3/11/11
Ginger Beard says you can never be too sanitized. He is carrying round a travel sized sanitizer and using it every 5-10 minutes. He insists that I receive sanitation before we hold hands. He has many cuts on his face from shaving, and as such, is not at his aesthetic optimum. This makes me question our relationship. What am I doing with someone addicted to sanitiser who can't shave?
5/11/11
Determined to get my money's worth, I get stuck in straight away with the in-flight movies. If I'm smart, I can fit in 12. It would cost approximately £96 to see these at the cinema, and as such, is definitely worth the effort. Cue the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Ginger makes it 6 minutes into Harry Potter (not literally, don't be vile), before turning yellow. But I am fricking staying the course! If I stop the film for a bit, I might only have room for 11 films! Eventually the stewardesses came round, and gave us some proper dodge food. I didn't eat it because I felt so, ridiculously sick. It's quite frustrating that so many scenes in Harry Potter are at night, because you can't see dark things on those tiny, shit screens. But I got the gist.
Eight hours later, Dubai Airport. I'm having to run to the toilets a lot for a good old dry vomiting session, but I did fulfil my film quota. And it's important to get your priorities right. I threw up just before take off, in one of those darling plane cubicles. A nice Thai lady told me I should drink Ginger Beer, but she didn't understand that this was a price I was willing to pay, and that I had already raked back £24.
I was unconscious for the next seven hours, only waking to wipe my drool away. On Emirates planes, when they want you to wake up, they put all the lights on, and play some man singing about what a beautiful day it is. It's not a beautiful day. Quite frankly it's complete wank, and 10pm, and you've woken me up to give me minced chicken with a slab of cheddar on it's face. Thanks.
Arrive in Bangkok. What a glorious start to the holiday. Let some people take us to an over-priced hotel. Think am hallucinating, but the taxis here are actually bright pink. A young boy carries our bags to the room, and shows me where the hairdryer is. Don't know what to tip. Do not understand currency. Awkward. Fall asleep. Wake up at 4am. Third plane to catch. Why did not pick Butlins? Can suddenly see the many merits of a Butlins holiday. Crave camp entertainers, pissed-in pool, and feral kids.
Realise Bangkok Airport looks like the Turd on the Tyne (Newcastle's Art Gallery). Weird. Sit on plane, eat cashew nuts. Do not desire to live anymore. Find it amusing that people jealous of our holiday. Nothing to be jealous of.
Taxi to the resort is 1:30. BUT the driver has a screen at the front of the car. Am still game for squashing in as many movies as possible. He doesn't ask, but puts on Micheal Jackson Live. Is lots of crying girls being restrained. Do not understand entertainment value.
Arrive at Talkoo Beach Resort, a child drives us to our room in a golf buggy. Why are these children not in school? Are obviously learning how to identify hairdryers and drive, through employment, but is not same as proper education.
No one else is here. Just me, Ginger and stray dogs. In our local Newsagents (One woman, a fridge with some milk in, and a freezer full of cornettos) there is a crazy amount of kittens. Ginger says I can't touch them because I'll contract rabies and die. It's a real shitter. They're sleeping amongst the merchandise, and I'd be happy to spend the rest of our vacation here. No dice.
Thai people here don't speak any English. You don't tend to get the food you order, but we try to enjoy the surprise. They're also very clever, and make you think they can understand you, by repeating what you say.
Me: Can I please order a taxi for tomorrow morning?
Reception: Taxi
Me: Yes, for 10am if that's okay?
Reception: 10.
Me: Good, so is that booked?
Reception: Booked.
And then you rock up at 10am, there's no taxi, and you nearly miss the ferry. But it's all part of the EXPERIENCE kids.
We went off to hunt some pink dolphins with a man, and his mate. I learned pretty quickly that nothing would make sense, nothing will be explained, and that's got to be just dandy. Which is why we drive around for a bit, head back, swap drivers, set off. The whole time they're having an animated, hilarious conversation.
So we get in this boat with a Thai couple, and chase this one bumpy dolphin. And these special jumping, silver fish are flying beside the boat, and every now and again, one slaps you in the face. It's a wholly pleasant experience. The woman put one hand on top of the other over and over again, and said 'Pancakes.' Fantastic, a day out at sea, followed by pancakes. Turns out she was talking about the rock formations. And this is why language barriers are harming people everywhere. Because I don't know if you've ever thought you were going to get pancakes, and had those hypothetical pancakes ripped away, but it's fucking upsetting
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Have you packed your own bags?
The stages of life with a Laptop Backpack (soon to me made into an animated feature film, coming to cinemas near you).
Stage one: Receive said bag. Phone father. Issue forth bag, and subsequent laptop as proof of succeeding in life. Point out array of compartments. Talk at length on necessity of travel. Establish self as that woman on the train, typing, drinking coffee, being important. Try to brush off chip from shoulder re crap, waste of time degree. Have made it. Smug, smug smug.
Stage two: Realise that cannot fully wear backpack as intended, as will not look cool. Must look cool at all times, in order to retain self-imposed idea of high status. Use one strap only, off right arm. Have handbag on left arm. Strut back and forth to station. Look very cool indeed.
Stage three: Slight issue with shoulder and back pain. Newly attained status is very heavy. Glare at laptop when not on back in bag, resent lap top. Cannot be that woman on the train, as hardly ever get seat. When do get seat, get seat next to smelly man, crying baby, old woman with too many bags. Experience severe travel sickness when trying to work on train.
Stage four: Recall previous battle with high heels as very similar. Convinced self could wear high heals for years. Drunkenly hobbled around city, fell down stairs, whinged, but wanted to be like other, normal girls and glamorous. Gave in. Bought flats. Now live in boots. Give in, now wear backpack fully. Do not look remotely cool. Do not even look geek chic. Is particularly fetching when matched with pencil skirt. Hate back pack. Hate laptop. Have not excelled in career, have gone backwards. Have started writing like Bridget Jones, and knocking people unconscious when turning round in small spaces.
To note: Do not have a lengthy meeting about appearing professional, go and visit your colleagues, sit on a table, and allow that table to collapse. Is not a good look, and combined with full on backpack, is very damaging to street cred.
Stage one: Receive said bag. Phone father. Issue forth bag, and subsequent laptop as proof of succeeding in life. Point out array of compartments. Talk at length on necessity of travel. Establish self as that woman on the train, typing, drinking coffee, being important. Try to brush off chip from shoulder re crap, waste of time degree. Have made it. Smug, smug smug.
Stage two: Realise that cannot fully wear backpack as intended, as will not look cool. Must look cool at all times, in order to retain self-imposed idea of high status. Use one strap only, off right arm. Have handbag on left arm. Strut back and forth to station. Look very cool indeed.
Stage three: Slight issue with shoulder and back pain. Newly attained status is very heavy. Glare at laptop when not on back in bag, resent lap top. Cannot be that woman on the train, as hardly ever get seat. When do get seat, get seat next to smelly man, crying baby, old woman with too many bags. Experience severe travel sickness when trying to work on train.
Stage four: Recall previous battle with high heels as very similar. Convinced self could wear high heals for years. Drunkenly hobbled around city, fell down stairs, whinged, but wanted to be like other, normal girls and glamorous. Gave in. Bought flats. Now live in boots. Give in, now wear backpack fully. Do not look remotely cool. Do not even look geek chic. Is particularly fetching when matched with pencil skirt. Hate back pack. Hate laptop. Have not excelled in career, have gone backwards. Have started writing like Bridget Jones, and knocking people unconscious when turning round in small spaces.
To note: Do not have a lengthy meeting about appearing professional, go and visit your colleagues, sit on a table, and allow that table to collapse. Is not a good look, and combined with full on backpack, is very damaging to street cred.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Shitty Shitty Bang Bang
This just in - food poisoning is hilarious, more so when the realisation hits you in Debenhams.
Three weeks until Thailand! Now, I really can't stand it when people brag about their impending holidays on Facebook, so I'll just say this - It's gonna be frickin awesome, and you can't go, and I'm going, and you're not. Sucks.
On the bright side, you may very well avoid a painful death. There are numerous ways to die in Thailand, and many of them very common. Unfortunately I want to grab adventure by its inflated testicles, and so may encounter such an end. I'm hoping for a drugged tiger, not as drugged as previously thought, escaping and mauling me.
Also, you'll save a lot of money by not stocking up on immodium (unless you suffer from extreme diarrhoea without the help of a dodgy curry). We have many, many boxes of this, and they're not cheap. So much so, that I'm going to pop the bastards out, and put them in a personal Gemma bag. Then I'm going to replace them with Ibuprofen and glue the foil back down.
Ginger Bead won't notice because Ginger Beard is an underdeveloped monkey.
One of us is going to have a really great time in Thailand, and one of us is going to have an uphill battle with the shits.
Luckily for you guys, we'll both be keeping a travel journal during the trip, some of which I'll try to type up whilst there (if I can get away from that tiger). I've offered to share my blog temporarily with Ginger, but I think he wants to keep his thoughts about 'life stuck to the toilet', 'wearing socks with sandals', and how annoyed he is about the incredible amount of money I've spent on hotels, private.
My travel journal will map his bowel movements, purely for entertainment purposes. I'll also be covering the estimated temperature, taking photos of bowls of nicely arranged rice, and commenting on how I like, really feel about stuff.
Three weeks until Thailand! Now, I really can't stand it when people brag about their impending holidays on Facebook, so I'll just say this - It's gonna be frickin awesome, and you can't go, and I'm going, and you're not. Sucks.
On the bright side, you may very well avoid a painful death. There are numerous ways to die in Thailand, and many of them very common. Unfortunately I want to grab adventure by its inflated testicles, and so may encounter such an end. I'm hoping for a drugged tiger, not as drugged as previously thought, escaping and mauling me.
Also, you'll save a lot of money by not stocking up on immodium (unless you suffer from extreme diarrhoea without the help of a dodgy curry). We have many, many boxes of this, and they're not cheap. So much so, that I'm going to pop the bastards out, and put them in a personal Gemma bag. Then I'm going to replace them with Ibuprofen and glue the foil back down.
Ginger Bead won't notice because Ginger Beard is an underdeveloped monkey.
One of us is going to have a really great time in Thailand, and one of us is going to have an uphill battle with the shits.
Luckily for you guys, we'll both be keeping a travel journal during the trip, some of which I'll try to type up whilst there (if I can get away from that tiger). I've offered to share my blog temporarily with Ginger, but I think he wants to keep his thoughts about 'life stuck to the toilet', 'wearing socks with sandals', and how annoyed he is about the incredible amount of money I've spent on hotels, private.
My travel journal will map his bowel movements, purely for entertainment purposes. I'll also be covering the estimated temperature, taking photos of bowls of nicely arranged rice, and commenting on how I like, really feel about stuff.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Gymtastic
So I went to the gym last night (I know, I know you can't improve on perfection), and I was attacked, that's right, attacked, by the ghost of Michael Jackson.
Firstly, I'll set the scene. The gym at work is in the basement. It is a place set up purely as a murder location. There is a box of white chalk ready for CSI. There's hardly ever anyone there but me. Which makes me really angry when anyone does think of turning up. It's pretty much my private gym, so stay out of my private gym you bastard!
In my own, private gym , if you want to run on a treadmill, you run at the wall. It's very nice. You have to jerk your neck around every five minutes to make sure you're not about to be murdered, because it could happen at any time. There's a lot of old, dusty machines, the whir of the air con, and you, practically murdered.
So, I went into the changing room last night, and there was a pile of ladies clothes, and some neatly folded pants. I was like, 'Who the frick is using my gym, and why have they removed their pants?!' I got ready, and walked into the gym. There was no one in the gym! Theory one - Shape shifter. (Documentaries like True Blood show that Shape shifters remove their clothes before shifting). Theory two - Invisible woman. No other theories at present time.
I was having an enjoyable bike ride, when 15mins in, all the lights go off. Complete darkness. And what song comes on at that exact second? I'll tell you - it was a Michael Jackson song. I pretended that everything would be okay, and continued to pedal. But then I realise, that even beyond the desperate plea of the room, I was now, technically requesting to be murdered.
Adding insult to injury, many people came in and out of the changing room (which I could only hear). Now, they are either having a quiet shit in the toilet of MY PRIVATE GYM, which means they are all dirty, shitty scum. Or, they are playing clothes swap. If it's the latter, whose clothes does the first woman wear? I was also very concerned that they thought my clothes were involved. Luckily, this was not the case.
I did some very stressful sit ups, and after each one, sprawled out on the carpet exhausted. I kept adjusting my shorts. And I sang along to a lot of Brit-ney. I then realised, after three weeks of this ritual, there are security cameras. Security have always been very friendly to me. Now, I know why.
I am currently developing a new, organic language for everyone. These words have very naturally occurred in conversations and you may utilise them:
Minggyner (pron Ming-gyn-er) (Meaning - that is disgusting)
Use: That is minggyner!
Minggyne (pron Ming-gyne) (Meaning - that's worse than disgusting)
Use: That is 100% minggyne
Piscuit (pron Piss-kit) (Can only be used in phrase: That takes the piscuit! Something which takes the piss, and also the biscuit.
Horrendie (pron whore-end-I) (Meaning - totally horrendous)
Use: What you're wearing is horrendie!
Thanks for listening.
Firstly, I'll set the scene. The gym at work is in the basement. It is a place set up purely as a murder location. There is a box of white chalk ready for CSI. There's hardly ever anyone there but me. Which makes me really angry when anyone does think of turning up. It's pretty much my private gym, so stay out of my private gym you bastard!
In my own, private gym , if you want to run on a treadmill, you run at the wall. It's very nice. You have to jerk your neck around every five minutes to make sure you're not about to be murdered, because it could happen at any time. There's a lot of old, dusty machines, the whir of the air con, and you, practically murdered.
So, I went into the changing room last night, and there was a pile of ladies clothes, and some neatly folded pants. I was like, 'Who the frick is using my gym, and why have they removed their pants?!' I got ready, and walked into the gym. There was no one in the gym! Theory one - Shape shifter. (Documentaries like True Blood show that Shape shifters remove their clothes before shifting). Theory two - Invisible woman. No other theories at present time.
I was having an enjoyable bike ride, when 15mins in, all the lights go off. Complete darkness. And what song comes on at that exact second? I'll tell you - it was a Michael Jackson song. I pretended that everything would be okay, and continued to pedal. But then I realise, that even beyond the desperate plea of the room, I was now, technically requesting to be murdered.
Adding insult to injury, many people came in and out of the changing room (which I could only hear). Now, they are either having a quiet shit in the toilet of MY PRIVATE GYM, which means they are all dirty, shitty scum. Or, they are playing clothes swap. If it's the latter, whose clothes does the first woman wear? I was also very concerned that they thought my clothes were involved. Luckily, this was not the case.
I did some very stressful sit ups, and after each one, sprawled out on the carpet exhausted. I kept adjusting my shorts. And I sang along to a lot of Brit-ney. I then realised, after three weeks of this ritual, there are security cameras. Security have always been very friendly to me. Now, I know why.
I am currently developing a new, organic language for everyone. These words have very naturally occurred in conversations and you may utilise them:
Minggyner (pron Ming-gyn-er) (Meaning - that is disgusting)
Use: That is minggyner!
Minggyne (pron Ming-gyne) (Meaning - that's worse than disgusting)
Use: That is 100% minggyne
Piscuit (pron Piss-kit) (Can only be used in phrase: That takes the piscuit! Something which takes the piss, and also the biscuit.
Horrendie (pron whore-end-I) (Meaning - totally horrendous)
Use: What you're wearing is horrendie!
Thanks for listening.
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Can you say 'Ahhhh'?
This week, I decided to let a dentist prod me in the mouth several times. And as that sounds horrendously inappropriate, I'll put it another way: I went to the dentist. Did I anticipate getting mowed down by a little boy on a tricycle? No, I didn't. Why was he on the pavement? There are cycle lanes now. Pop a fluorescent jacket on him, and sit him on the yellow line.
I'm joking. But I'm completely serious.
Regardless of your age, you renegade cyclists, my feet are not yours for the crushing. Do I drive my car on the pavement? Well, yes, but only by accident. And what I saw in that little boys eyes was not only total disregard for my safety and personal well being, but also cold, hard intent. Age 7 and already a complete bastard.
Ginger Beard has informed me that you have to pay for x-rays at the Dentists. I didn't. I just walked out. Is that so wrong? No one tackled me to the floor, so hopefully I'll get off with a strongly worded letter - which being British myself, I would obviously appreciate.
Dentists love their special jargon. You open your mouth, and they tap round it muttering, 'A32, 6P, 7X7.' It's like battleship, only with no opponent, and no ships, and like, plastic thing with holes and pegs. Only mine went like this, '6% of 8, upper 32, missing'. Missing? Everything was intact when I arrived. But suddenly I'm lying back, staring at a Simpson's poster on the ceiling, lacking an important part. Missing I understand. Missing suggests the notable absence of something which really should be there.
No choice with the x-ray. I'm having one. Very assertive these men with their bleached white jackets. So I sit in the waiting room for 5-10 reading Country Living (ditsy prints are still very 'in'). Then we look at a charming picture where I'm all skeletal. My bones 'n' shit are in order, but do I want a £220 gum guard? I say I'll think about it. I won't think about it. I will fake a rather beige interest in the idea, due in part to the manners instilled in me as a middle-class child. Thank you Mum. I will peer inquisitively at the price and arrange my eyebrows in a thoughful fashion. I will then, vacate the premises without paying and get hit by a tricycle hooligan.
I'm joking. But I'm completely serious.
Regardless of your age, you renegade cyclists, my feet are not yours for the crushing. Do I drive my car on the pavement? Well, yes, but only by accident. And what I saw in that little boys eyes was not only total disregard for my safety and personal well being, but also cold, hard intent. Age 7 and already a complete bastard.
Ginger Beard has informed me that you have to pay for x-rays at the Dentists. I didn't. I just walked out. Is that so wrong? No one tackled me to the floor, so hopefully I'll get off with a strongly worded letter - which being British myself, I would obviously appreciate.
Dentists love their special jargon. You open your mouth, and they tap round it muttering, 'A32, 6P, 7X7.' It's like battleship, only with no opponent, and no ships, and like, plastic thing with holes and pegs. Only mine went like this, '6% of 8, upper 32, missing'. Missing? Everything was intact when I arrived. But suddenly I'm lying back, staring at a Simpson's poster on the ceiling, lacking an important part. Missing I understand. Missing suggests the notable absence of something which really should be there.
No choice with the x-ray. I'm having one. Very assertive these men with their bleached white jackets. So I sit in the waiting room for 5-10 reading Country Living (ditsy prints are still very 'in'). Then we look at a charming picture where I'm all skeletal. My bones 'n' shit are in order, but do I want a £220 gum guard? I say I'll think about it. I won't think about it. I will fake a rather beige interest in the idea, due in part to the manners instilled in me as a middle-class child. Thank you Mum. I will peer inquisitively at the price and arrange my eyebrows in a thoughful fashion. I will then, vacate the premises without paying and get hit by a tricycle hooligan.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Fit, and don't you know it.
Hello my darlings!
Did you miss me?
I do apologise for the delay in posts. I've changed jobs, spent numerous hours cutting back my tash, and even washed my hair.
In way of apology, I've got a right belter for you. In order to use the gym at my new office, you first need to prove that you won't die if unsupervised. In other words, are you so overweight that at any moment, you may collapse?
I strolled into this 'Fitness Assessment' fearing the worst. I'd not been to the gym in a few months because of a cough. It's astounding how much you can drag out one excuse.
Month one: 'I do want to go, but I can't breathe properly.'
Month two: 'I'm not quite tip top. I don't want to rush the healing process.'
Month three: I'm not 100%. I'm about 64%, and this is not a percentage I can take with me to the gymnasium.'
Ginger Beard accepted them all, and let me stay at home with the crisps. Unfortunately, the crisps stayed with me, on my stomach.
So, here I am, ready, prepared, doing squats in the lift. I blow into a pipe a few times (yes, still part of the assessment), run with a heart monitor on, stretch, and generally try to prove that I am nimble and young.
I later receive the results. Now, I was expecting to be a tad off the mark in a few areas. But rather hilariously (I've had a good chuckle), it turns out I'm a mess.
His summary is that I have too much body fat, need to go on a diet, and have poor flexibility and stamina. To reiterate, page two, 'KEEP YOUR WEIGHT IN CHECK!'
It's okay, I still have some self esteem left. It's hiding under a rock in the garden.
'Great lung capacity.' Woop Woop!
'Not using very much of lung capacity.' Gutted.
(Brief pause to eat sandwich. Realise for second time this week food made by Ginger tastes like Mr Muscle as he has sprayed chopping board. Go buy lunch. Yell at Ginger who has eaten his own poisoned sandwich).
It's alright, my blood pressure is below average! Oh wait, my stretching capabilities are non existent.
I did not go home, and have a brief, yet satisfying cry. And I definitely did not eat out five times last week.
If you need me, I'll be on a treadmill.
Peace and Love xxx
Did you miss me?
I do apologise for the delay in posts. I've changed jobs, spent numerous hours cutting back my tash, and even washed my hair.
In way of apology, I've got a right belter for you. In order to use the gym at my new office, you first need to prove that you won't die if unsupervised. In other words, are you so overweight that at any moment, you may collapse?
I strolled into this 'Fitness Assessment' fearing the worst. I'd not been to the gym in a few months because of a cough. It's astounding how much you can drag out one excuse.
Month one: 'I do want to go, but I can't breathe properly.'
Month two: 'I'm not quite tip top. I don't want to rush the healing process.'
Month three: I'm not 100%. I'm about 64%, and this is not a percentage I can take with me to the gymnasium.'
Ginger Beard accepted them all, and let me stay at home with the crisps. Unfortunately, the crisps stayed with me, on my stomach.
So, here I am, ready, prepared, doing squats in the lift. I blow into a pipe a few times (yes, still part of the assessment), run with a heart monitor on, stretch, and generally try to prove that I am nimble and young.
I later receive the results. Now, I was expecting to be a tad off the mark in a few areas. But rather hilariously (I've had a good chuckle), it turns out I'm a mess.
His summary is that I have too much body fat, need to go on a diet, and have poor flexibility and stamina. To reiterate, page two, 'KEEP YOUR WEIGHT IN CHECK!'
It's okay, I still have some self esteem left. It's hiding under a rock in the garden.
'Great lung capacity.' Woop Woop!
'Not using very much of lung capacity.' Gutted.
(Brief pause to eat sandwich. Realise for second time this week food made by Ginger tastes like Mr Muscle as he has sprayed chopping board. Go buy lunch. Yell at Ginger who has eaten his own poisoned sandwich).
It's alright, my blood pressure is below average! Oh wait, my stretching capabilities are non existent.
I did not go home, and have a brief, yet satisfying cry. And I definitely did not eat out five times last week.
If you need me, I'll be on a treadmill.
Peace and Love xxx
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Doctor Jones, Doctor Jones......
Today, I travelled by train, due to having no other, feasible option. In hindsight, perhaps walking in, plagued by blisters, lack of footpaths, and renegade cyclists, would've been nicer.
Well, to be fair, it does make my top five in the pleasant experiences with National Rail list. So much so, that as I walked underneath the puppy billboard, I even managed to relax my hands (tight balls of anger as standard), concentrate on the path ahead (glaring at devilish advertisement and walk into commuter as standard) AND think happy thoughts (death threats to artist as standard).
But as you've hopefully come to expect from me, I do have a gripe. And my gripe (if the word can be wielded in such a fashion) is with Doctors. I remember a time, albeit coated in the fuzzy paint of childhood nostalgia, when I had one Doctor, one nice, fatherly looking Doctor, who pandered to my every complaint. A Doctor, who managed to feign warmth, concern, and having all the time in the world. There was magic cream which would take the pain away, sensible jumpers, clean white coats, and a prompt prescription.
Oh the times they are a changing! Now, you sit, with an embarrassing copy of heat, reading about the woman who gave birth to herself. After you've signed yourself in to a Doctor you've never had. This assignment appears to operate on a kind of pot luck system. There are roughly twelve Doctors at my medical practice, and I rarely see the same one twice. Which is great. Because I'd hate a friendly rapport and familiarity to develop. I'd hate to be genuinely comfortable to discuss the tail developing at the end of my spine/inability to urinate/blindness in one eye with one person. Instead, a myriad of strangers partake in the the bizarre state of my health.
So there you are, jumping out of your skin, as the pixel board above orders each of you in turn to your Doctor, with a needle-sharp ping. Thirty minutes later than expected, it's your go. Now, here's where the fun begins. The practice in Morley have cleverly devised a maze system, where to see your Doctor, you first have to earn the rite. The idea being, that if you can't find them, shitter for you. And this is exactly why appointments run over. Their offices are hidden in cubby holes, round corners, in nooks and crannies, under the carpet, in the toilet etc. One would not be altogether surprised to discover the fabled minotaur.
You're in, you're safe.
Scenario 1: Some early twenties man in jeans is typing on a computer. You provide a list of symptoms, which they input into Google (or some similar programme). Rather pleased with themselves, they print the sourced information off for you to read. You, in your charmingly hypochondriac fashion, have already deduced this. Thanks.
Scenario 2: 'Unfortunately we don't know a lot about the condition. You'll just have to learn to get along with it.' Oh, great. I'm glad I booked time off work to find out that the majority of things ailing my body are incurable.
Scenario 3: 'It's okay at the moment. If it gets worse, come back. Oh, take 12,000 Ibuprofren a day.' A.K.A 'Well, you're not currently at death's door and I'm desperate to nip out for a cous cous salad. Please leave'.
Scenario 4 (you have more than one worry): 'I can only cope with one health concern. Make a separate appointment for each concern.' Which you are very pleased to hear. They've been so ridiculously unhelpful with your first query, that you're looking forward to a similar level of competence with any future ones.
Yeah, unless it's one for A&E, I think I'll just whack a plaster on it.
Well, to be fair, it does make my top five in the pleasant experiences with National Rail list. So much so, that as I walked underneath the puppy billboard, I even managed to relax my hands (tight balls of anger as standard), concentrate on the path ahead (glaring at devilish advertisement and walk into commuter as standard) AND think happy thoughts (death threats to artist as standard).
But as you've hopefully come to expect from me, I do have a gripe. And my gripe (if the word can be wielded in such a fashion) is with Doctors. I remember a time, albeit coated in the fuzzy paint of childhood nostalgia, when I had one Doctor, one nice, fatherly looking Doctor, who pandered to my every complaint. A Doctor, who managed to feign warmth, concern, and having all the time in the world. There was magic cream which would take the pain away, sensible jumpers, clean white coats, and a prompt prescription.
Oh the times they are a changing! Now, you sit, with an embarrassing copy of heat, reading about the woman who gave birth to herself. After you've signed yourself in to a Doctor you've never had. This assignment appears to operate on a kind of pot luck system. There are roughly twelve Doctors at my medical practice, and I rarely see the same one twice. Which is great. Because I'd hate a friendly rapport and familiarity to develop. I'd hate to be genuinely comfortable to discuss the tail developing at the end of my spine/inability to urinate/blindness in one eye with one person. Instead, a myriad of strangers partake in the the bizarre state of my health.
So there you are, jumping out of your skin, as the pixel board above orders each of you in turn to your Doctor, with a needle-sharp ping. Thirty minutes later than expected, it's your go. Now, here's where the fun begins. The practice in Morley have cleverly devised a maze system, where to see your Doctor, you first have to earn the rite. The idea being, that if you can't find them, shitter for you. And this is exactly why appointments run over. Their offices are hidden in cubby holes, round corners, in nooks and crannies, under the carpet, in the toilet etc. One would not be altogether surprised to discover the fabled minotaur.
You're in, you're safe.
Scenario 1: Some early twenties man in jeans is typing on a computer. You provide a list of symptoms, which they input into Google (or some similar programme). Rather pleased with themselves, they print the sourced information off for you to read. You, in your charmingly hypochondriac fashion, have already deduced this. Thanks.
Scenario 2: 'Unfortunately we don't know a lot about the condition. You'll just have to learn to get along with it.' Oh, great. I'm glad I booked time off work to find out that the majority of things ailing my body are incurable.
Scenario 3: 'It's okay at the moment. If it gets worse, come back. Oh, take 12,000 Ibuprofren a day.' A.K.A 'Well, you're not currently at death's door and I'm desperate to nip out for a cous cous salad. Please leave'.
Scenario 4 (you have more than one worry): 'I can only cope with one health concern. Make a separate appointment for each concern.' Which you are very pleased to hear. They've been so ridiculously unhelpful with your first query, that you're looking forward to a similar level of competence with any future ones.
Yeah, unless it's one for A&E, I think I'll just whack a plaster on it.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Caffeine, I salute you
I'm getting a charming insight into what life would be like if I was A) a paid, work-from-home writer, and B) single. I've taken a four day holiday, to dedicate myself to an animation I'm writing, and the outcome is very exciting. Firstly, I'm living in an old hoodie and array of gym trousers (which much like wearing gym socks, result in one feeling like one is at the gym, even when sitting, eating minstrels).
The house is clean, apart from most things are covered in coffee granules. I've already had six cups of coffee, and my hands grow ever more experimental during the making of each cup! They are dancing of their own accord!
There are quite a lot of 'snot rags', as Ginger calls them. My colleagues gave me a beautiful bouquet of flowers when I left/was escorted by security from the workplace. Despite the fact that my antihistamines are not doing anything, I would rather have the beauty of the roses and a peeling nose. I also think (secretly) that Ginger finds these so-called 'snot rags' alluring, and they contribute to the glue of our relationship.
I've got some lovely horse racing on mute (which makes me feel like I'm not alone), and I've found a reason to call almost all of my friends! So far, writing is great. It's meant some real QT (quality time) with Facebook, which at the Wilderness Festival, a psychologist told me was an addiction, but is really just a bit of admin.
Look at the horses go, yay!
I've also discovered Ideas Tap: http://www.ideastap.com/ which all of your creatives will love. Essentially, you can spend ages looking at all these last minute, internships, only to realise that as a current victim of capitalisation, you're doomed to be tied to your 9-5 desk for the rest of eternity, and thus without considerable risk to your bank account and material security, cannot at this time, apply.
There are however, some great briefs, and magazines I INTEND to submit to. My current novel is called 'The best intentions' and currently features 346 blank pages.
Ciao
The house is clean, apart from most things are covered in coffee granules. I've already had six cups of coffee, and my hands grow ever more experimental during the making of each cup! They are dancing of their own accord!
There are quite a lot of 'snot rags', as Ginger calls them. My colleagues gave me a beautiful bouquet of flowers when I left/was escorted by security from the workplace. Despite the fact that my antihistamines are not doing anything, I would rather have the beauty of the roses and a peeling nose. I also think (secretly) that Ginger finds these so-called 'snot rags' alluring, and they contribute to the glue of our relationship.
I've got some lovely horse racing on mute (which makes me feel like I'm not alone), and I've found a reason to call almost all of my friends! So far, writing is great. It's meant some real QT (quality time) with Facebook, which at the Wilderness Festival, a psychologist told me was an addiction, but is really just a bit of admin.
Look at the horses go, yay!
I've also discovered Ideas Tap: http://www.ideastap.com/ which all of your creatives will love. Essentially, you can spend ages looking at all these last minute, internships, only to realise that as a current victim of capitalisation, you're doomed to be tied to your 9-5 desk for the rest of eternity, and thus without considerable risk to your bank account and material security, cannot at this time, apply.
There are however, some great briefs, and magazines I INTEND to submit to. My current novel is called 'The best intentions' and currently features 346 blank pages.
Ciao
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Into the Wilderness
I think my mental health is pretty apparent. I've just spent twenty minutes searching for the after sun. I gave up, and returned to my nest on the lounge sofa, where I discovered the after sun. Turned out my previous task (I'm operating like a Sim, with actions lined up in the top right hand corner of my brain) was to find the after sun. Chances are, that in five minutes, I'll decide to go search for the after sun.
No people, this is not the consequence of recreational drugs, this is the aftermath of an Oxford-based festival, and ridiculous amounts of driving. Also, my RSI is being a whiny little bitch. But I'm typing regardless, because I serve the desire of the people, not my own never-ending, excruciating pain.
(Break to destroy flat in hope of Ibuprofen, and also to find out how to spell said drug).
Do not find ibuprofen, do find that the massive bag of food we'd brought back is now full of squashed blackberries and purple juice. Very glad that Ginger decided to put the tupperware box my mother gave us in here. Remember to thank him when he comes home. But for the time being, set all ruined food out in kitchen, and have a nice chuckle to self; he thinks I'm at home cleaning. When really I'm still in my dressing gown, listening to the top 40 hits, nestled within a comfy pile of socks.
Anyhoooooo, Ginger and I, in an obviously desperate attempt to like, totally live a little and experience life outside of Blockbuster's five DVD's for a fiver offer (which by the way is fabulous), headed to The Wilderness Festival. With the postcode in the Sat Nav, we calmly set off, the car weighted down with cosmetics, tangerines, and baby wipes. You can imagine how chuffed I was to be told by the patronising female voice that I had arrived at my destination. No one was here yet! We were the first! I was ecstatic. It was then we noticed, that even the festival had not arrived. I smacked the Sat Nav, and we went off to find the festival, like two pissed teenagers, fingers outstretched in the dark.
Hurrah! Festival! Sit in car for an hour behind other cars. Feel such an extrovert. Am perched on the cusp of adventure. Am wearing a bright vest, and looking forward to character building experience of disgusting toilets and promised grime. No one knows what's going on, or how long we'll have to wait. I frantically battle my control freak tendencies and full bladder. We're at the gate, and branded like cows, with our festival bands. Informed by security that if we have alcohol, we have to bring it in now. Horrendous! Send Ginger to car to decant rose into squash bottles. Walk with all my stuff, his stuff, and lovely, heavy tent. Do not get far. Fall to floor. Throw poles and pegs at tent. Wait for Ginger to arrive and do man thing with tent.
Because of my quick thinking, we are very close to the exit, but very far away from the festival. We will get a lot of exercise, what a bonus! Once in the action, we sit on a haystack and ponder our options. Nothing is really ready yet. The band we are expecting to watch, have not turned up, and men on stilts and bunny ears tell us to go back. I think their message is correct, but they do not understand that we cannot get a refund at this venture. The majority of those in attendance are painfully fashionable posh girls, who address the staff as 'Cider boy', and 'Beer man', and desperately suck on cigarettes, eccentrics who have waited their whole lives for an opportunity to explode with oddness, and people like Ginger and I, somewhat dazed, disappointed in our comparative plainness, in non-descript cardigans.
At the banquet, we were fortunate enough to sit opposite one of the directors and her best friend, who were high on their own 'success'. Due to her ear piece, it was much like having dinner with someone who can't get off the phone. And as everyone visited them, sat on their laps, and was fed food from their plates to try, it was like staring through the window at a really good party. No, you are not invited. Luckily, they did manage to start a fight with another guest and his wife, over who would have the last edible flower. Unluckily, they were running the whole shebang, but getting drunk on red wine. Cue feelings of optimism and faith.
We're off to a party in the woods! Security get mighty offended when you stray somewhere off limits in search of it, but that's okay, because it's in a secret location, and thus is your fault. They shined many a torch light at our wrists and proclaimed us 'wrong'. At one point, we thought we really had found it; the trees were lit up, there were flotations, but wait, no, it's just a sect of club 18-30, fresh off the ferry.
Back to the tent we went, tired, disheartened, nauseous on apple cider. I thought we'd have a good old sleep and be fresh faced for what tomorrow had in store for us! Sadly Raf, the drug dealer next to us, was off his face on MDMA, and so were all his friends! Surely at some point they'll need sleep, or at least set aside some time for breathing between words? NO, NEVER ACTUALLY.
Day two, a few hours sleep, crouching in the tent naked, just below the flies and spiders who have decided to join us, baby wiping the depression away. Off we go again! Thankfully we find some old, wooden boats, and due to the lack of any health and safety procedures, we can just jump into them and fuck off. So we do. I make Ginger hunt swans, until they hiss at us, and Ginger whispers, 'Oh My God, we have to get away. They are going to kill us.' I have photographic evidence of this melt down, which continued for some time. Highlight numero one.
Other highlights:
- Ginger pushing ahead in the queue for sweets out of frustration, and paying for the other peoples sweets as an apology.
-Queuing for half an hour for a macchiato, which is in fact, just a shot of coffee.
-The camp site erupting in ten minutes of shouting 'Alan?!'
-Laura Marling, which made me so serenely happy. The best singer-songwriter I have ever heard.
-Jumping to Gogol Bordello's 'Start Wearing Purple'.
-Putting make-up on Ginger for the masked ball (a surprising allowance, becuase last time I made him look 'like a whore').
-A shower on the third day! We queued for an hour and had to listen to thin women talk about how desperate they were to make it in time for morning yoga.
-Coconuts, which a guy took a machete to, so you could carry it around drinking the milk. We were one of the first groups to catch onto this craze, and it was the only time we experienced any form of popularity/jealousy.
-Philosophers on stage debating the merits of cannibalism and pornography.
Tragedies:
-The masked ball was held in a massive tent, where despite the flammability of the whole thing, smokers turned up in their hundreds. We walked in, we walked out.
- Every other stall being a bar.
-Insects, which although an integral part of camping, were rife, and we have the bites to prove it.
-The toilets. The main problem being that they're already disgusting when they arrive on site. Ginger developed a compulsive addiction to hand sanitiser.
-The pot luck talent of the acts.
In summary, we became rather drab in the face of so many outgoing people. It is definately one for groups, where your sole purpose is to get battered. We all make mistakes, but they're normally not quite so expensive. Having said that, I would do it all again just to see Laura Marling, who thankfully sang the mob into a a respectful, swaying bunch. Next year, I think we'll give it a miss. I'll just put my ipod on, play with a spider, pointlessly carry an anorak around for three days, queue for things I don't really want, sit on deer poo, stick a feather in my hair, refuse to fall asleep, and hand you a £200 cheque for the pleasure.
No people, this is not the consequence of recreational drugs, this is the aftermath of an Oxford-based festival, and ridiculous amounts of driving. Also, my RSI is being a whiny little bitch. But I'm typing regardless, because I serve the desire of the people, not my own never-ending, excruciating pain.
(Break to destroy flat in hope of Ibuprofen, and also to find out how to spell said drug).
Do not find ibuprofen, do find that the massive bag of food we'd brought back is now full of squashed blackberries and purple juice. Very glad that Ginger decided to put the tupperware box my mother gave us in here. Remember to thank him when he comes home. But for the time being, set all ruined food out in kitchen, and have a nice chuckle to self; he thinks I'm at home cleaning. When really I'm still in my dressing gown, listening to the top 40 hits, nestled within a comfy pile of socks.
Anyhoooooo, Ginger and I, in an obviously desperate attempt to like, totally live a little and experience life outside of Blockbuster's five DVD's for a fiver offer (which by the way is fabulous), headed to The Wilderness Festival. With the postcode in the Sat Nav, we calmly set off, the car weighted down with cosmetics, tangerines, and baby wipes. You can imagine how chuffed I was to be told by the patronising female voice that I had arrived at my destination. No one was here yet! We were the first! I was ecstatic. It was then we noticed, that even the festival had not arrived. I smacked the Sat Nav, and we went off to find the festival, like two pissed teenagers, fingers outstretched in the dark.
Hurrah! Festival! Sit in car for an hour behind other cars. Feel such an extrovert. Am perched on the cusp of adventure. Am wearing a bright vest, and looking forward to character building experience of disgusting toilets and promised grime. No one knows what's going on, or how long we'll have to wait. I frantically battle my control freak tendencies and full bladder. We're at the gate, and branded like cows, with our festival bands. Informed by security that if we have alcohol, we have to bring it in now. Horrendous! Send Ginger to car to decant rose into squash bottles. Walk with all my stuff, his stuff, and lovely, heavy tent. Do not get far. Fall to floor. Throw poles and pegs at tent. Wait for Ginger to arrive and do man thing with tent.
Because of my quick thinking, we are very close to the exit, but very far away from the festival. We will get a lot of exercise, what a bonus! Once in the action, we sit on a haystack and ponder our options. Nothing is really ready yet. The band we are expecting to watch, have not turned up, and men on stilts and bunny ears tell us to go back. I think their message is correct, but they do not understand that we cannot get a refund at this venture. The majority of those in attendance are painfully fashionable posh girls, who address the staff as 'Cider boy', and 'Beer man', and desperately suck on cigarettes, eccentrics who have waited their whole lives for an opportunity to explode with oddness, and people like Ginger and I, somewhat dazed, disappointed in our comparative plainness, in non-descript cardigans.
At the banquet, we were fortunate enough to sit opposite one of the directors and her best friend, who were high on their own 'success'. Due to her ear piece, it was much like having dinner with someone who can't get off the phone. And as everyone visited them, sat on their laps, and was fed food from their plates to try, it was like staring through the window at a really good party. No, you are not invited. Luckily, they did manage to start a fight with another guest and his wife, over who would have the last edible flower. Unluckily, they were running the whole shebang, but getting drunk on red wine. Cue feelings of optimism and faith.
We're off to a party in the woods! Security get mighty offended when you stray somewhere off limits in search of it, but that's okay, because it's in a secret location, and thus is your fault. They shined many a torch light at our wrists and proclaimed us 'wrong'. At one point, we thought we really had found it; the trees were lit up, there were flotations, but wait, no, it's just a sect of club 18-30, fresh off the ferry.
Back to the tent we went, tired, disheartened, nauseous on apple cider. I thought we'd have a good old sleep and be fresh faced for what tomorrow had in store for us! Sadly Raf, the drug dealer next to us, was off his face on MDMA, and so were all his friends! Surely at some point they'll need sleep, or at least set aside some time for breathing between words? NO, NEVER ACTUALLY.
Day two, a few hours sleep, crouching in the tent naked, just below the flies and spiders who have decided to join us, baby wiping the depression away. Off we go again! Thankfully we find some old, wooden boats, and due to the lack of any health and safety procedures, we can just jump into them and fuck off. So we do. I make Ginger hunt swans, until they hiss at us, and Ginger whispers, 'Oh My God, we have to get away. They are going to kill us.' I have photographic evidence of this melt down, which continued for some time. Highlight numero one.
Other highlights:
- Ginger pushing ahead in the queue for sweets out of frustration, and paying for the other peoples sweets as an apology.
-Queuing for half an hour for a macchiato, which is in fact, just a shot of coffee.
-The camp site erupting in ten minutes of shouting 'Alan?!'
-Laura Marling, which made me so serenely happy. The best singer-songwriter I have ever heard.
-Jumping to Gogol Bordello's 'Start Wearing Purple'.
-Putting make-up on Ginger for the masked ball (a surprising allowance, becuase last time I made him look 'like a whore').
-A shower on the third day! We queued for an hour and had to listen to thin women talk about how desperate they were to make it in time for morning yoga.
-Coconuts, which a guy took a machete to, so you could carry it around drinking the milk. We were one of the first groups to catch onto this craze, and it was the only time we experienced any form of popularity/jealousy.
-Philosophers on stage debating the merits of cannibalism and pornography.
Tragedies:
-The masked ball was held in a massive tent, where despite the flammability of the whole thing, smokers turned up in their hundreds. We walked in, we walked out.
- Every other stall being a bar.
-Insects, which although an integral part of camping, were rife, and we have the bites to prove it.
-The toilets. The main problem being that they're already disgusting when they arrive on site. Ginger developed a compulsive addiction to hand sanitiser.
-The pot luck talent of the acts.
In summary, we became rather drab in the face of so many outgoing people. It is definately one for groups, where your sole purpose is to get battered. We all make mistakes, but they're normally not quite so expensive. Having said that, I would do it all again just to see Laura Marling, who thankfully sang the mob into a a respectful, swaying bunch. Next year, I think we'll give it a miss. I'll just put my ipod on, play with a spider, pointlessly carry an anorak around for three days, queue for things I don't really want, sit on deer poo, stick a feather in my hair, refuse to fall asleep, and hand you a £200 cheque for the pleasure.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Spending time with the Beeb.
Hello my Open University readers. I've been analysing my blog traffic recently and you keep popping up, apparently from a forum. It's not like I obsessively track my stats. It's not like I've created an account on the site to try and find the source, but wasn't allowed access, and had a cry.
What is nice, is that according to google, some people are typing in incredibly pornographic things, and being directed to my blog. I hadn't really looked at my blog as porn. But maybe it is. Maybe it's pure, unadulterated filth.
I feel like I ought to start living up to this distasteful reputation. Is that what you want from me? Well, I'll tell you now, I'm pure middle class, doing everything I can to keep my bland Nottingham accent. I was raised in cotton wool, with a dishwasher, and my own bedroom. You'll only find observations on knitting here, and the occasional PC, beige, socially acceptable commentary. We're not all fucking uncivilised.
Someone's eaten all my grape and lychee tic tacs. Was it you? I realise that most people wouldn't eat them, but someone has. And it was a jumbo pack.
Has anyone else noticed that Bill and Sian (from BBC morning news) have incredible on screen chemistry? If you don't watch the news in the morning, you should. It's wonderfully patronising. Stories are covered with just the right amount of fake sorrow, and theatrical dramatics. Everything is the most tragic thing that's every happened. Every loss, is a great loss. All dead people were previously lovely. Thrown into the mix, Bill says inappropriate things, the stats guy talks about his wife drinking before the school run, and Sian desperately tries to make it all okay. It goes very well with breakfast, you should try it.
What is nice, is that according to google, some people are typing in incredibly pornographic things, and being directed to my blog. I hadn't really looked at my blog as porn. But maybe it is. Maybe it's pure, unadulterated filth.
I feel like I ought to start living up to this distasteful reputation. Is that what you want from me? Well, I'll tell you now, I'm pure middle class, doing everything I can to keep my bland Nottingham accent. I was raised in cotton wool, with a dishwasher, and my own bedroom. You'll only find observations on knitting here, and the occasional PC, beige, socially acceptable commentary. We're not all fucking uncivilised.
Someone's eaten all my grape and lychee tic tacs. Was it you? I realise that most people wouldn't eat them, but someone has. And it was a jumbo pack.
Has anyone else noticed that Bill and Sian (from BBC morning news) have incredible on screen chemistry? If you don't watch the news in the morning, you should. It's wonderfully patronising. Stories are covered with just the right amount of fake sorrow, and theatrical dramatics. Everything is the most tragic thing that's every happened. Every loss, is a great loss. All dead people were previously lovely. Thrown into the mix, Bill says inappropriate things, the stats guy talks about his wife drinking before the school run, and Sian desperately tries to make it all okay. It goes very well with breakfast, you should try it.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Living in a skip
There's nothing like a picnic in the park, with the sun shining, and what? What's that? Two remote control planes? Fabulous.
Can't they do it in their lounge, and fly them low in slow circles?
Or can we tax them? Flight tax?
It wouldn't be so bad, but we'd walked really far to get away from the children and ended up at an airport. Of course it's the one thing that constantly bonds us together, our general intolerance for most of society. We're like two, whingeing pensioners, 'it's too loud, too crowded, too warm'. And as I get older, I find more things to be annoying, and the previously annoying things, even more annoying. I need to re-learn that child-like acceptance of everything. When we were content with a stick and some mud, and nothing could distract us from the simple joys in life.
I spent a bit of time at the weekend poking various beetles and spiders with sticks under the vise of putting the washing out. And I realised how incredibly satisfying it was to be bigger than them and terrorising. I had to check myself, one step away from boiling the kettle, and seeking out ants. But for most of the weekend, we cleaned. I'm so glad to spot that the start of my twenty-fourth year is off to an experimental, and frankly dangerous start. The two of us, getting high off dettol and bleach, playing music at a moderate volume! I tell you, it's a bloody good job we've got Thailand in November where we'll die/nearly die, because we are craving a shake up.
The only real outcome of spring clean, is that I managed to answer the age old question, 'Where does all my money go?' Turns out it's on all the shit I own. Shit I'd forgotten about and abandoned. It's amazing what you can find when your boyfriend forces you to 'sort your crap'. Unfortunately another of our shared traits is becoming incredibly passionate about a hobbie, only for it to bore us a week later. Which is why we have boxing gloves, and a gardening set, two poker sets, tennis rackets, badminton rackets, ping pong bats, five unused cook books, how to read palms, how to read body language, how to psycho analyse yourself, tarot cards, and seventeen lip glosses in slightly different shades of red (Ginger Beards).
Car boot anyone?
Can't they do it in their lounge, and fly them low in slow circles?
Or can we tax them? Flight tax?
It wouldn't be so bad, but we'd walked really far to get away from the children and ended up at an airport. Of course it's the one thing that constantly bonds us together, our general intolerance for most of society. We're like two, whingeing pensioners, 'it's too loud, too crowded, too warm'. And as I get older, I find more things to be annoying, and the previously annoying things, even more annoying. I need to re-learn that child-like acceptance of everything. When we were content with a stick and some mud, and nothing could distract us from the simple joys in life.
I spent a bit of time at the weekend poking various beetles and spiders with sticks under the vise of putting the washing out. And I realised how incredibly satisfying it was to be bigger than them and terrorising. I had to check myself, one step away from boiling the kettle, and seeking out ants. But for most of the weekend, we cleaned. I'm so glad to spot that the start of my twenty-fourth year is off to an experimental, and frankly dangerous start. The two of us, getting high off dettol and bleach, playing music at a moderate volume! I tell you, it's a bloody good job we've got Thailand in November where we'll die/nearly die, because we are craving a shake up.
The only real outcome of spring clean, is that I managed to answer the age old question, 'Where does all my money go?' Turns out it's on all the shit I own. Shit I'd forgotten about and abandoned. It's amazing what you can find when your boyfriend forces you to 'sort your crap'. Unfortunately another of our shared traits is becoming incredibly passionate about a hobbie, only for it to bore us a week later. Which is why we have boxing gloves, and a gardening set, two poker sets, tennis rackets, badminton rackets, ping pong bats, five unused cook books, how to read palms, how to read body language, how to psycho analyse yourself, tarot cards, and seventeen lip glosses in slightly different shades of red (Ginger Beards).
Car boot anyone?
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Scaredy Cat
Hello world, I've grown quite fond of you. How's life these days?
I found myself, quite recently, with the unavoidable mission of negotiating the London subway. Although for the most part, my hand was held and led by a friend, I still felt ravaged by terror. It's the lack of certainty. It's the need to get from A to B without any comprehension of the journey between. A kind of panic that sees me hopping from foot to foot in front of the departure board wishing myself a little less cowardly.
On the way back (alone) I drank coffee for bravery. Caffeine never fails (when consumed in large quantities) to turn my pupils giant, and plant a great, impatient desire for adventure. I spent a lot of time in Kings Cross, fuelled by mocha, face in the local paper, craving all the London-based fun on offer. I love it all, well, all the limited places my infrequent visits have led me: London Bridge, Richmond, Camden markets, Spitalfield, Brick Lane, the list goes on. I want to eat all my breakfasts in Patisserie Valerie, and be part of the commuting, buzzing flux. In London, I feel like a writer, an identity I have all but lost. First and foremost these days my prime label is 'office girl'. I have decided to live, as Dolly Parton once sang, from nine to five. I make excuses. I type my way through months, imagining more, bigger, bolder, better. But I rarely change anything.
And of course it would be a group of strangers, accompanying me on my train between Leeds and London, who would chide me, and make me ashamed of it. We were drawn together over the book Sheila, the dermatologist was reading, 'Three cups of tea.' I was writing about my grandad, and my childhood, growing sick in the face of the speeding view. But soon it was kindles, and politics, autobiographies, Anne Frank, London's merits, the NHS. I got off the train feeling charmed by the randomness. I guess one thing my job is teaching me to do is talk, talk like words don't always have to hold great worth. I am quickly becoming an exemplary small talker. They said they would wait for my book, look for my name. Like the English Teachers before them who believed in me, like the glorious friends who flash in and out. And yet I'm 24 tomorrow, and have done very little, it would seem, to try.
Come on then son, get your finger out.
I found myself, quite recently, with the unavoidable mission of negotiating the London subway. Although for the most part, my hand was held and led by a friend, I still felt ravaged by terror. It's the lack of certainty. It's the need to get from A to B without any comprehension of the journey between. A kind of panic that sees me hopping from foot to foot in front of the departure board wishing myself a little less cowardly.
On the way back (alone) I drank coffee for bravery. Caffeine never fails (when consumed in large quantities) to turn my pupils giant, and plant a great, impatient desire for adventure. I spent a lot of time in Kings Cross, fuelled by mocha, face in the local paper, craving all the London-based fun on offer. I love it all, well, all the limited places my infrequent visits have led me: London Bridge, Richmond, Camden markets, Spitalfield, Brick Lane, the list goes on. I want to eat all my breakfasts in Patisserie Valerie, and be part of the commuting, buzzing flux. In London, I feel like a writer, an identity I have all but lost. First and foremost these days my prime label is 'office girl'. I have decided to live, as Dolly Parton once sang, from nine to five. I make excuses. I type my way through months, imagining more, bigger, bolder, better. But I rarely change anything.
And of course it would be a group of strangers, accompanying me on my train between Leeds and London, who would chide me, and make me ashamed of it. We were drawn together over the book Sheila, the dermatologist was reading, 'Three cups of tea.' I was writing about my grandad, and my childhood, growing sick in the face of the speeding view. But soon it was kindles, and politics, autobiographies, Anne Frank, London's merits, the NHS. I got off the train feeling charmed by the randomness. I guess one thing my job is teaching me to do is talk, talk like words don't always have to hold great worth. I am quickly becoming an exemplary small talker. They said they would wait for my book, look for my name. Like the English Teachers before them who believed in me, like the glorious friends who flash in and out. And yet I'm 24 tomorrow, and have done very little, it would seem, to try.
Come on then son, get your finger out.
Friday, July 01, 2011
'To die would be a great adventure' - Captain Hook
The highlight of my life for the last few mornings has been the giant rabbit on Wellington Street. Tis true, this vision may be a sign of my rapidly declining mental state, but it's very vivid. The bunny is hopping about the road as I approach, paws (paws?) full of leaflets, and then a very timid, female voice says, 'Morning.' And I think, finally, after years of attempted meditation and botched daisy chains, I am at one with nature.
I've also started to sleep with gloves on, after a beautician grabbed my hands with horror, and we looked upon there poor withered state. The whole thing is much to Ginger Beard's delight, as he got a photo of me, tucked up in bed, white, cotton gloves plump with moisturiser. Yes, while other girlfriends are refraining from shaving their legs and tash, and burping with relish, I'm keeping the good ol' love alive. He said, 'Great one for Facebook'. But he doesn't have facebook. Who does he think I am? Some schmuck who would fall for anything? I wagged my hot finger at him. 'I think not son, I think not.'
For those wishing to follow me around (for surely I have reached A-list celebrity status. I can be found most Monday evenings, semi-drowning my way to fifty laps at the Morley Gym pool. The more people that join in, the less we look like Olympic swimmers and the more we appear as traffic congestion on the M1, catching limbs, arching our backs to avoid contact, growling and splashing away. The Government are desperate to have us all touching one another. Be it on the sardine commuter train, or the thin lanes of the pool, they are eager to see brushes of skin, scratches and shared breath. Is the world shrinking? There doesn't seem enough room for us all even now. I'd have more room paddling in my bath.
In more exciting news, one is off to Thailand for a ruddy good adventure. My suicidal plan is to leave it as flights booked to Bangkok and nothing else, wing it, que sera, sera. The known has become too known. I know how to live in a nice flat, and drive a clio, and wear gloves to bed, but I want to know about Ping Pong shows, and floating markets, and the golden Buddha, and diarrhoea after buying lunch from street sellers. *Sigh*. Tis time to take a risk. After all, better to die in Thailand, than in Butlins.
I've also started to sleep with gloves on, after a beautician grabbed my hands with horror, and we looked upon there poor withered state. The whole thing is much to Ginger Beard's delight, as he got a photo of me, tucked up in bed, white, cotton gloves plump with moisturiser. Yes, while other girlfriends are refraining from shaving their legs and tash, and burping with relish, I'm keeping the good ol' love alive. He said, 'Great one for Facebook'. But he doesn't have facebook. Who does he think I am? Some schmuck who would fall for anything? I wagged my hot finger at him. 'I think not son, I think not.'
For those wishing to follow me around (for surely I have reached A-list celebrity status. I can be found most Monday evenings, semi-drowning my way to fifty laps at the Morley Gym pool. The more people that join in, the less we look like Olympic swimmers and the more we appear as traffic congestion on the M1, catching limbs, arching our backs to avoid contact, growling and splashing away. The Government are desperate to have us all touching one another. Be it on the sardine commuter train, or the thin lanes of the pool, they are eager to see brushes of skin, scratches and shared breath. Is the world shrinking? There doesn't seem enough room for us all even now. I'd have more room paddling in my bath.
In more exciting news, one is off to Thailand for a ruddy good adventure. My suicidal plan is to leave it as flights booked to Bangkok and nothing else, wing it, que sera, sera. The known has become too known. I know how to live in a nice flat, and drive a clio, and wear gloves to bed, but I want to know about Ping Pong shows, and floating markets, and the golden Buddha, and diarrhoea after buying lunch from street sellers. *Sigh*. Tis time to take a risk. After all, better to die in Thailand, than in Butlins.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Me and the BFG
I have (for the past few weeks) been afforded the luxury of a drive to and from work. That is, that for ten days Ginger Beard has taken me forth into the morning chaos of the city aboard our orange dragon, without so much as the chug of a passing train. Yesterday, he informed me, that due to an early meeting, I would have to go back to the unwelcoming, dirty bosom of Network Rail, tail between legs, and once more share the same fetid airspace of the ten or twenty who only brush their teeth at night.
By the time the train moved, I was sweating. Cue Mr Business suit, oh is my Metro in your face, forcing me back against the bin. Cue, the brief, holy pit stop at Cottingley, where the doors faint open and we are briefly doused in breeze. And of course the five passengers who would rather tenderly press their bodies against one anothers and mine, then take the dreaded walk down the aisle. We continue like this, grazing, stretching, heating up, and thinking on early teenage fumbles which were less intimate.
When I'm asked if I want a ticket by (incredibly) a conductor who doesn't feel like engaging the carriage in a chat about how shit his job is, I take out my earphones, and hold them in my left hand. Now, one of the dangers, of which I've always been aware, of putting your Ipod on shuffle, is that at an inopportune moment, a song comes on which shows you in a particularly odd light. Thankfully, mine was only the full volumed remix version of Backstreet Boys, Everybody.
I spot the barriers, awash with frantic worker bees. I can do this. I can survive this. I spot a woman on crutches, and make sure to head in a different direction. My ticket is in. My ticket is out. The doors open and I'm heading through. But no! From the corner of my eye, I see the woman on crutches has dropped her ticket. She ducks down, the crutches fly up, and I take one sharply to the knee. The barrier's decide to close prematurely. I turn to the side, and am struck in the gut. But I. Am. Through.
I look at myself in the mirror of the office toilets, hair dishevelled, mascara spotted under my eyes, my pale, sallow, traumatised face. And I know, that just like Beyonce once sang, I'm a fucking survivor.
Last night (because I like to provide the occasional, delightful insight into my broken mind) I dreamt that I was sexually propositioned by a giant. He picked me up from my doctor's appointment, let me travel through the city on his shoulder, dropped me on a bench, and licked my leg. I told him I had a boyfriend. The moral of the story is, that even when faced with the most likely of events, do the right thing.
By the time the train moved, I was sweating. Cue Mr Business suit, oh is my Metro in your face, forcing me back against the bin. Cue, the brief, holy pit stop at Cottingley, where the doors faint open and we are briefly doused in breeze. And of course the five passengers who would rather tenderly press their bodies against one anothers and mine, then take the dreaded walk down the aisle. We continue like this, grazing, stretching, heating up, and thinking on early teenage fumbles which were less intimate.
When I'm asked if I want a ticket by (incredibly) a conductor who doesn't feel like engaging the carriage in a chat about how shit his job is, I take out my earphones, and hold them in my left hand. Now, one of the dangers, of which I've always been aware, of putting your Ipod on shuffle, is that at an inopportune moment, a song comes on which shows you in a particularly odd light. Thankfully, mine was only the full volumed remix version of Backstreet Boys, Everybody.
I spot the barriers, awash with frantic worker bees. I can do this. I can survive this. I spot a woman on crutches, and make sure to head in a different direction. My ticket is in. My ticket is out. The doors open and I'm heading through. But no! From the corner of my eye, I see the woman on crutches has dropped her ticket. She ducks down, the crutches fly up, and I take one sharply to the knee. The barrier's decide to close prematurely. I turn to the side, and am struck in the gut. But I. Am. Through.
I look at myself in the mirror of the office toilets, hair dishevelled, mascara spotted under my eyes, my pale, sallow, traumatised face. And I know, that just like Beyonce once sang, I'm a fucking survivor.
Last night (because I like to provide the occasional, delightful insight into my broken mind) I dreamt that I was sexually propositioned by a giant. He picked me up from my doctor's appointment, let me travel through the city on his shoulder, dropped me on a bench, and licked my leg. I told him I had a boyfriend. The moral of the story is, that even when faced with the most likely of events, do the right thing.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Recycle your bicycle
'Tis a sad day for the world - The untimely death of my mouse hand. After battling for a week or so with its whingeing, I have finally had to admit defeat. It woke me up several times in the night to tell me of its suffering. I've switched the mouse over to the left side, and my left hand has become a bit retarded. I am amused to watch it try and master the mouse, and also note that it is scared of becoming like the original mouse hand.
It's off to the Doctor's for me on Wednesday, and hopefully, I can even stretch this to get out of driving. Ginger Beard is fast becoming my chauffeur, and I'm finally treated with the lifestyle I deserve.
I'm also joining the ranks of my fellow drivers with road rage targeted at cyclists. When I couldn't drive I liked cyclists, I occasionally was a cyclist. Now, I hate cyclists! What do they think they're bloody doing on their bikes, on the road? Huh? Outrageous. But when I'm a pedestrian, I want them off the pavement. Get on the road you bloody cyclists! I genuinely don't believe there is a place for them, apart from the rare bicycle lane. No bicycle lane, no bicycle son. And all motorcyclists are suicidal. Luckily, when I was learning to drive, every time one came within five meters of me my instructor screamed, "Think bike! Think bike! Think bike!". I would scream "Where?" take my my eyes off the road, and check the backseat of the car.
Also, no one indicates. Cars let off a very fragrant whiff of 'Look, I'm going where I'm going'. And we politely continue to follow the instilled 'proper' driving ways of our test. Well except when I forget to drive with my glasses on. Oh, and going through that red light. And maybe the flat tyres weren't great. 1.6mm tread did not occur.
I can't drive this Renault Clio. I need a BMW with the top down. I should've been a business man in accounting, a silver fox let loose on the motorway. I'm oppressed.
In conclusion, if it hasn't got at least four wheels, give it up, and get the bus. I didn't commit to an obstacle course. I'm just trying to get to work love.
It's off to the Doctor's for me on Wednesday, and hopefully, I can even stretch this to get out of driving. Ginger Beard is fast becoming my chauffeur, and I'm finally treated with the lifestyle I deserve.
I'm also joining the ranks of my fellow drivers with road rage targeted at cyclists. When I couldn't drive I liked cyclists, I occasionally was a cyclist. Now, I hate cyclists! What do they think they're bloody doing on their bikes, on the road? Huh? Outrageous. But when I'm a pedestrian, I want them off the pavement. Get on the road you bloody cyclists! I genuinely don't believe there is a place for them, apart from the rare bicycle lane. No bicycle lane, no bicycle son. And all motorcyclists are suicidal. Luckily, when I was learning to drive, every time one came within five meters of me my instructor screamed, "Think bike! Think bike! Think bike!". I would scream "Where?" take my my eyes off the road, and check the backseat of the car.
Also, no one indicates. Cars let off a very fragrant whiff of 'Look, I'm going where I'm going'. And we politely continue to follow the instilled 'proper' driving ways of our test. Well except when I forget to drive with my glasses on. Oh, and going through that red light. And maybe the flat tyres weren't great. 1.6mm tread did not occur.
I can't drive this Renault Clio. I need a BMW with the top down. I should've been a business man in accounting, a silver fox let loose on the motorway. I'm oppressed.
In conclusion, if it hasn't got at least four wheels, give it up, and get the bus. I didn't commit to an obstacle course. I'm just trying to get to work love.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Kill me now, if you'd be so kind.
I'm so chuffed that God read my last blog. He rolled up his sleeves, looked me square in the eye and said 'Right then.'
And so, initially, it was filling the car with crap for the skip, driving around unable to find the skip, and unloading the car, back at home, of the crap intended for the skip. Throw in a couple of traffic light stalls and this:
"Ginger Beard, something's not right."
"Huh?"
"Something feels weird."
"Does it?"
"Oh my God, you're driving on the wrong side of the road!!!'
And you've got yourself a nice Saturday afternoon.
Cue torrential, Noah's Ark downpour Sunday, and we decide to be a bit cultural and head for the new Hepworth Gallery in Wakefield. Now, I did promise myself that I would never go back. That I would never again expose myself to the tracksuit bottoms tucked in sock goers of The Ridings, or every shop fronted by bargain baskets. Luckily, we got lost, and after reuniting myself with all of Wakefield arrived a good hour longer than anticipated. LUCKILY, the exhibit was things with holes in. Which I happen to love. Some of the holes had string in, and were painted. And, being middle class, which a penchant for upper class sensibilities I was able to realise that strip of iron stapled to the ceiling represented the ongoing battle of the human condition, and that putting balls on top of other balls commented on our relentless pursuit of hope. I knew it wasn't a good start when I touched (barely) what I assumed to be a nicely decorated bench and a stick-up-her-arse attendant told me off.
"Hi, how are you, yeah so, you can't touch the art."
And because I am incredibly mature, I gestured wildly to the rampage of sticky fingered children and proclaimed, "Everyone is touching the art." Then I looked at her in such a fashion, as to suggest that I intended to be violently sick on her face.
I decided to sit in each room, by myself, guarding our umbrellas, whilst Ginger Beard looked around, and through the objects with holes. I was at one point engulfed by a tour guide and her group, which was very upsetting, and meant I had to listen to the claim that this wooden ball was about the relationship of the water and the land. I've never been so furious in my life. What. A. Horrific. Lot. Of. Bollucks. Is this legal? Putting pins in my eyes would've hurt less.
LUCKILY, we then got lost tracking down somewhere to eat. And then LUCKILY, got some mild food poisoning, to finish off what I can only describe as the kind of weekend that instigates a loaded gun to the temple.
And so, initially, it was filling the car with crap for the skip, driving around unable to find the skip, and unloading the car, back at home, of the crap intended for the skip. Throw in a couple of traffic light stalls and this:
"Ginger Beard, something's not right."
"Huh?"
"Something feels weird."
"Does it?"
"Oh my God, you're driving on the wrong side of the road!!!'
And you've got yourself a nice Saturday afternoon.
Cue torrential, Noah's Ark downpour Sunday, and we decide to be a bit cultural and head for the new Hepworth Gallery in Wakefield. Now, I did promise myself that I would never go back. That I would never again expose myself to the tracksuit bottoms tucked in sock goers of The Ridings, or every shop fronted by bargain baskets. Luckily, we got lost, and after reuniting myself with all of Wakefield arrived a good hour longer than anticipated. LUCKILY, the exhibit was things with holes in. Which I happen to love. Some of the holes had string in, and were painted. And, being middle class, which a penchant for upper class sensibilities I was able to realise that strip of iron stapled to the ceiling represented the ongoing battle of the human condition, and that putting balls on top of other balls commented on our relentless pursuit of hope. I knew it wasn't a good start when I touched (barely) what I assumed to be a nicely decorated bench and a stick-up-her-arse attendant told me off.
"Hi, how are you, yeah so, you can't touch the art."
And because I am incredibly mature, I gestured wildly to the rampage of sticky fingered children and proclaimed, "Everyone is touching the art." Then I looked at her in such a fashion, as to suggest that I intended to be violently sick on her face.
I decided to sit in each room, by myself, guarding our umbrellas, whilst Ginger Beard looked around, and through the objects with holes. I was at one point engulfed by a tour guide and her group, which was very upsetting, and meant I had to listen to the claim that this wooden ball was about the relationship of the water and the land. I've never been so furious in my life. What. A. Horrific. Lot. Of. Bollucks. Is this legal? Putting pins in my eyes would've hurt less.
LUCKILY, we then got lost tracking down somewhere to eat. And then LUCKILY, got some mild food poisoning, to finish off what I can only describe as the kind of weekend that instigates a loaded gun to the temple.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
I need a dollar
Is there anyone out there with a lot of money who would like to sponsor me to write? £400 per month can buy an aspiring writer enough food to retain her slightly overweight form, whilst at the same time funding her penchant for sweet coffee, vodka and pineapple, and overpriced Habitat goods.
Do you know that aspiring writers have to drink tap water, live in rented accommodation, and remain in constant fear of the blank page?
All it takes is one small donation to change an aspiring writers life.
TESTIMONIES
"I never knew giving could be so rewarding."
"I'm overjoyed to have finally found a worthy cause!"
"I have purchased my passage into Heaven for sure."
For an example of what your money could do, take a £10 note, drop it in the toilet, and flush.
In other news, the Leeds Gallery will have nothing further to do with me, last night I dreamt I was shot in Wagamamas, in the vagina, and Blackpool is where I'd go to commit suicide, because I would definitely kill myself.
But seriously, nothing is happening. Well, nothing that I can publicise. Gutted. Essentially I'm plodding about, consuming food, engaging in small talk, and generally being aggressive. When my parent's check in, I give them other people's updates and anecdotes for lack of my own. Should I pursue drama? Shall I start a food fight in Bagel Nash? I shouldn't complain, it's not like I enjoyed being doused in tomato ketchup or bullied by chavs. Oh okay, maybe a little.
So, until life wakes up, over and out. Knitting anyone?
Do you know that aspiring writers have to drink tap water, live in rented accommodation, and remain in constant fear of the blank page?
All it takes is one small donation to change an aspiring writers life.
TESTIMONIES
"I never knew giving could be so rewarding."
"I'm overjoyed to have finally found a worthy cause!"
"I have purchased my passage into Heaven for sure."
For an example of what your money could do, take a £10 note, drop it in the toilet, and flush.
In other news, the Leeds Gallery will have nothing further to do with me, last night I dreamt I was shot in Wagamamas, in the vagina, and Blackpool is where I'd go to commit suicide, because I would definitely kill myself.
But seriously, nothing is happening. Well, nothing that I can publicise. Gutted. Essentially I'm plodding about, consuming food, engaging in small talk, and generally being aggressive. When my parent's check in, I give them other people's updates and anecdotes for lack of my own. Should I pursue drama? Shall I start a food fight in Bagel Nash? I shouldn't complain, it's not like I enjoyed being doused in tomato ketchup or bullied by chavs. Oh okay, maybe a little.
So, until life wakes up, over and out. Knitting anyone?
Saturday, May 28, 2011
You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar.
Wasn’t drinking great at eighteen? Acquiring foreign and fascinating bruises, non too troubled about your fractured memory, consuming and gorging on a buffet of bottles, and the only real consequence – hugging the toilet for a few minutes before running for the bus.
*Sigh* those were the days. Cue twenty-three; it’s 9am, you’re up and you feel dandy. Many routine tasks cause inane giggling. Hugely smug at lack of hangover. Convince self look great with last nights make-up as your new face. I could go out like this. I could keep this on. I look like the smouldering girl in an Maybelline advert. Awesome. You eat some cereal and your stomach thanks you. That 4am McDonalds was a great idea. It’s okay that you haven’t eaten fast food for two years because you’ve read about what they do to the chicken.
Ginger Beard suggests that you go get new tyres for the car. Excellent suggestion! Am giddy on life, and desperate to share it! Arrive at garage, am so confident and blurry eyed. Is lovely. Happy to spend anything on tyres. Must be safe. Drink some Ribena. Why don’t I drink Ribena all the time? So thirsty, so unbelievably thirsty. Have developed a dreamy new walk. See all children as threatening. Decide to go shopping. Unable to get a hold on judgement skills. Words are difficult to master. 3pm. Asleep. Woken by Ginger Beard. He’s concerned that if I sleep much longer then I won’t sleep tonight. Beg for takeaway. Manage some of takeaway after fetching it in Pajamas. Only have enough energy to watch two films. Sleep until mid-day Sunday. Headache. Look in mirror, horrific reflection. I hate the world. The world hates me. Look at txts sent on Friday night, not remotely English.
And yes, you managed to find a weirdo. You, who has been managing to find weirdos your entire life. Ones who sit next to you on the bus, cat call you in the street, fix their bulging eyes on you on the dance floor, make you bloody mix tapes, and find you at the house party. It must be something I give off. Well this one, this one in with a sweat band, and greasy black hair in a thin ponytail was the cherry on the weirdo cake.
"Odd night, like, such a peculiar night. Don't you think? There are just such bad vibes in here. My name's Roland. (Hugs me here, too sudden for me to escape, smells like socks, hugs me like toddler wanting his mum to love him.) "What's really odd is that alllllll of my friends were coming out tonight, and then like, none of them came."
I don't think that's odd. I think that's predictable.
"Speaking of friends", I masterfully interject, "I'm going to find mine."
"Oh," he says, gleefully, "I'll come."
And thus begins my dive into the mosh pit, the very pit I'd run away from. Into the young bodied, sweaty, pissed-up teenagers throwing themselves around, fitting and screaming, and chucking beer. But anything, ANYTHING was better than my new best friend Roland.
I'm glad that I was never rude, but I regret that he touched me, shared my airspace, or exists. I'm a passive bully. I'll only do it behind your back, relax.
I'll never get a nice, normal, clear-skinned, sane man walking up to me, unless he needs to know the time. Ginger Beard doesn't count. He's a scientist.
*Sigh* those were the days. Cue twenty-three; it’s 9am, you’re up and you feel dandy. Many routine tasks cause inane giggling. Hugely smug at lack of hangover. Convince self look great with last nights make-up as your new face. I could go out like this. I could keep this on. I look like the smouldering girl in an Maybelline advert. Awesome. You eat some cereal and your stomach thanks you. That 4am McDonalds was a great idea. It’s okay that you haven’t eaten fast food for two years because you’ve read about what they do to the chicken.
Ginger Beard suggests that you go get new tyres for the car. Excellent suggestion! Am giddy on life, and desperate to share it! Arrive at garage, am so confident and blurry eyed. Is lovely. Happy to spend anything on tyres. Must be safe. Drink some Ribena. Why don’t I drink Ribena all the time? So thirsty, so unbelievably thirsty. Have developed a dreamy new walk. See all children as threatening. Decide to go shopping. Unable to get a hold on judgement skills. Words are difficult to master. 3pm. Asleep. Woken by Ginger Beard. He’s concerned that if I sleep much longer then I won’t sleep tonight. Beg for takeaway. Manage some of takeaway after fetching it in Pajamas. Only have enough energy to watch two films. Sleep until mid-day Sunday. Headache. Look in mirror, horrific reflection. I hate the world. The world hates me. Look at txts sent on Friday night, not remotely English.
And yes, you managed to find a weirdo. You, who has been managing to find weirdos your entire life. Ones who sit next to you on the bus, cat call you in the street, fix their bulging eyes on you on the dance floor, make you bloody mix tapes, and find you at the house party. It must be something I give off. Well this one, this one in with a sweat band, and greasy black hair in a thin ponytail was the cherry on the weirdo cake.
"Odd night, like, such a peculiar night. Don't you think? There are just such bad vibes in here. My name's Roland. (Hugs me here, too sudden for me to escape, smells like socks, hugs me like toddler wanting his mum to love him.) "What's really odd is that alllllll of my friends were coming out tonight, and then like, none of them came."
I don't think that's odd. I think that's predictable.
"Speaking of friends", I masterfully interject, "I'm going to find mine."
"Oh," he says, gleefully, "I'll come."
And thus begins my dive into the mosh pit, the very pit I'd run away from. Into the young bodied, sweaty, pissed-up teenagers throwing themselves around, fitting and screaming, and chucking beer. But anything, ANYTHING was better than my new best friend Roland.
I'm glad that I was never rude, but I regret that he touched me, shared my airspace, or exists. I'm a passive bully. I'll only do it behind your back, relax.
I'll never get a nice, normal, clear-skinned, sane man walking up to me, unless he needs to know the time. Ginger Beard doesn't count. He's a scientist.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
You have mail
This morning I took a wander up to toilets, never previously encountered. And on the back of the door was this sign: 'Please do not keep putting unsuitable items in the sanitary bins, i.e. fruit peel, coffee cups, sandwiches.' I love that. I love the idea of someone sitting on the toilet eating a tangerine. How brilliantly random. An office worker with a mocha between their feet, a banana wedged in their mouth, and a three cheese sandwich. It's not like there aren't bins in the bathroom and througout the building. Are toilet cubicles the new place to dine? Are we that desperate for a little alone time?
Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'
I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:
Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'
I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:
From: Innes, Moira
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard
hello Gemma
Thank you for your e-mail regarding Matt Darbyshire’s billboard. It is always interesting to get feedback.
Placing art in the public realm where it is chanced upon as opposed the deliberate act of visiting a gallery alters the context and viewers experience. As with any art work, the artist has a clear intention and concept but knows that the work will be received in a variety of different ways depending on the viewers’ individual experiences. Arguably this is more the case when the work is placed in such a public situation where for the majority, the viewing is incidental to their reason to be in the station.
Matt’s intentions are multi-fold and combine various interests and concerns including the design and look of the ‘ experience economy’ where the spheres of culture, health and retail all promise to enhance and transform our lives. What is presented is a composite image of his personal views on the hard-hitting public health campaigns and the fluffy advertising of the time and relates to a project he undertook at the MIro Foundation in Barcelona. The opportunity of presenting the work as a billboard returns the idea to the appropriate context of mass advertisements.
I feel it is valuable that everyone is at liberty to embrace or dismiss the work and for me the fact that you have thought about the image and content is what is important . I don’t expect everyone of the thousands that see it to spend time contemplating its merits but trust that many will have left asking questions.
best
moira
Moira Innes
Director
Leeds Met Gallery & Studio Theatre
G12 Northern Terrace
Leeds Metropolitan University
Leeds
LS2 8AG
I can't resist. It's not like I can read that, and go on living my life, doing nothing.
Hi Moira,
Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.
I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.
Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.
Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.
I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.
Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Or the puppy gets it!
I would like to apologise to the woman in the train station that I 'took out.' One minute I was happily walking along to the exit, and the next minute I was trying to run her over. This is all because someone shouted 'Free!' and held up something shiny. Normally I tut at people like me, who run over, salivating, palms together. But my inner Magpie, and greedy cake smeared little child, wanted it. I would have it! I didn't care how many people had to die, as I brashly ignored the unspoken code of giving way to oncoming traffic if turning right. It was worth it. The chicken cup-a-soup was mine.
And it was full of chickeny goodness.
People have killed for less than this.
Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.
Fry them, fry them all.
It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.
I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:
"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."
Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?
And it was full of chickeny goodness.
People have killed for less than this.
Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.
Fry them, fry them all.
It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.
I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:
"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."
Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?
Matthew Darbyshire | Untitled Billboard (Leeds Station)
To gallerytheatre@leedsmet.ac.uk
| From: | Gemma Rutter (theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk) |
| Sent: | 12 May 2011 12:41:19 |
Hello,
As a regular commuter through Leeds Train Station, I was very curious when I first spotted this billboard. I have recently discovered the reason for it, and the supposed political statement that the artist is making.
Could you please let me know if you believe that anyone, whether they be educated in the arts, a professional, or Joe Bloggs, would be able to interpret a puppy covered and surrounded by paint as a comment on Aids campaigns in the 80's and our current lax attitude?
I like to think of myself as having a rather average IQ, but am unable to draw anything from this billboard which remotely resembles the artists intention.
Any clarity you could provide would be much appreciated. Also if you could let me know the exact date that it would be removed, and the source of the funding for the project, that would be fantastic.
Kind Regards,
Gemma Rutter
The worlds smallest violin
I could never find anything in my bottomless handbag, so I decided to buy one with many, many sections. Now, I still can't find anything, there are just more possible places it could be.
The main activity of my weekend was purchasing a wooden contraption to sit all the herb jars in. They don't fit. Shall I kill myself now, or wait a bit?
In other, more pressing news, the BBC have drawn our attention to a few groundbreaking findings. Thank God, that someone has thought to ask the questions that need asking. 99% of policeman, in perhaps the most urgent survey ever to exist, believe that government cut backs will have a detrimental effect on crime, and even, public services. I'm just relieved that our dwindling funds are being pumped into the most deprived areas. Perhaps someone could ask the police about their opinions on Marmite, and whether or not they would describe the holocaust as 'regrettable.'
My life was also threatened today, when, as I was blowing my nose, Ginger Beard said, 'You know, doing that significantly increases your chances of having a stroke." So, for all those out there, noses happily buried in Kleenex, release them now. Drip, people, drip! And while you're at it, drink one glass of red wine a day, wait no, drinking is bad for your health, exercise, but not too much, save the animals, but don't fall behind on your iron intake, water the flowers, but don't contribute towards a hose pipe ban, look stunning, but be happy in your own, inadequate skin.
Alright, so I'm having a bad day. Luckily, as I rounded the corner of the station, that yappy, tail wagging son-of-a-bitch puppy was still very firmly there. And no, they haven't had the decency to reply to my reasonable email. Shall I send them another one? I want to send them another thirty-four, different emails in different colours, and different fonts. And then they'll reply. And then I'll say, 'Just wanted to share the joy of being pestered by something pointless camouflaged as something worth sharing, like the billboard' HA HA HA.
I'll sleep on it.
The main activity of my weekend was purchasing a wooden contraption to sit all the herb jars in. They don't fit. Shall I kill myself now, or wait a bit?
In other, more pressing news, the BBC have drawn our attention to a few groundbreaking findings. Thank God, that someone has thought to ask the questions that need asking. 99% of policeman, in perhaps the most urgent survey ever to exist, believe that government cut backs will have a detrimental effect on crime, and even, public services. I'm just relieved that our dwindling funds are being pumped into the most deprived areas. Perhaps someone could ask the police about their opinions on Marmite, and whether or not they would describe the holocaust as 'regrettable.'
My life was also threatened today, when, as I was blowing my nose, Ginger Beard said, 'You know, doing that significantly increases your chances of having a stroke." So, for all those out there, noses happily buried in Kleenex, release them now. Drip, people, drip! And while you're at it, drink one glass of red wine a day, wait no, drinking is bad for your health, exercise, but not too much, save the animals, but don't fall behind on your iron intake, water the flowers, but don't contribute towards a hose pipe ban, look stunning, but be happy in your own, inadequate skin.
Alright, so I'm having a bad day. Luckily, as I rounded the corner of the station, that yappy, tail wagging son-of-a-bitch puppy was still very firmly there. And no, they haven't had the decency to reply to my reasonable email. Shall I send them another one? I want to send them another thirty-four, different emails in different colours, and different fonts. And then they'll reply. And then I'll say, 'Just wanted to share the joy of being pestered by something pointless camouflaged as something worth sharing, like the billboard' HA HA HA.
I'll sleep on it.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
We took her breath away.
Hey, so, if you go for a drive with your left wing mirror pushed in, turns out, it's okay as long as you never turn left. It is odd however that I didn't notice, if we agree that you're supposed to use them, and they're not (as I like to think of them) the cars ears. In my defence, the wing mirror ended up in this state because, thanks to Ginger Beard's experimental, diagonal parking, it was necessary to save its life.
What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.
Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.
Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.
My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.
I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.
What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.
Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.
Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.
My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.
I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Confessions of a blogaholic
This blog started out as a way to flex my fingers, an assurance that, nonsense or inspired prose, something would be written at regular intervals. What seems to have happened, is that I spend so much time on my blog, that I don't have time left for the, uh, the actual writing. I'm supposed to be entering a novel competition at the end of this month. And instead of working on this novel, and cartwheeling towards notoriety, I'm here, with you.
I'm not complaining; It's lovely being with you.
I just seem to have very firmly drifted into reality, and left my fiction on the back step. So I'll keep it quick (ensuring that the rest of my lunch break is very productive, all fifteen minutes of it).
I think, I plan, I might, start putting up bits of fiction on here to be judged by your scathing eyes. Par example, a teeny weeny excerpt of this so called novel of mine. Which I am like, totally dedicated to right now. You know, trying to write a book, a book that actually warrants attention, is like having a whingey toddler pulling on your sleeve with a snotty nose; you don't really want to tend to it, but you can't really leave it in a supermarket (unless you're very crafty).
And on that note of abandoning children, I will depart to spend some quality time with the blank page.
I'm not complaining; It's lovely being with you.
I just seem to have very firmly drifted into reality, and left my fiction on the back step. So I'll keep it quick (ensuring that the rest of my lunch break is very productive, all fifteen minutes of it).
I think, I plan, I might, start putting up bits of fiction on here to be judged by your scathing eyes. Par example, a teeny weeny excerpt of this so called novel of mine. Which I am like, totally dedicated to right now. You know, trying to write a book, a book that actually warrants attention, is like having a whingey toddler pulling on your sleeve with a snotty nose; you don't really want to tend to it, but you can't really leave it in a supermarket (unless you're very crafty).
And on that note of abandoning children, I will depart to spend some quality time with the blank page.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Click Happy
Hey kids, how goes it?
I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.
There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.
I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.
Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.
I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:
Flamethrower
Massive Ladder
Fire proof suit and headgear
Exemption from arrest
Keys to station
Thank you in advance.
I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.
There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.
I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.
Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.
I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:
Flamethrower
Massive Ladder
Fire proof suit and headgear
Exemption from arrest
Keys to station
Thank you in advance.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
How to make friends and antagonise people
I'm having a very difficult time enduring the conditions of my commute. Yesterday, I was delightfully cornered by three buxom, big mouthed women, who were incredibly smug about their upcoming days off work. One of them, the ugliest, announced that she had plans for the next seven weekends, and proceeded to list them.
"Booked up, completely booked, hardly time to breathe. This weekend I'm phoning my mum, next weekend I'm sewing up a hole in my sock. Then I'm catching up on my recorded Sky back list, then it's a holiday with the girls, I say the girls, not everyone can make it, and it's in the UK."
I thought, please, please divulge the location of this 'holiday', so I can make sure I'm not there, in body or spirit. Then another one talked about a fabulous Spanish resort that she was going to with her family, but mentioned no dates. Great, now I have to avoid Spain for the foreseeable future, all of Spain. Thanks. The third continually yawned in my face, covering only her nose. It left me to imagine that her nostrils flared unnaturally, and had been the topic of previous nasty remarks.
Will this ever end, I asked my poor, suffocating, sprayed in the remnants of their lunch self. Will it? No, because the logical jump for the conversation to make is Osama Bin Laden. They were in mutual agreement, that his death wasn't going to stop anyone 'doing' terrorism. I really hate it when people do terrorism. And they all seemed genuinely very excited about possible revenge. I guess that the first woman was hoping for an event large enough that it would busy her for that eighth, looming weekend. I guess the second woman was hoping for an event long enough, so that she could bob off to Spain for a few weeks. And I guess the third woman would just bloody love another excuse to have her mouth open.
Upon nearing my departure from the love train, I said 'excuse me' to a so far quiet lady to my left. She too, was getting off, and said, 'I too, am getting off.' I said, 'IF we can get off', and gestured at my new friends. And she, without the slightest hint of sarcasm said, 'We will make them get off.' And I knew, that like me, her day had also been ruined by their complete disregard for personal space, and political opinions.
Could the class one travels by, not be concluded by conduct, rather than cash? It's not that I don't enjoy an elbow tentatively rubbing against my breast, and being privy to a loud re-telling of Susie's break-up, and a briefcase nudging my crotch. I do. It's just a suggestion.
"Booked up, completely booked, hardly time to breathe. This weekend I'm phoning my mum, next weekend I'm sewing up a hole in my sock. Then I'm catching up on my recorded Sky back list, then it's a holiday with the girls, I say the girls, not everyone can make it, and it's in the UK."
I thought, please, please divulge the location of this 'holiday', so I can make sure I'm not there, in body or spirit. Then another one talked about a fabulous Spanish resort that she was going to with her family, but mentioned no dates. Great, now I have to avoid Spain for the foreseeable future, all of Spain. Thanks. The third continually yawned in my face, covering only her nose. It left me to imagine that her nostrils flared unnaturally, and had been the topic of previous nasty remarks.
Will this ever end, I asked my poor, suffocating, sprayed in the remnants of their lunch self. Will it? No, because the logical jump for the conversation to make is Osama Bin Laden. They were in mutual agreement, that his death wasn't going to stop anyone 'doing' terrorism. I really hate it when people do terrorism. And they all seemed genuinely very excited about possible revenge. I guess that the first woman was hoping for an event large enough that it would busy her for that eighth, looming weekend. I guess the second woman was hoping for an event long enough, so that she could bob off to Spain for a few weeks. And I guess the third woman would just bloody love another excuse to have her mouth open.
Upon nearing my departure from the love train, I said 'excuse me' to a so far quiet lady to my left. She too, was getting off, and said, 'I too, am getting off.' I said, 'IF we can get off', and gestured at my new friends. And she, without the slightest hint of sarcasm said, 'We will make them get off.' And I knew, that like me, her day had also been ruined by their complete disregard for personal space, and political opinions.
Could the class one travels by, not be concluded by conduct, rather than cash? It's not that I don't enjoy an elbow tentatively rubbing against my breast, and being privy to a loud re-telling of Susie's break-up, and a briefcase nudging my crotch. I do. It's just a suggestion.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Shut. Up!
I'll tell you what's nice; your first time on a motorway and you get hit by a sponge baton. That's nice. I didn't have a clue what it was at first, just that it had fallen off a truck, which it was previously tied to. It's not the best feeling. But it was alright in the end, what with it being practically a child's flotation device.
It's been a truly magical time back in good ol'Notts this weekend. I have an odd-shaped burn on my neck and chest which seems to resemble a trombone. Which can't be helped when you have a mother who considers factor 4 to be sunblock. I had a conversation with an old friend about seeing the Eiffel Tower whilst she's in New York - A bizarre idea we both seemed to convincingly share. I had a brief, passionate confrontation with a polish man, over some cafe seats in the sun, desperate to achieve the trombone tan.
And I've been trying (ish) to like, become a fully qualified accountant. To be honest, I was hoping it would be a bit like, 'If Billy has two apples, then how many apples does Billy have?' Instead it's more like this: 'If $%^&*** was translated into Latin, and then from Latin into musical notes, calculate the worth of X.'
Maybe I'm a bit special. Maybe after all these years of focusing on words, and grammar, and the technical construction of sonnets, the part of my brain reserved for logic has shrivelled. Part of the problem is that all the examples start with, 'You own a business called...' and I'm thinking about the interior design, and how I'd manage the staff, and how success would affect my wardrobe choices. Is that so wrong? Is it because I love 'The only way is Essex?' Should I give up accountancy, and take up Botox?
I'll get a tiny dog for my handbag, speak only in acronyms, and make predatory advances at unsuitable men.
I guess the last word on the subject was always going to be O.M.G.
It's been a truly magical time back in good ol'Notts this weekend. I have an odd-shaped burn on my neck and chest which seems to resemble a trombone. Which can't be helped when you have a mother who considers factor 4 to be sunblock. I had a conversation with an old friend about seeing the Eiffel Tower whilst she's in New York - A bizarre idea we both seemed to convincingly share. I had a brief, passionate confrontation with a polish man, over some cafe seats in the sun, desperate to achieve the trombone tan.
And I've been trying (ish) to like, become a fully qualified accountant. To be honest, I was hoping it would be a bit like, 'If Billy has two apples, then how many apples does Billy have?' Instead it's more like this: 'If $%^&*** was translated into Latin, and then from Latin into musical notes, calculate the worth of X.'
Maybe I'm a bit special. Maybe after all these years of focusing on words, and grammar, and the technical construction of sonnets, the part of my brain reserved for logic has shrivelled. Part of the problem is that all the examples start with, 'You own a business called...' and I'm thinking about the interior design, and how I'd manage the staff, and how success would affect my wardrobe choices. Is that so wrong? Is it because I love 'The only way is Essex?' Should I give up accountancy, and take up Botox?
I'll get a tiny dog for my handbag, speak only in acronyms, and make predatory advances at unsuitable men.
I guess the last word on the subject was always going to be O.M.G.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Locked out: Castaway pt 2
It begins with denial.
I can get in. I can bloody get in. I fashion a lock pick from a hair clip. How hard can it be? We ring every doorbell. We press our optimistic faces to the glass. I play with the green flies. Ginger Beard makes a start on the rations.
We keep track of the days my marking crude lines on the ground.
We take an Easter Egg, and make a face on it with our blood. It's christened 'Milson.'
The Morrisons shop begins to petrify.
What would Tom Hanks do? We sharpen sticks in preparation of fox hunting later.
The local natives offer us tea and their mobile, but the landlord is not answering.
We will not survive much longer. I hope the people I love, know that I love them. The sun burns. We have ten bottles of J20 but no bottle opener. Yoghurts, and no spoons. We could pour them into our mouths, but we're not yet savages.
Ginger Beard goes off, following a mirage. I give him up for dead.
I've been stuck in the same clothes now for an hour. Alas! Hope! The landlord calls, and although not even in the UK, will breach confidentiality laws and give up the number of a fellow tenant. A tenant who promises to play hero, and arrive in thirty minutes.
I celebrate. And then I remember that Ginger Beard is lost. I eat a cake. Things seem better.
Then who should come ballet dancing through the door, But the Beard himself, who has scaled fences and walls to save the day. (I cannot divulge the full details in case Burglars Anonymous read this).
The true tragedy, is that while we're safely inside, feeding our withered bodies, our other selves are still waiting. The tenant has not arrived. After another hour and we're pissed. Our poor other selves, we sympathise, still out there, still believing. Another hour! Oh, vulnerable, dying other selves! We would be freezing, and sad, and have made a start on one another's limbs. It is now four hours later. The tenant is not coming. Our other selves have passed away. We hold a short, but touching ceremony.
How did you spend your bank holiday? Was it quite as good as this? Can it get much better than this?
I don't think so.
I can get in. I can bloody get in. I fashion a lock pick from a hair clip. How hard can it be? We ring every doorbell. We press our optimistic faces to the glass. I play with the green flies. Ginger Beard makes a start on the rations.
We keep track of the days my marking crude lines on the ground.
We take an Easter Egg, and make a face on it with our blood. It's christened 'Milson.'
The Morrisons shop begins to petrify.
What would Tom Hanks do? We sharpen sticks in preparation of fox hunting later.
The local natives offer us tea and their mobile, but the landlord is not answering.
We will not survive much longer. I hope the people I love, know that I love them. The sun burns. We have ten bottles of J20 but no bottle opener. Yoghurts, and no spoons. We could pour them into our mouths, but we're not yet savages.
Ginger Beard goes off, following a mirage. I give him up for dead.
I've been stuck in the same clothes now for an hour. Alas! Hope! The landlord calls, and although not even in the UK, will breach confidentiality laws and give up the number of a fellow tenant. A tenant who promises to play hero, and arrive in thirty minutes.
I celebrate. And then I remember that Ginger Beard is lost. I eat a cake. Things seem better.
Then who should come ballet dancing through the door, But the Beard himself, who has scaled fences and walls to save the day. (I cannot divulge the full details in case Burglars Anonymous read this).
The true tragedy, is that while we're safely inside, feeding our withered bodies, our other selves are still waiting. The tenant has not arrived. After another hour and we're pissed. Our poor other selves, we sympathise, still out there, still believing. Another hour! Oh, vulnerable, dying other selves! We would be freezing, and sad, and have made a start on one another's limbs. It is now four hours later. The tenant is not coming. Our other selves have passed away. We hold a short, but touching ceremony.
How did you spend your bank holiday? Was it quite as good as this? Can it get much better than this?
I don't think so.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Christmas time!
Ann Potts, who for those of you who don't know, was the ghost living in my apartment, receiving a rather alarming amount of post, has returned. She moved out for three or so months, but has found the outside world cold, and unresponsive. She has begun to request Christmas party brochures, to cheer herself up.
My favourite is one from The Village, 'Amazingly, it's that time again!' Is it? Isn't it just April? A time for watching rain hit windows? 'If you book a party of ten or more we will treat you to a complimentary bedroom.' Great, if you can get ten of your friends to commit to a Christmas event, in April, then you can all sleep in one, free room. Anyone available? Have plans yet? Sounds perfectly realistic.
'So don't waste any time'. Guys, we've only got eight months left! Shit! That's hardly time to eat a baguette, let alone schedule a party. I think we might just have to stay in this year.
How is one of the nights sold out? That's a lie. That has to be a lie. Will they stop at nothing to entice cash, from us poor, recession ridden smucks? Who are these people who've managed to convince their friends to commit years in advance? I can't get my friends to commit to a conversation.
In other news, Ginger Beard is a joke with legs.
Also, I keep forgetting that the car isn't a safe place to say anything you want, when the windows are down. I just can't help but express my opinion on how annoying that pedestrian is, as they have a leisurely stroll across the road. Ginger Beard keeps screaming (like a girl) "They can hear you!", as I shout, "What a dick, what the fuck are you doing? Yeah, you take your time. Don't worry about it. I don't have anywhere to be. You complete fuckjob." It's not road rage. It's constructive criticism.
My favourite is one from The Village, 'Amazingly, it's that time again!' Is it? Isn't it just April? A time for watching rain hit windows? 'If you book a party of ten or more we will treat you to a complimentary bedroom.' Great, if you can get ten of your friends to commit to a Christmas event, in April, then you can all sleep in one, free room. Anyone available? Have plans yet? Sounds perfectly realistic.
'So don't waste any time'. Guys, we've only got eight months left! Shit! That's hardly time to eat a baguette, let alone schedule a party. I think we might just have to stay in this year.
How is one of the nights sold out? That's a lie. That has to be a lie. Will they stop at nothing to entice cash, from us poor, recession ridden smucks? Who are these people who've managed to convince their friends to commit years in advance? I can't get my friends to commit to a conversation.
In other news, Ginger Beard is a joke with legs.
Also, I keep forgetting that the car isn't a safe place to say anything you want, when the windows are down. I just can't help but express my opinion on how annoying that pedestrian is, as they have a leisurely stroll across the road. Ginger Beard keeps screaming (like a girl) "They can hear you!", as I shout, "What a dick, what the fuck are you doing? Yeah, you take your time. Don't worry about it. I don't have anywhere to be. You complete fuckjob." It's not road rage. It's constructive criticism.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Enough is enough is enough.
The other day, a group of three Chavs, perched on a hill, called me a 'Spaziak'. This spelling is phonetic.
I think I can guess at what they were inferring, but the term is generally new to me. And it's all because I looked at them. They were positioned beautifully, high up on the other side of the train track, in order to begin the spectator sport (a sport consisting of yelling abuse at commuters). I looked at them, because I couldn't figure out how they'd abseiled down the hill to the spot in question. And thus, I was christened 'Spaziack.'
It took me back to the weekend before when a Chav addressed me as if I was a cat, rubbing his fingers and making come hither noises, before asking, 'Does Kitty want a f**k'? I was very tempted, as you can imagine. Particulary after his friend had a wee all over my driveway. And they say romance is dead.
Then there's the balcony bunch, who seemingly have rented an apartment on the High Street of Morley, in which to sit, eat crisps, and spew forth wisdom. It's a balcony in a cage. They manged to squeeze about five of their chubby bodies, and plastic chairs into the meshed space, established like dirty kings on a throne. They laughed heartily at an old man in a motorised scooter, who was struggling to negotiate the garden furniture outside the American diner.
Would it be so wrong/illegal of me to start carrying a weapon? I'm not talking about anything too severe, like a potato gun. I'm talking about a samurai sword, or a rifle.
I feel inspired to take the law into my own hands, my own blood thirsty, dagger wielding hands.
It's not like Morley couldn't handle a few body parts, the streets are already strewn with litter and dog poo.
And aren't I supposed to be part of a pro-active, out-spoken generation who believes in change and forward thinking, albeit a somewhat violent, lethal kind of thinking?
Who will join me? We shall march out onto the streets at dawn with our machete's raised high, and our tonsils vibrating with the cry of war!
Anyone?
I think I can guess at what they were inferring, but the term is generally new to me. And it's all because I looked at them. They were positioned beautifully, high up on the other side of the train track, in order to begin the spectator sport (a sport consisting of yelling abuse at commuters). I looked at them, because I couldn't figure out how they'd abseiled down the hill to the spot in question. And thus, I was christened 'Spaziack.'
It took me back to the weekend before when a Chav addressed me as if I was a cat, rubbing his fingers and making come hither noises, before asking, 'Does Kitty want a f**k'? I was very tempted, as you can imagine. Particulary after his friend had a wee all over my driveway. And they say romance is dead.
Then there's the balcony bunch, who seemingly have rented an apartment on the High Street of Morley, in which to sit, eat crisps, and spew forth wisdom. It's a balcony in a cage. They manged to squeeze about five of their chubby bodies, and plastic chairs into the meshed space, established like dirty kings on a throne. They laughed heartily at an old man in a motorised scooter, who was struggling to negotiate the garden furniture outside the American diner.
Would it be so wrong/illegal of me to start carrying a weapon? I'm not talking about anything too severe, like a potato gun. I'm talking about a samurai sword, or a rifle.
I feel inspired to take the law into my own hands, my own blood thirsty, dagger wielding hands.
It's not like Morley couldn't handle a few body parts, the streets are already strewn with litter and dog poo.
And aren't I supposed to be part of a pro-active, out-spoken generation who believes in change and forward thinking, albeit a somewhat violent, lethal kind of thinking?
Who will join me? We shall march out onto the streets at dawn with our machete's raised high, and our tonsils vibrating with the cry of war!
Anyone?
Sunday, April 17, 2011
For Ian Nelson
Alas, I have discovered the reason for this mysterious train station advertising! Was it afterall trying to persuade us to have fun with Dulux? Was the little Andrex Puppy a victim at paintballing? What can we learn from this? Well, obviously it's about foolish innocence over HIV in the 80's. OBVIOUSLY. No, I mean it. That's actually it.
Matthew Darbyshire - Billboard Projects
"You might not have spotted The Billboard Project at Leeds Train Station, now on its fourth and final ‘ad’. It’s played host to a cycle of work by artists each granted access to its large scale presence and the collossal passing trade of commuters. Matthew Darbyshire has pasted up something emotionally evocative, involving the lovable Andrex puppy and a slogan harking back to the 80’s youth culture, evoking the style of HIV campaigns engineered to snap people out of foolish innocence. Darbyshire’s work also points to a concern that the politics of the 80’s is creeping back into the UK. The presentness of the billboard in Leeds Station in all its candy-coloured sweetness says the fight is not over."
It's so God damn emotionally evocative.
I hope that you discover this blog Ian, so that your mind can finally be at rest.
But I want to vandalise it even more.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
What's with that bloody Andrex puppy?
I'm not too happy about being a worker bee today. Buzzing about for some faceless queen. Giving up our time so that we can earn enough to pay for the commute, to give up our time. Enough for the food we shovel down, in order to have the energy to give up our time. How many days holiday do bees get a year? I bet it's about twenty-five.
Leeds City centre is starting to make me feel nauseous in the morning. It might Be the sweating, nicotine ripe man whose knees bump into my handbag, or the sight of all of us in sensible coats, hiding behind newspapers, pressed together in silence, and thinking of 5:30pm. We are filtered through the station, and I think of traffic. You have to navigate the lanes like a pro, be prepared for the odd emergency stop, and give way to oncoming pedestrians. And once out on the street, our station training serves us well. We walk, single file on the right side of the pavement, thinking ourselves American. A conveyor belt of tired robots keeping pace.
I think of my Santander commute, back in the day, back when I was getting bullied by children with snowballs, slipping over in car parks, and nearly getting run over. Times were good.
If you happen to be in Leeds Train Station with WHSmiths on your left, do me a favour - look up at the huge billboard ahead. Explain it to me. It says, 'He's not immortal, he's just young', and features a dog splattered in paint, but no company logo. I don't get it. It looks like the Andrex puppy, so I think of loo roll. Are they telling me to excuse young children from shitting over everything? Is it for drunken, late night travellers, heading out into the city - 'This puppy thought he could hold his drink too. Now look at him. You're not immortal, you're just young. And you'll end up the same way.'
I look at it everyday. I frown. I. Don't. Get. It. Please help me. Or I'm going to kick it in the face. I don't know how. I'll have to get a ladder. I'll have to develop a skillful, acrobatic move, during a quiet period which will allow time for set up before a possible arrest. I'm going to graffiti on it, give the dog a tash, surround him in a question mark, smear Pedigree Chum around the borders. I think this is what a mental collapse feels like. I'm certain that my frustration at the whole bloody commuting process comes down to this one billboard. If someone could reveal its true message, I will discover inner peace. I will start sleeping again, and stop shaking my head at labradors everywhere. PLEASE.
Leeds City centre is starting to make me feel nauseous in the morning. It might Be the sweating, nicotine ripe man whose knees bump into my handbag, or the sight of all of us in sensible coats, hiding behind newspapers, pressed together in silence, and thinking of 5:30pm. We are filtered through the station, and I think of traffic. You have to navigate the lanes like a pro, be prepared for the odd emergency stop, and give way to oncoming pedestrians. And once out on the street, our station training serves us well. We walk, single file on the right side of the pavement, thinking ourselves American. A conveyor belt of tired robots keeping pace.
I think of my Santander commute, back in the day, back when I was getting bullied by children with snowballs, slipping over in car parks, and nearly getting run over. Times were good.
If you happen to be in Leeds Train Station with WHSmiths on your left, do me a favour - look up at the huge billboard ahead. Explain it to me. It says, 'He's not immortal, he's just young', and features a dog splattered in paint, but no company logo. I don't get it. It looks like the Andrex puppy, so I think of loo roll. Are they telling me to excuse young children from shitting over everything? Is it for drunken, late night travellers, heading out into the city - 'This puppy thought he could hold his drink too. Now look at him. You're not immortal, you're just young. And you'll end up the same way.'
I look at it everyday. I frown. I. Don't. Get. It. Please help me. Or I'm going to kick it in the face. I don't know how. I'll have to get a ladder. I'll have to develop a skillful, acrobatic move, during a quiet period which will allow time for set up before a possible arrest. I'm going to graffiti on it, give the dog a tash, surround him in a question mark, smear Pedigree Chum around the borders. I think this is what a mental collapse feels like. I'm certain that my frustration at the whole bloody commuting process comes down to this one billboard. If someone could reveal its true message, I will discover inner peace. I will start sleeping again, and stop shaking my head at labradors everywhere. PLEASE.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
My relationship with Erica.
She is my favourite female writer. I adore and loathe her. I will never write as well. I hold her books and I despair. The sheer brilliance of Erica, is that she tells the bone-deep truth. The kind of secrets we can't even admit to ourselves, she brazenly exhibits and languorously entertains for pages. I blush through this book, realising myself, realising that this is what it sounds like when you denounce fear.
I need to bottle it, and drink it.
Each chapter is a different dare. You will start to over-analyse yourself. You will think endlessly on all the things you're not doing, the adventures you're not having, and crave them all the more. And therein lies the itch, the restless twitch. In 'Fear of Flying' Isadora (who is Erica, shrouding her real life under the term 'fiction'), gives in to hers. She is a dramatic mess, but dancing on the knife edge of life throughout. What if we began to give into our every whim, no matter the consequence, no regard for the moral compass in the moment, only instantly after to be terrorised by guilt, regret, despair. Erica risks for me, and I feel the pull. To live with such disregard, all for those few seconds of adrenaline, and then have reality bleed in and burn.
Her perspective is striking, her perils humiliating. She has time to share the gory details, and you have not heard it told this way before.
I could read this book and forget myself entirely. Escapism at its most corrupt.
I can't even categorise this as a book review. It's a way of life. I despise her for polluting my mind with possibility. I blame her. And now I have to go and read something I don't believe in, just to balance it out.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Put your feet away!
It's finally over kids. No more crying on the drive home, as I delicately work my way through all the swear words I know in front of my aghast instructor. No more dry retching. No more old man in a yellow jacket plaguing my nightmares. No more, eat a banana for a burst of energy, put on my driving trainers, fasten my good luck necklace, can you read me that number plate?
There's just me, and my little tangerine friend, bumping into curbs, clipping wing mirrors, forgetting to indicate. Oh the joy.
It turns out I'm really good at driving. It turns out I'm really bad at parking. Everything's going to be A-ok.
I've also taken up a few new hobbies to fill the gap. I tidied up the flower beds in the sunshine, careful not to disturb the flowers. Then Ginger Beard told me the flowers were nettles. I kicked the nettles for their cunning deceit. I was wearing flip flops. I will not be gardening again.
I decided to make a big, artistic collage. Spent two hours running tests on the printer, and dropping it from various heights. Turns out, and this is rare, it's just out of ink. Have no spare ink. Decide not to be artist.
Try to become a cleaner. Cleaning too hard.
Decided to stop being Casper, and work on my tan. Sat on a hill and took my shoes off. Got called a slut by three chavs. Put shoes back on.
Also realised that I pretty much owe everyone I know a lift. I will practice not killing myself first, and get back to you.
What I am going to do, fo sho, is get back to that small, subservient dream of mine. Messing about with words and shit. Trying to become the next J K Rowling, without all the initial poverty. But first, I'm going to start training to become an accountant. I know, I do hate myself for being so predictable.
There's just me, and my little tangerine friend, bumping into curbs, clipping wing mirrors, forgetting to indicate. Oh the joy.
It turns out I'm really good at driving. It turns out I'm really bad at parking. Everything's going to be A-ok.
I've also taken up a few new hobbies to fill the gap. I tidied up the flower beds in the sunshine, careful not to disturb the flowers. Then Ginger Beard told me the flowers were nettles. I kicked the nettles for their cunning deceit. I was wearing flip flops. I will not be gardening again.
I decided to make a big, artistic collage. Spent two hours running tests on the printer, and dropping it from various heights. Turns out, and this is rare, it's just out of ink. Have no spare ink. Decide not to be artist.
Try to become a cleaner. Cleaning too hard.
Decided to stop being Casper, and work on my tan. Sat on a hill and took my shoes off. Got called a slut by three chavs. Put shoes back on.
Also realised that I pretty much owe everyone I know a lift. I will practice not killing myself first, and get back to you.
What I am going to do, fo sho, is get back to that small, subservient dream of mine. Messing about with words and shit. Trying to become the next J K Rowling, without all the initial poverty. But first, I'm going to start training to become an accountant. I know, I do hate myself for being so predictable.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
We are gathered here today....
It takes two days for a centipede to die under a mug. I thought it would take longer. I'd intended on rescuing it. And now it's dead. It will never again be able take a peaceful stroll through the park, talk to its friends, or check its facebook. I am ashamed of myself, but more so I'm ashamed of Ginger Beard, for trapping it initially. A life for a life?
Let me know what you think, and I'll slip some chicken in his soup, should kill him off.
In other news, I commuted into work this morning and walked around the office for an hour before realising - my trousers were open. Now I don't mean undone. I don't mean the fly was down. I mean they were open, unbuttoned, zip down, exposing the clear outline of my huge member. MORTIFIED.
Does anyone else have a problem with pronouncing 'Salsa'?
Is the long road always the hardest road?
Where are all my socks disappearing to?
Please submit all answers on a bright pink sheet of A4 to be entered into a prize draw for liposuction.
The Guardian are running a Q&A session later today on writing a will. I reckon it's about time that myself and my fellow peers got round to dividing up our possessions and self-worth amongst the fans/parents. Just in case I don't get round to it due to a speeding bus, a flair up of Malaria, or Ginger Beard, please find my final will and testament below.
All of my writing - Jo Shipman (he will get me published and famous like Anne Frank, with slightly less previous persecution).
My Ipod - Ann Rutter (A.K.A Stan, St Ann, Stanley, Mop, Mini Mop, Mop Head, Moped, Mop-it-up, titch, tiny tot) How to identify her? Stutters when swears, highly emotional on subject of Christmas Trees, cries at The Lakehouse, will be searching for my Ipod three minutes after death announced.
My clothes - Amy Yamazaki (but she will have to get immensely fatter and taller, so start eating and stretching. Don't be ungrateful.)
My Money - Lee Rutter (to spend on fulfilling his dream of becoming a ballerina. Should be enough for a few tutus and lessons. Best of luck champ.)
Ginger Beard - Nada, Nilch, Sod All. He's already stolen my joy and time in life. God does not reward thieves. Okay, I've changed my mind. He can have my No7 moisturiser, my socks, and my flowery travel bag.
This list is provisional. Please feel free to make requests re: specific possessions. All will be considered. Except for you Gingervitous, what you see is what you get.
Let me know what you think, and I'll slip some chicken in his soup, should kill him off.
In other news, I commuted into work this morning and walked around the office for an hour before realising - my trousers were open. Now I don't mean undone. I don't mean the fly was down. I mean they were open, unbuttoned, zip down, exposing the clear outline of my huge member. MORTIFIED.
Does anyone else have a problem with pronouncing 'Salsa'?
Is the long road always the hardest road?
Where are all my socks disappearing to?
Please submit all answers on a bright pink sheet of A4 to be entered into a prize draw for liposuction.
The Guardian are running a Q&A session later today on writing a will. I reckon it's about time that myself and my fellow peers got round to dividing up our possessions and self-worth amongst the fans/parents. Just in case I don't get round to it due to a speeding bus, a flair up of Malaria, or Ginger Beard, please find my final will and testament below.
All of my writing - Jo Shipman (he will get me published and famous like Anne Frank, with slightly less previous persecution).
My Ipod - Ann Rutter (A.K.A Stan, St Ann, Stanley, Mop, Mini Mop, Mop Head, Moped, Mop-it-up, titch, tiny tot) How to identify her? Stutters when swears, highly emotional on subject of Christmas Trees, cries at The Lakehouse, will be searching for my Ipod three minutes after death announced.
My clothes - Amy Yamazaki (but she will have to get immensely fatter and taller, so start eating and stretching. Don't be ungrateful.)
My Money - Lee Rutter (to spend on fulfilling his dream of becoming a ballerina. Should be enough for a few tutus and lessons. Best of luck champ.)
Ginger Beard - Nada, Nilch, Sod All. He's already stolen my joy and time in life. God does not reward thieves. Okay, I've changed my mind. He can have my No7 moisturiser, my socks, and my flowery travel bag.
This list is provisional. Please feel free to make requests re: specific possessions. All will be considered. Except for you Gingervitous, what you see is what you get.
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Doctors and Nurses
Sent: 24 March 2011 12:44
To: James Glover
Subject: Your results
To: James Glover
Subject: Your results
Dear Mr Glover,
I am contacting you on behalf of the Morley Medical Practice. When they are too embarrassed to deliver results themselves, I am contracted to inform the patient. Recently you requested many parts of your body, mind, and personality to be tested by the practice. I can tell you that we now have results. The findings are as such:
1) You are not a real Doctor. The likelihood has been cross examined with the physical evidence and deemed ‘suspiciously fraudulent’.
2) Though, much like the soul, the personality cannot be technically observed, you do not appear to have one. We recommend that you study modern literature and television in order to develop an auto pilot state which may pass for a mildly amusing human (as those tend to go down the best).
3) You have Gingeritous. This is a surprisingly popular condition amongst older men, affecting the skin, hair and ability to be interesting. Your case is the worst they’ve come across. And there is nothing they can do. To ease the suffering, Dr Uptonogood, has prescribed suicide, to be attempted once a week, after eating, with water.
4) There is no biological link between you and your parents. Reason: abandoned at birth. Cause: shame.
5) Your hands are the same size as a kitten’s paws. Finger stretches have been recommended. Just try not to pass wind. Also, hold a 5p coin, then a brussel sprout, then a tomato, then a tennis ball. When you can eventually hold someone else’s hand in your own, you will know that your previously weird hands are now normal.
6) Ear creases. Diagnosis: Frickin dodgy. Treatment: Hot iron applied to both sides of the head.
Kind Regards
Sam Fakedoctor
Sam Fakedoctor
WhenNoOneElseWillDoIt Inc
RE: Your results
Hello Sam,
I think you may be confusing me with someone else. As I am a real doctor, with massive, massive hands who is a master of quick wit and repartee.
It may be that I share my address with my life partner, and it may be her details you have mistakenly used. This has happened before, so please do not worry, in her desperation to marry me she constantly calls herself Glover, and in her sexual confusion often she (wrongly) assumes she is a man. On thinking about it, she is not a doctor, has very little personality and suffers from a very serious case of ginger skin. So serious is her ginger skin that she is unable to tan; instead in the sun she gets joinedfreckle syndrome. It must certainly be her. My apologies on this matter. When I return home, I will hide tiny banjo playing mice in her eye cream to teach her a lesson.
However whilst I have your attention I was wondering if you think I should upgrade to a younger/funnier model? As you know my current life partner has some terrible downsides; for example she partakes in the 5 second rule. This was particularly embarrassing after she dropped a crisp into a shit our neighbour had brought round as a housewarming gift.
I have also noticed that she has a cold black heart, and suffers from sudden and almost total lethargy when called upon to do simple household chores.
When threatened or stressed her body has developed a defence mechanism to protect herself. It covers her face and body with spots, making her look unappealing even as a victim.
Also she burps. Right in my face. Dead on, 100%, no mistaking, shes a nastly little face burper.
Thanks,
James Glover, MEng PhD
Institute of Medical and Biological Engineering
School of Mechanical Engineering
University of Leeds
Leeds
LS2 9JT
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