Monday, 28 June 2010

Not For Me, Honey

While I was travelling to London at the weekend, I sat behind a mother with her small child of about 3 or 4; it's hard to tell with children these days, they often leave the womb as 14 stone teenagers because their mothers overate while they were pregnant, resulting in a race of super humans, their super power being the ability to eat their dinner really quickly, along with their crayons, their siblings and their own arms. But that's another blog, for another time.

The mother was obviously switched off to the entire world outside the massive cloud of reasonably-priced perfume that encircled her because she'd sat herself and her child in Coach B. Coach B is traditionally the QUIET coach, as denoted by the stickers dotted about the place showing a set of lips with a finger held to them, the universally accepted symbol of quietness, one of which, ironically, the mother and child were sitting beneath. I say ironically because the child's voice didn't drop below the level of foghorn for the entire two and a half hour journey, despite the mother's ever so delicate, ever so effective shushings. (NB, anyone who reads this and then reads my novel...whenIfindanagent and whentheyfindapublisher...may feel they recognise elements of this story in chapter 7. What can I say, I travel by train a lot and there are a lot of irresponsible parents around these days.)

Anyway, by the time the journey was drawing to its King's Cross close, I realised the root of the child's over active vocal chord problems. Under the supervision of its mother, the child had consumed three cartons of Ribena, a big bag of Jelly Babies, an apple, two Coco Pops cereal bars and early onset diabetes.

Now I don't have such a huge problem with children eating a bit of sugar every now and then; I myself spent many a happy Sunday afternoon perched in the kitchen armed with a spoon, covertly devouring a tin of Golden Syrup. Yes, I had certain weight issues, but it was nothing a healthy dose of childhood pneumonia couldn't solve.

What I DO have a problem with is having my Friday evening jaunt through the Surrey countryside, those I like to spend in quiet reflection, ruined by the constant, hammering chime of, "Are we there now?"

If my children ever ask this of me they will receive a simple answer:
"No, we obviously are not there yet, but hopefully your real parents will be waiting at the station, because no child of mine could be stupid enough to think we are 'there' when the train is blatantly still moving. Now back to your needlework; your playclothes won't stitch themselves."

I am, of course, joking. My children and I will sing and dance our way about the country, pausing only in market squares to learn valuable life lessons about not feeling too sad if you don't catch a tomato and it splatters at your feet. And then, when we get home and Best Beloved asks if I mean to tell him that his children have been roaming about Salzburg dressed up in nothing but some old DRAPES, I'll say, "Yes. And having a maaaarvellous time!"

What a perfect life we'll lead.

Thursday, 24 June 2010


If you hadn't guessed already, blogging has become my latest obsession. Not only because it's a good way to stay practised and further my non-existent writing career, but also because it's great for whiling away the hours between asleep and awake that would otherwise be filled with endless streams of bitter tears as I stare at the tatters of my so far cactus-prickled life.

Anyway, I've taken to searching through other people's blogs to see where I'm going wrong, since prettymuchnoone reads this, except the Golden Few I treasure dearly. And you know what I was greeted with? Pictures of fat dogs with their assholes and balls hanging RIGHT out to dry.

Well yes, yes it does. And I've had just about enough of dogs right now. Last night I was woken up at midnight by a DOG. BARKING. Said dog has been barking into the early hours of the morning for the last three months. Boy, did I slam my window so hard it shit itself into submission! But only for last night. I can hear it right now. "Woof! Woof! Fuck you!"

It is RUINING Glee: The Music, Volume 2. Inconsideration to the nth degree.

Wednesday, 23 June 2010

Probably the last time I'll ever be courteous

Today I was waiting for the bus for nearly fifteen minutes, which is fair enough since they run every fifteen minutes and I only leave work at 16:30, so I'm used to waiting fifteen minutes for the bus.

Anyway, I don't like to sit in the front seats at the bus station because I guess I'm still afflicted with that secondary school mindset where sitting at the front of anything shows a little bit too much effort/eagerness and therefore picks you out as a "massive geek", and even though I'm a self-confessed "massive geek", I don't want to be hit in the back of the head with an egg, which is obviously what would happen.

So there I sat, mid-range, with a few seats behind me, a few in front, casually waiting for my bus.

Now, I am extremely picky when it comes to choosing a seat on the bus. I have preferences depending on the season, so since this is summer, I'll only go into my hot weather specific needs. (NB there are different morning and afternoon requirements, but I'll just cover the afternoon ones right now, to save time.)

- I cannot be sitting on the side of the bus where the sun shines for the majority of the journey. I have sensitive eyes and even with sunglasses this just isn't appropriate. I find myself squinting, gripping my teeth fidgeting to try and find shade, until I get such a headache all I can do is close my eyes and weep inwardly.

- I can't sit at the back of the bus because the engine smell makes me feel sick and often there are teenagers playing BAD songs over and over again, turned up too loud to be drowned out by my own music/maniacal thoughts about life. I also run the risk of being murdered by them because that's just the kind of people thy are.
PLUS the back of the bus often becomes very busy and there are limited seating options - the sofa running along the back is a definite no no; sitting next to one person is bad enough, two is like some terrible, unending bus-nightmare.

- I can't sit at the front of the bus in case an elderly or disabled person gets on and I have to get up and move. My overall levels of social awkwardness do not cope well in this kind of situation, so I prefer to just avoid them. At all costs.
The seats set a little further back than these also pose a sizeable problem in summer because they have the heating system running all the way along the window side. If bus drivers want my heat-induced vomit all over the saloon floor, then they should just keep on pumpin' that heat. Oh what's that? They were going to anyway? Oh good, my well-being means nothing. The front of the bus also, again, heightens the likelihood of my having to spend time in close confines with a stranger. From my experiences, strangers on buses often smell, or have personal space issues. Both of these things make me grouchy, which is the last thing I need at the end of the working day when it's more than likely I'm grouchy already because I'm having hunger/life-crisis issues.

- I don't *really* like sitting upstairs if it's a double decker, because I spend the entire journey terrified that
a) the bus is going to tip over, and
b) when it's time to get off I'll stumble on the stairs and fall to my broken-necked death.
The top of the bus is only really suitable if Best Beloved is with me so he can go down first and catch me should I indeed fall head first towards that hellish chasm of doom.

So in essence, the only suitable place for me to sit on the bus I catch home every evening is the seat over the wheel on the left hand side, next to the window with my bag beside me to deter strangers, and even this isn't ideal since most bus drivers don't understand the concept of slowing down for speed bumps.

Anyway, I sat waiting in the bus station. A man came and sat in a seat behind me. That was okay. Then, a few minutes later, a woman came. She stared at me the entire time she was walking over and plonked herself in a seat in front of me. For a brief moment I chastised her to myself, but then turned to more charitable thoughts: she was older than me; not ancient, but older than me nonetheless. And she had a huge nose. So I figured since she'd been hefting that around with her all day on her middle-to-old lady legs I should probably quit my whining and let her get on before me.

The bus pulled up. I signalled for her to go first. She refused. I could have just gone ahead. I SHOULD have just gone ahead. But I'd made the offer, I couldn't take it back, her nose was already half way there.
"No, no," I said, "go ahead!"
"Thank you," she said. "It's not like we're going to be fighting for seats, is it?"

How wrong she was.

I knew, almost immediately that she was going to sit in my seat. I didn't even try to hide my disgust. I slumped into a seat at the front of the bus, instantly too hot, the sun shining in my face, the threat of myriad old people looming over my tired little head. I ate an apple. Then I made what I thought was a sensible decision. I moved to the top of the bus. I'm 23 now, I should be able to handle a few steps on a bus.

How wrong I was.

I pressed the bell for my stop and headed towards the stairs, my bag swinging wildly from my arm because I had no time to sort myself out (the driver was insane). I TRIPPED ON THE STAIRS. I had a mild heart attack and grabbed the rail just in time. I swung into the wall and managed to steady myself. Then I died of embarrassment.

If I see the lady again tomorrow, if she sits in front of me at the bus station tomorrow, then I'll have an egg ready, though there's no doubt some alien forcefield emanating from the house-like beak dripping from her face that will protect her.


Saturday, 19 June 2010

Super Function

"Well Yellow," said the aubergine to the banana, "we really fucked up this time."

Come in, sit down, You are most welcome! Mrs Hippo the maid shall bring tea for us shortly, but until then let me tell you my story.

Y'know what's really been bugging me this week? The way Facebook has taken to saying things like, "Pets. Many people who like Music also like Pets." Why would I want to know that? It's as though they think I'm going to come to my obviously dull senses and remember that, oh yes, I too like pets after all! Thank you for reminding me, FACEBOOK. Well you know what, a lot of people that like *music* probably also like *paedophilia* and I just will not associate myself with them. So get a grip, Facebook, and stop acting like you know everyone's insides. Ugh.

In other news, the Isle of Wight Festival was...shing shing! AWESOME! Very very cool weekend spent with Best Beloved, Kimmywise, Jan, Mike, Robert Goulet, Craig Finn's mary, Russ from Hollyoaks, Juliette Lewis, Juliette Lewis's lawyer, Laurence of my Labia, Liza Minnelli, Liza Minnelli's lips, Stephen (even if he DID constantly fall down the stairs :/ ), Precious's Mom, Justin and Bieber, Terrance Torrance, Geoffrey Piscine, K.F. Elmo, Notorious Big, Gary Moray, Ike and Tina Turner...waaaaait a second! Ike and Tina were NOT part of our entourage! Get out! GO! Shoo! Off with you and your wildly over highlighted hair and juicy sausage lips and fists that beat! Be gone!

Those Turners, you have to be careful - they'll sneak up on your unsuspecting back and have at it at any hour of the day! Anyway, as I was saying, the festival was super. So many top acts playing. If you're actually interested in seeing who was there, check on Google or something or maybe Facebook will just tell you, even if you don't want to know, because I'm not about to rattle off a seemingly endless list of names that won't mean a lot to many people, that would just be boring.

I will however note my musical highlights:

WOOOOOOO! I'd never realised just how much I wanted to see this band play! I spent a lot of my teenage years listening to their albums on an endless loop, hoping that I might one day be as effortlessly cool as Debbie Harry who was, IMO, the forerunner for some of the hottest female singers out there today (KarenOandKTTunstallI'minlovewithyou). FYI, I'm not effortlessly cool. Or even cool a little bit. But I guess I'm coming to terms with my galumphing ways.
We discussed the fact that Debbie Harry wasn't exactly bopping about the stage, but hey, she's 64. At least she didn't try to act like a twenty year old stud like a certain member of the Beatles I won't mention, and although I will admit that the vocals weren't fantastic quality (though it may just have been the acoustics of the (sniff sniff) VIP area), I still really enjoyed their set!

The Hold Steady
Basically, before I met my good friend Ms Hannah Smart, I'd never even HEARD of The Hold Steady (-is ashamed-), but now I'm listing them up there as one of the highlights of the festival season so far. I'd only ever listened to them as a stationary band pumped from a CD (well, iTunes download) and even though Hannah had proclaimed them the best live act intheworldever, I was still dubious. Craig Finn has one of those voices that kind of makes him seem like he's drawling his words out drunk, telling you a story about how some of his friends went out dancing and it all got screwy but in the end they were all still American, and although it's enjoyable to listen to the music this way, they're definitely a band you SHOULD see live - Craig Finn is a really awesome front man and there's not a lot more to it! I mean, there were marys and wavings and dancings and drawlings and so so many smiles! I'm not quite there with Hannah when it comes to the whole best live act thing, but I certainly appreciate them a lot a lot more now - Best Beloved was officially sick of me singing Chips Ahoy! to him within about three minutes of my seeing them perform. Good.

Jay Zed
Not hugely into the music, but the dancing that took place was pretty much the best thing ever made. Even though there's no way you could ever know that.

Really never thought I'd be listing Pink among the highlights of, well, anything. Her act was supreme. Pretty much shit on everyone else's as far as show(wo)manship goes. She flew. Twice. And there was fire. And glitter. And swears thrown out in the air and a hamster ball with Pink inside and the handing over of a naughty garter to a sweaty man in the crowd. It was pretty intense. Na na na na na naa naaa I WANNA BE A BEAR!

So they were my main highlights I think, though when I've published this I'm pretty certain I'll remember something else...

There were very few lowlights, but I'm going note them nonetheless to give you a more rounded picture:

Ostrich Burger
After feeling unwell pretty much all day Saturday, eating an ostrich burger at about 1am wasn't the best idea I've ever had. Needless to say I saw said ostrich but a short hour later. On the floor. Outside our tent.

Seeing Juliette Lewis
The clue is in the title.

Seeing a massive *human* turd by the cash machines
Again, the clue is in the title.

Skinny braces
When worn by ageing rock stars. Shudder.

Hmm, so yeah they were the parts that I've remembered most clearly, although there were definitely far most amazingisms than those noted. I meant to write this as soon as I got back so it was fresh, but I've just been too busy ruining my life at work and sweating my organs out in the fresh summer heat. Plus I was abducted for a while by a pasty shop owner. He smelt like pasties. Now I like a good pasty, but seriously I think he was bathing in them to get such a solid, constant stink of pasties about himself. What a sicko.

So yeah, you're just going to have to deal with it and fill in the blanks using the power of your imaaaaginaaaaationssssss, if you can tear your minds away from the white noise that floods our modern senses for more than six seconds. Just get a grip on yourself. Learn another language. Sail a boat. Lick a stamp. Buy a parrot. Do something.


Wednesday, 2 June 2010

Zorbing Together

Today I cut my cheese and tomato sandwich diagonally, just to make today different from yesterday and every other day. But then I left my bag on top of my computer, so the sandwich was warm and pretty much ruined. I realised that that's what happens when we embrace change; sandwiches get ruined. I won't try it again in a hurry, don't you worry about that.

It's evening now and I'm too hot. I've been writing a lot of poetry lately, I'm hoping I've found the knack for it again, but I've no doubt spoken too soon and the pool of inspiration will be sucked dry by a greedy elephant and its wrinkled babies. But that's okay, I don't mind elephants. I know they'll give it all back in a long stream of elephant piss, which will surely serve to make it all more exciting, right? I've been aiming for something a little more putrid for a while now anyhow, so go ahead you gigantic grey mallows, make my day.

Do I use too many commas? I really need to get that under control. Maybe that's why noonehaspickedupmynovelyet. Oh fucksticks, maybe I should just give up on writing and spend my days crafting the world's biggest comma. Then one day it might fall on me and my dream of becoming a literary something will come true.

There are a few too many thoughts right now, wholesome and not so much. Explanations cause death and destruction. I don't even know why I started writing this.

"Just when I get so lonesome I can't speak." Sigh.