Friday, January 27, 2012

That's deep, man.

The worst thing that can happen to you on a train journey, is an aisle table seat. You can't look at the person opposite, to the side, or diagonal to yourself. It's one of the rules of being British. You also can't look at the reflections of everyone in the window.

So, if like me, you get travel sick when attempting any activity, you look at the table in question. But then I think, do I look weird, like this? Having a staring contest with an inanimate object? Do I? So I look up. Oh no! Right into the eyes of the man across the way! So I look to the right, argh! More Eyes. And on it goes. Until everyone is thinking the same thing, 'look at that poor girl and her epilepsy.'

ALSO

I would like to share my revelations for the New Year:

As I get older I find that I have more questions, but am less bothered by how elusive the answers always are (stick that on a coaster). I'm learning to accept my own clumsiness, and the inevitability of a lifetime apologising for it. I know that I will lose approximately four pairs of gloves a year. I'm starting to discover that I'm not always right, which is as illuminating as it is gutting. Oh, and I can't predict the future, but I can learn not to think on it so much, and let it unravel in it's own time.

Oh, and resolutions...drink more water blah blah blah....don't be as fat yada yada yada. Write more. Much More, you lazy sod. World peace via one sub standard story at a time. Find out how to get a tan. Is this possible due to Casperitous? Research. Stay loose. Have already been quite loose. And I don't mean loose about the pants.

Erica Jong is still the best female writer. Ever. Admittedly closely stalked by Margaret Atwood, Nicole Krauss and Jeanette Winterson. (Sorry Mum) but she writes about sex, and disaster, and coping with loss, and enduring who you are with the most exhilarating clarity. I like that in 1995 'Fear of Flying' was labelled pornography. But is my modern day bible, which continues to support me more than any religion ever could. (Sorry God).

Regrets - achieving a friction burn in my sleep from a plane seat

-Dislocating thumbs whilst brushing teeth (stop doing this to me you rogue thumb bastards.)

-Forcep scar, which although inflicted on me more than 24 years ago, still remains a point of great sadness.

-Not fully heating that chicken pie.

-Spending small fortune on Berocca. Is not me on a good day, is me on a normal day, only now, with a lot less money. THANKS.

To be continued......I find myself awfully reflective....

Saturday, January 14, 2012

WTF?

I've manged to burn myself, becuase Ginger has left me alone, and I've tried to cook. But what really freaks me out, is that it's the spitting image of Justin Bieber.



And now it's matured into George Michael:


The Thailand Journal - Part two - Once bitten, always bitten

6/11/11

The Blue Bar across the road only plays Craig David, one album on repeat. At Coco Loco the green Thai curry tastes exactly the same as the one they serve in Ban Thai in Morley (but it costs about a pound here). Tonight, a lady gave us connect four to play while we waited for our food. We were the only customers. She helped me lose.

8/11/11

Everyone here is a jack of all trades. They taxi the guests around the island, cook in the kitchen, and clean the leaves from the pool. Why do all of the men have such long fingernails? It creeps me out.We need to get to 1 of 4 piers today, the only one which has a ferry to get us to Ko Samui. Ginger Beard is going mental, because we can't figure out which pier it is. I pick the one I like the sound of - Big Buddha, and tell him we should wing it. This does not go down well. He stomps around with a red face. In the end we don't have a choice, because no one understands us, and we don't understand them. It makes me happy, and laugh a lot. Big Buddha turns out to be the right choice.

Ginger Beard is also a bit grumpy because he has just turned 30. Luckily this is the 5* part. We're staying for two nights in a two jacuzzi villa. We sit in our kimonos drinking cocktails, and eating the surprise birthday cake that the staff have made ('Happy Birthday Mr James').

10/11/11

It is worth coming all the way to Thailand for the Saraan Spa. We drank honey tea, and went upstairs, where Ginger Beard had to don some striking netted, tight black pants, for his full body massage. I was told to strip to my pants. We were instructed to come through when we were ready. We would never be ready. We looked like a cheap 80's porno act that would do anything for the right price. We bickered:

Ginger: You go first.
Me: No, I've got my boobs out!
Ginger: Everyone can see my balls!
Me: So? Man the fuck up son. Do you love me or not?

Ginger went first.

It was just us, and two thai ladies. Fifteen things were lovingly applied and removed from my face. Cucumber strips sat on my eyes. Alarmingly (for it was at first), I then received a full body massage! It's not nice when your face is frozen with clay, you're blind, and a stranger starts rubbing your toes. But I reasoned that the sheer sight of me in my current state, would drive most people to cop a feel. And I let it be.

We drank Ginger tea. I have never felt so at peace. We keep smiling. The staff were smiling. It's unnatural, and frankly disturbing, but I'm so bloody happy.

Later, I OD on coconut. It is actually possible, when you spend two hours, scooping the stuff out and gobbling it. Have very long lie down to recover.

Indian head massage with oil. It was a bit over zealous for my liking, but there's a lot to be said for attention, even if it takes the form of pain. What is awesome, is that she tied my hair up, and when I put my kimono on, I looked in the mirror and thought, 'I am giesha'.

The Bite Chart

Looking at the below pictures, you're going to realise two things. One, it's almost criminal that I didn't pursue a career as an artist, and two, that is exactly, exactly what I look like without my clothes on.


This is my personal bite chart, tracking where the Mosquito bastards attacked me, during my lovely holiday. Ginger and I had a competition, and I won, totalling 24. The writings a little small, so here you go:

*Massive itchy
*Betty Bojangles
*double teamed near the tush
*This ones getting really fucked up
*Right on the cankle

A one way ticket to chumpsville

Recently, I've been spending the vast majority of my life sitting on a train. Last week, I sat next to a Weeble. That's right kids, a real life Weeble. Being asleep, meant that she had no apparent control over her body, and rocked dramatically side to side. It's not known for Weebles to be aggressive, but this one insisted on hitting me time and time again. When the train stopped at Leeds, I had to forcibly shake the weeble to wake her up, so that I could escape. However, she struggled to get up, and had to chuck herself into the aisle a few times, before her smooth weeble base allowed her to stand.

You think I'm joking. I'm not. Trust me, I'm a Doctor. No wait. it's Ginger Beard that's a Doctor. Oh no, wait, he's not a real Doctor either.

ALSO, I need to type up more of my Thailand journal, but I can't be bothered, because my time has dissolved into two base activities:

1) Complaining about how cold it is.

2) Complaining about being too warm.

You know where they keep the perfect temperature? I'll tell you - abroad. It's that sunny day with a slight breeze, and the only time we British are every truly happy. Your only two options in England are sweating and frost bite. Take your pick. And I'll let you in to a few other facts, your mother will try and roast you. She can't get enough of central heating. And your Ginger Beard will turn you into an ice cube, because you're wearing all your jumpers and he's still too stingy to show you how the boiler works.

I've also occupied myself with discovering why trains are so shit. It's because companies spend most of their time refunding first class passengers. It's something they pride themselves on. Every bloody morning commuter train, sees the declassification of First Class. And they're so apologetic:

'Excuse me, first class people? Is this on? Yes? Okay, people who are better than everyone else, I'm afraid that we're going to have to let the poor people sit with you. To apologise in advance for the possibility that one of them might, God forbid, touch you, your entire journey is now free. Look at it as compensation. For all superior passengers who have not had a recent rabies shot, please alight the train by jumping from it immediately (it's safer). On behalf of Northern Rail, I apologise for any inconvenience, poverty contamination, or imminent death that this announcement causes.'

Stop making rich people richer! Where the fuck is Robin Hood when you need him? You've got thirty people per train, travelling free each day. I tell you what would work out cheaper, BUY MORE TRAINS. You complete chumps.

Sunday, January 08, 2012

Happy Blue Year!

Just like last year, one can't help but feel that if you're not fat, hungover, and realising that you'll never be bothered to do anything, ever again, then you haven't embraced the true spirit of Christ, and his like, Mass.

Turns out making Christmas dinner is not as hard as everyone makes out. And this is all thanks to an appliance, which was a jolly good investment; a mother. They do get a bit pissy about you not using coasters. But if you leave the washing up for long enough, they just do it. Awesome.

I've also recently purchased a brother (previously I sold him to the States for a year). Not so recommended. It takes every Ad break as an opportunity to fart, employs balled up wrapping paper as a weapon, and relieves its bowels with the door open. DO NOT WASTE YOUR MONEY FOLKS. Just get a mum and be done with it. A mum will even watch Rude Tube with you, and get upset that number 1 is Justin Timberlake giving a girl a present of his dick in a box.

It's nice being indoors so much when the house is this God Damn festive. This year, my family have tish toshed at the idea of a Christmas tree, and opted instead for the more traditional potted fern (not decorated). We had all our presents  assembled around said 2 foot tall plant. Ah bless. It's not bah humbug. It's a recession. And it's not just the public sector who are feeling the pinch.

This is what 2012 looks like; everyone is over Christmas. That was like, so last year. They've been forced back into too tight office attire, forced to shove themselves onto cold, delayed trains. And they are pissed. Do not ask them to move from your booked seat. It's not worth it. The way they look at you is a promise, a memorising of your face. One day soon, they will track you down, and stab you, in the same way you have just apparently stabbed them.

There is approximately a four second pause where they stare, mortified, mouth agape, at you, a you is already fucking with their baby faced New Year. You Nazi. You January bastard.

I reflect fondly on Christmas Eve, when a walk through West Bridgford was like being on the set of a sickeningly cheesy American Santa related film. The children were laughing. Single mothers bellowed 'Good morning!' from across the road. Elderly men smiled to themselves and almost skipped along. But not now. Oh no, that won't happen again for another eleven months. Forget all about that sunshine. We're bitter now, tight lipped and offended. Driving like lunatics, manically swapping between lanes with complete disregard. So depressed, we find ourselves, in this windy, sodden month, that we don't much care to survive it.

I have somehow managed to cling on to a little cheer, for a whole eight days! Despite collecting a good few awkward moments, without which, I would not have this blog.

I was making my way to the lift at work, keeping pace with a blonde woman. A man shouted over from reception, 'Has anyone dropped a purple glove?'. I threw my hand in the air as I turned, 'Yes, that's mine!'. I assumed. It's rare to have purple gloves, and I walk around the world, littering it with my dropped possessions. Next to me, the blonde woman had also stopped, 'No it's not yours. It's my glove!'. I looked closer (my eyes are shitty mcshit shit). It was leather. I have wool gloves. 'Oh, yes,' I said, 'Not mine.' Then we shared a moment. All five of us: myself, the blonde, the glove finder, and two onlookers. And in that moment, four people looked at me and thought, that girl steals gloves, single gloves. She's a dirty little single glove stealer.

Luckily I'd been unconsciously  txting busty, instead of busy, to people all day. Because I am never too busty to see anyone. So I think my rep is safe.