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.
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.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Friday, 8 April 2011
Sex Slavery
So, I'm off to the London Comedy Writer's Festival for the weekend tomorrow. For some reason, my mother has it in her head that because I'll be alone I'm going to get kidnapped off the street and sold into sex slavery. Blimey. I couldn't even pull a rotten tooth out of the abscessed jaw of a long dead Jackal so I doubt any prospective pimp would eye me up and think I'd be worth the investment of time, criminality, and financial return. Well, not unless it was for some sort of specialist market I guess.
I was discussing this with my cousin and she agreed that neither of us was up to the ol' enforced prostitution thing. I ruefully reflected on the hurt I would feel when my imagined punter walked into the room I was being held in and (in my head) I saw him recoil in horror at the sight of my naked body and tatty looking growler. My cousin likened her own muff to a barnacle covered figurehead from the prow of a ship. Y'know, all seaweedy and frightening. We both sort of sat in silence on either end of the phone at this point, nodding to ourselves in understanding and unity. It's a bloody shame for us. I became lost in thought and heard the argument with the kidnapper/pimp who would be refusing to give a refund to the horrified punter who would in turn be saying that he wasn't paying good money to have a go on THAT old box and in the end my abductor would kindly tell me he was going to take me back to where he found me as I wasn't earning my keep and he was making a hefty loss on me. Serves the evil bastard right for picking a victim after an afternoon snorting Charlie if you ask me. He won't make THAT mistake again!
So yeah, I've probably over-shared. Collectively, my cousin and I would like to stress that our clunges (?) Clungi (?) Clunga (?), our LADY GARDENS are well tended, fragrant and lovely and if anyone wants to have sex with either of us they would NEVER recoil in horror, no siree (cough) and our inability to pull is down to us being so perfect we seem unobtainable to men. Erm, it's not because we're repulsive Harpies who've gone weird over time. Ok, so my cousin did recently punch a baked potato which caused her to lose a fair amount of skin off her hand but y'know, these things happen! I accidentally burned all the skin off one of my breasts by boiling my pants in a large bowl which I'd placed on a wobbly surface so these things can happen all so easily. Oh, and it's not because we exude 'fuck off' vibes whenever we meet people either. OK, so I kinda DO give off 'fuck off' vibes accidentally quite often but not all the time. Hell, I should probably stop here. I'm going to London tomorrow and my Mother thinks I'm going to be preyed on by weirdos. We'll leave it at that. I'm not the weirdo.
I was discussing this with my cousin and she agreed that neither of us was up to the ol' enforced prostitution thing. I ruefully reflected on the hurt I would feel when my imagined punter walked into the room I was being held in and (in my head) I saw him recoil in horror at the sight of my naked body and tatty looking growler. My cousin likened her own muff to a barnacle covered figurehead from the prow of a ship. Y'know, all seaweedy and frightening. We both sort of sat in silence on either end of the phone at this point, nodding to ourselves in understanding and unity. It's a bloody shame for us. I became lost in thought and heard the argument with the kidnapper/pimp who would be refusing to give a refund to the horrified punter who would in turn be saying that he wasn't paying good money to have a go on THAT old box and in the end my abductor would kindly tell me he was going to take me back to where he found me as I wasn't earning my keep and he was making a hefty loss on me. Serves the evil bastard right for picking a victim after an afternoon snorting Charlie if you ask me. He won't make THAT mistake again!
So yeah, I've probably over-shared. Collectively, my cousin and I would like to stress that our clunges (?) Clungi (?) Clunga (?), our LADY GARDENS are well tended, fragrant and lovely and if anyone wants to have sex with either of us they would NEVER recoil in horror, no siree (cough) and our inability to pull is down to us being so perfect we seem unobtainable to men. Erm, it's not because we're repulsive Harpies who've gone weird over time. Ok, so my cousin did recently punch a baked potato which caused her to lose a fair amount of skin off her hand but y'know, these things happen! I accidentally burned all the skin off one of my breasts by boiling my pants in a large bowl which I'd placed on a wobbly surface so these things can happen all so easily. Oh, and it's not because we exude 'fuck off' vibes whenever we meet people either. OK, so I kinda DO give off 'fuck off' vibes accidentally quite often but not all the time. Hell, I should probably stop here. I'm going to London tomorrow and my Mother thinks I'm going to be preyed on by weirdos. We'll leave it at that. I'm not the weirdo.
Monday, 4 April 2011
Tales of the dead
So, my dog died. He was great actually, he loved being dressed up to look ridiculous to the point I had to spend many an afternoon photo shopping his erection out of the photos I was to post on-line. Hang on, I'll post a photo of him:
Batdog - Scouser disguise
He was old and sick and whilst it broke the hearts of the Tidiness Nazi and I we had to send him on his way in the end. Shit. So, yesterday we took him to the beach to scatter his ashes in the sea. It was supposed to be a beautiful moment but during this tender moment the tide lapped up around my legs and I ended up with a tide mark of sea water and dog cremains all around the bottoms of my jeans. That was a precious moment for my memory bank. It put me in mind of when the entire family went to a lovely hill with my Grandfather's ashes, had one of those tender family moments where everyone has a laugh reminiscing about funny stuff the deceased has done, and then scattered him to the wind.
....which promptly changed direction and blew him back into everyone's eyes. Terrible, it really was (she said, stifling a laugh).
Actually, that reminds me of another dead story involving the dog. A few years ago the Nazi and I took him for a walk in the local park. A bit further down the path and to the side there was a solemn group of people standing around a bush. As we got near they sort of dispersed and walked towards us looking all sad and we realised they had scattered someones ashes around it. The dog only went up and pissed all over the lot didn't he? The horror of trying to shout quietly at a pissing dog so as not to alert the crying mourners was a nightmare of biblical proportions (she exagerated). Looking back at the people, my eyes on stalks, hoping against hope that no one would look back was terrible. On the way back later a little Yorkshire Terrier was pissing all over them too. There's a lesson for us all, DON'T scatter your relatives ashes around a bush in a public park.
Here's another pic of the dog. He's wearing Halloween teeth in this shot and this seems to be everyone's favourite pic of him.:
Halloween Teeth
Oh god, I've remembered yet ANOTHER dead thing to tell you about now! A while back I learned that my Grandmother's ashes are in my mother's airing cupboard and have been there for bloody YEARS.
My Grandmother
The family can't seem to find a convenient time or place to scatter them. More recently my Uncle Clive's ashes joined her. Seems we have another aunt's ashes somewhere in the family too so I'm guessing that is my legacy. A cupboard of dead relatives. Niiiice.
Monday, 28 March 2011
Poo and dilemmas
In the spirit of remembering all the stuff I was supposed to diarise but forgot, I'd like to go back a couple of weeks to my Mother's sickness. Yeah, I know; I've said it before and I'll say it again, as far as being as good a diarist as Sammy Pepys I'm pretty shit. Should I mention Gaddaffi? Is that even how you spell Gadaffi? Hang on, let me Google him......Bollocks - it's GadDafi. Double D. Actually, before we go on - have you seen his bleedin' face? Shiit man. Who's he trying to attract? Y'know, some women go for the powerful despot type and well, powerful despots aren't known for their handsome-ness (is that even a word?) and I guess that if that's the type you go for a few wrinkles aren't going to upset you too much. Hang on again, when I just Googled him I saw a link to something about his cosmetic surgery..... Oh laugh, look at this quote..."The Brazilian doctor said he recommended a facelift to Gaddafi, 68, but he refused as he wanted something that would be less noticeable".
So, back to my Mother's illness. She lives about 4 hours away from me so I'd been monitoring her complaints of having massive shivers and violent shits hoping she had a bit of an upset stomach and would throw it off. I was getting mixed messages from the family; they all said she was ok but the woman across the road (a nurse) kept calling to say she was at deaths door and no one seemed to care! Basically, I felt like the worst daughter on the face of the planet so I managed to get some emergency time off work and I headed up there. She was in a bad way but I did notice she put on an extra croaky/victim voice whenever anyone called or came over. Hell, we all do it - phoning in sick from work (can't sound too healthy!) or just wanting a bit of sympathy so I figured I'd give her that one. There are just 2 more things I want to mention about those few days away.
First (and will I ever lose the image burned into my brain?), at one point, my Mother called me upstairs to look at the colour and consistency of her shit. WHY OH WHY? I had a split second to decide on what level of good daughterliness I was going for and whether my future inheritance was worth looking at the bowel movements of the woman who brought me into the world. Damn, yes. Yes the future inheritance was worth it and I duly stood looking silently down the bowl at the black, brackish water. What was I expected to say? It looked like a it should have twigs and the Lindow Man sticking out of it. I sort of raised my eyebrows, 'ooh'-ed a bit, let out a big sigh and said 'Yeah' weakly. Weirdly she seemed to accept that and flushed the blackness away.
Ooh, hang on - there was another poo situation. The nurse from across the road bought a special blue topped container thing especially for shit samples so I could take it to the doctor for testing. As a loving daughter I agreed and the next day slipped the thing in my bag. Unfortunately, turns out my Mother had done it the night before and it wasn't fresh enough so the poo was rejected! I only had to carry the thing around with me all day! Y'think that's bad? I kept forgetting to chuck it away - it had a label with my mother's name and date of birth on it so I couldn't really dump THE DUMP anywhere! Had the bugger with me for about 3 days before I finally just put it in with my Mother's household rubbish. I felt bad as it was a bio hazard. There was a part of me that wished I could keep it so's I could dramatically throw it in the face of an attacker. Of course, I doubt any attacker would stand and wait whilst I rummaged through my handbag looking for a container of stale shit.
The last thing is sort of a confession and it's terrible. On the first night I arrived my Mother could do little more than sleep. I went to the veranda and got some food for myself out of the freezer. Next night I went back and all the ice cubes had melted. Huh? I made sure I closed the freezer door properly but the next night all the meat felt soft. SHIIIIT. I'm vegetarian so I wasn't eating it but hell, was I now going to have to tell a very sick woman I'd cost her hundreds of ££s worth of spoiled meat? I couldn't do it. I closed the door again and hoped it would all re-freeze. Then the guilt set in. The woman was already shitting herself to death. Was I on the verge of keeping quiet and allowing her delicate bodily eco-system to ingest a load of spoiled food? FUCK, I could kill her. Could I kill her this way? Oh god - do I get bawled at by a sick woman I've come over to care for (I'm perhaps a shittier carer than I am diarist) or poison the poor cow to death? I suspect I'm an evil genius. I told her I was concerned the stuff in her freezer wasn't very frozen and wondered whether it had given her food poisoning. She threw it all away so I think I got away with it.
I'm so ashamed
So, back to my Mother's illness. She lives about 4 hours away from me so I'd been monitoring her complaints of having massive shivers and violent shits hoping she had a bit of an upset stomach and would throw it off. I was getting mixed messages from the family; they all said she was ok but the woman across the road (a nurse) kept calling to say she was at deaths door and no one seemed to care! Basically, I felt like the worst daughter on the face of the planet so I managed to get some emergency time off work and I headed up there. She was in a bad way but I did notice she put on an extra croaky/victim voice whenever anyone called or came over. Hell, we all do it - phoning in sick from work (can't sound too healthy!) or just wanting a bit of sympathy so I figured I'd give her that one. There are just 2 more things I want to mention about those few days away.
First (and will I ever lose the image burned into my brain?), at one point, my Mother called me upstairs to look at the colour and consistency of her shit. WHY OH WHY? I had a split second to decide on what level of good daughterliness I was going for and whether my future inheritance was worth looking at the bowel movements of the woman who brought me into the world. Damn, yes. Yes the future inheritance was worth it and I duly stood looking silently down the bowl at the black, brackish water. What was I expected to say? It looked like a it should have twigs and the Lindow Man sticking out of it. I sort of raised my eyebrows, 'ooh'-ed a bit, let out a big sigh and said 'Yeah' weakly. Weirdly she seemed to accept that and flushed the blackness away.
Ooh, hang on - there was another poo situation. The nurse from across the road bought a special blue topped container thing especially for shit samples so I could take it to the doctor for testing. As a loving daughter I agreed and the next day slipped the thing in my bag. Unfortunately, turns out my Mother had done it the night before and it wasn't fresh enough so the poo was rejected! I only had to carry the thing around with me all day! Y'think that's bad? I kept forgetting to chuck it away - it had a label with my mother's name and date of birth on it so I couldn't really dump THE DUMP anywhere! Had the bugger with me for about 3 days before I finally just put it in with my Mother's household rubbish. I felt bad as it was a bio hazard. There was a part of me that wished I could keep it so's I could dramatically throw it in the face of an attacker. Of course, I doubt any attacker would stand and wait whilst I rummaged through my handbag looking for a container of stale shit.
The last thing is sort of a confession and it's terrible. On the first night I arrived my Mother could do little more than sleep. I went to the veranda and got some food for myself out of the freezer. Next night I went back and all the ice cubes had melted. Huh? I made sure I closed the freezer door properly but the next night all the meat felt soft. SHIIIIT. I'm vegetarian so I wasn't eating it but hell, was I now going to have to tell a very sick woman I'd cost her hundreds of ££s worth of spoiled meat? I couldn't do it. I closed the door again and hoped it would all re-freeze. Then the guilt set in. The woman was already shitting herself to death. Was I on the verge of keeping quiet and allowing her delicate bodily eco-system to ingest a load of spoiled food? FUCK, I could kill her. Could I kill her this way? Oh god - do I get bawled at by a sick woman I've come over to care for (I'm perhaps a shittier carer than I am diarist) or poison the poor cow to death? I suspect I'm an evil genius. I told her I was concerned the stuff in her freezer wasn't very frozen and wondered whether it had given her food poisoning. She threw it all away so I think I got away with it.
I'm so ashamed
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Suitcase Fun
I've been a bit quiet of late haven't I? Oh well, I guess no one really cares and I've had very little to say any way. I recently got lost in deep thought after seeing a notice for Tap dancing classes on the wall in the kitchen back at the office. I had a sudden vision of me in the shitty church hall Tap dancing at high speed with an enormous smile on my face. Tap dancers always have enormous smiles don't they? People often perceive them as gigantic wankers but hell, they're bloody happy and in my head I was really pleased with myself and having an absolute Tap dancing ball! I discussed this with my pal Bison and his Tap dancing happiness theory was that Tap dancing originated in 'the olden days' when people knew no better and this was quality entertainment. I reflected then that if playing with a hoop and a stick back then was akin to having an X-Box, then Tap dancing must be like having a Wii. Of course we realised we were talking utter shit but it seemed like a serious historical conversation at the time. Not the type of historical conversation someone like say, David Mitchell might have, but a historical conversation nonetheless.
Ooh, I forgot - I can do a bit of Samuel Pepys-ing: proper news here; Elizabeth Taylor kicked the bucket today. Shit, that reminded me. As perhaps the crappiest of diarists, I didn't log the huge Earthquake and Tsunami situation which has fucked Japan did I? Rather in-eloquently (is that even a word?) I can say it was REALLY bad shit. Actually, really REALLY bad shit. If anyone in the future is reading this (who am I kidding?) there are much better accounts of what happened pretty much ANYWHERE else you'd care to look. Sigh, I'm so bloody rubbish.
Any hoo, I called this entry 'Suitcase Fun' and here we come to another of my reveries. Yesterday I had to attend an all day training session on Safeguarding Vulnerable Adults so I had great scope to get lost in thought. At one point the trainer used the example of a guy who'd ended up allowing bad people (bad is probably a bit of a weak description actually) to live in his flat but they murdered him and put his body in a suitcase! After the initial feelings of 'bloody hell, poor bugger!' I started thinking about the haunted suitcase I took away with me last year. It was deep and I wondered if I would fit into it (whilst alive).
I was totally gone. I knew I wouldn't be able to zip it up myself so would have to enlist the assistance of housemate and famed Tidiness Nazi Steph to help. I guessed she would but then would have to have a laugh to herself by walking away and leaving me! Hell, I could feel the claustrophobia and hear my weakening voice as I tried to bawl at her in a commanding way to demand that she unzip me. Later on I shared my fears that she would one day soon zip me into an enormous suitcase and would then just leave me in it for hours as I slowly suffocated. Hell, who knows if suitcases allow air in? I would guess not and that's why so many dead people end up in them. Do they leak bodily fluids or allow the stink out? NO, I don't think they do and that is why it would be bad for me to be completely zipped up in one. We came to an agreement that should I, at some time in the near future, ask her to assist me in being sealed up in the haunted suitcase, she leaves gap enough for me to breathe through. I am pleased to announce that this agreement has been reached.
I was then lost in thought again. I could see the suitcase in front of the tv with just one of my eyes peering out of the gap. I actually took comfort in this vision. It sounds lovely.
...apart from the fact the sodding haunted suitcase would never stand up on it's own. I'd be mightily pissed off if it fell over and I was unable to see anything. Is it wrong to fancy Sportacus from Lazy Town?
Ooh, I forgot - I can do a bit of Samuel Pepys-ing: proper news here; Elizabeth Taylor kicked the bucket today. Shit, that reminded me. As perhaps the crappiest of diarists, I didn't log the huge Earthquake and Tsunami situation which has fucked Japan did I? Rather in-eloquently (is that even a word?) I can say it was REALLY bad shit. Actually, really REALLY bad shit. If anyone in the future is reading this (who am I kidding?) there are much better accounts of what happened pretty much ANYWHERE else you'd care to look. Sigh, I'm so bloody rubbish.
Any hoo, I called this entry 'Suitcase Fun' and here we come to another of my reveries. Yesterday I had to attend an all day training session on Safeguarding Vulnerable Adults so I had great scope to get lost in thought. At one point the trainer used the example of a guy who'd ended up allowing bad people (bad is probably a bit of a weak description actually) to live in his flat but they murdered him and put his body in a suitcase! After the initial feelings of 'bloody hell, poor bugger!' I started thinking about the haunted suitcase I took away with me last year. It was deep and I wondered if I would fit into it (whilst alive).
I was totally gone. I knew I wouldn't be able to zip it up myself so would have to enlist the assistance of housemate and famed Tidiness Nazi Steph to help. I guessed she would but then would have to have a laugh to herself by walking away and leaving me! Hell, I could feel the claustrophobia and hear my weakening voice as I tried to bawl at her in a commanding way to demand that she unzip me. Later on I shared my fears that she would one day soon zip me into an enormous suitcase and would then just leave me in it for hours as I slowly suffocated. Hell, who knows if suitcases allow air in? I would guess not and that's why so many dead people end up in them. Do they leak bodily fluids or allow the stink out? NO, I don't think they do and that is why it would be bad for me to be completely zipped up in one. We came to an agreement that should I, at some time in the near future, ask her to assist me in being sealed up in the haunted suitcase, she leaves gap enough for me to breathe through. I am pleased to announce that this agreement has been reached.
I was then lost in thought again. I could see the suitcase in front of the tv with just one of my eyes peering out of the gap. I actually took comfort in this vision. It sounds lovely.
...apart from the fact the sodding haunted suitcase would never stand up on it's own. I'd be mightily pissed off if it fell over and I was unable to see anything. Is it wrong to fancy Sportacus from Lazy Town?
Thursday, 20 January 2011
The Ring
There has been a great deal of cretiny in my life of late. Most of it, I'm ashamed to say, is of my own making. The good news is that I am now free of BIG RED - he (?) is now in a landfill somewhere rotting down into the environment only to be found by future archaeologists who will be amazed that the fucking batteries still work. They, no doubt, will use some future technology to recreate me from some random DNA I've left on the bleedin' thing and then I will go on display in some future human zoo as the sad loser wrongly accused of having had to use technology to get myself off rather than by meeting an actual living human being. Of course I'll argue that I was appalled at the thing, it was a gift, I never used it but no, the future humans will nod sagely to each other and comment that I am clearly displaying the 'olden days' emotion of guilt and that I am one lying shit who cannot be trusted. Pah, even the future humans are against me. Actually, how dare they expect me to justify myself to them - down with future humans I say!
I am aware that I think too much.
So, cretiny. Yeah. I haven't finished wallpapering my bedroom yet. I physically gave up the will to live and it has now taken so long to do I genuinely cannot bring forth the enthusiasm I started with. Not that I actually started with much enthusiasm. Enthusiasm isn't a feeling I'm very familiar with. My default setting is apathy and it's a state I'm really rather happy with.
I told you I got stained blue didn't I? I can't remember but if I didn't then yeah, I woke up with a blue hue to my skin. Even my toe nails were blue which was totally ridiculous, especially as I had a gig. I mean, it's not normal is it? I don't know of ANYONE else who goes to bed perfectly normal and then wakes up the next morning BLUE! Some people reflected I might have something seriously wrong with me but I couldn't be bothered to check it out. I felt ok so I guessed it must have come from the new Union Jack bedding my mother had bought me for Christmas. Any way, the good news is that I am no longer blue but I am aware the Fates are still out there yanking my chain for their own delight. Which leads me to THE RING.
Yeah, this is a new and significantly humiliating moment to add to my memory bank of humiliating moments. It's not in the same calibre as the time I got flashed at and engaged apologetically with my pervert of the day or the time I frightened all those old people in the sea with my screaming and running across the surface of the ocean in terror 'cause I thought a dead sailor had touched me but yeah, this is pretty humiliating and PAINFUL too. I guess I need to share in order to get it out of my head so that I can move on.
So, (sigh). Bought a chunky ring with 3 big blue turquoise-type stones (I doubt it was real turquoise 'cause the band of the thing made my finger go green). I had been wearing it on my ring finger but it was too big and I found it really annoying. It wouldn't fit on my middle finger but I tried every couple of days or so just 'cause I was so annoyed at it twisting around the other finger. Any way, a woman at work asked to try it on and with a bit of pushing she got it over the knuckle of her middle finger. This made me think that I should just do the same which was a bit stupid of me really as I don't have big knuckles, my fingers are horrible peasant fingers made for working the land. Like stupid square shovels rather than pretty piano players fingers.
Herein lies my first stupid act. I pushed the ring onto my middle finger. Yeah it was tight and I did feel a bit of panic 'cause I knew it wouldn't come off but I ignored this. Later on I fell asleep on the floor with my feet up the fire and my head on a Spongebob beanbag. I woke up about midnight with a pain in my finger. Yup - swollen big time. SHIIIIIT, I put it under the cold tap to try to bring down the swelling but my attempts to get it off were futile. It was now about 12.20am and I realised with a sickening jolt I would have to attempt some self surgery.
I am questioning my thought process now - you'd all attempt the self surgery route too wouldn't you? Any way, that's what I did but 2 girls sharing a house - we've got no fucking tools, nothing useful, nothing helpful in a situation like this. So, I spied the rack of kitchen knives and knew what I'd have to do. I have this surreal memory in my head of me standing in the kitchen at about 1am with my hand flat on the work surface with the Tidiness Nazi arguing with me that I shouldn't be doing what I was about to do. Hell, she was probably right but I could think of no alternative. I chose a big knife with a serrated edge and began sawing away at the band of the ring. The big problem was the swollen finger which was in the way and getting sliced at regular intervals. I'm left handed and was completing the task awkwardly so the Tidiness Nazi bravely decided she must take over. First cut slipped and scored a giant flap of skin through my finger. My language was deeply unpleasant and un-Christian (good thing I'm not Christian really). I took over again but all the blood and metal shavings were getting in the way. I broke through the band but the ring was so thick it wouldn't come apart and slip off my finger.
I knew I'd have to start again and take a chunk out the band. The cycle started again. More knife wounds to my fingers, more blood, more metal in the wounds and more bad language. I eventually broke through another part of the band and removed the middle of the band. It STILL wouldn't come off and all I'd done was make all of my fingers swollen, especially the one with the ring on which now had 2 sharp metal shards of ring stabbing deep into it. It was blue and the time was now about 2.30am.
Frustration and pain overcame me and I cried that I may as well do the same as that bloke in the new Danny Boyle film and just cut the fucking thing off (how melodramatic can I get?) At this, the Tidiness Nazi ventured forth the idea that we needed the fire service with cutting equipment. I said no way. She ignored me and called them. I wanted to curl up and die. Because of all the blood they said they'd come out and come out they did. I was forced upstairs to change out of my dinner stained pajamas (you never expect fire men to come to your house in the wee hours do you?). It took 'em about 40 minutes to get the sodding ring off. They were surprised too.
Well, 2 days later and my fingers look like they're covered in defence wounds after a frenzied attack by a maniac. That maniac was me. I'm so ashamed...
I am aware that I think too much.
So, cretiny. Yeah. I haven't finished wallpapering my bedroom yet. I physically gave up the will to live and it has now taken so long to do I genuinely cannot bring forth the enthusiasm I started with. Not that I actually started with much enthusiasm. Enthusiasm isn't a feeling I'm very familiar with. My default setting is apathy and it's a state I'm really rather happy with.
I told you I got stained blue didn't I? I can't remember but if I didn't then yeah, I woke up with a blue hue to my skin. Even my toe nails were blue which was totally ridiculous, especially as I had a gig. I mean, it's not normal is it? I don't know of ANYONE else who goes to bed perfectly normal and then wakes up the next morning BLUE! Some people reflected I might have something seriously wrong with me but I couldn't be bothered to check it out. I felt ok so I guessed it must have come from the new Union Jack bedding my mother had bought me for Christmas. Any way, the good news is that I am no longer blue but I am aware the Fates are still out there yanking my chain for their own delight. Which leads me to THE RING.
Yeah, this is a new and significantly humiliating moment to add to my memory bank of humiliating moments. It's not in the same calibre as the time I got flashed at and engaged apologetically with my pervert of the day or the time I frightened all those old people in the sea with my screaming and running across the surface of the ocean in terror 'cause I thought a dead sailor had touched me but yeah, this is pretty humiliating and PAINFUL too. I guess I need to share in order to get it out of my head so that I can move on.
So, (sigh). Bought a chunky ring with 3 big blue turquoise-type stones (I doubt it was real turquoise 'cause the band of the thing made my finger go green). I had been wearing it on my ring finger but it was too big and I found it really annoying. It wouldn't fit on my middle finger but I tried every couple of days or so just 'cause I was so annoyed at it twisting around the other finger. Any way, a woman at work asked to try it on and with a bit of pushing she got it over the knuckle of her middle finger. This made me think that I should just do the same which was a bit stupid of me really as I don't have big knuckles, my fingers are horrible peasant fingers made for working the land. Like stupid square shovels rather than pretty piano players fingers.
Herein lies my first stupid act. I pushed the ring onto my middle finger. Yeah it was tight and I did feel a bit of panic 'cause I knew it wouldn't come off but I ignored this. Later on I fell asleep on the floor with my feet up the fire and my head on a Spongebob beanbag. I woke up about midnight with a pain in my finger. Yup - swollen big time. SHIIIIIT, I put it under the cold tap to try to bring down the swelling but my attempts to get it off were futile. It was now about 12.20am and I realised with a sickening jolt I would have to attempt some self surgery.
I am questioning my thought process now - you'd all attempt the self surgery route too wouldn't you? Any way, that's what I did but 2 girls sharing a house - we've got no fucking tools, nothing useful, nothing helpful in a situation like this. So, I spied the rack of kitchen knives and knew what I'd have to do. I have this surreal memory in my head of me standing in the kitchen at about 1am with my hand flat on the work surface with the Tidiness Nazi arguing with me that I shouldn't be doing what I was about to do. Hell, she was probably right but I could think of no alternative. I chose a big knife with a serrated edge and began sawing away at the band of the ring. The big problem was the swollen finger which was in the way and getting sliced at regular intervals. I'm left handed and was completing the task awkwardly so the Tidiness Nazi bravely decided she must take over. First cut slipped and scored a giant flap of skin through my finger. My language was deeply unpleasant and un-Christian (good thing I'm not Christian really). I took over again but all the blood and metal shavings were getting in the way. I broke through the band but the ring was so thick it wouldn't come apart and slip off my finger.
I knew I'd have to start again and take a chunk out the band. The cycle started again. More knife wounds to my fingers, more blood, more metal in the wounds and more bad language. I eventually broke through another part of the band and removed the middle of the band. It STILL wouldn't come off and all I'd done was make all of my fingers swollen, especially the one with the ring on which now had 2 sharp metal shards of ring stabbing deep into it. It was blue and the time was now about 2.30am.
Frustration and pain overcame me and I cried that I may as well do the same as that bloke in the new Danny Boyle film and just cut the fucking thing off (how melodramatic can I get?) At this, the Tidiness Nazi ventured forth the idea that we needed the fire service with cutting equipment. I said no way. She ignored me and called them. I wanted to curl up and die. Because of all the blood they said they'd come out and come out they did. I was forced upstairs to change out of my dinner stained pajamas (you never expect fire men to come to your house in the wee hours do you?). It took 'em about 40 minutes to get the sodding ring off. They were surprised too.
Well, 2 days later and my fingers look like they're covered in defence wounds after a frenzied attack by a maniac. That maniac was me. I'm so ashamed...
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Big Red
Oh God, what am I doing posting this entry? I'll warn you, it's over disclosing on a MAJOR scale and really rather graphic (for those of a sensitive disposition). Do not read if you are easily shocked or hold me in some fond esteem.
Deep breath, OK, here we go:
Actually, to begin with I need to tell you about the next decorating debacle. Remember a few entries back I told you smugly that I had bought a load of paint and was going to be the best bedroom decorator out of me and the Tidiness Nazi housemate? That was about 12 seconds before I accidentally poured half the tin down myself and all over my stuff. I carried on and then realised I absolutely bloody hated the colour I'd chosen and so the room got left partially decorated. I then lost interest and my hovel looked even worse. Then I decided I wanted to get some really bad retro wallpaper but couldn't source anything awful enough locally and the postage costs buying the good stuff on-line outweighed the 'taste-from-up-my-arse' desire. In the end I just went to B&Q and bought some kids wall paper which was blue with giant hippy flowers. After Christmas (Oh, Happy New Year by the way) I decided to spend a couple of days wanging the paper up and then I'd get to work on the serious comedy writing project I need to start working on (will share at a later date). Well, I've never wallpapered before and, Christ on a bike, I wish I'd bought more frickin paint now! Had to throw the first strip away 'cause it ripped and I'd got huge bloodied fingerprints all over it. They wouldn't sodding wipe off properly either - WHO gets covered in blood putting a simple piece of wallpaper on a wall? I must be some major kind of moron I tell you.
Anyhoo, I'm getting to the point and the over-sharing bit now. As part of my decorating plan I am going through my room like a dose of salts, being brutal and chucking loads of unnecessary shit away. I have a problem throwing away anything with a face - it looks at me from the rubbish bag with sad and judgemental eyes and it's been even worse since I saw Toy Story.....
So, I started on one of my shelves full of boxes, old CDs and videos. Decided to have a major chucking away/donating to charity session. Then I came across IT.
....I paused.
IT had been hidden for so long it was covered in dust. Due to the material IT was made from (a sort of rubbery stuff) the dust was stuck to it. I paused, freedom from it within my grasp, took my courage and threw it into the black bin liner. It sort of felt good but my paranoia kicked in. The same paranoia which had prevented the action in the past. You may have guessed what IT is but if not, here is the story up until this point.
A few years ago a friend of mine became an Anne Summers party planner (for non-UK readers, Anne Summers is the acceptable face of sex toys for women). She didn't seem the type but had a ball selling the stuff and one day we had a graphic conversation about her Rampant Rabbit (google it if you don't know....) I almost died. Despite not being born in this country I have become really rather British and uptight about stuff. Not all stuff, I mean I'm a Stand Up and talk about all kinds of inappropriate things but I guess my own sexuality is something I am rather uptight about now. I've been single for soooooo long I reckon I've either healed up 'down there' or shut down completely. My eyes wide and not really knowing where to put myself I was told all about how wonderful the Rabbit was and how many orgasms she had in each sitting (?) I'm guessing the single friend with no hope of pulling a rotten tooth out of a dead horses head let alone a bloke must have seemed pathetic to her and one day she presented me with a rabbit of my own.
Oh God. I did think about having a 'go' but really, I'm the kind of girl who wants to be with someone and lost in the moment not sitting there fully awake with a giant red mechanical thing making a hell of a racket between my legs. Oh God. Further investigations with friends made me realise LOADS of people are happy to settle (is this settling?) for this type of sexual encounter. Any way, the upshot of the situation was I hid the bugger but then worried.
Worried?
Yeah, worried. Worried that I would die and my poor old mother would come to my hovel to go lovingly through her beloved, baby's stuff only to find out that she's A MASSIVE BLOODY SEXUAL DEVIANT! I also worried that police would come and go through my room after I'd been murdered in order to build up a picture of me to share with the public and they would find out I was A MASSIVE BLOODY SEXUAL DEVIANT who was unable to pull a proper human being. I think that was the main thing. In death I'd be remembered as someone who was unable to pull a proper human being and so had to resort to machinery.
Well, having spent years hiding it in various places, too scared to throw it away lest it should somehow be traced back to me I finally did it, I threw the fucker away.
Last night the Tidiness Nazi busied herself engaging in Tidiness Nazi-ism. As part of this she went around the side of the house to bring the rubbish to the front so the dustmen would take it all away this morning. As I sat around engaging my my task of slovenliness she came in, a look of wonderment on her face.
"Did you throw Big Red away?"
"Erm, yeah. How'd you know?
She indicated I should follow her and with a fair amount of trepidation I did. She led me to the pile of bin bags (we'd missed the last collection). One was vibrating very VERY loudly. Ohhhhhhh Godddddddd I groaned.
"Leave it, it's late and the batteries will have run down by morning" I said grumpily.
We did. Every time we passed the front door we could hear the sound of buzzing. It was like my accuser. After an hour it was still going strong and my paranoia reached it's peak. Bleedin hell, what if one of the neighbours walked past and decided to investigate the sound. Bloody hell, what if ALL the neighbours came out to investigate the sound thinking something was seriously wrong with our house and we were all about to DIE! Bloody hell, what if it was still going this morning when the dustmen came and they ripped the bag apart to find out what the sound was and then left it on our doorstep 'cause it was not within their remit to remove! I could stand it no more, we went out and lifted up bag after bag in order to find which one was vibrating. When I found it I shiftily ran into the house and searched for my mechanical nemesis. Once found (it did hide, I have to say) I quickly opened the back and allowed the FOUR batteries to drop out. You know what pisses me off? You leave some random thing for 4 weeks and the battery leaks acid all over it and the object is dead. You leave a Rampant Rabbit for maybe 4 years and the thing works like it was brand new and ready for action. I tied the bag up and went to bed.
I got up this morning and left the house to go to work. I glanced guiltily across at the black bags.
THE BLOODY THING WAS ONLY STICKING OUT THROUGH A HOLE IN THE CHEAP BIN BAGS WE'D BOUGHT!
Y'know, sometimes I envy the dead.....
Deep breath, OK, here we go:
Actually, to begin with I need to tell you about the next decorating debacle. Remember a few entries back I told you smugly that I had bought a load of paint and was going to be the best bedroom decorator out of me and the Tidiness Nazi housemate? That was about 12 seconds before I accidentally poured half the tin down myself and all over my stuff. I carried on and then realised I absolutely bloody hated the colour I'd chosen and so the room got left partially decorated. I then lost interest and my hovel looked even worse. Then I decided I wanted to get some really bad retro wallpaper but couldn't source anything awful enough locally and the postage costs buying the good stuff on-line outweighed the 'taste-from-up-my-arse' desire. In the end I just went to B&Q and bought some kids wall paper which was blue with giant hippy flowers. After Christmas (Oh, Happy New Year by the way) I decided to spend a couple of days wanging the paper up and then I'd get to work on the serious comedy writing project I need to start working on (will share at a later date). Well, I've never wallpapered before and, Christ on a bike, I wish I'd bought more frickin paint now! Had to throw the first strip away 'cause it ripped and I'd got huge bloodied fingerprints all over it. They wouldn't sodding wipe off properly either - WHO gets covered in blood putting a simple piece of wallpaper on a wall? I must be some major kind of moron I tell you.
Anyhoo, I'm getting to the point and the over-sharing bit now. As part of my decorating plan I am going through my room like a dose of salts, being brutal and chucking loads of unnecessary shit away. I have a problem throwing away anything with a face - it looks at me from the rubbish bag with sad and judgemental eyes and it's been even worse since I saw Toy Story.....
So, I started on one of my shelves full of boxes, old CDs and videos. Decided to have a major chucking away/donating to charity session. Then I came across IT.
....I paused.
IT had been hidden for so long it was covered in dust. Due to the material IT was made from (a sort of rubbery stuff) the dust was stuck to it. I paused, freedom from it within my grasp, took my courage and threw it into the black bin liner. It sort of felt good but my paranoia kicked in. The same paranoia which had prevented the action in the past. You may have guessed what IT is but if not, here is the story up until this point.
A few years ago a friend of mine became an Anne Summers party planner (for non-UK readers, Anne Summers is the acceptable face of sex toys for women). She didn't seem the type but had a ball selling the stuff and one day we had a graphic conversation about her Rampant Rabbit (google it if you don't know....) I almost died. Despite not being born in this country I have become really rather British and uptight about stuff. Not all stuff, I mean I'm a Stand Up and talk about all kinds of inappropriate things but I guess my own sexuality is something I am rather uptight about now. I've been single for soooooo long I reckon I've either healed up 'down there' or shut down completely. My eyes wide and not really knowing where to put myself I was told all about how wonderful the Rabbit was and how many orgasms she had in each sitting (?) I'm guessing the single friend with no hope of pulling a rotten tooth out of a dead horses head let alone a bloke must have seemed pathetic to her and one day she presented me with a rabbit of my own.
Oh God. I did think about having a 'go' but really, I'm the kind of girl who wants to be with someone and lost in the moment not sitting there fully awake with a giant red mechanical thing making a hell of a racket between my legs. Oh God. Further investigations with friends made me realise LOADS of people are happy to settle (is this settling?) for this type of sexual encounter. Any way, the upshot of the situation was I hid the bugger but then worried.
Worried?
Yeah, worried. Worried that I would die and my poor old mother would come to my hovel to go lovingly through her beloved, baby's stuff only to find out that she's A MASSIVE BLOODY SEXUAL DEVIANT! I also worried that police would come and go through my room after I'd been murdered in order to build up a picture of me to share with the public and they would find out I was A MASSIVE BLOODY SEXUAL DEVIANT who was unable to pull a proper human being. I think that was the main thing. In death I'd be remembered as someone who was unable to pull a proper human being and so had to resort to machinery.
Well, having spent years hiding it in various places, too scared to throw it away lest it should somehow be traced back to me I finally did it, I threw the fucker away.
Last night the Tidiness Nazi busied herself engaging in Tidiness Nazi-ism. As part of this she went around the side of the house to bring the rubbish to the front so the dustmen would take it all away this morning. As I sat around engaging my my task of slovenliness she came in, a look of wonderment on her face.
"Did you throw Big Red away?"
"Erm, yeah. How'd you know?
She indicated I should follow her and with a fair amount of trepidation I did. She led me to the pile of bin bags (we'd missed the last collection). One was vibrating very VERY loudly. Ohhhhhhh Godddddddd I groaned.
"Leave it, it's late and the batteries will have run down by morning" I said grumpily.
We did. Every time we passed the front door we could hear the sound of buzzing. It was like my accuser. After an hour it was still going strong and my paranoia reached it's peak. Bleedin hell, what if one of the neighbours walked past and decided to investigate the sound. Bloody hell, what if ALL the neighbours came out to investigate the sound thinking something was seriously wrong with our house and we were all about to DIE! Bloody hell, what if it was still going this morning when the dustmen came and they ripped the bag apart to find out what the sound was and then left it on our doorstep 'cause it was not within their remit to remove! I could stand it no more, we went out and lifted up bag after bag in order to find which one was vibrating. When I found it I shiftily ran into the house and searched for my mechanical nemesis. Once found (it did hide, I have to say) I quickly opened the back and allowed the FOUR batteries to drop out. You know what pisses me off? You leave some random thing for 4 weeks and the battery leaks acid all over it and the object is dead. You leave a Rampant Rabbit for maybe 4 years and the thing works like it was brand new and ready for action. I tied the bag up and went to bed.
I got up this morning and left the house to go to work. I glanced guiltily across at the black bags.
THE BLOODY THING WAS ONLY STICKING OUT THROUGH A HOLE IN THE CHEAP BIN BAGS WE'D BOUGHT!
Y'know, sometimes I envy the dead.....
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