I didn't think it would be possible to get start struck over Cheeseney Hawkes. Mind you I did become very open mouthed when I saw Z list Children's TV presenters that time so yeah I guess anything is possible. I also didn't know that I would turn into a screamin' teen when good old Chesney (that's simply Ches. to me and Bo now) appeared on the stage. We drunkenly danced and spun around yelling his name over and over like the sad groupies we had turned into and far too freqeuntly we found oursleves air punching to unknown Ches. songs. It's amazing how at the time, after a few too many vodkas and Spar colas, that you don't realise that actions suchs as air punching should be reserved for absolutely no one. It's quite spectacular how alcohol can turn people, usually so cool, into Teletubby extras. Hmmpf. Oh to learn how to control over the top arm movements in public. The One and Only was of course his closing song. The surge forward was so forceful that I almost lost a hair extension when the 16 year old bleached blonde bint got a bit carried away with herself. Well, maybe not but the three strong crowd launched into a bad rendition of the 'classic' song to help old Ches. out, incase all those years of sex drugs and rock 'n' roll had played havoc with his pretty lil head. The Bo and I belted out the words perfectly and the over emotional BO wiped a single tear from her flushed cheek cos seeing her idol was really too much for the wasted chick. Bless. We pushed to the front when we were told he would be doing a signing. The BO was about whipping her tits out in order for her hero to etch his name in black marker across them but changed her mind whe she saw the common scamps next to her doing the same. When Ches. appeared back on stage I elbowed as good as the next fan and screeched in his face louder than the next hideously drunken twat and myself and Bo ensured we stroked his cords and dove in for mulitple hugs and a kiss. Ches., after an exhuberant set had slight body odour wafting from his hairy pit, bless him, but this did nothing to change our sloppy, cross eyed love for him. After a few hot lesbo snogs on the dance floor with my Lil Red and surprisingly no punches for doing so as we were in Hetero Heaven where homophobia is more rife than a curry fart, we made off for outside to try and catch up with Ches. We cornered him a bit too literally as he left his ancient tour bus which he ahd obviously been touring in since he 1991 when he first appeared with his floppy hair and colossol mole which I have a feeling has either moved sides, shruken or disppeared completely. The thing that disturbed me most about my man was that he had replaced his puffy shouldered leather jacket of his glory day with a beige elasticated anorak. How very rock 'n' roll. We had a chat with our man, or rather we shrieked in his face with spittle flying an all, told him he was the King of our parties and threw our bodies around his rather small frame to get even more hugs and kisses before finally letting Ches. depart to his awaiting taxi. Once in the taxi we waved him off and his cab did some weird pointless manouvre which saw it turn round in a car park so it was facing the same way as it was originally. Mister Ches. must have wanted a final glance at the rabble that were his 'fans'. And how disappointed must he have been. Mind you at least we weren't the big haired, stonewashed jeans, rainbow eye shadowed crew that I'm sure he is used to. Who would you rather have hailing your ass if you were famous? The early ninties rejects who are treble your age and have bags under their eyes big enough to hold your monthly shopping or the unclassifiable wannabe teenagers crew with breath like soured milk, squint drunken eyes and voices more annoying than Dot Cotton after her 40 fag breakfast? Actually, don't answer that and don't pretend that you didn;t know the second group I described was us. Or maybe just me. And so our drunken night of drooling over Ches. (fuck I totally forgot I was a homo until the lesbo tongue filled kisses on the dancefloor!) was over. The Bo's dreams have not been the same since. And it wasn't just her eyes that were moist. And off I go to think about Ches. with a pair of tits and a fanny.
I was in Butlins last night. Well maybe I wasn’t but it sure as hell felt like I was. For anyone lucky enough to be blissfully unaware of what Butlins actually is, it’s one of these annoyingly cheery holiday camps where you go with your family and partake in all manners of activities with the staff who act as though everyday is a talent contest. Basically, it’s loud, it’s brash and it’s full of staff who should be in a pantomime. Of course I have never personally been to Butlins because the showy, fake-fun holiday has never been my family’s idea of entertainment but hell, I’ve watched the Docu-Soaps and Hi-de-hi as religiously as the next sad twat so hey.
Anyway, it was opening night in Chicago Rock Café/Jumpin Jacks, a live entertainment venue, and for some reason my work decided that we would step out of our red tee shirts for an evening, slip into something a bit too spangly and head for Hen Night Central. There were so many false grins surrounding me I was sure I was in a Belgian porno and every second chick shasaying around in chuff length skirts did nothing to dispel this feeling. At the table, amongst the silverware was a number of instruments with which we were expected to make as much noise as possible and ‘really go wild’ with. Having seen the whistles and horns being recycled from one table to another I opted for the plastic maracas, one of which even rattled its way to my bag. I think the fact that we were encouraged to take these as we left made my sly attempt of stealing look rather pathetic and about as rebellious as Charlotte Church saying ‘Fuck’. Anyway, I was just getting accustomed to the rabble of Sharon and her band of drunken women who were celebrating more than just a birthday, and was just tucking into my fish cakes (always a lesbo) with about as much decorum as bulimic on a binge when we were incited into a 60 second count down by the sleazy DJ. All of a sudden the staff as good as dropped pints where they were standing, grabbed the nearest vacant chair, or failing that then simply the nearest chair, clambered up with fat knees a trembling and burst into some wildly over the top rendition of Born to Hand Jive, Baby. Even the management with their broad suits and long faces joined in and swung their arms like a non swimmer in the deep end. It was something else. This is maybe an everyday occurrence everywhere else but here in Aberdeen where waitresses find it hard to even curl a lip at you, nevermind climb on your table and stick their heels in your beef patty, it was quite a spectacle. Our waitress, Helen, had transformed from the bird who served us our nachos with a glimmer of enthusiasm to crazed woman who’s flailing was so extravagant she almost lost a tit. I struggled on with my fishy treat, trying not to let the heaving breasts of female and male staff members alike put me off but not no avail. After the sight and smell of sweaty pits in my face I really didn’t want to imagine their fingers in my food.
I wondered if I would ever be able to work in such a place that demands you climb on chairs and whoop like you’ve never whopped before. I couldn’t. Not because I think it’s the stupidest thing I have seen but because I’d have as much self confidence jumping around on a stool as I would in lycra. Clearly the insipid insect who had somehow managed to get her stiff frame onto the bar was feeling the same. Despite the fact this was definitely not a place I would chose to go to on a Saturday night ever again, it did at least make for a vaguely entertaining work night out. With everything that’s going on around you, the huge TV with ‘classic funny’ moments (though clearly Sleazy DJ had the job of selecting these and the amount of ‘humour’ actually contained was debatable) the staff auditioning for a part as the Dame in the latest panto and the clientele being as varied as my wardrobe, there was always at least plenty to talk about with people who have little in common aside from the fact that wear matching tee shirts and badges a few days of the week. Most commendable of all was the massive TV screen clip of the Kylie/Geri kiss which was lengthier (still tongueless) than I remember. So, if you really must go to Chicago Rock Café, make sure you are well lubricated in more ways than one and you wont be disappointed when the staff ‘stud’ (using the term very loosely) mixes more than a cocktail on your lap. Off now to lie in a darkened room to try and stop the re-occurring flashbacks of Patrick Swayze in high waisted ski pants complete with mullet back flipping with all his might while performing a Chippendales routine with s fat bloater.
It’s now 5 days since I actually wrote this blog entryand in this time, despite my abhorence for such a vile, bright and gobby place, I have found myself making plans to return. Tonight. I am going to see The One and Only, Mr Chesney Hawkes. It’s a good enough reason as any to forget how much you hate a place and put on your dancing sneakers and down some vodka and get your fat ass on the dancefloor. I am simply moistening pants just thinking about it. If I manage to contain myself in front of the King of Our Parties, I will be back tomorrow, bright as fog, to recall the horrendous details of floppy side shaded hair and stubborn teenage acne on a forty year old man. I know the anticipation may be simply too much for you to handle but please try and refrain from doing anything silly in my absence as I need all the readers I can get. And if you need anything to help keep you going till I return to impart some amazingly unfunny stories upon you, just bring up a mental image of the J Bo air-guitaring to Chesney as I guarantee it’s all she is gonna do tonight and every other night as long as she lives.
Arm warmers. I must have a pair. Does anyone know where I can buy these socks-on-arms things? I know I could quite easily cut up my knee length socks but when you are as creatively challenged as I, then believe me, even a trivial task like holding a pair of scissors of a scary thought, not just to me but to all those around me. So please please help me satisfy my need to wear wool or nylon up the length of my overly-bangled arms.
Some up-their-fat-arse lesbo just gave me the biggest amount of attitude for walking into her untimetabled class. The same fuckin blobby arsed dyke that I held the door open for yesterday. The same mis-shapen queer who when I was so gracious enough to not let the door whack her in her global face looked at me with such gratutude that she was close to tears. A bit of chivalry is clearly amiss in Oddly Oblonged face's life. My period red face is still recovering from the shame and humiliation that was imposed upon me in front of those damn pre pubescent first years who chortled under their cheap fag breath. Today was such a good day too. The sun is not shining but the sky is blue and my hair is kinda pretty. I went to the hairdressers yesterday and the shy junior found my G spot again... hmmmm and I got four whole extensions shoved in my head. Well actually it was five. I could only aford four so i got one for free because it was the last in its colour. So now I got two electric blue, two fuscia pink and one dark purple. Its amazing how your mood can be lifted when someone makes your hair look real nice. And so I go to finish writing the blog entry I originally started and not think about Frumpy Gay Spice whose ass I am seriously gonna waste when I wedge my over sized shoe up it.
Oh and as a final thought, does it bug anyone else when you wear large shoes that the toilet seat is closer than if you don't? I always alternate between sneakers and fat shoes and when I have on chubby shoes I always always misjudge how far I need to squat to reach the seat and always thud down and jar my back. It's painful and always gives your ajoining neighbour the impression that you, the fat whale, has clattered off the seat onto the floor and has therefore probably pissed all over your once cute jeans. Toilets. Oh there's so much more where that came from. But so little time and so much Indian music that I am being forced to listen to that is putting me off even writing shite.
Today's grievance is mini women. I'm not talking about people short enough to be talking into my fanny from a regualr standing position but I am talking about children dressing as though they are 30. There was a whole troup of this vile breed on my bus just yesterday, wearing heeled shoes, fluttering their painted eye lids and frequently adjusting their too-tight sleeveless tops to accomdate their lack of bust. They were all immaculately done up, as though after they 'lunched' they went for a full make over at the most expensive beauty salon. These mini women had lables on their clothes that if I were a dedicated follower of ridiculously expensive labeled clothes, I would have been more than tinged green with jealousy. They clung onto their clutchies that contained mummy-like leather purses and top of the range mobiles and talked about boys being immature and the latest colour of lipstick the had each bought. The only indication these people were kids was the fact that they didn't have a tit between them, due to the fact that they still had a good 4 years to wait til the even sniffed at puberty. And obviously the fact that they were shorter than the Queen of Fun and Gypsy Frills Anon whose combined height is 4ft 5 and who sleep in one of them half sized shop floor display bed and still their legs don't hang over the side. Clearly they could not have gone to that much effort on their own. Clearly mummy or rich step mum had stepped in with her bulging vanity case to make their daughters look like New York Glamour Queens. I am sure these 'kids' would have had no problem getting into pubs and could even see them in the claasier establishments sipping on cosmopolitans and chain smoking Marlboro Lights while discussing the state of single men today. They would sit their with their tiny legs crossed, looking just like their mothers who are dressing the same way as their kids but are 50 going on 30 as opposed to 9 going on 30. Why would these mini women want to grow up so quick? What is so cool about sitting in the latest prada gear with make-up on that their as yet un-developed skin is sensitive to? Where did the talk of Barbie Vs Sindy go? Aren't girls aged 9 supposed to be more interested in pink tafeta and Tiny Tears than boys and bootvut jeans? Shouldn't they be discussing which teachers they like and dislike rather that what shoes will go with tomorrows navy pleated 3 inch too short school skirt? I don't understand why these kids are in such a hurry to grow up and even more, i don't understand why their parents are so eager to help them do so. I wish I was still 9. If I was I am pretty sure I wouldn't be strutting around in mummy's mascara and big sister's bra. I'm almost certain I would be arguing poor Sindy's case in the eternal doll fight because Sindy's head popped off and she got to be Action Man's wife. That and climbing trees and scuffing my chubby knees and eating the sand that the other kids peed in and burying insects in my insect cemetary but maybe that was just me. Maybe my perpetual immaturity, that I am sure left me to try and grow up much less quick than most others, is out of the ordinary. Maybe the fact that I am 24 (how old?!) and still playing dress up and buying silly toys and jumping around in paddling pools is rather pathetic. Maybe it would be more pathetic if I were the only immature person in my group of friends but thankfully most of my friends are also not 20 going on 40. Thankfully there is always someone else there to join in the games of dress up and space hopper races and no matter how stupid the occasional person in the group thinks some of us are, I know I have more fun than most my age and of course those who try to forget about teddies and bouncy castles in favour of designer shoes and being someone they are not. I sometimes worry that I will have to grow up soon. But then I remember that the option to grow up totally by passed me years ago so I have no need to fear. I will never talk about anything of world importance and I will never seriously attend a dinner party and I will most certainly never forget the importance of silly fun. So really I have lots of unexpected immaturity to look forward to, while those mini women have about another 50 years of exactly the same expect. They are gonna be so bored of being grown up by the time they are 14 I tell you. So bored of the corns in their feet because of their ill-fitting shoes and so bored of the acne that their over-use of make up will cause them to develop. And also so completely bored of the same lifeless topics of conversation they will have until they die with the same breed of wannabe-sophisticated people they will always cling to and by the time they are 50 they will wish they'd had that childhood. They will wish they kissed dolls and made up dance routines to crap pop bands instead of hanging out with adults with perfect hair and shiny faces. Ha. I feel smug.
And so goodbye readers, I am off to picked the bits of chewed lip of my keyboard and reapply the balm. Have fun. I know I will.
I am in the kind of mood today where I am pissed off with everything and everyone. It's amazing how one small incident can ruin your entire fuckin' day. And you know what's more annoying? The lack of anonymity on this blog. There's so much I want to say, so much stuff that really deserves taking the piss out of and I can say nada because X will read it and tell Z who will then pass it on to Y who will tell P's sister who will of course tell H and then I am fucked. I could have some amazing blog entries for you, far more entertaining that the shit I usually speak but of course I made the mistake of telling people about my blog which I have to personally censor each time I try and write. I can't tell you the thing that fucked me off today, after I had been feeling kinda good for at least 3 whole days and that's even more frustrating. Today is not going to be a good day. I hate everything. Every little thing is playing havoc with my mind. I hate the clicking of keys which is unfortunate as I'm in a computer lab, I hate the fat poof who is crunching his apple (some vain attempt to be healthy? Yeah right, I've seen the contents of his bag and know he will be consuming over his weekly intake of fat in one mouthful) but I can't even turn around and give him a crap dirty look because he is sitting with a girl I once christened 'hot' and drunkenly tried to chat up, despite her straightness (well since when has that been an obstacle?) and then there is uni work which I really can't be arsed doing cause it's so frickin boring. And you know what else? You know what is bugging me almost more than the thing that fucked me off to start with? This theory of 'One Size Fits All' when designing clothes. It's fucking insulting. I found a beautiful shirt, all supposedly customised so each one is different, army style with cute patches (hello kitty, powerpuff girls, etc) and I about flooded my certina when I saw them. As did the averagely built girl with the pigtails standing next to me. We scoured the racks to find one that didn't look like it was designed for a Borrower to no avail. So I let Averagely Built Pigtails try it on. She was so excited when she saw the shirts, I didn't even know her but I could as good as smell her excitement just standing next to her (she'd used a lightly sceneted shower gel that day and had had sex last night). So she skipped off to the changing room armed with the fabulous shirt. After a good struggle in the changing room with the One Size shirt she finally emerged a tearful and shaken. Not only did the shirt not fit but she had broken more than a sweat in trying to close the tiny garment. Her Averagely sized face was gutted. She was about tripping over her lip as she left the shop muttering, 'I could make one that fits for a fiver'. And is if to rub toothpaste into genitals, a super skinny wearing those stupid elasticated three quarter length trousers over knee high boots, a side pony and boob tube strutted in and bought not one but two. And she knew she didn't have try it on because One Size was just her size. The shirt was far too cool for her. There is no way she could have teamed it well with anything in her 'natural coloured' wardrobe and how the hell was she going to accesorize it wearing 'her' colours, cream and caramel, when that shirt only deserved an array of multi coloured mix-matchedness? It was just cool enough for me and Averagely Built Pigtails and we couldn't even get our bingo wings in the sleeve. Mind you, obvioulsy there is now going to be a hoard of nobs who will be as suited to the shirt as I am to a gypsy frill running around in their 'customized' shirts and looking shit so I should be glad I am not One Size. The only thing in this world that truly lives up to the theory of 'One Size Fits All' is a toilet seat.
And while we are on the subject, since when are sized 14 people 4ft tall? Why do people make clothes that fit fine across your broadness only to have them sit like a crop top so everyone can see your bellies bouncing around like kangaroos on heat? Do they not take into account the fact that we we have tits? Do they forget, in all their fashion expertise, that girls come complete with tits and when these babies are put into a top it gets slightly shorter so really they should account for this or are they skimping on material? Why do they make beautiful clothes that will only fit the midgets and the tit-less and the freakishly thin? I've had enough. From now on it's over sized shirts to the knee and loose joggers only for Miss Fee. If they wont design clothes to fit me, I refuse to squeeze myself into tiny clothes so all my flab hangs out at either side and will instead go frumpy (er?). And so I go to try and relieve some of this tension by attempting to think about nicer people and nicer clothes. Have a good day y'all.
Oh and don't forget to check out the bastard King of One Size fits all and listen to his sweet sweet song...
At every party there are always those who critcise every minute detail, from the theme to the decore to the effort everyone else went to. There are always those who have bitch fests in off limits rooms and there's always those who are rude, inconsiderate and completely unwelcome. The Britney party was no exception. However, despite the small minority of ignorant pricks, the party was fantastic. Obviously as it was a Britney party, the theme was Britney. Not a particluarly hard theme to adhere to I thought, considering all it would have taken for the simplest of 'token gestures' would have been to pigtail your hair. I didn't ask everyone to turn up as a Britney or Justin body double, complete with her figure and his stubble but I did ask that they show some consideration to what I wanted as a party. Why stick a theme on a party that has been planned for months if some people can't even be bothered to humour the intentions? Why even come to a party when you hate the star of the theme? Why complain about every song and video? Why even come at all? So, now that I got that little angry/annoyed/upset rant off my floppy chest I can tell you the good stuff. I was kicked out of the party room while the creative ones took over. Armed with rolls of tin foil and black bags I was skeptical as to what they were going to do. The transformation from minimalist Pier deco to Fee's party room was fantastic. The walls were tin foiled, from the roof hung rolled up black bags which were designed to give it a gothic feel because I was Stronger Britney and strategically placed throughout the room were numerous shiny disco balls and coordinated balloons. Oh and of course there were many Britney pictures throughout. It was so pretty. I was so happy. All this. For me. While the prepartaions were underway I doned some black shiny flared trousers, a cut up tee with dare I say see-thru black gypsy frill top over it, black cufs, metallic ribbon choker, ultra smokey eye make up and not to mention wavy hair complete with plaits and crimped sections to be transformed into Stronger Britney. Sadly, despite the ultimate effort, I looked more like a fat goth with a huge hole in her crotch but what the hell. Also in residence was Crossroads Britney (joggers one and odd geeky one), two school girl Britneys(who, as commented one, wouldn;t have looked out of place advertising a School Disco for the over aged and over sexed), Slave for you Britney with homemade snake, Britney's teeny Bopper Fan with Access All Areas Pass(ha, she wishes!), Britney's camp backing dancer who was a bit too comfortable in his Juicy joggers, about forty Justins, one of whom looked scarily like the main man and the creme de la creme, the one who makes the hugest amount of effort for everything.... Beautiful Boy as Christina Aguilera. To set the part off, he/she wore butt less chaps with DIRRTY emblazed on his/her ass, long blonde/black wig, more eye make up than Pat Butcher and knee high pointy boots. Oh he/she looked so good. The fake tits did chaff a great deal but with the nipple larger than a ass cheek hanging out at least all the lesbos got a suck. The fact that the trousers were crotch and buttless however meant that no matter where you turned you got too much a view of his ass or dick which was slightly off putting when the sausage rolls made an appearance. Being a nob I even thought I would astound everyone (oh if only) with my rendidtion of Stronger Britney chair dancing. It wasn't big and it wasn't clever and it certainly wasn't dainty. Nor was the hardcore jumping around on the dance mat which made more appearances than beautiful boy's knob and ensured the dick head neighbours would not be getting any sleep than night/morning... So, all in all it was swell. I got the Britney party I so wanted so thanks to everyone who made it so good and thanks to the 'gate crashers' who didn't even know whose house they were in and who don't know 'Ikea' from my arse.
So until the next time, have a go spinning chairs while looking like an overweight crow and see if you look as good as me. I doubt it though.
Happy Birthday to me. I have now officially reached the stage in life I am most scared of. MID twenties. That means in three years I will be LATE twenties. It scares the crap out of me. It feels like only yesterday when I was eating frozen ice cream and tubs of chocolate sauce and getting ribbed for being the fat girl as I lumbered around the streets in ill fitting clothes with an even more ill fitting square fringe. Actually, that was yesterday. I felt I had burned off so many calories (34!!) bouncing around on my new dance mat that I was entitled to stuff my overly wide face with full fat freezer goods which in turn led me to slink around in ultra loose clothing to hide the 4 new bellies I had just developed. These clothes were so baggy I'm sure they were designed for women with balls. I could have fitted the contents of my cupboard down there, along with my girlfriend. Hmmm. I could be onto something there. Or nasty older women's clothing label DASH could be... Anyway, I was presented with my dance mat on Monday, not long after I had a full on stress fit about not being at uni early enough and as I was away to power walk my frustration out there appeared a Beautiful Boy who was laden down with goodies for Miss Fee. On discovering dance mat and game complete with Euro cheese happy hardcore mixes, my stress of not having done enough work evaporated. The heavy shoes were removed, the trousers were tucked into socks, the hair was tied up, the boobs tied down and I was throwing a lot of body weight around attempting to stay in rhythm to 'classics' such as 'baby let's get higher' 'drop the bomb' and the group favourite, 'make a jam'. Around 9 hours and various particpiants later I was wasted and losing all coordination due to an over consumption of alcohol which was used to ensure all inhabitions were lost and we were all free enough to let it all hang loose and wobble like we've never wobbled before. Although wobbling of that severity is experienced by me every day of my life but alas. And so I have found myself shaking my every ounce whenever possible. I get up in the night and find myself unable to resist the lure of the two-step euro cheese. I have even, only on one occasion mind, found myself forgoing food in the name of the dance mat. Life is good. Birthday's are good. And still to come is the Britney party on Saturday. Everyone must come dressed as a Britney or something Britney related. I wonder whose idea that party was???
And so I go to prepare myself for the drinking I will be doing tonight, unless my hair gets any bigger that is.