Monday, September 08, 2014

Sleep of the Week - Sophie

Light up fatty
Don't you worry
As I inhale
In breathless hurry
The plume of smoke
From your pink pout
Resist the urge
To put it out
On your face.

WOW. Is it me, or do I become a better poet everyday? It never once occurred to me, during my three year Creative Writing Degree, that poetry was my forte, but it's looking likely.

And not just any poetry - aggressive poetry. Poetry with punch. Did I just stumble upon the title of my first anthology? One thinks so!

When I finally snap and stab someone, my sobbing mother will offer up these darling poems to the police, crying, 'It's all there officer!'

I had the occasional cigarette growing up (this confession is why my Mum will be so happy to dob me in after the stabbing), but I've developed a real aversion to the selfish smoker, who suggests, nay insists that you share the experience with them.


Since the odds are stacked against me for dying of my own stupidity, clumsiness and alcoholism, I really don't need this on top.

Mum, it's okay, I'm joining in with Dry September, from today actually. I'm calling it Partially Dry September. Do you want to sponsor me?

Anyway, it's only bloody time for Sleep of the Week! Another blinder submitted by Nia Edwards. It could be assumed that people regularly fall into deep sleep in her company. But I don't think anyone would assume that. Not one person.

This is Sophie.

She is completely dedicated to her sleep.

She has nothing left to give to anyone.

If you held a puppy in front of her face, and a gun to the puppy's face and shouted 'Wake up or the puppy gets it!', the puppy would get shot, and it's likely, shot in the face.

It's also nice to see a girl spread her legs on the tube. Look, you know what I mean. Men typically spread their legs as wide as physically possible, close to pelvic dislocation (check out massive knee on her right). Actually, is that a giant? Is it?

Sophie is owning it.

Good for you Soph.

Thursday, September 04, 2014

Animate this

Just eaten a Muller fruit corner with a fork - recommend.

The spoons are all reallllly far away, and it drastically increased how long it took me to eat it, generating the welcome illusion that it was massive.


I am really sick

Okay, so not in a death bed way, not even really in a bed way, as I'm at work. But in the way you can be so, so, so sick, and yet still fully function.

We've all been there.

The real disadvantage of my illness, other than looking like a complete, snotty joke, is that the main casualty is my IQ. In that, I've become incredibly thick.

Either that, or the virus is acting like a kind of reducer, seeing me unable to keep up all the usual effort I go to, to appear remotely intelligent.

I spoke to someone this morning, and tried to convey this symbol <

Me: It's like, it's like an arrow pointing at something to the left.

Man: A less than symbol?

Me: Great, thanks for that.

Almost as fun as when this happened last week:

Man: I've sent you the password, it's 'password.'

Me: Yes I know. I've tried it and it doesn't work.

Man: Password. That's P-A-S-S-W-O-R-D

I'd of killed him, but I'm too professional.

Oooh, maybe I could just stab him, or render him unable to speak using a punch to the mouth. I'm not too professional for either of those things.

Okay, so maybe I'm thick and aggressive.


Does anyone know someone who's an animator? I've decided that I'm ready to be a successful writer now. I think it's because I've managed to write two poems in a month. Anyway, and I have this animation that could do with the help of someone.....someone, talented.

At about 2am Sunday morning, I downloaded some software and made the first bit:

But I don't think it's going to cut the mustard. Partly because the software has about six clip art images, and I think I've used them all in one go.

Is anyone better at animation than me?

Even a tad better?


Thursday, August 28, 2014

To bee or not to bee?

To bee or not to bee?

I am a loyal worker bee
I do not serve the likes of me
There is more merit to my life
For all my youth
I serve the hive

I am a cheery worker bee
I do not feel the misery
In which I note some others writhe
I am content
I serve the hive

I am an eager worker bee
I rise at 6, and break at 3
And when I leave the place at 5
It is complete
I serve the hive

I am a focused worker bee
It's only sometimes that I see
That despite my innate drive
There's little else
But serve the hive

I am a fearful worker bee
I can't afford what you call 'free'
And so I can never strive
For anything
But serve the hive

Wednesday, August 20, 2014


I wrote this in my head on the way to work:

Moronika won't look up
At some point or other
With her phone in one hand
And her cig in the other

A phone that's been dropped
Thank God for phone cover

And cigs put out
On the hem lines of dresses
And little girl's tresses
But it helps her to deal
With the ongoing stresses
Of life

Which I think just about exhibits my three year Creative Writing degree, whilst at the same time, managing to convey my attitude towards my fellow Londoner. Isn't that just lovely.


I was recently told by my occasional friend and colleague JB, that my blog is like a sandwich with no filling, in that I never provide an opinion on anything. To address this promptly, I am offering forth my top five opinions of the moment, duly titled:


1. The best part of my job, is that there is a life size cardboard cut out of Ryan Reynolds in the room. He's looking at me right now, and he's saying, 'Soon Gemma, soon.' Thanks Ryan, I believe in you.

2.Did Rolf do it? Can you be a paedophile, and spend years trying to help sick puppies? Is he a sick puppy that no one helped? (This is less of an opinion, and more of an insight into my daily upset).

3. Did Cliff do it? Can you be a paedophile, and star in a rather stupendous film about a girl, who pretends to be a boy, and hides on a bus, culminating in a musical summer holiday? (see above).

4. Double denim never works.

5. I like blue cheese the best.

Ta Da! Take that occasional friend and colleague!

You wanted depth and you got it, perhaps too much, perhaps you regret it.

Perhaps I need to broaden my horizons, and develop opinions outside of celebrity paedos, celebrities in general, denim, and cheese.

But that's for me to decide.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

You've got a little something on your....

So this is pretty gross.

But I didn't do it, I just witnessed it.

A girl stood up from what became the only available seat on the tube. Myself and forty-seven others had been following her recent twitching and gathering of bags with excited eyes.

But then, oh no, what's on the seat?

All forty-seven of us silently agreed: semen.

She had obviously decided that it was worth sitting on dried (one hopes) semen for half an hour, if it meant that she didn't have to stand.

In an unprecedented respectful, orderly queue, people came over, jubilant, skipping, spotted the monstrosity and decided they couldn't do it.

After five or so minutes of this behaviour, a woman dressed in sporty gear approached, assessed the situation, and after staring boldly at the disbelieving onlookers, sat down with a bounce.

I guess she was dressed for rough conditions.

We judged her, we thought, 'you dirty, dirty bitch.' Our legs grew tired.

And the morale of the story is - It's better to stand than sit on unclaimed semen, because it can never be dry enough for your peace of mind.

Mum - I'd like to apologise for the theme of this blog, but I've found the sharing of it quite therapeutic. It's also a rather good social commentary. Do you remember when men were merely pressing their penises against my shoulder on the tube? Well look at them now! I might see if The Sun Newspaper fancies a little write-up.


I feel like I need to make this better.

Here's a cute puppy:

Oh wait sorry, that's just a picture of a puppy eating another puppy.

Here you go:

This one actually looks really scared. Maybe he's afraid that he'll be exhausted travelling to work one day, and won't be able to sit down because a pervert has ejaculated everywhere.

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

Big, fat bully

Last I night I dreamt that I got arrested for taking crack cocaine.

I was quite impressed with the reactions of my friends and I, as two policeman came upon us as we were chilling out with taxi drivers on a picnic bench. We promptly tossed the asthmatic inhalers over our shoulders and froze. Now, I don't know if you can take crack cocaine that way, and I'm not going to research it.

Not at work anyway.


I was beaten up under interrogation, because I stated the reason I'd turned to drugs as 'to ease the beautiful sadness in my soul.'

Fair enough law enforcement, fair enough.

I was thinking this morning that it's a real miracle I wasn't beaten up in school. I had all the expected traits and more so:

Brace? Check
Overweight? Check
Bad skin? Check
Orange Hair? Check

But if we're honest here, who hasn't had orange hair at some point! I mean, really.


I did try bullying out for myself. That's right reader, yours truly was not always as saintly.

I asked all my friends to stand on a man hole cover with me, and when the victim tried to stand there also I said: *slightly paraphrased*

'Oh no. Not you. This is the cool square.'

And she was like:

'What? Don't be ridiculous.'

And I was like:

'It's the God's honest truth of the matter. You can only stand here if you're cool. So you can't stand here.'

And when she tried to defy my instructions, my minions and I pushed her back.


But, you know, they were clearly set parameters. And I'm pretty sure that it was only for entire lunch break that day.

Oh, you know what?

This one time, I started a petition called, 'The I hate Claire and Jenny petition,' and managed to accrue an impressive number of signatures in support.

They were the two most popular girls in my year at the time, so I guess I was a part-time bully AND a jealous psycho.

It turned out that one of their sisters was a much feared mental. And word quickly reached me that she intended to throw me through a window. A third floor window. Luckily, our humanities teacher who kept a lot of pencils in his deep pockets, and thus looked like he had lots of thin penises, rescued me during her first attempt.


I've changed their names because I'm still scared.

I think I started the petition when they insulted my perm.

I should really add 'perm' to the above list of traits a person possesses that set them up for being bullied.

Wow, I've learnt a lot about myself. I feel better.

Do you feel better?

Friday, August 01, 2014

She sells sea shells

Does anyone else have hobbies that never progress?

Every few months I pick up my guitar and try to teach myself the chords to Radiohead's 'High and Dry.'

Mostly because I want to play it at cool house parties at 3am, having nonchalantly picked up the hosts guitar in front of a crowd of eager, wet eyed spectators.

And in the morning people will be like, 'Do you remember that girl who played us amazing music?'

And I will shrug and be like, 'Yeah, that was me, no big deal.'

And my whole life will be altered from that point.

There are however instances, where revealing something about yourself at a house party at 3am, is not the best decision.

Like when a guy sat down next to me on the sofa once and said, 'I have six toes on one foot.' And everyone got involved, and they had to turn the lights on and stop the music. And the horror basically ruined the party.

I'd like to say it was a safe place for difference, but I think he'd of been better off contacting 'Embarrassing bodies' and not mistaking it for a great relationship icebreaker.


The point is, I don't think I'll ever be able to play a song on my guitar.

This is why Gingerbeard resents the space it takes up in our tiny bedroom. Sometimes this happens:

Ginger: Can we please sell your guitar?

Me: No we cannot. I'm learning to play it.

Ginger: No you're not. You never play it. In fact, I can hardly make it out for the dust.

Me: *Unzips bag, strums one dust laden string, re zips bag* There, see.


Besides which, I think my half finished patchwork cushion, half-finished photo mobile, fifty unread books, and four pairs of unrealistically heeled (and thus unwearable) boots would be lonely without that guitar.

He doesn't really GET me guys. Seven years, and I am still so unknown.

It almost makes me want to listen to that boxset of 'Learn French' CD's that I bought, and like, learn French.

But I don't think I will.

Not just yet.

God, I could deliver one hell of a top notch carboot some day. You lucky buggers.