Zumbariffic

For some reason, neither I nor Ginger Beard* can be bothered to buy cereal. Do we have the folded remnants of forty-two different varieties stuffed into one box? Why yes, yes we do. But will be ever desire a pic 'n' mix approach to breakfast? Certainly not.

As a result, ladies and gentlemen, I have come into the office and created my own breakfast: lemon green tea, grapes and a banana. After Zumba last night, I'm feeling so healthy I could do a cartwheel and survive (last time a cartwheel was attempted, it was not pretty, and could not walk properly for days).

I will not do this, but will instead drool over biscuits, which remain from Biscuit Monday. Will also smell green tea, but not drink it, and mush grapes into desk. Yum.

Unfortunately, I've got worse at Zumba. Yes of course I can still perform the kind of moves one might spot a prostitute using on a street corner luring in clientele. But that's a given when you've grown up in Nottingham (as well as being able to cope with being a shot and never really knowing who the father is.) I think the wine I drank last week made me 'think' I was alright. Now, in my complete sobriety, I see that I am a joke. But that's the power of beer goggles.

You should do it! It's a fabulous lesson in humiliating yourself in public.

Have you ever been holding a cup of water, and your handbag, and trying to get into your house, poured that water into your handbag? No? Highly recommended.

I'm holding off on my reading of Sylvia Plath's journals, because I'm worried I'll reach the same conclusion that she herself was drawn to: putting my head in an oven. And I've still got a lot more people I wish to annoy, and handbags I'd like to ruin, before meeting such a heated end.


*Ginger Beard - for those who are unaware, is my lesser, more ginger other half. He thinks that he's a doctor, but really he plays around with pigs all day or something, taking their knees away. It's really quite sad. If you would like to make a donation to me, to help me cope with this, it will be accepted.

Murder by numbers

Does anyone else have Sisqo's 'Thong Song' on loop in their head?

Just me? Oh, okay.

I am considering moving this blog to Tumblr, because I feel that it has outgrown this place. *Sob*
Well not really, it's actually because I'm all about aesthetics and Tumblr is prettier. I don't really understand it, and it freezes constantly. The most I can achieve is a blog called 'Untitled', and no posts. I think you'll agree, it's a definite improvement on what I've got going here.

ALSO, I've gained a small but steady readership in Venezuela. Welcome, hang up your coat, stay a while.

ALSO, I came home (alone) last night, and noticed muddy footprints up the stairs. I hesitated. I looked at the clean soles of my boots, and continued upwards. And then, entering the bathroom, I got the whiff of a man, a man previously unknown to me. A man who had recently been in this very room. My nose has all the capabilities of Sherlock, if he had been a hoover. It knows everything from a few inhalations. The only logical thing to do was get a knife from the kitchen, and go looking. I chose a dirty knife, speckled with spring onion slices, and hunted him. I brought forth the knowledge I had stored from every horror, ever psychological thriller, and unleashed it. I tip toed, I sought out nooks and crannies. I branded my knife, high in the air, ready at every turn, to stab.

So it turns out, our bath is leaking down into the shop below, and the plumber had come round (after speaking to Ginger Beard) and performed some Plummerish things.

At least I know, that when the time arises I will be ready.

To be honest I was thinking, 'Not here, not now, not by some cocky mo fo, who has the audacity to take a bath in my home before he murders me.'

Also, I am often compared to Rambo by my peers.

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.

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.

'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.

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.

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?

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.