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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.