hell is other people

You can be whoever you want to be

2012-01-29T19:02:00.000-08:00

I've heard a fair amount of very lovely platitudes since telling people I'm about to start all over again by abandoning everything I know and love to live somewhere alien and remote. Ish. And they are lovely. I appreciate them. They're stuff like: "nothing ventured, nothing gained"; "what's the worst that can happen?"; "life is short"; "take a risk" and "you can be whoever you want to be."

It's the last one that has got me thinking. "You can be whoever you want to be." Can't you be whoever you want to be anyway? Or is the implication that if you go somewhere new where no one knows you then you can pretend to be someone else? Or is it enough to present yourself as someone else and that makes you someone else? And if it's that easy, and something I should do, why am I not doing it already?

So I could go to York and, when I meet people, I could describe myself as a non-smoking exercise fanatic who is easy going and not at all neurotic? I could dress like a business woman and have serious hair? I could not talk myself down and be all self deprecating yet at the same time sort of aggressively shy? I could present myself as someone who only swears once in a blue moon when I stub my toe as opposed to every other word? I could be all ladylike and not talk back. I could become aquiescent and quiet. I could tell people that I know how to organise my time and that I never ever stay up till 3amwatching episode after episode of New Girl. I could, in short, present myself as a well balanced adult.

And who do I want to be anyway? I actually like who I am for the most part. I know that I can be a pain in the ass. I know that I over analyse things. I know that I can be intense and weird. But I'm sort of fond of all of that stuff.

But it might be nice to be someone who cooks proper meals. And doesn't sometimes only eat toast and satsumas for days at a time. And doesn't smoke too much. And doesn't waste time. And doesn't look backward all the time. And doesn't hold grudges. And doesn't tie herself up in knots so much that she can't breathe. And doesn't get out there and do all the stuff that she actually wants to do because she's scared.

I mean, why not? This move is about as out of character as possible for me. I don't do things like this. What I do is stay where I'm safe and wish I was brave enough to do something else. So maybe I'm already starting to be whoever it is I want to be.

My personality is infectious

2012-01-28T08:02:00.000-08:00

"I've ticked the box 'athletic and toned' . I've told you about my white water rafting adventures in the Congo and my curious yet spontaneous sense of humour and joie de vivre. I don't own a TV, of course, and I'm always on the go. Friends say I'd be the perfect boyfriend and I'm always optimistic. Life is for living. You only have one life. Friends say I'm sexy and handsome. I'm tall and intelligent. I'm looking for a girl who is between 6 stone and 9 stone 4, extremely attractive and knows how to look after herself. None of these 'no make up and jeans' types for me! I work hard to keep myself in shape and expect my woman to do the same. I don't want a needy or clingy woman and anyone who is with me should respect my need for independence and spontaneity. I literally don't know whether I'll be in the same country from one week to the next so I need someone who respects that. Anyone who isn't at my level of attractiveness won't receive a reply. Sorry ladies! It just saves you so much time in the long run, doesn't it? I'm at a stage in my life where I deserve a woman who looks like a supermodel and agrees to give me 12 blow jobs a day while never actually exhibiting any signs of a personality."

Love from 90% of men on dating sites.

Who look like this:

Or this

I'm not entirely sure what kind of mirror they all own but I wish I had me one of them.

30 things I will not do as a customer in a pub

2012-01-27T19:53:00.000-08:00

So, as a customer in a pub, here are some of the things I will not do:

1. Do my best to attract the attention of the (very busy) bar person and then 'forget' what I was supposed to be ordering.

2. Order one drink and then when the (very busy) bar person is half way through pouring it, change my mind.

3. Go up to the bar and say: "Can I order some drinks?" and expect the answer to be anything other than: "It's a fucking BAR. All we sell are DRINKS. Of course you can fecking order a drink, you IDIOT."

4. Use the phrase: "Can I get..." as in "Can I get a beer?" This is not America. Ask properly. Preferably using "Please" in there somewhere.

5. Call Kronenberg "1664" instead of Kronenberg.

6. Stare blindly at the (very busy) bar person who is asking me what I would like to drink and then, even though I've been waiting at the bar for 10 minutes, act all surprised when I'm asked to place my order.

7. Order off menu.

8. Complain when there is a millimetre too much - or too little - head on my pint and insist the (very busy) bar person adjusts it to my exact specifications, all the while wearing an expression that says: "Call yourself a bar person? I can pour a better pint than that in my sleep."

9. Get pissy with the (very busy) bar person when they ask me for the money and I - ridiculously and inexplicably - have waited until I have watched the (very busy) bar person pour my round of 10 drinks before I even start to try and find my purse.

10. Count out change into a pool of beer on the bar and take upwards of ten minutes doing so.

11. Order a jager bomb and argue about how much Red Bull should be in there. Some say a third of a can, some say half. Who knew it was such an exact science?

12. Order a cocktail when the bar is so busy the (very busy) bar person hasn't been able to go for a piss for the last four hours.

13. Order a coffee in the same circumstances.

14. Click my fingers at the (very busy) bar person and expect a response other than said bar person pretending not to see me for the next half an hour.

15. Say "Smile, it may never happen" at the glass collector.

16. Refuse to leave the pub even when all the bar staff have piled up chairs around me and are all staring at me with barely concealed fury.

17. Ask for a lock in when not a member of staff.

18. Puke in a pint glass and then leave it for the bar staff to clear up.

19. Drip candle wax all over the table just because "I'm bored".

20. Vomit copiously all over the toilets and then return to the bar for more drinking.

21. Letch over the (very busy) bar person and ask them repeatedly for their number until said bar person is fantasising about sticking straws in my eyeballs.

22. Pinch the arse of the (very busy) bar person as she or he is trying to pick up hundreds of glasses.

23. Order three or four drinks and then, when the (very busy) bar person lines them up, inexplicably wander off to "find out what the others want".

24. Pay for every single tiny round I buy with a credit card.

25. Get pissy when there isn't a pool table instantly available.

26. Book a table and then not turn up.

27. Order an entire round and then when the (very busy) bar person comes to ask for the money, have "gone to the toilet".

28. Order ridiculously made up shots that involve 12 layers of spirits.

29. Repeatedly try and hug the glass collector and not pick up the signals of barely suppressed rage.

30. Dance wildly into a waitress carrying three plates of food.

These are just some of the things that I will not do as a customer in a pub.

It was my last shift tonight and it was sad. I will miss getting covered in beer slops and unnamed sticky stuff. I will miss the, um, eclectic mix of music played by the lovely northern DJ. I will miss the moments of camraderie that tend to occur when under metaphorical fire from the drunkards on the other side of the bar. I will miss getting so angry over inconsequential things. I'll miss putting 5 million steaming hot glasses away. Hell, I'll even miss being yelled at.

Bye bye bar job. It's been emotional.

Sleep paralysis

2012-01-27T05:12:00.000-08:00

Are you not supposed to feel energised by a Major Life Decision? Isn't it supposed to infuse you with a sense of purpose and that? Ever since I made the MLD I have been fighting an overwhelming urge to sleep. Every time I start thinking seriously about everything I have to do in order to transport my life up to York it becomes overwhelming and I think: "After a little nap I'll be able to deal with it all much better." And then the nap turns into a 12 hours snooze marathon, complete with weird and unnerving dreams and then I wake up exhausted and start the whole thing over again.

This happens to me in times of extreme stress. Either I can't sleep at all and I'm bouncing round my flat at 3am feeling, and quite possibly, acting a bit weird, or it's like I'm constantly trying to fight my way out of a coma.

I'm no good at sorting stuff out. I should be making Excel spreadsheets and thinking logically. I hadn't even worked out my monthly outgoings till a friend came round and wrote it all down for me. I keep thinking about what's lurking in the cupboard under my stairs and then my brain just kind of tiptoes away because it doesn't want to deal with it. And, oh god, under the bed. There's things under the bed that no one needs to see. Ever. And I have to deal with it all.

Surely it's just easier to stay here for, like, ever? I can just live here and do what I've been doing and it'll all be fine. No one actually needs change and excitement do they? I can atrophy here, it'll be grand. They can come and dig me out in 20 years when I'm subject of a Channel 5 documentary: The woman who was eaten by cats and not found for three years.

But then I keep getting little frissons of excitement. OK, so I don't know anyone up there, but I might meet some awesome people. I am looking forward to getting some clients of my own and working on them how I work best. I get to run around the City Walls. I get to press my nose up against the Vivienne Westwood shop window and not actually ever go on because they look too snotty and intimidating. I get to find a new place to live with an actual spare room and spare bed and a garden for Fatman to explore. This is all very excellent. I just need to stop sleeping so I can make it happen...

Done, and done.

2012-01-23T06:11:00.000-08:00

It's made. The decision has Been Made. Which means I'm waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and I feel like I have an adrenaline overdose.

I'm only moving to York by the way. I haven't decided to have a sex change or have a baby or cut my hair. It's not THAT big a deal. Except for me it is. I'm a huge coward. I like comfort zones and safety. I like my house and I like my friends and I like the way Leamington is so unthreateningly dull. I like the fact I know loads of people and the way it feels like home.

The last four or so years have felt more like home than anything has since my parents moved out of my family home in 2000, shortly before my dad died. Since then it's been so difficult to feel like I have a home anywhere. For years I felt like I was just camping out and was never comfortable. I was just staying in different flats. But my odd little house for the last five years has become my refuge and my haven.

I'm in huge danger of doing that thing you do when decisions have to be made. Like when you decide to finish a relationship and all you can think about was the good bits, the warm and snuggly bits, the pretty bits. Not the bits that made you bored and lonely and frustrated and annoyed and hemmed in and claustrophobic. It's like they've all been washed away in a sepia-hued rush of nostalgia.

But the reality is, I've kind of done Leamington. At least for a while. I'm not sure I can continue with a social life that revolves around three pubs (one of which I work in). I don't like the ever present possibility of bumping into people I have slept with and it's all very awkward, or proper full on ex boyfriends who I despise. Actually there's only one of them. And not many of the former I hasten to add, but I have been here since 1999...

Added to this is the people. My soulmate lives in Ryton. How am I going to leave her? And no, not in a lesbian way, but in every other way she is my perfect human being (damn our heterosexuality) and she makes me laugh and she's always there for me and she owns the cutest block of dog in the world (that's totally not why she's my soulmate though, no siree, I don't need pug love to make me fall in love with someone) and the thought of not seeing her loads makes me feel physically sick.

There are various other people who are so so so important to me and I am used to being able to see people pretty much whenever I or they can. How can you go from living somewhere where you're essentially never alone, or never have to be alone, to moving somewhere where you don't know a soul and could feasibly spend the next six months worth of weekends staring at a wall and weeping? I mean, why would you do that?

You're too scared to do ANYthing. The thought of getting on a plane gives you hives and sends you running to the doctor for valium. A visit to another city makes you anxious. You've never been on a rollercoaster and you're been too scared to imbibe class As since 1997. You've been on anti depressants since 1995. How the hell can you of all people make a move to a new city where you know NO ONE?

All of this is running through my mind. But I picked up the phone anyway and accepted the job anyway. From the 26th March, I will be living in York. Come what may.

Decisions, decisions

2012-01-21T02:04:00.000-08:00

I'm on the cusp of one of those actual life changing decisions that I've read about. I'm not sure I've ever had one before. Mostly because my innate cowardice usually surfaces and I decide to go and have a nice nap instead, usually until the moment passes for some reason and then I don't actually have to drag myself out of the maw.

People have said to listen to my gut reaction. But I don't think I have a gut reaction. I trust my judgement about as much as I trust my ex-boyfriend. I never know what the right thing to do is. What if I do this and I hate it? What if I miss everyone so much that I spend the entire time staring at four walls and weeping? What if Fatman gets homesick? What if, what if, what IF?

How do people make decisions anyway? I might revert to my tried and tested Magic 8 ball... 'Signs point to no'. Arse.

Handbags at dawn

2012-01-19T14:12:00.000-08:00

I'm having some issues with people taking exception to some of the hilarious and profoundly moving blog posts I write.

And it's really starting to piss me off.

Just to be clear, lest anyone is seriously suffering from an imbalance of intellect, all opinions on here are my own. While you may not agree with them, that doesn't actually change the fact that they are my opinions.

I didn't think it was necessary to caveat my sentences thusly: "In my opinion, atheism is the only logical and rational answer, although I completely understand that other people have other opinions and that is totally lovely and smashing." Because I credit people with the intellectual and analytical ability to infer this from my text.

I also didn't deem it entirely necessary to point out where I may be pushing my arguments or sentence construction for either comedy or dramatic effect. This is a blog. It is not even a very coherent blog. There is no theme. It's not for any particular audience. It's just general nonsense. I am not holding myself up as an expert on ANYthing. But I do know what I think. And no amount of poorly rationalised and badly spelled goading on Facebook will change that.

You know you can always not read, yeah?

Big smooshy cuddles to people who don't take everything I say so utterly deathly seriously.

Now onto the fun stuff....

What's an atheist?

2012-01-18T14:57:00.000-08:00

While at work last night I was asked whether I believe in god. I like questions like this. I like to debate these issues and find out what people think. It genuinely fascinates me if people say they believe in a god or a religion. I want to hear about why. I like to hear rationalisations and I like to hear how and why people form their opinions.

I answered, of course, that I am an atheist, it being the only rational and logical answer to this sort of question.

A youngster at the bar chimed in with : "What's an atheist?"

I'll just leave that hanging there for a bit.

We went on to talk about SOPA and Wikipedia and cheezburger and the shut down etc etc.

Same youngster: "What's Wikipedia?"

I just wanted to share that.

While my heart gently weeps for our future as a species.

And then some are The Finkler Question

2012-01-18T06:56:00.000-08:00

I was having a discussion just now with a friend about books. Specifically about forcing yourself to read worthy books when, actually, they're just a bit shit.

My argument would always be to give a book around six chapters and then, if it's really not doing it for you, let it go. Ditch it. Take it to a charity shop. Don't burn it or anything because that would be weird. Unless it's by Cecilia Ahern. I'm saving loads of copies of her books to heat my house when it gets properly cold. PS, I love you was one of the most offensively twee, shit, patronising and godawful books I have ever tried to read. Oh, also Eat, Pray, Love. You can burn that as well. But nothing else.

There is a school of thought that all books should be finished no matter how much you're hating the experience. Because they're art. Or they're classics. Or they somehow deserve to be read because of their longevity or because other people like them. This is bullshit. Books, like films, like music, like art, only matter if they mean something to the observer/participant.

There is no point in forcing yourself through Dickens or Kafka or Burroughs or Blyton if the essence of the fable is lost on you. If there is no swelling of joy inside when you read a paragraph, or no inward nod of recognition and delight or even disgust and shock, then just put the book down and go do something else.
I'm a massive fan of the so-called classics and many books I read are assumed to be worthy when I tell people about them. Mention that your favourite genre is 19th century english, russian and french literature and people assume you're an intellectual snob. But some of the most profound, modern, emotional, funny - not to mention totally filthy at least in subtext - passages of prose I have read have been written by Zola, Kafka, Tolstoy, the Brontes and even Austen, Radcliffe and many, many others. Too many to mention, too many have filled me with total delight or envy or made me feel less alone in this godless universe to even articulate. I find it profoundly difficult to describe the joy some books give me. It can be almost transcendental when I read something that resonates so perfectly I can feel it.

But it's also true that when an author has written loads of books it doesn't necessarily follow that I will like them all. And I don't force myself to try. Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre has been a favourite of mine since I hit puberty. But can I get through Vilette? Can I bollocks. I just get bored.

And Shakespeare? Almost nothing gets me like some of the soliloquies in The Tempest and Hamlet but, jesus chrisssst, reading A Midsummer Night's Dream makes me genuinely wonder what all the fuss is about.

The only exception I make is for the book group I take part in. I made a pact with myself that I would finish every book we set ourselves, no matter what. And then I read The Finkler Question. It won the Man Booker prize last year and it is easily the most boring, trite, dull book I have ever subjected my eyes to. I finished it in such a rage at the wasted time and the sheer effort it took to concentrate on the characters that I threw it across the room like a petulant toddler.

Since then I decided, book group or no book group, I'll give it six chapters and, the second I feel let down and used, I'll just walk away. Six chapters because some books that feel deadly to start off with suddenly show their true colours and delight and surprise you. And some are The Finkler Question.

My foray into Dickens has confirmed that life is just too short to spend it reading books you don't fully click with. Don't feel you have to finish it just because it feels like everyone else is. In short, don't settle, hold out for the ones that make you feel special and connect with your emotions. You're only kidding yourself otherwise, right? And there's always plenty more fish in the sea.

And the library.

Creepy McCreeperson

2012-01-15T17:09:00.000-08:00

Online dating sucks balls (metaphorically I hasten to add). I think I've made that clear from some of my previous posts. Even though I know of at least four people who have actually become engaged or are already married after meeting their other half on line (one of them just met the one lass and BOOM they're engaged), I don't have the knack of online dating. I just can't seem to do it very well. I don't seem to be cut out for it.

I actually had a date last night with a guy who, although lovely, could literally talk someone to death. It was kind of fascinating to see how much he could talk about himself. He was genuinely entertaining, even if he did remind me disconcertingly of Lee Evans in his mannerisms (and that's pretty disconcerting) but jeeesssus christ. I zoned out a good few times. And that's one of my more successful efforts at dating.

The point of this post is to introduce you to the Creepiest Guy So Far Ever (TM). I get a lot of messages and that on the site. I think women just do get a lot. I don't reply to most of them. I don't see the point in replying with a 'no thanks' email. It seems rather odd and presumptuous and surely people are just firing out as many emails as possible in the hope that something'll stick, right?

Occasionally I'll get someone who mails me over and over again even though I don't reply. And sometimes I'll reply and say: please leave me alone, I'm not interested. But only if it's after repeated weirdness. I have no desire to be rude to anyone or make them feel shitty, but I do draw the line at being spammed by Barry in Bootle or whatever.

All of this is par for the course in online dating.

However, a comment popped up on one of my blog posts (the one about the PPI salesman if you're interested in witnessing said freakiness) with some gibberish and then a message to contact him on the dating site. Curiosity getting the better of my common sense, I put his name into the site. Turns out he's already mailed me multiple times.

I put the gibberish into google and it turns out he has created a blog specially for me to read. The tagline is something like: found you on match. I can't bear to look at it again to find out exactly what it says, but that's the gist of it.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong but that's just a leetle weird. A bit, shall we say, intense. A tad, um, stalkerishly creepy.

I mailed him with a one liner asking him to stop contacting me and thought that would be the end of it.

Nahhhhhhhhhhh, that wasn't the end of it. I got a 1000 word email explaining in detail the reasons why it's completely normal to put someone's user name into Google, find their blog, comment on it, set up another blog just for that person to look at with repeated messages to contact them. Apparently that's totally normal and I'm a massive bitch for thinking it isn't. He is also apparently my intellectual and emotional superior.

Ladies and gents, I don't want to get carried away here, but I think... I think I might have found The One. Buy a hat, yeah?

We all just want a ring on it. Apparently.

2012-01-15T16:57:00.000-08:00

I read something today about single women. And about how 95% of single women secretly want to be married. I don't know where they got their statistics from. Perhaps it was sexistwank.com. But the thrust of the article went on to explain that even when women purport to be happy while not in a relationship or marriage, they actually secretly cry into their cat/cake (delete as applicable) every night, while flicking through wedding magazines and obsessing about how to trap that man. A life of hard won independence with the ability to work for oneself (albeit still at a lower wage for the most part than men), the right to choose whether to have children or not, the right to control one's own body, mind and desires: 95% of these women wish they could trade it all in for some farting, video game/golf/rugby (delete as applicable) playing irritant who promises to control their every move for the rest of their life while doling out self esteem crushing bon mots, usually in front of their friends.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just bitter because I don't have a boyfriend. While that may be the case I did have one for nearly all of my 20s and a couple of years of this decade. I even lived with one for many years. Thing is, I don't like being single all of the time. Specially at Christmas. And birthdays. Oh, and Valentine's Day. Most of the major holidays actually. And now most of my friends are coupled up and, well, no one wants to feel like the last turkey in the shop, as it were. It's like being picked last for the team. Over and over again.

But a lot of the time I'm fully ambivalent about being single. I think I want a boyfriend but, frankly, the ones I have had have been nothing to shout about. I felt constricted and controlled and frustrated and hemmed in and narrowed when I was in relationships. I'm assuming that was because they were the wrong men. Perhaps I'm genetically programmed to be rubbish in relationships. Who the flip knows?

And sometimes I am bitter about it as it goes. I spent nearly eight years in a relationship with a guy who constantly and consistently told me that he would never marry me and that there was no future in it and that 'one day he would leave me'. At the time it was far more important to me to have a boyfriend and, besides, he was a really good cook and he did more housework than me and somehow I couldn't sleep without him there and I just couldn't ever EVER imagine being alone. At the time I told myself that I couldn't imagine myself without him. But that wasn't actually true. Although I had been very much in love with him at one point, the cracks in our relationship showed after a few years and it was clear to both of us that we weren't going to be sharing a double plot in the family cemetery. I just couldn't cope with the thought of myself as nearly 30 and single. Single = failure. Single = can't keep a man. Single = not good enough.

Since then I've been single for aeons. Centuries. Decades. A brief aberration of another doomed and disastrous relationship in the middle, but for the most part single. And I honestly don't know what I think about it.

Sometimes I do have moments where all I want is to be married. Doesn't even matter who to anymore. At my age, you can't afford to be picky, right? Someone with a pulse and a working prostate will be fine. Then I can have weekend trips to Ikea and I wouldn't have to go mooching round the shops on my own and I'd have someone to text when I'm out and someone to make me a cup of tea every now and again. I could go to Homebase and do the gardening and get a house in a suburb and a car and learn how to drive that car and spend my weekend decorating and buying things.

My lifestyle isn't normal for a woman approaching her late 30s. I don't have a regular bedtime. I don't eat proper meals. I don't have any plans to have children. I don't know where I'm spending Christmas from year to year. I have no routine and I go where I please when I please. I don't have to tell anyone where I am, what I'm doing and when I'll be back. Other than a solitary fat cat, no one is relying on me and no one is waiting for me. So I don't go to sleep until I feel like it. And I eat when I want. And I clean as much as I want to. And I watch whatever I want on TV. And when I feel like reading for 10 hours straight I do that too. Sometimes I just have tinned peaches for dinner. Or peas. A bowl of peas. Can't beat peas.

If I was back in a relationship I couldn't do any of that without it being a thing. Set meal times distress me and doing coupley things on a Sunday distress me. Sleeping in the same bed as anyone really distresses me. I won't sleep in the same room as anyone else if I can possibly help it.

But despite being an anomaly among my peers, a bit of a weirdo, someone that people jokingly refer to as a spinster (yes, really), and the fact that all of my female friends of a comparable age are in relationships or married or having babies, and in some cases, all three of those things. Despite this,
the Office of National Statistics shows that fewer women are getting married than ever before. The rates are at their lowest for the last 100 years.

More people live alone than ever before. More people are choosing to go childless than ever before. So where did this newspaper get its stats from? I just went back to check the article and realised it was the Daily Mail online.

Suddenly all is clear. I really must check my reading material more closely in future.

Brrrrrring, brrrring, brrrring, brrriiinnng

2012-01-09T11:40:00.000-08:00

In the middle of my surprisingly work-filled day of many phone calls, clients, photoshoots (sadly the writing will have to be done tonight methinks) I had a call from an unknown number. Absolutely nothing unusual there, I phone at least 20 people every day who I don't know.

"Hello, Debbie speaking"

"Hiiiiii. It's Jassssson here from PPIreclaimingrobbingbastardsplc"

Sigh.

"I'm not interested, thank you"

And there it should have ended, no? I do sympathise (to a very small degree) that people in call centres and who work for money grabbing scam fuckers are just trying to earn some money and it's not their fault etc etc yada yada. BUT, as soon as the person they are harrassing says: "I'm not interested, thank you" that should be the end of it.

And yes, I was actually that polite. I can be polite even when being cold called by a tosser in the middle of a busy day.

"So you don't want your money?" goads the J-man.

"There is no money Jayyyyson." I lilt in a disturbing sing song voice.

"Oh, you've never had insurance in the last 12 years? Hmmm?" Oh, he's sceptical now. Thinks he can appeal to my innate sense of undeserved entitlement, does he?

I can't believe it. I'm having an argument about missold PPI with a numbnut fool over the phone when I need to be phoning clients. I don't even know what PPI is. But I'm pretty sure there isn't a vast pile of cash with my name on it sitting somewhere just waiting for Jayyyyyyyson from Robbing Cunts & Son to liberate it for me.

"There is no money. You're wasting my time." Cutting tones. That'll show him.

"Fine," says Jason.

And I can sense it's the beginning of the end of me and Jase. Our entire relationship flashes before my eyes. I remember the good times (just before he spoke for the first time) and the bad (about five minutes ago) and I grow a little misty eyed. All that we've shared. Was I just going to let him walk out of my life? And then.

"Fine," he says. "I'll just take your money and give it to charity."

Well. Well, I never. Never have I been threatened in such a manner. How. Dare. He? Threaten me with taking money I didn't even know I had and, oh it's just too awful, give it to CHARITY?

"Take it ALL Jason and buy yourself a FUCKING mars bar." I said.

Then I slammed the phone down.

I hope he phones back.

Just give me my money back...

2012-01-06T14:47:00.000-08:00

... you massive shithouse sons of whoremeistering fucktard assbandits. Just give me my fucking money back. To whom am I addressing this ditty? Debenhams, that's who. The online shopping experience that acts all fucking surprised when you want to send a parcel back - on 9 December 2011 - and then, and I know I'm presumptuous - expect your money back before the end of the FUCKING world occurs. Which I found out is December 21 2012. That's going to put a crimp on Christmas. Still, at least it'll save on fucking online shopping with returns that are impossible to make and refunds that are impossible to get.

I'm actually revelling in being angry about something. Anything. Three days and nights of crippling stomach pain while contorting my body in paroxysms of agony and writhing around on the bathroom floor meant that the only thing I've been thinking about is shitting and puking. Shall I shit now? Or shall I puke now? Or maybe both? Yeahhhh, let's go for both shall we, you bastard fucking crapmeistering CUNTbucket of an immune system.
It's amazing how it crystallises one's worries down to two things: when will I stop shitting and when will I stop puking? For the first 24 hours I didn't move from the floor. I couldn't drink water. I forgot to put the bins out. This pains me immensely. It was recycling day as well. I could weep looking at the overflowingness of my waste receptacles.

I only managed to take my clothes off after 24 hours. I kid you not. It may sound dramatic but one minute I was lounging behind the bar trading banter with friendly regulars, the next I was home commencing the writhing. Gnawing pain on the inside that was on a par with five days of appendicitis. Really, really fucking bad. Can't move, can't stand, can't speak, can't even text bad.

I know, everyone's ill, right? Everyone's got something? Blah, blah, fucking BLAH. I'm pissed off. And it's my blog so if you don't want self pity then walk away now. Go and read something amusing about a celebrity or some shit. My body lets me down over and over again and it's PISSING ME OFF. I have lost my appendix, my gall bladder, I have had my womb lining burned off, I have had my fucking nose cauterised, I have had tubes stuck down me, up me and in me, I've had burns cut and a possibly cancerous mole removed from my BOOB, I've had sinusitis that lasted for EIGHT MONTHS and now apparently I have got to undergo a load of new tests. Oh no, it couldn't just be a bug could it? Nahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, it has to be something that necessitates tests, tests, tests and then probably some invasive surgery because I don't have enough scars on my abdomen as it is DO I?

The point made long ago it seems was at least pain knocks away the day to day worries. It shuts the voices up into one big primal scream. I suppose that's good. I had loads of weirdass dreams as well, turns out I was running a fever, who knew? My cat did but did he do fuck all about it? Nooooooooooooo. Little bastard.

I dreamt I had cancer and the doctor had organised a time for me to be put down. My friends held a little gathering in honour of the occasion and were well pissed off when I kept wailing that I didn't want to die. And I chose that moment to ask my mum where my dad was, turns out he's not dead, he's just moved to America because he hates me so much. Yayyyy. Subconcious I love you. You're A-M-AZ-ING.

Anyway, yeah. I feel a bit better, like. And it'll all be fine. And yay, 2012 rocks, I love the new year. And all that shit.

2012: fuck it

2012-01-02T05:50:00.000-08:00

My New Year's resolution is pretty simple this year.
I know I need to kick smoking. I know I need to stop repeating certain patterns. I know I need to continue dieting forever and ever until I'm a cadaver and finally fucking thin enough. I know all of that. But deciding on January 1st that all of these things are going to happen when they failed to do so on December 31st is bullshit. Ain't going to happen. Boring. Pointless.
But this year I going to change something that should be easier than all the above. One simple statement which utilises one of my very favourite words. Fuck it.
People who I invest time and me into and don't reciprocate? Fuck it. Friends who never contact me? Fuck it. Comments and jibes and piss takes? Fuck it. Accordian man? Fuck him into the ground with a machete. People who make me feel insecure and worthless? Double fuck it. Feeling anxious and paranoid that I might or might not have said something, done something, hurt someone? Fuck it. Worrying about nuclear meltdown? Fuck it. Worrying about every single thing I put in my mouth? Fuck it. Fuck it all.
I'm going to try, just once, not to be 'positive' because that word makes me want to do a bit of sick in my mouth. But I'm very much over worrying about every single damn thing. And for the times when I can't say fuck it and mean it, I have a bumper pack of Valium. Bring it on 2012 you big bastard.

Bye bye 2011

2011-12-31T20:29:00.000-08:00

I'm watching Charlie Brooker's 2011 Wipe. I'd almost forgotten about some of the shit that's gone on out there. You know, outside of my head and my tiny little world. Revolutions, the Arab Spring, Amy Winehouse, shitloads of murderous despotic dictators killed, shitloads of hysteria over the arse of the sister of some bird who married Prince William, the riots, nuclear meltdowns, Charlie Sheen, super injunctions, phone hacking gate, the revolting celebration of the US over the bloodlust murder of Bin Laden and, most shockingly and horrifically of all, The Only Way is Essex winning a BAFTA.

I think we just had the end of the world, people. The Mayans clearly got the year wrong. It's possible we've already all gone through it and we're all existing in some kind of happy creation of our own imaginations. Maybe this is what happens after the apocalypse. That would be disappointing, frankly.

Yes, I am writing this after imbibing a fair amount of gin and some beer. But I'm not drunk. It's all going to be completely coherent. Probably.

It's New Years Eve, well to be precise it's 4am on New Years Day and I'm blogging. I'm not at all sure what this says about my life, apart from the fact that I most certainly didn't pull last night.

So, how was 2011 for you? I'm pretty much relieved it has fucked off, between you and me. It could be my perpetual glass is half empty attitude, but I feel this year has vomited its fair share of shiteousness on my duvet. Although, I could flip it all around...

I may have left my job, yes, but I'm much happier without it and I'm writing for a living again And I work for myself. And I've rediscovered the grind of real, hard work at the pub, which has definitely done wonders for my sense of perspective and introduced me to what one could call a colourful cast of characters who might well form the basis of my first book.

I may have got back with my ex only for it to totally not work out in any way, shape or form... but I have finally freed myself from a really shitty situation that was just dragging on and on and on. And I'm genuinely fine about it. I have no regrets about that at all. Seeing someone clearly, I mean really seeing who they are underneath the charm and the lies and the bullshit is incredibly liberating. That moment when something shifts in your head and you finally are sure, completely sure, that this person is just horrible. They're not damaged or interesting or in need of help or confused or not in control of their own behaviour: they're just a dick. And they don't deserve one more second of your precious time. That moment is ace. And I had that.

I may still not be happy with the way I look but I'm still almost two stone lighter than I was this time last year and my hair is pleasing me on an almost weekly basis.

I may still be single but I'm definitely narrowing down what I'm looking for out of a life partner. It's pretty much this: must not be a knob. That's pretty realistic, right? I don't want money, power, a six pack or a massive schlong. Just someone who isn't a fuckwit. Actually I do want a fairly massive schlong.

I may not have finished my novel but I have started this blog, which is amusing me greatly.

I may not have met the love of my life but I've met a some interesting and, in some cases, challenging new friends who I'm happy to have in my life.

I may not have gone running every day, partly due to the beautiful second degree burns I randomly sustained in November, but I've healed and I am running again.

In short, I may not have had everything I wanted in 2011, but I suspect I had a few things I needed. And I'm lucky that I was able to celebrate tonight with some amazing friends, some of whom I haven't seen in close to three years. So maybe my glass was half full all along.

Happy new year to everyone I care about, and those I don't even know. I hope 2012 brings you peace, happiness and whatever it is that makes your world complete.

Fairly average expectations

2011-12-31T04:44:00.000-08:00

I'm generally uncertain about Dickens. I have read A Christmas Carol, a story so familiar that it would be difficult to hold the author's constant overuse of commas against the general bonhomie of the tale.

I got stuck two thirds of the way through Oliver Twist. I don't know if it's just me, but page after page of long winded descriptions of unrelenting child abuse and ridiculously named characters didn't endear me to the scruffy little tyke.

I loathe the way he names his characters and I am uncomfortable with the rampant anti semitic descriptions of Fagin. But most of all, I was bored. Bored shitless. I know vaguely that it all comes right for Oliver in the end and I just couldn't care enough about the bits inbetween. I also can't read it without visions of Ollie Reed reeling about and singing songs about picking pockets. Oliver Twist has essentially been ruined by its own success.

So it was with a general air of gritted teeth that I agreed to watch Great Expectations with my mother. Mostly to get her to stop reading this blog and therefore seeing the one about the twat who was horny. I just don't need that kind of stress in my life.

Gillian Anderson played Miss Haversham perfectly. Someone once said I was like Miss Haversham, which I think is a bit harsh. I clean my house at least twice a year and I've thrown out the wedding dress. But Gillian. Who would have thought back in the day when she was trying to maintain some kind of sexual chemistry with David Duchovny she'd turn into an immense period actress?

The actor who played Pip (no idea who is he and can't be bothered to check) reminded me uncomfortably of the angular faced lad who plays Edward Cullen. I kept expecting him to sparkle unconvincingly every now and again and try and find the mopey goth girl in the corner for dry humping and angsty conversations. He was the dullest part of it, which is not how it should be. I'm pretty sure we should be bewitched by Pip and be rooting for him. But Pip's a bit of a dick. He turns his back on his poor relations and lords it up for a bit on the back of a fortune left to him by an unknown benefactor. He assumes it's Miss Haversham. Turns out it was Magwitch, who is THE best character in the entire thing bar none.

Ray Winstone was cuddly and lovely as the sometimes murderous but kind hearted criminal and I adored him. Strange choice of wig, but other than that, just gorgeous.

So far, this has been my favourite Dickens experience which I rounded off by watching the always ace Sue Perkins narrate a documentary about his wife. He was a right cunt by all accounts. Spent most of the time trying to get off with her sisters and made her pregnant about 20 times. I knew there was something off about him.

Bleak House is my last roll of the Dickens die... we shall see

The sights and sounds of Royal Leamington Spa

2011-12-28T14:06:00.000-08:00

There are some beautiful venues in the Georgian town of Royal Leamington Spa. It was so named because Queen Victoria herself liked it a bit when she visited once, so they say. Her statue now graces the bottom of the historic Parade, just opposite the Pound Shop and that discount place.

Today, Leamington's gleaming streets are filled with a cornucopia of delights, including 79 branches of Cafe Nero and many, many pizza outlets. Oh, and a Robert Dyas. I have heard whispers of a Nandos. I sincerely hope I live to see the day.

A bustling town during the day time, Leamington boasts no less than 273 Big Issue sellers and approximately 89,000 accordian players who fill the air with the same three bars of Fur Elise over and over again. At Christmas this changes to Jingle Bells, the strains of which will follow you as you take a leisurely stroll up the Parade past McDonalds, Savers and Tesco Metro.

But it is at night when Royal Leamington Spa comes into its own. On Warwick Street - one of the main thoroughfares of our beautiful town - one can choose from The Glasshouse (a brightly lit and austere room full of empty chairs and sad barstaff), Saint Bar (a lovely vaulted space with a dancefloor, a DJ and more children than a Wacky Warehouse but with the added advantage of lots of underage girls in their underwear), Kokos (it's important to look down a lot in order to avoid the vomit that will inevitably adorn the dancefloor, but do try not to meet anyone's eyes).

For a more upmarket affair, turn onto Regent Street and visit The Sozzled Sausage. Once, many years ago, The Sausage was the busiest pub in Leamington. Luckily the management has had the foresight to rectify this issue and now kindly make sure there are never more than five people in the place at any one time.This allows for a lot of personal space and there is never, ever a queue at the bar.

However, if queues at the bar are your thing - and I'm sure some people actively seek out a place where it can take up to 45 minutes to watch a half wit measure a shot of gin - then hie yourself to The White Horse. With a huge capacity and a lovely large outdoor area, The White Horse is perfect if you need a lesson in learning patience. During 2010, I taught myself how to meditate just by wisely using the time stood at the bar in The White Horse. Other things you can do include counting in binary in your head, learning a language, reciting Joyce's Ulysses out loud or studying quantum mechanics on your smartphone.

Winding your way back home through - particularly on a Friday or Saturday - you can expect to come across several fights (mostly verbal), 12 arguments between people all of whom appear to be named Craig and Tracey, various young ladies sitting on the kerbside outside Halikarnas, one of the finer kebab establishments in the town and, if you're very lucky, you may catch a glimpse of one of Leamington's famous alcoholics.

Sometimes I play a form of bingo while smoking a cigarette at night. I award myself points for every crying girlfriend screaming: "But Wayne, I lovvvvvvvvvvve you.", every manically giggling student, every inexplicably tuneless chav male, every braying pissed posh lady and every boyfriend yelling: "Just fuck offfffff Tracey, you're mental." I got special points for the time I heard someone scream: "I want to die, I want to die, I want to die." over and over again.

Dorian Gray: did he need the picture anyway?

2011-12-20T07:38:00.000-08:00

The other day I started thinking about all the books I haven't read yet. Not ever being able to read every book I want to read is just one of my ever-present background fears. Others include apocalypse (specifically nuclear), being orphaned, getting wrinkles, not ever getting a dog, breeding with someone and then ending up silently resenting them for the next 40 years.

So I decided to just do it. Start reading them. Get on to that pile of Dickens that I have been ignoring since forever. The only Dickens I had ever read was A Christmas Carol. I wrote a whole essay at degree level about Bleak House without ever opening the actual book. And this was before the days of nicking stuff from the internet. Fuck, I'm old. And a genius, clearly.

Anyway, as I have recently seen a film of Dorian Gray, I thought I'd have me a bit of Wilde before I got stuck in to Dickens' ouvre. I knew the story roughly before the film of course: Faustian tale, pretty boy's soul stuck in painting, he never ages etc etc, blah blah. In the film he kills himself after living a rather awesome-looking life of drugs, fucking and general depravity.

The book, however, is rather different. For a start, Dorian is a schmuck. He's a knobhead. He's a totally shallow albeit fit guy. He doesn't need to make a deal with the devil to lose his soul; I'm doubtful he had one in the first place. He's an empty headed scumbag. All he thinks about is how ace he looks and how he can put his penis in people. This is true before he loses his soul to the painting and it's true afterwards.

He's 20 years old as he sits for his portrait. The artist is clearly gay and fancying the pants off our Dorian, who idly plays with his emotions. Everyone loves the painting but none more so than Dorian himself, who can't stop staring at his own face. What a tool.

In passing he wishes out loud that he could swap his soul in exchange for always looking so awesomely smooth.

He falls in love (lust) with an actress who he then goes off in about a week, leading to a really familiar situation. After proclaiming his undying love for her and asking her to marry him, he changes his mind literally overnight. He goes to dump her: "You have disappointed me. I can not see you again." She cries and wails and pleads and begs because she believed him, you see. Silly girl. Silly, silly girl.

He watches her fall apart and muses: "There is something ridiculous about the emotions of the people whom one has ceased to love." How many times have you seen that in the face of your asshole boyfriend as he does a total about turn and decides 'we need a break'? No? Just me then?

After walking out and leaving her drowning in a lake of her own snot, he dusts himself off with the thought that "Women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions."

He's wrong, naturally, and she kills herself. His first thought when he finds out? "She had no right to kill herself." What about meeeee? He very quickly decides that: "The girl never really lived, so she never really died." This cheers him up immensely and puts him in the mood to go and sow his seed to the four winds.

This is the first moment he notices a change in his portrait and figures out the whole soul-loss deal. He momentarily thinks about destroying the painting and therefore saving everyone else from his horrible behaviour... but that soon passes as he concentrates on how many women and men he can dip his increasingly used wick into. He doesn't want to do the right thing because he only wants to do things that feel good. To him. Regardless of the consequences. As he says: "I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, to dominate them." And that's what he does.

This is the point I think. He isn't a victim exactly. He has a choice. He always has a choice. He has a vague idea that he's hurting people but shakes it off because he is shallow inside and out. He has the attitude of the born beautiful and I don't actually think he would have acted any differently had he never had his soul trapped in his painting. He would have been just the same but wouldn't have been able to shag quite as many people on account of his opium-rotted features and terrible breath.

Various adventures ensue, including him killing his artist friend and generally acting like my university boyfriend (apart from the killing bit). Eventually even Dorian gets sick of himself and decides to destroy the painting, not in a noble, self-sacrificing way that the film has you believe. No, he just wants to destroy it so he can live out the rest of his life normally. It doesn't occur to him that to kill his soul will destroy his own self.

Anyway, he does kill himself and his corpse ain't pretty.

I didn't expect to get the distinct feeling that Dorian really doesn't need a portrait to be a complete bellend.

He is my ex.

I'm texting you because I'm horny. LOL

2011-12-19T07:41:00.000-08:00

And with those fateful words, Phil from Coventry sounded the deathknell for any possibility of us meeting for that coffee.

Online dating is still not really working for me. As you can see.

Phil from Coventry had seemed like an alright guy. Bit young maybe. But he had a correctly shaped face, decent head of hair and is an aeronautic engineer. So I thought I was pretty safe in thinking he would be relatively intelligent. Definitely more than the average crayon eater anyway. I mean he does things to plane engines.

A few texts back and forth had me slightly losing what enthusiasm I had had. But he did own a dog and we seemed to be getting on OK. Got to be worth meeting for a coffee, I thought to myself. After all, what's the worst that can happen? People keep telling me I'm too picky, too specific, I mean, maybe what I should do is just date everyone that asks me and hope that one works.

There is that old saying, throw enough shit at the wall and something'll stick. So maybe Phil will stick, I thought.

So we arranged to meet on the Monday.

On the Friday I was at work when I got a text from him at around midnight.

"I'm texting you because I'm horny. LOL"

To which my response was: "What the fuck?"

To which his response was: "I am horny though. LOL"

To which my response was "...."

I was properly shiveringly grossed out. We hadn't even met and yet he seemed to be assuming that I would act as some kind of sext-line relief every time he found himself alone with a hard on. Bleuuuuuurgh.

On the Monday he texted asking if I still wanted to meet.

After I had picked myself up off the floor from my sudden onset of laughter, I declined on the basis that his text was, er, offputting.

His response?

"But I WAS horny. This isn't going to work if you get offended every time I'm horny."

I thought about trying to explain to him how he appeared to have missed the point somewhat. And, in fact, there are probably very few girls who would be flattered by clumsy attempts at sex texting from someone they haven't even met yet, and that perhaps he might want to rethink his strategy in future.

And then I thought about life being very short and just left it.

Turns out people who fuck about with aeroplane engines don't have to be intelligent after all. Good to know.

It tastes like ashes

2011-12-19T02:44:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched a film that blew my mind. It blew my mind visually, aurally and mentally. Melancholia is by far the most affecting film I have seen in years. In fact, in the metaphorical post orgasmic glow I can't actually think of another film that filled me with such tension, awe, pain, sadness and a weird sort of vindication.

Von Trier courted controversy with his pro-Nazi comments at Cannes this year. But it appears he either did that for effect, or it was a ill-judged joke, or... actually I don't care. I think he's probably socially awkward and cocked up something that was meant to be a commentary on something or other. It's a shame, though, that this may have coloured peoples' opinions of him to the extent that they may not ever watch this film.

As a sufferer for many years, I have never seen in a film a depiction of the depths of hopelessness and nihilistic drag the canker of depression can cast over a person's life. After a sublime and beautiful opening sequence which features a series of apocalyptic vignettes set to a pulsing Wagner (nope, steer away from the Nazi connection please...) score we already know without question that the world is going to end.

We then join Kirsten Dunst's character, Justine, on her way to her wedding reception. Her charmed life and the love from her new husband radiates in her smile. She looks beautiful. Perfect. Happy. Smiling. We reach an enormous mansion that turns out to be the home of Claire and her family. Claire is Justine's sister and appears uptight, bossy, control freaky and mean.

Von Trier first tells Justine's story by allowing her to unravel before our eyes. Before the wedding night is over it is clear Justine is suffering from severe and debilitating depression. "I thought I could do it," she says, speaking of her relationship, her wedding, her life.

Claire is angry. Claire's husband, a scientist who also happens to be Kiefer Sutherland in a rare non CIA role, is even angrier.

"I tried," says Justine plaintively to Claire. "I smile and I smile and I smile." Her mask isn't enough and her true self leaks through, slowly poisoning the traditions and fakeries of her own wedding reception. A reception that includes Justine disappearing on numerous occasions. She escapes onto the golf course, of which her brother-in-law is so proud, and alternately pees while staring at the constellation abover her and shags a stranger following a scene where her husband awkwardly paws at her as she stiffens and finally runs away.

The marriage is over before it has begun and she says goodbye to her husband. A failed attempt to communicate with her supremely selfish parents renders Justine absolutely alone with only the darkness inside her.

Alone, that is, except for Claire. Claire is her reproachful but ever present support.

"Is everyone in your family crazy?" snaps Kiefer.

"She's my sister," she answers.

Justine lives without hope and without hope there is no future. Which is why, when it becomes apparent that a planet called Melancholia is hurtling towards earth and may possibly collide with it, therefore rendering life obsolete, Justine is calm and unafraid. She is not frightened of the obliteration of mankind as, to her, life on earth is evil.

Claire is the pillar of support that helps Justine function through the catatonic stage of depression that follows the wedding. Justine can barely walk. She cannot wash herself. She cannot eat. Claire holds her up next to a bath, baby talking her into stepping into the water. Justine folds in on herself, wailing like a child. She has regressed to a state where she no longer has to cope with the darkness around her. Sleep is her little death and Claire keeps her alive through that.

In the second part of the film we switch to Claire. It becomes clear that calm, rational, capable Claire is chronically anxious, possibly self-medicating and really freaking worried about the planet that is on its way. Her scientist husband reassures her over and over that there is no danger.

As we already know that this isn't true, the tension ramps up slowly, slowly, slowly.

Justine is now a calm presence in the background of Claire's increasing panic. The day finally arrives and we sit with the family as they watch the planet come closer and closer. It seems inevitable that this is the moment. But the night passes and the planet appears to recede.

Except that it hasn't.

And as inexorably as Justine's darkness encroaches on her potential future, the shadow falls over the earth again as Melancholia comes closer.

Claire's husband commits the ultimate betrayal when he realises his calculations were incorrect. While Claire is dozing in the sun he takes all of the tablets she had stockpiled and kills himself, leaving Claire alone to face the end of the world.

Alone, that is, apart from Justine.

So Justine, Claire and Claire's sun face the end of the world together and the final scene ratchets up the tension unbearably. The planet hits, the screen fades to black and then it's finished. And I'm quietly hysterical on the sofa. Snot, tears, the works. As I was at someone else's house this was a tad embarrassing.

I googled reactions to the film and they are almost a 50/50 split between 'it's really boring and miserable' to 'it changed my life'.

I urge you to watch it and decide for yourself.

Kids say the funniest things

2011-12-07T13:11:00.000-08:00

Don't they?

Like this, for example: "God made the world".

Shocked I was, I don't mind telling you.

Context is probably needed here. A week or so ago, right in the middle of my martyrdom to the burned leg (it was still weeping and hadn't yet crisped up), my mum brought my nephew over to see me. He's five years old and, of course, he's hilarious. What five year old boy isn't?

I'm not a gooey type about children. On the whole I much prefer animals. But I do like my nephew. He's in my top three kids that I like to spend time with for a few hours before leaving them to go back to my nice, quiet house.

We went to Cafe Rouge for lunch. I don't go there very often, partly I think because I worked at the Solihull branch about 12 years ago and they paid me something like £2.50 an hour and kept the tips. I do hold grudges, it has to be said.

I didn't realise that Cafe Rouge in 2011 is akin to a fucking Wacky Warehouse (not that I've ever been to one, but I've been to something that I'm reliably informed is very similar and it involved hundreds of screaming, snotting, oozing children hurling themselves around the place). We were wedged in between two families who seemed to have at least 15 children each (on closer inspection it was three), all of whom were yelling, crying, chucking chips around and generally making me feel uncomfortable.

And then my nephew said, and I quote: "Children shouldn't be allowed in here if they are crying."

After I high-fived him we talked a little about stuff. You know, school and Star Wars and things. Mum told me that he's been selected as Joseph for the school nativity. I understand, from observing gushy office-mum behaviour in the past, that this is a Great Honour.

I asked him whether he was pleased. He said: "No. I don't wanna. I don't like Mary."

We couldn't get out of him why he doesn't like whichever unfortunate lass who is to star opposite him but he was very clear about the fact that: "jesus is a doll", and said this phrase with such derision and contempt that my heart sang a little.

So I thought I was on safe ground when I asked him whether he believed in 'god'. I assumed he would roll his older-than-his-years eyes and say: "As if Auntie Debs, I would be taken in by such fairy tales and nonsense."

Instead he did that 'um' thing that kids do when they push their tongue in front of their lower front teeth. In the 80s it used to denote that they thought you were mentally inferior. I'm sure it doesn't now, what with it being 2011 and all.

I can only describe his expression as shocked when he said: "Of COURSE I do. He made the world."

After a short but intense conversation, mostly one-sided, where I explained to him the difference between provable facts and ridiculous stories made up to control people, I let the subject drop. With him. I turned to my mum and asked "What the fuck?", without using the word 'fuck' but wholly conveying it - a skill I have honed throughout the years of talking the lovely refined lady that she is.

She blithely returned that as he goes to a religious school - despite the fact that neither of his parents are religious in the slightest - that is what he is taught. On a daily basis. Now, I don't have a problem with people believing in things I don't believe in. I really and truly don't. If you have developed a theory and a rationale for believing that the world was created by a big man who lives in the sky, then fine. Go for your life.

I do have a problem when children are taught that one point of view is a fact, without recourse to other theories. Particularly when those people are five years old. An age where truth is imperative.

"Why does he go to a religious school?"

"Because the other ones in the area are horrible and this gives him the best chance to get into a good senior school."

"Well, what's the POINT of that if all he's going to come out with is a messed up view of religion as fact?"

Just as mum managed to completely steer me off the conversation (she just stops interacting with me until I have to eventually stop ranting) my nephew took a renewed interest. He said: "I think god put the dinosaurs there..." and looked mighty uncertain about it all for a second.

From this I take great hope. And when he's a couple of years older I'm going to show him some books I think he should read...

Between you and me

2011-12-06T16:26:00.000-08:00

I've been having a dabble in online dating recently. It's a thing I've done before, with varying degrees of success.

I went out with one guy for a few months. He lived in London as they mostly do on Guardian Soulmates. I was looking for a man who might read the odd book, you know? Or maybe have an opinion on something that would make me stop and think.

What I got was a slightly taciturn lad who refused to acknowledge me as his girlfriend after four months of dating. Dating that involved dragging my exhausted ass to London and schlepping round parts of the city at beer festivals and shit. Stuff that I wasn't, to be honest, that in to. I asked him outright if he saw me as his girlfriend and he said: "Hmmm. No, not yet."

And then it was one of those moments where the scales fall from your eyes. I realised that not only did I not care that he didn't see me as his girlfriend, I didn't want him to. So programmed was I, after years and years in a relationship, to feel I need a boyfriend that I literally hadn't stopped to consider whether I wanted to be with him. Weird, huh? So I finished with him forthwith. Naturally, then he decided that he did want me as his girlfriend after all. None so queer as (male) folk. Never been at all sure why women have the crazy tag.

Anyway, I'm digressing. As I tend to do. My second foray into internet dating a couple of years later resulted in the one I have christened Twatface. Or Asshole. Or Knobhead. Broke what was left of my heart into tiny pieces so he did. Still, we had nice holidays.

Earlier this month, prompted by boredom and curiosity, I decided to reignite one of my profiles. I gave Guardian Soulmates a miss as it's filled either with London-based body fascists who live in Chelsea and work in banks, or really pretentious arty types with thick rimmed glasses and speak like they thought Nathan Barley was a documentary.

I decided to go to match.com. You know the one with the puke-inducing advert where a stalker sings to a girl at a tube station and she doesn't, as would be perfectly natural and understandable, spray her perfume into his eyes while simultaneously kneeing him in the bollocks. No, she falls in looooooove with him.

It's almost a month in and it's been hilariously predictable so far. I am actually considering branching out my freelance business in order to write profiles for men on online dating sites. Because they're SHITE. I mean, REALLY shite:

"I like staying in and going out, I like too (sic) watch films and eat nice food (really). I like too (sic) go out with the lads, LOL, (FUCK OFF) and play extreme sports (reaaaaaaaaaaaaaallly?). I'm looking for an easy going girl with no baggage, who is slim and athletic (usually from a man who most closely resembles a fat Karl Pilkington). My friends would say I am the life and soul (doubtful). I'm a really easy going (balls) and attractive (I'll be the judge of that, sonny) man who is looking for a partner in crime to snuggle up with on the sofa with a bottle of wine and a DVD(yaaaaaaawn)."

I play profile bullshit bingo. It's the most fun thing about being on there.

The point of relaying this is partly a symptom of my unedited stream of consciousness style of writing (you lucky, lucky people) but I will now get to the point of this post. Which is thus. I was chatting idly to a man on Facebook chat earlier. A man I met on the internet and went on a date with maybe a year or so ago. Lovely guy, but there wasn't any chemistry. We're Facebook friends. We chat every now and again. He told me he is seeing someone, to which I responded positively, because it is a nice thing. A nice guy is seeing someone new and is happy, which makes me happy about it. 's generally nice.

So, we're chatting about me and relationships and I say:

"i just need to stop being so picky i think, i'm not at all sure i actually want a relationship between you and me"

He comes back with: "that's not an option right now Deb"

I looked askance at this for a while.

Quite a long while in fact.

What's not an option? Had I said something else that had disappeared from the screen? Had I misunderstood something? WHAT'S not an option?

And then, I put myself in the mind of a man. Ohhhhh...

So he thought I meant that I was considering a relationship between me and him: "I'm not sure I actually want a relationship between you and me." As in, I was randomly and a propos of nothing propositioning him five minutes after congratulating him on his new girlfriend. And his male brain hadn't assimilated that and come to the conclusion that he had perhaps misunderstood. He went straight in with the: Oh, no, I'm sorry but you can't go out with meeeeee.

Quite obviously, I meant: "I'm not sure I actually want a relationship COMMA between you and me."

As in, I'm taking you into my confidence here dude.

It did make me snigger in an irritated fashion. Which is something to behold I tell you. And it also made me question, once again, whether men are born with an inbuilt level of self-esteem that wraps them warm in a cosy duvet of a life time's snuggly denial about their level of attractiveness. Because increasingly it seems to me that men have, at their core, the central belief that all women find them heart-stoppingly sexy and are either just being coy or are too shy.

I guess my lesson for today is, do watch the commas when you're IMing people, yes? For you don't know what kind of scrapes you could get into. Scrapes that will most likely leave you spluttering incoherently about punctuation mistakes on a blog.

Tch.

Burn baby burn

2011-11-24T14:28:00.000-08:00

Things have been not going that well recently. I've been depressed. I've been proper black-cloud-navel-gazing-staring-at-the-wall depressed. Yeah, I know. It's boring listening to someone wank on about how dowwwwn they are and how shit their life is. Especially when it isn't, actually, that shit.

But that's what depression is isn't it - it's an illogical way of seeing the world. It's like trying to make out shapes through a gauze curtain and hoping you've pasted the right kind of look on your face when out in company. If that makes no sense to you, it could be that the codeine is restricting my ability to write, or you're one of the lucky ones who've never had to deal with soul bending depression.
Anyway, my point is, it's been a shiteous couple of weeks. I spent far too much time on my own last week, which as anyone who suffers from depression knows, is a Bad Idea. It lets the voices take over just a bit too much and generally results in not being able to get out of bed and staring at walls for an unfeasibly long time.

But I'm lucky in many respects, I have a couple of jobs that force me to interact with people and some lovely mates who cheer me up.

On Saturday I had to attend one of these jobs. One which involves talking to a lot of people and generally having to get into a better mood to survive. So that's what I did. And half way through my shift I started to feel a lot more positive. See, I said to myself (in my head, natch, I'm not completely mental), things aren't that bad. People are nice (most of the time), just start to pull yourself together. You know, think more positively. Maybe everything will be ok after all. The shift was coming to an end. Bonnie Tyler was the last song of the night. I fucking love Total Eclipse of the Heart. It had turned into one of those cheesy singalongs. I was feeling, well, happy.

And then.
And then.
And then I walked past the coffee machine at precisely the moment that would ensure the jug of scalding water which was just falling off the side would hit my thigh at full force, drip all the way down my tights, into my boots and form a pool of boiling water just by my ankle.

I can still feel the impact if I think about it. I have never ever experienced pain like it. I shrieked. Screamed even. Howled probably. And ran blindly into the kitchen peeling off my clothes as I went. I didn't even care that I was undressing in front of most of my co workers, all I could think of was to get the clothes off me.
We faffed around for a bit, because I was doing that whole British stoicism thing (when I had stopped screaming). And also I couldn't really process that my skin had melted off my leg. People were very kind and helpful and gave me ice and talked me out of passing out and lent me clothes and eventually took me to A&E.

It was eerily quiet when we arrived. By this point I was starting to want to sob helplessly. The thing about burn pain is, well the pain doesn't stop getting worse. It doesn't reach a peak and abate, it just sort of keeps burning. On and on and on. I held my hand about eight inches from the surface of the skin and could feel the heat emanating from it. That's scary in itself. Your leg is wrapped - comically - in cling film and heat is radiating from it as the pain grows more and more and more intense.

I still felt that I was probably making a fuss about nothing. I always think that. I thought that when my appendix exploded inside of me. Right up till the moment I came round from surgery I thought that someone would have a go at me for making a fuss about nothing.
I was through triage in about two minutes, which was most welcome and, after a short lecture by the nurse about the proper treatment of burns (under cold water for 20 mins, cling film and THEN casualty, just for the record - to be fair, there wasn't anywhere I could have stuck my leg anyway, unless you count the kitchen sink and that's just not very hygenic is it?), he started pouring cold water on the rapidly forming blisters.

I could practically hear my skin, or at least what was left of it, hiss in relief. He whacked some damp pads on my leg and then buggered off for about four hours. I stared at the wall and wondered what the fuck just happened to me.

In that time, people came and went. Heart attacks, people need resuscitating, a woman giving birth next to me... It was all go. It was actually just like the TV show ER. Without the crash carts and sexy doctors. Actually, it was far more like Casualty: harrassed, worried staff legging it around trying to help an endless stream of, mostly ungrateful, people.

They deserve a fucking medal for doing that job. Never again will I moan about any job I have. That's obviously a complete lie but you get the idea.

Two days later the bandages were slipping. I looked down and there was a big open wound on my leg. I limped to the pharmacist hoping for some kind of miracle tape I could squidge over it. Naturally they sent me straight back to the doctors, who stripped the wound to reveal this:

I mean, what the FUCK is that on my ankle? Some kind of creature? Am I growing a new body? Turns out it wasn't just a superficial burn you see - as the nice nurse assured me at A&E - it's actually 'quite a serious burn, dear. It's a second degree burn.'

Oh, I thought. Lovely.

They declined to burst the blister as it is, of course, my body showing how amazing it really is by growing a protective layer, pumping out healing liquid and protecting itself from infection. I was actually in thrall to this miracle of nature. Until I couldn't get the look of the thing out of my head. Every step I took, I could feel the liquid SLOSHING around. It was like hobbling around while carrying the Elephant Man's head as an appendage. Utterly disgusting.

So the next day they hauled me in to burst it. I had a vague idea it would be a delicate operation with a sterilised needle perhaps. Two minutes later I was aware that actually how they do it is to tell you to lay face down while they go in with a pair of SCISSORS. I felt the liquid ooze all over my foot and held back a heave. And then she casually cut away the dead skin. All of which I could feel.

As disgusting as that blister was you see, it meant I could actually walk without searing pain. Now I put my foot down on the floor and the blood rushes to it. Of course this happens every time anyone stands up. The difference is there is usually several layers of skin to stop it feeling like your leg is going to explode. I have to have a little scream every morning when I get up. It's a good way to start the day.

I suppose my lesson from all of this is, if you think you're depressed without a massive burn on your leg, you know you are when you have to deal with it. As soon as this is better I will run and frolic and dance with gay abandon. And on that note, I'll just leave you with this. Just because.

So do they know it's Christmas or what?

2011-11-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

You know when you have one of those half-remembered whispers of a memory in your head? And over the years it crops up as part of a conversation, or a time of year? But you're never quite sure of the details? No? Well, perhaps it's just me. I have loads of them. Loads. I never know what's real and what isn't.

I was convinced for years that my dad had first got ill when I was five. I mean, totally convinced that his first heart attack was when I was five. How can you misremember that? Well, it turns out I was nine. So, go figure. I have pretty much no idea which of my childhood memories are true, accurate or I've just smooshed them in my head into something else entirely.

Anyway, I was having a conversation the other day with someone about the first single we ever bought. On vinyl it was Stupid Questions by New Model Army (for some unfeasible reason I didn't have a record player till I was about 15), and on cassette, well - and this is the weird memory - I could have sworn it was Do They Know it's Christmas? but on a computer game cassette.

This was back in the day of course. It was 1985 and as my dad worked in IT and we always had the zenith of technology at home. Which just happened to be a Commodore 64. Oh yes sirree. None of your Spectrums for us. It was Vic 20 straight onto C64. It took at least 40 minutes to load Frogger I seem to recall.

I remember playing Ghostbusters - which was awesome - and that fecking Hobbit adventure game which was really difficult. I remember my dad's friend was a local hero cos he'd finished it in three months. Well, I think I remember that. I could be completely misremembering it. Do I even exist? Descartes would say yes, just cos I'm thinking about it. But what did he know, really?

So annnnnnnnyway, to get back to the point. Tonight I was idly flicking around the music channels, just in that kind of mood. And Band Aid's original Do They Know it's Christmas? was on. So I remembered this half remembered thing and the conversation I had the other day and decided to Google it.

And behold, this is what I found:

And it all fell into place. THIS was what I remembered. I wasn't going mental. I wasn't misremembering. It did exist. I didn't realise that - as Wiki now informs me - that it was the second year release for the song (I thought it was the first). I do remember that you had to quickly stick it into a regular cassette player - not the loading deck - and keep winding until you found the song.

I remember the sleeve art really clearly now I see it again.

So, for those who don't remember Softaid (I mean, how could you not? Oh, you weren't born you say? Fair enough), it was released in late 1985 by Quicksilva for the ZX Spectrum and the C64 specifically in aid of famine relief. It was very big at the time. You've probably heard of Live Aid and suchlike. And Bob Geldof. He did one decent single and then just spent the rest of the time yelling at us on TV to give our fooking money. Oh and procreating. Which we're all very thankful for. Imagine a world without Peaches Geldof.

I don't remember any of the games however. It's possible I only used it to play the song. I loved that song. Even though it took me 10 years to work out the exact lyrics.

I really like this factoid I found out while researching this post. After Do They Know It's Christmas? was released in 1984 it went straight to the top of the UK charts (a much bigger deal back then than these days. You had to sell more than 25 copies for one thing. And piracy meant recording it off the radio on a Sunday afternoon). Every week it was at number one, Top of the Pops ran the supergroup (Sting, Paul Weller blah blah, we all know who was in it) recording of them all miming their lines. All except Bono. U2 were only just getting started and they weren't deemed big enough to appear on Top of the Pops. So Paul Weller mimed his line as well.

This tickled me. Sometimes I wish we were back in the early 80s. A world where Peaches wasn't born and the world didn't know who the fuck Bono was. Happy days indeed.

Still loads of people starving in Africa though. Epic fail Sir Bob.

Girl crush

2011-11-16T17:59:00.000-08:00

There's girls I find aesthetically pleasing. Women I find beautiful. Women I like to look at. I mean let's not kid ourselves. We live in a sick society that judges people by the way they look. We always have and we always will.

But it's more than that. Beautiful people are revered. For an accident of birth. Every supermodel could have been you or I, if only we'd had those genes and had been born at that time, in that space, with that particularly symmetrical face and freakishly lean body. It's nothing they have done. It's nothing they have learned. They create nothing. They teach nothing. But they are revered the world over. Just for the accident of their birth. It's really really mental.

And it permeates down from the dizzy heights of supermodels and A listers to the people you meet in the street, the people you work with, everyone. I know I forgive a good looking man lots and lots of things just because of the way he looks. I'm not proud of it, but it's true. I can also be dismissive of men I don't think are aesthetically pleasing. What a bitch, eh? Except I know people do it to me too. It's human nature I think.

With women it's more complicated. I think beautiful women can intimidate me initially, but so many of my good girl friends are just gorgeous that that clearly doesn't last. But then, I often find people who are consistently horrible to me become ugly in my eyes anyway. I guess it all is entirely subjective.
Anyway, I'm rambling. It's insomnia time again, people. And the point of this post was to create a list of my girl crushes. I don't know why. It just feels like the right thing to do. This is my top ten of women that I love to look at. Obviously they're all famous because otherwise it would be pointless to share on a blog post. And a little creepy.

1. Fairuza Balk.
I have loved this woman's face since I first saw her in Return to Oz. She's pretty much my age so at every stage I have wanted to look like her. Right through Gas, Food, Lodging, The Craft and even American History X. She's tiny, and dainty and snarly and sexy. Her features are strong and defined and I think she's absolutely gorgeous. Obviously I like her best in The Craft. I so wanted to be Nancy when I was 16.

2. Elisa Dushku
I could never really work out why guys prefer Sarah Michelle Gellar when Faith was so much sexier. Even if she was in a video by those awful Canadian dirge meisters. You know, the ones who did that song about being a rock star that ended up on the DFS adverts. Rock. And. Roll. I've also read somewhere she's as dumb as a rock which kind of takes the edge of it. But it does explain the music video.

3. Julianna Marguiles
Whenever ER started - when the hell was that anyway? It feels like it was a long, long, long time ago. I remember my dad going off to play computer games when it came on cos he thought it was shite, and me and mam would sit and drool over George Clooney - anyway, I liked this woman's face. I think she's gorgeous. And the hair. I want hair like that.

4. Mila Kunis
Perfect, so she is. Way hotter than Natalie Portman in Black Swan. Which I guess was part of the point. I think - I could be wrong about this and I can't be arsed to google it, but I think she went out with Macauley Culkin for years. That cannot possibly be right, can it? He peaked looks wise in Home Alone 2. Hang on, I have to check now. Yes, yes she did. Wowsers.

5. Starbuck
This is specifically the character, rather than the actress. Who is lovely I'm sure. But I definitely had a crush on Starbuck. Mind you, I had a crush on Adama Senior. And Gaius. Maybe I just watched way too much BSG...

6. Winona Ryder
Veronica Sawyer. Nuff said.

7. Sherilyn Fenn
Loved this lady in Twin Peaks, she dressed like Lynch's 50s sex siren fantasy and is extremely sexy. And she also starred in one of the funniest films I've ever seen - Boxing Helana. If you haven't seen this, I highly recommend it. It's about Julian Sands being obsessed with Sherilyn's character, to the point that he chops her arms and legs off and keeps her in a box. Hence the title. It's marvellous. Specially the end. I won't ruin it for you.

8. Jennifer Connelly
Hmmm. Another dark haired, flawlessly complexioned, strong eyebrowed woman. I appear to have a type. I did not know this.

9. Zooey Deschanel
She was the reason I watched The Happening. Seriously. The only reason. And she made a good Trillian. It's annoying when people say she looks like Katy Perry who, although a nice looking lady, needs trowels full of make up to look half this good.

10. Drew Barrymore
I'll admit, I'm struggling. I've probably come to the end of my ladies I have a girl crush on. Drew just edges in there.

So, I think we've identified that I have a type. With the exception of Starbuck - and I think that was mostly because she is the coolest character in any TV series, possibly ever. And an angel. Or a cylon. Or something.

By the way, and just to be clear, it's a platonic girl crush thing. Apart from Mila. Probably.

Trainspotting

2011-11-13T18:50:00.000-08:00

I was in London the other day. For work. I know, right? Imagine having to actually get up at a specified time and get on a train? It was like a foreign country. Like an out of body experience. And, as is usual when I go to London, I was overcome by the futility of living.

I mean, really. What's the point? Well, to be more specific, what's the point of living if one is commuting. Using the British transport system. I honestly think if I had to do it every day I would swiftly be having a Falling Down moment and going postal.

I was briefly distracted by the fact that the new trains to London had nice seats, were clean and they had FREE WIFI. Un-fucking-believable. It's the future, man. I couldn't work out why more people weren't excited by this fact. And then I realised it was 6am and no one wanted to face the reality of the existence they had created for themselves at that moment.

But, I noticed on one of my trips to the toilet (bladder the size of a walnut, I swear. One coffee and it's game over), everyone was taking advantage of it to do really important shit on their ipads - Facebook and films. Oh, and one Angry Birds. Thank fuck for distractions from the despair and pointlessness of the everyday, eh?

But the train was fine. On the whole. It got light, it was quite pretty outside. But then came the tube. I am in awe of Londoners and their ability to use this crowded, hot, filthy, disgusting form of transport on a day to day basis. Like it's a normal thing to do. To stand on a grimy platform, breathing in hot air, giving total strangers stink eye even if they blatantly got to the prime spot first. Standing just on the yellow line in some kind of tiny act of almost rebellion. Only to watch train after train roll up with people pressed to the windows like lambs to the slaughter, no one to get out, and roll onwards having absorbed about five from the gathering throng on the platform.

Four trains went by until I could squeeze on. With my face wedged underneath some guy's armpit and being too short to reach the grab handle on the ceiling, I looked at all the other dead eyed people, trying to act like they're not completely invading someone else's space. As I was trying not to inhale and wondering just how long I could hold my breath - could I make it to Oxford Street without having to breathe in? It seemed like a feasible option given the alternative - a fat, sweaty guy barged on. There was no room. None. But he made room for his bulk with just the strength of his halitosis and lack of shame. What a bastard.

Except he's not a bastard, this unfortunate everyman who became the focus for my ire. He's just some schmuck trying to get to his crappy job, just like everyone else. Except me. My job's cool. Obviously.

People do this EVERY DAY. Over the years my I have manouvered my working life to ensure that every subsequent job role is a bit nearer to my house. My last proper job at a games developer was a whole 20 seconds away. And now, I often work from my bed. And if not my actual bed, I work from under a duvet. Winning. As Sir Sheen would say.

But other people choose to do that journey. Every. Single. Day. Just to get to a job they probably don't even like, with people they secretly wish would cease to exist overnight. Oh, I know some people love their jobs. I've read about them. But let's face it, they're definitely in the minority.

After my work was done, I decided to beat the tube by getting a black cab. Holborn to Marylebone. Easy. 10 minutes said the driver. 50 minutes later I trailed into the station just behind my colleague who had got the fucking tube.

Fuck you London. You suck.

Things I get told at work

2011-11-07T12:23:00.000-08:00

I have a weird life at the moment. After years and years and years of being an office slave, a few months ago I singed a few bridges and took a flying lurch into the unknown. On the same day I left my (not very well paid but at least regularly waged) PR job, I went into what has now become my second home, the local, and begged for a job. I actually did beg as well.
They took me on part time. And so began my Weird Life. Three nights a week I work like a dog behind a bar. It's brutal. It's seriously brutal. You don't get a break at all, unless you smoke. Non smokers are fucked. So, as a reluctant smoker, I'm sort of forced to smoke more just so I can sit down for 60 seconds occasionally.

I get shouted at. Frequently. Just the other night I chatted to the chef for a millisecond and got screamed at. By the end of a hot, sweaty evening I'm covered in beer and the unnamed gunk that seems to be everywhere. My feet are wet and my back aches. I've been groped, leered at, sneered at and laughed at by increasingly drunken customers. And I'm knackered.

If I come in in a good mood, I'm asked whether I got laid last night. If I come in a bad mood, I never hear the end of it. I'm called old, a spinster, weird, moody, angry, and, memorably, the other night was likened to Gordon Ramsey. I hope not facially. I'm frequently told I don't work hard enough, that I chat too much and that I'm too slow. It's sort of like working in the 1970s. And there are no rules, or at least, they seem to change every day.

And yet, today, as I sat learning how to make Long Island Ice Tea and Raspberry Mojito and tasting them at 3 in the afternoon when most people I know are tied to a chair in some grey office block, I realised that between this job and my writing, I'm pretty fucking lucky.

[PS. If you see spelling errors in this blog or the previous blog it's because I'm writing it lying on the floor with a fat cat lying on my hands. Tis difficult to type.]

It's only a SANITARY TOWEL

2011-11-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

I just got sniggered at in Superdrug for buying sanitary towels. Seriously. The young cretin gave his friend a look and smirked while he was waving them past the beeping thing.

I was incredulous. Actually incredulous. I mean, he works in a fucking chemist. I wonder if he blushes when people buy condoms? He must freaking die if someone buys that Durex lube stuff. What if I was to go in and buy a pregnancy test? Would he explode with repressed humour at the thought of someone to wee on a stick to determine the outcome of that one night stand the other week?

How would he cope if someone (not me, obviously) went in for pile cream? Or Vagisil? (terrible name for a product, I always think. I mean, I suppose it sort of does what it says on the tin but personally, if I ever feel the need for feminine hygiene products, I'd rather their name wasn't derived from the word vagina. But perhaps that's just me. I don't know).

It sort of simultaneously winds me up and makes me annoyed when men and boys are either amused or somehow disgusted by the sight of a tampon. We've surely come a long way from the days when women were looked at as unclean when they bled uncontrollably every month?

Periods really are a woman's curse. It's an old refrain, but if guys could just ONCE experience the hormonal mess you can feel at that time, deal with the grimness of the blood, thedepression and weepiness, or the irresistable anger that can come with PMT. And the fact that the day it starts when you're 11 or 12, you know that that is it. For the next 40 years. Bleeding every single month, without fail.

And then, things go wrong. I was diagnosed with endometriosis last year. This, lads, involves a woman's womb lining growing where it shouldn't and then shedding. It is cripplingly painful and can stop you in your tracks. It usually necessitates people thinking you're making a fuss when you go green and have to lie down at that special time of the month. Or if you say that your period pain genuinely does last for two out of every four weeks. I had mind lasered off but it's growing back.

Or the womb lets you down when it comes down to it. Some women suffer periods their whole life long, only to not be able to conceive, .Some doeaccidentally and are forced to make a decision of, literally, life or death. I was in that unfortunate position myself a few years ago.

But I am digressing from my point somewhat. Which is this. One should be able to go to a chemist and buy whatever one needs, wether that's a sanitary towel, condoms, pregnancy test or fucking Durex love juice or whatever it's called, without having to run the gauntlet of dealing with shop assistants with a lavatorial humour.

So, Superdrug cretin, sanitary towels are really no laughing matter. And from now on, every single time I need to buy something for my lady bits I will seek you out and then ask you questions about it. Till you cry. Twat.

Can anyone understand that?

2011-10-31T17:45:00.000-07:00

"There's, like, seven planes of existence and we are down here and they are up there. And they pass on into the spirit, you know? And there's lots of different kinds of mediuming (sic) and mediumship (sic) and some in the spirit (sic) will talk to me and some will appear to me. I talk to them through my third eye and there are 122 chakras. Not many people know that. I can see all of your auras. But not in colour. That's not part of my gifting (sic). I can only see them in white. So, yeah."

So, yeah. I went to see a 'demonstration of spirtuality and mediumship' tonight. I'm pretty sure mediumship isn't a word. Obviously I'm cynical about the whole thing. I have watched some on the telly and have been alternately amused and disgusted. Preying on vulnerable bereaved people isn't nice. Pretending to be possessed on Most Haunted is funny. So, I figured a fiver would be well spent to be either disgusted (I do enjoy that) or amused. I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

A nervous, chubby bloke from Kenilworth (A medium. From Kenilworth. I mean, really) proceeded to sweat profusely in the corner of the pub while fumbling his way through an explanation (of sorts) of his 'gifting'.

A quick look around the tiny audience showed five people who he's clearly related to, a couple of tipsy girls, a few enthusiastic middle aged ladies, two people I know who came for the laugh, and a complete and utter psycho. He was easily the most terrifying thing about the entire evening. I spent most of the night trying not to meet his killer stare. I imagine that's the look he gives you just before he peels your skin off and fashions it into a suit. Luckily, he left early.

After approximately twelfty hours of explaining his craft we got to the messages.

"You know when you get a bit hot? That's a spirit letting you know it's there. And if you get cold? That's a spirit. And if you have pins and needles? That's a spirit. If you shiver? Also a spirit. Anyone can do this. But I'm going to be working with spirit (sic) tonight by talking to them in my head. OK?

"Right, I have a man called Richard. Can anyone understand that? He's 6ft 2. And dead. Anyone? Can anyone understand that? He likes building things. You know, general manly activities. Fishing mainly. Anyone? You? No? OK.

"There's two dogs. One's small and one's medium to large. Does anyone understand that? No? Anyone? No? OK.

"I have a woman. She was old and frail and didn't feel good before she died. In her 80s. She's a grandma. Anyone here lost a grandma? She liked flowers. She wants to stress that she liked purple flowers. Can you understand that? Anyone? No? OK?

"I have a woman between 60 and 100 with an E in her name? Anyone? Oh, you. Thank you."

As everyone in the room would probably know someone who was dead a few hands went up. His relief was palpable as he turned to the recipient of his message.

"She's called Doris. Does that mean anything to you?"

"No"

"Oh."

I spent the next hour counting the tumbleweed as it went past.

I have dead relatives coming out of my ears. I have dozens of them. Parents, grandparents, friends. Loads. I've been to more funerals than I have weddings. I'm a fecking gift for a medium. I'm not going to lie; there was a tiny, weeny part of me that secretly wanted it all to be true and have my dad send me a message. Although, to be fair, if me dad wanted to say something to me, it's unlikely he'd pick some highly unconvincing dude from Kenilworth as the conduit.

The only dead person in that room was the hapless medium himself. I have never seen anyone actually die on stage before. Not so THOROUGHLY.

He probably should have seen that coming.

Nail varnish remover. Yes. Really.

2011-10-27T02:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I accidentally punched a wall while walking past it resulting in a cut across the vein in my right hand. I smashed an entire bottle of rum at work resulting in the loss of two hours wages. I stubbed my toe so hard on a chair that I fell over and cried. And finally, I tried to remove my make up with nail varnish remover.

Marvellous.

I'm almost in awe of my own stupidity. I honestly don't know how it's possible to be so vacant and so clumsy and so ME to do stuff like that. I mean, nail varnish remover? Really? I only realised when my eyes started to burn and I began to choke.

In other news I'm anxiously awaiting my contact lenses. I have a costume for Halloween that I've actually put some time and effort into. Usually I rely on the fact that I'm good with goth make up and go as a generic witch or corpse bride. But this year I'm working at our Halloween party and decided to go as the Black Swan.

For those who have seen the film and know me well, you'll most likely agree it's a good choice. Not, I hasten to add, because I see any resemblance between the divine Natalie Portman and me physically (quite obviously, I would have thought, although someone the other day did say: How are YOU going to make yourself look like Natalie Portman? It hadn't actually occurred to me at that point that anyone would think I would even try to. It's the character I'm going for. Capice?). But I definitely identify with the character. I'm often to be found mindlessly peeling the skin from my fingers and only noticing when it bleeds and repressing my rage and psychosis. I jest. Ish.

Anyway. The costume should be aces but sort of lives and dies on whether these contact lenses I've ordered arrive on time. I paid for two day delivery. Three days ago...

Tearing off tights with my teeth

2011-10-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

Not literally. Obviously. It is, of course, a lyric from Insomnia. Which I have used to illustrate the fact that for approximately the 15th night in a row, I can't fucking sleep.

So instead I'm smoking a, frankly ill advised, fag and listening to the millionth episode of The Ricky Gervais Show. You've got to love Karl Pilkington.

I remember the days when I couldn't stay awake. I remember sleeping through parties, through university, through Sundays. Sleeping till 2pm was the norm. I remember my parents yelling at me every fricking day to get the fuck out of bed.

How is it that these days, sleep eludes me unless I take valium. How?

I can't turn off the swirling nonsense in my brain. I can't shut the voices out. I try reading, and all that happens is I end up reading an entire book in a night. I even watched Glee, thinking that would send me off. But I started getting involved in it and watching an entire series. I've tried writing. Shit, I've even tried working. And nothing helps.

It could be because I've been ill for about the 18th time this year. Last night for instance, I was knackered. Absolutely knackered. Late night on Saturday followed by work on Sunday should have allowed me to drop off like a normal person. But instead I spent four hours hanging over the toilet being inexplicably sick.

Now that's stopped and I'm just sitting here. Albeit it with a very dodgy stomach. Maybe it's that.

But if I could just switch my brain off. I mean, is it normal? Is it normal to be analysing every, single situation from every, single angle? Is it normal to be wondering if I should channel my energies away from being angry every day to, I dunno, being kinder to people? Would that make me feel better? Would that help?

I tried it in Tesco the other day, as it goes. There was an old woman faffing with packing her shopping. You know how they do. It seems to come as a surprise that, once they've pissed about finding the money and counting out the change, they have to put the shopping in bags and move away fast. Because the next person, ie. me, is standing there wishing they'd hurry the fuck up so they can leave this horrible place full of chavs and BOGOF deals.

Usually I wouldn't say anything, but I would radiate impatience until they've gone. This time, I looked at her and said: "It's fine, take your time." And she said: "Oh, I'm so sorry, dear." And she was nice. And I said: "Honestly, it's fine, I'm not in a rush." And she calmed down and managed to pack it up and then she thanked me. And it was nice. It was a nice feeling.

Perhaps what I need to do is stop being so fucking self obsessed and think about other people more. Maybe then I could actually sleep.

Among the many books I'm currently reading (Snuff by Terry Pratchett - Sam Vimes centric Discworld novel - obviously brilliant; Mad, Bad and Dangerous - a study of the treatment of mental illness from 1700 to the present - very interesting; Catch 22 - for book group - very funny; Karl Pilkington's latest - again, because he makes me laugh) I'm reading one called How to be Kind.

I have a plethora of self help books. Because I do like to fit the stereotype of a neurotic spinster cat lady in every way possible. (As an aside, someone in the pub actually, in all seriousness, called me a spinster the other day. Apparently it's 1865). I have them all. I have ones about anxiety, ones about agoraphobia, ones about depression, ones about breaking up, dating, how to stop thinking about your ex, how to stop being angry, the list goes on and on and on.

But when I was in the library I found this book called How to be Kind. It's an interesting idea. Be nice to people and you'll feel better about yourself. I quite like it.

I find it easy to be caring and nice to people I know and love. I would do pretty much anything for my good friends. I don't mind putting myself out in any way at all for them. It's people I don't know I can be impatient with. People who I don't click with immediately that I unconsciously dismiss. Or people that have pissed me off, I can hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I hold on to grudges and find it very difficult to forgive.

Maybe that's where I should concentrate on making changes. Worth a try, eh?

Now I have word vomited all over this blog, maybe I can GET SOME SLEEP.

Good night.

Ten things I like

2011-10-17T09:33:00.000-07:00

This is most definitely trickier. But I'm almost positive there are ten day to day things in this world that I actively like.

But first, I HAVE to get in a number 11 on the hate list. Big Issue sellers. Particularly Big Issue sellers who mistakenly believe they have the gift of the gab and come across in a sort of cockerney cheeky chappy way, as opposed to a harrassing, rude and FUCKING annoying way.

Right. Likes.

1. Coffee. I really really like coffee. It has to be real, but other than that I'm easy. Cappuccino, americano, whatevs. Don't care. But I have to have it every day. Most recently about five times a day. This has coincided with my insomnia. Oh.

Coffee literally gets me out of bed in the morning. I've even got into the habit of drinking it last thing at night before bed. Who does that? Weird. I would rather give up eating than coffee. Fact.

2. The Guardian on a Saturday. I like The Guardian every other day but I only read it online. Or on the Facebook app. Which, by the way, is creepy. I don't particularly want everyone to see exactly what I've read. They'll see that I mostly leave the actual news out and only ever get stuck in to the culture section. When did Facebook get so JUDGY? But on Saturdays I go and buy it. It costs me £2.10 and it's 210p well spent. I read it cover to cover (obviously apart from Sports and sometimes Money) and I freaking love it.

Even the shit bits.
3. Reading. I like reading immensely. I was a child with no need for friends. I genuinely didn't really understand the concept until I was about 13. To me, most activities - school, socialising, exercise, family - were just distracting me from my main purpose in life. Which was to read all of L M Montgomery's books over and over again. I used to read under the bedclothes until ridiculous times of night. I loved it, adored it. It made my life worth living. When I hit puberty, for the first and only time in my life, books took a backseat for a couple of years. I was far too confused by everything that was suddenly going on and I forgot about it. And then when I was 16 my mum gave me Therese Raquin for Christmas, with the rather curt instruction to 'for goodness sake, expand your repertoire Debbie'. So I did. That took me through 19th century french, english and russian literature. Through Terry Pratchett's entire collection. To books on madness and love. Poetry, Shakespeare and Bridget Jones. Marian Keyes and Biggles. Endless awesomeness in paper form. And more recently in Kindle form. Of course, it does mean that one has to stumble across the occasional Finkler Question or Twilight, but that's a risk I'm willingt to take. Reading is what separates us from the beasts. Reading and thinking. Absorbing other peoples' ideas, dreams, theories, nonsense. It's what makes me tick.

4. Singing. I love singing. I'm a decidedly average singer. Possibly less than average. I don't know. I don't really care. Increasingly I spend my days working at home while singing along to one of the twelfty million music channels I have. Right now it's Edge of Glory.

5. Men. Yes, despite my rantings and ire, I don't actually hate men. That would be ridiculous. I hate one man right now, for instance. And I expect that will fade with time. I love men, I love being around men. My male friends are awesome. Fascinatingly different from my girl friends. I like looking at men, and I like flirting with men.

6. My friends. Obviously. Really is so obvious it almost doesn't warrant a mention, but every day, without fail, one of my friends will either a) be there for me even when I know I can be the highest maintenance friend at times, b) make me laugh till I almost wet myself, c) reaffirm my faith in mankind.

7. This Hollyoaks trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymp29R4XF2g

I don't watch Hollyoaks - at least I haven't for a long time. But this trailer is a slice of awesome. Maybe if they spent the cash on decent actors and script writers instead of shiny stuff like this I'd watch. But hey ho.

8. Cold weather and bright sunshine. Yesterday was almost perfect - a couple of degrees colder and it'd be there.

9. Running. Especially interval running. Running fast is the best I probably ever feel, apart from when things are looking particularly rosy in the bed area. I cannot believe it took me 32 years to be brave enough to go out and do something that would make me feel this good. I mean, obviously, it also makes me heave sometimes and sweaty, hot and look like a tomato. But it's transcendental.

10. I like the things I've achieved this year. I like the fact that I'm a freelancer. I like the fact that I've made a tonne of new friends. I like the fact that I've broken free of a destructive and ridiculous relationship. I like the fact that I'm free to live life how I want to. And I should remind myself of this every day.

Wowsers. Writing this has done things to my synapses and made me feel all, uh, what is it? Positive. That's it. Positive.

Ten things I hate

2011-10-16T18:56:00.000-07:00

I'm often mistaken for an angry type. A ragey girl. Someone with 'issues'. Or it's assumed I have permanent PMT. Which, by the way, really pisses me off.

So anyway, I thought I'd channel some of my pointless rage and just take a moment while in the throes of caffeine induced insomnia, to catalogue my top ten petty hates.

So, just to be clear, I'm not including Nazis, child abusers, politicians and Jordan. Just take those as read.This is more about the things that really dick me off on a day to day basis.

Some of you on bookface will be familiar with number 1: buskers. Specifically accordian players. Even more specifically, Leamington Spa's inexplicably vast array of shiteous accordian players. They appear to be mostly of the Polish variety (and I'll explain how I know this, and no I'm not being racialist, I'm just pointing out a fact) and their repertoire consists entirely of three bars of The Godfather theme over and over again. My aquaintance with these accordian players began a couple of years ago when it became clear that this dickless wonder was actually going to stand on my street outside my window 'playing' his tunes for eight hours on a Saturday and then eight hours on a Sunday. All year long. Not one to not confront my deamons, I went out and had a little word. This was after many Saturdays were destroyed as I sat in my house wearing ear plugs and gently weeping.

Long story short, we had a fracas. He accused me of being racist. I said I don't give a fuck where he's from, he needs to leave the area stat. He refused. I called the cops (oh yes, I did) who informed me that no buskers in Leamington have rights to be there and can be moved on. Oho I thought. And I went out to see him once more. I informed him that I will come down and move him along every single day of the year until he fucks off. I did also give him the option of actually learning how to play his instrument.

There are now no accordianists on Regent Street. I expect to be knighted shortly for this service to the community.

Number 2: people who sniff incessantly. I used to sit next to a woman at work who spent the whole day snorting great big flobs of phlegm. I can only assume she would let her nose run right until it was about to drip onto her desk and then take an almightly double inhale so that you could hear it juicily reentering her nasal passageways. Every five minutes. For the entire day. I fantastised about ways to make it stop. I would sit there and think: "It would be OK to ask her to stop, wouldn't it? I mean, that would be OK, right?" But no. It's just not something you can do in an office. Along with putting up with bodily odours not normally sensed outside of an abbatoir and people smacking their lips through their tenth packet of crisps of the day, it's just something that you have to put up with in an office.

I now work freelance.

Number 3: the man who I sat next to on the train from York the other week. The man who systematically and noisily chewed, gulped and yomped his way through the entire refreshment trolley. I felt like I was eating with him, so visceral was the experience. And every time I thought he must be full, he'd buy something else and masticate away, for all the world like a cow chewing that cud. But with more sound effects. Sir, I despise you and everything you stand for. Which is mostly eating by all accounts.

Number 4: urinating. It's such a goddamn waste of time.

Number 5: whistling. That kind of aimless, tuneless whistling that old men do in bookshops. Who are they being nonchalant for? Why do they feel the need to make a noise for no reason? Are they drowning out thoughts of their own pointless existence?

Number 6: Liz Jones. Liz is a columnist for The Daily Heil. She is a bigoted, unpleasant, bizarre creation who is very possibly a sort of paid troll. In which case the whole thing is actually quite amusing. I suppose. She likens herself to a kind of hybrid Carrie from SATC and Bridget Jones character. And yet she's 65 if she's a day and most closely resembles Alice Cooper. She chronicled her appallingly bad marriage in graphic detail and writes like a pre pubescent teenager with questionable grammar. The Mail sees fit to send her on actual journalistic assignments and invites her commentary on famine, war and murder, which she always brings back to the fact that she was stood up on Millenium Eve. Seriously. Horrible.

Number 7: The Daily Heil.

Number 8: The Finkler Question. 2010's Man Booker prize winner and six hours of my life I'm never getting back. Just shit.

Number 9: Jamie Oliver. I was struggling for a second there and then his fat tongued face popped into my head. An average cook got lucky, coasting off the 90s love for blokey, laddish culture, Jamie burst onto our screens with The Naked Chef, where he pretended to cook in a pretend house with pretend friends. Heinous. Since then he's reinvented himself as a christ-like saviour of our health. Which translates to him moaning a lot about school meals and then going to the US and being laughed at by transfat-soaked American fatties. He proudly states he has no time for his family - that's a wife and four children - because he wants to spread the message. He's a 21st century missionary and he's fecking annoying. Also, before preaching to others about their weight, he might want to have a wee look in the mirror. His face is expanding at a rate of knots and soon won't fit onto our screens at all. He also spits when he talks, which can't be at all hygenic when it comes to preparing food.

Number 10: Indian summers. I don't want to be sweating half way into October. I don't want to be viewing endless arses squeezed into ill advised hot pants. I don't want to see chavs with their shirts off for any longer than strictly necessary. And, please, for the love of god, stop telling me to get out and enjoy it while it lasts. I cannot wait for winter.

Tomorrow I will be scraping together for a top ten of things I like.

Maybe top five.

I felt kind of bad, so...

2011-10-13T14:55:00.000-07:00

you know, about my Jodie Marsh post the other day.

So, I thought I'd rebalance my karma by posting a picture of her taken yesterday all dressed up nice and glamourous.

Enjoy.

Don't tell me who to cry for

2011-10-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't noticed, and I'm sure most of you haven't on account of the fact that you hardly ever look at the interwebz, a man called Steve Jobs died last week.

Of course, as is usual when someone even vaguely famous dies, Twitter, Facebook and (probably, although I wouldn't know because I just can't get the hang of it) Google + were aflame. And with Mr Jobs it was even more vehement, on account of him being basically the god of all that is normal and natural to us these days.

As an aside here, I'm really glad Twitter and Facebook weren't around when the Princess of Bulimia got into the wrong car a la Paris. That would have been irritating.

Anyway, my point is, Steve Jobs died. It's pretty fucking tragic. He was 56 and he'd been sick for a long, long time. I'm sure his money bought him the best care possible and perhaps he eked out a few more years than ordinary paupers would. But nontheless, the big C got him in the end.
And it's sad. The degree to which you were sad will, as is always the case, depend on your emotional investment in said corpse. For me, the first celebrity death that properly upset me was Freddie Mercury. I cried quite a lot.
Kurt Cobain didn't get much of a flicker of interest as I thought grunge was too mainstream at the time, plus I was 16 and so enormously self-involved that I didn't honestly notice that much. As long as it wasn't Andrew Eldtrich then I was good.

I felt bemused and isolated when old crazy Lady Di bought the farm, not because I was sad, but because everyone else seemed to go batshit mental for at least a week and I felt well left out.

Now Amy. Amy got to me. She was just too young. Obviously Kurt was as well but at the time I was 16 and he was 24, so seemed retty damn old. Amy was just 27 and as I can barely remember turning that age, she seemed like such a youngster to me. Such a waste.

I posted something or other on Facebook about it. Hey, I'm not ashamed of bandwagons if I give a shit about the cause. I was more frustrated and boggled that we can watch these damaged people implode over years and years of media coverage. It's like a long running Victorian freak show. Anyway, when I posted on the book of face, people were in agreement. You know, loads of RIPs and sadfaces. Twitter was the same.

And then it started to change.

Slowly but surely during the hours that followed more and more posts cropped up along the lines of: "She was one druggy. Who gives a shit?" "What about the Norwegian massacre?" "What about the Boer War?"

OK, so I made the last one up. But man, it pissed me off. One tragedy does not outweigh another. It is possible to be sad about ONE thing (ie. a mentally ill girl who had a great musical talent) AND also be sad/empathetic/sympathetic towards the victims of terrorism, f'r instance.

I was reminded of this when Mr Jobs shuffled off his mortal coil. Of course it exploded across the interweb like a wildfire. Geeks everywhere hung their heads and said a little binary prayer for the late genius. But even I, as a non-techno-geek, felt a stab of sadness for one of the greatest minds of our generation. He actually did change the world and if people want to express their sadness on social freaking networking then fuck the FUCK OFF with things like this:

Fucking trolling, weakly reasoned bullshit. If you want attention post about your sex life. Leave the big stuff for the grown ups.

Grief (of all kinds) is ENTIRELY subjective so don't ever, ever tell me who I am allowed to cry for when they die. I'll make up my own fucking mind.

RIP Steve Jobs.

Easy target

2011-10-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

I have a long standing fascination with Jodie Marsh. Strange but true. A few years back she kept a blog, which was completely and totally unintentionally hilarious. It was about her nights out at the Sugar Hut and spent a lot of time chronicling her clear alcoholism and justifying wearing outfits such as:

And this:

Many of her blogs went on and on and on about how she was all natural and didn't have fake tits like that Jordan. And then she went and got fake tits.

And then she went and advertised for a husband. On TV. How crashingly low must your self esteem be to stand in the middle of London begging for someone to come and be 'auditioned' for the role as your husband. At one of the castings there was a total of four men. And two of them were drunk.

Soldiering on, Jodie decided to become a tattooist. This was also filmed for a TV show. She failed hard. But not before branding her own father with an enormously shit tattoo.

After a spate as a lipstick lesbian Jodie disappeared out of sight for a couple of years.

And then last week, this happened:

Jodie announced her sudden devotion to a career as a body builder. For a TV show.

"Every single person is jealous of my body" chirps Jodie.

Of course they are love. OF COURSE they are. Who wouldn't want to look like a man with fake tits covered in ronseal? Who, in short, wouldn't want to look like this?

I just wanted to share that with you all. You're welcome.

Weird shit what I have watched on TV tonight

2011-10-10T15:47:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. Triple whammy of blog posts. It's called procrastination. And tense, nervous energy.

There's tonnes of things I could be doing right now. Should be doing in fact. Things that range from laughing at Fatman getting high on catnip to finishing the pug's head to deciding whether or not to just get the boots from the asos sale.

But while I have been doing stuff, I have also had my favourite friend in the room - the TV.

Things that I have caught bits of tonight include the new series of America's Next Top Model. Fricking hilarious. For the uninitiated, this is a reality show that brutally cuts down a group of stick thin gazelle-limbed girls who all look like bambi on heroin until there is but one single, emaciated winner, who then gets some ropey magazine deal and maybe a Cover Girl commercial. Suffice to say, it's taken extremely seriously by the girls. Not so much by Queen Tyra who presides over the starving children at her mercy and thoroughly enjoys ripping their tiny ideals apart and jumping on the pieces. Her trick this year is to tell a load of them they've been booted off and then back track and shout 'surprise' as she informs them they actually HAVE got through.

Half of them collapsed into a quivering wreck of bones and bling, genuinely confused as to what the hell is going on. For the rest of the episode you get to watch them visibly dissolve into paranoid wrecks as they clearly expect Tyra to leap out and screech: "psyche" while chucking their suitcases out of the window.

There's one who looks like her jaw is actually going to cut through her skin, it's that sharp. She has cheek bones that would severely damage any guy who goes anywhere near her. There's another one who really does look like a 19 year old skinny indie boy, which Tyra says is 'in'... I mean she looks EXACTLY like a boy.

The rest of them spend the time picking listlessly at plates of food (I think it's a contractual thing to show them eating once an episode so no one can point the finger at a show that's blatantly encouraging anorexic, vulnerable young girls to learn to further loathe themselves on the basis of a completely subjective and flippant comment from the panel of 'judges'.

After that I watched a bit of University Challenge. I adore it when Paxman gets all irritated when they take more than three nanoseconds to answer. "Come ON. Come ON." They all look terribly young. I can no longer tell the difference between anyone between 15 and 25 without IDing them.

Then it morphs into Embarrassing Bodies. I was vaguely aware of it because people were talking about sagging boobs and back acne. But I just happened to look up as a young girl happily spread her legs for that weird doctor who has no body fat and a bad hair transplant after complaining of itchiness and discharge.

"How long have you had these symptoms?"

I was thinking a couple of days... maybe a week. That would be normal, right?

"A year and a half." More than 500 days of her life have been spent oozing an itchy prurient discharge. And it didn't occur to her to go the free doctor that she is entitled to? Or go online and see that some canesten would clear that right up? Or even watch the fucking TV for the constant adverts aimed at women's problems? No, she waits a year and a half and then shows her vagina to the nation on TV.

Is anyone else confused by this programme? I understand the ones who have horrendous problems that need expensive or specialist surgery. I think that they are brave. It's sad that they have to prostitute their diseases in return for high class medical care, and in some cases, ANY medical care. It's all a bit John Merrick for me. But I sort of get that.

But people like this lass who clearly has thrush - why wait? Why put it on TV? Why? I looked up just as the doc was describing the discharge as "oozing" and I saw something that I cannot now unsee. I was also eating peanut butter at the time and had a moment or two of fighting with my gag reflex. Actually I'm fighting it again right now. Seriously. She is never getting laid ever again.

And after all that, he's like: "Get some canesten."

So, over to Dancing With the Stars. This is the US version of Strictly Come Dancing. But it has proper people on it. It has Ricky Lake! And David Arquette! You know, the Hollywood actor (of sorts). And some girl from The Hills! And Chas Bono - that's Cher's daughter who is now a man. Yes, really. It's awesome. I highly recommend it.

I have also been reading Catch 22 and pondering the dichotomy paradox. So don't be thinking I'm a dumbass, yeah?

Invisible woman

2011-10-10T07:59:00.000-07:00

You ever get the feeling that you're actually invisible? No, boys, not invincible. Invisible.

Today has been a day of fuckwits being fuckwits.

I was informed by a company that I would very very much like to work for, a company that I hold in high regard, that I have an interview with them. A date was pencilled in. That date was last Friday. I was told to wait for confirmation. I received none. So, me being me, showed willing and called them up. I was told: yes, we definitely want to interview you, we're waiting for someone or other to come back from New York and then we'll be in touch.

Fine. OK. I figure no point in calling again because that would be annoying.

Still nothing. So I call again. Nothing to lose really at this point. Oh, how wrong I was. Turns out that the interviews were on Friday but he forgot to tell me. He forgot. HE FORGOT. Someone forgot to confirm with a candidate that they were due in.

And now you see, well, even though it's my fault (says he - freely admitted it was an error on his part) I still lose out because they've selected for next stage. So, you know. Shrug.

By this point panic and tears were rising in my gorge. I don't mind as much not being selected at all. That happens all the time. Believe me. The last six months there isn't a job I haven't applied for. But to be offered an interview, to be told that I sounded perfect for this, and then to lose out because someone FORGOT ME.

I meep out: But that's not fair, can I still be interviewed.

I can hear the shrug in his voice as he mumbles something about it being his fault but hey ho. Like this happens every day. Like a golden opportunity is dangled in front of you and then taken away just like that.

I feel like an X Factor reject. I can see Louis Walsh's asinine grin in front of me as he plays with my emotions. Look at what you could have had.

The only thing left to do is run

2011-10-10T02:37:00.000-07:00

I haven't been running for about three weeksish. Possibly a bit longer.

If any of you have been concentrating at all then clearly you should ignore that whole: I'm going to run every day for a year post.

My speciality is declaring things and then failing to live up to them it seems.

I got sick a few weeks ago and stopped running because if I had run I think it's not exaggerating to state that my sinuses would have actually exploded. It was hard enough getting through my various jobs and coming home to die in between. And then, like all good habits, it was extremely easy to break.

How is it that bad habits - smoking, drugs, food, inappropriate men - are so difficult to break. Impossible even, apparently. Actually the food thing is pretty easy at the moment. Safe to say eating is not high on my agenda right now.

But you get my point. All of those things, the nice things, the fun things are bad. And the good habits - running, cleaning, doing all the shit that's stacked up to do - you miss one and then it's like: ahhhhh fuck it.

For three weeks I've been convincing myself that I'm too busy, too tired, too whatever to run. Or I have to just finish this thing first. Considering that this thing is crocheting a pug (don't judge me) and I'm a total beginner clearly that's going to take some time. I've become an expert in procrastination. I haven't tidied my bedroom for about two months. I'm living like a teenager. Going to bed at 4am. Drinking too much. No schedule. No routine. Crashing from one minor disaster to another. Oh hang on, no, that's just how I've lived my ENTIRE life.

But no more. I have had a rather upsetting conversation with someone this morning that has, once again, made me question mankind in general, and men in particular. So fuck em. Fuck it. I'm just going to run. I'm not going to sit here and think about all of this bullshit. I'm going to run till I puke. And then I'm going to run some more.

On the wagon

2011-10-09T09:07:00.000-07:00

Is it my age? Last night I ingested less booze than most people would have on a normal week night. And yet I have struggled through what appear to be appalling hangover symptoms all day. To the extent that my boss sent me home from the pub because I was green, sweaty, puking and a general embarrassing mess.

I have that itchy paranoid restless weirdness that comes with a monster hangover. And yet one glass of red wine, a couple of gins and a bit of rum really shouldn't have done that to me. N'est ce pas? That's not normal to get sick from that. It just doesn't happen.

I know people - lots of people actually. Many, many people. Possibly hundreds - who can happily consume at least three times that amount, turn up for work and be absolutely fine. How is it that I am a gibbering wreck? I mean I know I have ten years on some of them, but not all of them I don't.
A couple of them are almost as old as me.

This may sound like a whinging post (shut up) but it's also my itchy, paranoid attempt to analyse what exactly happened to my alcohol tolerance. Last time I was dumped I was going through at least a bottle of red wine a day with no particularly dire consequences.

Actually perhaps it was the extremely ill advised croque monsieur before going to work which, to be fair, may have been the thing that pushed my stomach over the edge. A plate full of bechamel sauce when your guts are doing somersaults probably isn't the best thing. Eugh. Greasy cheese and ham. Would you excuse me for a second? I just have to barf again.

But I feel like a twat. I'm too old to get sick from alcohol. I'm too old to get sent home from work.

I'm going to give it up. From now until Christmas I'm just not going to drink at all.

Fact.

Big up winter

2011-10-07T09:43:00.000-07:00

I don't care if I'm the only one rejoicing in the fact that the recent sweaty 30 degree highs have finally fucked off, hopefully clearing our streets of endless displays of arsecheeks hanging out of hotpants (just because Rihanna does it doesn't mean you should ladies) and mahogany tinted, bleach blonde identikit girls schlepping round town. It's like fucking Hollyoaks round here these days. Nauseating.

So yeah. I wake to a text from a friend saying that it's bastard cold and he bets I'm happy about that. I am and I say YES. This is the time of year that gets me happy. I love it when the wind turns properly cold and you can smell autumn in the air. And the trees get all artistically naked and the clothes get ace. And I can wear my fake fur coats. And awful chavvy young lads stop getting their tops off.

I can do things without sweating after five minutes. I can wear thick tights and heavy boots. My new mittens with the teddy bear ears (don't judge me). I can sleep better at night and catch early frosts. It's going to be Halloween and Bonfire Night, and the run up to Christmas, which I love.

People look better, pale skin is in and everything's just cosy and lovely.

I'm scaring myself slightly with this positive blog post so will keep it short.

I'm ashamed of my species

2011-10-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

I've had a weird few days, punctuated with a couple of hours sleep here and there. I've been out too much and I'm fucking knackered. In between burning the candle at all ends (no thanks to the lovely bout of insomnia I'm currently enduring) I have stumbled across the new series of X Factor.

Now, I'm a Strictly girl. I bloody love it. It's hilarious. And while not being able to sleep last night I caught up on the launch shows. I mean, when I say I love it, obviously I loathe 'Sir' Bruce Forsyth and the horse faced lady that co-hosts with him. I said that dismissively like I don't know who she is. Of course I know who she is. She's all round media whore Tess Daly. The one who's married to that massive lump of stupid, Vernon Kaye. You know, the lanky one who presents really shit gameshows and has 'trendy' hair. Oh, and he got caught sending sexeh texts to bimbos.

As usual, Tess looks like she's been styled by a blind person. A sort of cadaver in rags with red lipstick. She's so very very skinny her fake norks stick out like footballs on a rib cage. And she's orange. Bruce is just an idiot. The guy was an idiot in the 70s, I'm fucked if I can understand why the hell he's endured as some national treasure. I skip through Bruce and Tess's cringe inducing double act and get to the dances. They're scraping the proverbial with this series I tell you. I only recognise Jason Donovan who has some movvvvvvvvvvvves, man. Must have been all that hoofing about when he played Joseph. Or Scott. Do you remember when Guy Pearce was in Neighbours?? And Russell Crowe. Madness.

I digress.

There's also a guy called Dan Lobb on Strictly. Apparently he was a tennis player. Maybe a golfer. Something like that. And now he hosts Daybreak, which I think is like GMTV but with more fake tan. I think. Anyway, the point is he's a friend of my boss at one of my myriad jobs, so you should all vote for him, if you are inclined to vote for these types of shows. Which I sincerely hope you're not if you're on any of my friends lists. So, actually, just support him from the sidelines, yeah?

After the Strictly starter, I moved on to the X Factor main. I usually don't have two courses. It makes me sick.

An assorted bunch of - mostly weeping - people greeted my bemused gaze. It was the judge's 'houses', which is obviously bollocks. The lass out of N Dubs is apparently besties with Jessie thingie, and Robbie Williams was on it (WHEN did Gary get sexier than Robbie? When? Obviously I would still do both of them. So would you. Just admit it), and even though Simon Cowell is no more, Sinitta is somehow still peddling her wares on it. Weird.

Some strange looking child says: "It's not the end of the world if I don't get through, but it kind of is the end of the world."

Closely followed by a couple of fat girls, one of whom says: "I don't want to be a nobody, I want to be a, sniff, sob, somebody."

Another girl who is apparently 25 but looks at least 20 years older looks into the camera soulfully, while saying: "Today's probably the biggest day of my life. I have to get a yes." Mascara streaks down the face, carving rivulets into the layers of fake tan.

Everybody, but EVERYBODY, is crying. Great rivers of snot cascade through the wailing wannabes. Very little actual singing seems to be occurring.

Louis Walsh then patronises someone who appears to have actual mental health problems, who has made it through the boot camp, whatever the fuck that is. After spinning it out for at least 12 hours, he informs the seemingly special individual that he IS through to the live shows. What the fuck is this guy on? Seriously? He's put someone through he CLEARLY isn't ever going to be a pop star, in fact he's never going to be anything but a source of ridicule. Even his family didn't believe it when he called them.

Other people say things like: "If it ends I'll be going back to a hell hole. I'll be going back to Moss Side." Snigger.

A small child comes out with: "This is massive to me, this is really massive. I've been doing this since I was 14." He's 16.

A woman of almost 50 is crying uncontrollably. She was also a laughing stock. She was the one that got through on comedy value but didn't realise.

For the love of Simon Cowell. Louis Walsh is evil, he's put through not one, but two people who are clearly mentally disturbed and a borderline case. What the fuck are they thinking? Why are they allowing this to happen? Not one of these people is going to reach the dizzying heights of Cher Lloyd or whatsisname. You know, the one who won last year. He wore a cardigan a lot. And a hat.

More gems follow: "If I get a no, I'll be back in the building site/Tesco/card shop/office/bar on Monday." Yeah? And? If you don't get through you'll have to have like a normal job? And earn money? Instead of instant fame and riches? THE HUMANITY.

"If Louis believes in me then maybe I'll believe in me a bit." Possibly one of the most
heartbreaking comments ever made.

Carbon copy girls in hot pants and big hair line up to come out with pearls such as:

"If I don't get through I'm literally back to shcool. There is no other option to me." Soooo, if you don't get through you have to go back and have a state funded education? HOW VERY TRAUMATIC FOR YOU.

"This is literally all I want." LITERALLY? IS IT? No sustenance? Shelter? No? Just LITERALLY this?

They waft Miami in front of these stupid, naive, damaged people. Fancy houses with pools. Expensive cars. Nice clothes. Makeovers. New teeth. Hair extensions. Look at what you could have, proles. Look where you could be if the X Factor grants your wishes. The genie in the bottle, eh? The big, fat, malevelont Simon Cowell shaped genie in the bottle. All these children and mentally disturbed people need to do is rub him in just the right way and all the riches can be theirs.

I weep for humanity.

Live, baby live

2011-09-30T09:34:00.000-07:00

I literally do have a new Sensation. And it's gorgeous. Take that Michael Hutchence. Pow.

Never has a phone made me so immediately happy. On opening the box I did have, it has to be said, a momentary tremble of apprehension when I saw its girth. But, to be fair, that's a sensation I like to have so I adjusted myself accordingly.

See, I thought I'd ordered an HTC Desire, which although fairly hefty, is pretty much the same size as my (frankly archaic) iPhone 3G (how could I have loved you like I did? I mean, really) but this seemed a monster. Its screen is as big as my TV (ish), the camera is just squirmingly good, and it's all so fast and smooth. And I love the little android man. What? Don't judge me. He's cute.

Before I opened the box I did, it has to be said, start to have second thoughts. Cold feet if you will. I looked at my iPhone 3G and thought about all the good times. The start of the relationship, the honeymoon period. Sure, there were hiccups along the way, aren't there always when you're trying to adjust? What about my apps I thought. What about my talking chihuaha and all the levels I've unlocked on Angry Birds? What if Android apps are shit? What if I can't find a replacement running app? What about my music? What about the MEMORIES? How could I think of doing this? It's like putting a dog down cos he's just passed his best and although cute just doesn't cut it anymore. How. Could. I.

And then I opened the box and it was like that bit in Pulp Fiction when they open the case. (I think it's Pulp Fiction. One of them 90s Tarantino things. You know the one I mean) It's beautiful. Shiny. Fast. Huge. Ignore all phallic references, it's nothing to do with that. Filth.

I even found a furry leopard skin case online so it's almost complete.

iPhone 3G has been demoted to alarm clock and occasional MP3. Bless. Still, it's the way of the world. It wasn't you, iPhone, it's me. I just don't, you know, feel that way anymore. Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Night owl

2011-09-28T14:13:00.000-07:00

I just watched the Steps reunion show on SKY Living. It went on for about 40 years and I learned all about H and his sheep and Claire and her weight problem. And then they reunited them all in a room and basically left them to fight. And then the credits rolled. Sigh. They were just getting to the good bit. I predict Claire making Lisa cry (possibly by insulting her appalling nose job) and then perhaps eating her.

My life has turned into a nocturnal fug. I only feel awake at night when I'm pouring endless pints of Becks Vier and handing out fecking Kopperberg like it's some kind of elixir of health. What do people see in that? When did cider become cool? Who invented Jaegerbombs? What, exactly, are sours? Will I ever learn to make a cocktail? Hell, will I ever learn to make a cappucino? These are the questions that trouble my brain while at work.

And I've been at work a LOT recently. My shifts have fallen so that I have genuinely spent most of the last four days at the bar. And it kind of feels weird not to have gone in today. I miss the regulars. I miss cleaning the ashtrays. I miss hoovering up the sick.

I don't go to bed before at least 3.30am and I'm getting up later and later. I haven't been running because I'm just too exhausted. My shift on Monday was nine hours long. Nine hours running around and having to be cheery. Totally exhausting.

I think it's kind of like Stockholm Syndrome though. I kind of am enjoying it. I'm sort of getting into it. I'm taking pride in cleaning the bogs. For real. At least it's honest work. You go in, you clean, you serve booze, you clean, you drink, you leave. There's no wanky meetings, no flipcharts, no Kaizen, no SCRUM, no bullshit in short. If the boss hates you, man, you know it. There's no passive aggression and giving evils over the scanner. There's no being chained to your seat like a battery chicken. My legs used to twitch. I used to feel like rocking in desperation after about six hours. Desk jobs are panic attack inducing.

And they're not conduicive to concetration. Hence people bogging off to pointless meetings every 20 minutes. Anything to break the stultifying rhythm of the average day at the office. I have been known to make 36 cups of tea in a single day just so I could GET UP AND MOVE AROUND.

The downside of being this knackered is the fact that I've done nothing constructive today. Although I did watch the Steps Renuion (I was hoping for an actual fight) and Masterchef Australia (utterly insane as usual. I find myself talking to my cat with an upward inflexion) and I've learned to treble stitch.

Actually, that's pretty constructive.

I'm going to go to bed before 3am tonight as well, just to see what it's like.

Men. Can't live with them... can't stand them actually

2011-09-27T07:41:00.000-07:00

That's not true. I don't want y'all to think I'm some kind of stereotypical man hating 30-something spinster who lives alone with a cat and drinks gin. Oh, wait.

No, the truth is I have some awesome male friends who I truly rate as human beings. They are ace to hang out with, some of them have been brilliant at giving me advice and some even manage to keep the glazed look out of their eyes for a whole 20 minutes while I wail about my problems. And to them I am truly grateful. I also can see with my eyes that many of my friends are in lovely relationships with respectful and loving boyfriends/husbands. I can see that these men do exist, and in fact outweigh the ones who prefer to spend their time ripping out girls' hearts and stamping on them just for the fuck of it.

But recent events haven't helped my mindset regarding relationships. As in me. In a relationship. That isn't borderline abusive and marked by awful, screaming fights. That isn't tainted by infidelity and undermining of the self.

Take Sunday for example. On Sunday I got dumped by someone I don't even fancy. I had one date with a guy the week before. Now, I could have been mistaken and he didn't fancy me, but the fact that he said (and later texted the words) "I fancy you" led me to believe he did. As did the moving in for a kiss. I'd decided within the usual two seconds that I didn't want to make the beast with two backs with this particular guy. And then I'd decided a couple of hours later that I didn't even really want to talk to him anymore. Which is when he moved in for a kiss. I actually fully sidestepped him. As in, swerved my head to the side and stepped away from him while simultaneously opening the door for him to leave. THAT'S how much I didn't fancy him and how clear I made it.

Fast forward a week and I get a text saying: "I just can't have anyone in my life right now. So I don't think we should see each other again." ORLY? Dickweed. Exactly what part of NOT LETTING YOU KISS ME AND NOT CONTACTING YOU gave you the impression that I was hanging on for a second date? Or that I would touch you with a fucking mile long bargepole. This may sound like I'm either protesting too much or that I'm overreacting but it's a prime example of the arrogance of the men I meet.

It doesn't matter if I'm sitting there asleep in front of them because they are so dull, or that I won't let them touch me in any way, shape or form. Or that I don't contact them and blatantly don't want to see them. They still assume that obviously I'm instantly in love with them and they have to let me down gently. Mental. Absolutely fucking mental.

Oh, and Saturday as well. On Saturday I saw my ex with another girl approximately a whole two weeks after we split. Years of being pushed and pulled into different directions, interspersed with the odd oasis of happiness quickly quelled by fights and being called fat, have finally killed this beast stone dead. But still, it's not what you want to see when you look out of your lounge window is it? Why can't exes just spontaneously combust? Or move to Grimsby? Either one would do.

So, yeah.

Um, anyone fancy a date?

Overshare

2011-09-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

Earlier there was a blink and you'd miss it posting. Which I took down after approx 10 minutes. It was a comedy (in my bitter and blinkered eyes) rendition of Adele's Someone like you. The song that is so very difficult to listen to when you're having a shit relationship or what have you.

I love the song actually. She's got a way with words that lass. Particularly for someone who is just a wee bairn.

But me reworking the lyrics in an amusing fashion as a passive aggressive dig at someone who has really fucked me about and hurt me is too low even for me. It felt good for the second I posted it, but on re-reading it just seemed kind of bitter. And lonely. And, well, like it took far more effor than he deserves (it didn't - 10 minutes max even though I got it all to scan and everything).

The lyrics are just too full of lamenting and pathos. And I'm much more in the mood for a 'fuck you, you massive massive bastard' kind of song. Not one about turning up out of the blue and how much it means to me. That's no help to anyone, is it Adele? How about a song about how much of twat he is and how much better it is without him? How about one of them?

Can you feel the love tonight?

2011-09-21T09:22:00.000-07:00

Never play this song to me. Never let me be in the same room for more than two bars of it. Never be around me if I decide, against my better judgement, to listen to a bit of it.

The song is Can you feel the love tonight? You know, the schmaltzy one about fucking Disney lions. That one. The video is appalling. It has Elton John in his pudding bowl wig phase (or was it a hair transplant? whatever it was, it was heinous). His podgy besuited frame is interspersed with scenes from The Lion King. Those bits are fine, lovely in fact. Not at all sure why they decided to include Mr John himself. He does tend to ruin things of a visual nature.

Perhaps I should explain. While I doss about my house and write/hoover/stare at walls etc, I usually have a music channel of some description on. And they tend to play endless top 10s - stuff like 'the top 10 best romantic emo songs'. Well, just now it happened to be 'the top 10 romantic movie songs'. And Can you feel the love tonight? came on.

I was, alas, too far away from the remote to mute it immediately.

Now you may be thinking I despise this song because I think it's cheesy or that I hate cartoons (sorry, animated movies) or that I dislike ballads. You'd be wrong on all counts. I pretty much live for cartoons and/or films with anthropomorphised animals. Seriously. I liked Garfield (the film with Bill Murray). Cats & Dogs is more enjoyable to me than Scarface. Marmaduke = awesome.

It's definitely not that.

I also have a penchant for cheese and I'm not averse to the odd romantic ballad.

The reason is that for some reason this song taps into the part of my brain where I store the box labelled 'my dad is dead'. It immediately causes me to shed the past decade and return to the years before The Day That Changed Everything. People go on about 9/11/2001. My personal armageddon was 3/16/2001. By the time the towers came down I was stuck in a thick fog of my own shock and grief. It wasn't a national event and it didn't garner media coverage. His funeral was small and he was here one moment and gone the next. He died overnight. Just like that. Nothing dramatic. Nothing even unusual really. Just another guy dying. Happens every day. But for me, it changed everything.

Dad bought me The Lion King on DVD when it came out, because he knew about my love for these kind of films. He loved it too. We watched it together. Of course, I'm aware the film bastardises Hamlet for the under 5s and the main hook is the death of Simba's dad. Which doesn't help. But it's mostly about the memories it evokes.

The speed that it turns me from my normal fairly dour but perkyish mood to howling and gibbering with rage and pain is shocking. It happens rarely these days. Grief is something you have to forcefully pack into a box in your brain and never, ever open it. Don't face it, don't look at it,don't talk about it (people don't know what to say anyway, it's uncomfortable for all concerned). In fact, don't think about it at all if you can possibly help it.

Because if that lid comes off it's as fresh and painful and agonising as the moment you heard those three words: "Your dad's dead." And it's remarkably difficult to get on with day to day tasks when you can't breathe and your chest has constricted from a feeling of horror so intense you almost can't take another breath ever again. And you almost don't want to.

I finally located the remote control and switched over.

The lid is now back on and - now I've finished this post - locked down tight.

I'll go back to thinking about my ex for a little light relief.

Man or leech?

2011-09-20T09:13:00.000-07:00

So, just to prove a point.

Here's Brad with Juliette Lewis. Note they have very similar hair and style. Now Juliette is a well known individual dresser and style chameleon. Brad is a well known leech.

Moving on. Here is Brad Pitt and Gwynniiiiieeeee (LOVE her, have you SEEN goop? She's so in touch with the NORMAL woman you know? Acquiring the start of osteoporosis at the age of 38 as she has is totally ok because she's thin. Bones are crumbling but at least she's THIN). Note exact same hair styles and, actually, same face almost. Shudder.

Moving on again. Brad n Jen. I would also say that in most of the shots of B/J as they should be known (well, the shots that I've searched today) he looks well happy. Mucho happier than he does with Angelina 'I snog my brother to get attention' Jolie. Here we can see that Brad has adopted Jen's style. How very UNLIKE him to do so. Suddenly he's all clean cut and suave.

Bringing Mr Bland up to the present day. Here's one of him and el (I wear blood around my neck because I'm just soooooo wild) witcho. I think she's yanking his arm because he said something off message. But also LOOK AT THE LEATHER TROUSERS. Jesus.

So yeah. Brad Pitt: legendary 'hunk', actor, lover and total fucking leech.

I've probably done this to death now. But it's 20 minutes of my life that I've really really enjoyed.

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

A message to Brad

2011-09-18T16:33:00.000-07:00

It came to my attention over the weekend that Brad Pitt was interviewed in some rag somewhere or other. Obviously he was interviewed because he has a new film out. I forget which. But it's probably not very good.

You'd expect him to talk about, I dunno, the film? But what he actually did was slag Jennifer Aniston off and declare that he's never been happier than he is with Angelina Jolie (she of the cadavorous body and fish lip pout which apparently epitomises what all men want to stick their bits inside). He said his time with Jen - and that would be his MARRIAGE - was boring. That he was not being who he wanted to be.

Now, I feel an affinity with Jen, so I do. Around the same time it all came out that Brad was doing the dirty with the Hollywood town bike, I found out that my boyfriend at the time had been doing the dirty with someone not quite as glamorous. Our split coincided with the Pitt/Aniston divorce and so I spent a lot of time weeping and reading articles about Jennifer and how badly she had been treated. Which very swiftly turned into a swathe of journalists attacking her, because obviously she must have been doing something wrong if hubby wanted to stray. Clearly it must be her fault for not being interesting enough for Mr Beige himself.

And then some of the press started to attack Jolie. I'm no Angelina fan - mostly because i haven't seen her in a single film that's any good, and secondly because obviously I'm jealous - but for fuck's sake. How did no one turn the spotlight onto the dufus in the middle of this? How is it when a man cheats, it's always somehow a woman's fault? Either they're the evil temptress who lured his penis out of his trousers with the power of her tits, or they're the wife who didn't do enough/wasn't thin enough/wasn't ENOUGH that bored him into accidentally sticking his willy into someone else.

Either way, it's never the man's fault. You know, the adult man who had seen fit to marry this woman. I get that relationships end. I get that marriages fail. But Ms Aniston has had to seemingly endure seven years of speculation of what she did wrong to drive hunky Brad away.

Maybe, just maybe, Brad was thinking with little Brad, got caught and made the leap. And who wouldn't want to be married to Angelina? She looks TONNES of fun. Acquiring six children in less time than it takes for most people to choose a pair of shoes is TOTALLY normal. And Brad looks GREAT since he's been with her. That whole hobo chic/knackered/harrassed/borderline hysterical thing REALLY suits him.

The man is a douche. He's a douche who has no sense of self. Have you ever seen pictures of when he was with Gwynnie? Google them. They had the SAME HAIR. Then he went out with Jen and became all slick and clean cut and dressed in Prada, you know, exactly like she does. And now he's with the she-bitch, obviously he looks like he got dressed in the dark. Because she's all gothic and that, see? It's ALMOST like he has no personality of his own and leeches off whoever is the unfortunate object of his affections.

Anyway, I guess my point is, how about shutting the fuck up Brad? You pussy whipped dick. I give it another couple of years max before she dumps you and moves on to someone less spineless.

Plus you were shit in Mr and Mrs Smith.

And you're increasingly looking like a hamster.

Masterchef meltdown

2011-09-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

Something's gone very wrong with Masterchef. Due to my aforementioned love of TV I watch random satellite channels quite a lot. This is excellent because there are so many and they harbour such delights.

This is how I became involved with Masterchef Australia. It's really most peculiar. There's a short, bald, shouty man (obviously - you can't have Masterchef without a short, bald shouty man, preferably with horrendous manners when he eats), a guy who most closely resembles Toad from Toad of Toad Hall (he also has hair like Thingie Llewellyn-Bowen and wears a cravat. Without irony) and Another Dude.

They all stand in a big warehouse with a wet floor and shout at (I think) 50 contestants. FIFTY? where's the need for that? The first challenge I saw involved these contestants running around outside, peeling potatoes and cutting them into chips. Like a sort of boot camp for an unfortunate sous chef. and then it started raining. I mean horizontal monsoon like rain. And they carried on chopping potatoes in the rain. What. The. Fuck.

I remember the days when Lloyd Grossman, he of the peculiar Antipodeanesque accent, would gently cajole three middle aged to elderly types through their producing a fantastic looking three course meal. He would then respectfully judge the food, which was clearly of an extremely high quality. It was all very pleasant and Sunday-evening-on-the-BBC-in-the-80s.

Then there was Masterchef, the reboot. Which introduced SHOUTING and PRESSURE and a random greengrocer as a judge. Cooking doesn't get TOUGHER than this. And slowly the cooks became more and more inferior.

Then there was the deconstructed trifle.

Now it's peeling potatoes in the rain and people frequently sobbing about missing their children and how they're doing it for their dead grandma.

There's probably some kind of analogy with the demise of our very society in this shit but I can't be arsed to find it.

I'm waiting for the episode where blind, mute, midgets have to cook a deep fried mars bar in the dark while doing a karaoke rendition of The Greatest Love of All. Until then, I'm just not interested.

Are you happy?

2011-09-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

[For the record: PMA thoughts = very few. Children smiled at = none. Old people chatted to = zero. Affect on my life so far = negligible.]

Onwards.

I was at work the other night, half way through the Saturday shift. I walked into the kitchen (correction: I skidded into the kitchen with a pile of plates in one hand, a food order in the other, the boss yelling at me from the bar, and a small child colleague under my feet) and the chef said: "Are you happy Debs?"

"That's a loaded question," I said.

Cue chorus of groans from the sweaty kitchen boys. "You're so grumpy." "You're never happy." Etc etc.

"Now wait a minute,"I said. " You asked if I'm happy. I consider that a rather ridiculous question, all in all. The question should be: 'What IS happiness?' If you're asking me whether I'm happy right now, right in this moment, then, well, no. Of course I'm not. I'm working for minimum wage selling beer to drunk people. I am single, 35, barely making my rent. I'm a size 12. I'm afraid I'm wasting my potential. What if I never finish my book? What if I never find The Guy who will make me feel safe and secure. And is good in bed? What if I never get over my dad's death? What if I can never, ever, ever shake the feeling that I'm never quite good enough, that things are always off kilter, than I'm doing it WRONG somehow? So, no. I'm not HAPPY.

"I am, however, happy with certain things in my life. My friends, for example. I genuinely have a collection of amazing friends. There's the inner circle of pseudo family, the outer levels of fun time friends, the ones I just see in the pub... all of them bring different (usually ace) things to my life. I'm happy with my face. Ish. I like my hair. I like immersing myself in creativity so it takes me away from stuff. I love the fact that I have discovered running. My cat makes me smile. A coffee makes me happy.

"I guess, to me, happiness is transitory. It's momentary times. It's the random night out where you laugh till you cry and get just the right level of drunk and everything is suffused in a warm glow. Or it's having a conversation with someone that totally opens your mind to a different way of thinking. Or it's completely something that was hanging over you. Or flirting with someone who makes you smile. Smoking a cigarette after sex. Having an orgasm. Reading an awesome book. Telling your ma you love her.

"THOSE are the things that make me happy in that moment. Don't ask me to believe that there is some state of 'happiness' that people revel in every single day of their lives. Because that's bullshit. It's propping up the self for outward appearances. I know people who on the outside are soooo damn happy. But behind the Facebook pictures and the smiles, there's bitterness, regret and secret unhappiness.

"Don't give in to the pressure to be 'happy' all the time. It's balls. If you can spend every day doing one thing that you don't hate. If you can see or speak to one person who makes you smile or feel connected. Hell, if you can get out of bed and face the day even though you're broken hearted, or ill, or lonely, or anxious, then you're doing well. But for jaysus sake, be honest with yourself.

"So, yeah, in summary. Right this second I'm OK. Once i'm off work tonight I'll be a bit happier."

By this point the chef had left the conversation.

I think he just wanted me to say yes.

Oops.

P. M. A

2011-09-11T13:55:00.000-07:00

I just wrote this whole blog post about men and relationships and then deleted it. Self censorship at its finest. Perhaps this isn't the place. But I'm totally writing a book, just so you know. And you have to buy it.

Suffice it to say I've been reading far too much self help recently. And staying in too much. My week last week comprised of sitting on my sofa in my pants writing stuff, dragging myself to my other job as bar tender supreme at the finest boozer in Leamington, cooking for friends and then waving them off as they go out for fun times and I stay in sneezing on the cat and lamenting my ever rubbish immune system.

There's no worse place for a sufferer of sinusitis - for twas the nature of my malady - than behind the bar at a busy pub on a Saturday night. It was actually slightly surreal in its horribleness as I struggled not to puke on the customers and/or pass out while taking their food order. The music was too loud, the people too lairy, the pace too fast, and the colleagues lacking in sympathy.

In fact, my quiet, dignified moans and requests for empathy fell on the deafest of deaf ears as the embryos I work with looked at me askance when I said 'sinusitis'. I think they thought it was an old person's disease or maybe women's problems judging by their embarrassed giggles.

Still, being called moody for the 50th time while just attempting to stay upright while sweating out a fever, is still a First World Problem. I should be grateful for the health I do have (when I have it - the lack of non essential organs and the myriad scars on my torso would probably argue otherwise).

Maybe it's time I did muster a positive mental attitude to life. It's not something I've tried before. Let's give it a whirl shall we? See what happens if I go all Pollyanna-ish. I'm aware that at least 85% of you will have no idea what I mean by that last sentence.

However, ploughing on, from tomorrow I will try a new tack. I will smile at old people and small children, I shall remember my ex boyfriends with affection and glad tidings, I will walk with a spring in my step and assume just around the corner is a cornucopia of delights. I will stop comparing situations to Dante's circles and I'll cut the fools on Twitter some slack.

Let's see what happens...

Guilty pleasures

2011-09-07T03:56:00.000-07:00

I love TV. This is no secret. I am unashamed of watching Most Haunted, America's Next Top Model and every possible cooking show. Apart from Jamie Oliver's obviously. Fat tongued fool makes shudder. All that phlegm in the food. Yuch.

I know a fair few who deny watching any TV at all: 'I'm just, like, too busy actually living life, yeah?' I have news for you hipster dudes. Watching endless boxsets or downloads of HBO shows COUNTS AS WATCHING TV. Just saying.

I love TV so much that I have it on every day when I'm working (still from my sofa, today in pyjamas)... oh hang on, do excuse me. Fatman is puking his little cat guts up all over the place. Cats being sick are painful to watch. They look like they're turning their bodies inside out with the effort... one sec... Christ, I had to 'remove the solid matter' before cleaning the area. I am now fighting my gag reflex. But I digress.

So yeah, TV is my friend. Which is why I found myself watching a man crying over macaroons at 2am. I got in from work after a tough shift during which I almost projectile vomited on various patrons' food due to being a tad under the weather. And all I wanted to do was watch The Great British Bake Off.

Which pretty much represents all the elements of my favourite TV: Sue Perkins, cooking under arbitrary time pressures, people falling apart over the quality of their macaroons like it's life or death... it's genius.

Last night a guy who'd presented some really shit looking macaroons in an 'artistic' manner visibly crumbled when the judge said they were badly presented. It was his 'thing'. You could see his entire sense of self worth melting. That's drama. THAT'S good TV. Outside during his interview after being booted off the show, he was holding back the tears like a good 'un. Mumbling about how proud everyone is of him and manfully smiling through the pain. IT WAS MACAROONS dude. Get a grip. No one even EATS macaroons anymore.

Anyway, I have to go now. Most Haunted is on.

One pound fucking twenty

2011-09-05T09:40:00.000-07:00

For the first time ever I find myself without an office to go to. This means all sorts of things. Primarily it means I don't have to attend meetings. And meetings about meetings. It also means I don't have to run the gauntlet of : "How was your weekend?" 50 million times before I get my first coffee of the day. I also don't have to write my name on my food. I don't have to look at signs that tell me when water might be hot or how to wash my hands. I don't have to fix a rictus grin of cordiality while talking about tedious minutae when all I want to do is run screaming from my battery hen existence.

It also means I don't have access to a printer.

This blows. I mean, obviously, I'm neither advocating nor suggesting that I have at any time in the past or will in the future, conducted my personal admin while at my place of work. Nor am I suggesting that I have ever used company paper, pens, staplers etc for anything other than their intended purpose. I'm just saying that I like printers. And I don't have one.

(Mind you, the things I've seen people do. I saw one woman frequently print out multiple copies of, and then laminate her child's 'congratulations at swimming 5m' certificate things using company materials. So that makes me feel much better about never ever having printed out stuff for my own use. Just saying.)

Anyway. So. No printer means I have to, well, figure out what people without printers do. I mean, I have invoices to print (actual proper invoices - so exciting) and complicated Inland Revenue forms to print out and shit.

So I went down to my second favourite place in the whole world - the library.

I love the library. I adore it in fact. It's even better now because you don't even have to speak to anyone. You can go in, get books (up to TEN BOOKS. For FREE) and then check them out at the computery things that have replaced the human who used to stamp the books. And then you leave. It's marvellous. Although it does make me a bit sad. When I was little, that was my main career aspiration - to be the lady who stamped the books with that pen/stamper thing. I even painstakingly 'stamped' my (rather massive for a five year old) book collection so I could practise for the day when I became a Library Assistant. Halcyon days indeed.

Anyway, I may use the library lots but I have never ventured forth into the using the internet malarkey there. Turns out you have to book a slot and then hang around glaring at people till they feck off, log in to the computer and then it counts you down for 30 minutes. I mean, there's an actual counter going backwards. And, when you get to five minutes to go, it ticker tapes across the screen with a big count down clock like it's going to explode.

It took me five seconds to realise that everyone, without exception, in that library was using their precious half an hour's free internet access to look at Facebook. I shit you not. Students, writers, randoms, kids, old people, all of them. Just clicking on Facebook. I was appalled and yet comforted. After all, it felt JUST like every office I've ever worked in.

I printed off four pages, paid £1.20 for the privilege, and then checked Facebook for the last ten minutes. I felt right at home.

Gobble, gobble

2011-08-30T08:13:00.000-07:00

Just returned from said run. Feeling much better. I managed half an hour - at varying speeds it has to be said - but I did it.

Couple of things: middle of the afternoon in what is STILL apparently the interminable school holidays not the best time for a run, unless being watched by assorted feral children is your thing.

Secondly, as I live in the middle of town I have to run actually in town. You know, past shoppers, ex colleagues, friends and occasionally ex boyfriends. I manage most of the time to focus away from this and comfort myself with the thought that they wish they were running. Yeah, they look at me with envy. Not poorly concealed pity. Nooo, not that, as they look at my sweat drenched maroon face.

Anyway, i was sprinting back to my house (I like to keep up a fast pace in the middle of town to convince people that I have been running like that all along. I'm fully aware they don't give a shit either way, but it makes me feel I have a purpose) and an old codger kindly (or so I thought) stepped aside so I could get past.

As I ran past him I was thinking that he was probably thinking that he wishes he could run still (he had a walking stick) and it made me appreciate my ability even more. Until he said, right into my face: "gobble, gobble".

As is my wont when someone says something to me that I'm pretty sure is offensive but I can't really work out why, I struggled to assimilate this phrase. But I'm still at a loss.

As far as I see it, there are a finite number of options here:

1. He thinks I look like a turkey because of my red face
2. I'm running like a turkey
3. I was previously unaware that I have a massive dewlap under my chin that makes me look like a turkey
4. He's just watched Gigli and its sex scene.

The last thought made me stop thinking about this.

Old people suck though. Show me a nice old person and I'll show you a tolerant pope.

Running scared

2011-08-30T07:08:00.000-07:00

Today is not a good day. I'd go so far as to say today is a Bad Day. With capital letters.

I am struggling. And I'm sick of it. I have to sort this out. I have to get my shit together. I am wallowing in my pain and it's boring.

So fuck it. I am going to set myself a wee challenge. I am going to run for half an hour every day. Every single day. No matter how shit I feel or how bad the weather is. I am just going to do it.

I've discovered a love of running over the last year but I still lack the willpower to get up and push myself out of the door sometimes. Every single time I do I feel better about myself. My head is clearer, the voices shut the hell up for a bit and I feel proud of myself.

At school I skived out of PE for the entire five years. I hated it. HATED it. It was ritual humiliation followed by communal fucking showers. When you're 14? And your PE teacher is extremely suspect? I remember her - Miss Waite - as an overweight, unfit looking bully who pointed out girl's cellulite and watched them walk into the shower. Seriously, what the fuck? She didn't look like she could walk a mile let alone run one.

I watched her watching the girls (I had plenty of time on my hands. I was persuaded by a doctor that I had a cartilege problem in my knee which I carefully cultivated for the five years I wanted to skip sports) and she was a bitch. A nasty bitch who did everything she could to keep the fat girls down and praise the kids who were already doing well.

So yeah, I grew up feeling ashamed of my (lack of) sporting prowess. I fully admit that it probably shouldn't have taken me quite this long to realise that I can run and I can swim and actually I can do everything anyone else can. I just need to DO IT. (I still can't do a cartwheel. That's never going to happen).

A run a day. Let's see what that can do for my state of mind. And my body. Starting now.

Aids is your fault

2011-08-29T02:51:00.000-07:00

Didn't you know? If you have Aids, it's your fault. It's your fault for being 'defenseless and hopeless and suffering from sexual guilt.'

Oh, and if someone you know has Alzheimer's then it's also their fault. They're 'refusing to deal with the world as it is.'

If your ass itches it's because you're guilty. If you have athlete's foot you are 'frustrated and unable to move forward with ease'.

I have had my appendix out and this is my fault for being 'scared and blocking the flow of good.' Oh. And I thought it was just bad luck. But surely my gallstones weren't my fault, right? That painful and traumatic time I went through wasn't my fault as WELL was it? Oh, it was you say? Because I am 'bitter and have too much pride'.

Oh, well this is comforting.

My dad dying of heart failure though. That wasn't his fault, surely? Oh hang on, 'Long standing emotional problems. Belief in stress.' If only my dad hadn't BELIEVED in stress he would still be alive? Is that what you're saying?

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the world of Louise L Hay. She has written myriad self help books. In fact, she's credited (on her own website, presumably by herself) as starting the self help movement.

She believes that illnesses - or what she cringingly calls dis-ease (geddit?) - are caused by negative emotions. So if you have cancer, you just have to 'lovingly forgive and release all of the past and choose to fill your world with joy.' Yeah. That's it. That's the cure for cancer everyone. All of these stupid scientists wasting their time making actual medical breakthroughs. What do they know eh?

Louise knows because she has written a book. A book that was published in 1976. And has gone on to sell gazillions of copies and be translated in 33 languages. She has a five star review score on Amazon out of almost 3,000 reviews.

This makes me weep. She's a dangerous quack preaching bullshit to vulnerable people and it makes me sick. How fucking DARE she? It genuinely makes me seethe with anger that people who purport to be helping the sick, vulnerable, depressed or people who just want some help, feel this gives them a licence to print money by vomiting up any old shite out of their raddled, confused brains.

She says she cured herself of cancer by thinking positively. It was gone in six months. It doesn't occur to her that perhaps she was one of the lucky ones? That cancer does spontaneously go into remission for some people? That maybe, just MAYBE, it wasn't the power of her tiny mind that made it magically go away?

Her ideas are embarrassing, frankly. And it shocks me that so many people are lapping up this shit. I don't see anything wrong with the self help genre in general. I think reading can certainly help at difficult times - I have a shelf full on relationships and grieving because they give me comfort when I'm feeling low.

But to preach as FACT this kind of nonsense is disturbing in the extreme. She may as well be prescribing leeches for fucks sake. She is an out and out charlatan, a con artist and someone who displays very little understanding of the human psyche and the grief and fear that comes with illnesses.

Sure, there's nothing wrong with being positive and telling yourself that things are going to be OK. Maybe they will be. But to preach this stuff INSTEAD of proper medical care is irresponsible and disturbing. And to blame people for illnesses over which they have no control is neither helpful nor humane.

Still, Louise L Hay doesn't give a fuck. Why should she? She can cure cancer and she's sitting on millions of dollars worth of vulnerable and terrified peoples' money to prove it.

I have been recommended her book by a few therapists and counsellors over the years but only just got round to reading it. After scraping my jaw up from the floor I did a little research and see that her roots are with the Church of Christian Science. Alles klar.

Hope you burn in hell Louise L Hay. You can always try positive thinking while you're down there, hey?

Children of the Corn

2011-08-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

I am jangling mentally and generally all of a fluster in the head area right now. So I decided to go for a little run. Running is good. I like it a lot and it is one of the few things that does genuinely lift my mood (things that are not a. illegal and b. in pill form).

I ran for a couple of miles along the Green Way for I am in Long Marston at the moment. It's odd running in a long straight line, when all you can see is a long straight line ahead of you. It feels like running into the horizon at the end of a Western but you never get anywhere. If it wasn't for the sheep changing into horses and then into cows in the fields next to me, I could have persuaded myself I was on an outdoor treadmill.

That is, until The Child came along. He kept cycling right next to me. And i mean, every time I slowed down to get away, sped up to get away, or pretended to take a phone call to get away, there he would be. Cycling alongside me just staring at me. I felt for a second that perhaps he wants to be my trainer, a la Rocky and he's wordlessly offering me encouragement. Perhaps he's going to whip out a knife and loot my personage. Perhaps he is, in fact, a Child of the Corn. I do genuinely get freaked out by children wordlessly staring at me. What is it they want? What are they trying to convey? Why do they stare so? I felt he was gazing into my soul. So I said: Er, hello. Can I help you? and he buggered off. Strange beasts, children. No offence if you have one or two or more of your own. I'm sure they're gorgeous and marvellous in the main and that.

On the way back from my run I stopped in at the graveyard that is next to my mum's house for a bit of a perspective booster. I do like graveyards. They feel peaceful and serene and there's such a lot of love there in the markers and the words they use. Of course, it could all be for show, particularly with some of the Victorian ones, but I like to believe that every single person lying there was loved and is missed by someone, somewhere. Also I prefer people when they're very, very quiet. I jest.

In between procrastinating like a motherbitch and drinking far too much coffee, I spent some time spying on Kate O'Mara through my mum's fence. For it was she of Dynasty fame in the garden next door. I know! A famous person! In Long Marston! Fancy! I was almost as excited as when I stood behind Russell Howard in Tesco Metro. I can confirm that she does look very good for her age and has lovely, swishy, famous person hair.

I have a Very Important and Scary Thing tomorrow and would appreciate any and every good wish from any of you... keep it all crossed, yeah? Not THAT. Ew.

Lookey likeys

2011-08-23T14:03:00.000-07:00

For various spurious reasons I've been a bit shit with the old dieting for the last couple of days. Today, I ate potato with cheese. Deal with it.

Other things I have been doing include watching some truly awesome TV. I started with University Challenge (I got two right. Score), moved on to some kind of antiques show which, I noted with surprise, appeared to be hosted by Emilio Estevez. I wondered what had happened to him. I mentioned it to my mum who pointed out it was actually Sandi Toksvig.

Spot the difference:

Emilio Estevez

Sandi Toksvig

Uncanny isn't it? And then I felt a bit nauseous because I used to fancy Emilio in Young Guns II.

And then my mum said I could watch whatever I wanted as she was going for a bath anyway, and how was CSI? Boring as all shite I said. I would like to watch Britain and Ireland's Next Top Model please. Fine, she said. I'm going to bed. OK, I said. And then we both watched the entire episode.

Now I wouldn't necessarily have seen this, particularly as it is much more nausea inducing than the Estevez/Toksvig debacle, but one of the contestants came on and my mum said:

She looks like that comedian.

I said: which one?

She said: You know, the strange one.

I studied the face of the model, who you can see here:

And it came to me in a flash. My favourite Boosher. The man I have lusted after for approx six years. Mr Noel Fielding. A wee internet search confirmed that my mother wasn't the first to have thought this. Twitter itself was temporarily abuzz with the same observation.

I had to go and bleach my brain.

Lowering the tone

2011-08-22T08:27:00.000-07:00

My ma read my blog last night. With me in the same room. That's really awkward, sort of like being there when your teacher marks your essay and you can see every grimace and raised eyebrow. I found myself getting dead nervous and hoping desperately I hadn't mentioned anything about anyone shagging anyone (I haven't).

Braced for her comments on my writing (which she hasn't seen in many years, probably since I was at school) I was both relieved and amused to hear: 'Very funny dear. I do wish you'd remove the f-words. It does lower the tone'.

I can't help swearing. I like it. I don't think there's anything wrong with a fuck word or even a cunt every now and again. I really don't. If I want to hurt someone's feelings or make a point I usually find swear words diminish and really cutting adjectives take their place.

But then again, I don't want to offend for the sake of it. Oh fuck it.

Sorry mum.

Fuck OFF, dog

2011-08-21T04:27:00.000-07:00

I refer, of course, to Churchill's 'black dog'. Not a real dog. I love dogs. I prefer dogs to most people. Fact.

I'm going to credit you with the intelligence to already know what I'm on about, but at the same time if I don't explain then I will have a nagging doubt throughout this post. I don't like nagging doubts. Winston Churchill used to call his bouts of depression the black dog.

I'm currently enjoying a bout of depression. It blows. Anything that's going wrong in your life, well, say goodbye to perspective and logic. And welcome in fear, horror and a constant feeling of being on the edge of Nietsche's abyss. And you know what happens if you keep looking down there.

It is, of course, ridiculous to suffer from depression isn't it? It's such a western disease. I bet starving people don't suffer from depression. Don't worry, I haven't turned into Liz Jones. I was just trying a ridiculous statement on for size.

Depression is real and it colours your life. It colours it black and then sometimes backs off and lets you breathe. But it tends to come crashing right back into you, sometimes out of the blue, sometimes in response to life events. I find the worst is it leaves me reeling and feeling that I can't see straight. I can't think straight, I don't trust my decisions, I can very easily fall into a jelly-like heap and, rather than ever feeling suicidal, just not really see the POINT of getting up again.

However, I am lucky. I am saved by people who love and care for me. Who listen to me even when I'm repetitive and tiresome and emotional and difficult. People who help me see another way. And they give me the strength to pick myself up and get on with it.

Today is different to yesterday. Strength is there, I can feel it. And I will get through this, just as I have every other time.

So cheers you lot, you all know who you are. I'm lucky to have you.

And you, black dog, fuck OFF, eh?

Totally neurotic plus 12

2011-08-18T15:45:00.000-07:00

I just took a test online to see if I'm neurotic. The test is called 'Are you neurotic?'. I got 112%. And then I realised that the mere action of finding a test on the internet called 'Are you neurotic?' means 'Yes, you're completely neurotic'. What is 112% anyway? I'm totally neurotic plus 12? What the fuck does that mean?

Things that pleased me today were neglible. Although I did find out that if you're vigilant and keep an eye on the Sky menu you can watch Come Dine With Me continuously. All day. Which is nice.

I am feeling existentially disturbed today. Tedious isn't it? I fear my inner goth tendencies will never leave so I have decided to embrace them and write lots into the night supported by gin, cigarettes and opium.

Also, the interwebz promised me that Charlie Sheen would be on Celebrity Big Brother. He's not. I actually watched the launch show thinking he would come on. Instead it was bovine booze hound Kerry Katona, ex-actress Tara Reid, fucking Jedward and about 12 people I didn't recognise.

Today I'm mostly reading a book entitled Why We Lie by Dorothy Rowe. She's an excellent psychologist (I think. Or pyschiatrist. Or maybe she isn't any of them. I dunno. I haven't done any research. I'm just making shit up). It's very interesting, so it is. I'm also reading Oliver Burkeman's book, basically a collection of his columns from The Guardian. Very funny and very helpful. If you don't know who he is, Google him. He's intelligent, level-headed, insightful and funny. I might actually stalk him on Twitter and ask him out. Why not eh?

Having vaguely skim read this blog it appears to read as the disjointed ramblings of a mad woman. Huh.

Other things that I noticed today include the fact that Fatman will only let me work if I lie on the floor with the laptop in front of me and allow him to curl up in between my arms and the keyboard. It's really comfortable and convenient. Especially when he drools on the keyboard as well. Moments like that make life worth living.

I also noticed that Match.com have a new advert along the lines of their grotesque effort with the nauseating Camden-type nouveau hipster twats singing about the Godfather 3 in some junk shop in the most twee and arse bendingly badly targeted advert I've ever seen. I have used Match.com. Men on there do not dress in tweed suits and have emo hair cuts. They ask you for photos of your tits and spk like ths. As if vowels are beyond them. They call you hun and darlin and expect you to reply to them even though you're pretty sure you wouldn't touch them with the end of 15 bargepoles welded together.

Anyway, the new advert features a busker on the tube. Although he's probably not a busker. He's probably called Tarquin and has taken his inspiration from Pete Doherty or some shit. He's probably on his gap year and experimenting by pretending to be poor. Of course it's set in London. No one looks for love outside London you know. He starts singing (again) to the girl opposite him. The girl bears an uncanny resemblance to the tart in the music shop in the first ad. She has that floaty, semi-hippy hair and a side parting that starts just above one ear. It looks like a massive combover and she's wearing a dress that looks like it's from Laura Ashley in the 80s and is all ethereal and coy. JUST like every girl should be.

So he starts singing about her beauty. And she doesn't look up, tell him to fuck off and call the police. She grins inanely. Just as he's warming up (I mean, who DOESN'T want to date a busker on the London Underground? WHO?) the tube comes and he loses sight of her. When it leaves she's gone. He gives an exaggerated downward grimace, like a toddler who isn't allowed sweets. But WAIT. She's only right next to him. For his turgid, creepy 'song' has, naturally attracted her to his busking self.

I have so many problems with this advert I can't even speak.

Just as I was recovering from the experience, a mascara commercial came on that promises to 'millionise' your lashes.

Then I started looking for quizzes about being neurotic.

I hate life.

Pah. Youths.

2011-08-16T09:52:00.000-07:00

I don't get why people are all anti-TV. It's a thing what I have noticed over the years. My vast years in the wilderness of people and usually an awful lot of 'cool' people but ALSO an awful lot of 'geeky' people. It is only in the last few years they have appeared to meld into one. So geek chic is in. It's been in for a while, and let's face it, it's not showing any signs of going anywhere. It's sort of morphed with the London hipster look circa 2005 and sometimes, I have to confess, just renders me confused.

While gazing out of my window in the manner of a sage writing type, I observe the young people and their habits. Often I don't know what season it is thanks to the propensity of the young'uns to wear denim shorts all year round and the increasingly disturbing uptake of espadrilles and mid calf jeans/jeggings for boys.

I also find the vogue for the 80s and early 90s confusing. Girls are wearing exactly what I wore in 1995. Hell, sometimes I'M wearing exactly what I wore in 1995. How can this be? Although I have re-embraced the old inner goth since turning 30. She's hard to let go of. Neurotic bitch. What?

Anyway.

I'm aware this just sounds like the ramblings of a lady well past her prime and who possibly relies on the opinions of her corpulent kitty too much about various things, but I shall push on through now I've started.

NHS glasses that, in my school days, people would have been openly and brutally ridiculed for are everywhere. Worn mostly, it appears, by people that don't EVEN NEED GLASSES. Or they have Ray Bans. Like real Ray Bans. I didn't have real Ray Bans, well, ever actually. No one had real anything, apart from Doc Martens and they were from Birmingham Rag Market.

You know what this started as? A very quick rant about how people shun TV because it's not cool anymore. And how much I love it. and then I was going to regale you with tales of what I'm watching at the moment but now I have to go and Do More Work. Because I couldn't stop chuntering about the youth of today and their dress sense. God. How annoying.

Pants

2011-08-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

Freelancing is utterly ACE. Why did no one tell me to do this before? I enjoy the way I can write things like that even though lots of my friends did, in fact, tell me to go freelance. Some of them have been on about it for ages in fact. But it's my blog and therefore I can shift blame whenever I like. Ha.

Lolling on the sofa in just my pants, typing at a coffee table (no H&S 'assessments' here, no siree), singing along to whatever is on MTV... And all of this while doing Actual Work? A-maz-ing. This is my office now and you know what: it may be just my lounge; it may be full of Marlboro Lights, coffee, a fat fuzzball and a cheap laptop. But it's mine and I am free. I mean, not totally free. Obviously. I still need to actually do the work and pay bills and all of that boring shite. But I may have found my niche. Or at least A niche.

So, in between pondering the best way to extricate myself from underneath several pounds of lardy cat flesh every five minutes, I have worked out my New Diet. It is, as previously stated, not Dukan based. I think Dukan is (and I know you're going to be shocked) a bit of a quack. He's talking bollocks. Any diet that renders you unable to move, think or defecate normally cannot be right. And that's the last words on any kind of bowel habits I assure you. Actually, it's probably not if I'm totally honest. Just shut your eyes for those bits.

New Diet consists of eating healthily, low carbs but lots of vegetables and fruit, booze once a week. And the P90 exercise programme. I don't really know what this is or where it came from. Apparently a P90 is some kind of gun, so it's beyond me why it's called that. It's basically circuit training, six days on, one day off. And it's pretty good so far. Two days in and I'm feeling, well, in loads of pain actually, but quite HARD with it. There was kicking and boxing. I like kicking and boxing. The dude in it is quite annoying and very American. He looks like a Ken doll and says: "bam" a lot as you're doing movements. Odd.

Still, onwards with the quest to complete task Fat Girl Thin...

AHAHHAAHAH. How is this fair? The humanity

2011-08-15T06:42:00.000-07:00

So my diet partner has lost 10lbs in the last four days. I have lost around 5lbs.

He didn't even stick to it! he drank booze every day. And ate at least some potato. I saw it with my own eyes. Yet the weight has dropped from him like all he had to do was tell it to.

Is this a man/woman thing? Or a metabolism thing? Or WHAT? WHAT IS THE ANSWER?

In which Dukan and I take a break

2011-08-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

So yeah. Turns out you were all correct. You lot with your warnings about feeling like crap and not having any energy and it basically being a ridiculous idea to cut out all food groups except chicken and beef. Yeah, well, whatEVS. I told myself I'd give it till Monday and so I did. Today is Monday, right? The brain fog induced by lack of sugar has rendered it difficult to understand precisely what day it is.

After a humdinger of a bad mood this last few days, coupled with a bloody awful headache and, well, gut problems that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, I have decided that vegetables, fruit and perhaps some whole grains need to be reacquainted.

Back to Weight Watchers it is. For those that don't know, WW is basically a way to restrict portions but not the foods you ingest. Everything has a points system so, technically, you could follow WW and eat chocolate cake as long as you don't exceed 29 points a day.

I suspect anti-dieters and those blessed with natural self esteem and the corresponding ability to not neurotically obsess over their weight, will still think WW is a Bad Idea. But I think my OCD and control freakish nature responds well to a system where I have to track what I eat, write it down, get points and, well, sort of level up.

Oh shit. I'm A GAMER.

Excuse me, I need a lie down. And a ryvita. Come to momma...

Fatman Communications

2011-08-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

I'm going freelance. Like, properly. I am now working for myself. This is exciting and terrifying. Mostly terrifying.

We'll see how it goes. At the moment I have one writing contract. So it's a start... let's see if I can actually do this, kids.

I diet therefore I am?

2011-08-14T06:29:00.000-07:00

Talking about dieting brings out reactions. This I have noticed. I think probably partly because it's extremely egocentric to go on about what I'm eating every day and people thusly - and completely reasonably - find it dull as fuck.

But it also brings out other reactions. Lots of people have said to me that I look fine as I am (thanks lovelies), that I don't need to lose any weight (again, thanks but I disagree and so does my BMI, although only by a smidge it has to be said), that I should just be happy being me (alien concept, sorry). But is there something wrong with wanting to be, cough, the best me I can be?

I know I'm happier thinner. I also accept that spending my formative years sitting down reading books and avoiding all kinds of physical interaction with my peers has probably made it a lot harder to shift weight now. I've always battled my weight. I don't remember a day when I haven't woken up thinking about it and gone to sleep resolving to eat less, less, less the next day. That's just a fact. This isn't a whim, it's been a lifelong obsession.

The first time I remember being called fat was by my brother when I was about seven. I genuinely thought I was fat all through school and teenagehood. It's only now when I look back at pictures that I see I wasn't fat - don't get me wrong, I was definitely Not Thin, not then, not now, in fact only once briefly in my early 20s - I was fine. I looked OK.

But you grow up being called fat and it sorts of absorbs into your skin, like poisonous osmosis. You see it in the mirror. You see it in the eyes of your friends, covertly looking you up and down (at least in your head they do). I remember when I got my first pair of skinny jeans when I was 15 (they made a come back then too) and I got a size 10. I walked in to my friends whispering about me and finally got them to tell me that they thought I was lying about the size of them. I ended up tearfully showing them the label to prove that I really was in a size 10. Pathetic eh?

My mum threw away a dress I used to wear with leggings and Doc Martens. I asked her why and it was only years later that she said it was because I looked big in it. Well, maybe I was big - I still needed clothes didn't I??

Anyway, following a flirtation with mental illness and a pretty severe breakdown when I was 19, I put on a lot of weight. i would definitely go with the fact that I was FAT. But I didn't care. i was just glad I was waking up and not wanting to not exist anymore. That seemed more important. But as my return to university drew nearer I went on a diet. Again. I lost weight. And over the next two years I lost a LOT of weight. I was finally thin (like genuinely, had hip bones sticking out and could count my ribs). And yes, it made me happier. It did. It actually did. I looked in the mirror and I LIKED it. I liked buying clothes, I liked being thin.

It also gave me confidence. I met my ex while thin and thought I had it made. But, sadly, a few months of love and happiness and going out for dinner saw me pile on something like three stone in a year. My ex was (understandably I guess) Not Happy. It wasn't what it said on the tin. It wasn't the goods in the shop window. I think he felt cheated.

It became a Thing, and was one of the reasons given for our breakup seven or eight years later.

Christ, I'm boring myself. I guess my point is that this thing, this wanting to be thin, has dominated almost my entire life. I have been there and I know I'm happier. So, really, with the diets and the worrying and the thinking I am trying to get to a happier place. And that's an aspiration to be proud of. Isn't it? It's not about changing who I am, or wanting to be someone else. I want to me, just thinner and happier in my own skin. That's all.

What I done read on my holiday

2011-08-13T18:09:00.000-07:00

I read a few books while in Italy. And here they are.

The Psychopath Test, Jon Ronson As always Ronson makes me snark and snigger and this time turns his attention to the thorny subject of psychopaths in society. Who are they? How can you spot them? Is it true that all CEOs are psychopaths? What about scary Tony in Broadmoor, he of the American Psycho suits and assurances that he's only pretending to be psychopathic? What about the test that tells you in 30 easy questions whether your ex is, in fact, a psycho just like you thought all along? All of these questions are, well, totally not answered but tonnes of food for thought. Take a look in the mirror, maybe we're all psychopaths underneath it all.

How to Be a Woman, Caitlin Moran The first time I came across Caitlin Moran was when she was hosting an early 90s show called Naked Lunch. It was, as she says in her book, like The Word without all the scallys eating pubic hair and snogging grannies. In fact, it was so much like The Word that I totally thought that's what she used to host until I read this. This is about reclaiming feminism as a word women should use and use proudly. She's funny and totally nails the awfulness of growing up. We're exactly the same age and, well, completely not the same in any other way but I feel an affinity with her. We were both goth girls in the early 90s. Course when I was necking K cider and trying LSD, Caitlin was already working at Melody Maker at the age of 16. I'm not jealous. At all. Read this book, whether you're a man or a woman. Highly highly recommended.

An Idiot Abroad: The Travel Diaries of Karl Pilkington I love Karl Pilkington. I love Ricky Gervais. The inevitable backlash has dented his once solid reputation as comic genius, but I love him. I love his podcasts and his stand up. And I love the character they've created between them for Karl to play. The diary is exactly like the show, there are no extras but it was ace holiday reading. Bless him and his perfectly spherical head.

The Dukan Diet, Dr Pierre bloody Dukan Don't eat anything nice at all and you will be thin says some French doc. Currently on Day 3 of his miracle diet and am battling the mother of all headaches. So, yeah, don't buy this book. Just to make me feel a smidge better. Kthx.

Heartless, Book 4 of The Parasol Protectorate, Gail Carriger I found this series by accident last year. I was attracted to the pretty lady in the victorian dress on the cover. I think this is steam punk, but I've never been too sure what that is. It's funny though and set in the 19th century in an alternate universe filled with vampires, werewolves and the soulless one. Christ, that sounds awful doesn't it? It's not though, it's fun and nicely done.

Flying Without Fear, Captain Keith Godfrey I basically can't fly anywhere without this book. I don't even read it most of the time but I like to have it. I don't like flying. Now, if you knew me, you'd know that that is a major step forward. A few months ago I would have said: I hate flying. I'm not going and you can't make me. But three holidays this year has eased it a little. Plus valium, natch.

Sick Notes, Dr Tony Copperfield I think this might be that ginger doctor who sometimes turns up on panel shows and comedy programmes. Do you know the one I mean? If I could be arsed I'd google him, but I just can't. Anyway, he's a GP, he loves the NHS but hates the way it's run, and he's quite funny.

Dukan is a douche

2011-08-13T16:53:00.000-07:00

I started the Dukan diet three days ago. For the unititiated, the Dukan diet is a no carb, pure protein plan that, gasp, KATE MIDDLETON, used to get all sinewy for the wedding. Clearly she didn't fancy following the Princess Di-fingers-down-the-throat-diet. And, you know, good on her. Didn't she look thin? And hungry.

I've just returned from two weeks in Tuscany where, naturally, I gave in to daily gelato and a few plates of pasta. While lying by the pool mainlining lard I read Dr Pierre Dukan's diet book on my fancy Kindle.

It's extremely verbose and uses an awful lot of words to bang on about how the diet is EASY and you ALWAYS FEEL FULL.

It's not easy. And most of the time you don't want to eat because you feel sick.

That's because for the first 2-10 days you eat only protein. So, no sugar, no carbs, no fruit, no veg, no fatty meat, very little dairy, no booze. What the feck can you eat? Eggs. And egg whites. Fish, lean beef, chicken, turkey, non-fat yoghurt and skimmed milk. And that's pretty much it.

Oh, and for an added little treat - and also presumably so one's system doesn't completely seize up in despair - you get to chow down on a tablespoon and a half of oat bran (NOT WHEAT BRAN) every day. Dr Dukan suggests making this into a galette comprising of non-fat yoghurt, egg whites, artificial sweetener and OAT BRAN NOT WHEAT BRAN. He's very insistent on that.

So, after 10 days you then get to add in vegetables every other day. Not fruit. Not carbs. Veg.

And then you do that for ages until you get to your target weight.

After that, you move into the next phase which has to last for five days per pound lost and (I think - I'm not sure cos I didn't get that far in the book, I was so carried away with envisaging myself all skinny and preferably six inches taller) you get to add in a bit of bread every now and again. It might actually be just once a week.

After THAT, if you're still alive and haven't stabbed yourself in despair, you get to eat 'normally' but low carb provided you have a protein only day once a week. For some reason he's designated Thursday the ideal day to have a miseryfest.

So, what attracted me to this hellish nightmare?

The promise of not having to give up coffee, being actively encouraged to drink diet coke till it comes out of my (probably phosporic acid burned) ears, losing up to half a stone in five days and being encouraged to EAT AS MUCH AS I WANT from a list of foods. Having lost two stone over the last nine months on weight watchers in an agonisingly slow manner, this sounded perfect.
Sadly, pure protein is horrible. Never has fillet steak looked so nauseating. Never has a boiled egg repelled me so much as after the first day.

For on the first day, I started enthusiastically. Scrambled egg for breakfast. Lovely. Non-fat yoghurt for a mid morning snack. Mackerel (just mackerel) for lunch. The gallette for tea (the galette by the way is a thing of pure horror. A pancake made of yoghurt. I mean what the fuck?) and smoked salmon for supper. Yum, yum, yum. Vomit.

Still, the newness of it was exciting. One of the weirdest parts of it is it makes a day last, like, a really long time. I'm pretty sure days are at least three times as long as the days when I was hoovering up foccacia every five minutes.

I was nauseated, I had a headache, I really really wanted an apple... but I went to sleep instead. Because I was knackered. Like properly, pathetically knackered.

Mid way through Day 2 and the headache is worse. So I get online. And there I discover a veritable underworld of forumites discussing what is apparently known as 'Dukan flu'. THAT wasn't in the fecking book I can tell you. Dukan flu is what happens when you cut out sugar and carbs after eating them every day for your whole life. There's posts comparing the withdrawal to that of coming off smack.

I'm not sure smack addicts would agree with that one but you get the idea.

Day 2 passes in a whirl of egg whites and chicken.

Day 3 and I get on the scales only to find that I've apparently lost nothing. Nada. Fuck all. Then the cramps start and I'm, ahem, indelicately indisposed for much of the day. I get back on the scales. Now I've lost five pounds. Should call it the dysentry diet.

Taken out for dinner with my boyfriend I'm faced with the menu of the finest Italian Leamington Spa has to offer. I choose ribs (shouldn't have pork but I cannot CANNOT eat another piece of beef) and grilled chicken. I cheat and have some green beans in lemon juice. They taste better than chocolate. That can't be right?

After watching the rest of the table consume prosecco, Borollo, limoncello and Disarano I stick to diet coke and water. And then have to go home because the thought of trying to drag my weary carcass out on the tiles is too much.

If I don't lose shedloads of weight by Monday (Day Five) I will personally hunt down Dr Pierre Dukan and forcefeed the bastard bread till he pukes...