I forgot to tell you about my pub hell on Friday night. Someone at work was leaving so we had the customary couple of drinks after work. For some reason I always get extremely nervous of such events. I don’t know if this is because two things normally happen on such occasions. One thing I have a tendency to do is to get so twatted that I make an arse of myself and everyone else around me like the time I went to a wedding with work people and the free wine on entry ensured that after swaying around on the dance floor and harassing my boss about her actual age that I was found, half an hour later, with my face in a rose bush in the grounds of a posh hotel hacking my guts up like a bulimic after a 4 hour binge. I was then bundled in a taxi to face my mother who then had the humiliating experience of putting a drunken pukey daughter to bed with a bucket and pint of water. The other thing that usually happens is I decide to confess my undying love for someone I work with, even though really I hate them to death, just so I can try and snog them and embarrass them at work the following day. It always ends up with me being knocked back because of disgusted straight work mates thinking I’m a pervert. Still I get invited out for drinks. I don’t understand. Anyway, I ended up in the Bells which is a pub directly across from my work and for some reason this is a selling point for my work colleagues, despite the fact that I work on Union Street and there are bars on every corner that don’t smell of body odour and vomit. I settled into the torn seats with as much ease as a forced fart and tried to hold off the unavoidable toilet trip for fear of what I may find. Had I not have necked two triple vodkas prior to meeting up then this task may not have been so excruciating. I’m always so unlucky with toilets and of course, this was no exception. There were 3 cubicles and once I managed to locate them, pushing my way through leering men all wanting a piece of my ass (well there is plenty to go round) I was faced with a puking whore who didn’t even have the decency to close the door behind her so all I saw was a blue jean arse the size of two of my own global bum and violent body convulsions which were carried out to the sound track of lumpy retching. Oh and as if that wasn’t bad enough she had white socks on. And so I try to avoid this mass of puke (good coming from Miss Pukey 2002) and take the left cubicle which low and behold has no lock and no bog roll so middle cubicle it was. And what greets me here? A pound of pooh caked down the side of the bog which I know was so immense that it would still be there today. It’s that whole ‘I’m going out for a voddy and a poop’ thing and it drives me insane cos this was no sudden diarrhoea, not with that consistency, no way. And as I sat back down and listened to the old bastards who’d been there for a week singing happy birthday to no one in particular all I could think about was people’s pooping habits and getting home in time to watch Big Brother, the finale which did not disappoint and the lovely Kate Lawler who spoiled us for weeks with drunken and stupid behaviour, won the show. And so I go to stuff my every crevice with peanut butter crisps and wonder why walking is often a problem.
I got new customised Dunlops yesterday. They are quite beautiful, navy with paint splashes. I think I’m in love. Someone said they were ‘just like wellie boots but without the wellie bit’. I don’t get it.
Saturday was another day of outdoor afternoon drinking in semi sunny Aberdeen. The main features of the day were shit pop bands, pissing in gents toilets, plenty of vodka and lost phones which when mingled together ensured that emotions were running high and people were even higher. The occasion for such escapades was ‘Free at the Dee’ which was a free ‘musical’ event in a local park with all the minks from far and beyond being in attendance. The main acts included Hear’say who’s over the top arm and body flailing almost led to exposed boobs and boys with coconut heads falling off the stage into a mob of excitable kids and tapered trousered adults who should have been working in Poundstretchers. My personal highlight was not Gareth Gates who is one stupid mistake and who needs to re address his ‘colours’ cos if he appears in white once more he will be mistaken eternally for a pigment free hedgehog but the best moment for my gay crew and I was Sugababes who danced as rigidly as cardboard but were as hot as the Costa del Sol. The young ladies delighted audiences with their pointless dance moves which accompanied their hip shakin tunes until the humiliation of our own bad public dancing became too much. We were sat around on the grass, 8 gays and our token straight on a ‘disco square’ aka a tartan picnic rug drinking vodka from water bottles and cider form accumulated plastic coffee cups and attracting far too much attention as we rolled on the grass, tore around on people’s backs and were generally too excitable due to the slight heat and copious amounts of cigarettes and alcohol. Luscious L gained as much attention as ever as he appeared in his usual mismatched outfits and at one point had an entire extended Aberdonian family of fake burberry wearers staring in full horror at one him for a solid 15 minutes until they could stand it no more and moved to another position on the grass for fear of him corrupting not only the children but the adults too. Of course with the amounts of alcohol being consumed there were far too many toilet emergencies and it seemed that more time was spent in queues for bladder relief than there was drinking or fooling around. There was nothing else to do but barge our way to the gents where we tried to avert our eyes from the various shapes and sizes of willy which we were most unaccustomed to. Not that I was in any position to be fussy but jesus urinals absolutely stink and the amount of piss that was splashed up my chubby calf was enough to make my very own piss punch. I am still squeezing the pee out of my jeans. Sodden. Absolutely sodden. It was after gents bog stop numero 17 that I discovered I had lost my sexy little flip phone which I had had for 2 whole days. There were tears as I tried to retrace my steps but I only succeeded in knocking a large angry clown off his stilts which resulted in much fist shaking and obscenities being hurled in my general direction. Everyone peaked by about 3pm and by 6pm there were only 5 of us left so there was nothing to do but go collect a J Bo, drink more, try not to think about sleep and go go dancing. I had a forced vomit to try and make room for more vodka but only succeeded in near passing out due to the amounts of energy I expelled trying to hack up more than turd coloured and flavoured bile. I sat in a comatosed form feeling more tired than I ever have until the straight vodka shots made an appearance. I perked up long enough to play the accentuated fanny game with my jeans and to dance to happy hardcore. We almost lost a J Bo to the pavement as she decided it was essential for her to stand on a window ledge 3 floors up with the window thrown open to wave to unknown randoms across the street. Having failed in her suicide bid she proceeded to slide her way down the banister with ass on full display. That ass made more appearances than zits on a pubescent teen I tell you. The images are still fresh and the pain in my eyes is even fresher. Unable to persuade a J Bo and Straight Man A that their presence was more than desired in gay land, we went our separate ways. After paying £5 to enter the OUT establishment and to be smacked in the face by the overpowering heat and after queuing 20 minutes to get a glass of water, we left, completely drained and wishing we had stayed at home where at least people don’t hover on dancefloor stairs and kick the back of your heels or blow smoke in your face when you try and access the dancefloor. What’s that all about? And what’s the point in standing watching the dancefloor when you have mental health problems and get pissed at anyone trying to get by? Sometimes I think people go out with the sole intention of fucking people off, you know like those people who blatanetly pick your drink off the floor and drink it and try to pass it off as the drink they just purchased from the bar even though you just stood in the queue sweating like an animal and trying to pass yourself off as a poof for 20 minutes just so you will actually get served. Anyway, before I get drawn into a rant about inconsiderate and plainly rude others I will leave you as I think about that resit I have to do for 2 weeks. That’s another 13 days of just thinking about it then.
I got a letter in the post today. The only letters I receive are from debt companies threatening legal action over not paid store accounts and flyers from SAGA (sex and games for the aged) because they confuse me with my mother. Obviously they have seen us together in real life. Poor mother really. Anyway, the brown envelope looked as inviting as a hard-on but I tore it open in non guilty abandon anyway. It was an invitation. I cant even remember the last time I got invited anywhere that I didn't invite myself. Maybe it was that 'going away' party people threw for me when I was 17. I wasn't going away. Or maybe it was the time I was invited to the local Italian resturant's annual clean up bash where all the local dogs are invited to come eat up a years worth of stale cheese and bread crust from the alley way kitchens. Oh the memories I have of that day, I cleared out the left overs before the other dogs even got sniffin and had diarhea for 2 months. That was the only time I have weighed an amount not equal to my age. I lfet quite a legacy behind that day. As well as a trail of slimey poop and lumpy puke. Anyway, as you can imagine, my excitement was uncontainable and I even had 'flashdance' on before I got passed the word 'invite' and had worn myself down before the chorus. My joy was short lived however. As i read past the the third word I was horrified to see what I had been invited to. No, it wasn't some heterosexual orgy or FAT CAMP but gasp, a smear! The words 'You are invited to attend a smear test' mocked me and replayed over and over in my head like that bad lesbo porno that was so vile and so full of double handed fisting that I could't stop thinking about it for months. An invite to a smear? Hello? Is it a party? Is it the sort of occasion where a bunch of hot chicks gather in one room and are all told to whip off their panties, spread there legs in unison and enjoy having something metal shoved up their fannies? I mean, if it were there would be no holding me or any other unself respecting lesbian back. We'd all be lying about our ages and getting a monthly smear as opposed to one every 5 years if this were the case, just for a bit of group relief. It's all very well for a doctor's secretary to try and dress this event up for me as a lesbo orgy but where's the 'party' in someone scraping bits of your insides out via your fudge? Or maybe my doctors secretary knows who I am and really does want to turn this undignified and humiliating experience into something a bit more erotic. Doctors and nurses and their secretaries are all sadists. I'm sitting here with my legs tightly crossed (fine, don't believe me) and am sweating like a hippo just at the prospect of the whole thing. I've put it off for 3 years, what's another 3? Death? At this moment in time death is looking far more tantilising than getting my beaver out for a middle aged nurse who's fingers have just desecrated a tuna and cheese sandwich and who is now ready to examine my bush closer than any lesbo ever has. It's all wrong and while I know they have seen a million fudges before they havent seen mine and they need never. I wouldnt wish that upon anyone, except maybe the whores at the harbour whos' fannies are more mashed up than a car crash and as appealing as dried worm guts on brown bread. And so I go to practise 'self smears' to see how much it really does hurt. Or maybe that's an entry more fitting for the trashwhore diaries.
Listening to: Do you really want to hurt me?
Thinking about: cold steel being inserted into not so eager beavers
Also thinking about: What if your muff puffs mid examination?
The parental unit returned from somewhere continental sporting slight tans and big sunglasses only to find me looking like I have eaten half the house (which I as good have) and running around with air fresher trying to disguise the lingering smell of fags and booze that have taken over my house the past two weeks. I hung around long enough to gorge myself on all the foreign food stuffs that also made the journey home with the creme de la creme (jesus they even have me talking bollox foreign) being the peanut butter crisps. You have not lived in crisp heaven (where I hold every key) until you have tried these bad boys that look not unlike wotsits but taste so divine that my limited vocabularly cannot stretch far enough to describe them aptly enough. And while my parents entered the door smiling because they were so elated to see their jumbo daughter and her now skinny dogs who shat themselves silly over the two weeks, the smiles were quickly erased as they witnessed the carnage that my 3 days of solid tidying did nothing to quash. NO longer will The Fee be trusted on her own for periods of longer than 2 hours and 10 minutes. They reeled back in horror as the true shock of smashed sun dials, bombers and fag burns in the carpet, broken toilets and pish splashed sofas sunk in. At least this detracted my mum's attention away from the fact that I had smoked all her snooker cue fags and actually quite enjoyed them. With all the damage I have caused (oh how i wish I could blame my irreseponsible friends but i know only too well that I, Fee The Clutz, was all at fault) it would have been cheaper for them to send me on a worldwide trip for the best part of a year. IEven if I hadn't caused such a mess, do you know how much it will cost them to restock their cupboards? I can't even dream about that kind of money. I really did eat pretty much everything in sight, aside from the olives, the apples and the dog food but even it was looking tempting after day 12 adn I'm sure with a drop of oil and bread it would have gone down a treat (a bit like an over eager lesbo really). I even managed to get my way through frozen vegetables and stale pita bread and infected eggs because I was so starved with boredom that I needed to alleviate this in someway. I evacuated the house quicker than a sneaky fart and have been too scared to make the return journey for fear of all the reprisals that are sure to follow. What's the worst they can do? Ground me? At age 23 it's not bloody likely but they could make me pay toward the refurbishment of the entire house which would mean that I will never see the pub or vodka again. OH heaven help me and my carelessness and my compulsive over eating, again. And so I go to post myself off to somewhere like Bogner for the forseeable future whilst making sure I touch nothing or no one in the process and maybe I will find a way to cure me of my clumsy irresponsible ways. But let's hope not.
I keep having nightmares about how many times my bellies made an appearance as I was thrown against my will and as I dived of my own acord into the paddling pool at my party. I think all my guests are having the same nightmare.
I have a gammy leg. The cause of this is still unclear but I'm sure it may have something to do with the over use of body parts in stupid ways over the past two weeks. Never before have I performed or attempted so many gymnastic moves adn dancing more suited to an epileptic ape than I have in the past 2 weeks. Maybe I never will again. I mean, I had to run for a bus which is bad enough in itself but to have a full uncontrollable limp while running for public transport is very traumatic. My limp is so severe that my whole right leg trails at least 2 meters behind the left one so as I jumped on the bus, the right leg was left at the corner and could do nothing but watch as my left leg and the rest of my body got on the infested bus. It's probably still there. If you pass by Kings Gate you may see my leg just stood there by the corner not knowing quite what to do. It will be drenched in this rain, unless it sensibly made its way into the bus shelter and I gotta feel for it but come on, it was a bit like having Oprah Winfrey attached to my body - a 10 tonne weight of uselessness - and it hindered my usually graceful walk (yeah right, there's as much chance as me being graceful as there is me not eating for 10 minutes) and made me look like a bigger prick than normal. I did it a favour leaving it there, stranded in the cold wetness of Aberdeen for some tramp to come along and either knaw at it or substitute it for his own right leg because the part of jeans it was clad in are prettier than his own soiled boiler suit. I may save my leg from this plight of being trailed through the life and times of a homeless man and collect it on my return home. Speaking of gammy legs do you know there is a prostitue who frequents the ABerdeen red light district with a gammy leg? This whore has the King of all loose legs and I wonder how she really does get her leg over. Maybe that's why the phrase is 'getting your leg over' as opposed ot 'getting your legs over' because whoever came up with such an inventive phrase was one of the bandy legged crew. You gotta see this slag though. It's not even as if her pretty face could compensate for her years of bending herself in all sorts of positions to give her a gammy leg because she is one ugly bird. IN fact it could be fair to say that I have never seen a good looking whore in Aberdeen. Not that I regularly check out the slut worthy talent but if bored I have been seen to wander in the harbour area. Sometimes I do it when I'm skint too but really people just think I'm a little bit 'special' and give out signs of being a shit fuck so am avoided at all costs. I don't want to talk about whores no more. I don't want to talk about anything no more. It's 'spar rapport' time so am best avoided in person for the best part of this week.
Have you ever seen a 22 year old girl guide in a uniform made for a 9 year old giving a lesbian a lap dance? I never thought I would. In fact it’s not something I had ever thought about until J Bo’s party on Saturday night where too much vodka led to people dressing up in all her clothes she has had since the age of 5. Beautiful Boy in all his slenderness stretched a full body, glitter catsuit on with matching sparkley baseball cap and strutted around the home-made dance floor like a ballerina with balls, only to disappear and make a casual entrance in a white tutu which did much justice to the size of his whopping balls which would have been more at home on a full sized horse. Joining into the spirit of lycra clothes I found myself squeezing my chubby ass into a purple leotard and pulling it up around my cords to reveal the enormity of my fanny to the entire room. A jealous girl guide aka Mad A was so distraught at the size of my puss that she had to accentuate her own (slender?) fanny and pull her tiny guide jogging bottoms all the way up to meet her equally tiny guide hooded jumper. I still won but her triangular shape was definitely more defined. The Beautiful Boy’s Beautiful Boyfriend found himself in a dress which set his eyes off nicely and ensured that he and his boy were the oddest looking couple in the house and caused them to reevaluate their butch and femme roles. This party was a ‘living in the 80s’ kinda set up. There was much vinyl and much bad bad dancing and with J Bo hosting the event you knew before you even got there that you were in for much stupidity and even more hilarity. J Bo and Mad A have this effect on people that they could be in a room with the most boring people in the world (the type that sip expensive wine even though it tastes like turd and talk about stuff that interests only deaf people who have no idea what they are talking about) and still have the funniest time ever and make said boring people have an actual interesting evening. They could make Margaret Thatcher wiggle her floor length arse to Chesney Hawkes and they could even have Tim Big Brother bouncing around in a pair of cycling shorts and tank top to Bros. Everyone loves a J Bo and a Mad A it has to be said. There was no spiking of drinks this time around unless that’s why I threw up 3 times. No, that’ll be because I had at least 4 drinks. And there were no raw onions being force fed to those who know no better but there was a great deal of group conga-ing and running round tables and making up dance routines to songs that require no mentioning. Of course the usual hits of the evening were Tiffany which has been scratched to death and Mr Jason Donovan who brought on about 50 tears to the J Bo who loves him more than she would like to admit. It’s the floppy curtained hair and the yellow boots he was so fond of I’m sure. I clipped around in a pair of fluffy high heeled slippers which were 8 sizes too small before attempting to astound audiences with my wonderful tap dance routines with fluffy slippers on a wooden floor. It had to be seen. No one could remember if the group Kris Kross were 80s or 90s but there was no holding back 4 of us who proceeded to backwards our jeans and ‘get down wit da kids’ while some paraded with belts on heads to the turtle power song which everyone seemed to know the words to and have a favourite turtle from. Another silly night was had by all and I wonder what I have done all my life to have missed out on so much fun because I know I never went to any parties where people cross dressed in childrens’ clothes and did club foot dancing round tables. Or if I did I’m quite sure I would have been laughed out of the house and had stones thrown at me every time I went out in public. I will say that the only thing missing from J Bo’s party, apart from bog roll, was the lack of flashdance. Even Straight Man A’s ears picked up at the mention of flashdance but alas there would be no fanny busting splits or dramatic forward roll interpretations. And so I go think about the next time when I can act like a kid and have so much fun doing so. The ‘twister’ is already set up…
Although it has now been 5 days since my 'party' I am still feeling the effects and I fear my garden will suffer in squidgy silence till eternity. I arose at an unearthly hour of 12pm on Monday morning/afternoon to survey the damage of the previous day/night. I wish I hadn't bothered. I wish I had remained in bed till all time had passed and there was only death left. The garden was probably worse hit but the kitchen looked not unlike the remains of a mental patient annual tea party where there had been no supervision. I checked out the paddling pool which had been used more as a diving pool and bath and was horrified by what I saw. I expected the odd bit of floaty grass and maybe even some soil but the amount of toe scum there was skimming around the surface of the infested water was unbelievable and most unexpected. I only hope it was toe scum. Toe scum is foul enough but nob scum is clearly worse. Mind you I'm glad the pool was used as a cleaning place cos imagine what could have been left in my shiny enamel shower... The shower curtain was already pulled down and no one was even in the goddamn thing. The water slide was in disarray and I'm sure I saw a print of my fat gut engrained around the middle. The grass was brown and I do hope this was due to it being waterlogged and was in no way connected to the only item of clothing still hanging on my washing line - a pair of skiddy biffs. The owners of these brown boxers shall remain anonymous unless they are collected in a black bag before Sunday. And that is a threat. Remove these soiled punties are your name is published here for all (and many of Aberdeen's gay scene) to see because the fumes are doing major damage to my once pretty flowers. That's really not something I was prepared for at that time of day, after about 5 hours broken sleep and about 400 units of alcohol and a similar amount of smoked cigarettes. I don't cope with such vulgarity when hungover. The other surprise of the day was the finding of an onion skin in my bathroom bucket which had been massacred by my blood hungry doggie. The mystery has since been cleared up as noted in previous account of party. We thought someone's periods were stinkin' and were most relieved to discover the onion skin which accounted for the rancid smell. Why you would dare someone to to eat a raw onion in a bathroom and then eat the other half yourself is beyond me. But then it was Mad A and she is beyond help. With the amount of alcohol that had been spilled on my carpet (mentioning no names Lil Red... who wins the Miss Clumsy 2002 award) I could have gotten drunk by licking up the carpet, something as a lesbian I should be quite adept to. I don't know what happens to people when they become drunk but automatically it equals becoming inconsiderate. I aint moaning because I know I sure as hell paid no consideration to the carpet when I put my fag out on it or to the sun dial when I picked it up and smashed it on the ground but people just seem to forget things like ashtrays, not feeding dogs chocolate, not raiding parents' cupboards for brandy and not taking ornaments home because you've developed a sudden cleptomania problem. It's all wrong. There was also a wine and a fanny pad thief. I know the dog had part in the fanny pad escapades because we found a huge soggy pad which seemed to inflate with excess saliva tucked away in his corner, all sodden and wrapperless (also unused thankfully). The wine is still a mystery. It was also found that dogs had peed over various people's belongings and while some of these were very apparent, I kept my mouth shut about the more subtle pee smelling articles of clothing, particularly if I didn't approve of the colour or style of such an item. Cruel but fair, as were many a fashion item sported by some guests (myself included who had been relegated to a Barbie tee after much water fun). Other discoveries that have been made since the demise of the party were the two poofs who blew each other off behind my garage which is visible for at least 5 houses to see so I wonder no more why I have been gobbed on more times than a dry virgin getting her first fingering since Sunday. If I could do it all again I would make every person stay in my home, with force if necessary to clean up the following day. I would make sure they swept up the piles of puke they left behind my buckets, make them sieve out the pool with their teeth and then I would make them drink from every cup the put dog food or left tabbies in. And as a final touch I would insist they sucked the piss off the floor in the bathroom with a thick straw and teach them to have a better drunken aim because my toilet smells ranker than a whore's fanny with the 14 different types of piss that is soaked into the floor. And so readers off I go to watch pompous Tim get evicted from Big Brother and then maybe tidy some more. Maybe I will even empty the paddling pool of it's mouldy feet contents. Or maybe I wont because today has been a good day. So far.
Song of the day: “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to”
I just had one of the best days of my life. Considering the other 2 days that also constituted as the best days of my life were 1) the time I got to take part in a donut and pie eating contest and had won before the race even started and 2) the time I took a packet of Windeze after 2 days of trapped wind which felt like someone stabbing my ass with a hot poker and the utter sense of relief that went with this, it’s no wonder that my party was so good. It was my first ever party. Never before had I known more than 2 people at anyone time to justify staging a party but now, and with the amount of people I offended - possibly never again, I knew at least 14 trusted people to have in my garden. The preparations for my party (more of a gathering to be honest) were meticulous. Saturday (the day prior to the big event) was spent blowing up paddling pools and water slides, scattering glitter in every available space, clearing all valuables out of reach and preparing a feast of nasty punch with foosty pineapple and other such delights which would have been more suited at a Tillydrone barbeque. All the invites had been sent out the week before and were filled with glitter and instructions to wear speedos for the girls and bikinis for the boys incase people really did want to dip their hopefully clean toes in the murky paddling pool and slide along on their asses or faces on the water slide. As this was more of a kids party than any kids party I have been to (which was only one when I was 5 and was never invited to more after the jelly and dog food mysteriously vanished) there had to be toys for people to entertain themselves. Such toys included jumbo space hoppers (one of which died a death after being launched into a prickly bush before the alcohol even made an appearance), pogo sticks, skipping ropes and multiple items which required to be soaked in water and thrown around. The guests arrived in bursts and it was not long before water was being hurled around quicker than I can eat a pie and Babs was the first to go head first in the pool closely followed by myself, Straight Man A and Lil Red. The water area was at the back of the garden and while the 4 of us who were more sodden than Annabela Chung’s pussy shifted around nervously looking for other victims to soak, the rest had gathered in groups and were watching us with disdain, like the kids we were. They were like a pack of wolves, waiting to descend on their prey and the alcohol did nothing to cure us of our paranoia of inevitably getting lynched by this crew of sober types. We had to get more on our side. Luscious L knew there was no way he was getting out of a good watering and to avoid his newly dyed red hair dripping all over the garden like a girl who comes on unexpectedly he shoved on a shower cap and took it like a man. Well he is gay after all. Others who braved the freezing shit filled paddling pool were Queen of Fun who really had no choice in the matter and Sparkle Cat who seemed to relish the wet look in the name of fun. A lot of my memories of the day/evening are patchy and the hours between about 5pm and 11pm are as good as non existant but as well as the water there was plenty of alcohol, loads of stupid dancing and heaps of bodies being thrown aimlessly around the garden. The hit of the day, aside from the mingin’ punch which disappeared as quick as a ghost poop, was J Bo’s 80s compilation tape which consisted of Angry Anderson (remember Scott and Charlene’s wedding?) to which J Bo did a mean power ballad rendition, Tiffany, Chesney Hawkes, Bros and Lionel Ritchie. It was all wrong but at the same time so right. Mad A was the fool of the evening who spiked drinks with Hayfever drugs, made people eat raw onions and eventually passed out in a dribbling, salivating wreck on my chair wrapped in my mother’s clothes. Actually, if people didn’t have my clothes on (the amount of Fee clones there was running around my house after the soakings was scary especially since they all looked better in them than me) then they had my parents Macs and hats on which I found in the morning in various places throughout the house and garden. Once the numbers had diminished and we lost people to sleep, work and comas we chilled out around the sticky with jelly table and ogled my fantastic porn collection while all the boys took turns to massage every body part going. It was slightly disturbing, as were the two who blew each other off behind my shed but that’s another story. Oh and in 14 hours of drinking punch with extra vodka and vodka with no extra coke I vomited only twice. There was bets placed on how many times serial spewer Fee was likely to puke and 3 seemed to be the favoured number but aha, I fooled you all and did myself proud. Puko numero deux was unsatisfying and my privacy was well and truly invaded. I have a problem vomiting in public or with anyone within 1 mile radius of me and here I was on Sunday, all positioned over my favourite bowl, with every available tap running to drown out my unladylike gagging, with my fingers poised at the back of my throat when the door bursts open and I’m thrown aside as Babs lunges himself into the bowl and chucks up foam sweets, cheap wine and soft crisps. As if this isn’t bad enough he offers to move over so we can throw up in tandem and see what kind of colours we can produce so our sick would mingle and blend to become a new flavour of punch. How very pleasant. The last of guests dispersed around 2.30am and myself and a few random bodies took up bed in various parts of the house with a bucket in every room. After having necked a bottle of Balieys all on my ownsome after the second puke, I could do nothing but lie on my bedroom floor and laugh and not move and not produce a sentence with more than 3 words. It was a beautiful sight – The Fee all wasted, puke encrusted on her chin lying there with hair like a back combed bush and spouting random words that made no sense to anyone. All in all I think everyone had a real good time and enjoyed the party games of how many people can dive in the 5ft pool at once, how many times can you go belly first down the slide without friction burning your face and how many times can you throw yourself around on the chucky stones without puncturing a lung. And while my favourite parts of the day are endless I did most enjoy the split leaps we took in turns to do across the garden and the Dirty Dancing lift that Luscious L and myself perfected even if my skull did get fractured and Luscious L did break his back in the process. Oh to be Sunday again and repeat the performance but this time with no tantrums and maybe less punch.
Listening to: something mean and 80s
Would be eating: left over food were there any
We all know what a fag hag is right? How could these species that try so hard and fail so well not be known to all of mankind? Is it any wonder that Aberdeen’s ‘premier’ (that’s false advertising by the way) gay bar burned down? With all that hairspray the fag hags who’d be better suited in grab-a-granny bars use to tease their large quiffs and the cheap perfume they splash on way too liberally it’s no wonder the place went up in flames with all that fumes hanging around the place like a case of pubic lice. Fag hags are even harder to shift than any infestation and in a gay bar constitute about 70% of the population. That’s a lot of stupid boobs and Bananarama hair. Oh I forgot to mention before that Castros burned to the ground and I’m not allowed to say anything like ‘insurance jobs’ either. But that’s beside the point. But, you will be glad to hear that fag hags aren’t really my issue for today because I’ve ranted enough about them before but I will add that I’m beginning to understand their plight of wanting something you can’t have. I’d love a stuffed crust pizza with extra cheese and mushrooms right now and I can’t have one – not because my overly large belly can’t accommodate one at this time of day cause we all know it could but because I have zero funds with which to spoil my hungry gut. Actually I have come to realise that fag hags who so desperately want to fuck their gay male friends are no different than my ‘straight girl’ fantasies which have been so prominent in my life since my primary school teacher told me I was pretty. Getting away from my point again, I want to talk about ‘flab hags’ today. While gay men have been known to hang out with ancient women in a bid to make themselves look good and while fag hags hang out in gay bars because they think they look better than the lesbians and can wear small clothes with cellulite on show without hassle, flab hags are those people who hang out with people larger than themselves in an effort to make themselves look slimmer. I have had this feeling throughout my life that that’s why people hang out with The Fee cause anyone would look good when placed next to me. Isn’t it so disappointing when you buy an item of clothes that you think best conceals your rings of flubber only for your best, much slimmer mate to purchase something similar only to look 14 stone lighter and 10 times better? I tell you it’s the worst feeling in the world. And what’s even worse than that is the fact that they are thinner AND have better boobs than you. Chubby does not automatically equal big shapely tits that are firm to the touch and sagfree. That’s why I have been trying to work on my personality, as you can probably tell by the content of this weblog it isn’t working. But I had that theory that if I was a great, fun person to be around then my skinnier than skimmed milk mates would be shunned into the background while I stole all the glory and let them bask in mine for once. Maybe I will become a flab hag myself and then I wouldn’t feel so guilty tucking into full fat food dripping with full fat sauce as skinnky friends peck on a salad and sip on slim coke. Oh to be less insecure. Oh to stop thinking about melted cheese and pies.
Do you know how much time is wasted waiting for buses? Yesterday I was on 2 bus journeys with the total journey time being around 12 minutes whilst the waiting time was at least treble that time. Usually I prefer the walk into town to exercise these big calves and to listen to my tunes at full blast without disapproving looks from elders and those with worse taste in music than myself but in a moment of energetic disillusionment I got carried away with flashdance. I cranked up my favourite tune in a bid to perfect my routine should I get so wasted at my party that I need to delight/disgust my guests with a performance and in doing so, the frenetic outburst caused me to wear my self and the soles of my feet out. This is the reason I had to lower myself to the degrading level of public transport. Do you know how much stuff I could have accomplished in the time I waited? I could have taught myself and a gang of 10 year olds how to insert a tampon correctly and comfortably. Or, I could have performed all the positions from ‘Masturbators Monthly’ till I was more than satisfied with the results but no, here I was sat, at various bus stops twiddling nothing but my thumbs. It’s not that I’m in a hurry to get through life or anything. I’m very rarely in a hurry to do anything, especially not get to work which was one of my bus destinations but there’s just nothing more dull than waiting for a bus. I guess listening to a conversation with no jobbie/fart/fanny content could be described as more boring in my immature eyes as could watching 5 minutes of Footballers Wives but these 2 situations aside, waiting for buses wins the top prize. It’s always such an anti climax when it does come. It’s not like you’ve got anything to look forward to once the over heated bus finally arrives, 20 minutes after it’s due when you’ve been soaked in the Aberdeen rain and cried yourself into a boredom coma. You watch old people disputing who is the most worthy cause for a seat, you listen to neds in Paul Smith shirts talking about their ‘traps’ in shite ned bars and you always miss your stop because you’ve become bored motionless. It’s on such occasions that you have to create your own entertainment. Such things can include letting go a ‘silent but violent’ in the densely thick queue and watching the reactions of those too polite to say anything but who will hold back their face to create multiple chins and then there are those who blame everyone in sight, secretly hoping it wasn’t their good self who slipped it out accidentally. Very few escape the finger of suspicion, from the posh gran who’s daughter’s car broke down and has been relegated to buses, to the simple person in velour who has not idea what these neds are talking about. The real fart dealer often goes undetected as who would think that Miss Fee, all innocent faced and smellin so sweetly would deliver such a stench? Another game I’m partial to is when all 50 people in the queue try to all pile on the bus at one time, try and injure as many people under the age of 35 as possible. ‘Injuring’ can take many forms, such as standing on the back of shoes so long Reeboks become lost in the fracas, scuffing the backs of ankles, elbowing any region of the body or just blatantly kicking whatever happens to be in front of you. All actions have desirable results as accusations are hurled, obscenities are yelled and physical fights break out and I just hang in the thicket and look downward at all the nasty tightly pulled trainers and join in with the old birds who tut and roll their eyes. Call me a sadist. Call me whatever you like. These people deserve it. They are always so desperate to push onto the bus, take up position in the back seat and scream abuse at everyone who doesn’t wear Burberry (fake or otherwise), smoke Lambert and Butler and listen to happy hardcore louder than I do Britney. They think it’s completely ok for them to criticise every passing person with much lewdness that should be reserved for my weblog only. It’s funny that the people who do this are always far uglier than their vulnerable victims who at least know how to wear dirty denim and can talk in an understandable accent and not use the words ‘fit’ and ‘ken’ in all seriousness. And so I go to walk into town and mutter comments to the school kids because I can.
Thought of the day: Toilet seats… does one size really fit all?
Fanny pads… What are they all about? I have yet to find a form of sanitary protection that suits my 5-7 day sex holiday. I mean what can you say about tampons? I haven’t risked them since my awkward chubby fingers inserted them so wrongly that I could not sit down in maths class for fear of puncturing my womb and the walk home from school that day caused much embarrassment as I hobbled so far to the left that my head scuffed along the ground causing permanent disfigurement. And since then fanny pads have become too much a part of my life. I’m sure there must be an alternative. Even using the slimmest of fanny pads it still feels like you have a family set of towels with embroidered initials wedged between your legs. It’s like friction burn central using ‘flying with wings’ but you try and use pads with no wings and see how far you get when jumping over puddles and washing your hair which are energetic activities that you really should not carry out when on the jammy rag. There’s nothing worse than having been hanging out in public all day to slink off to the bog to adjust your pad which has crawled half way down your hairy thigh to realise that you have soiled not only your pants but also your jeans and you are now the proud owner of a stain the colour of ketchup and the size of Asia glaring through your jeans. It’s worse when no one tells you and they let you shake your bloody fanny around on the dance floor, all unknowing and thinking everyone is staring at your girating puss because it’s perfectly formed. And when does the age come when you have to stop slyly adding ‘period things’ to your parents’ shopping list to avoid having to physically buy your own? Mine occurred just the other day when it dawned on me that I hadn’t been home in a good 2 weeks and it was therefore kinda cheeky to assume that my mum would traipse down to the shop just to buy me my glorified nappies. It’s quite a trauma, having to go into a shop, select which type of pad best suits your needs that month (because this has been left to your mother all your menstruating years because obviously she knows the flow of your blood…) and actually purchase them with your hard earned cash that could have been better spent on beer or adult content magazines. I found it quite a humiliating experience buying my lady nappies. I mean, I would rather but porn than buy fanny pads. I would rather the shop assistant knew I was away home to perv over split beavers than know I was ovulating. The shop assistant always has to be a pre pubescent male with raging hormones and erections that flag as soon as they see your purchase and know that this pretty young lady who they would like to take home and ‘do’ is oozing gallons of blood only centimeteres in front of them. Clearly there is nothing less attractive to men than a menstruating female. No matter how hot her ass is, when there’s a possibility of a bloody bush, this female has gone from goddess to Godzilla post car crash. Not having the availability of a decent supermarket within reach of my house I had to opt for a Spar, a small under stocked convenience store that’s as convenient as periods when you need to get laid. I slunk into the store, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, pulling a woolly hat down over my face and slipping on my sunglasses to avoid all eye contact. I found the ‘feminine care’ section easily and was gutted to find my usual brand was not available. Nothing else compares to ‘Always’ I tell you but this was a desperate case. The only alternative ‘slim’ pad was Spar Rapport, the supermarket’s own brand. I should have known it was a bad idea but at £1.60 a packet how could I refuse? To detract attention away from my bleeding beaver I purchased kids sweets and Smash Hits magazine so maybe the assistant would think I surely couldn’t be old enough to be able to have babies. After such careful planning the shop assistant decided to ring my jumper sized pads up twice which caused me to have to speak up, in front of a queue of 5 oversexed men that my pads were too expensive and could he re check the price. I heard sniggering and I was jostled on the way out and as I stuffed them into the see through carrier with my beaming face the colour of sunburn I wondered why on earth I felt so utterly degraded buying these essential seat covers. I think it pisses me off more than anything because I don’t even like kids, I never ever want to have any for fear of the jail sentence that would be imminent what with my good parenting skills and all and I still have to go through major mood swings, stained pants and stomach cramps, all for brats I will never have of my own. Mother nature was a man. Back to my experience with Spar Rapport. These bad boys came in the same sized packet as my usual Always but unlike Always which contains about 12, Spar Rapport were deceiving in size and held only 4, that’s how jumbo they were and the ‘sticky’ patch which is supposed to secure them to your granny pants was as sticky as year old pritstick. There was no way these pads were keeping me ‘secure’ and not messing my bed in the night so for added security the sellotape came out and this was wrapped around pad and pants a good 13 times. It didn’t occur to me that the stuff sellotape is made of would make the blood slide around vigorously throughout the night and cause me to think I had heamoraged as I woke up in a blood bath. I had to give Spar Rapport a second chance in the morning till I could get to a regular supermarket and so on went the rolled up curtain. Walking to the shop caused as much discomfort as my tampon experience and even caused the pad to wedge itself up my ass which came as quite an unpleasant surprise and made me glad that tampons were not supposed to be for anal use. I was so relieved to get some Always, despite having to face another hormonal youth in the shop that I wound up with ‘night time’ pads which are so bloody huge that they would have stemmed the blood flow of a herd of elephants and me at the same time. Why oh why does carrying out every day tasks have to involve such emotional traumas for me? And why oh why make pads so big that they creep out of the back of your pants so when bending over to give the builders a view of your hot ass all they see is no cleavage and a pint of dried blood? Maybe it’s time to give the ‘cleaner less minging’ feminine hygiene option a second go.
Quiche, had to get some food in there
Prospect of my party
Hangovers after 5 drinks and an early night
Leg shaving, such an effort
Exercise is killing me. Or the thought of it is at least. Just thinking about having to heave my large legs up the stairs to go to bed is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat which is soon followed by deep palpatations and minor heart spasms. It will be the death of me before long I tell you. I can see the obituary now, "Miss Fee, March 5th 1979 - July xxth 2002, died after too much thought about reaching upwards to blow her nose and the effort that this would involve and this caused her to lapse into a coma." The word exercise is as offensive to me as someone yelling 'heterosexual' at me. The only exercise I currently partake in is arm muscle strengthening which occurs every time I open the fridge so as you can imagine I have one real muscley arm that would put Arnie to shame and one flabby mass of skin which does pretty much nothing expect hang loosely by some side of my body. Actually I do like to exercise my gob a great deal and for no real reason so this is a type of exercise that could be cut out of my daily routine, before it gets me into any real bother. Because of the amounts of food I am ravaging at the moment, exercise is really a hobby that I need to engage in more frequently than a lesbo licking cock. Actually I do walk loads but pretty much no faster than an OAP with a false hip and plastic leg walks so I don’t suppose it really counts. The half hour walk into town from my house takes a good 3 hours. This 3 hours does not take into account the breaks for cream buns and full fat Irn Bru that occur on the hour every hour, a bit like buses really. By the time I actually make it in to town, sweatin like a crab in a nuns fanny, it’s time to return home via public transport, my worst fear but that’s another story completely. And so, because of my expanding waist and face I decided that today would be the day that I would leap out of bed (an impossibility for hippos) and throw myself not into the fridge with all the perishable goods, but into 50 sit ups. It took me a good 15 minutes to haul my ass and its friends out of bed and a further 15 minutes to find a comfy position on the floor. I prepared myself for the big event and tried to force myself off the floor into the sit up position. I succeeded in breathing and a slight shoulder shudder. There was no getting my head the size of 2 footballs off the ground. This 2 second burst of something quite far off energy resulted in a strained neck and an excuse to eat 4 bowls of sugary cereal washed down with extra sugary tea and Irn Bru. Fuck me I’m a monster. It’s like I am allergic to any form of exercise. It’s more like I’m a lazy fat twatt who desires to be thin but can’t be arsed putting any effort into avoiding food and doing a few side stretches. I mean, I don’t expect to be running around doing back bends and vaulting over large objects but really, is it so unreasonable to ask myself to walk at a speed faster than a drunk can speak? Surely not. Tonight I felt the build up for flashdance coming on and I even threw myself into a split leap which had me head first in the paper flowers with my ass on full display but I couldn’t even complete the entire routine before I collapsed onto the floor and friction burned my shiny purple face. What’s wrong with me? Why do I have such an aversion to fitness? Maybe, aside from the ‘lazy fat twatt’ part, it’s the sweat and the heavy breathing that goes hand in hand with it. What’s dignified about dripping stinkin’ liquid and breathing like you’ve got a voice box? Nothing. But anyway, all this talk of exercise is really pushing me close to the edge and it’s time for me to get my hand stuck in a box of Pringles.
A woman just walked past me and muff puffed louder than I could ever dream of farting or burping. I kid you not. Is this some kind of lesbian code? Does a pussy pluff translate as 'I wanna blow you off, follow me home'? Or does it simply mean that some peoples' fannies are so full of hot air that they could inflate the bouncy castle I plan on hiring for my party, as well as the family sized paddling pool and 16ft long super slide that can accomodate 2 grown adults at once? I go ponder.
Slagging of the day: 'men are bacteria on legs' says a belurussian
My energy levels have been kinda depleted this week. I think it's due to a lack of beer and i'm possibly on an anticlimax because of not being able to match the amounts of fun I had all last week. I had a slim 4/5 pints on Monday and was my usual, gobby wasted self by 8.30pm which meant it was time for more pizza, guilt and unenjoyable fags. My days with Beautiful Boy always seem to begin in the pub and end up with too much food, only on my part of course and involve me smoking copious amounts of cigarettes which has left me bordering on the edge of an addiction. I no longer seem to be in control of when I smoke and when I don't and as smokes go hand in hand with drinking, that's a lot of smoking. Although this week I have drank minimal alcohol units I am still puffing away like a virgin giving head for teh first time and it's driving me insane. I stink. I hate the smell of day-after smoke and that's all people now smell when they come near me. Poor Lil Red has to suffer staleness and I have even seen myself trying to get her to give in to peer pressure and join the smoking crew so it isn't just me that reeks of years old ashtrays. HOw selfish I am. The Malboro Menthols are very hard to resist it has to be said. I thought smoking would decrease my need for constant food intakes but now I am just fat and stinky as opposed to just smelly or just a chubber. What a delightful picture I paint to you of myself. I also have yellow fingers because my favourite part of the fag is pretty much the burning filter. I am now sadly famous for requesting the ends of fags (jesus I'm talking like a poof now) and it does look ever so minky but it just tastes so good. Sometimes I will see myself in the bar with 4 people's 'leavings' trying to arrange them in order in which to smoke them. My criteria is loose (as are many things about me) but I like the end of a fag to be smoked by the smoker taking deep draws, this makes it taste all warm and so so good. One day I will be the people you see fishing out fag ends from the cracks of pavements and approaching random foul people to beg for the last 2 draws. Smoking is phalic. I don't know why I appreciate it so much. Maybe it's substitution. Maybe it's because i think it's pretty cool. Smoking on some people does look damn good. WHo cares that they smell of metalic shit when they look all James Dean-y? Anyway, why the hell I am ranting about my smoking habits again is news to me and I'm going now to think about my party which I will tell you about tomorrow. Don't expect an invite, it's a sole party.
eating: bran flakes, 6 bowls of - waiting for the 'laxitives' to take effect
I love to laugh as much as the next fat person but Sunday really was taking laughter to extremes. Because you all know I have a very sensible and mature sense of humour you will appreciate that I was not laughing at the impossibility of some mathematics problem or the fact that that my IQ is exceedinly higher than yours but I was in fact laughing myself into a coma over the flattest ass in history. I do love a silly ass and this one gave me the best heart burn and caused me to keel over in pain 14 times cause it was so damn wrong. It was Beautiful Boy and his eye for a stupid arse that spotted this one and sometimes I wish he hadn't drawn my attention to it because even today, 2 days on I still can't think about this butt without having to wipe my eyes on my shirt and hold my gut in agony. We were innocently strolling out of Diesel when Beautiful Boy made the casual remark, "She has been sitting on that ass for far too long" and here it was, in all it's flatness, encased in the most unflattering (but very flattening)pair of joggers which revealed every inch of cellulite and every poc marked crease known to man. It teased me by walking slowly in front of me, begging me to point and jeer and laugh harder and louder than ever before, so loud that deaf people worldwide knew what I was laughing at. But really, how could an ass really have been as flat as 8 loaves of bread with no yeast? Because of the flatness of this pitted ass, it was elongated to the size of a bay window. It was just so flat that it did look like it was her first day walking, that she had been sat on her ass since the day she had been born and even in her previous life. She wasn't even a jumbo girl all over, clearly she had been doing leg exercises to ensure that she would be capable of walking when the day came to try it out but she didn't carry out the art of butt clenching, it was obvious. And, as I am having great difficulty writing this coherently with all the laughter and shaky body parts I will go and try and contain about 48 hours of laughter with a fridge raid.
After a sneaky, subdued and good Thursday evening, Friday was party time. A spontaneous drunken conversation with Lil Red, Straight Man A and Beautiful Boy on Wednesday had us all sat on a 3 ½ hour bus trip to Glasgow on Friday night. We relived our aged 15 days and drank vodka from coke bottles which was as good as drinking nail polish remover. The extra long journey was fag and toilet less and there was much relief all round when we finally disembarked our pishy smelling bus all those hours later. We all piled into one room at the Travel Inn and were not more than 4 minutes in the door when it was time to leave and shake up the clubs of Glasgow. We had a drink in Delmonica’s where they played far too many dancing tunes so we could contain our chair dancing no longer and had to go for full body dancing in the Polo Lounge, a pretty club with a large dancefloor which would accommodate The Fee’s ass nicely without too much discomfort. There were too many good dances to remember them all but there was lots of Kylie and Miss E so all was good. It neared 3am and we convinced ourselves we had another good hour of dancing, only for the last song of the night to be ‘Love is in the Air’ which brought back too many new year flashbacks and the lights went up. There’s nothing worse than being all wound up for an extra hours dancing only to have it taken away so cruelly by Love is In the Air. The night, however, was far from over. We crossed the road to find shelter from the downpour but sadly all door ways were already in use for this reason and others not worth mentioning. And then I really did find the biggest box in history. It wasn’t quite my ‘massive fanny’ mission fulfilled but this cardboard box we knew would house all of us at once. In we got, too close for comfort and got the camera out. I got my picture taken inside a huge box, I was happy. It didn’t really occur to us that we were on public display, we glanced over the road and the entire clientele of Polo Lounge was stood there staring at our immaturity and we were announced as ‘The Show’. After clambering out of the box with great drunken clumsyness we took ourselves to the nearest food outlet, with my fanny pack being overstuffed with condoms and lube for the boys which left a great trail on the way home so we could find our way back the following day. We snuck our way into the Travel Inn only for BB to have a slight bouncing sausage problem as his smoked sausage made an appearance on at least 4 occasions as it jumped it’s way down the corridor, leaving it’s chippy friends behind on the floor. It wasn’t til we were in the room that we noticed sausage was missing and we opened the door to find it throwing itself against the wall in a hideous fashion reminiscent of a school boy thrusting his nob into an unwilling virgin’s mouth. The sausage was devoured when the laughter died down and to finish off our night we needed to pillow fight. It was 4am in the morning and here we were, semi grown adults throwing pillows and each other around the room till people were bleeding and bashed and unable to move. It was exhilarating and silly and rather painful but too much fun. Things were smashed, food was spilt and bones were broken but all in the name of fun, really it was. Having only one photo left in the spool we had to make it a good one. First off the bed in the pillow fight had to get in the shower, then the second then the third and the fourth one gets to take the photo. There was much debate trying to get everyone down to their underwear but knowing these people had already witnessed the true horror of my ass, I knew I could not put this on them again, not twice in 2 days at least. Boys being boys the pants were out and boy was I glad I didn’t get that jumbo sausage from the chipper because right here, I had 2 of my very own and it was all rather unnerving. But like the self abuser that I am I could not help but look and pain myself in the process, being thankful that I am a lesbian and dick free. Stripey floaty boxers would have been much more preferred so please remember that the next time we go out to get twatted again boys. Who cares that you look like your dad in them. We were only on the bed a matter of minutes before BB had flown off into the wall. Lil Red was close behind and I followed, getting stuck between 2 beds and Straight Man A was declared winner as he was hurled off last into the window sill. Fully clothed ladies and scantily clad boys piled into the shower for much moisture and one last photo. What a wonderful day. One day I will grow up. Shoot me when I do.
Listening to: Hero – Enrique – oh how I like to torture myself
Eating: I’m in a ten second food break so nothing, honest