Day of being a fanny part 2 began with myself, Lil Red, Beautiful Boy and Straight Man A packing a picnic of sandwiches and wine for our supposed trip to the beach which turned out to be a jaunt to a park with more bushes than a lesbian orgy. We knew that 2 bottles of wine would satisfy no one's need to get twatted in the sun/rain so we loaded up our trolleys with jumbo alcopops and cheap fizzy wine along with silly snacks like the 14 year olds that we are and caused a full on physical ruccous when the haggard old bird who could have tripped over all her body parts asked us all for ID. With an average age of 22 between us this was the last thing we expected, despite our drinking habits of kids. A fight ensued until nasty old bint couldn't add to 21 and was forced to retreat and packed up the wine in thin carrier bags which were sure to break mid route. Along the 8 mile hike to get to bushy park we bought a stupid football cause we knew that after half a bottle of wine and multiple boxes of pringles that we would be up for a spot of exercise. This was not an opinion shared by us all of course because we all know I love exercise as much as I love meat paste. Once we finally dragged our heavy legs (mine weighing in at around 10 stone each) we found a secluded spot where no one would bother us apart from the gardeners doing community service who would later appear in their blue overalls to wink and salivate at the ladies (all four of us) as they slumped about, tools in hand (ahem) with their far too tightly laced boots. It wasn't long before the pretty blue sky turned into a torential storm and we took shelter within the bushes which really is the story of my life. Wine all finished it was time for Beautiful Boy to defy his sexuality and Lil Red and myself to conform to ours and play football. How is it that every boy, even gay boys who've never ran in their lives can play football without the slightest hint of effort? Maybe it's the good ball control. Or maybe it was because us lesbos were so utterly appalling that even my gran with 2 plastic hips would have done a better job. There was plenty of mud and sliding tackles and shoulder barges mainly from over competitive Fee who found running like performing a handjob, pretty much impossible. All adrenalined up there was only one thing to do. Tic and Tag. Everyone ran off in various directions but Fee got caught with her face in a bush before Beautiful Boy had even counted past 3. Eventually I snuck back to the alcohol area, grabbed myself some pop and snuggled up under a dripping bush where no could see me but I could see them. It's kinda funny observing people that can't see you. They all chuckled to themselves as they thought Fee was still running around the park thinking the game was still on and it’s really just as well I did not hear them mention the words ‘overweight’ and ‘thick legs’. Clearly by this time everyone was well on their way to being pretty smashed and being in Hazlehead Park, the park famous for it’s hedged maze, we had to go in. The only problem being it was locked up for Winter, despite this being as good as Summer as Aberdeen can get. This deterred no one and we snuck in through the wire fence with only my fat ass getting left behind as I could not gather enough energy to pull the oversized butt through the fence. It would only hinder my journey anyway. The maze was long and hard, no that story is going somewhere else that I’m unfamiliar with and we left trails of alcopop lids, crisp packets and most notably, my farts which spurred us on til we eventually reached the middle, with our heads all dizzy and our legs all wobbly, which was mainly from the guff induced haze we were all part of. The centre piece was an upturned bench which deserved to be carved and we tore out of the maze only to be greeted by a grinning park warden who said ‘hi’ and waved as we tried to pile out of the fence, as though we had slipped in by accident. How rebellious are we not? And why was this lone warden not intimidated by us gang of rowdy youths? Maybe because we looked more like a queer tea party who would swear and hurl abuse only at Kate Moss for having last season’s gear on. Bless. As it was lashing with rain and the kids had all buggered off to tea of fish and chips and early beds we had the whole playpark to ourselves, apart from the 12 year olds who yelled queers at us on a couple of occasions. There was much swinging and much sliding, favourably face first down tunnel slides and there was plenty of mud. Again. I really am trying to recreate my favourite video of Shakira frolicking in the mud, except I look more like a pig in shite when I try. Then there was a nasty swing incident which involved two people on a swing, an over exaggerated push to gather some momentum and afore mentioned two people flying backwards off kid swing for one to reveal an entire bare arse to all who gathered near. Yes, and it would have to be my global ass that decided today was the day the whole world needed to view such a mammoth sight. Who cares that heads were smashed of the ground as we fell off and who cares that my pants were now mud filled because the sight of my ass, skidding along the ground, is one that will have scarred the minds of all who saw it until they die. Mortified? Oh yes. Having also gotten carried away with see saws and falling off them and bruising my fanny in the process I was ready to trek to the bus stop and head to the vodka Bar for liquid refreshment in the form of a jumbo puke. The day was all good and the photos are even better. When I work out how to post them on here I will pleasure you all with the delights. No, really.
Listening to: Dolly Parton 9-5 (revived and remixed)
Today I feel and look like a 1984 slasher movie victim complete with back combed hair and mutilated body. The cause of such unprettyness is two days of fannying around in too small kids toys, playing football as though I had a brown boot and lots of alcohol and some sun. Tuesday was the first of our day trips and public transport took us as far as Crathes Castle. There was myself, Lil Red and Straight Man A who also had nothing better to do than tour the grounds of a castle and be all touristy and spend a fortune on the bus fare. Yeah sure, like I walked around in pedal pushers sporting massive sunnies with a camera round my neck and speaking in a stupid language that no one else understands. Actually, aside from the pedal pushers that's pretty acurate. My language was the delicate language of Gaelic (and example of a gaelic sentence: "Ishkin mal Gaelic s Dotta Man icken ouken Tescos" which is translated as " the only Gaelic Programme is Dotta Man and we like Tescos) Our first stop was the tourist shop where we were tempted by fine whisky which would have been ideal to guzzle in the park and expensive chocolate which came in all shapes of birds and other such wildlife. All we came away with was funny looks from the multiple old folks who were suspicious of why 3 young, kinda cool folks would be hanging out in a National Trust Shop looking to buy pencils and rubbers for 2 hours and in that time only purchasing a mini kite and some hideous bouncy ball which housed an ugly plastic model of a duck. We also had the unfortunate experience of sampling the toilets which had sat way too many old folks and people with poopy asses who had left more than their mark to demonstrate this. Because the main thing in my life is food and having no other place to get any, we had to sit an an actual tea room where old ladies glowered at the 'care in the community' waitresses when they didnt get enough cream in their scones and poofs in roll necks who sipped tea like their grannies they had taken out for the day. It was fair to say we were the coolest people in their. I'd be worried if we weren't. Once food was done puked back up (dicky salmon) it was adventure playtime. We chose our day well with not a kid being in sight so we had the entire place to ourselves, aerial slide an all. Much fun was had on spinning things and firemen's poles (the only time I will ever say that) and much mud was to be gained as too many people (ie more than 1) tried to pile on the aerial slide above the sodden dubby area. I did get some nice photos, all of which I'm sure will not come out as I did get a bit snappy happy with the 'timer' as I tried to make the sprint back to my position so I'm quite sure it will be bellies and chins all round. I awoke the following day with pains in places that should never pain and vowed never to wrap my legs around anything that involved chains and rust so tightly again. Being a bit sweaty and of course, unfit, we opted for the shortest forest walk there was so we could check out the scenery and be at one with nature. Or more like so we could get some shade and frolick not naked and finish the spool. I lost the ball to a ditch and got stung repeatedly trying to retrieve my duck delight and the only thing left to do was for Lil Red to take off with her miniture kite. With a lack of wind it was quite a humourous sight to see Lil Red running down the hill with a kite so small it would have fit in my pocket dragging behind her and with her eventually doing a skid (not of the poopy variety) and flying further than the kite as she landed face first in muddy dubs. Nice. And so our day of foreign disapproving old folks (have you noticed how all old people do a funny rolling eye thing when their tea is slightly cold or their husband is not slurping enough? It's very disturbing) and unfit running around in mud was over and I had no option but to head workwards adn play on my upset stomach that would definitely keep me off work the following day.
Today I feel and look like a 1984 slasher movie victim complete with back combed hair and mutilated body. The cause of such unprettyness is two days of fannying around in too small kids toys, playing football as though I had a brown boot and lots of alcohol and some sun. Tuesday was the first of our day trips and public transport took us as far as Crathes Castle. There was myself, Lil Red and Straight Man A who also had nothing better to do than tour the grounds of a castle and be all touristy and spend a fortune on the bus fare. Yeah sure, like I walked around in pedal pushers sporting massive sunnies with a camera round my neck and speaking in a stupid language that no one else understands. Actually, aside from the pedal pushers that's pretty acurate. My language was the delicate language of Gaelic (and example of a gaelic sentence: "Ishkin mal Gaelic s Dotta Man icken ouken Tescos" which is translated as " the only Gaelic Programme is Dotta Man and we like Tescos) Our first stop was the tourist shop where we were tempted by fine whisky which would have been ideal to guzzle in the park and expensive chocolate which came in all shapes of birds and other such wildlife. All we came away with was funny looks from the multiple old folks who were suspicious of why 3 young, kinda cool folks would be hanging out in a National Trust Shop looking to buy pencils and rubbers for 2 hours and in that time only purchasing a mini kite and some hideous bouncy ball which housed an ugly plastic model of a duck. We also had the unfortunate experience of sampling the toilets which had sat way too many old folks and people with poopy asses who had left more than their mark to demonstrate this. Because the main thing in my life is food and having no other place to get any, we had to sit an an actual tea room where old ladies glowered at the 'care in the community' waitresses when they didnt get enough cream in their scones and poofs in roll necks who sipped tea like their grannies they had taken out for the day. Once food was done puked back up (dicky salmon) it was adventure playtime. We chose our day well with not a kid being in sight so we had the entire place to ourselves, aerial slide an all. Much fun was had on spinning things and firemen's poles (the only time I will ever say that) and much mud was to be gained as too many people (ie more than 1) tried to pile on the aerial slide above the sodden dubby area. I did get some nice photos, all of which I'm sure will not come out as I did get a bit snappy happy with the 'timer' as I tried to make the sprint back to my position so I'm quite sure it will be bellies and chins all round. I awoke the following day with pains in places that should never pain and vowed never to wrap my legs around anything that involved chains and rust so tightly again. Being a bit sweaty and of course, unfit, we opted for teh shortest forest walk there was so we could check out the scenery and be at one with nature. Or more like so we could get some shade and frolick not naked adn finish the spool. I lost the ball to a ditch and got stung repeatedly trying to retrieve my duck delighht and the day was as good as over.
I thought my quest to find the world's biggest fanny had come to an end yesterday. I thought my desperate plea to Mr Graham Norton to help me seek out massive minge had all been in vain. Imagine the horror when I realised that the contender who was so damn close to extra large was looking back at me from the mirror. The effect had been created by hoisting up my low slung jeans so they rested somewhere around my collar bone, thus giving the impression of a really massive fanny which was the size of my house and the neighbours hedging. Clearly it was simply an illusion and therefore a non qualifier for biggest fanny in the world. The original biggest fanny in the world was no trick of bad jeans but was a real life jumbo puss in full flesh. To prove its very largeness it was photographed up next to a football and this fanny was apparently as good as eating the ball it was that ginormous. Oh and I aint talking about the looseness of minge, I'm talking the size of the outer casing, that's far more entertaining than a porn stars fanny that's been fucked more times than I've overeaten. And so, after relief that my fanny encased in hipsters is not the biggest beaver in history I go to continue my quest and if anyone comes across the winner before I do, please please send me photographic evidence. Oh and I don't consider this hobby a perversion, more like I have a curiosity that needs satisfied. Ahem.
Not only did I go to my first barbeque of the year on saturday but it was also the first barbeque I have been allowed to attend since the one where toasted up my fingers and added relish and a bun and tried to eat the charcoaled remains when the actual burgers and sausages were finished off by the fat fucker relatives. This was around the age of 9 when food had begun to become the biggest part of my life, more so than my female teachers and babysitters. I think that's also where the cycle of self abuse begun. No, that was the time when I threw myself face first down the stairs when I was 3 so I could get a plaster for all my friends at nursery to sign and draw pretty pictures on it, cause I'm considerate like that. I love a good bruise and a pretty scar and all the attention that goes with it. Even more so I love the elaborate story that gets concocted to distract from the fact that you've smashed a paper weight into your eye to blacken it or the fact that you've stapled your arm repeatedly to give the impression of an inkless tattoo. Stories such as, 'my dog headbutted me' and 'I caught my whole body on a giant bit of paper while coming out of the closet' are tales that I adore greatly. It's also impossible to tell whether people believe your ott excuses for the simple cut on your arm that could have easily been caused by walking too closely to a hedge or actually by jamming your fingers in the till as your tried to slip yourself a tener. The more far out the story, the more likely it is to be believed. Or so the self injured person likes to believe. How is it possible to have split your head open after falling on the balcony, over a kids toy in Spain when you have never even been out of Scotland let alone on a plane to lands a foreign and Spanish like? How is it possible that you have about 23 scars on the top of your arm and these were caused by falling through the glass door in you shed which has no glass door and no other part of you was damaged in the accident? Ignorance is often bliss and very often appreciated when you try to explain yourself but lie as well as straight boys lick out. People probably just shouldn't ask full stop. Usually it's pretty obvious when someone is a bit too handy with a kitchen knife or rusty razor and really it's no one's business and is something that's pretty much common practise. It does make people awkward when you ask them in front of all your friends and family so maybe some consideration is in order sometime. I don't know why I got on to this subject because all I really wanted to tell you about was my barbecue which was rain and vodka with no coke filled but that's another entry, having as much time to write as I have money. And till the next time when I fail to astound you with my tales of nothingness, goodbye and enjoy massive fannies worldwide, wherever you all may be.
If last night is anything to go by, today is going to be a shite day. I had a regular, pleasant evening where I ate four meals, half a block of cheese and 4 soft biscuits (well I couldn't let Queen Of Fun discard these beauties could I? There was real coconut in them). I then proceeded to walk the 45 minute uphill journey home, to relieve the guilt I felt at having eaten so much (mainly because it wasn't my food) and to think about the poor state of Queen of Fun's fridge. Too much meat, not enough cheese and 2 tubs of butter were the highlights. SO after I puffed my way up the hill toward my home I realised that all this walking (like, actual exercise) and thinking abuot food had made me hungry again. I got all excited as I tore up the path quicker than I could yell 'fat turd' and headed straight for the fridge. Ther was no 'hi mum and dad' no biscuits for the eagerly awaiting doggies just me, throwing myself face first into the fridge with a smile as wide as my ass. I yarked open the door only to have the smile crumble from my once lit up face and I crashed to the ground as my legs gave way and I landed in a heap on the floor, grazing both knees and chin in the process. I had forgotten, in my haste to feed my massive face, that it was Thursday. Thursday is quite possibly the worst day of my week. It's the day before Friday which means it's the day before shopping day. If I had been disappointed with The Queen's fridge I was distraught at what I saw in my sparse fridge. There was a courgette (an illegal tasting type of vegetable), 4 hairy tomatoes, an empty jar of gerkins which I later drank the juice out of, and wait for it, half a tub of fuckin' HUMOUS. Jesus mum and dad why do you do this to me? I mean usually I am not averse to eating uncooked popcorn kernels or frozen peas or lemon curd from the jar to feed my over eating compulsion but there was really nothing I could do with the contents of this malnurished (sp?) fridge. I knew the cupboard would be equally uninspiring. I was right. CHopped tomatoes (at least hair free), some lentils and a packet of oatcakes that had been there since last Xmas. As I saw my life dwindling before my eyes, as I lost all will to be on this godforsaken foodless planet I had an idea. It was an idea that was my safe bet. I knew somewhere I could go, within spitting distance, that would give me a choice of about 7/8 main meals or I could combine these 7/8 meals together to give me some wicked taste explosions. I had to do it, the salivating action that had taken over my mouth told me there was no other choice. And so I opened the microwave door and I knew it was the only thing to do. As soon as I opened the door I knew it was right, I could smell the cheese and veggie mince and oregano and tomato and jam and coffee and chocolate and other unmentionables. There was more food in here than in my entire house, this was going to be a real good feed. I could have fed my whole family (extended and everything) with the amount of food that was encrusted not only on the spinning plate but also that was splattered up the sides and on the door. Once I had selected a dinner of 3 week old macaroni, 8 months old chips and cheese and 2 year old chocolate sponge I was quite content. After the plate was licked as clean as it had ever been I discovered a slab of beef under the plate ring. As my family has been vegetarian for at least 15 years, there is no telling how long this beefy delight had been there but with a bit of mayo (foosty) it went down a treat. The only critisism I have of my banquet which would have done any wedding finger buffet proud, was the distinct taste of lavender that was apparent with every mouthful of decaying food. I then remembered that my mum repeatedly uses the micro for heating up her lavender heat pack to soothe away the pains of living with The Fee so that's why my food tasted so floral and why I slept so good last night, until I awoke with severe stomach cramps around 5am. I guess that was the Queen of Fun's cooking then. I put the heat pack on myself to try and eradicate the pain of food poisoning and was treated to a wee snack of tuna and pasta that was encased around the side of said heatpack so there was my midnight munchies sorted. And so I go to harrass Queen of Fun for making my have the gary glitters and to not enjoy the pain of ring sting.
Your disco really does need me. Or at least it really does need people that don’t dance like your gran wasted on whiz and giving it large to happy hardcore. I know I aint the Anrdre Agassi of dancing myself, more like the person who hands out the strawberries to rich people at Wimbledon (wannabe will neverbe) but while my girating is more epileptic fit than Shakira, at least I know I aint half as bad as half the monkeys I have witnessed over the past couple of weeks. At least I also know that if you move to the beat then you will at least keep in time and give off the impression that you have some clue as to the direction your hips are going in, that they aren’t disembodied after all. I also appreciate that shoulder shimmying and air punching and yelling “come on” are no go areas, at all times. Like all good lesbos I love to dance. I only hope I pull off moves better than so many of the resident floor punchers that feature sometimes rather prominantely in gay clubs. I don’t know if it’s the drugs that incite baggy jeans grimace faced lesbos to stand with their legs spread, crouched down and fisting the space between their legs. No, I thinks that’s the lesbo quality in them that makes them do this. It’s not pretty, it does take up a lot of room and quite frankly, it’s offensive. Eyes should also remain open when shaking the booty cos at least then you can look around you and know how not to dance. I think gay men and straight girls generally know how to dance, they know how to sneak in some hips and sexy arm motion without looking like your dad at a family wedding after too much free wine. Of course there has to be many an exception. Take for example the poof that was almost literally tearing up the dance floor in the Priory last night. It’s a small dance floor and he had at least 5 sq meters to himself and this space was given eagerly for fear of the damage he may cause others as he flung himself around in circles and waved his arms like he was drowning in my vomit. The look on his face which said ‘jesus this poop is a toughy’ was clearly supposed to be some seductive pout but would not have looked out of place on a drunken slag going through the motions for the 8th time that day. At least it does give much amusement, watching these pretty boys getting every Steps move wrong and lip syncing to Britney Spears like they are the lady herself. It’s not something I myself have been known to shy away from after 4 whole drinks and I am equally as revolting on the dance floor, thinking I am a world Britney expert when I know her moves about as well as I know how to get a guy off. It gets even worse when Slave for U or some slinky R’n’B tune comes on and everyone tries to get sexy. Ladies and gents there really is nothing sexy about thrusting your pelvis in someone’s face, no one really needs to smell your unshowered genitals. Nor is there anything hot about ‘seductively’ rubbing yourself up and down someone’s full body with your blue jeans arse sticking out further than my belly. I must admit that I do love a straight boy dancer. They have such grace and are a bit too fond of the side stepping manoeuvre favoured by ancient family members and hugely popular in the fifties. There’s nothing like a bit of listless inhibited dancing to get me off I tell you. And as I rip in to all the shite dancers of Aberdeen (although I’m sure this subject is not city sensitive) I will get off my chair and mock myself in the mirror for also being one of these too clumsy to dance well people that bring me so much joy.
I got a letter published in the paper last night. OK, so it was only the Evening Express, one of Aberdeen’s poorly written, badly edited (a bit like my weblog really) local papers. But, as my newspaper notoriety extends to the photos I had taken and subsequently published when I was decked out as a fat turd in a leotard for some dancing thing then I’m not surprisingly chuffed. And at least this time around, the thousands of Aberdonians who read this wannabe tabloid paper will not be forced to endure my fat sweaty face and saggy 9 year old boobs along with their daily chip suppers.
My letter was written in response to a supposedly serious article written by a local figure [of ridicule] who the Evening Express have deemed worthy of a weekly column. He regularly offends people with his flashy grin and fluffy toupee as his face stares at you form amidst his rabble of words so as you can imagine, his writing is as shallow as a trickle of piss. Remember I was banging on about Aberdeen’s attempt at Gay Pride? Well he basically ‘wrote’ (more like spouted a heap of patronising shite more suited to a 1940s primary teacher with the intelligence level of a 4 year old) that us gays shouldn’t have such a ‘look at me’ attitude, that it was all a waste of time so why bother? I didn’t think I could ever get so wound up that I would be incited to write a letter of moral outrage to the shittest paper in history but I was hungover, knackered, stuffed with cheese and therefore had a rage that needed fulfilled. And so I banged out a couple hundred words of sarcasm and innuendo and hit the send button, not for one second thinking they would print it for the pure cheek of it but low and behold it was one of 3 main letters last night. It was heavily edited to remove all traces of my mocking tone but left at the end of the letter was my crucial piss take that the wonderfully bright people at the EE did not notice. I signed the letter LISA BEN – a true anagram for lesbian. I did myself proud with that final 2 finger salute to the editors who have such an outdated old fucker expressing his opinions on things he doesn’t understand working for them in the first place. So while my letter did not qualify as journalism of the year, it did get my point across and so I wait with baited breath for any outraged pensioners to reply.
And while on the subject, let’s talk Aberdeen’s first Gay Pride. Or let’s not as there’s nothing to say. From the reports I have heard, it was as busy as a goth’s jumper. It’s kinda disappointing, the non amounts of impact this event had. Mind you, with the amount of bigotry that’s rife in The Deen, it’s hardly surprising that many people didn’t feel they could be seen at this event. Had I not have been working I would have been there with my merry band of 1 to proclaim my gayness and hide from the cabaret and recognise the 4 faces who did make the effort to attend. What’s the chances of Gay Pride the Sequel? About as slim as a virgin’s hole.
The life of a student is a good one. Well, except when you get your exam and coursework marks through the post which reveal how lazy you are officially and how much work you really didn’t put in for at least one term. I think I could have handed in no work, not showed up for the exam, expelled myself from the system, tried to slip my lecturer a digit and still have achieved a better average mark than I did. Granted I turned up about twice for the whole year, spent too much time writing my weblog and started every piece of coursework (well, the ones I did at least) with 3 hours to spare. I shouldn’t have expected to even pass never mind get a semi decent mark. Emotional trauma is my excuse for a lack of effort and appearance. That or spending way too much time and money in the pub when I should have been sat in the library staring vacantly at words about university presses which make about as much sense as my incoherent daily weblog rants. I have one resit to do and I really will make a slight amount of effort this time around. I have almost 2 months in which to complete it so I’m sure I can concoct 2000 words on the subject of e books (it does also help that my bud Straight Man A did a similar topic and passed on the original question) in that time. Until the 10th August, the day prior to which this is due in, I will continue my quest for much summer fun that involves no risks and minimal cash and no transport. The options are limited. Yesterday I had fun in the sun with Beautiful Boy and Babs. We bought some cheap wine (the classy ladies amongst us on sparkling £1.60 Lambrini and me on the hard Spanish stuff) and sipped not so eloquently from the bottles whilst bathing our colourless faces in the Union Terrace sun. Or the ladies did while I tried my best to stick to the shade, having suffered from an outbreak of dry skin since the foam on Saturday night I didn’t want to add to this infliction with the beetroot look. We chilled and grimaced with every mouthful of the nasty wine and took photos to prove that Aberdeen did indeed have sun and a temperature over 5 degrees for one day. We took off on various solo trips, some to the toilet and some for fags and some for no reason at all. I got accosted by a tracksuited flap over hair dude with a farmfoods bag who tried to steal our dregs because of his jealousy over our wine as he scoffed SKOL lager by the bucket and proceded to vomit said lager not so far from where we were sitting. With the wine all finito and our funds stretching to £2.88 we had no option but to go to Littlewoods. For anyone not familiar with this shop filled with velour and floral polyester, it’s the kinda shop your mother would never be seen in even though it’s designed specifically for her age group and the only people to shop in this sick print shirt shop are poops and pensioners. We had to make a run for it so no one would see us and tar our good names with the minksville brush but imagine the shame of being seen actually running into this mother of all shit shops? We’re legging it down the road, trying to make a hasty entry when we are yelled at and over the road is at least 14 people we know, all of them waving in sycronisation and grinning like fuckin grinning weirdos. Gutted. We ran on, knowing that cheap alcohol is a semi valid excuse for being seen in a place fit for no queen. We could only afford 2 meagre bottles of massive cough mixture tasting alcopops. We found our spot at Union Terrace no problem as the ass print I had made in the grass was visible for miles around, as were the multiple tabbies and gobbings that we had left littering the ground. We passed our alcohol like cider drinking homeless folks, smelling only marginally better in the sweat inducing sun and then made our way, with our sizzling skin in tow, to meet Lil Red who treated us all to drinks in Chi once my remaining pennies had gone on a final packet of fags. We finished the camera spool, I continued to get louder and louder by the second as per usual and we took off home before we could dip further into my diminishing bank account. Of course, passing safeways and all other shops on the way home did nothing for said bank account or my layers of fat that are growing hourly. OH how I love the summer and oh how I love the peeling skin and sun burn that the deceiving shade did not protect. And so today I look not unlike the colour of an orangutang after a long days toasting in a pizza oven but that’s ok, I have customised jeans and missing bones.
I’ve lost my virginity. Don’t get excited, you know as well as I do that this story is not gonna involve The Fee and sex. But, I’m no longer a foam party virgin. After much deliberation about what attire to sport and how much beer to drink at an Ibiza foam party, I headed to OUT with a crowd of hotties in tow (Lil Red, Straight Man A, Beautiful Boy and Babs being the most notable). I had opted for the non safe option of a white zip up jumper and vowed to avoid all things white and sticky (not a hard vow for a lesbian to make thankfully). I didn’t think this was going to be a problem when I waltzed in and saw the pitiful amounts of foamy dribble that would not have looked out of place in 4 days old dish water. I met Big A who was all open for multiple hugs and watching all manners of lesbians kissing. He was with his pained rock star boyfriend who was possibly the cutest thing ever, apart from Big A himself of course. As soon as I stepped into the club I was greeted by tune of the moment, LASGO, so I knew I was in for a good night. And having thrown up already in castors, I had no dicky tummy and spinny eyes to hinder my horrific dancing that was to follow.
It’s a shame that the DJ can mix a song as well as poofs like sniffin’ rug cause he is the most obliging DJ in the history of requests. Everything asked for gets played and cover versions are kept to a minimum (more on that later). I’m shuffling around on the dance floor, minding my own business and the hotties’ next to me when I get wetter than I’ve been possibly in my life. Being totally twatted, my group piled into the heart of foam action, to shape our bubbly Mohawks and form pretend genitals like the mature folks we are. The music got all 1997 dance and that’s when the fun really began. The boobs were out in force. There was way too many a bad bra and ten times more stupid and funny lookin’ boobs that should never be seen. And that was just the poofs. Does foam automatically mean that if you are a girl and you have ridiculous boobs and 1982 bras that you need to whap them out for all to see? At least I had the decency to keep mine away, nobody would have been in for a real treat had those bad boys come out to play. The most cringe worthy part of the night had to be the continual air punching that was carried out by me and my group of normally good dancers and hot friends. I should have been at a rave the way I was carrying on and on more than one occasion I was utterly tempted to invest in 4 glow sticks and shove them in my every orifice to brighten up the unwell lit dance floor. Air punching should be a ‘dance’ move that’s banned from all self respecting clubs. It should come attached to a health warning. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s certainly so far from cool that it’s vindaloo hot. I passed out around 4 times as the inhaling of foam became too much for my delicate throat which has been massacred by the cold I have had for 40 days and the fags that I have smoked constantly for the same amount of time. I did indeed have a wonderful night and have promised myself never to return to any party where bubbles get cannoned down your top. We had to walk home at 3 am with tears in our aggravated eyes, breasts on show through our tops and shoes so sodden we left trails to the front door. For the whole of yesterday, people from all walks of life turned up at the front door, itching for a party involving frothy gunk. You’d have been forgiven for mistaking us for whores if you’d seen the state of us, drippin and see through but then at least whores don’t pay others for the privilege of looking like that while we paid a whopping £3 to get moist and sticky. And while the foam may have washed out of my clothes, my shoes will never dry and my face looks not unlike a spattered bog, all pitted and dry and no amount of moisturiser is curing that stuffed crust pizza look.
And so it is my day off, having worked an entire weekend (despite the cheeky snoozes I managed to pull off) I think I well deserve this one. I think I well deserve any day that doesn’t involve actual work or effort.
And so I return to delight you all in the spectacle I witnessed yesterday in the form of bowel problem lesbians. Or something to that effect anyway. I spontaneously went for a dance around midnight last night with one Lil Red. We had some party tunes on, a bit of Britney gets me in the mood anytime, and the next thing we know we are knocking back the beer and vodka (sometimes mixed, sometimes on their own) and the party frocks are going on and we are heading dance wards. The only place we wanted to go was The Priory but on spotting the ginormous queue which seemed to double back on itself we went in search of other players of cheesy pop. Esko was a no go, this was evident as soon as we flung back the huge iron doors (the lack of bouncers there to greet us and hold said door should have prepared us) and we saw 5 visible people, 4 of which were staff and 2 of this 4 were the bouncers who’d given up on the hope of new arrivals. We were now in a dilemma. Do we go home and go for the sleep option and wake up feeling kinda bright and less full of the cold or do we head to gayville in the hope of some delicious Britney and Shakira tunes? There was minimal debate over this question but how to decide which gay bar to go to was of course a problem. We opted for OUT, the size of the dance floor swung the vote, despite there only ever being no more than 4 people on it at one time last night. It was THAT busy. The first stop was the toilet to relieve our bladders of fastly drunk alcohol. A choice of 4 bogs and I manage to get the one with a 3 inch layer of turd all down the back. Pebble dashing at its very best. And so in disgust we leave the bog and notice that there are only about 3 other women in the place. It’s rather horrifying to look at these people and know that one of them came to OUT for a dance and a jobbie. And so I’m having a mini stress incase people think it was either of us two whose home toilet isn’t good enough to dump in when we find our bladders all full and we’re back in the toilet. OK, so there’s 4 bogs, 1 eliminate the one with the skids so that’s a choice of three. Lil Red picks one so I’m left with two. I go for the one with most bog roll, thinking if someone had a crappy arse that they would have finished the roll but here I go, lift up the seat (that should have been a give away) and I’m faced with a curly lesbian turd in all it’s full glory of about 8 inches (hence the fact it was curled around the bottom of the bowl). JESUS CHRIST. What is wrong with these people?? What self respecting girl goes to a club to shake her ass, hopefully pull a hot lady and smoke some fags and drop her load of shit down a public bog? So that’s either 2 fuckin rotten lesbos in the one club where the population of ladies is now at 8, or one lesbo with a serious ass problem. Come on ‘ladies’ (I use the term VERY loosely), if you know that at some point in the evening you gotta release the chocolate hostage, stay at bloody home and do us all a favour and keep a little bit of dignity. You’d be as well as poopin’ in the street in full view of the world if you are gonna shite in a small toilet and leave your mark in the form of welded on shit or a full on floater. I never want to witness the site of hard lesbian stools ever, ever again.
‘Gay Pride’ is coming to Aberdeen. Or rather a mini bus painted pink and containing 3 drag queens is set to grace the shallow minded city of Aberdeen this coming Sunday. I haven’t worked out what it is all about and I don’t know if a city so full of shell suits and simple minded people is ready for the splendour of outrageous men in skirts with more make up than a circus troupe. As far as I’m aware it’s the first real gay event of such a capacity (at least 50 people are expected to attend you know) to take place here up north in the non gay capital of Britain. All I know is something will be taking place in the Duthie Park, land of all things cottaging but I don't think the two are related. I don’t know if there will be any marching or a musical extravaganza but I’m guessing not and therefore does such an event qualify as ‘Gay Pride’ as it was termed in the local newspaper? Clearly it’s not an occasion that the city is proud of as there has been no advertising barr a brief 10 lines in the paper today therefore diminishing the whole ‘pride’ part of ‘gay pride’. Is it simply an excuse for drag queens to spoil us lowly Aberdonians with their wicked tongues and vile dress sense? Probably but at least it’s a step forward and I really shouldn’t criticise people who can wear make up better than I do. It’s jealousy really cos everyone knows how well I would suit green eyeshadow pasted all the way up to my hair line with over accentuated lips (facial for once) to match. I really want to go witness this momentous occasion to see if any bams in tapered jeans and brown boots throw things at us queers and jeer at the freak show but sadly I have other plans, such as boiling my pants and eating the contents of someone else’s fridge. Actually I am working and while it is a shame there will be no gays in my work for me to send out my gaydar to cos they will all be busy doing gay pride, I’m sure aberdeen’s version of something glittery and bent will survive the long blustery day without Miss Fee. I seem bitter and sceptical about the whole thing and maybe that’s cause I am. I am not the kinda lesbo who gets her gay flags out daily and shaves her head to prove a point but I do love a bit of gayness, a bit of pride in who I am. But, living here, in Aberdeen I wonder what’s the point in trying to educate people in the ways of the gay cause way too many people are bigoted as hell and that’s hardly surprising when you get fellow gays like my good self slagging off everything even slightly curved about the city. I don’t suppose I help our gay crusade any by bad mouthing what we do have but hey, is anyone ever happy? As everyone else will know, Aberdeen now has what almost constitutes as a gay scene. Instead of one over heated club there are now two as well as a members only bar featuring dark rooms and other such sleaze which there aint much need for. With the positioning of the new gay bar, slap bang in the middle of bam world, we are finally getting integrated into society. The only problem being that too many straights are wandering into said bar and taking over the dance floor that you can actually extend your arms out on. But it's certainly about time Aberdeen got on track with places like Dundee who are much tinier but have an actual gay scene. People are even coming from Edinburgh and Glasgow to check out the unbelieveable event of The Deen housing 3 gay places to go girate their miniscule asses and shake their pruned mohawks in. It's kinda nice that the place is big enough to hide from those people who have hassled you since you came out or from those who try way too hard to get into you room for 3 pants when they have as much chance on that front as I do with sneaking a hug from Britney. As time is a ticking and I'm a not working I will leave my disjointed rant about the Aberdeen fuckers in Burberry who torment me so and the sort of expanding homo scene of Aberdeen till later. There will be further tales from 'OUT' not too far off in the future, possibly around 5pm this evening where I will divulge the toilet secrets of many a clubbing lesbian. Not to be missed.
Last night I went to see Forty Days and Forty Nights. For those of you unfamiliar with the film it’s basically about a randy guy who gives up sex for 40 days. It was kinda funny and the hot hot lady in it made it even better. It made me think about what I would give up for 960 hours if I really had to. I unconsciously chose to give up sex a while ago so that’s not really an option but the real answer was glaringly obvious. Food. I reckon if I manage to go even 40 minutes without the delights of Pringles or cheese then I will term the experiment a success. Clearly my non-eating phase has well passed and I’m eating enough for 4. Yeah 4 thousand. My every thought is food and when the next meal time is. My meal times seem to be getting closer and closer to each other every day. I seem to be eating an entire meal for an American family on the hour every hour. I can even time my buses by my food times. While I was told I looked not quite ‘trim’ but certainly trimmer than I have in my whole life, I am now about double the size I was originally. That’s pretty damn large. People want to do me for novelty value now. People want to check to see whether everything is in proportion to the size of my gut. If my gut is the size of a small continent then surely my fanny would be the size of Japan? I wouldn’t know, I can’t see past said massive gut. I know my pants have increased 18 dress sizes and that after I lost a thong to the crack in my ass that I aint been able to sit properly for about 2 weeks. My every meal is accompanied by 4 pints of beer and a box of Pringles and packet of cheese slices. And you know the worst thing? My bones have disappeared. I know they are in there somewhere but unless I do something drastic like staple my huge gob shut then there really aint much hope I will see them again. I suited those bones you know. So I was told anyhow. And so, post Saturday/Sunday hangovers I decided that I am in need of a diet fit for Vanessa Feltz. The cereal diet is the only way forward I know it is. I have completed two days semi successfully but now I feel over bloated what with all the milk involved. I have even taken to buying packets of baby carrots and apples to snack on. It’s so wrong. Myself and Beautiful Boy were sat outside Toys R Us yesterday, in the pretty sun after someone’s diarhea mission and to everyone we looked like junkies. We were sat facing each other with various item surrounding us passing a fag between us and sipping on mouthwash and nibbling on apple slices. We got moved on as we were undesirable characters and all for a healthy snack, a bit of nicotine and minty fresh breath. We could have been sat there sniffing coke off the paving slab and nobbing each other for all our effort. Toys R Us was a major anti climax. There were too many computers, not enough hands on stuff and of course, far too many kids being brattish over Barbie’s playhouse which mummy refused to buy for her little boy. It did give us inspiration for our summer kids party that we are gonna have. We are gonna get a water slide and set it up in my garden so the end finishes around a doggy poop. Only me and BB will know this of course and over excited people (some say ‘friends’) will go shooting down our slide to be greeted by an over ripe turd smack in the face. OH how much fun? Lots. It will be my mission to find some people to actually invite to this party and with all the talk of shoving poops in people’s faces I really don’t think that it’s gonna happen huh? Imagine all the beautiful food that I can buy for the purpose? I really do hope no one else does come. Fizzy sweets are out of the question however after a bad experience I had with said sweets only last week. Being a sugar addict, when sat in Lil Red’s home and the box of Swizzle sweets came out I was straight in their. Face first, closely followed by fanny and feet. I munched 25 packets of the little fuckers without even tasting them and sat and got green and made a bolt for the bog. Projectile vomit at it’s very finest I tell you. It was pure foam, and fizzed all the way to the splash. If pukes could be beautiful then this puke was way beyond beautiful. Do you think that’ wrong? To enjoy spewing your ringer? It was also pretty and technicoloured. Yeah, that is so wrong. I need food.
Eating: healthy salt and black pepper pretzels, really
Pretty much I have been a wandering zombie/jobbie, which ever term you prefer, for the past couple of days. Being pretty much the skintest person in history, for my Friday night post work drinks I was set to indulge in some stress relieving cokes. By the time 4 pm rolled on by it was clear that I would not be able to sit in a pub and drink soft drinks that taste of slightly flavoured soda for 4 hours. And so the girls at my office had a whip round. To my name I had around £3.10. Barely enough for one Vodka Bar pitcher and as I needed to last drinking from 5.30pm to 9pm I knew I needed at least 2 pitchers which equals 4 pints. Money was donated to the worthy Fee’s Drinking cause and I was ready to drink and smoke with Straight Man A, Beautiful Boy and Queen of Fun who was a last minute entry. I got a free pint out of the equation as my beer had been served in a pitcher so encased with shit it would have been more at home in a homeless man’s arse. By 7pm I was wasted, and I had only had 2 and half pints in the Vodka Bar which was full of football hooligans soaking up the Aberdeen sun and being gobby and bam-ish so we moved on to the new bar of choice, Chi where I spewed. I didn’t throw up more than the bit of macaroni pie I had just eaten but it was a spew nevertheless and gave me the momentum to sip an alcopop or two. I really am good at this drinking game. I had to meet Lil Red from the train at 9pm so I tottered off with Straight Man A on my arm, him doing his best to hold my bulk up and me trying my best to act the sober chick. It worked as well as I have at uni this past term and I swayed my way to Safeways to sniff the bread and noodles and buy more food than I could possibly consume in a month with someone else’s money. Despite the early hour, I knew I would be rough the following morning. I was. I slunked around work like a hunchback on downers and knew that I should not go out again for at least a week. But being me, I went home, slipped on a white shirt and cute pink tie and headed for pre out drinks with Lil Red and Straight Man A. Because we are minks and begrudge the whole pound charged per jacket in new gay bar OUT, we decided to go jacketless and because of this froze our assortment of asses off and jumped in a taxi for the 3 minute journey we would have to endure. We spotted a homeless person who really had ideas way beyond his station and instead of begging with his little polystyrine cup which would have been picked off the ground outside mcdonalds, this particular man had a bucket as big as a whore’s fanny for punters to throw in their loose change. Clearly this man is new to Aberdeen if he thinks he could ever fill a bucket with Aberdonian’s money in a night. They are such tight bastards that this bucket would never be filled were the homeless man to sit their for the rest of eternity, twice over. You gotta feel for the guy. Next thing you know this dude will have his soiled legs wrapped around a wheelie bin and expect that to be filled with more than shit and burger wrappers. A staggering 30 seconds and £3 later we arrived to meet J Bo in the way too packed Vodka Bar where I’m convinced someone tried to have a sneaky peak in my fanny pack, again. Lil Red made about 5 points of sitting on someone’s head in her drunken swaying and head lolling state and still she continued drinking. God I get jealous easy. Unable to suffer the leers from curtain haired YSL shirted men, we took ourselves to OUT where we lasted at least 50 minutes. I got a few lacklustre dances but with Lil Red unable to see me and me feeling like poop we decided it was not a night for ‘the duncin’ and homeward we went for a Sizzler for Lil Red and cheese slices a plenty for chubby chaser here, Miss Fee. And as my eyes are bleary and I’m having guilt trips at the amount of food I have consumed over the past 2 weeks I will go and think about people who eat more than I do. That won’t take long.
Listening to: Four Strings: (Take me away) Into the Night
I got my gum pierced yesterday. You know the bit of stretchy skin under the upper lip? Well that bit. I've heard it being called a lip web before which I kinda like. I had it done for a good 3 years and one day I felt the tiny hoop banging off my teeth in a disturbing fashion and it just kinda snapped off. That was pretty icky not to mention stupid looking as every time I grinned I looked like a circus show freak with this bit of metal hanging over my bottom lip. I remembered it being my least painful piercing and as my mate was getting his frenulum (under the tongue) done I wanted one too. I wanted the same one but an ulcer in that exact position ensured this was not an option. As I had eaten minimally pre piercing I thought a major ear or nipple piercing would cause a passing out spell so went for the 'tame' option. Fucker. Beautiful Boy's Beautiful Twin was up for the same one as me but I sneaked in before him and once he saw the colour drain from my face and my entire lip being yarked out about a metre he woosed out. If you could see how butch this guy is you'll know how sore this piercing looked. This boy is butcher than Pat Butcher with skin head and non floral ear rings to match. I wish I had a picture of my lip with this huge fuck off needle just sitting through it though, it looked kinda cool and I would not have looked out of place in African regalia I tell you. I haven't decided whether it was worth it or not yet. I got a little pink hoop in it which is cute but I have one fat lip (oh how I am partial to a fat lip or two) and it makes my smile look slightly gammy, or maybe it was gammy before and I just never noticed. I will keep it in for a couple weeks and see if it either grows on me or grows out. And I do hope that people I know stop threatening to copy it cause it fucks me off, get an idea of your own for once. It's been so long since I had a piercing that I had even contemplated giving blood cause I'm sure I would be eligble now, well not NOW obviously which is ok and I'm sure someone will live without the blood of The Fee. I had even considered removing every inch of metal that I had shoved in my every orifice, feeling the piercing thing was over and done with but then here I am sitting in a chair, crapping myself with a strange man prodding around in my mouth. Not an experience The Fee is used to. I love to get pierced. I consider myself a non risk taker, someone who doesn't do fair ground rides, doesn't go to foreign places for fear of heat stroke and someone who definitely does not take drugs incase of future repercussions. Basically I'm an all round dull girl so piercing is the only adrenaline rush I ever put myself through and it's one that I love. It's not that I'm a pain freak or anything, I mean the pain is oddly good but it's the build up to the pain that's the best thing because no matter how many piercings I have had, it always hurts far worse than I remember. It's all worth it though, mostly. I have had various things pierced, my favourite (apart from the original gum piercing) was my neck. I had it done twice, on either side, one grew out the other got wrenched out which was pretty fuckin sore but did leave a real good scar. My mother loved that one... as much as she loves the idea of a lesbian daughter. My worst piercing was my nose which I had done for a good year and a half. I did it out of spite as my parents had an issue about it so instead of sporting a tiny little stud I opted for a fuck off bull ring through my nostril. I actually thought, aside from the yellow pus that oozed out daily, that it was cool and it was only after I took my mother of all shiny hoops out that my mates told me how stupid it looked and how it ruined many a photo. Cheers guys. I also wondered at the time why I was single for so long, now it becomes apparent that people were scared to stand within 2 sq metres of me for fear of catching their mo hair jumpers on my jumbo hoop which many played acrobats with, swinging monkey style from side to side. I am a classy lady.
I wrote this stupid blog entry yesterday and thought it had published but clearly had not and so it's kinda partial but I really can't be arsed to remember what I wrote or to re write it so will talk more metal and ear foost another day.
And so the wanderer returns. I have wandered not very far and not for very long but wander I did. I have had 5 days in succession off and it’s quite a bad thought to be returning to work this evening. I have divulged all the non juicy details of my weekend which despite being gossipless was much much fun and so I will give you not quite a run down but some info on the past two days. Monday was the Jubilee as Tuesday possibly was. I had 2 days off. The events were not related, I always have Monday off and I got Tuesday as a holiday because I needed one, or wanted one at least. Monday was spent hanging with Straight Man A (who is now also known as Super Stud Who Is Pleasing To All) and avoiding my favourite bar because of non favourite people who had taken up residence in it all day. Chips and cheese were out in force and have signified the beginning of my compulsive over eating phase. Fucker. Feeling the need for a bit of class in our lives (with me in tow clearly the chances of this are pretty damn slim) we headed to Chi, a kinda classy comfy-chaired minimalist straight bar where the gays out numbered the straights. I’d say at least 3 gay bar staff out of the 4, plus me and plus the lesbian porn show in the corner brought the numbers up to about 6 while there were only 4 whole straights. That felt kinda good but it didn’t feel so good to have the view of the ‘are they or aren’t they’ lesbians who decided to prove they were by groping all manners of fanny while looking ‘seductively’ into my bespectacled eyes. There were 4 of them, all foreign, all femme but all kinda rottenly dressed with their foreign get ups and spammed hair dos. I hung out til Lil Red finished work and we went for a jaunt in the country. The bus was full of typical bams who growled at me and my lesbianness throughout the whole journey as they wondered why a gay was sitting on ‘their’ bus with a non lesbo lookin’ chick. We arrived in Cruden Bay which sounds kinda exotic to a city girl, around 7pm and of course the first thing that was done was head for the fridge. You know me and my fridge fascination right?? This was a beautiful fridge with all sorts of delights including the biggest pizza in the world which I would have easily scoffed all on my own. After getting a bit too excited at flicking through hundreds of channels and watching soundless big brother (how annoying is that btw, watching Big Brother Live and they keep cutting the sound so all you hear is the not so sweet sound of tweety birds? Oh let’s try ‘very’) we decided to head beach wards with a bottle of chilled wine and unsensible shoes which I knew would get fucked as soon as I stepped onto the sand. Just as well they weren’t mine. We hung on the beach for a while but it got kinda eerie and my paranoia sent us home for more music channels and Jackass. The next day was spent getting too much fresh air and hanging around Slains Castle (the original as opposed to the pub) which was kinda cool but kinda scary with some real darkened bits which nobody I knew would ever dare step into. I do hang out with wooseys and pussys though. There was more beach and more food to be had and a swell time was had by all and the over powering sun left Lil Red with her oh so fair skin with slight sun stroke, yes really. I got a nice tan line (a real one as opposed to a skid) down one side of my face and came home covered in sand, beasts and wine stains. Beautiful Boy called, twatted out of his head and wanted the lesbos to come meet him and walk him home. Really he wanted us to come drinking with him but Lil Red’s sun stroke was too much to bear so the best we could offer him was a walk to the bus stop. And that was my weekend, lots of sand, some drink and plenty of sleep. It’s all good and I’m all that.
What else is there to do when you are so fucked that you can’t see out of your swollen eyes or walk a distance of more than 5 metres cause your feet are so fat? For me, my only option yesterday was to hang out and drink tea and check out a variety of bad asses and shocking hair with Young B who knows, like me, how to appreciate the not so fine things in life. I stayed in bed unable to move for about 5 hours too many to watch Big Brother and to berate myself for having joined with every other fucker in Britain to diss the actually lovely Lynne Moncrieff who got kicked out on Friday. It’s the first guilt trip I have had in over a week and I saw a whole new hot side to Lynne who is about as ‘evil’ as Mary-kate and Ashley. And boy that lady knows how to dress and carries off bootcuts as well as I carry off being a bender (i.e real well :-) ). After watching her highlights I realised that Miss Lynne had not been given a fair chance and I’m going to wage a campaign to bring back the hottie with the dodgy accent. Her accent did give hours of entertainment but we can hardly hold her dulcet Aberdonian tones against her, the way she drags out her vowel sounds as her voice drops an octave or ten because fuck it, I know I have the unfortunate ability to talk exactly like that more than often. Anyway, enough about Miss Fox for the moment and on to my Sunday escapades which were as effort filled as a wet fart. As always, Slains Castle was the hangover pub of choice but there were no seven pepper dusted fries (aka Bev Fires) but there was tea and stupid hair a plenty. We sat in our regular booth which requires a 6ft ladder to help you get into the fucker and being dark and dingy my hangover eyes were not apparent, always a plus in my book. So we were sat in this booth minding our own business and that of the smoking baby’s family when a gathering of 3 football lovin’ housewives with matching non slinky football shirts on took up seat directly in front of us. Thinking about nothing rather than which one had the worst hair we realised that we being started at profusely. The housewives had taken up an instant fascination with the lesbos and couldn’t have made their stares any less obvious had they have come and sat on our knees and looked longingly into our gay eyes. It wasn’t even Fee paranoia, they were so intrigued with us at one point that they all turned round in their seats and just glared for a solid 5 minutes. I don’t know what was so interesting about us sat there with our earl grey, no fags and sometimes loud conversation. Oh maybe that was it, my inability to talk quietly about anything is wonderful and causes many a filthy look or thrown punch. I got pissed off with these ladies who would not have looked out of place in ‘Reader’s Wives’ with their eighties hair and blue jeans arses that I blew the one with the largest hair a proper kiss and got caught making obscene licking gestures. But stare on they did and then two had to got to the toilet together for a good ten minutes while the other put everyone’s clothes on incase the lesbos were checking out her boobs. Had she of had any I just may have. After waiting way too long for the other two to step out of the toilet it was clear that they could handle pints as well as me and both had left a sneaky jobbie behind and the definite aroma of poop clung to my clothes as I made a hasty exit so I didn’t get the blame for straight lady turds. In Slains we also spotted a family of overly hairsprayed hair who were sat in a corner, one with tiny baby in arms with all members of the family smoking like they may die if they didn’t chain smoke themselves into oblivion. This little baby is sat there with all the smoke in the world sifting into its eyes until the cloud of smoke got so thick that it was impossible to see the baby anymore. This baby must have been about 6 months old and here it was with as good as a fag in one hand, a half pint in the other and it’s bending over the table from its mother’s knee to sniff a line of coke and dribbling it’s baby dribbles down it’s nicotine stained baby grow. I love a baby as much as I love a cock but this was bang out of order. Addicted to everything by age one, that mother and her elevated quiff must be so proud of herself she really must. And with a mother with hair and a face like that what other option does lil baby have but to become a crack addict by age 2? Having had enough of addict babies and reader’s wives to last more than a lifetime we took off to the Vodka Bar in search of bad bums and Foxy American Chick to show Young B what all the fuss had been about. Disappointed she was not. Here she was in all her foxy glory and she made Young B forget all about the hideous sights we had just witnessed. Vodka Bar wasn’t too eventful but Young B did spot more than 1 nice ass, that girl just has an eye for them I tell you, experienced in the ways of the ass she is. And we were rather disappointed with the lack of accentuated fannies that were on display but remembering the saggiest ass in the world we saw the previous night more than made up for that. This ass was as long as the longest ass in the world that we had seen the last time but this time it belonged to a 23 year old whore (no not me) whose jeans were pulled up so high they could have doubled as a scarf and still she kept making a grab for the waistband and jerking them higher to keep her big ears warm. The poor cow even had a gammy leg. Oh to be as perfect as me. And so Young B had to go get her train back to the slightly more exciting place of Glasgow and I gave Lil Red a surprise (a good one I’m hoping) visit before taking my non willing ass home to face the wrath of parents, which was actually subdued and wrathless. Today is a day for Cruden Bay.
Listening to: Get me off: Basement Jaxx
Sun, for once
People bein nice for ulterior motives
Friday was a day of culture. Actually it was more of a day being so wrecked I shook like a lesbo on heat but that’s besides the point. Oh and it was a night of free wine. A whole 4 glasses. My chum Babs’ 4 month hibernation paid off and the clever little fucker got a first for his art degree. Being in his final year, along with the rest of the arty types and arty wannabes, he got to show off his wonderful work at a degree show which basically involved some ponces flouncing around in stupid skirts and some other nicer folks displaying the best of their work in the hope that someone will commission them to paint or make something pretty for a bunch of cash. Being fully knackered I was in the mood for art about as much as I was in the mood for giving my first blow job. I met some other non arty folks and headed art wards around 7pm. I lost the other non arty folks by about half past. And I thought I had no sense of culture. I’m sure you know how much I love a good moan but tonight I was in full moan mode and utterly annoyingly so. There was never enough wine, the paintings went misunderstood and the lack of air conditioning made for way too many BO ridden folk in silly clothes. I even resorted to downing people’s dregs and have since caught a nasty case of oral herpes, that’s how desperate I was to waken up and stop being the grouchy fucker in the corner. Actually that prize went to the one the only J BO who had the hangover for hell with a dicky tummy to match so she made for good company as I’m sure you can imagine. Once the champagne kicked in my head was up my ass, made for cosy viewing that did and my quest for more free wine continued. I hung around randoms and tried to look interested in their colour schemes and splodges in an attempt to pilfer free alcohol. I made no friends and commissioned a pretty bag which I can never afford and made the usual ass of myself but I come to expect nothing less. There was even a space hopper in the house which people had major difficulties blowing up. I offered to get my lips around it and muff puff it to full capacity but for some reason my kind offer went unheard. We headed off into town, desperate to escape the masses of overly dressed coloured haired people who were most unliberal with their alcohol. Myself and Lil Red were supposed to go to a real ‘disco’ in the hidden depths of Bucksburn which I had oddly looked forward to, any excuse to get my party frock and bows on to twirl myself around the floor like an frenetic old person who over exaggerates every side shuffle and shoulder shimmy. However, Lil Red decided to abandon all eighties moves and clothes and go play with Beautiful Boy and his Beautiful Twin where I consumed more dregs and alcopops before heading home pre midnight to stick my lip (facial for once) to the toilet bowl making such a good impression. The last time I was that wasted I rolled around in my own spew for a whole night, having no energy to make it to the bog in time and so I worried that I would have a repeat performance of such a degrading incident. I would rather stuff my head down the bowl of 3 hour old vomit than face the public humiliation of barfing on the person next to me during the night. Don’t y’all wish you were as classy as me? I did survive the night, having set my phone to go off every hour to make sure I didn’t choke on my puke and die in the night cause that would be a shame. It was so good to wake up, have the day off, feel like a turd and to know that I had to party again that evening for the infamous J Bo birthday celebrations. The only way to get over a hangover is to get to the drinking but everyone knows that huh? And so in the company of Young B I began tea time drinking wearing an apparently ‘foxy’ number which I knew I would regret wearing later. It was a real pretty white (yes, really, The Fee in white) cardy type thing which looked so good but with the lack of air conditioning in a later club made me sweat like a big sweaty animal. We met Lil Red and Straight Man A and headed Illicit Still wards to be greeted by a getting drunker by the second J Bo decked out in her granny’s carpet with extra gypsy frill but still looking all good despite the odd ensemble which was a multitude of assorted browns. Various others including BB and his BT also joined in the fun and we left J Bo with her hot boyfriend and others to go shake our asses to some cheesy Saturday night tunes. I did indeed have a real good night and had at least 8 drinks, spent my months wage and danced for 2 hours solid in afore mentioned woolly cardy thinking I was THE coolest dancer in the place while really I was like a lumbering moonwalker with beetroot cheeks and beefy like BO but hey. And so today I am twatted like a long flappy twatt and can think of nothing but Cruden Bay. Guten nacht fellow others who speak foreign languages as well as I speak shite.