Jesus and the Daves

Just returned from a birthday visit to my Mother which is always an experience.  Experience One involved me having to attend the burial and small funeral service for half a dead mouse she found in the garden.  The ARSE end of the dead mouse at that.  My cousin's cat has recently gone to live with her and despite the evidence being a bit on the circumstantial side, he is the prime suspect.  In fact, not so much a suspect but the official guilty party.  No trial, no witnesses, no nothing - just half a corpse.

The other observation I have involves her TV.  She has about 4 different remote controls and it drives me crazy as I can never work out which one does what!  I don't even know why she bothers; the TV is always set to some US Crime channel and she just watches CSI (NY, Vegas and the dreadful Miami one - how did that ginger arse David Caruso ever get work? He looks like his eyes have been sewn in with red thread, he over acts in a comedy mean and moody way - but he believes it, and is a thoroughly unlikeable person.  Out of the 3 in the franchise, his is the shittest by far), NCIS, Law and Order and god, other similar shows all night EVERY night.  I actually found myself appreciating them, even the one's I'd seen the previous night and knew what was going to happen, and that's why I could never go back there to live permanently.  I might just give up on rational thought in order to sit with an anaesthetised brain watching made up crime.  At least I'll know if someone is poisoning me with Selenium - I'll have horrendous garlic breath. 

...and so to THE conversation.  Before I continue, I have to advise that whilst I love my extended family, they can be very judgemental, mocking and erm.....I won't beat around the bush - EVIL.  I had mentioned to my Mother that I hadn't been feeling very unwell and my (cough) lady internal bits seemed a bit sluggish and, being the hypochondriac that I am, I was assuming I was terminally ill. 

Mother:  You aren't PREGNANT are you?
Me: Well, he hasn't performed that one since Bethlehem actually Mother.

That brief exchange made me reflect and once I again I got lost in bizarre and unnatural thoughts.  I did think that if the Lord was going to pick someone to carry the new Messiah, she'd at least have to be a genuine virgin and not someone who's basically become 're-virginated' due to the very real fact she can't get any!  I then thought about me having a new Messiah and how 'the family' would behave.  Of course, they wouldn't be supportive or believing.  They'd mock us both.  They'd laugh behind our backs and question why he was wearing a dress, take the piss out of his sandals and whisper about his decision to hang about with 12 other guys.  They'd make snippy comments that his hair was too long and that his beard would look like he'd got a vagina stuck to his face.  In fact, his secret family nickname would be 'fanny-face'.  See, I know my family, have heard the stuff they've said about people and know that this would be the way.  No Messiah, new or old would survive my family without ending up with a whole bucket full of neuroses and paranoia's.  My cousin and I have discussed this at length and know that we've gone wrong.  We've only survived by doing strange things for our own amusement and by small acts of evil here and there.  We both know this.  We both know that we're never right.  For fuck sake, she PUNCHED a baked potato and doesn't even know why!  I pissed everywhere at work once 'cause I had to find out whether incontinence pads really worked (they don't.  Well, they do for drips but not for the entire contents of a full adult bladder) In fact LINK to story.

So, in conclusion, I worry for the fate of mankind if I was forced to be the re-virgin mother to the new Messiah. 

Finally, I had a gig in the week and suspect I'd travelled into the world of the strange.  All I knew is that the promotor was called Dave and I only had a sketchy idea of what he looked like.  My cousin and I went into the pub and found a bloke sitting at the bar in the lounge area. 

Cousin Lisa: Hi, we're looking for Dave

Bloke: Oh, I think you'll find him in the bar.

(we duly went next door into the other bar room.  When we got there we discovered that the bar was the same one for the lounge and this bar with one elderly guy serving both rooms.  We could see the first bloke from where we were.

Cousin Lisa (to ancient barman): Hi, we're looking for Dave

Ancient Barman (shouting through to the first bloke): Dave, have you seen Dave?

First Bloke: No, I thought he was in there with you!

(Enter another bloke)

Ancient Barman: You alright Dave?

(Lisa and I perk up our ears)

Ancient Barman to this Dave: Dave, have YOU seen Dave?

Dave: No, dunno where he is...

...and that's how it went.  We did find the correct Dave in the end but the situation made me wonder why all the other Daves didn't just assume they were the Dave we wanted.  Do they spend their family lives never thinking anyone requires them?  As for the gig, it was at a venue I'd never played before.  The set went quite well actually with plenty of audience participation despite the MC quietly whispering an apology to me for killing the atmosphere in the room prior to my set.  Cousin Lisa filmed the set and I might even put it up on YouTube if I can be arsed.  I'll be sure to post a link if I do!

The Blue Ear

If you are a regular reader of my drivel then you will be aware that I surround myself not with sycophants (which would be great) but with hypochondriacs.  If only I could find a bunch of sycophants of my own I wouldn't have to lumber myself with the bunch of arseholes lovingly known as 'my friends (and bits of family)'.  Yep, these people believe themselves to have every life threatening disease on the market (is there a disease market?).  My mother is the best; she's convinced she has both Progeria (congenital disorder which makes you age rapidly) AND Prader-Willi (disorder which causes obesity).  I argue that she's just a greedy old git. 

So, 'Mental Health' work colleague (MHWC) and I were discussing the latest life threatening disease she is facing.  MHWC is still convinced that she has some sort of arm cancer which had in fact been better a few days ago but was now hurting again.  I think we both have a major fear of cancer (there's been loads in my family.  Dunno her excuse) but to be fair, she has started running again recently and so I asked whether it was possible the pain was related to this but no, it's clearly cancer just in the lower part of one arm.  I told her about a weird pain I'd experienced in one of my ears (oh yeah, I consider myself amongst the bunch of arseholes I mentioned earlier) and we, for a moment, had the same thought; who gets pain in one ear?!!!!

Ear cancer!

I reflected miserably that with my luck I'd have to have my ear amputated and would then have to have a cheap NHS replacement which wouldn't match my skin tone.  In fact, if it was an NHS ear it would probably be a cheap blue molded rubbery thing.  My head fell to my chest in misery as I thought about the box of blue ears that the doctor would bring out.  In my mind I saw him holding various specimens to the side of my head and stepping back in order to see how they each looked.  Hell, I just knew they wouldn't have my size and I'd have to have a large 'man' ear until they could track down a replacement.  I later discussed these fears with my pal Bison who told me the blue ear would probably come with a rubber band which would snap around my head to keep it in place.  He then fell silent as if in contemplation before venturing that it would almost be worth having his own ear amputated just so he could have a giant blue ear of his own. 

Y'know, I bet they only have left ears in that box and I'll need a right ear.  I'll have to wear the thing upside down until they find me a lady ear won't I?  Sometimes it's just shit being me...

Oooh ooh, something else to tell you - I was walking down the street yesterday when a bloke stopped to tell me I was beautiful!  Clearly he was either a lunatic or 'played a mean pin ball' if you get my drift.  I tried to carry on walking but he sort of held my arm a bit and asked to look at my eyes properly (!)  I was so appalled I didn't have time to engage my appalled face (think of the great white hunter type with the shrunken head at the end of 'Beetlejuice')

Sket's appalled face



He then told me how much he loved my curly hair.  Clearly my internal 'fuck off' vibe machine was malfunctioning and therefore I was left to deal with the situation myself.  Shiit.

I just sort of let out a ridiculous high pitched laugh, paused and then lamely told him that I once got a gerbil trapped in my hair.

Faaaaaaack.

Still he wasn't put off and shared a story with me about how one of his fish got caught up in some weeds he'd put in the tank.  WHY WAS I HAVING THIS CONVERSATION?  I tried again to escape but he asked my name (like a prat I told him!!!!!), he took my hand, kissed it and I ran away shouting over my shoulder that he was very charming!

I'm never going to have sex again am I? 

The glutton

My Tidiness Nazi housemate informed me she'd been to the chiropractor and had to rest so it was going to be a 'make your own' night tonight with regard to dinner. 

Disaster!! 

I am famed for my inability to cook even the simplest thing.  I think that it's mainly because I can't be arsed to cook and then when I'm hungry I want something immediately and therefore end up with a dinner that is on fire but frozen in the middle.  I will now post a number of pictures of culinary disasters I've had to endure:

 I present: VEGGIE BURGER!

 A lovely OMELETTE!

 A little seasoning to my Domino's pizza!

 MmmMMMMmm, MINI PIZZAS!

Well done Linda McCartney, here is one of your VEGGIE PIES!

So yeah, you can probably guess why I was somewhat nervous about it being a 'make your own' night.  I decided to go with my signature dish; ice cream.  I then decided to have a different flavour ice cream for dessert.  I was happy.  Heck, if this regime goes on much longer then I might end up with Ricketts but hell, I'll be happy.  As happy as a Tap Dancer (who would be unable to stop a pig in an alley).  The only downside to my happiness was the judgemental look on the face of the Nazi.  The good news is that she couldn't stand it any longer and I scored some spaghetti bolognaise out of her disgust! 

In other news, 'Mental Health' work colleague and I had a candid discussion about stuff.  She's got a painful patch on her arm which is clearly arm cancer (only it seemed to be better today) and I shared the story about the time I was startled in the early hours by the unexpected sight of my own vagina reflected in the mirror when I was bending forward.  That sight, at an angle I would never have expected to have viewed it from, has haunted me ever since and I've been obsessed I'm horribly deformed 'down there'.  As previously shared, I've now been unable to pull a bloke for a number of years, possibly due to the fact I accidentally exude 'fuck off' vibes from every pore whenever someone talks to me, so have been unable to gauge the level of horror on the face of any potential sexual partners.  I sort of described it to her in it's full 'angry looking' detail and she nodded sagely and told me it was perfectly normal!  Phew!  She then reflected that perhaps we should get a bunch of girls together for a nibbles and vadge party so we can all sort of have a quick look to make sure we're all the same.  I think that 'Mental Health' work colleague now suspects that if ours are the same and mine might be wrong then perhaps HERS is wrong too! 

It's hard being alive innit?

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.

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.

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.

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