well hello there fellow people, animals, brutes or whatever you are or want to be. Today I am all good and yesterday I committed a real life crime and I am on the run. Well not exactly, but I was rebellious enough to walk out of a pub without paying for my food with Queen of Fun in tow, yes really. Actually there was no 'walking' but it was more like an almost full speed run, which, as I'm sure you can imagine is only slightly more than a brisk walk for the unfit Fee. We got all ragey cos we had places to be and we stood by the bar for a good 4 minutes (yes that long) waiting to pay and were fully blanked so we decided to protest by storming out in a dramatic fashion. This would have been quite a good way to go had we not have both shat it and decided to leg it down belmont street with every fucker and every CCTV camera following us. It wouldn't have been so bad had I not have had my stupid mules on which are beautiful in theory but completely stupid in practice and so I kinda gammy legged down the road with one leg trailing behind the other trying desperately to make our exit look cool and to keep the stupid shoes on my feet. What we must have looked like I really couldnt say - but one roly poly and one mammoth breasted girl bounding their way toward the eternities of food hell must have been close. Everyone knows I don't do running and now I am even more convinced of the reason why. The after look of over excersion (be that a 2 minute gentle jog) is not a good one for me and left me with a pair of shaky legs, fuzzy head (and hair) and the rosiest, weather beaten cheeks you ever did see. And all for the price of a whole £12.90. It's typical that I had chosen the cheapest things on the menu that day so really I ran for my life for a bowl of tatties and leeks and a plate of over fried chips and lumpy mayo. I always wanted to be a criminal. I got the taste for shoplifting when I was about 6 and was in a sweet shop with my mother. I snuck a massive chocolate candy up my sleeve under the watchful eye of the shop assistant who tried to glare me into submission but I denied everything and savoured every last mouthful when I got home. I think that was around the time my food compulsion and sneaky eating started. From around the ages of 15 -16 and a half I shoplifted sweets worth over triple my body weight. That's like shoplifting enough sweets to feed the whole of Cambodia four times over. I would skip school to go on sprees with one of my buds and fill her locker full and devour everything before morning break. I was a pretty child. From sweets I went on to stealing things from a spiritual shop and everyone had birthday and xmas presents from there. One day I came out with 4 books, 5 items of jewellry and a box of tarot cards. We ditched the tarot cards for fear of karma however. It wasnt long before the shop shut down. If I was stealing as much as £60 a day then other people also were. I do feel gulity and maybe my days of shoplifting have led me to become the most paranoid person in history. Or maybe that's something else altogether. I did get caught once. I was in safeways (then called prestos) and was showing off in front of someone slightly cooler than me and wanted to impress her with my rebellious ways so she would go back and tell all the other cooler people (who was basically everyone else in the entire school) thats The Fee was pretty damn cool. Nicking from this supermarket was not unusual, we would all get out lunch here everyday, and tea and breakfast, it was that easy. And so while I was supposed to be getting my fat legs out at PE I was stuffing multi packs of chewing gum in my pocket faster than you could yell 'store detective' and I'm waltzing through the checkout, smarmy as fuck when Miss Store Detective comes at me with a bunch of words that sent my head into a spin and escorted me off to the back room. On route I managed to deposit about 8 packs of polos and other mints but was left with 5 multi packs of gum. For all the things I had stolen, things worth in excess of £50 and here I was getting fucked over for 20 packets of EXTRA chewing gum, the blue stuff which I fuckin hated anyway. I sat in the back room and bawled my eyes our and waited for the police to show. When they arrived I was strangely attracted to the police woman who frisked me and tried to slip me a digit. Sorry that story ended up somewhere else. The racked through my bag to discover the entire spiritual shop and grilled me for a good 20 minutes on my shoplifting exploits. Eventually I was accompanied out of the shop, bang on 3.15pm, just as all the other kids were coming out of school. Here they all were traipsing past and here was me stood outside the shop with 2 police people crying my little heart out and just wanting to die. There was pointing and there was jeering and my street cred actually did soar a little bit, for being so fuckin stupid to get caught pilfering a bunch of gum and crying over it. Really it did. I'd like to say that I stopped stealing after that but I never. I continued to steal fags from my paper shop and sweets whenever hungry so that was pretty much constantly and even beer from my local shop. I only stopped when my mate got caught and they said they would only call her mum so we had to leg it home for me to pretend to be American and tell the shop that she would get a good seeing to. She did get a good seeing to. I blackmailed her into letting me cop a feel or I really would tell her her mother about her thieving little ways. And so my days of pinching everything in sight drew to a close as my little mind could take the near heart attacks no more. I reformed myself and have stolen nothing since. Until last night that is but hey, who the fuck cares about a bit of salad and cokeless coke? And so I go to think about how I never have to got to that bar again and rejoice in this fact cause it's pissy and stupid and full of pricks.
I’m suffering from various things at the moment, some good and some shit. The biggest shit component is the severe lack of funds I have right now. It’s summer, I have another 4 months away from uni (that’s providing I am allowed to return), I want to do fun things, cause a bit of mischief but I have like zero cash with which to perform this feat. What’s a girl to do? The options are exceedingly limited and I’m getting desperate. I mean, even the slut option is a non starter cause let’s face it I would need to pay people to have sex with me and even then it wouldn’t happen. I tried dressing my lack of sex up as being ‘frigid bridget’ and then even celibacy as I was choosing to abstain from the naughty but really when I look at it it’s cause no one is willing to lend a hand, or even a finger. So, whoredom is a no go. As a less sleazey option I even tried selling stuff on amazon but come on, who the hell would want to buy my cast offs that consist of Pet Shop Boys and other such shit delights? I managed to sell a couple of items but even a simple task such as putting videos/cds in envelopes proved too much for The Fee who can’t even find the videos that people are willing to take off my over used gay hands. And then I hit on a sure fire way of earning big bucks, with an idea taken from mr trashwhore who jerked off in a tub for twenty quid or summit. No, I aint gonna bash away for a fiver cause what good is lesbo juice to anyone but I thought I might try and sell my eggs. I have no idea what these eggs are for, I only know that they involve babies so I will not be requiring the use of my eggs, ever. They would just be sitting there all useless while some stupid fucker is dying for a brat so I thought I could pop out a couple and get some bucks for being so generous and adding another fuck to the world. Simple. Or so I thought. After looking into this procedure which would involve a minor operation (oh I love a good scar) and possibly forceps(oh nasty) I discovered that there is risk to the donor becoming pregnant. Holy fuck. Imagine that? Me, a mother? Jesus, that’s like child abuse before I have even squeezed it out. Zero tolerance, do not allow The Fee to breed. It’s well known I have small children issues so what the hell would I do if suddenly out of nowhere, the Virgin Fee had a baby? My mother would be pretty fuckin’ happy that’s for sure. I mean I probably wouldn’t even notice I was pregnant cause of my fluctuating weight problems which I love so dearly so it would be possible that one day I would be sat on the bus doing what I do on buses and then there’s pain and then there’s screamin’ ugly child with a blood toupee. What’s that’s all about? Not that I’ve thought about it or anything but if I had a small child of my very own to bully and intimidate I would call it Brenda or Irene and change my name to Lopez cause that’s pretty fuckin’ cruel huh? “Hi I’m Irene Lopez fae Aberdeen, how exotic am I?” Oh let’s say ‘very’. I do see one plus side to being up the duff however… Imagine how much I could get away with eating without the usual comments of ‘fat bastard’ being hurled in my face. I could eat all sorts of weird and wonderful combination of food (gerkin and peanut butter, ice cream and ketchup, love juice and chips) and call it a ‘craving’. My eating habits for once would be regarded as not unusual and would no longer cause people to leave restaurants or kitchens as soon as I get the salad cream and strawberries out. Oh am thinking of all the food possibilities that I have been forced to give up due to being too gross for words and I relish every single one of them. Oh to be pregnant. I could abort the kid after a few months cause that’s still a good 3 months of over eating anything and everything or even better, I could just pretend to be pregnant to fulfil my every food desire. Off I go to donate an egg or three. Fuck the money I want a baby.
Listening to: Moby – 18
Tuna and sweetcorn
Getting over the past
Stupid nails like stubs
Hmmmm…. No more negatives for today
Turn ups on jeans are my new favourite friends. For way too long have I rubbished turning up inches of jeans in favour of stupidly long jeans which take the 'scuff' look far too far. I love a bit of scuff as much as the next cool person but my own personal scuff trails a good 4 meters behind me and has any random tripping over it and usually ends up getting caught on a turd which is then trailed homeward to a very unhappy mother. I have always mocked those with the turnup fixation until one day I could take the soggy bottom of jeans no more, and inparticular, the chill blains in my ankle they caused and just thought fuck it. I have not looked back since. Of course while turnups are kinda cool they have the added bonus of being practical. I mean, when you don't wanna stuff your jeans pockets to the max to give the impression of wide hips, you can store all sorts of goodies in a turnup. A bit like a belly button really. At the moment I have an alarm clock, a storage heater and a papasan chair cosied in my 2 inch turnups (actually one is only an inch and a half, i can so never get them even, giving the impression that one leg is severely longer than the other and that I really do not my very own orthapeadic shoe). Also very good for hiding notes in during exams and have helped me on my way to graduating this year. Or they would have had I had any notes to start with, you know with all the classes I attended? Fucker. However, as with everything in life, there is a downside to turnups. They do sometimes collect specimens of undisclosed nastiness which you do not discover for weeks later. I mean the other day I found a used condom which had split and hopefully not pregnated my ankle and the week before that I found a dead bird of the pigeon variety. I was quite distraught but I don't think the 2 incidents were connected or revolting enough to make me give up the turnups. The first time i braved the turnup look it was raining and it gave me a chance to go fishing (like a lesbian needs an excuse to go fishing) and out of the turnups I pulled a piranha which turned round and nipped my fanny cause it was also partial to a bot of fish so I ate it for tea in its full fishy goodness. And so I go to ponder the other delights of my wardrobe to share with you at a later date. This will take a good 4 seconds.
Let's discuss nail etiquette. Well, it can hardly be a full on discussion with only one opinion but let me express my nail rage freely. Now, I aint talking about metal nails that you shove in walls or in arms when angry but in this instance I'm gabbing about bodily nails, finger and toe and if any of you have any other nails then please, I don't wanna know, keep your mutant diseases to your self, I mean to I tell you all about my extra 3 lips? No. Now, why is it that long finger nails are all ladylike and pretty and can be painted up all kinds of colours and are the focus of much attention but if you grow your toe nails past the top of toe then you are a gruesome bastard? Why is it ok for sparkley finger nails to grow to the length of a small nob but it's all wrong to have your toe nails curl over your toes? I'm not trying to make a case for long toe nails cause I have a set of ten sturdy jobbies growing off the edge of my feet cause yeah, I think it's gross too but really, if you think about it it seems kinda unfair that people are not free to extend their porky feet nails to a length beyond about half a centimeter. I just feel a bit bad for toe nails is all. Finger nails snap religiously but toe nails are strong and could hold your tea and cake on or in them. Now I realise that long toe nails are uncomfortable and are uneconomical due to the amount of socks that get fucked but hows about in the summer when flip flops make a welcome return? Would it be so wrong to get your curly nails out and leave a scuff mark with every step? Yes it probably would be all wrong but I think I may give it a go, all in the name of research of course, to see what reaction I get and how much carpet and shite I can get wedged under my mammoth nails of steel. I do appreciate that long toe nails would hold no function because let's face it, unless you are double jointed then you can't really use them for the purpose of picking your nose which is as good as all I use mine for or maybe picking burger out of teeth but I don't think I would fancy that with toe nails which come with a dose of cheese all on their own, withou the added etxras of my mcdonalds. Imagine long toe nails were a definite trendy thing to have? Special shoes would have to be designed to accomodate these nasty nails, shoes that turn up the way already exist so it would not take much adapting of existing fashion. So come on people, friends of the fiendish long toe nails unite, let's get these bad boys into society and give them the cult status they so deserve and ditch the stretched finger nails which are so unlesbian friendly and are handy only for tough boogers.
Today I wanna talk about belly buttons. Actually, I only want to discuss the innies and outies of one particular belly button. The mother of all belly buttons, as I discovered this weekend, does in fact belong to Beautiful Boy. It wasn't until his tee had ridden up over his gut (a tiny gut at that) that I got a full view of this colosol bad boy that had a bag of sweets, a £2 coin and a bottle of coke nestled somewhere in between its fluffy contents. Quite impressed by the attention this hairy hole (ick) was getting, BB thought it would be 'entertaining' to see how far something contained within a belly button could travel. In goes a rolled up doily which had been carefully coloured in with wax crayons by our artistic selves and which had been severely tea and vodka stained. You are maybe wondering, if you really even care, how this could not have been uncomfortable but if you'd seen the size of this thing you'd understand that he didnt even notice it was there. The only indication of its presense was the lingering smell. It wasn't til we got to the hotel that we remembered it was there and we knew that this bit of paper (a good fist sized - my favourite size) would have to remain wedged in amongst whatever else was hanging around in there throughout the Kylie concert. I mean who else can say that a special bit of doily travelled from Aberdeen to Glasgow then via a Kylie concert then shopping and to various pubs and then home again? I mean who else would want to? Belly buttons are kinda gross, especially when people make great show of sticking things and fingers in them and out comes a bunch of non identifable goods. It seems all wrong, I think I want an outie *gasp* that was quite a confession, maybe one that I wish I had kept quiet. I don't like things that are unpiercable. You should always be able to have the option, whether you want a bit of metal shoved in your orifices are not. My Beautiful Boy has his sack pierced, at least I guess thats where it is, being a permanent lesbo no one has thought to introduce the male anatomy to me, not formally anyway. Oh I did get to tug on his piercing the other night when it did it's usual pub appearance. It was kinda like 'here, tug my balls' and knowing I would not get this chance again I pulled on it so hard that all was left of ball piercing was a huge gapping hole. No sorry am thinking about that over shagged housewife I saw in a porno once. But I did get to yark his ball piercing. I can't say it did anything for either of us except take my mind off the fact that someone had nicked my Miffy wallet or I had lost it in my drunken 'please don't let me puke' state. I didn't. Puke that is. I drank most of the weekend, in amounts that I have never accomplished (7 drinks on Monday, my good lord) and I did not puke. In fact I have not puked in way over a week ( I think) and am very proud of non spewing phase and live in hope that my puking which I have decided is as good as psychological has come to an end. You will mock me with 'pukey fee' no more I tell you.
The hills are alive with the sound of music. Or maybe it’s the sound of my arse after the 18 too many windeze I consumed over the weekend. After Saturday’s night of losing wallets and dancing like a fanny I went to see Miss Minogue in Glasgow. I think I had around 3 hours sleep so this coupled with the hangover meant I was rough as hell and looking like a mummified corpse only less pretty and smellin’ far worse. I went with Queen of Fun and the Beautiful Boy. He was not only hungover but was the walking wounded, he did slip a disc you know so there was only one way we were going to make it through the train journey, the afternoon and the concert – Vodka. Having only one glass I settled for drinking it straight because I’m tough like that and thought the results would have been interesting. Anyway, I really did not relish the skitters that were surely to follow with THAT amount of fresh orange juice. We were joined on our journey to see mini minogue by KylieKat who marvelled us with his fanatical Kylie ways by showing off his Kylie balloons, lollipops, home made tees and pretty much everything else that would fit in his over night sack and poster case and every available pocket. He almost had as much luggage as the Queen who for one night of Kylie pleasure had packed the biggest hairdryer in the world, 5 outfits, a chocolate cake and various sized pants into some case that was bigger than the space cleared in the train after orange juice farts. She was Hell on Wheels as she struggled to keep control of the thing as she tore down the street trying to escape the stench of farts that seemed to be following BB and myself around all weekend. Why is it everywhere I go with BB, be that in the pub or in the bowling alley or in the museum of dead people, the conversation always turns to jobbies and follow throughs and letting bad boys go? It doesn’t really say much about us at all does it? After the stupidity of our regular conversations we decided to try and maintain an adult (that’s adult as in sensible not as in pornographic) conversation for at least 15 minutes. The stop watches were on but not only did we fail to make it past a minute but we couldn’t even think of any ‘adult’ topics to discuss. I thought about trying to lunge into a spiel about the effects of smoking on the environment but realised I couldn’t think of any and nor did I care. After admitting defeat and accepting we are twats it was back to the shit. Oh and then the train stops at like Stirling for a good 20 minutes because apparently the train ‘is a failure’. Personally I think it was because the driver had a good dose of diaorhea and needed to stop off for a sneaky turd for fear of skidding his bifs with a follow through. Fuck, here I go again. Finally we arrive in Glasgow, kinda on the way to getting wasted and head to the shop for more beer and mini babybels and pot noodles. We get our party clobber on, me in my frilly shoulder padded puffy buttoned jacket which stopped around the belly button and my rara skirt looking well swanky and the other two always outdoing me with their sense of style. We drank more at the concert, signed up for Kylie credit cards so we could get free flashing wands and tried to spot any heterosexuals in the crowd. I think we got 2. As I have more than a tendency to bore all with my ramblings I will not give you a blow by blow account of the concert, partly cause I have forgotten but I will tell you it was one of my best so far (nothing beats my Britney) and that the lil minx looked far too pleasing in her police woman uniform and then skimpy basque. The other highlight was the free ‘kylie’ water of which you were allowed only one but we backed up the car and stocked up the boot before driving off into the sunset, or to bed at least. BB went dancing with Disco Dave and The Clubb while I retired to my bed. We had stuffed the 3 of us in one room (illegally apparently) and I so did not want the sleeping position next to BB for fear he may leave a tan line on my leg what with all that damn orange juice he’d downed. I awoke feeling kinda refreshed but not really ready to shop. I just wanted to smoke and buy pants, both of which I carried out and both of which disappointed. And then it was train time, a time I know The Queen looked forward to like a case of dysentery and more beer had to be purchased to make the journey pass with event. This time around there was no BB throwing his gay self at the window trying to wave at the passers by and shocking everyone in the entire train with his cuteness (yes he’s 25, almost) and neither was BB emphasising that poof status by glittering his shoes but there was rotten toilets that were worthy of a ‘gagfest’ award. I don’t have a public bog issue but I do have train toilet issue as with any toilet that involves a self shutting door. One time I was in the middle of Soho on a hot summer night taking a piss in some such portable loo when suddenly the door swings open and here’s me in all my glory, kecks round my ankles with about 76 people pointing and laughing at my predicament as the door took a further 5 minutes to swing itself shut. Mortified is the only fitting word. But anyway, after the beer there was no way I was holding any piss in and slunk off, shoulder barging anything and everything in my drunkenness. How hard is it to ‘hover’ when a train is in motion? Jesus let’s say ‘very’. I managed to piss on the seat, the floor and even worse on my over worn jeans as my ass swayed violently from side to side. The toilet was positioned in such a way that had the door have flown open my ass in the air would have been on full display but as I tried to force the 4 pints of beer out with great speed I just kept spraying everywhere til it was clear I would spend the rest of the journey rotting in the toilet to keep my pissy smell to my self. I wouldn’t have cared so much had I not have had a date last night. What an impression, Fee turns up to meet said date with soggy ankles and stained shoes and stinkin’ of lager piss. Nice.
Oh what a beautiful morning oh what a beautiful day. Actually it's kinda misty and rather cold but I feel brilliant. I'm not exactly sure what the uprise in my mood has been over the past couple of days but I wont knock it and go with the happy thoughts. I haven't yet told you about my day of 'drinking' on wednesday have I? It's cos it was so good I didn't want to spoil it by writing about it, or something more to the effect of I just haven't had the time. I met my bud Straight Man A for a spot of lunch and stalking. We pulled off the lunch part semi well although after our vodka bar skewers we were about as full as Vanesa Fletz after 4 pies, 2 cream cakes and a gallon of ice cream (ie not at all) but the pint that accompanied the lunch detracted our attention from this painful hunger we were still enduring. We decided to play the stalking game but after circling the city centre a good 4 times we could not find a target interesting enough to care about so there was that game off the agenda and to be resumed at a later date. With shite all shops of interest in Aberdeen, being a sunny day, there was only one alternative. The pub. We wanted a balcony that faced sun ward and the only one we could find to get a decent seat on was in Chi which over looks most of the shops in the Academy. Being the only people sat here made us look like we playing an unintentional game of stalking and my paranoia led us to leave after one drink after people started waving at us from various shop windows. Busted. We collected a slut on our way and went Triple Kirks ward for more outside chilly drinking. Slut went home to change and myself and Straight Man A moved onto Vodka Bar where the foxy one was working and looking as foxy ever but that goes without saying. Oh her sister turned up later and was equally hot but that's another story. We were joined by a couple of Pier girlies (one of which I had previously met and is a lesbian after all, sorry)who shall be called GirlieA and GirlieK cause my mind is not functioning in 'nickname' mode today. I think I had 4 pints by 6pm and had already begun on the water. Fuck me it's all so wrong although I know that Straight Man A kept up as well as I did, oh i love that boy. Enter J Bo and Mad A for ther usual hilarity and of course Luscious L had to cause 43 scenes too many and fought with everyone in the place, tried far too hard to watch me pee and may have been thrown out for being a way out of order. After water number 32 I was feeling waterlogged and 'tired and emotional' and the remaining hardened [water] drinkers headed Revolution ward to hang on the balcony with the slut who had returned all glammed (well I think she did, my memory is now partial as it was 2 days ago). There was much debate over Lava or The Priory and Lava it was. I wish now the Priory had gotten my vote as Lava (as I should have remembered form sunday) was dire. It was supposed to be 'retro night' and with the amount of bad skirts, hairbands and croppped jackets I saw it really should have been but the only song i even had the faintest interest in dancing to was Thriller where J bo did her usual 'what on earth' dancing as I tried to recreate the zombie moves. *Mental Note* never try and use these so called dance moves to impress anyone ever again Miss Fee, you looked like a vibrating turd. The rest of the evening went way to quickly and I was far too reluctant to go home, even in the pouring rain which made my hair look not unlike crystal from crystal tips and alistair only without the blue rinse. The word mushroom also springs to mind.
I went home and tried to sleep but with all the gallons of water I consumed, my 4 hour sleep was only around 2 hours with all the toilet stops that came in between. I was wrecked all day yesterday but for lunch I went home, cranked up the 'Flashdance' (it's been a while) and let it all go. It was hard hard work but boy did I feel good and forgot about the thing called lunch which is always a bonus in my book. Anything/anyone that can take my mind off cheese and all food substances is worth everything to me.
I've had a great week. My lack of blog entries should tell you that for once I have been a) too busy for fun to blog and b) lacking in motivation to write a decent blog (when did I ever write a decent blog i hear you cry). And you thought I had no other life other than bloglife but aha, I have proved you and myself wrong. Anyway, everyday has been eventful for The Fee, in one way or another but still not enough to make this weblog an interesting read. I was supposed to return with 'Tales from the sand dunes' the other day but think I got sidetracked with beer and no pizza and pretty ladies. Shock. Now my tales from the sand dunes will seem listless and ungay but really it was the best day out. I met Big Boy A and Straight Man A kinda early and we cruised to the Bloodhound gang and headed pier and beach wise. We ended up in Balmedie and cavorted not nude in the sand, throwing ourselves into forward rolls and nonsensical tumblings. These were the cause of much pain and thankfully the glasses remained in one piece. Big Boy A went beserk and went for multiple backward rolls for everyone to get a view of manly crack. Of course, being a lesbian I have seen plenty of this in my time and so it came as no surprise. We captured these on film and I hope to bring you these courtesy of someone else's scanner. I think it's about time you got to see The Fee in real life just so you will be sorely disappointed with the results and you will realise I lied to you when I made out I was sometimes (twice) quite hot. Yeah so I made that up. Anyway, thinking about myself again and as always and I have broken my own stride the way I broke my own hymen when I slipped into the splits for the first time aged 10. We really did frolick in the sand and spiky grass with no sex which now that I think about it, was really missing from our day of silliness. The boys braved the foreezing water while i stood by with camera, (really hoping to catch a glimpse of shrivelled nob) afraid that if I were to enter the sea then the seaweed would catch on my leg hair. I did remove socks and shoes and was heavily relieved that I shaved my toes that day, if nothing else. After the boys were waist deep in with their jeans growing longer by the second we finished off the spool and some collected shells, yes you so are another borderline case Big Boy A. I headed for work with sand in my nose and in my gum and awoke in the morning with a real eel slipping around in my sandy crack which has been itchy ever since. The sand will never come free of my armpit hair however. Well and truly tangled. Oh how I love my friends and their ability to have silly fun. I can't wait for real summer and real sunshine so I can get my cossie out and take a dip in any available expanse of water. Fuck that's a sight to never see and one that even my bath rarely sees.
Listening to: enrique - escape, sorry I just aint cool
8 hours is the length of time I spent in one pub on Sunday. In that space of time I could have pub crawled the whole of Aberdeen or travelled to the other side of the world with multiple stop offs and many a bad plane meal and pissin in holes in the ground. I could even have had a marathon sex romp in that time. Fuck, no sorry I thought I was talking about 8 minutes so maybe not. I wouldn’t have cared if I had actually shuffled my seating placement around slightly or gone wandering to check out hot people but no, aside from 3 toilet stops, I remained in the same seat, cosy as hell after my fat arse had nested itself into the leather, for 8 hours. Longer than the amount of hours I work in a week, almost. That’s why I have had serious problems with walking over the past few days. It was a fab night though. It passed without catastrophe, dilemma or major event but was wicked. It was my 3rd night drinking in a row and for someone who drinks in small quantities, pukes in vast quantities and has a bout of nasty chronic fatigue (no, not just cos it’s trendy) then you will understand why this is a feat I have never pulled off in my life before. After having spent 2 nights in bed company with Beautiful Boy I was wrecked and ragey as hell and all I could think about was sleep, and plenty of it. However, after spending too much time at home doing trivial things that seemed impossible such as tidying and washing my hair, I decided to meet Beautiful Boy for a glass of pop, nothing stronger and the full fat version for the sugar rush. Entering Vodka Bar I knew I could not shame myself or those around me by sippin on cheap draught cola and instead started on the pitchers of beer. It seemed more economical because I’m sure 2 pints lasts longer than a glass or 2 of coke. It also gave me the strength to endure the boring bastard that bought lots of drinks to compensate for his lack of personality. What a wonderful night and how many times did I get told I was hot? Way too many, could give a girl a big head you know. I will not complain however. Oh we saw someone getting the funniest kickin’ in history. Two guys are chasing this one guy giving it high kicks and everything. Fuck it was like something out of Charlie’s Angels only they were hell ugly and there was no chance of them landing in the splits and getting back up again. But what the hell was that all about? If you are gonna pretend you know Judo at least don’t fall backwards when you pull of a kick that goes higher that your calf. I know why I hate that end of town (the Justice Mill Lane end). One street has more wankers on it than a sperm bank gets donors in a year.
I just wanna draw your attention to a couple of new links i have added. You have to be pretty special to get a link on my page so my tow new links are just that. Under the 'cool links' section you will find a 'finer feelings' banner which has pretty pictures of a pretty lady hanging out in the background. This lil lady is infact mizz kylie minogue (i had to squish the banner so it would fit and now it looks kinda mangled, sorry) and it links to a cool site designed and run by a lovely guy from Aberdeen, don't hold it against him tho as rumour has it he was born in Malta so that makes it all better, anyway you should check it out. Also, I have a new blog linked to and this is also by a lowly Aberdeonian who really aint so lowly and is actually cool so you should also read this blog, it's the spangle one. I have also added some pop up text on most pictures cos the wonderful kylie kat showed me how. yes I get bored easily.
My Saturday from the hours of 12-7pm were work filled, or not filled as the case may be as my hangover from hangover hell prevented me from doing any actual work. I arranged with Beautiful Boy to have an actual night in, watching DVDs and drinking turd wine which Big Boy A presented me with at my work because he’s good like that. I appeared at BB’s house to be faced with a fluffy haired boy in ¾ length trousers. It was an odd sight to see BB ungroomed and dressed for the almost present sun but even as a straight boy he was beautiful. That’s impressive, as was the major bum fluff hanging around just above his lip. We watched Virtual Sexuality, drank the nasty wine which even caused me to drink, dare I say, a spritzer (tell no one) and looked at old photos. And then something happened and it was 9pm and we were now no longer having a night in. There was shaving and hair gelling (and that was just me) and the downing of multiple vodkas and said piss with a hint of jobbie wine and we were off for party time part deux. We decided that we would not venture to the new place in favour of old habits and a lack of cash. And so Castros it was. They actually played the best music they have in a long time, playing all 4 of my favourites and the place was still as busy as ever. I heard the new club was equally busy so I don’t know where the sudden rise in gays has come from. It did reduce the number of fag hags who clearly favoured the shiny new place where they have room to take over the dance floor with their often very large hair and matching bags. I think I may have puked twice, I blame the tiredness for this, well I can’t exactly blame the 3 drinks I had, again, can I? I don’t understand why I throw up so much and like all the time. It’s kinda buggin now. While it’s part of my going out routine it’s really becoming tiresome and less of a stupid joke. What an attractive feature throwing up is. I can see why so many people instantly flock to be around me stinkin’ of stale beer and last nights gerkins. Pukes aside, our unplanned night was smashin’. It went without any major event and this is definitely how I am liking my nights at present – no one trying to kill me, no one trying to be me and no one fuckin me off to the point of insanity. The only disappointment was the no show from Queen of Fun who was once again fun-no-more and went home around 12 having favoured straight bars to our wonderful gay company but nevermind. I’ll get her out one night. Sometimes the best part of the night is the hanging around outside and chatting to people at a sociable level about non sociable things and rolling on the ground and generally being too wound up to go home. Saturday night’s ‘hang’ was kinda uneventful and the turnout was poor but a lovely non drinking gent gave us a lift home which made it worthwhile. And my cute drunken poof mate and his 'don't wanna let you go, Fee' actions were also all good and made me smiley. It was then off to scoff cold pasta (I do hope cooked) and of course, cheese slices and smoke the rest of our fags before retiring to our comfy double bed which has become my second home. But jeez that boy knows how to sprawl. I woke up with a line of bruises down my back. I think i'd rather not no their origin.
I’m quite sure no one missed my lack of blogs over the weekend but for any of you that may have actually missed the shite and times of Miss Fee, fear not because I am back. And I’m here to tell you about my wonderful weekend which will probably sound as dull as the ‘property owner with a taste for fine wine’ I had to endure last night but hey, it was all fun at the time. It really has been a great 3 days, hangovers and hallucinations aside that is. My weekend begun on Friday around 7pm and ended about an hour ago and as I can retain information as well as a bulimic retains food, I have forgotten the funny parts that I made a mental note to tell you all about. I don’t know why I even bother with mental notes cause as soon as they enter my tiny mind they simply collect their belongings and leave. Story of my life. Friday was unusual in that it was myself, Beautiful Boy, Straight Man A and Big Boy A. That’s 2 queers and 2 butches. It should have been a strange set up but it really wasn’t and the butch boys (actually both of them have been termed ‘borderline homosexuals’ with a love for leaning and flowers and pink shag bands and are maybe not that blatantly heterosexual after all) were more than happy to hang around in gay bars times deux. Castros was kinda shite, kinda empty and the music sucked. So we decided fuck it, we would splash out on the massive £4 to get in to the new club, Out. I had reservations about this place mostly because of its position in town. It’s located in straight bam land where heterosexuals get regularly attacked so of course there would be call for a spot of queer bashing. Luscious L got punched a few times in the place last week by a straight dick in a burberry shirt. Says it all. I wasn’t particularly concerned for my own personal safety but for all the pretty poofs who are all so fragile. Anyway, the club itself was functioney. I kept expecting people to get up and do the gay gordons at any time. There should have been a buffet filled with stale sandwiches and shrunken party sausages and used paper plates that people have tried to salvage from the last affair. My mum and dad and my aunties and uncles and all my extended family should have been there to shoulder shimmy to a bad disco or jazz band with a sleazy second uncle trying to slip me the tongue. Décor and weddingness aside the club was spacious, you actually had your own personal space while grooving but it was kinda light and all faces were far too visible, including mine which was a nice shade of beetroot. The music was no bad disco, it was pure, quality, top class cheese with an extra serving of parmasan on the side. I was in shakira heaven, twice. Or was that Saturday night? All three nights are kinda blurring into one and details are confused. They did honour every request asked for which was wonderful as getting Castros to play a request for you is like forcing a poof to go out of the house with fluffy hair. Predictably I got Britney, holly valance and sugababes which kept me on the floor shakin’ ma ass like a mad thing. It was one of them nights when I thought I was the best dancer and was giving it all this and it was only when I got home and pulled of similar maneouvers in my mirror did I realise that my belly was floppin out at all angels. Not a good look. Just as well I wasn’t trying to impress anyone with my floor shakin’ moves which really did have the club jumpin as I threw my whole body weight around. It was only when they played bloody Enrique at the end that I got all sad but Beautiful Boy made it all better. He always does. Thankfully the club shut at 3am whereas the straight bars are 2am so by the time we left all the neds in their two tone shirts and buckled shoes were away neckin some dawg in a doorway or giving their own mothers a kickin. Two macaroni pies and a not so deep and meaningful conversation later, I was tucked up with Beautiful Boy and his non hardon, not relishing the fact I had to be up for work the following morning/day. I love my friends :-)
Don't you just hate those people who when offered food always say 'yes' and take about your whole packet of whatever you happen to be eating? Don't you just abhore those folk that never share their own food but demand you share yours? When on the off chance that they do offer you a crisp, A crisp is exactly that, 1 lowly crisp and they grip the bottom of the bag with their full strength so you only get half a bit of salt. They also will give you only 1 tic tac and if by accident two fall out they will put the other back in the shaker but gladly help themselves to your whole packet of starburst, making sure they take out the best colours first. I hate these greedy arses who think that because someone they work with bought great flavoured crisps (sea salt and cracked pepper for example) that they, non crisp purchaser, own more than half the bag. Polite people refuse when offered the 10th time, when the bag is down to the utter smush that wet fingers have pawed at but no, these people just take and take and take like it's their perogative to do so, like they are so important that they deserve to devour everybody elses food as well as their own without any please or any thank you. Fuck, I hate these bastards. Fuck, I am one of these bastards.
This morning's little grievance is hipster jeans. These ultra cool articles of clothing do look good on most people, epsecially those whose pubic bone pops out to say 'hey'. They generally (as always there are many exceptions) make your ass look mighty fine, make you look all slim and basically hot all round. So, what's MIss Fee's problemo with such a wonderful creation? I'll tell you, I hate them because other people look so damn hot in them and then I try and slip a pair on and my belly falls out over the top. What the hell is that about? No amount of sit ups could cure my evil gut which loves to persecute me by flopping over the waistband of my jeans. I have seen far too many girls in the past 4 days of sunshine with their equally massive chubs hanging over the side of their jeans, with gigantic belly buttons that could house a picnic for 4 inside them, to know that it just aint pretty. And so hipsters will sadly never become a part of my life and I will be resigned to high waisted jeans that double as a bra or will continue to wear my men's jeans that really were made for balls and make me look as though I have a baggy fanny and a set of balls the size of Canada to match. I would be as well shopping in Dash (womanly 'fashion' that contains lots of sweater material trousers and jumpsuits) cos you're guaranteed a loose lips pair of ski pants that sit around your shoulders. Any trousers that look like they ahve been designed with drag kings in mind (ie women with balls) has got my vote any day of the week and twice on sundays.
I just ate an entire 150g bag of Haribo tangfastic sour mix. Fuck.
Straight Man A has begun a quest for interesting toilet graffiti. It made me think of the most momentous toilet grafiti I ever saw (aside from the lesbo bar shite about whose girlfriend has a loose fanny and whose is tighter than a tensed sphincter). When I was around 13, that's age as well as stone, I was working on a bases of a stone for every year, I used to go for lunch at Bakers Oven. No wonder I'm a chubber you are probably thinking, devouring chips and cheese for lunch daily but I, however, was blessed with a mum who made me packed lunches of wholemeal bread and raisins goodness and had to drool over everyone elses sloppy delights and rummage in the bins for their left overs, that was why I was a heffer. Anyway, I think I had fallen out with my usual friends, not simply because I was a nasty person but more so because they used to have phases of where they could be seen hanging out with the fat girl or not, and I had taken up with some randoms whose local accents I could not decipher. It's funny saying that now because for some reason my good upbringing has had reverse affects and I'm common as trash these days. And so for lunch we used to hang out in the Baker's Oven toilets eating our days old food because hygiene was a foreign concept at age 13. In these toilets we used to muck around with ouigi (sp?) boards because we thought we were hard and that we actually could make them work. Well we could make them work because I know that on more than one occasion I found myself forcing the glass around to freak out everyone who was convinced 'fred' was talking to them. I never went to the extremes of smashing the glass but I really did feel like it on more than 16 occasions but could never decide which person I disliked most. It was in here that someone pointed out the graffiti. There were the usual, 'I'd do yer ma' and 'johny is a good ride' scrawlings but in massive blue marker was etched 'Julie loves Pat' and while I guess 'Pat' could have been Patrick, so there would be no disputing the fact, underneath, written in letters the size of my arse (yeah, massive) was, 'LESBIANISM IS THE ONLY WAY TO LIFE'. It was the first time I had ever seen this word. Sure I had heard it being thrown around at school, sometimes at me but mainly at the PE teacher but here it was, in blue and, well just blue really, for everyone to see. I didn't actually understand the concept of being a lesbian at this point and I thought it was an infliction. I also had a fear of Julian Clary and Boy George (is also funny that a few years later I was compared to Boy George, thanks for that) because I just didn't get it. All the people I was with shouted 'gadze' and 'lessies' was blackmarkered across Julie and Pat's declaration of love. It all felt so wrong and illegal not to mention fuckin' disgusting. It's kinda stupid that that's the impression kids have of gay people at such a young age. If something is not understood then clearly it is wrong. And even though I wanted to kiss at least 5 of my female friends, it didn't occur to me that i too was gonna be a rug sniffer one day. I was convinced that 'Julie and Pat' must eat at Baker's Oven regularly and so I began hanging out there more frequently and on my own, kinda waiting for 'Julie and Pat' who could have been anyone, to make an entrance. I never saw them, or maybe I did but will never know. I know I thought about them for awhile. The first time I saw 2 gay men was around this time also. I was cycling around the Duthie Park with a couple of friends when we saw 2 men holding hands. Knowing what I know now about the 'cottaging' scene, maybe it weren't hands they were holding but I was scared. I thought they were a disease and that looking at them too long would turn me into a man who dresses like a woman (again, my Julian Clary fear was present). I still cycled past them at least 43 times and ended up in bed for a week with the over excersion I was so not used to. Tomorrow's topic will be 'cottaging'.
Sweetners in tea, doesnt have the same effect
Bruised backs (thanks to forward rolls)
Instantly forgettable people
My disappearing bones, damn the return of the fatness
PS Straight Man A: are you using your 'quest for bog graffiti' as an excuse to frequent public toilets??
I broke my glasses yesterday. It was all for a good cause. After 3 pints of lager drunk in the company of Beautiful Boy and Queen of Fun I was tanked up and ready for forward roll action. The Queen walked off in disgust as BB and I threw ourselves into a succession of forward rolls down a grassy hill at the beach, causing a team of cricketers to halt their game and watch the bad bad view. Putting glasses into my pocket really did not protect them from becoming as bent as me. We did manage 3 rolls each however and I even snuck in a full length body roll making it four. It was after walking around work glassesless that I realised why I wear glasses. I trailed around work with my hobble looking like a half dead junkie putting customers off their £2 sales. Glasses detract any attention away from the weeks worth of shopping I'm storing in these bags I tell you. Nevermind, my first experience of public grass stained forward rolls was well worth it. The day I had leading up to these battered eyes was much fun also. I met the Queen of Fun earlyish for breakfast (her's fried mine's continental). We were then joined by BB and made for a pretty 3some, sexless once again. We headed beachward and I just about managed to keep up with the excruciating pain in my foot getting worse by the second. We played on decrepit swings that came away with my much weight and coming apart roundabouts till we could take the exercise no more. I thought about clambering my whole weight onto a seesaw but sized up the weight of my counterparts and realised that even if they both sat on one end I'd still send them flying. We hung out by the pier, seeing nothing through the fog and watching a lady disappear with her dog. We saw someone wave from the sea so we waved back, all excited that this swimmer all that distance out was taking the time to wave at us. I saw a notice in the paper today that someone almost drowned around the place where we saw this swimmer and around the same time. I wonder how the swimmer never noticed anything. It's not the sort of thing you could really miss, someone drowning, you know? We took a walk back along the beach with my stupid shoes (I really need to get some new ones) getting caught in seaweed and jobbies of many varietys. I wonder how far these turds had travelled? had they come preserved out of the ocean or were they freshly laid? Who knows. We buried a few so there may be some blind kids roaming around the beach today. I thought I might put a bottle with my number in it into the sea but knowing my luck, an Aberdonian bam would retrieve it and proposition me for a good tonguing or something equally foul so decided against it. We sat in a pretty part of the beach, a bar called Miami and drank way too expensive beer (and of course cider for the classy Queen) and discussed things such as massive clits. Is it right for a clit to hang down low? Is that over shagged or just a defect? We reached no logical conclusions, not having seen enough to compare fairly. There was only one more thing to do: mini bowling. Queen of Fun's throws were more insipid let gos (think she didnt want to force anymore farts out and was therefore going with caution) while myself and BB got rid of the agression nicely. Even with bump and bowl BB still came last. I blame the lack of coordination on the lager and distracting hot company. On leaving we stole a puck from the air hockey table and thought we were pretty damn cool. I don't know how we got that impression but there was a fight for it. Next time we are going for the mini bowling ball. Well, the Queen is cause she has a stealing problem. It's a real condition, never leave her alone anywhere. The last time she was in my house she took a fanny pad and a packet of sultanas. I don't know if these items were to be used in conjunction with each other however. I also discovered a stash under her bed of various items that came from my house, my work and all our friends houses. So, BB if you wondered where your lube went, the Queen has it, dunno what for and Babs, if you were looking for the part of your art project that went missing and caused you to drop a grade, I know exactly where it is. Oh and The Clubb, she has at least 2 of your CDs. Anyway, enough about all that and back to my wonderfully exciting day which was so good until the third pint and like miss s, I really did get 'tired and emotional'. And work was hell, worse than hell. And a drunk man came in and I'm chatting to him, he's like 60+ and he's all friendly and then he says 'I'm going to die tonight' And then he's just standing there about to cry telling me not to make the mistake of falling in love cos it's not worth it. Right enough. As if I wasn't depressed already but I think I cheered him up for at least 30 seconds, until he left the shop and forgot he'd even spoken to me. ANd the rest of the customers were just rude and stupid and buying bad porn and asking me my name (Dolly from now on). It's like hello, am i really going to go out with a 40 year old who moans about the price of a porn omnibus (£3.95 for fuck sake) and wears sandals and is male. Hmm, I'm thinking it's not really going in his favour for some reason. I was glad to go home and moan and be an asshole, no actually I really wasn't but I was real happy to get to sleep and think about my wrecked glasses and how the hell they would fix. No more forwad rolls for Miss Fee I tell you. And more to the point, no more bloody alcohol. For at least 3 days.
After being awoken from non sleep at 8.30am I was given tea in bed and then I made my way back into town to face the shower. It was a beautiful day. Queen of Fun and I were both knackered but relishing the sun, well the Queen was, we decided to make the most of the day and head parkward. So it was off for the 3 mile hike to Hazlehead to be greeted by thousands of people with the same idea although weraring much less clothes than us fully clad lesbians. We wandered till I could take the blisters in my fat feet no more and the fear of gammy legs made me demand a seat in the moist grass. It took us about 20 minutes and 8 cirlces before the Queen was finally satisfied that we were in a secluded yet sunny part of the park where she could spread herself out without the worry of footballs flying toward her pale heyfevery face. Actually I think she was trying to seduce me, well that's my story and I'm sticking to it at least. We took up our seat on the grass with the Queen lying herself out like a picnic rug, evenly and full of crumbs (don't ask). I contemplated lying back on the grass myself but got half way back and realised that if I went any further then I would have no chance in hell of ever getting up again. I'm not good at doing nothing. The Queen lay back and farted herself off to sleep while I fidgeted with everything in sight and even had to play phone games for a good 10 minutes. It was painful. There were no daisies for chains and no material to read. There were kids dripping with ice cream and slush puppies and dogs dripping with balls and sweat. There were men with furry chests and ladies with high heeled sandals, fat feet and ankles spilling over the tight straps. Or maybe it was the other way around. It was 'shim' central afterall. We had selected a spot with vast amounts of room for gymnastics but I knew that if I were to go for a cartwheel, my arms would not be able to take my body weight. To be fair, that's a lot of weight to take. My legs can barely handle it. And so eventually I decided just to lie face down with my double sized arse in the air which blocked out most of the Queen's sun, and wonder why I find sun and nature in general so hard to appreciate. Such a pretty day should have inspired me to try and write some literary masterpiece or draw a pretty picture or at least to get my shorts on but no, here I was twiddling my thumbs and the edge of the Queen's shorts to the soundtrack of the Queen snorin' like a drunken pig. I also think I may have sunstroke. That 20 miniutes in the sun, with the only bit of showing skin being my face, has made me dizzy, delirious and pretty sick. It's true yes it is. Mind you the Queen came away with some major sunburn to give the impression of major applications of Pat Butcher like blusher. Bless her and her little red face, looking like a new romantic from the eighties. Let's hope for some peeling skin tomorrow. We were chatting about going on holiday later on in the summer. Ibiza, Tenerife and Magaluf have been mentioned. I recommended Iceland. While I appreciate a fine day, sun and me do not mix well at all. Mainly cause it' real sweaty and my inability to wear shorts and vests make for a very moist and stinkin' Fee. Just as well the sole purpose of any holiday I go on is not to pull cos I would not have much chance of that smellin like I do, like a barbecued cow turd. The term beached whale is sounding very fitting also. Anyway, back to our day in the park. I have a feeling, a very nasty one at that, that 'blue jeans arse' is becoming a trend. It's either that or people know who I am and are tormenting me hideously. These mega bums were everywhere I turned and are extending themselves into different colours of jeans (white and black being the most popular). I just don't know what to do about it. I can't possibly tell everyone I meet sporting a pair that their ass is elephant sized and that they should sort it out. I just don't have enough time to pull that off I'm afraid. I saw a massive fanny also, but only one. It was in beige trousers that were surely nipple warmers. Observations over and we have almost the whole park to ourselves and we make the walk home. We did well, we got half way and I could take the blister in foot pain no more but was forcing myself to endure the agony as otherwise I would be walking with a left hobble. I would rather walk on skinless feet that have a limp. The evening itself was uneventful but I did take a walk to safeways for cheese slices after having eaten about 12 the previous night, along with cold potatoes (hopefully cooked) in my munchy 'i will eat anything' state. Divine. I only purchased low fat dairy lea and cottage cheese after discovering just how much fat there is per cheese slice. Shite, I deserve to be at least 22 stone.
Three in the bed romps are lustful affairs. So I've heard. Mine was quite subdued. I had adequate number of people to make for a legitimate threesome but there was no romping. Well not that I remember although I did feel something hard against my back a few times in the night. I wasn't even sleeping beside Beautiful Boy so I don't know what Queen of Fun was up to. What would my mother have made of this little scenario, one poof and 2 lessers cosied up in a double bed which led to a 1 hour sleep for moi. I'm led to believe that B.Boy got a good 5/6 hours and Queen of Fun, wedged in the middle maybe got around 2. Jeez it was kinda uncomfortable with one cheek in one cheek out, made for a very draughty arse I tell you. And how I got the tiniest corner of the bed while B.Boy and Queen of Fun sprawled out I will never know. And how did we come to be in this 'you can touch me, but not there' situation? Well we met B.Boy and his Beautiful Twin (unidentical and very straight) from his work at 4.30pm. We planned to go for only a couple but the sunshine and plentiful alcohol made us never want to leave. Not that we were sat in a lovely beer garden with the sun in our hair but we did have the whole of the Priory to our wasted selves, being that it was pre club time at 6pm and all. From here we moved on to the Hogshead and it gets kinda patchy around this point. It's only about 7pm. I had spew numero ono here but it was bitty and unsatisfying. And so we moved on to Chi in search of class and comfort and for some reason, very cheap drinks were gained. I had second puke here and it was slightly more pleasing and delighted me to know that I was in an almost 'posh' place and spewing my ringer. With us all being rather wrecked at 10pm we piled into a people carrier and headed for some herbal stuff. We lost B.Twin and went gayfully off to the 24 hour garage (how thoughtful) which involved descending a rather large hill which in the daylight seems insignificant. Cue much hilarity over no sandwiches and fruit polos and we set off for more herbal. The ascent up hill proved painful and in the sprint to bowl over the Queen of Fun, myself aned B.Boy ended up in a heap which would have done any contortionist proud. It could have been a scene from a love movie, he's lying on top of me milimetres from my face but there aint no kissing, just a lot of staring into each others dilated pupils and spitting with laughter. We gathered ourselves and our dairy lea dips and odd flavoured crisps up and tried to run, thankfully not naked, through the daffoldils. I lost 2 shoes to these pretty flowers, fuckin' mules. Hunting shoes in soaking red socks proved difficult but I eventually found them in a pile of turd (definitley human) and slipped my size 12s back in. We picked some daffodils to lighten up the life of sleeping twin and exchanged ones with each other which was actually kinda sweet. The rest of the night was even more herbal and laughter filled as B.Boy described wedding dresses of puffy sleeves and announced someone had a head like a used cottonbud. The night was just about concluded with a near perfect forward roll (bravely performed on wooden floor) by B.Boy. We skipped of to B.Boy's house, gayly once again and thought our 3some would be fun. B.Boy passed out first with his infamous whistling nose and Queen of Fun threw herself around the bed like she had bed bugs nippin through her scratch and sniff boxers she'd been forced to wear. It was a beautiful, unexpected night of stupidity and homemade bread where even Queen of Fun removed the sarcasm from her name and was actual, real life fun. Yes really.
It’s a beautiful day. I shouldn’t be here writing my weblog. I should be outside making the most of Aberdeen sunshine. I will. Later. Actually I have been staying at my brother’s who has gone for some Ibiza sun and will do for the rest of the week but I decided what with the sun being out an’ all that I would walk home to my real house (no not Duncan donuts). It’s a good half hour up hill walk that I have maybe successfully completed four times in my 7 years of residing where I do. It was a brave decision to make in this heat what with the sweat patches and rosy complexion that were definitely going to occur. I took a back route to avoid as much of the public as possible. I took the scenic route of the pretty west-end mansions. This area is populated mainly by trees and oil industry people but mainly just trees. It’s impossible to see most of the taking-the-piss huge houses but just knowing they are there in all their stupid glory was enough to push me on to the top of the hill. What’s the point in houses so big that contain 50 odd rooms and only 4 people? That’s just greed. It’s perfect celeb haven but of course, Aberdeen houses no celebs. It does host local radio DJs who think they are close to god and of course football players but for anyone who knows the team Aberdeen will understand that these players wish to remain as anonymous as is possible and keep themselves to the trees in these wooded areas. I got some odd looks as I puffed and panted up the actually-not-that steep hill, with my bright yellow tee shirt and overly pierced ears. I think I was too brightly coloured to be classed as a robber but it’s possible they did think I was a misfit from the ‘naughty boys’ school situated only 4 minutes away. Who else wears yellow the colour of artificial daffodils? No one I know. And so I made it home after tripping over only four bouncy castles and 8 small children decked out in prada and driving around in ‘kid cars’ that would have shamed any Mercedes. And here I am, recuperating and preparing for the walk back into town, having reclaimed some belongings and downed 2 litres of water and having sponged the BO stains from my shirt. At least it worked off my continental breakfast of fresh orange and crossaints and pan au chocalat. I really can’t spell in foreign. I am going to meet Beautiful Boy to try and gain a position in a beer garden. Queen of Fun and I tried in vain to do this yesterday but a sliver of sun really does get everyone out in small clothes, sipping beer in the chilly wind. Yesterday was a day of ‘hanging’. I appreciated my day off work fully and completely, especially with the addition of sun. So Queen of Fun and I hung, did nothing that required actual planning, drank some – not much, and watched musical Buffy and looked up dead people on the internet. For all you sick folks check out this site. It’s really not for the faint of heart. We got carried away and our ‘quick look’ out of curiosity turned into a 2 hour gawp at bits of faces and lots of blood and my favourite, a five foot turd. Real famous dead people also feature. I’m not sure why I care and why my usually queasey self had to look at these things but look I did and the more I tried to avert my gaze from the brain matter, the more I had to look. I think Queen of Fun’s fascination was far more disturbing and the amount of stuff she knew about dead people and the bits of them was just plain weird and almost led me to throw her out on her sick ass but I put it down to her 2 ciders. I should have expected this behaviour from anyone who drinks cider. Class.
Listening to: Alanis – under rug swept
Mashed up dead people
My nosey mum
Sardine breath despite having eaten no sardines
I wish I were in London. Myself and Straight Man A reminisced over our London times on Thursday night. It feels so long ago and if I could do it all over a again I really would, only for longer and this time there would be no lonely spells and more time would be spent drinking and celeb spotting would still be hobby numero ono but this time the only celebs I’d be spotting would be A list. Forget all these soap stars from fourth rate soaps (Emmerdale) and reality tv ‘stars’ cause let’s face it, who gives a damn that someone spotted someone from Shipwrecked. Ok, actually that was impressive as miss s spotted Lucy the lesbo who waved her flag around daily and was half ugly half not ugly in a gay bar and got perved at. Not as impressive as Jo Guest of course but I’m sure that’s a story you have already heard 4000 times. I’m getting kinda sad that I no longer get to sit in ‘greasey spoon’ cafes with all the foosty workmen checking me and my tuna ciabatta out. Never had I had lunch so cheap, 30 p for a cup of tea and 80p for a sandwich, hence the reason I could afford to smoke for 6 weeks and shop til my suitcase would not shut. Those were the days, drinking 3 pints and being in bed by 10pm feeling guilty at the chips I had consumed. Well nothing much has changed there. Hanging out in Camden, eating ethnic snacks by the shit load, and boy did they make you shit loads, and just generally having more fun there than here. And as I’m thinking about all this I’m getting on the bus yesterday and suddenly I am back in London. The bus is packed and I am forced to do the standing up thing where you hang onto a strap and your whole body is thrown around the bus as you try and keep your mammoth ass out of people’s faces but still they point and jeer as you hang on for dear life with arm muscles popping. It’s like London tube hell all over again. Only it’s not. There is no courtesy on London tubes and here on my Aberdeen bus were 100 old people trying to be too generous with the limited available seating. Or maybe they were just trying to defy the fact they are very old, “No you take that seat as you’re older than I am’” “No, please you take it, I have only one wooden leg while it appears as though you have two and a fake hip. Or maybe that’s cos you’ve done a stool in your pants.” It was weird. The amount of fighting over who should sit on a seat is a far cry from London where old people have no chance of a seat cos the people are so bloody rude and more interested in opening their massive papers in your face and letting sly farts go. I love the tubes. The scope for observation is far better. There’s such a mix of people on tubes, even the odd famous person has been spotted hanging out with the minions and joining the sweaty crew. If I were famous, or let’s say, when I’m famous, I will travel by cab everywhere. While I have confessed my love for public transport, no really…, it’s self induced torture. If you can afford not to do it, why do it? Why put yourself through all those glares and elbows to the ribs if you don’t have to? Tubes are a public health hazard and travelling on them when you don't have to really is self mutilation. Who needs a knife or a bag full of razors when you can just put yourself on a tube at rush hour? Fuckin weird that is. One thing I miss about London is the sweat. Aberdeen sweat is just that, Aberdonian bams with too many layers of tracksuit sweating Aberdeenness. London has multinational sweat. Everywhere you go the sweat smells different and being on tubes and working in Finsbury Park allowed me to experience this. You can tell what every fucker had for their dinner for the past 8 nights. If it’s not just sweat it’s the stench of shit an farts which people are so fond of letting go in confined places just so passer bys know they had a korma curry with Bombay mix on the side with a portion of sardines to go. How thoughtful.
Bums, bottoms, asses, arses, wibbly cheeks, what is the point? If the sole purpose of a bum is to make sitting comfortable then I would rather stand up all day or lie flat out on my face. Asses can look hot in the right pair of jeans but for a couple hours of hotness, are bums really worth the bother? They cause so much grief, as well as causing so many people like my wicked self, great hilarity but when a bum looks bad, it's looks real bad. And when you know your ass looks shit (no pun intended)then you have to deal with this for often a whole day at a time. When you look in the mirror, sometimes your ass talks to you, tells you it looks real good and it aint till you are shaking your numerous layers of chubby arse down the street that you realised it lied. It was mocking you, how could you have believed that your ass in jeans with no pockets could look in anyway hot? If someone asks you if their ass looks big in something, mostly it does. It's hard to tell people this cos really it's the last thing they need to hear, not only has john dumped them and fucked their best mate and taken the kids and the dog but on top of all this emotional turmoil, their ass looks like the size of Gibraltor. Why did the human inventor create such an ugly looking poopin device? I would so prefer the varicus veins in my legs from standing up too long than suffer this monster ass if I had the choice. Asses are all wrong and very often misshapen and have the ability to make you walk like a duck, a lopsided hunchback or like a whore with 8 butt plugs wedged up there. God was a man, and a very cruel one at that.
There was definitely no flash and certainly no dance this morning. After 12 hours of not quite solid drinking I was feeling many after effects. The day of drinking Hooch by the pint began in the skanky union with 15 out of the 19 classmates being in attendance. Very impressive. The numbers diminished and by 5pm there were 7 of us left. The slut left to go buy books leaving our suspected 'threesome' to a meagre twosome of myself and straight man a. So with the impossiblity of said threesome, probably luckily for all involved, we took to Triple Kriks where some did the food thing and some hung on for the hopeful enrtance of Queen of Fun who really did take pity on Miss Me and came out for excitement that is my uni nights out. It was in the Aberdeen Union that I threw up my veggie burger in clumps of that could have resembled turd and could feel the burger warmth in my throat for a good three hours afterwards. I had consumed by this point, 3 pints of hooch, 1 blue wicked and 1 pint and mulitiple glasses of infested tap water. And still i chuck my guts up and most of the contents in them. Very curious. I'd like to say it was around this time that I got rowdy but I think my rowdieness had subsided by this point and I was rather tired. Still, I managed to pass on many shag bands with the prospect of no shags and go dancing with the the 3 others who had made it this far. By this point we had acquired 2 unknown ladies who seemed swell although my ability to talk to strangers at the point was non existant. I heard that one was a lesbian but I think that was a lie to get me to to make an ass of myself, as is the usual. It was a real good evening and i only cried once and that was when I realised I was a bloater again. I didn't cry when slut kinda informed me of something I already knew, that really I am not a nice person. I would love to blame it on the one pint of hooch I'd had by that point but let's face it, i'm a dawg. I was rude and obnoxious to the canteen lady who then concocted my chilli cheese baguette with extra gob. And then I said slut had fat feet but really if I thought she had fat feet i wouldnt have been pointing it out. You have slender feet slut. I like to dress my mean streak up as 'insecurity' but I really shouldn't make excuses for being a nasty bastardo, I just am wicked. None of it's intentional I'm quite sure and maybe it would be ok were I not so loud mouthed so that everyone I 'observe' doing bad fashion/hair/face hears and wants to give me a good battering. Last night I confessed my love for straight man a to anybody that would listen. Sorry straight man a if my overpoweringness was too much for you but thanks for the dance to Kiss Kiss and thanks for introducing me to the wonderful world of leaning. It suits you real well. It suits you as well as you suit pink, which is strangely well. I still would not say you were a borderline homosexual despite how well you carry of pink and despite your s club 6 obsession. Or the Darius one for that matter. And off I go to to think of something interesting to talk about.
And Queen of Fun has a new name: hotfoxypurrsomesexygorgeouscutebabe-
attractivebeautifulprettyqueenoffun How's that suit?
Listening to: "too many DJs" soulwax, a must have
My weekend is approaching
People who are honest
Attention seekers, again
Prospect of picnics
Me being a psycho
Non replies to texts, in days
Loose pubes in sandwiches
Quote of the day: "Is that a tattoo on your arm?" My mum referring to my Barbie plaster. Yes.
I got up this morning to my daily routine of flashdance which even mummy fee joined in with and contemplated some brain food. That was until some fuckin stupid song came over the radio which made me remember stuff I really didn't want to remember today. I walked into town feeling awake and prepared for failure and fail I did. There's always the resists and now there's the pub. I'm heading off there soon for my pints of hooch but being the compulsive that I am I had to make a small entry (that's what Paulo said...). I just also wanted to mention a girl with extra large thighs wearing cream tapered combats. It's true, I saw it with my own glass eyes this morning. It did, however, remind me why I myself do not wear cream. So at least I have something good to say about her, she makes me realise that I should never do light colours so thank you big thighed girl. Something else I noticed yesterday. I have a gammy eye. yes that's right people, I, Fee the detester of all such ailments, has a squint. Well it's more like one pupil considerably larger than the other thus giving the impression of cock eyedness. One eye goes to the shop, the other waits around the corner. Why has this happened to me and please god, will you take it away? I will never utter a gammy eyed slaggin ever again. Something else I noticed about my not so good self yesterday was that I had on ladies aerobics trainers. I'm away to slip out the door in pursuit of rain and work and red tee shirts when my mother takes one look at my customised canvas dunlops and tells me 'there's no way i'm going out in them' and i realise she's right, not for fear of wet feet but for fear of the felt pen running off and leaving me with just regular dunlops. I have no shoes that are not canvas or mules and so I was forced to squeeze my feet into my mum's saga aerobics shoes. Well ok, they weren't actually my mum's and these shoes, which were in fact mine, made any shoes my mum could wear look like the height of fashion. In london i was on a mission to find sparkley shoes. I bought a Buffalo pair, usually very cool brand which were white (yes, bright whites, i must be straight) with a pink flash of glitter. They looked so beautiful in the shop, on display in a small size 4 and they also looked real hot on the 16 year old petite shop assistant so I took them home and have been mocked ever since. They are the only 'leather' pair of shoes I own and so had to wear them in my work for 3 whole hours. That's 3 whole hours of shoe torture where I felt like I really should have had my step aerobics on the go with weights round my chubby ankles and breaking into a constant sweat. I couldn't even observe people and make comment on their ugly shoes because mine were by far the worst and so I hung my head in shame but I even had to stop that as looking down only reminded my of the hideous fashion mistake I once made.
As a final comment I will tell you that today I followed a nice bum on short legs down the road. This was taking the piss out of petiteness, it really was, but the ass was hot.
Oh no, one more thing before I nip off for alcopop refreshment, J Bo wants a mention. Look J Bo, if you want more mention than this you will have to do something of interest, to make me want to astound my readers with. For instance, you could smack a beachball off my face and leave me with a bruise and then pretend you are my best bud, oh sorry I looked in the mirror at my diminishing imprint and was reminded of that fucker from Saturday night. But please J Bo, let's have another J Bo party complete with fishyes and chesney hawkes and then I really will have something to talk about. Or you could just snog me. Choice is yours.
Tomorrow I have an exam. My first and final exam of semester 2 which will draw my 3rd year to a close. I calculated my total studying time yesterday. Being generous to myself it would appear as though I’ve managed 55 minutes. Not bad considering the amount of tea and chocolate rice cakes breaks I have taken. It just seems like I have too much other stuff on my mind at the moment such as weblogs, after exam parties and flashdance. The latter being the most important. Every time I crack open the books and am faced with pages of words about educational publishing I just feel the need to get off my chair, go eat sultanas, try on 40 pairs of jeans (my own and my mother’s) and get down and boogey to ‘I should be so lucky’. Really, for one goddamn exam I should forget about the mental boredom and mind torture I have to go through in order to pass it and just sit on my ass for longer than 7 minutes at a time and learn and not load up the Internet every 4 minutes to see that no one has emailed me. It’s sad, it’s sadder than sad but so is studying a subject that bears no reflection on what I want to do. I see my chances of making it to fourth year getting further out of reach with every chorus of flashdance. And if I thought I had the reward of looking forward to an after exam party then it appears as though I’m very much mistaken. I thought people would be so relieved that they’d head to the union for Hooch by the pint but I think I’ll be playing pool alone. Not that I play pool of course, that’d make me a real life butch. I even managed to cajole Queen of Fun into coming out. Maybe I falsely led her to believe that there were going to be other people in attendance so I know now she will choose sitting watching Bad Girls as opposed to hanging out with loner Fee as she drinks herself into oblivion. Gutted, again.
There was a ‘shim’ in my work yesterday. For anyone not familiar with the Queen of Fun’s favoured term, a ‘shim’ is a she/him. Is it a she? Or is it a him? So I’m serving this shim and it’s buying some random stationary items and it’s got a Victoria wood style bowl cut with the piggiest eyes you ever did see and just as I’m away to say ‘thank you, sir’, the shim pipes up in high pitched voice with a remark about the weather. No, she was under the age of 67, really she was. I’m kinda flabbergasted enough to continue the conversation with mrs shim and she’s chatting away like she’s my best bud and she mentions she likes rugby. Conversation at my end is running thin so I decide to tell her that I play rugby. I figure you can tell ‘stories’ to people you don’t know and hopefully will never see again. It didn’t really seem like lying. So, I’m banging on telling her about my non existant rugby days and she asks if I play for RGU so I’m like “yeah, totally” so she’s like, “hmmm, that’s odd cos they don’t have a team”. Busted. So I try to dig myself out of my massive hole of embarrassment with mrs shim bombarding me with questions about rugby (how many people in a team? What position do u play?) and I keep just getting my size 13s further and further in and she fully knows it but keeps going on and on, a bit like me trying to tell a story really. And then finally, mid conversation, mrs shim is like, “I’ve got things to do” and leaves the shop. How rude?! She should have been bloody priviledged that I, The Fee, was even talking to her. Forget the fact that she caught me being a ‘compulsive’ (a typical gay trait by the way, 1 in 3 gay people are compulsive liars), she still had the pleasure of my hot company for a good 10 minutes and she walks out like she’s queen/king. She’ll be back I tell you. Damn me and my ‘stories’.
Excess bracelets/shag bands
Motivation, want some
Having people look at my site
Good dreams well remembered
Inside out pants
Feet (not mine) that smell of metallic turds
Doing nice things for people that go unappreciated
That stupid Kate Winslet song