Friday, 29 October 2010

Getting Reacquainted...

Blinking flip! I've not written a blog for a while, have I? Naughty me, etc. Been really rather busy with the new job and when I've not been working, I've been at the gym, which has proved a pointless exercise as I am still irritatingly over weight. And when I've not been bingeing and sticking my fingers down my throat, I've been cracking tasteless jokes. And then there was my birthday when I hit the grand old age of 29 years and 60 months. And when I wasn't doing that I was probably watching the TV. So, in order to reacquaint myself with you, I thought I'd blog the answers to one of those questionnaires that occasionally does the rounds via email/social networking weapon of choice/carrier pigeon.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Fascinatingly, yes. My father and I share EXACTLY the same name, which infuriated me as a child. To be honest, I’m still secretly bitter that I was named JOHN because: a) it’s boring – if it was a colour, it would be beige. b) John is American for toilet. c) This meant that my Dad could legitimately open all my mail as a child. Even though I never got any. Still, on the bright side, at least I’m not called Derek. Or Gary. Or Moonbeam.

2. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Yes. I write like a girl, apparently. All neat and swirly. And gay.

3. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No. Thankfully I’m barren. Like Sharon from EastEnders.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
What sort of a fucking question is that? What next, ‘What’s your favourite hymn to secretly frig to?’

5. WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE HYMN TO SECRETLY FRIG TO?
Oh… Erm, either, ‘Make Me a Channel of your Peace’ (Old Dirty Bastard remix) or I Breathe Again by Adam Ricketts. Even though he’s a Tory.

6. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Ben and Jerry’s Fish Food. I can inhale a whole tub of it in about six minutes. Cheerio arteries. Hello male gurdle. (Seven pounds from Asda, if you’re wondering. Cackle!)

7. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Teeth. I can’t abide poor oral health. It sickens me and makes me feel violent.

8. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
My nostrils and the fact that I can sleep for twelve hours and still look tired. And the fact that when I am tired I become intolerant of the human race, like now. So fucking fuck off.

9. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
Come Dine With Me is on in the background. There’s a really annoying fat man who I hope chokes on the swill he’s just served up. Yes, that's right, I'm still tired.

10. WHAT COLOUR TROUSERS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
I’m actually wearing some luminous orange pants and odd socks. And that’s it. It’s okay, I’m at home on the sofa, not out at a seedy fetish club for chubby chasing perverts. Not yet anyway. Boom! Boom!

11. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
A heavy breathing old pervert. Just kidding, Dad.

12. HAIR COLOR?
Brown. Although when I was university, approximately 97 years ago, I saw fit to dye it as it was cheaper than getting it cut. All attempts were unmitigated disasters: Blonde – I looked like a cross between Sick Boy out of Trainspotting and Russ Abbot. Black – I looked like a grave digger on acid. Purple: I looked like circumcised penis. In the end, the cost to my dignity rendered my frugality as a false economy and took myself off to Super Cuts where the hairdresser asked me if the purple glow radiating from my bonce was natural. I said yes.

13. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Abba. Much better than both of them put together. I’ve never quite ‘got’ The Beatles or the Stones and have to weather the storm of other peoples’ spittle and venom when I wearily say that I think they’re overrated. If I had to choose, I’d probably say The Beatles as I quite like Hey Jude and I am the Walrus, but every time I see Paul McCartney waving his veggie burgers I feel pleasantly murderous.

14. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
You should see my big toes. They’re really something.

15. FAVOURITE SAYINGS?
‘Frig off! And wash your bastard nets you scruffy cow.’ From East is East. I almost perforated my bowel laughing watching that film. Bravo, etc.

Thursday, 26 August 2010

Gay Coma Alert #2: 20 Years of Vogue...

There are no words... Am fizzing type dribbly mess. Hurrah! Whatchu lookin' at? Vooogue!

Wednesday, 18 August 2010

Gay Coma Alert...

Madonna as ninja? Check.
Madonna singing marvellous song?
Madonna jumping 30 metres in the air and generally kicking arse? Check.
Gay coma? Imminent.
ENJOY!

Monday, 16 August 2010

Separated At Birth #2: Sam Pepper and Ugly Betty...

Ugly Betty (with dodgy dyke haircut)
Sam Pepper of Big Bro infamy (with epic teeth scaffolding)

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Alternative Career #8: Presenter of The One Show...

Pros: I can smell the envy now. What hours will you be working, people will ask when I tell them that I’ve just filled the vacancy on BBC1’s magazine show. Oh, I’ll say a little too casually, trying not to appear too smug, but probably failing. I start at seven and I’m out by seven thirty – all for about £5 million smackeroonies a year. People will gasp. I will nod sagely at them. And what will you be doing, they’ll say, choking on their choccy Hob Nob. Hmmm, it’s quite a demanding role, I’ll try and say without laughing in their face. I sit there, introduce my co-host, talk about random things that don’t seem to gel, but are jarringly in the public interest anyway. One second I’ll be looking dementedly serious whilst lamenting the latest natural disaster to wipe out half a million people. The next thing you know, I’ll be talking about the relative merits of own brand kitchen towels before accidentally dropping in a double-entendre and giving a cheeky wink to the camera. Then I’ll interview some animal owner about their pet gerbil collection and laugh as one of the animals craps on a credit expert that we’ve got in to tell us how to stick it to the bank. Ooh, and just think, I’ll get to ‘work’ with Jason Manford. I might even ask if I can re-record the theme tune. I know all the words and everything.

Cons: The camera adds ten pounds AND it’s filmed in HD? So what you’re saying is, that not only will I look like a sweaty pavement cracker but every imperfection will be highlighted at the same time? I suppose I could get an industrial strength girdle, breathe in AND suck my cheeks in, but I might look like I’ve crapped my red pants and talking could be rendered a trifle tricky. Can we re-edit it before broadcast? I’m thinking Photoshop, I’m thinking long distance soft lenses, I’m thinking extremely kind lighting… I’m thinking hard core CGI… What do you mean it’s live? Is that wise? Is that even legal? It’s quite possible that I’ll jokingly call someone a ‘daft twat’ or a ‘silly fucker’ or pick my nose whilst Bill Oddie is going off on one or accidentally stamp on some protected wildlife that’s he brought it. Only in self defence your honour.

Chances: What do you mean, the vacancy has been filled by Christine Bleakley’s doppelganger? Oh well, it’d never have worked anyway – it clashes with Emmerdale on the other side. Puh.

Friday, 6 August 2010

Nigerian Proverb...(that made me smile)


'If your face is swollen from the severe beatings of life, smile and pretend to be a fat man.'

Taken from The Other Hand by Chris Cleave - an amazing book. Go read!

Thursday, 5 August 2010

Note to Gaga...

This is how you do it, sweetcheeks... ;-)

Friday, 30 July 2010

Pootling Around Radlett...


My university campus was located in a Aldenham, a beautiful rural nook of Hertfordshire. In addition to the uni-faculty, it was home to some lovable but knackered-looking horses and a golf club that I was asked to leave one night after turning up a) drunk and b) wearing pyjama bottoms that I thought were snazzy, bobby-dazzler type fashion slacks. It was also home to a snigger-tastically named pub called The Round Bush from whence I was sacked after doing a spectacularly cruel accurate, impression of the boss to the punters, who laughed. The boss, who I didn’t realise was standing behind me at the time, failed to see the funny side. Goodbye job! Cheerio punters!

Aldenham is next door to Radlett, another delicious cranny of Herts. Have you ever been there? Is it a really small town or simply a massive village? I can never quite decide but either way, it’s lovely.

Now that I’m hurtling towards my mid-thirties and am officially boring – hooray! – I love nothing more than spending a lazy Saturday morning having a little pootle around Radlett. I’ll drive in via the scenic route, attempt to get a parking space outside the shops, fail to capture said parking space, swear a bit, grind my gears, have a bit more of a swear and then end up in the car park around the back. I’ll take in the shops – all half a dozen of them – and then end up in a coffee shop where I’ll fail to resist the cake whilst having a good reminisce about the good old days in Radlett… I’ll drift off into daydreams-ville and miss my mouth as I think about the following…

1. As a student, I used to work in a hideous video shop which has now been swallowed up by a Tesco Express. Even though Tesco’s expansion worries me, I say good riddance to the video store. It was run by a smelly, fat pervert called Raza. He was much fatter than I, but this didn’t stop him poking me in the love handle with his overly-chewed biro whilst inhaling a samosa so quickly, that he obviously thought I was going to steal it. I suppose he had good reason: at the time, I thought of myself as a Marxist. I bought the Socialist Worker and everything. I didn’t read it, but that wasn’t the point. Anyway, one day, I upset old Raza by shutting the shop up so I could nip next door and get myself a cob/roll (delete as applicable, depending on geography). I was halfway through a twelve hour shift and needed a break. I was the only person working that day, so I put a sign up saying, ‘BACK IN TEN MINS’. However, Raza caught me red-handed. He threw a paddy, screaming, ‘No! No! Never! No! You must ALWAYS put, ‘Back in one minute!’ ONE MINUTE! Are you trying to ruin me and my FAMILY?’ Then he picked up his biro and tried to stab me in the flab with it.

He’d also ring me up at midnight to ask me why the cash till was down by 46 pence and then tell me that he was docking my wages to make up for my incompetence. The Marxist within was not amused. On my final shift, I went through the computer system, cleared everyone’s fines and helped myself to as many Kit Kats as I could shovel down myself. And believe me when I say that was A LOT.

2. Budgens. It’s 1998. It’s Friday afternoon and the Bank Holiday weekend is about to kick in. All my assignments are complete. I am planning on celebrating with a night out into London. I am in Budgens, buying groceries and attempting to get cash-back when the wonky-eyed, slab-cracker behind the counter takes my debit card off me at the request of the bank. I get home and ring the bank, only to find out that I’d inexplicably gone £900 over my overdraft limit. Like, whoopsy. Shame and social ostracision follows in the form of a SOLO card.

3. Mamuzin Pizza. Still in business today and with good reason. They make the best pizza in the world and happily accepted cheques back in the day, which meant that I could still purchase delivery pizza even when I was £890 over my overdraft limit. *slaps arse twice*

4. Beaver Travel. Again, still in business today. Call me puerile and childish, but I always chortle at the name of the place. What with that and The Round Bush. And I’m a gay. Fancy.

5. Being a penniless student, I once tried to jump the train at Radlett. I got caught and despite an Oscar winning performance of, ‘must have left my ticket on the train, missus’, the conductor wasn’t having any of it. Thinking that there was nothing more to be done than just cough up, I proffered my gorgeous SOLO card. The conductor took one look at it and laughed in my face. Fortunately, it wasn't checked when I ended up giving a fake name. I still haven’t paid the fine to this day. Ronan Keating, if Network Rail ever caught up with you, I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not. Consider it your punishment for Life Is A Rollercoaster, which still haunts my dreams to this day.

What's Wrong With People?

Apparently, a fan of Coro (not me, I hasten to add), has paid £844 at auction for the ashes of Frisky - the moggie who appeared in the opening sequence of more than a thousand episodes of the soap, crouched on the roof of Jack Duckworth's pigeon loft. Not only did the cat not belong to the buyer whilst alive, but it has also been been dead for ten years.

Now, I love me a bit of Corrie the same as the next person with a distinct lack of life and to each their own, etc., but WHAT THE EFFING JEFF IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? If you had the ashes in the first place, why would you consider auctioning them? And if you were strange enough to buy them, where would you put the ashes of the decade-dead cat? That sat on a pigeon loft. On the mantlepiece? More to the point, why would you want them? And why would you spend the best part of a grand on them? And why would you call a cat Frisky? It probably died of shame. Or cat-clap.

Shocking. There's nowt so queer as folk, save for me and thee, etc.

Thursday, 29 July 2010

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

'Big Society': A RANT...

God, I REALLY can’t stand David Cameron. Or George Osbourne. Or Nick TRAITOR Clegg, for that matter. It’s no secret AT ALL, that I regard the average Tory in the same light as I do RAOUL MOAT, but after the election and all this talk of ‘the new politics’, I thought I’d bite my tongue and give them a chance. Early signs were good: the Lib Dems’ idea of taking the first 10K earned out of tax seemed progressive and positive. Lots of red tape was axed and the debt reduction plan got under way. Then the budget came and it all seemed to go HORRIBLY TITS UP for everyone except those who are quite comfortably off. There was much talk of everyone SHARING THE PAIN, but I can’t quite see how the well off are going to feel the same amount of pain as the poorest in society.

At the forefront of the governments cost-slashing mission appears to be Cameron’s ridiculous, unworkable and FRANKLY FUCKING STUPID idea of BIG SOCIETY.

Big Society? Big Bollocks, more like… I don't even want to go into one of my rants about this, but I’m about to, so look away now. All I can say is POPPYCOCK.

Call me stupid, but it appears to me that the entire plan is based upon the notion that the people of our nation actually give a toss about other people. I don’t know how you feel about this, but in my experience the majority of people don't (I’m looking directly at those who voted Tory in the first place – does HISTORY TEACH US PISS ALL?) I’m not saying that EVERYONE is a selfish so and so, but when the main reaction to George Osbourne’s (boo, hiss, spit, happy slap) budget earlier this year is ‘OOH, IS IT GOING TO AFFECT ME? HOW DARE YOU cut things THAT AFFECT ME? Cut the BENEFITS and the SERVICES my family don't use! And kick out all the immigrants whilst you’re at it!’ then SURELY even the Tories can surely gauge the overall, overwhelmingly selfish public mood? There is no concern for the general wellbeing of the country. The government cannot be entirely blind to this, CAN THEY?

Now transplant this attitude to a new system in which the government outsources public services to this general public that don't really give a toss about anyone else and herein lies your problem. Add to that the fact that even those who are interested in doing something don't know a MONKEY’S PISS FLAP about the complexity of running a competent and reliable public service. HECK, most of their opinions of politics are drastically generalising and ill-informed in the first place. This sort of set-up ALWAYS attracts power-hungry Daily Mail reading types with FAR too much time to spare and FAR too much of an axe to grind for their own good. If this is the public they're dishing out "power" to then MADGE HELP our public services. And if public services fail, who suffers the most? Those in need.

Of course, it's not just the fact that people don't want to help, or that they don't know what the fuck they're doing but also the VERY OBVIOUS QUALM that even the most well-meaning of folk SIMPLY do not have swathes of their own time to dish out for NO PERSONAL GAIN of their own. Whilst there are people out there who can and do volunteer for the greater good, my feeling is that they are VERY MUCH a MINORITY. Try finding some school leavers or some of the millions unemployed who are willing to work for nothing whilst their family is already staring the breadline right in the face. Not to mention that we have a populace so obsessed with self-gain and financial reward that it's made us far more unlikely to all PITCH IN AND HELP ONE ANOTHER anyway. One of the most obvious demographics for the ConDem(n)s to turn to are the pensioners, who not only have free time but also some scraps of feeling of societal togetherness (possibly left over from the war, rationing and the 1950s.) But even though there are masses of them, you seriously can't expect people to just want to give up their time to prop up ill-advised government BOLLOCKY IDEAS?

Volunteering, whilst a valuable and honourable thing to do, is also one of the most unreliable ways of running what are VITAL SERVICES. They need funding (and where the hell is that going to come from, exactly? Charity boxes?) They also need people – not those who can down tools and SOD OFF without a moment's notice. Can we really cope with such a fragile framework propping up these operations?

WELL, NOT REALLY, NO.

(Oh look a rant. With lots of CAPITAL LETTER SHOUTING SHENANIGANS. Well done me.)

Sunday, 18 July 2010

Dear Diary #2

Sunday, 18 July 2010
Weather: Bit overcast and a little chilly. Am wearing my dressing gown which could do with a wash. A wood pigeon outside is making a twit-twoo noise, much like an owl. Maybe it is an owl. Yes, I think it might well be.
Mood: I’ve got wind. That about covers it.
Song of the day: Kylie, Your Disco Needs You (you’ll see why in a mojo). La disco, a besoin de vous!
News events of the day: Some budget airline has gone bust and there are loads of people stranded abroad. I know it’s terrible, but my advice would be to simply just get caught up in the drama and enjoy yourself. Stuck in paradise and can’t get home? What a shame. Suck it up and get over it, people. I’m partially jealous.


Dear Diary,

As I write to you, I am bleary eyed and fresh from slumberdom where I had a rather odd dream. Yes, I know that other peoples’ dreams are usually fist-munchingly dull (same goes for their holiday snaps, truth be told… Hmm, nice pointless picture of a yacht that you just walked past and never went on, lovely! Oooh, non-interesting blurred photo of generic sunburnt person drinking beer and looking a tad simple in an English themed pub, great!)… Where was I? Oh yes, I am writing this (probably boring account) down in case any of it comes true. This will then serve as proof that I am some sort of soothsayer and can be legitimately sponsored by Uri Geller. Or some fruity chewing gum. Probably.

So! Last night I was extremely busy being fast a-kip when my subconscious exported me to the library at work. I was minding my own business and smelling lovely when Kylie (yes, the Kylie, of hotpants Spinning Around infamy) came in and said that she wanted a word. I was like, ‘yeah, whatever, I’ll just put these books away and then I need a wazz and I’ll be right with you, chuck,’ which was a sure sign it was a dream because if it was real life, I’d probably just go to the loo in my pants on the spot. When I finally caught up with her, she gave me a big hug and told me that she had nominated me to become an OBE. Turns out that when she had been poorly a few years ago, I’d been a rock and as a result, she thought I was worthy of a royal honour. Next thing you know, I’m at the Palace and the Queen was pinning a badge on me. Strangely, she had a really broad Mancunian accent and all she said was, ‘Well done, lover. ‘Elp yersen to Piccalilli Cake. It’s friggin gorgeous.’ She looked terrible. She had one of those horrible pastel get- ups that she’s fond of wearing. But this one was too big for her and she had clearly dropped her Piccalilli Cake down her. I know she’s 487 years old or whatever, but come on Liz, pull yourself together, woman. I didn’t say that to her, as I was concerned that she’d have me for high treason and lob my bonce off. Armed with my OBE badge, I floated back to my friends, (ie. Kylie and entourage) who were waiting for me with a large slab of the Queen’s finest Piccalilli cake. Truly scrumptious, etc. As we giggled and guffawed, Kylie’s mood suddenly turned. ‘Okay you big fat bitch,’ she snarled. ‘Now it’s time for you to do something for me.’ I almost choked on my mustard pickle treat. ‘Give me your stylist,’ she screamed. ‘Mine’s rubbish – look at me.’ I stood back and drank her image in. She too was in an oversized pastel frock and she had a bit of pepper stuck in her teeth. Crestfallen and slightly gutted that Kylie was in fact a bit of a cow, I kneed her in the fanny and legged it. That’ll learn her, won’t it? And don’t worry about me hitting a woman – when I got home and looked in the mirror, it turned out that I was Victoria Beckham. Aka, Ethiopian Spice.

Sunday, 11 July 2010

Dear Diary...

Sunday, 11 July 2010.
Weather: Oppressively hot. Am sweating like an infidel.
Mood: Shy/wild.
Song of the day: Happy Birthday – dedicated to my dearest darling Dombo who is aging as fabulously as a good bottle of wine. Gorgeous simile, methinketh.
News facts of the day: The family of infamous, self-defunct gunman Raoul thingymejig are up in arms about the fact that he shot himself, claiming that he is not a nutter. I am not sure I believe them. Tis also the day of the World Cup Final in South Africa. Spain v Holland. Come on Spain, etc. Not that I really care. Am a bit sported out to be truthful. I just want the telly to go back to normal. And James Corden to get the fuck out of my face.

The future has been revealed to me – and it’s Cilit Bang. Truly, it is. I’m not normally the sort of person that falls for advertising shtick, but my shower door was getting beyond a joke. Despite priding self on obsessive, OCD-levels of clean and possessing the nose of a well behaved, flea-free bloodhound with an arse that won’t quit, the waxy limey water stains on the door were infuriating me. (Note to self: must get a life at some point. Possibly tomorrow.) I tried all sorts, from normal old cleaners (Mr Muscle, if you're reading this, you're useless and can shit off) liberally rubbed in with a large dollop of elbow grease, neat bleach and Kim and Aggie’s long term fave, vinegar. Not the recommended white vinegar, though. I can’t seem to locate it in the supermarkets. Nope, I just used Sarsons, fresh from the cupboard. It didn’t work. It just made the bathroom smell like a rank old bag of chips. Meanwhile, the water stains continued to mock me as I bathed. Pah!

Anyway, you’ll be fascinated to know that today was the day where I thought enough was enough. Enter Cillit Bang. Being the recessionista that I am, I’m usually averse to paying £4 for a bottle of cleaning liquid, but you can’t take your pennies with you when you slip off the dish and these water stains were pushing me further to a stress induced death by the day. Yes I am that sad. Speaking of which, I have decided to embrace my flaws (namely: obsessive cleanliness, moderate chubbarama, snoring, irritability when tired, a love of musicals, refusing to hear a bad word said against Lord Madge, text-message response apathy) rather than continue the exhausting fight to be a better person. Sod that for a game of soldiers. This is as good as it gets, folks. Am probably off to Hell once I check out of Hotel Life’s presidential suite, so what’s the point?

Where was I? Oh yes; to cut a short, rather dull story a little shorter, I Cillit Banged my shower door big style and it’s come up a bloody treat. People in my family swear by certain commodities as cure all evil products. Eg. My Mam would slap Nivea on anything untoward (spots, broken arms, third degree burns, aching joints, military dictators, people who vote Tory) and my sister does the same with Sudocrem. I think I will liberally apply Cillit Bang to any problematic areas of my life. Seriously, it’s a marvel.

*breathes*

In other breaking news, I was passionately ravished all night long... By mosquitos, sadly. Mr Blokey remains bite-free, despite being truly scrumptious and much tastier than I. But no, the low-rent mozzies decided to dine out on me instead. I look like a well worn dot-to-dot worksheet. Malaria, anyone? No fear, I will simply treat my bites will Cillit Bang.

Hurrah.

Sunday, 27 June 2010

July? Already?!

Mother of Madge, can you believe that July begins next week? I can’t believe it… Well, I can, because, well, y’know, it’s almost July… Hasn’t it gone quick though? Only one short blog ago, it was April and – crash, bang wallop, etc – May and June go sprinting past quicker than you can say, ‘Ra-ra, ooh, la la! Gaga! Ooh, la, laaa!’ and we’re almost at the dawn of 2010’s seventh month. July. Seriously, I can’t believe it. The ticking of the insisting clock, etc…

So what’s been happening in the last couple of months?

1. I got a job! Hurrah! And I love it! Double hurrah! I’ve finally found what I want to do forever and ever, amen! Triple hurrah! And it’s close to home so no more commutes that make me want to stab self in face with a wooden chip fork that’s been wazzed on by vermin! Quadra hurrah! No more having to sign on! Penta (or whatever it is, am sure you get the picture) hurrah!

Am working with kids, which is brilliant, but they are very observant and quite ruthless with it. Sob. Example conversation:

Me: So everyone, you know what to do. Take a worksheet and colour it in. Are there any questions?
*Porky child thrusts hand skywards.*
Yes, child. What appears to be the problem.
Child: Are you fat or just chubby?
Me: What? *breathes in*
Child: Are you fat? Or just chubby?
Me: *wincing* Erm… Well… *apologetic tone* I suppose I’m a bit of both…
Child: And sir, why is one of your teeth yellow?
Me: Er… Who can spell liposuction?

2. I have had many conversations with my father, who remains on the cusp of madness. Any day now and the men in the white coats will be round with industrial strength drugs to keep him in a constant dreamy smooth state. Sounds quite appealing actually.

3. I have – for some strange reason – received lots of chain emails instructing me to forward said email on to everyone I know in order to receive a free iPod / car / highstreet voucher / multiple orgasm at the stroke of midnight whilst surrounded by tranny dwarves singing Simon and Garfunkel or similar. Such glorious promises come at a cost: failure to comply generally results in unsavoury threats where my unmentionables will drop off. Even though I know such threats are ridiculous I still find myself forwarding the email on, just in case. Needless to say, I am yet to receive my voucher for my iPod dwarf orgy type extravaganza, which is just as well, really.

3. I have re-read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Housini. It’s epic. It’s fantastic. It breaks my heart every time. A masterpiece. If you haven’t read it, I insist that you do it now. Go on, then. If you do, you will receive a brand new 50 inch TV delivered by horny dwarves at the stroke of midnight. If you don’t, then you will wake up tomorrow with spots on your forehead that spells the word FLAPS. You may scoff, but do you really want to take the chance? DO YOU?

4. Eurovision came and went. Britain came last again. We were crap though, but not as crap as Germany who inexplicably won. The girl singing it sounded like I did the time I had caught nonovirus and ejected violently from every available orifice. It’s all political. Spit!

5. Britain’s Got Talent came and went. Although next year they should really consider changing the title to Britain’s Got Street Dancers and Ugly People Who Can Sing and a Lad Who Plays the Drums That Won’t Sod Off. I did quite like the dancing dog though. I don’t mind Simon Cowell so much, but Piers Morgan needs euthanizing and Frankie Boyle was on the money when he described Amanda Holden as, ‘having a face like haunted Tupperware.’ Cackle.

6. My beloved football team – Nottingham Forest – got to the play offs, where, true to form, they spectacularly capitulated and massively failed to gain promotion. As we conceded our third – and most horrific goal – there was a news flash to say that evil Tory bigot David Cameron had managed to persuade Nick Clegg to sell his soul and form a coalition government. It was a dark day in every sense. I voted LibDem only to watch them climb into bed and go bareback with the Tories. Needless to say, I shall NEVER vote for them again. EVER. Note to Vince Cable: get out now whilst you can. The rest of them can SHIT OFF.

7. The sun has had his hat on and I shouted hip, hip, hurrah. And then I got brown. And a gazebo!

8. My car tax – fascinatingly – came up for renewal. I always get six months at a time but I promised self that this year, I would get twelve as it means that I won’t have to renew in December. I failed. Come Chrimbo, if anyone finds themselves struggling to get me a present, then you could do worse than getting me twelve months car tax, for Nelly the Nissan. Cheers. Come all ye faithful, etc.

9. I won the lottery! Yes, me! Ten whole pounds. Ker-ching! And no, I won’t spend it all at once. I hope it doesn’t change me.

10. I meant to re-join the gym. But I haven’t got round to it yet. It’s too hot. I shall do it once England crash out of the World Cup. ie – tomorrow.

Anyway, enough about me, how are you?

Wednesday, 28 April 2010

Job Centre Checklist...

Rape alarm. Check.

Taser gun. Check. Just in case rape alarm fails. You never can be too careful, etc.

Industrial strength hand sanitiser / Bleach. Check. It's not OCD, it's common sense.

Valium. Check. Procured from dodgydrugsthatwillprobablykillyou.com

Vodka. Check. To help wash down Valium. Procured from Lidl as am now forced to economise. Yum.

Sunglasses. Check. Yes, tis rude to stare at people less fortunate than self, but with sunglasses, they’ll never know. And it also prevents people from recognising me, see, so it’s win-win.

Pen. Check. As do not like using theirs because a) you don’t know who has used them and b) They are often chewed or have been coughed on and have reams of sellotape inexplicably wrapped round them which attracts hair and bogies. Not mine, I hasten to add.

Anti-boredom drug Eg. Suppository / Ecstacy / Miaow Miaow or similar. Check. For employees there. I’ve never met people so uninterested, despondent and jaded. Apart from my Dad, but he doesn’t count.

Coldsore cream. Check. Everyone in there seems to have one.

Bible. Check. So I can read the bit where Baby Jesus has a hissy fit and screams, WHY HAVE THOU FORSAKEN ME, PA? (or something along those lines) and feel empathetic and sage-like.

Please note, if you ever have to sign on and see someone who appears to be off their tits on drugs and booze, who also appears to be wearing sunglasses and is reading the Bible as he strokes his chin... do NOT say hello. If you do, you might get tasered. You have been warned.

Alternative Career #6: The New SuBo...

Pros: I said, SUBO not SUMO. You know, as in Susan Boyle. I could do with being plucked from obscurity whilst having global fame, riches and a council house in Scotland thrust my way. I’m not doing anything else at the moment. Besides, I’ve got as much stubble as her, I’m equally as rotund and after a few sherries, I look just as vacant. Mentalism is in my family genes and I even know ALL the words to I Dreamed a Dream. I know, get me.

Cons: Whilst I may know all the words to I Dreamed a Dream, I fear that my rendition might not go down as well as hers. I think I might struggle with the ‘money note’ at the end. Besides, it’s a bit depressing isn’t it? All that woe and self pity – that’s not what Joe Public want is it? I’d sing something more uplifting and joyous. Like Aga-do. Thinking about it, I don’t know how I’d cope with someone like Piers Morgan rejecting me by hitting his buzzer as I approach the climax of my performance. I may attempt a spinning-bird kick on him – and that’s no good for humanity. Believe me.

Chances: What do you mean, the Britain’s Got Talent auditions have been and gone? Oh bugger. Oh well. Maybe next year, eh?

Friday, 9 April 2010

Why I will NEVER vote Tory..


I arrived home yesterday after a hideous day at the office to find a badly written pamphlet hanging through the letter box. It made a lame, ill-fated attempt to persuade me to vote for a fat, smug, sweaty Tory with bad hair. It did nothing to lift my mood. It's now sitting in my recycling box and that's where it will stay, unless I run out of toilet paper.

You see, ever since I was a kid, I've always thought of the Conservative Party as a selfish, spiteful bunch of old bastards and for all of the slime and tiresome shite that they're currently spewing, my view hasn't changed.

I grew up in 1980s Britain as part of a community that was decimated by a Conservative Administration hell bent on bloody-minded ideals and relentless economic growth. I cringe when people champion Thatcher and what she did. So she was a conviction politician and got things done? She was a bully and a tyrant whose policies sewed the seeds of the economic catastrophe that we're facing now, although things weren't any better then. For many, they were worse and the minority were allowed to prosper disproportionately at the sake of the majority. Unemployment was higher in the 1980s as interest rates skyrocketed. Our industry was sold off to the highest bidder. For a woman who offered a petulant, 'no, no, no,' to parliament over Europe, it was amazing how eager she was to sell our 'family silver' to them... And at the centre of their economic policy was the deregulation of the banks. Remind me, how did that turn out again?

As a nation, we don't own anything. We don't own our gas, we don't own our electricity, we don't own our transport network and we don't own our own communication networks. We are utterly reliant on foreign investment to stop us from going bankrupt. Please don't think that I'm supporting or endorsing the Labour Party by default, because I'm not. Tony Blair removed the 'labourness' out of the Labour Party when he banished Clause Four from the Labour Party's constitution, thus aligning New Labour with Tory political ideology. To that end, they have failed Britain by perpetuating Tory principles and because of that, Tony Blair will forever disgust me.

However, the economy isn't the deal breaker in terms of securing my vote...

My biggest concern is equality. To that end - and without wanting to start screaming GAY RIGHTS FOR GAYS - I will never, ever, EVER support a party with members and a leader who rejected the repeal of Section 28 - a vile piece of legislation that portrayed gay people as abnormal. In general terms, Section 28 - brought in by Thatcher's backbenchers - legitimised homophobic discrimination across the board. In doing so, it reinforced the belief that it was perfectly acceptable to discriminate against people on the basis of their sexuality and went as far as to state that if you were a teacher, not to discriminate could land you in jail.

As a gay kid growing up in the 1980s and early 1990s, this law had a pernicious effect. Simply stated, I suffered under it and I cannot forgive it.

You might think that it was 20 years ago, that society has moved on and that the Conservative Party has changed. I'm not too sure. Cameron's voting record on gay rights - the rights that directly affect me as an equal human being in society - is worrying. He opposed gay adoption and voted against the rejection of Section 28 in 2003. Despite this, in order to curry favour with the queer vote, he issued a paltry apology for Section 28 - and then aligned Tory MEPs with two of the most right wing, homophobic parties in the European Parliament. They have done nothing about Chris Grayling's (Shadow Home Secretary) bigoted comments that supported gays being turned away from a B&B on the basis of their sexuality. The prospect of Tory rule horrifies me - mainly because under their leadership, I will not feel 'equal' to the rest of the straight population. To me, asking a gay person voting Tory is a bit like asking a black person to vote BNP...

David Cameron and George Osbourne? I'd rather vote for the fucking Chuckle Brothers

Friday, 2 April 2010

RUBBISH BASTARD FRIDAY...

I am considering constructing a letter to someone in power (possibly God) in the hope that Good Friday can be renamed - otherwise I will sue under the Trade Descriptions act. You see, there is nothing good about Good Friday. So there.

Irrespective of my personal grievances about Good Friday (which I'll come to in a minute, don't you worry), I don't really understand the religious branding of the day. I mean, it's supposed to be Good because Jesus - the alleged Lord and Savour, hallelujah, clap yo' hands, etc) died for us. Apparently, his Dad sacrificed him because we couldn't behave and are dirty old sinners. Hmmmm... So the leader is as dead as a dead thing and the followers decide to name the day GOOD FRIDAY. I don't know about you, but I think it sounds a bit spiteful. It's a bit like calling it GLAD HE'S DEAD FRIDAY. Or even DING DONG BABY-J HAS GONE FRIDAY. Innit? If my personal saviour - Lord Madge, peace be upon her, etc - decided to slip off the dish, I wouldn't think, 'Oh HURRAH!' (The Daily Mail,  hetros with inferiority complexes and rubbish, self-loathing gays might, but they can SWIVEL ON IT. DRY.) Nor would I name it VOGUE FRIDAY. And if she died FOR ME, then I'd feel obliged to live out the rest of my life striking guilt-laden poses whilst looking after her kids - although I might have to send the adopted ones back - it's not as though I'm on mega bucks and four might be too much of handful.

Anyway, I digress... This particular Good Friday is anything but for the following reasons...

1. I'm at work. Whilst the rest of the populace (or so it seems) luxuriates in the splendor of a four day weekend, I am at work, dealing with miserable people and their overspilling-sewerage related problems. It's actually LESS fun than it sounds, if that's possible. In addition, I have been shouted at by three people and spoken to six people who don't speak English - which makes discussing all matters shit-worthy a right laugh. Like, ho, ho. I am also working tomorrow - NOOOOO! DOOOOOM! - and Sunday, which is difficult to swallow as a) It's Easter Sunday! He is risen (which I don't really believe, but hey ho) and Tescos isn't open for business, which is a sure sign that I shouldn't be either. Pah!

2. I have spent the last year working towards getting on a teacher training course. I've volunteered for three months, during which time I became no stranger to Lidl, Primark, Superdrug facial wash and reusing tea bags. Okay, that last bit isn't true - I'm just being dramatic. So sue me. Crushing disappointment came in the form of a 'thanks but no thanks' type letter yesterday. Apparently, I don't have enough experience. They have suggested that I get a job as classroom assistant (which I can't afford to do) and try again next year, although there is no guarantee I'll get on even if I do as they suggest. The gravity of the situation (ie. what the effing-jeff am I going to do with my life, other than sit on a park bench and drink meths through my eye) is still dawning on me, causing my stomach to flip muchly. I am trying to convince myself that kids are evil little fuckers (with limited success) and they generally turn adults very boring (which is true). Am also reminding self that most teachers I know seem to complain hugely about their jobs - they really ought to swap positions with me for a day. Hmmmm... Pass the Special Brew and fuck 'em all, etc.

3. I have just had a hot cross bun at my desk. It did not taste good. Also, something made a scary sounding crunch noise whilst chewing/inhaling (my preferred weapon of ingestion-related choice). I am now concerned that I have eaten glass, or the shell of bug with a horrible name that sounds something like DUNG and can be located under the 'parasite' section in a tropical wildlife book.

4. It is raining outside. When will winter end? I know that we're officially in British Summertime (snigger) as the clocks have propelled themselves forward by an hour, but all that seems to have happened is that it's grey and dull for a little bit longer. My car has also got a leak. And a dodgy back light. And she needs a new exhaust. And a new tyre. And the indicator light on my dashboard has decided to stop working. As has the internal light. I wish the sun would put his hat on and shout hip, hip, hip, hurrah. I'm sure I'm getting rickets - and that's all I fucking need.

5. I am having a fat day. Not surprising, since I have taken out my stress on my arteries. God bless Double Deckers, Grab Bag sized packets of crisps, M&S Sandwiches and Cornettos, even though it's not really the weather for them. Might have to stock up on male girdles. They do them as Asda, apparently.

So there we have it, GOOD FRIDAY my ARSE.

Monday, 8 March 2010

Blast From the Past II - Mr Soft!

Whilst I'm pludering the YouTube vaults as I indulge my childhood memories, I thought I may as well post this for the people over 30. Move over Kinder Egg - it's all about Mr Soft! I can still still along to this advert!

I wonder what Mr Soft is up to these days?

Blast From The Past - Kinder Egg Advert... CHOCADOOBY!



I’m glad that I’m the age that I am – the world that I grew up in was a universe away from the technologically advanced times of today and all the better for it, if you ask me. I mean, what next? Every whim and fad is catered for… Every domestic chore has been eradicated thanks to technology. We have mobile phones that do everything (even pervy things if you’re a fiercely heterosexual premiership footballer, cough, splutter), we have sat-navs so we never get lost, electronic books, personal stereos the size of postage stamps and the internet rules the world. Every year there’s something new but other than a ‘beam me up’ machine, I’m not sure what else there is to invent. Although if any inventors out there want to have a go at making a cut-price home-liposuction kit, I’d gladly be a willing guinea pig. Or human wings. I’d like to fly to work with my miniscule personal stereo that channels Madge’s thoughts. Whilst exfoliating. Yes please.

Annnnyway, back in my day (oooh, don’t I sound old?), it was slim pickings, technologically speaking. I remember the days when we didn’t have a telephone and the TV was only black and white. There were only three channels and they weren’t very good. Kid’s TV was confined to Jim’ll Fix It and something involving Johnny Ball – who scared me. At school, there was one computer – called a BBC computer. It was massive. You had to turn it on at the back and it made a two-tone noise – DUH-BEEP – at which point you were presented with a flashing cursor that induced an epileptic fit at fifty paces. You could type on it but that was it…

We finally got a video recorder in the days when renting your telly was all the rage. We were probably one of the last people to finally get a one, but with so few channels there wasn’t a lot to miss. I recall the main reason I desperately wanted a video: to tape the Kinder Egg advert. Does anyone remember it? It used to transfix me – a strange little Humpty Dumpty figure making odd noises and strange new words as he ruminated upon the benefits of a treat that provided a) strange tasting chocolate and b) a toy that was far too fiddly to put together and even if you did, it was crap, quite frankly. I once tried to feed my toy to the cat, but even he wasn’t interested. But the advert though – mesmerising in its weirdness: Kinder… Me unscrabbly… CHOCADOOBY! It used to scare and tantalise me in equal measure and when we finally got a video, my main aim was to record this advert so I could watch it at leisure.

They don’t make ‘em like they used to…

Sunday, 7 March 2010

Guilty Pleasures... WESTLIFE!

Rather unshockingly, I was never considered cool at school. Not even a little bit. Nothing changes, you’ll be happy to learn. Rather marvellously, I had quite a thick skin - metaphorically speaking, that is. My complexion has always been winning. Cackle. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes – I was busy self disclosing my status as public dork number one throughout my formative years... In short, coolness simply eluded me on every level. I think I wanted to fit in, but the pull of bad hair cuts, obsessive Madonna tendencies, academic success, terrible clothes and a propensity towards obesity proved too strong. Thus, I remained on the social periphery throughout my time at school. Not that I was particularly bothered. Whenever I was pissed off, I would take to my bedroom and spin some Madge whilst singing into a Mars Bar / Twix / Lion Bar / slice of toast that I would later reward myself with by eating. Happy days, etc.

One thing that my lack of cool has fostered is the freedom to like and love things that most people (probably quite rightly) shy away from. I suppose it’s a bit like having a shame-bypass and it's effing wonderful. I’m willing and able to admire things publically without fear of persecution, witch-hunting and a public outpouring of vitriol and general hatred. Yes, I am talking about loving Westlife…

Yes, they might make music aimed at children / bored middle aged housewives who come over all unnecessary at the multitude of key changes that permeate their music. Yes, they might be as exciting as Songs of Praise: The Movie, but I love them. And I’m not sorry. In fact, someone once compared my physical profile to that of the ugly one – can’t remember his name. Mark is it? You know, the gay one that no one fancies. Yes, him. Pah!

Anyway, I don’t care if I’ve gone down in your estimation as a result of my admission. I don’t care if you whisper behind my back or point and laugh at me in the street or invent a crap joke at my expense where the punch-line references a Westlife song title. Actually, I would like that.

In fact, I am going to put their CD on now and sing into an unwrapped Double Decker chocolate bar, which will act as both a microphone and a Grammy Award. And also a post-performance treat.

See. I am not cool. I am thirty three. I am sad. But I love it. Hurrah. In fact, I am going to play Mandy now and revel in their uncool glory. Loving it longtime. In fact, why don't you join me. Come on, it's cool to be uncool.

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

New Years Resolutions No.1: Lose Weight. Again.


Lose weight. Yes, that old chestnut. If someone (I’m thinking Steven Spielberg, James Cameron, or Madge, seeing as though she can direct moooooovies these days) asked me who should play me in a film about my life, then I’d probably plump for Oprah Winfrey. Not because of my propensity for fabulous tanning, talk show-empathy or marvellous business acumen. Oh no. I think she’d be perfect to tackle the role due to the similarities in our battle with the old flab. And if Oprah's not available, then Chunk from The Goonies will do.

If I was to list my talents - or at least the things that I am good at - then putting on weight, losing it and then putting it all back on again would probably be somewhere towards the top. Take last year for example. Weight-wise, I was doing quite well up until November. I’d been out of work since the August and was regularly going to the gym and eating healthy meals that would make Gillian McKeith’s unmentionables tingle. Then I got a cold. Or did I? Was I just hungover? Perhaps I sneezed a couple of times and felt a bit crappy for half an hour. Either way, I took solace in the age old remedy, which instructs folk to feed a cold, starve a fever. And feed it I did. I gave it what it wanted: Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food, meat pies and mash, sausage and mash, mash and mash, sandwiches and crisps, pizzas, lots of things made by Ginsters and takeaways in every available incarnation. I even tried to flush my cold out with red wine. And beer. Turns out it was quite a demanding cold. Next thing you know, my ‘cold’ has kindly left the building – like hurrah, etc – but just to avoid any sudden relapse, I decide to continue with my remedy, justifying it on a level of delusion not seen since I last claimed to be straight. In my head it was like continuing with your antibiotics after the infection has cleared up. I was finishing the course, etc. Suddenly Christmas was in sight so in the name of Baby Jesus I did my rightful Christian duty and partook in every available calorie at my disposal.

Shockingly, 2010 finds me porky of waist. Thankfully, I’m not in Wonga Man’s league, but I avoid the mirror at all costs and find myself recoiling in horror if anyone accidently fondles either of my love handles as they attempt to clamber past. There was something on the news recently about obesity being the new cancer. Like, hoooooray, etc! As the newsreader spoke, the camera panned to a random high street where the headless torsos of a multitude of fatties wearing horrible clothes clumsily huffed by. I suddenly found myself worried that one day soon, I will watch a similar item and recognise my own voluptuous form wobbling by before falling over a tramp. Or something. That’s when I spat out my sixty ninth Quality Street of the day and made my number one resolution for 2010.

Depressingly, this has been my main goal for the last, what? Twenty years? Fuck and bugger. I’m not going to join a fat club or give myself a weight goal. Nor am I going back to the doctors to get tablets that make me accidentally shit my pants whilst bending down to pick up economy cheese in Tescos. I would just like to get to next New Year and not see ‘LOSE FIVE STONE AND THREE CHINS’ at the top of my resolutions list. I want to be able to buy trousers and not go straight to the back of the rack or sigh wearily as I discover that the shop doesn’t cater for my size. I want to be able to take off my clothes and not find that they have scarred me. I no longer want my shadow to scare children or domestic animals.

Wish me luck, good people.