huge spots of black oil all over the newly cleaned carpet. I called him up
"Jonathan, I don't know who you've been showing around my house; the fucking Tin Man or some kind of leaking Android but there is black oil all over the carpet and I'm actually livid"
"Erm, it was probably a bird which had flown down the chimney"
"What, and then it flew vertically back up again? Stop shitting me Jonathan"
The upshot was he tried to blame some mystery person who might have had keys to the place. That person could only have been me as there were no other keys out there. Why do people try to treat me like I've had a brain injury? Sorry, did I pull up in a Sunshine Coach and start licking the windows? No, so take your fucking sign down and give me the keys back. The new Lettings company have found someone within a week. (shakes head in wonderment)
and that's it. Oh yeah, I wouldn't REALLY call my son 'Anti-Christ' He'd definitely get beaten up every day at school and that might fill him with a feeling of rage and vengeance which might undo my laziness training. I'd probably call him Trevor. I don't like the name but you would NEVER read about an evil entity called Trevor
Sunday, 29 July 2012
IT LIVES
Yes, it's been a while hasn't it? A bloody long while but heck, here I am back like a bad penny. What is a bad penny any way? Don't answer that, I just Googled it and apparently it's a counterfeit penny that you need to try to dump on someone else sharpish. There you go, bet that nobber Pepys was never as informative as this! Then again, he'd have been on the ball and given an accurate historical account of the opening ceremony of the London Olympics. I can't be arsed - we've got telly now; Future People - watch that!
So, where have I been? Well, I sort of went totally mental and had a break down complete with medical intervention. Yay me - I guess we all have to lose our minds at some time. Fortunately I've now swapped the Prozac for this:
...Well, I went back home at Christmas knowing my Mother was feeling a bit tired and crappy so it would be a quiet affair. She was dead within a month. Shocking enough in itself but we'd been to Niagara and New York visiting rellies in October and she'd been fine. Cancer. So that left me with no parents, no siblings, no bloke or kids of my own. It's a sobering moment to realise you are, in essence, totally alone in the world. Hang on, before this gets too maudlin let's have a Derek break...
So, where have I been? Well, I sort of went totally mental and had a break down complete with medical intervention. Yay me - I guess we all have to lose our minds at some time. Fortunately I've now swapped the Prozac for this:
- Derek
Yeah, Derek. I am currently in the process of re-launching the ol' stalled due to madness comedy career with this bald freak as my partner. Here's the plan; I'm learning ventriloquism so we can argue and he can voice a re-jigged version of my inner arsehole posts from over here. I figure your pets see the stuff you wouldn't want anyone to know and if I can get him to wear a foil hat with an antenna we'll be cooking on gas! This plan is almost as good as my worm farm one. Yeah, that was the plan to have a Sketty's Eco-Worm Emporium bucket of worms in EVERY household. Problem was, when my own worms arrived I very nearly shit myself - they weren't the passive lovely brownish calm English worms I was used to - they were ANGRY looking red things from Australia. Fuck me, I almost had nightmares, and so ended my dream of becoming a millionaire worm farmer...
So, I'm guessing you nosy bunch of buggers want to know what caused the ol' breakdown. Well, I'll try to tell you in such a way so as not to sound too much like a drag. In fact, let me quickly post another picture of Derek to make you laugh first:
Greedy thieving little bleeder
So, here we are - a diary of comedic musings and I've just killed the mood. Ok, I am happy to share the funny side of the death of my Mother with you. I tried to do this before now but at last I am ready and I hope people can appreciate that whilst death is tragic for those left behind, in all darkness there is humour to be found. My top 3 moments of misery laughter, in reverse order:
3. When I was finally told that the end was near myself and 3 of my cousins held an overnight vigil. We'd been told there were probably only hours left so we sat alert around the medical bed which was downstairs in the living room. We were waiting for the end to come and so spent hours reminiscing about funny family shit to pass the time. As the night drew on and we all got more and more tired the talk ran out until we were all just sitting in the semi darkness in silence. It was tense, detecting every change in her breathing and holding her hand. Suddenly the silence was punctuated by the sound of THE most enormous fart I've ever heard. There was a gasp of horror as the other 3 people in the room looked from my Mother to the only guy in the room who was looking sheepish.
"Oh my God, RAY!"
"Erm, I don't even know what happened, it just sort of came from nowhere. I almost feel I was possessed"
"Possessed by a fart?"
"Well yeah, perhaps Grandad's spirit is here and took over my body....."
Not only was that THE single worst excuse for a fart that I have ever heard, if true, it is one possession they never experienced on Most Haunted. After the solemn atmosphere had been broken, one by one the remaining Watchers felt able to let off gigantic farts of their own. We prayed that my Mother was in a sleeping state and could neither hear nor smell the room in which she lay. It was terrible, our eyes were stinging, our nasal passages were burnt and we had been laughing at each and every arse trumpet that came out. It was like a scene from Blazing Saddles. Farts are so funny, even during tragically sad times. My Mother would have loved being heralded to the next life by a host of heavenly farts.....
2. Just before things got too bad my Mother spent a lot of time sleeping on the sofa in the living room. I'd lay sprawled on the floor lost in my own misery watching TV. One night the comedy channel I'd been watching ended and I couldn't be bothered to reach that extra few inches to grab the TV remote control to find something else to watch. To my horror an 'Info-mercial' started and I was trapped and forced to watch it! Here's the thought process of a grieving person watching an info-mercial:
"Fucking Zumba........Zumba can fuck right off..........?........hmmmm they're dancing like they're in Dirty Dancing......fucking Zumb-that's quite cool actually........she used to be FAT?.......wow, look at her......it tightens your core muscles and pulls in your stomach?......AND it lifts your tits?......doing work out DVDs at home is sad....then again, what else do I have to do all day?....Awwww, look at my poor Mom sleeping.....Y'know, I could do this stuff 'cause she sleeps pretty much all day....(lost in reverie at visions of myself moving like the staff kids in Dirty Dancing when Baby first sees them....hell, I'm so thin! I'm smiling! I'm HOT).......what, if I buy it tonight I get loads of extra things?......weights.......A BHANGRA dance work out?........."
That simple offer ended the reverie for me. My Mother had become much more intolerant of many things - especially racial as she got older. I was struck by a vision of her waking from the peace of the sleep her poor body had provided only to find her daughter enthusiastically bhangra dancing in the house - doing the whole arm and hand movement stuff! She'd have thought she had died and gone to her own personal hell or was having some sort of morphine induced nightmare! I still laugh at the thought of me - so white and without rhythm - dancing with real enthusiasm and a big smile all dressed up in brightly coloured clothes from the Punjab whilst my mother watched on in horror.
...I was bloody good too (in my own mind)
1. Ok, this is the ultimate nightmare death of a loved one scenario but you know something? I can laugh now. We're going back to the vigil group. The nights were made up of the 4 cousins and the days had other family members coming and going. Despite having been given just hours to live my darling Mother lasted a few days. This toe curling nightmare happened at her death. Oh God, WHO would be a family member or pet of mine......
The core group had their places and as the tiredness grew we all, at certain times dropped off to sleep but tried to ensure that someone was always awake should the end come. There were bars on the bed and I fell asleep with my face on the bar and woke up looking like I'd been in some sort of industrial accident at one point. This wasn't the nightmare, just something I remembered. My cousin Lisa had bought a sun lounger in from the garden shed to lie/sit on at one side of the medical bed. We'd also got dining chairs and other bits of stuff to sit on. No one could really get comfortable but we didn't care. Day had come and the core 4 refused to leave. Of course I was one of them and so I was going nowhere but the other 3 had invested so much time and emotion into staying up with Mom that no one wanted to go anywhere in case the time came. That said, we all got up and stretched our legs etc. when other people turned up. It was about mid-day and a few people were there. I came back into the room and noticed that my Mom's eyes were opening very slightly. Letting out a gasp I loudly told everyone that I thought she was waking up. Everyone in the house came running over to the bed but the second I'd called out I realised that her eyes were opening a little because her muscles were relaxing as death took her. I ran straight to the side of the bed and leapt onto the sun lounger.
...only, I landed knee first with my full weight at the edge right where the spring is attached to the frame. The spring shot away from the frame and I was catapulted head first into the face of my dying mother. As this happened I screamed
"FUCKING HELL!!!!"
Yeah, I shouted 'FUCKING HELL' right into the face of my Mother as she was gasping her last. I then burst into tears, held her hand and wept loudly (and comically) "I'm so sorry I shouted fucking hell at you Mom, I didn't mean it". It was like something out of a bad comedy. She then died, the peaceful atmosphere everyone had striven to create with pleasantly scented oil burners and the comforting music of Andrea Bocelli in the background being drowned out by an idiot Brummie with a voice like a fog horn screaming profanities in the poor woman's face just as she left this mortal plane. Nothing like moving on to the next life in peace is there?
Like I say, WHO'D be a relative, friend or pet of mine eh? No wonder I went mental.
Bye Mom, I miss the fuck out of you......
BTW: There have been many things which have amused me over the past 7 months of which I'd wanted to write only I felt I had to explain my absence first and I didn't have the strength to do it. Now I've got all this off my chest I can resume normal business. Hope I haven't depressed the shit out of you.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
Mind Mapping - James Bond
So, I've been hitting London every Sunday for the past few weeks in order to learn techniques which will improve my comedy writing, help me get past the blank page (to be honest, this never happens to me - I've ALWAYS got shit going through my head) and to get my stupid brain a bit more focused. I've discovered that Mind Mapping is the future (she said grandly). Basically it's brain spewing in a focused way! I love it.
So here is my brain spew on the subject of James Bond:
So here is my brain spew on the subject of James Bond:
JAMES BOND
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SEXY WOMEN
Always get killed after shagging the man - in weird ways - PAINTED GOLD - who knew being painted gold could kill you? Is it economically viable to cover a whole woman in gold just to make a dramatic point with the price it's currently bringing in? Would you have to give her a good scraping before cashing her in at Cash 4 Gold? Does being covered in gold preserve you like a wedding cake or would you go mushy under the gold? MADE TO DRINK OIL - one was murdered by being forced to drink oil - grandmothers used to make kids drink castor oil - drinking castor oil and shitting yourself to death would not be considered a sexy Bond girl death - I'd still watch that film - I'd probably rewind the shitting scene a few times too
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WENT THROUGH 70'S COMEDIC PERIOD
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NOW VERY SERIOUS
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EVIL GENIUS
Massively furry cat - comedy bald cat - cat owners possibly evil? - Evil Geniuses always seem to have some kind of bizarre affliction or scarred - what does that say about people with disfigurements? It's said that with twins one is always the evil one, what about conjoined twins? Can you become evil by some sort of evil osmosis?
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HENCHMEN
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How does one become a Henchman? Never seen the job advertised - JOB DESCRIPTION "Henchman Required" - who would want to be a henchman? The name HENCHMAN has negative connotations and so may want to be re-named the way 'dustman' was or 'cleaners' or 'Spastics' or something like that - WORK IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE - Island in the middle of the Ocean - leads to marital strife - how would a henchman in a top secret lair get to work every day? Evil Geniuses need to be aware of employment law and cannot discriminate against married potential henchmen, female potential henchmen or disabled potential henchmen - never see wheelchair bound Henchman wheeling themselves along as fast as they could during a chase - would a henchman get post-traumatic stress syndrome after seeing too many horrible deaths? How would one request annual leave or go home whenever they might need to such as to attend their child's parent's evening? Would an Evil Genius think to have an HR department? What would be considered a disciplinary issue which may cause a henchman to get into a spot of bother? Helping the hero out a bit I guess - never seen that happen unless the henchman was a hot woman (leading to the shagging and inevitable weird death) - henchmen always seem to get killed - why would anyone want to be one? Don't they notice they work for the baddie? Do Henchmen come from a pool of lesser evil people? People who failed or scored quite lowly in evil tests - school careers advisers never suggest Henchman to the students despite bullies often surrounding themselves with moronic yes-men who would be perfect to train as a henchman - henchman training school - BSc (hons) in Henchmanology
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LAIR
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Hardly able to keep the lair secret as loads of people would have spotted a skull shaped island on Google Earth - who designs skull shaped islands, certainly not someone from the Capability Brown school of design - not a natural feature - Laurence Llewellyn Bowen would be shit at designing an evil lair - what if the designer has been asked to turn a straightforward dead (can they ever be considered dead?) volcano into a giant evil skull? Supposedly it goes a bit wrong and the Evil Genius isn't happy with the skull face? Would you just invoice him when you'd finished? He'd just kill you when you'd finished wouldn't he? Oh, and all of your workforce who know the secrets of the lair including the location (they have Google Earth) - peel the little man on Google Earth and get him to walk around the lair - always see the same Henchman smiling in loads of shots where he tried to keep ahead of the camera car - this may be considered gross misconduct for a henchman - what if it goes over budget? How would you work out the cost of remodeling a whole fucking Island?
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DEATH
Weird but ultimately slow method of killing their arch enemy which inevitably leads to escape - why don't they just shoot the fucker? Never get James Bond to drink oil, not even Castor Oil which could lead to a long drawn out shitting scene leading to his social death via the medium of shame
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Over thinking
I've had a lot of opportunity to over think again lately. I did get lost in thought about how wonderful it would be if I were really supple, bendy and able to form a handstand on my desk from which I'd be able to move my legs in interesting ways such as the splits, twists or scissors. I shared this with 'Mental Health' work colleague (we share the same neuroses) who absolutely went with it and reflected how wonderful it would be if we were both doing something similar when the MD came down and into the room. From this I felt some circus skills training would be beneficial to us both, especially as we then decided we needed unicycles. How wonderful would it be to spend your day on a unicycle wobbling precariously about with bits of paper for people or just turning up and visiting folk. I had visions of people calling up and asking for 'the one on the unicycle'. In my mind I was happy, not as happy as when I had visions of me tap dancing at top speed but happy nonetheless. Perhaps that's the key to happiness - being a tap dancing unicyclist.
...I'd like to do back flips too but I did a simple forward roll on Friday and then had to suffer the pain of a suspected broken neck for the rest of the day.
Another thought I had was during a really tense 'RE-STRUCTURE' meeting in which we would all find out our potential redundancy fate and I'd have to decide whether to just go for it, trust in myself and just make a career out of my comedy with no wage to fall back on, was how awful it would be if I punctuated the tense silence by letting off an enormous blanket-ripper fart which echoed around the room. Don't get me wrong, I didn't have a fart in me but during moments like this I have the same thought. The Fart Scenario thought.
The Fart Scenario thought comes to me in every meeting in which people are silent and concentrating on something. How would the people react if someone farted really REALLY loudly. I suspect a couple of people would stifle giggles but most would be professional and would act as if nothing had happened. That tickles me. I then wonder if the people who ignored the sound would be so professional if the fart was so stenchful (is that even a word?), let's go for pungent, no ODIFEROUS, that's a good word, that no one could possibly ignore it any more. I imagine the horrendous choking stench that fills the room and just hangs there. Yup, that's what I think about during tense meetings.
...I'd like to do back flips too but I did a simple forward roll on Friday and then had to suffer the pain of a suspected broken neck for the rest of the day.
Another thought I had was during a really tense 'RE-STRUCTURE' meeting in which we would all find out our potential redundancy fate and I'd have to decide whether to just go for it, trust in myself and just make a career out of my comedy with no wage to fall back on, was how awful it would be if I punctuated the tense silence by letting off an enormous blanket-ripper fart which echoed around the room. Don't get me wrong, I didn't have a fart in me but during moments like this I have the same thought. The Fart Scenario thought.
The Fart Scenario thought comes to me in every meeting in which people are silent and concentrating on something. How would the people react if someone farted really REALLY loudly. I suspect a couple of people would stifle giggles but most would be professional and would act as if nothing had happened. That tickles me. I then wonder if the people who ignored the sound would be so professional if the fart was so stenchful (is that even a word?), let's go for pungent, no ODIFEROUS, that's a good word, that no one could possibly ignore it any more. I imagine the horrendous choking stench that fills the room and just hangs there. Yup, that's what I think about during tense meetings.
Friday, 19 November 2010
The door
According to Chortle, Jo Brand reckons that lots of comedians are mentally disturbed. I'm not sure I agree. http://www.chortle.co.uk/news/2010/11/18/12170/lots_of_comics_are_mentally_disturbed .
I performed at Belly Laughs, Worthing last night and it went really well. Really REALLY well to be precise and the guy asked if I'd be prepared to travel over there on a monthly basis. I said I would but I know that my inherent laziness will kick in and I'll end up weeping real tears of anguish at having to come up with fresh material every month. I am a prolific writer but I'm a lazy-arsed routine learner. I remember the debacle that was my 'Funny Women' competition set at Komedia, Brighton. Yeah I'd been ill for about a week before the gig and had had spent hours stuck in traffic getting there (it was not only a Bank Holiday weekend, the Brighton Comedy Festival AND it was bloody hot) but I had cobbled together a load of old shit made up of some of my old routines. Minute I got on stage I pretty much forgot everything and had spent the time trying to engage with an audience who seemed to be miles away instead (it was a bloody high stage). It was pretty cringe worthy and I have learned my lesson about ensuring you know what the fuck you are going to say BEFORE you get on stage.
Here are some sad things (sad in a pathetic way) I want to document. Having spent too many winter gigs being lost in the dark trying to find/leave venues I decided to get a Sat Nav and boy, I bloody love the thing. Got to and from Worthing soooooo easily. I picked the man's voice and have named him Timothy. I just wish he sounded hot rather than authoritarian. I guess that with the authoritarian voice I do jump to his commands, I'm sure I'd argue back with a hot guy, decide I no longer fancy him and then get really uncontrollably angry whenever he told me to do something. The second sad thing is that I left the house tonight to go pick up Chinese food but spotted 2 giant red rubber bands on the floor outside the house.
"Ooooh, lovely big rubber bands!" I'd exclaimed (out loud and with no shame), bending over to pocket them before anyone else could.
I'd felt more excitement than I had done all day. What the hell was THAT all about? It wasn't until I was back in the car that I realised how unbelievably pathetic I'd been. Who sodding well covets abandoned rubber bands in the street? I think I'd even looked over my shoulder conspiratorially as I was standing back up to make sure it wasn't a trap or in case someone was about to leap out and claim them for themselves.
Leading up to this moment I'd lain in bed pretty much all day under the guise of having had a late night when in fact, I'm just a lazy bitch. I'd refused to get up to answer the phone, walk the dogs, go to the loo (despite the pain in my bladder) or take food and water. Then, housemate (and Tidiness Nazi) Steph nipped out to the shop. I tell you, no more than 3 minutes after she had gone someone rang the doorbell. Horrified I just sat there in bed, my heart pounding. My brave hero of a dog ran in and hid with me in my room. What the hell were we going to do? There was no one available to answer the door! Breathing heavily and eyes wide with fear I moved to the landing to listen out to see if I could gain any insight of who was at the bloody door. As I moved with stealth the person then KNOCKED! With a muted yelp I ran back into my bedroom and hid hoping that whoever was there would just leave. After a while I thought I was safe and started to venture out of the door again but then the person knocked again only harder as if they knew I was in! OH MY GOD.
Then it sounded as if they were knocking the kitchen window.
The persistence of this person made me seriously consider going down stairs but it was 4pm and I was wearing obvious pyjamas and had make up smeared all over my face. I looked at myself in the full length mirror wondering if I could disguise the fact that I'd wasted a precious day of life by refusing to leave my room but alas, I could not. I miserably picked up the hair slide which had travelled over night to some weird part of my head and miserably tried to fix my nest-like hair as THAT would make me look as if I'd been leading a worthy life all day (sigh). I looked around for a full length coat to hide the obviously pyjama-age but as I didn't have one my search was pretty much useless. I made the decision that even though the persistent door knocker might have some important information to impart I had no alternative but to continue to hide and gently weep with fear over the thought that I might be forced to engage with a stranger or even worse, A NEIGHBOUR! It was a fucking nightmare and it took what seemed like ages before the knocker got back into their vehicle and drove off.
Shit! I hope it wasn't the police telling me Steph had been in a horrific accident and was asking for me (I'd thought with guilt). Turns out it was the postman trying to deliver a parcel. Damn.
Something similar happened last year when I had to hide from an elderly neighbour who absolutely would not stop knocking the door and calling through the letterbox. I had been hiding with my back against the wall and had quietly phoned Steph in fear and panic to tell her of the trauma I was experiencing. Her response? "Answer the fucking door then!" See? No help whatsoever. This woman had been so persistent that I was being drawn to the fact that I would have to answer the door but then how would I explain the huge delay? It's not as if I live in a mansion and had been in the south wing or anything. That had been terrible, I'd have had to crawl on my belly to reach the door but in the end I just put my hands over my ears and said 'la la la la' to myself over and over until she either went away or died on the step. Her voice had been getting weaker and weaker. Oh why won't people leave me alone?
I performed at Belly Laughs, Worthing last night and it went really well. Really REALLY well to be precise and the guy asked if I'd be prepared to travel over there on a monthly basis. I said I would but I know that my inherent laziness will kick in and I'll end up weeping real tears of anguish at having to come up with fresh material every month. I am a prolific writer but I'm a lazy-arsed routine learner. I remember the debacle that was my 'Funny Women' competition set at Komedia, Brighton. Yeah I'd been ill for about a week before the gig and had had spent hours stuck in traffic getting there (it was not only a Bank Holiday weekend, the Brighton Comedy Festival AND it was bloody hot) but I had cobbled together a load of old shit made up of some of my old routines. Minute I got on stage I pretty much forgot everything and had spent the time trying to engage with an audience who seemed to be miles away instead (it was a bloody high stage). It was pretty cringe worthy and I have learned my lesson about ensuring you know what the fuck you are going to say BEFORE you get on stage.
Here are some sad things (sad in a pathetic way) I want to document. Having spent too many winter gigs being lost in the dark trying to find/leave venues I decided to get a Sat Nav and boy, I bloody love the thing. Got to and from Worthing soooooo easily. I picked the man's voice and have named him Timothy. I just wish he sounded hot rather than authoritarian. I guess that with the authoritarian voice I do jump to his commands, I'm sure I'd argue back with a hot guy, decide I no longer fancy him and then get really uncontrollably angry whenever he told me to do something. The second sad thing is that I left the house tonight to go pick up Chinese food but spotted 2 giant red rubber bands on the floor outside the house.
"Ooooh, lovely big rubber bands!" I'd exclaimed (out loud and with no shame), bending over to pocket them before anyone else could.
I'd felt more excitement than I had done all day. What the hell was THAT all about? It wasn't until I was back in the car that I realised how unbelievably pathetic I'd been. Who sodding well covets abandoned rubber bands in the street? I think I'd even looked over my shoulder conspiratorially as I was standing back up to make sure it wasn't a trap or in case someone was about to leap out and claim them for themselves.
Leading up to this moment I'd lain in bed pretty much all day under the guise of having had a late night when in fact, I'm just a lazy bitch. I'd refused to get up to answer the phone, walk the dogs, go to the loo (despite the pain in my bladder) or take food and water. Then, housemate (and Tidiness Nazi) Steph nipped out to the shop. I tell you, no more than 3 minutes after she had gone someone rang the doorbell. Horrified I just sat there in bed, my heart pounding. My brave hero of a dog ran in and hid with me in my room. What the hell were we going to do? There was no one available to answer the door! Breathing heavily and eyes wide with fear I moved to the landing to listen out to see if I could gain any insight of who was at the bloody door. As I moved with stealth the person then KNOCKED! With a muted yelp I ran back into my bedroom and hid hoping that whoever was there would just leave. After a while I thought I was safe and started to venture out of the door again but then the person knocked again only harder as if they knew I was in! OH MY GOD.
Then it sounded as if they were knocking the kitchen window.
The persistence of this person made me seriously consider going down stairs but it was 4pm and I was wearing obvious pyjamas and had make up smeared all over my face. I looked at myself in the full length mirror wondering if I could disguise the fact that I'd wasted a precious day of life by refusing to leave my room but alas, I could not. I miserably picked up the hair slide which had travelled over night to some weird part of my head and miserably tried to fix my nest-like hair as THAT would make me look as if I'd been leading a worthy life all day (sigh). I looked around for a full length coat to hide the obviously pyjama-age but as I didn't have one my search was pretty much useless. I made the decision that even though the persistent door knocker might have some important information to impart I had no alternative but to continue to hide and gently weep with fear over the thought that I might be forced to engage with a stranger or even worse, A NEIGHBOUR! It was a fucking nightmare and it took what seemed like ages before the knocker got back into their vehicle and drove off.
Shit! I hope it wasn't the police telling me Steph had been in a horrific accident and was asking for me (I'd thought with guilt). Turns out it was the postman trying to deliver a parcel. Damn.
Something similar happened last year when I had to hide from an elderly neighbour who absolutely would not stop knocking the door and calling through the letterbox. I had been hiding with my back against the wall and had quietly phoned Steph in fear and panic to tell her of the trauma I was experiencing. Her response? "Answer the fucking door then!" See? No help whatsoever. This woman had been so persistent that I was being drawn to the fact that I would have to answer the door but then how would I explain the huge delay? It's not as if I live in a mansion and had been in the south wing or anything. That had been terrible, I'd have had to crawl on my belly to reach the door but in the end I just put my hands over my ears and said 'la la la la' to myself over and over until she either went away or died on the step. Her voice had been getting weaker and weaker. Oh why won't people leave me alone?
Monday, 1 November 2010
Filth
I'm sick at the moment. So is Tidiness Nazi housemate Steph so it's probably best we paint a big cross on the door to warn others that there be disease within the dwelling.
....or did they do that to tell the Angel of Death to fuck off?
I may be getting my biblical/actual plagues mixed up but hell, I'm delirious. I'm sick I tells ya!
Having been sick for the past few days I have lived a wonderful, hermit-like existence pretty much alone in my room. It's been bliss (apart from the feeling crap thing). I've laid there drifting in and out of sleep having the most fantastically vivid dreams and even coming up with THE most fantastic/award winning stand up routine of my career. Of course, I've forgotten the bugger now so fame and comedy glory remain tantalisingly out of reach. I do remember that part of it was to do with the time I was startled by my own genitalia very early one morning but that's another story.
Anyhoo, back to this story. To recap, I lay in bed enjoying the peace and solitude (coughing) alone in my kingdom. It took a while but when I sort of looked around with fresh eyes I realised, that my kingdom was actually somewhat of a dump. There is the paint splash over my lovely hippy rug where I accidentally tipped all that paint over myself whilst being extra careful not to spill paint over my stuff, there is the chunk of newly/un-uniformly painted wall that I left about 2 months ago 'cause I decided I hated the colour, there is all the stuff from the wardrobe I decided I no longer wanted piled up against the wall (and falling down all over the place), there's a wall shelf hanging off with a few things still precariously balanced on top, a pile of clothes atop the old holiday suitcase, a pile of clothes on top of the laundry basket (clean) and a load of clothes hanging out of the laundry basket (dirty) but there are also books balanced on the clean clothes on top and it's all very precisely balanced. Then there's all the floor crap. I won't even go there. I sat up and sort of looked around and realised that my attempt at de-cluttering my life had failed. There, I admitted it.
I then noticed the layer of dust on some of the long term crap and with a wry smile and nod to myself concluded that rather than look like a haven of peace and tranquility, my room contained so much dirt it was akin to an episode of Time Team. I bet if I moved the pile of boxes and books I'd be able to release Tony Robinson back into the community. No wonder he hasn't been seen for a while...
Thinking about it, I desperately need to change my bed sheets which I've sweated fever into. They are so disgusting there is a definite outline of my body on them. Like a slob's Turin Shroud. I have to admit, this isn't the first time I've had Turin Shrouding of my bedclothes. If only I had the gift of shame I'd erm, be ashamed.
....or did they do that to tell the Angel of Death to fuck off?
I may be getting my biblical/actual plagues mixed up but hell, I'm delirious. I'm sick I tells ya!
Having been sick for the past few days I have lived a wonderful, hermit-like existence pretty much alone in my room. It's been bliss (apart from the feeling crap thing). I've laid there drifting in and out of sleep having the most fantastically vivid dreams and even coming up with THE most fantastic/award winning stand up routine of my career. Of course, I've forgotten the bugger now so fame and comedy glory remain tantalisingly out of reach. I do remember that part of it was to do with the time I was startled by my own genitalia very early one morning but that's another story.
Anyhoo, back to this story. To recap, I lay in bed enjoying the peace and solitude (coughing) alone in my kingdom. It took a while but when I sort of looked around with fresh eyes I realised, that my kingdom was actually somewhat of a dump. There is the paint splash over my lovely hippy rug where I accidentally tipped all that paint over myself whilst being extra careful not to spill paint over my stuff, there is the chunk of newly/un-uniformly painted wall that I left about 2 months ago 'cause I decided I hated the colour, there is all the stuff from the wardrobe I decided I no longer wanted piled up against the wall (and falling down all over the place), there's a wall shelf hanging off with a few things still precariously balanced on top, a pile of clothes atop the old holiday suitcase, a pile of clothes on top of the laundry basket (clean) and a load of clothes hanging out of the laundry basket (dirty) but there are also books balanced on the clean clothes on top and it's all very precisely balanced. Then there's all the floor crap. I won't even go there. I sat up and sort of looked around and realised that my attempt at de-cluttering my life had failed. There, I admitted it.
I then noticed the layer of dust on some of the long term crap and with a wry smile and nod to myself concluded that rather than look like a haven of peace and tranquility, my room contained so much dirt it was akin to an episode of Time Team. I bet if I moved the pile of boxes and books I'd be able to release Tony Robinson back into the community. No wonder he hasn't been seen for a while...
Thinking about it, I desperately need to change my bed sheets which I've sweated fever into. They are so disgusting there is a definite outline of my body on them. Like a slob's Turin Shroud. I have to admit, this isn't the first time I've had Turin Shrouding of my bedclothes. If only I had the gift of shame I'd erm, be ashamed.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Study
So, I had a flash of inspiration (?) and randomly called up my old University and asked if it was too late to get on the MSc Criminology and Criminal Psychology course. Turns out it isn't and erm, I seem to pretty much be on it once I complete the on-line application form. I don't really know why I've decided to do this and to what end but I feel strangely excited to the point that my rational side is like a tiny voice in the dark that no one is listening too. It's been 4 years since I got my degree and all I did was make everyone's life a misery near the end. I'm going to have to get my head back into referencing, reading, oh god, I just remembered the referencing, the writing, research and deadlines. Oh god, REFERENCING. This is what happened when I went for my degree - I had a sudden idea and acted on it. Perhaps this is all for the good but hell, I don't know how I'm going to fund it. I might have to go down to the docks and prostitute myself. Unfortunately, the nearest dock is the Wightlink ferry terminal and the guys on board have only been at sea for 35 minutes so they won't be desperate enough to want to hire me for any more than a few pennies and hell, we all know how expensive education is nowadays!
Plus they might have scurvy. Can you get scurvy after half an hour without a lemon? Probably not OR, how's this - I could offer a lemon/prossie service.
....I'm joshing, I'm joshing. Everyone knows I've been single for so long I've gone a bit wrong and have become too British and uptight to allow anyone to come at me with their winkie!
So yeah, funding the sudden desire with no planning or thought to get my Masters. Y'know what I said about selling the gingerbread Hitlers in order to fund travel to my comedy gigs, well I might have to give up the comedy (won't be able to afford the travel at all now) and use whatever bits and pieces I can make from the inappropriate gingerbread to pay for the study. Do I want to give up the comedy though?
Do I really HAVE have to give up comedy?
WHY do I want to take my Masters when everyone knows I am the biggest buffoon in all Buffoon Town? Hell, I can't take the dog out without returning to find it caked in shit. I can't clean out a bunch of turtles without flooding the house, I can't grill a veggie burger without setting it on fire (and magically still allowing the inside to remain frozen), can't open a container of paint without ending up wearing it and splattering it all around my bedroom and I can't even boil a bowl of underpants without scalding most of the skin off one breast!
That's another story though as is the time, through a series of bizarre events, I ended up stabbing my ear with a metal nail file.
What the feck makes me think I can be a proper person doing important research and study when I should just stand in front of people telling them about the idiotic life experiences I've had. Honestly, what am I thinking? Someone please save me from myself.
Plus they might have scurvy. Can you get scurvy after half an hour without a lemon? Probably not OR, how's this - I could offer a lemon/prossie service.
....I'm joshing, I'm joshing. Everyone knows I've been single for so long I've gone a bit wrong and have become too British and uptight to allow anyone to come at me with their winkie!
So yeah, funding the sudden desire with no planning or thought to get my Masters. Y'know what I said about selling the gingerbread Hitlers in order to fund travel to my comedy gigs, well I might have to give up the comedy (won't be able to afford the travel at all now) and use whatever bits and pieces I can make from the inappropriate gingerbread to pay for the study. Do I want to give up the comedy though?
Do I really HAVE have to give up comedy?
WHY do I want to take my Masters when everyone knows I am the biggest buffoon in all Buffoon Town? Hell, I can't take the dog out without returning to find it caked in shit. I can't clean out a bunch of turtles without flooding the house, I can't grill a veggie burger without setting it on fire (and magically still allowing the inside to remain frozen), can't open a container of paint without ending up wearing it and splattering it all around my bedroom and I can't even boil a bowl of underpants without scalding most of the skin off one breast!
That's another story though as is the time, through a series of bizarre events, I ended up stabbing my ear with a metal nail file.
What the feck makes me think I can be a proper person doing important research and study when I should just stand in front of people telling them about the idiotic life experiences I've had. Honestly, what am I thinking? Someone please save me from myself.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Heaven
So, due to the coalition Government and their cutbacks to public spending I've been saved from my ridiculous and nosy Jackboot Army intentions. Basically, I did actually pass that 5 hour assessment but they decided to only take those who'd passed with a much higher score which I missed by 2%. The most hysterical thing is, according to the feedback, the thing that made me lose marks was the fact that I clearly demonstrated that I didn't really give a shit about people and wouldn't say sorry!
SAY SORRY?
SOD THAT!
The role-play scenarios were based around me being a customer services person having to deal with complaints and issues. I, as I think many would, have a problem with apologising for stuff that clearly isn't MY BLEEDIN' FAULT!
....and that's why I must pursue my comedy career. I don't have it in me to be 'nice' to people which I guess is a requisite when it comes to public service. Blimey.
The only problem I have with the whole comedy thing is funding my travel from the back of bleedin beyond.
BUT, I may have solved this problem with a new business idea.
GINGERBREAD HITLERS!!
Everyone who's seen 'em love's em so let's see if the wider population love and buy them. Bought black icing for the uniform today although I think ol' Adolph wore a bit of a khaki coloured suit. I'll call the business Tasteless Tasties and work on a Sadam Hussain (with detached head) and possibly an Osama Bin Laden but that one might get me killed. That'd be embarrassing, a Jahad on me for dissing Osama.
So, Heaven - yeah. I'm writing a new set about how Heaven is going to potentially be a bit shit if we're not allowed to be ourselves properly. My idea of pure Heaven would involve me carrying my shit-list around with me, searching out celebs and people who've pissed me off and telling them that they what they really need to do is to to learn to fuck right off. I'd start with Cliff Richard, the pious bastard. Problem is, a short slightly dumpy girl telling him to fuck off might spoil Cliff's Heaven experience. There'd be questions asked and then the stupid Saints would get involved and who needs the opinion of some 13th Century twat who was probably murdered by people sick to fucking death of all of his bleating about God? They just wouldn't understand that these 'celebs' who get everything and think the world owes them something NEED to be told what for and it'd absolutely MAKE my afterlife if it could be me.
...actually, I might not make it to Heaven after all.
P.S. in the spirit of Pepys I should have documented stuff in the news. I completely missed out on the Raoul Moat thing (gotta love Gazza for turning up to an armed seige with a dressing gown, beer and a chicken), Snooker player Hurricane Higgins was found rotted into the carpet and covered in flies, the robbing bastard banks have made billions of profits but aren't going to be paying us back after we bailed them out of their mess.
SAY SORRY?
SOD THAT!
The role-play scenarios were based around me being a customer services person having to deal with complaints and issues. I, as I think many would, have a problem with apologising for stuff that clearly isn't MY BLEEDIN' FAULT!
....and that's why I must pursue my comedy career. I don't have it in me to be 'nice' to people which I guess is a requisite when it comes to public service. Blimey.
The only problem I have with the whole comedy thing is funding my travel from the back of bleedin beyond.
BUT, I may have solved this problem with a new business idea.
GINGERBREAD HITLERS!!
Everyone who's seen 'em love's em so let's see if the wider population love and buy them. Bought black icing for the uniform today although I think ol' Adolph wore a bit of a khaki coloured suit. I'll call the business Tasteless Tasties and work on a Sadam Hussain (with detached head) and possibly an Osama Bin Laden but that one might get me killed. That'd be embarrassing, a Jahad on me for dissing Osama.
So, Heaven - yeah. I'm writing a new set about how Heaven is going to potentially be a bit shit if we're not allowed to be ourselves properly. My idea of pure Heaven would involve me carrying my shit-list around with me, searching out celebs and people who've pissed me off and telling them that they what they really need to do is to to learn to fuck right off. I'd start with Cliff Richard, the pious bastard. Problem is, a short slightly dumpy girl telling him to fuck off might spoil Cliff's Heaven experience. There'd be questions asked and then the stupid Saints would get involved and who needs the opinion of some 13th Century twat who was probably murdered by people sick to fucking death of all of his bleating about God? They just wouldn't understand that these 'celebs' who get everything and think the world owes them something NEED to be told what for and it'd absolutely MAKE my afterlife if it could be me.
...actually, I might not make it to Heaven after all.
P.S. in the spirit of Pepys I should have documented stuff in the news. I completely missed out on the Raoul Moat thing (gotta love Gazza for turning up to an armed seige with a dressing gown, beer and a chicken), Snooker player Hurricane Higgins was found rotted into the carpet and covered in flies, the robbing bastard banks have made billions of profits but aren't going to be paying us back after we bailed them out of their mess.
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