I am sick. That's vomit and spinny head sick, not 'thoughts of your ma' sick. I didn't mean to get drunk on Friday. Really I didn't. After such a stressful day of matriculating uni and facing the horrendous picture on my student card for yet another year, I knew I needed alcohol. And with Young B and Straight Man A in tow there wasn't much I could do but drink the cheap alcopops and eat peppery chips. The peppery portion of chips was all I'd eaten all day. I was hungover from the previous evening. I was more tired than a real tired person. The only place I should have been was in my bed. I shouldn;t have been in the pub doing 'buy one get one free' deals. Nevermind. I had about 10 alcopops and hung out with my buds while speaking a lots of nonsense about stuff I really shouldn't have been talking about, even to myself but drunken confessions aside, it was more than a swell ol' evening. Of course it didn;t feel so swell when my gut began to swell in the middle of the night and I vomited til I thought I my eyes may release themselves from their sockets. It just wouldn't stop. It hurt so bad but the bile just kept on coming. Being well accustomed to drunken pukes, I knew this was differnet. Fuck. I was a real ill person. I called in sick to my work, with much disapproval from my boss and lay in bed downing Pepto Bismal by the bottle. I'm not a good patient but luckily I had a nurse in the form of Lil Red who catered to my every need, not that she had much choice with this lazy dollop just lying there like death was looming. With the Pepto Bismal and 13 hours sleep I had from sunday - saturday I though I was swell to go to the pub on sunday afternoon, for a water and to watch everyone else smoke and drink. I made it into town upon my shaky legs and as the nausea had subsided I thought it would be a real good idea to order up nachos with cheese and jalepeno chillis. Always a wise move when you've been vomiting, really. So, needless to say I was sent to bed at 5pm where I stressed over the day of uni to follow. I feel about 2% better but still feeling like I died and have made a 'buffy-esque' recovery. It's not a pleasant feeling, being incarcarated amongst 1000s of fresher students who squeal so loudly and all try and sit on your knee on the overly packed bus. Neither is it pleasant to have bright pink piss after so much pepto bismal which I did not, I repeat NOT, buy because I have diarhea. The man at the counter decided to talk very loudly about the pains of diarhea to me whilst I stood there pink as Pink with a hoard of about 50 people jostling me from behind trying to get served. Mortified I was. Anyway, enough about non solid stools and more about class because that's where I'm headed now. Oh how life is cruel.
My sweatband that is actually cutting my circulation off
When things are happy with people I like
The cheese sandwish with my name and the toilet's name all over it
My blue sparkly Hard Candy nails... divine
My painful throbbing eyes
Finding out shit stuff about someone you respected
Sending texts to the wrong people
People who talk to me like I am 4
Diarhea, which I DO NOT have...
I love the first day back at university. It's a full on bitch-fest. You are seeing people you haven't seen in almost a half year so of course everyone is very very critical. It's all about 'jesus she's gotten so fat' or 'her hair is so much better longer' and 'he's gone gay'. It's pretty exciting, especially when you see all the slags and fashion parade girls who look 10 times shitter than you, even though you know they spent a good 4 hours getting ready in the morning while you took a humble 4 minutes to throw on yesterday's clothes and whack your hair up in an elastic band. What I was more excited to see is whether the stinkin' minker would make a return to once again make another year completely cringeworthy as it hacks and splutters its guts up every 3 seconds, with throatfulls of flem and gob being spurtered in every direction. It's not pleasant. Nor is the smell that emanates from its every pore and is quite reminiscent of a diseased carcus of beef that's taken up residence within a chaity shop. And so it was with great regret that as I stumbled into uni this morning, eyes bleary from my illness over the weekend, that I saw it there. Or rather I heard it grunting from the back of the lecture room and felt it's loose spittle stick to my neck as I turned to squeeze into my chair. I was gutted. But then rather excited to see that it no longer attempts to dress in the way of a girl and has regressed back into it's faded combats and greasey hair and heavy boots stage. Ah there is a god. No longer will I have to look at it's appalling attempts of dressing like a girl in a shiny shirt which hurts the eyes and surely must hurt her boobs as there is no way those droopy tits are confined within a bra I tell you. People that gross should segregate themselves from society, or at least from my uni class because the smell it leaves behind is such a lingering one that it is causes later classes to bouk and gag as they enter the room. I think I feel sick again. Oh and there are lots of fatties hanging around that used to prime themselves on their ankles thinner than my pinky. It makes me feel so happy. Especially when they are still trying to squeeze their asses into the jeans they wore prior to going to Overeaters Camp over the summer. Bless.
I almost went dancing last night. I haven't been out in public shakin' ma booty for quite some time now. I think the last time was a few weekends ago when I woke up the following morning with clothes pegs in my bag and pockets. Explain that one if you can. Anyway, after doing my final 3 hour stint at the Museum, I kissed good bye to Sheila and her curly moustached cronies and was handed a wad of cash, more cash for 5 1/2 days work than I've probably ever seen in my life. I was gutted to leave and had grown quite attached to the headset I donned i order to have a go at typing logically but I'm pretty sure they were glad to see the back of Miss Fee and her anti social behaviour. Anyway, with this money, I knew it was party time. Almost. I scoffed a huge pizza in the company of Lil Red, savouring every delicious mouthful of stuffed crust and headed to the bars. We had no posse in tow. Not for want of trying but alas, all was busy in the world of my gays and tokens. So it was just me, Lil Red, a packet of cheap menthols and a few pints of lager. We seemed to be followed around by the butchest straight girl in history who hollers across bars at you as though she's a possesive ex girlfriend but that's her idea of friendly. Personally I'd say it was just plain rude and vile but that's only my opinion, oh yeah and that of the whole of Aberdeen. 4 pints later I was pretty wasted. It doesn;t take much for that to happen and having observed and bitched about every person who crossed our paths (why is the ratio of semi-goodlooking to full on uggers so high in favour of uggers by the way?) we felt the need to dance. The same thing happens every time we go out together. Nothing suffices. The Priory was way too busy but I do love how I get ID-ed everytime, especially when I'm with my younger counterparts who they let walk on in. I'm 23, they think I look 17. I'm very excited. Then we tried Esko Bar which had more staff than customers so once again we went to OUT. It's always shit on a Thursday. It's shit at the best of times but Thursdays are just stupid. After nearly wrestling with the lesbian door person to get in for free, we coughed up the whole £2 each and burst through the door to be greeted by not one single person we knew. In a scene this small, this is very surprising. Even the Boy George wannabe had opted for Fat Friends on the telly rather than go out and swan around the club waiting to be mocked. As soon as we walked in I knew that a dance was out of the question. It was all that nasty cover versions that you may hear at a family holiday park, sung by people who sing off key as people plunk around on electronic keyboards for background music. It's so very wrong. I don;t understand why a DJ would play a cover version of Shakira when she has a perfectly good dance mix of her own. If only she knew the things people do to her music. She'd probably be pleased. Anyway, just when we were away to give up hope, and just as we'd finished watching the sleazy older poofs who dress up as kids, the familiar beat of my new favourite song came on. It seems to be about the only definite floor filler in that place, the one song that guarantees all them queers will be up dancing like twats and lip syncing along. It's Dolly Parton. The dance mix. For anyone who has been in a UK gay club this ummer, it''s probably all they have heard. It's quite wonderful and I mean that, really I do. I dragged Lil Red up to dance but really I would have danced on my own even if she hadn;t accompanied me and the only other lady I dance alone for is Britney. that's how much I like the song. Once it was over, once Dolly drew to a close and the poofs quit with the line dancing, we headed home. My need to dance was not really satisfied but one dance to Dolly is better than a night of dancing to the likes of Samantha Mumba and Christina Milian believe me. The walk home always seems to take forever, as do I telling a really quite short story, and I'm surprised that I didn;t get my gay face punched in by one middle aged stupidly dressed twat. He was looking at us, like he was going to try and pick us up with u line of 'i really fancy you, how's about it' so before he could opened his mouth, I looked him up and down, waved my hand dismissively at him and said something along the lines of "a body warmer, tapered jeans and brown boots? I don't think so." he just stared at me, as though I was Julian Clary or something and I tossed my smoky locks and moved on. It wasn't a particularly clever or funny thing to say but I just got kinda pissed with the usual ugly fuckers who think they are smooth and think that you should be honoured to have them winking at you and tugging on your shirt. And the way they chase you up the road thinking that 'fuck' and 'off' means 'please come home with me so I can suck your cheesey dick'. It's a grotesque display of inhumanity. It makes me want to hurl acrid bile on their checked YSL shirts but I left all the vomiting till I got home where I puked in the sink, accidently, and spent a good ten minutes pulling bits of pepper and mushroom from the blocked plughole before transporting the rest of it to the toilet where it could be safely flushed away. I'm horrid. I know.
Does anyone remember the song by Technohead called 'I wanna be a hippy' released around the mid nineties? It wasn't exactly a one hit wonder because although it was a 'hit' (caused by a temporary glitch in the British music industry), there was no way it was ever a 'wonder'. Although obviously it was a wonder it ever got the chart position it did (number 1??). You can never be too sure what the British public will buy in grotesque numbers in order for it to go to number one. I mean Teletubbies? Bob the Builder? Oasis? Blazin Squad? Blazin Squad only have the ability to sing the word 'crossroads' repeatedly in a monotonous tone and they don't even have the decency to look good. I hate boy bands but at least they are filled with pretty boys for the young girls to beat off over. Blazin Squad on the otherhand are a bunch of burberry sporting neds with gelled forward hair who want to be black. There are also about 30 of them in the group and telling them apart is very difficult but they scream 'housing estate'. Anyway, I digress. Not having the best taste in music in the world, as I'm told daily, with the likes of Britney and Shakira favouring highly in my CD collection, this is not a rant about the appalling taste in music that Britain has as I'm in no position to tell you how much i adore the deep lyrical meanings of the likes of Idlewild and any other band that I have no clue about. All I really wanted to tell you was that I came across this 'I wanna be a Hippy' song while looting through CDs left behind by guests at my house. Remembering that we could not play it on Saturday night because of all the scratches on that particular song, I got out my polish, dusted it off and whacked it in the player. To my horror, it played, as perfectly as that song could ever play. Then something extraordinary happened. As I was going about my daily business of painting my nails and reading trash, the chorus of 'I wanna be a hippy and I wanna get stoned on mara... marajuana' began to build and I found myself casting aside a full pot of nail varnish which tipped over my novel and I suddenly started jumping on the spot with my arms punching the air. Next thing I knew I was doing mock step aerobics and banging my head with a perfect double chin. It was quite horrendous. This continued for the remainder of the song, me throwing my body up and down and flailing my arms to the beat of the 'hippy'. Once the song was over, a sweaty Fee simply switched back on Madonna and continued painting her nails a pretty colour of pink, as though nothing had happened. It truly was a remarkable experience and I don't think it's something I ever want to repeat and have therefore rescratched the CD belonging, more than likely, to J Bo so that I never feel the urge to jump furiously on the spot to some happy hardcore kind of tune, usually listened to by tapered jean wearing neds who could probably be seen in the Blazin Squad. I'm quite ashamed of myself. And also very smelly. I apologise profusely.
We've come upon a real money maker. Young B came up with the plan and I'm sure it's one that should definitely be implemented. After having witnessed the spectacle J Bo always creates, everywhere she ever goes, with or without copious amounts of alcohol, it has been decided that we are going to take charge of the J Bo and hire her out for parties. J Bo is GUARANTEED to liven up any party, wedding or dare I say, funeral. If she doesn't, there's a money back guarantee. We know you people wont be disappointed. For anyone who knows J Bo, this needs no further explanation because everyone is of the same opinion that the J Bo could sit amongst 300 geeks who talk physics and whose idea of fun is chess and she could have them on chairs, downing sambucca and ripping off their clothes to the soundtarck of Chesney Hawkes. For anyone who doesn't know the J Bo I feel almost sorry for you because everyone should have one in their lives. All she needs to get the party going is a stereo, some fags and people to watch the unfolding performance. She really is quite something. So, if you are having trouble with your friends who are unable to let go, even after an abundance of vodka and would like to run around a party doing bad 80s dancing and singing power ballads with a side pony tail then you should email me at mypartiessuck@ineedJBo.com
This is the how we will market J Bos services
Are you bored of your friends and their conversation that revolves around pensions and car care? Are you tired of hanging out in their droll company playing backgammon? Are you embarrassed of their nerdy ways which sees them smoking cigars and guffawing? If you are affected by any of these situations and can see no way of making your friends more interesting then we have what you need. J Bo. J Bo is a girl with an odd dress sense who knows just how to get the party started. J Bo will remove all offensive items from a party (such as chequered board games, work conversation and property registers) and replace them with items guaranteed to make your usual dull party into the fun-est event of the week (such items include, Twister, dirty dancing lifts and water slides). The J Bo will also provide the soundtrack for the evening and ironic favourites will include Tiffany, the Locomation and Dancing With Tears in My Eyes and to these she will show you the made up dances and as an added extra she will show you how to really 'power ballad'. To top off the evening she will give you concussion, rip her clothes, full body hug everyone and maybe even show you her bush. So come on people with no life at their parties, you can have the parties you always dreamed about from the ages of 5-7, all you need is a little helping hand from the Queen of Entertainment, Miss J Bo. To book your very own fun-filled J Bo or for any further enquiries (like how to get J Bo to confess undying love for someone she really shouldn't want or how to wear a gypsy frill with pride) then please leave a comment and she will defintely get back to you especially if you are gay or married.
What do you reckon? I really think we are on to something here. Ads in the local paper should see her invited to many an 80th do or a bridge club 25 years reunion party. She will be in demand, so to avoid disappointment, book now!
I now have a comment facility... I have tried various ways of commenting in the past but this one seems to work best so everytime you wanna leave me a little word or 2 about something I have written or about anything you want then feel free to do so. It's at the end of every post for anyone who doesn't know any better and I will be pretty upset if no one ever comments on anything I say because surely not every word I utter is sensical and written law?? So please, go forth and comment... :-)
Queen of Fun
Gypsy Frills Anon
Straight Man A
After being told that my parents were taking off for the night, I decided it would be a perfect excuse to invite the usual odd bods over and cause some mayhem. I wasn't trying to recreate the kids party that we had so much fun at at the beginning of Summer (see entry around 15th July for that chaotic do) because while there were some similarites, there were also some vital ingredients that were missing in order for the kids party to be reinvented. For example, this time around there was no paddling pool filled with floaters of unknown origin. There was also no homemade punch which ensured tempers were high (the vodka helped that along instead) and thankfully there was no people running around in my clothes because their own were soaked after being thrown in said paddling pool. Despite the paddling pool threatening to make an appearance on saturday, on a cold autumn day, I thought of the trouble it caused last time when my parents saw the brown grass it left behind and I thought better of it. We would instead have to create party games in order to amuse ourselves. J Bo's dramatic arrival certainly got the party going and left at least 4 of us knackered after chasing a bus to try and get the sleeping J Bo to get her ass off it. We would have lost her to Summerhill had she not suddenly have woken up to see us charging up the hill banging on the bus window. But, as soon as she stepped into the kitchen where we were all gathered around the table making drunken chit chat (mainly about poops and other idiotic ramblings) we knew the times of sitting on our asses were over for the night. Well, they would be after a game of 'pass the vodka shots' was over. It was basically pass the parcel but the person or persons who ended up with the vodka or glass of cider or wine had to down it when the music ceased. It was inevitable that someone had to end up with more than one glass at once, with the amount that were being circulated. And it had to be me, the person who had already cleared way too much vodka and here I was with 4 shots of voddy grinning at me, just daring me to down it in one. I did just that and was promptly told by a number of people that I had to take charge of the music and drink no more. This I did for a good 10 minutes as I cheated and watched in the window reflection so I could see who I wanted to take the leathal shots. My eyes were rolling back in my head, my legs were like those of a baby calf but still I thought I should join in the game of musical bumps which I'm quite sure I initiated. With it being dark and all we didn;t want to perform on the grass as it was likely that my doggies had pooped all over it and the only other option was cement or gravel. Gravel it was. Well either a sore ass or a shitty ass and I know which I'd perfer. Drunkenness had all participants throwing themselves quite literally on their asses so they didn't get put out and have to drink yet more vodka shots. I think much pain was felt and I know my ass was fully pitted the next morning and it looked pretty unsightly along with numerous black briuses. It looked like a severe case of teenage acne, very attractive. The only thing worse than a bruised arse is a bruise fanny. that's another story. And so it was only 10.30pm. I would love to chart the events after musical bumps but sadly the mutliple vodka shots I drank made me lose track of almost everything that happened. One thing I do remember though, which may also have added to my memory lose was The Lift that myself and J Bo love to astound people with at every opportunity. My balance was clearly off and it really wasn;t a clever idea to perform it on concrete but we did. The J Bo came flying at me which is usually quite a pleasant sight but as I was seeing about 40 of her bellies thanks to the evils of vodka, this time I didn;t know which one I was supposed to catch and then subsequently lift. I made an educated guess and all seemed to be well and I caught her and threw her around in the air causing quite a spectacle when BANG. I had keeled over and smashed my head off solid concrete with a J Bo lying on top of me. I opened my eyes and everyone was there, having come running at the sound of the crack. Advice was thrown at me from every angle but mainly all I remember is Straight Man A tellin me not to go to sleep cause I wouldn;t be waking up. Of course I'm sure I had a paranoia attack after this, fearing death more than anything and feeling that it had come for me but I really can't remember. I have since been told of climbing up wooden fence episodes, dirty and I mean filthy porno dancing with the J Bo and being force fed water by pretty much everybody. Of course it's all news to me and could all be completely fabricated, as could the story of me arguing in the toilets. Yeah that one's definitley made up - like I would ever fall out with anyone after too much vodka? As if.
All in all it was a successful affair and at least 8 out of 10 enjoyed themselves. And so it is with great regret that I inform you I will probably never be invited to a party again, even my own, and so will not be able to inform you of the carry ons I get up to which at age 23 should be banned for being completely, bang out of order immature. I do hope and pray with all that I am that I never ever have to grow up because while my idea of 'fun' involves talk of jobbies and pop socks and paddling pools and space hoppers, I sure do have more fun with my friends than I know so many people have with theirs. I would rather die than talk hair products and mortgages and growed up things with a bunch of old before their time adults who have nothing better to do than frown upon my goings on as they tease their hair into stupid styles and worry about never getting married. Sometimes I feel so old being almost mid twenties and all but then I remember the things me and my friends get up to and I realise that I'm still a kid who shows no signs of growing up and being sensible and let's just say, thank fuck for that because the thought of me having civilised chat and not running around like a fanny makes me feel pretty sick and well bloody boring. And so I will go and not ponder what my life would be like were my friends regular people who acted their age. It doesn't even bare thinking about, believe me.
Listening to: the sweet sound of a chronic farter sitting not too far from me.
The other day I found myself strangely attracted to a ridiculously older woman. Now, I aint talking grey pubes and blue rinse old but I am talking older than I ever thought I'd look at while still under the age of 40. I know that many a person is fond of a MILF ('mother i'd like to fuck') but old age and the talc and tapered jeans and varicose veins that goes along with it isn't really something I am overly fond of. So, you can imagine my shock when, as I was pondering my life (or rather, lack of it) over a cheese scone, that I realised I wasn't looking at Sheila in a 'make my tea, mum' kind of way but more in a 'hmmm, good boobs' kind of way. Gravity had clearly not affected Sheila and the years had been kind, as had 'Wigs R Us' so I didn't feel too creeped out by the fact that I was more interested in the contents of her blouse than I was with her ability to make tea and serve cake. I think she may have been a bit freaked however as everytime I managed to life my gaze from her hefty bussom I found her staring directly at me and not in a 'aw bless, the little lesbo fancies me' way but more in a 'quit looking at my tits you little dyke' kinda way. She'd have called me queer had it not have still meant 'happy' to her. It was the longest cup of tea I ever did drink, not because Shelia kept refilling but because she'd put in scalding hot water in order to burn my taste for fish right outta my mouth. Boy did it hurt but as it meant drooling over her pert yet large breasts for even longer, I was happy. I didn;t tell anyone about Sheila, not because I'm embarrassed by my adoration of an older (NB that's OLDER not ELDERLY) woman's chest but because I didn;t want to spoil my image of Sheila and her high hair, higher boobs and even higher waisted skirts by sharing her with anyone. Apart from her boobs I can't really put my finger on what I like about her. I tried putting my finger in places I liked as she bent over to retrieve a stray tea spoon but she didn;t like it too much. Maybe it was a uniform thing. Although you'd have thought I could have choosen a uniform much cooler, like the customary policewoman or nurse uniform instead of a cream blouse, green skirt and dodgy flat shoes and not to mention the pop socks that are sure to go with such an esemble. Or maybe sometimes someone with immaculate taste like myself has to have a relapse. That's more like it. It doesn't mean that I myself am getting older and therefore must adore ancient figures and by no means does it make me sick. Really, I am no grabby grabber although sometimes I do wanna take ahold of them saggy jowls and floppy boobs and push them back to where god intended them to be. And no, that's not in my mouth.
Off I go to try not to think about never getting to see Sheila and her droopy cheeks and wrinkled hoisery ever again. And also to convince myself that it's perfectly normal to want to squeze the boobs of someone old enough to be your mother's mother.
I was perplexed to see a sign in a butcher's window advertising "BEEF SKIRT" yesterday. I mean, I know I'm a vegetarian (often code name for a lesbo) but I still thought I was quite 'up with things' in the world of food and beefy delights (??) but what the hell is a beef skirt? I know what Beef Curtains are, hello I'm a lesbian for godsake I'm supposed to know all lingo for fanny but I am mystified as to what a Beef Frock is. Does it mean that you get an oxo flavoured tutu that you can wear at the dinner table so you can feel akin to the dead beast you are currently slaughtering with a steak knife and jabby fork? Or does it mean that the butcher is a lesbian perv? My head is thumping with all this thought of flabby bits of beef. There's only so much of that a lesbo can handle in a day.
You may been wondering where I have been all week. You may not have been. I will tell you nevertheless. I have been in homebake heaven. In fact I am still plodding around getting fatter by the milisecond with my whole face immersed in fresh jam and cream and scones and ‘funcy pieces’. It’s delightful. Let me explain as to how I have found myself working in my ideal job where pancakes and tea are mine for the taking. Well, it’s not the job that’s the most ideal, its simply the luxuries that go along with it.
A favour was called in and this week I have found myself being Secretary Fee. A humourous thought you are right to think but it’s true. I had major panic attacks when told that the ‘dress’ was smart/casual as really my wardrobe consists of scruffy/tinky and perhaps casual at a very hard push so clearly I welcomed this opportunity the way I would welcome a man into my bed. When the word 'skirt' was mentioned I flew into a rage and tantrumed like a 3year old in a toy shop till all involved relented. I managed to piece some sort of outfit together and was not completely happy with the results, as were none of the other staff I was to be working with who kinda looked at me as though I was to be pitied, a poor orphan who has no pretty clothes, who needs alot of love and who could do with good wash. But, despite my thrown together appearance, boy did I have shiny gorgeous nails and beautiful sparkley eyes. SO, I'm working in a museum, also a bit cultured for the likes of me and you probably think I fit in as well as I do on a sports team but you'd be wrong. I'm the youngest staff member by at least 2 decades so as well as having adopted a further 8 bellies to my every growing collection of chubs, I have also accumulated about 14 other grannies who all want me die of obesity before I'm 24. IN short, I love it. So far all I do is answer phones despite the fact that I can help no one and distribute their calls anywhere and everywhere, I type from a headset which is very fetching and emphasizes my triple chin and most importantly I get to feast on leftover lunches and homemade cakes. What more could an overeaters not-so-anonymous lesbo want? More fish possibly?
I work with ladies in the shop who have names like Muriel, Maud and Myrtle and whose husbands are Majors and Generals with curly white mustaches that clearly hinder their speech as I cannot make out a word they say as they 'good day' me with their frightfully posh accents. Working here has given me much opportunity to not only eat but to work on my 'proper' acccent as here no one understands the dulcet Aberdonian tones so I don't have a choice but to pronounce every 't' and not use the word 'eh?' for pardon. It's either that or I sit there while everyone looks at me through their bifocals as if I am a foreign being albeit far more uncooothe.
So, if the delicacies of the tea shop wont kill me then politeness defintely will. Never before have I had to say good morning to so many people who all look so much alike and never before have I shook so many hands without being accused of being a lesbo with a big man handshake. It's all very peculiar having to smile graciously and mean every 'please' and 'thank you' to people 5 times your age who don;t know how to use computers and prefer typewriters and shorthand but at the same time it's done wonders for my confidence. Now when the phone goes I answer it with a cocky ease instead of leaving the room and going redder than clotted blood. I know this sudden self-assured attitude will last as long as my periods but to know it's there when I need it is comforting.
Anyway, more important than my ability to make friends with my elders, let's talk jam. I have been privy to all manners of jam since my arrival. The favourite so far was wild cherry on an Abernethy biscuit which was washed down with teapot tea with a dash of milk. I hope I never have to leave. Actually I have to leave next week. It's sad but with the amount of profits I have shoved in my ample gob they have no choice but to let me go. It's just a shame that Fat Camp has finished for the summer. I could be the newest and largest recruit who would go to fat camp and still come out 5 times bigger. Anything's possible with me and fatty foods.
Back to jam, which comes in flavours I could only dream about (unfortunately 'lady parts' jam is yet to be invented but I'm working on it. You just gotta get the fruity consistency right) and I have been welcome to not only taste them all but to take home jars for my parents who sadly like jam as much as I like low fat foods. It's a very crucial part of the job you know... I mean how offended would these ladies be if I refused their kind offers of more cream with that scone and more fairies with that cake. I really am in heaven and if anyone is ever in the vacinity of this Museum please call in advance for a visit as at present they are having problems with a stuffed lesbian who has taken up residence in the main dining area and cannot get her fat ass out again. Just please don't throw ryvita and gerkins at her, cheese and biscuits only please.
Off I go to try and get back to my desk but the flight of stairs is very daunting after yet another free buffet of cream cheese and bagels, especially when Mabel is tormenting me with an urn of raspberry and lemon jam dripping over a large fruit scone on a bed of clotted cream. Old people can be so cruel.
"Linkless navel gazing with a 22 year old with rubbish on her mind and sparkles everywhere else. Strangely readable"
This is how I was described by The Guardian's online site which has a comprehensive guide to weblogs. I'm very excited. An intellectual newspaper thinks I'm odd but enjoyable. Now thats's bizarre, considering my writing is about as intelligent as my fat arse so I'm flattered.
Check it out for yourself if you don;t believe the word of the lesbo... go here
Yesterday I thought it would be fun to perform back bends on a wooden floor, with no shoes on and with absolutely no alcohol in my system. It wasn't one of my better ideas. When I say 'back bend' I mean that I stood upright and bent over backwards with the result that I landed on my hands in a bridge shape. I haven't done that since I was 11 and it was before I added all these extra stones so the fact I managed to do it quite impressed me. I got a bit full of myself however and from this position I thought it a good idea to kick my leg in the air. Having only socks on (orange) on a newly varnished floor ensured I would not hold that position and instead would smash straight onto my back. It was rather painful not to mention pretty stupid but I thought I would try and get some of the accidents out of the way before today. Happy Friday 13th y'all. I wasn't content with the back bruises and bashed head and of course injured pride as this spectacle had been witnessed by one, mortified Lil Red who could do nothing but jeer and sneer and wonder what she'd gotten here. No, that wasn't enough. The sugar I had just put into my body had made me giddy and more stupid than usual. That's what happens when you try and give up sugar and then find yourself all of a sudden having a huge sugar rush from ne single mint. It's quite divine. Although not for the bystanders. And so I thought yesterday would be the day I lunged myself into the splits for the first time since I astounded people with my 'athletic' ways at my kids party. I was tanked up then so the pain was minimised. I went for it nevertheless and had to watch the remainder of our rented movie from an excruciating forward splits position. It made the movie more enjoyable I tell you. It also made me incapable of eating 4 bags of popcorn, 3 bags of kettle chips and a 2 litre bottle of full fat coke as I couldn;t get up to go fetch my goodies and there was no way Lil Red was going to oblige as so embarrassed was she of my amateur gymnastics that she put on her pointy shoes and went to the dancing, leaving me pained and looking like a fanny till she came home and tried to hoist me off the floor with help from her 'heavies'. It wasn't pretty. The scene was about as pretty as a gay man's orgy with slabs of sausage flying everywhere. That's another story. Anyway, I just wanted to share my stories of the unfortunate things I get up to. One day I'll fathom out why I feel the need to bend my body into shapes it should never go into but until then I will keep it, till all available muscles are pulled. It's not causing anyone any harm. As long as I stay away from the lycra that is.
Tomorrow is Friday 13th. I think I should stay in bed all day to avoid a certain death by something falling and crushing me to death because once I did walk under a ladder. I'm not particularly superstitious but I am particularly clumsy so I imagine my mind and body which aren't always in syncronisation, will use a superstitious days as an excuse to make me knock things firmly attached to walls flying as well as making sure I catch my slippers on every stair and every piece of carpet and thus injuring myself badly. I can't even eat without injuring myself or causing damage. I burn my mouth with everything I eat, even ice and I spill every drop of everything forcing my mother to insist I don a 'catch all' bib. This is fine for the house but in restaurants...?? With the amount I spill I really do deserve to be much thinner. The other day I ruined my new sheets and duvet by spilling an entire bottle of nail polish remover over them, by accident, and then as I tried to clean up, the nail varnish got spilled too, despite the fact that the top was on tighter than a virgin's puss. I don;t know what I do to cause people to run a mile as soon as they see me walking towards them with more than 1 item in my hand but they know as well as I do that what ever I am carrying is gonna end up squished, bruised and battered on the floor. Another reason why I am not trusted with kids. Fair enough. At work I'm not allowed to assemble idoit proof shelves because of the time I smashed an end off my boss's head which has left her with recurring nightmares and she can;t even look me in the eye no more as when she fell over she was left in a crumpled heap in a most undignified mess with her beige cheapy pants on display. It wasnt pretty. I'm not premitted in glass and china departments of stores either because I only need to turn round and I cause a whirlwind and be expected to pay for all the damage I've caused. I mean, you all know the saying "Bull in a China shop", it's only too appropriate and I don;t just mean because of the clumsy aspect. Glass and breakables make me nervous. It's no wonder that when dressed up as Harry the Bloody Haddock in the fish restaurant that I dropped 5 bowls of soup and accompanying bread rolls over one customer on Christmas Day. You try holding a tray with big furry fins as hands.
I really can't help it my silly ways. I'm just accident prone. And my large feet are easy to trip over. There's nothing I can do but accept it and avoid carrying anything that may smash or spill and avoid a career in the catering industry. Will let you know if anything untoward occurs tomorrow but surely if I stay in bed all day under my nail varnish polluted bed covers then I will be ok? I guess I could break the bed with all that bull weight I carry around. Nope, that one's already been done. No way should a girl of my physical stature have been doing the Flamenco in the style of Michael Jackson on my bed with Spice Girl trainers on. Or belly flopping for that matter. Oh well, away I go to bandage up my hands to stop myself from touching anything or anyone. No lesbo porn for me tonight then. Unless I'm a masochist that is...
Does anyone care about the Spice Girls anymore? I didn't think so, so then why oh why were Channel 4 showing a prorgamme titled "7 days that shook the Spice Girls"? You would have thought there would have been an abundance of programmes relating to September 11th last night but instead we were treated to a dramatised programme about a group who have not been heard of since they either did better songs as solo artists or got married to poofy footballers. I don't get it. For anyone else that saw the programme they will know what I'm talking about when I wonder why on earth they played sinister music in the background when they announced the 7 main components attributing to their demise. Such things included that played part in their downfall were, wait for it... Posh meeting Becks! Hold on, it get's worse... they sacked their manager, by fax!! *gasp shock horror* More like *yawn, snore, dribble* When they arrived on the scene, admittedly I loved the gobby cows, for their cheesey ness and I remember my first gay club outings were to the soundtrack of the Spices as all the homos thought they could dance like fannies in tribute to them. I went through phases of all execpt Mel C who was 'Ugly Jumpin' Scouse Bitch Spice'. Well come on, no one loves a girl in a tracksuit with a gold tooth and matching nose stud. This is kinda ironic as I'd say she's pretty much the only one I rate these days. She's adaptable, not skinnier than my slender wrists and pretty hot, I'd say and her music is quite divine. Geri is a leather faced twat who sounds like she's smoked way too much drugs in her life although her tunes are passable and sometimes rather catchy. Emma is a cutesy nob sucking, stupid fringed ass who's never changed her hair once since the beginning of the group and her music sounds like poncy drivel. Mel B is a common slaaaag who's songs are as good as mice on valium doing karaoke. And lastly, Posh looks like a haggard whore, talks just like one too and sings as shite as a big floaty turd that's been up someone's constipated arse for a good 2 weeks. Oh they bother me more than I'd like to believe. Clearly Channel 4 were running low on shite-time TV to show this last night. Either that or the producer is knobbing one of them who has a solo single coming out in the near future. Despite wanting to smash my fist through the TV and pull out each one individually so I could pull out their hair and trash their stupid platform boots, I watched it from beginning to end. I like to torture myself. Oh and the pictures of a 'chubby'-faced Posh, a big titted Geri, a huge-shoed Mel B, a large-thighed Emma and a Tight-ponytailed Mel C were too good to be missed. NOt a bonny group of lasses that's for sure and if they were chosen out of 400 wannabes in the auditions, I sure would love to see the video tape of those who didn;t get through. How bad, ugly and grubby must they have been???
In memory of the stupidest group in history, my lists for the day will be all about the Spice Girls who tried so hard and failed so much.
Fav Spice Songs
Spice up your life
Jumpin baby brown
Foxy Lil Lady (part 1)
It's so long ago I can't remember anymore
Worst Spice Songs
I haven;t got long enough so will just site the whole last album 'forever'... forever my fat arse
Least Fav Spice: Mel B, Posh and Baby
Fav Spice: Mel C
Fav Solo Spice Song: I turn to you - Mel C
Worst: all the ones posh did esp the one with fat dane bowers
fuck me I'm bored of this game now, goodbye you big haired, fat gobbed nobheads who wear shoes bigger than my arse. Yeah, I'm talking about the Spices, not you readers.
I got the good news that I passed the coursework I had to rebsubmit. Pretty impressive considering I started it and finished it the day after the 'nasty fashion'party which was the day before it was due in. I'd had 4 months to do it but instead I thought that I'd be able to knock up a third rate essay when I'd slept for 3 hours, was majorly hungover, had cake in my hair and was ragey as hell. I was right. And so I continue to 4th year when I may have to do actual work this time around, not drink as much and spend more time at home. Yeah right. Anyway, as well as receiving the best news I'd had since I discovered cheese slices, I also discovered the comfyest sofa in pub history. Needing alcoholic refreshment to celebrate, or to wash down my carrot soup if you like, myself, Babs, Beautiful Boy and Straight Man A headed toward the newly refurbished Triple Kirks, now a 'scream' pub. The palce was relatively busy, with every chair occupied. Just as we are thinking about leaving we head up toward the balcony and we are faced with sofa heaven. THis delux sofa which was tucked away in the corner, was red plether and teh size of a double bed, completely intended for you to lie back, relax, get wasted and watch the TV which wa splaying quality music videos all day. We arrived at 2.30pm. I left at 10pm. That's how comfy it was. On putting such sofas in, theres no way they intended you to leave in a hurry. It was like being over at your mate's house, it was that relaxed. We even forgot about the video camera that was directed right at out little corner and which projected images of our group up on a TV screen, in full colour, at the bar. Double chins ahoy! On the 7 and half hours I was in that bar, various other people came and left our group. Sexy G arrived after work to get cosy with Beautiful Boy and munch down on a chip and cheese butty, Lil Red arrived after 3 hours to drink expensive drinks, Young B came and got gobby with her lesbo shoes on and the J Bo and Mad A arrived with polonecks and nasty photos (more about them another day, the thoughts are still too painful). Oh and we had a brief visit from the Foxy American Chick who gave Young B something to drool over. The only one missing from this group of odd bods was Queen of Fun who was being funless and soreheaded but she was missed and I would have loved to have seen her face when she saw the photos of herself in a pair of curtains and white stiletoe shoes. What a picture, or 20. And that was my day of the colossol sofa which put sitting in a pub with your mates on a different level. Oh I will be there early every day to claim my place on the sofa made for 10, you better believe I will be.
I have decided to do a 'blog of the week' type thing where for times like this, when I have nothing to say and no time in which to say it, I will direct your attention to a site I particularly like. If you have any suggestions or want to nominate your own blog, feel free to mail me with the addresss. I aint looking for anything in particular and just cause all i am capable of writing about is bogs and bananas, doesn't mean I necessarily only wanna read similar themed blogs. But... I do like to be amused. While this will not guarantee you loads of extra visitors or make you famous, it will give you the pleasure of knowing that I like your site. Or something. And there are also no 'prizes' available because 1) I'm a minker and 2) That seems like too much effort but if I really like you, my home telephone number may well be up for grabs and I may take you out for a slap up meal in my local Mcdonalds or you may get to watch the Fee devouring her legendary tunacheese melt. You people are really special to me... Will keep surfing my webrings and various other outlets and let you know who I like, otherwise mail me.
Am now going to perform the task that is drying my vast and stupid locks whilst waiting for the phonecall from my lecturer where he tells me I did not pass my resit and will therefore not be allowed to do 4th year. I think I will probably not get that call today. lecturers have a habit of never making those calls and you are left to hound them to the point where they place a restraining order on you. Or was that because of the time I followed one home and tried to slip her a digit?
Once again I look and feel as though I have died and not fully come back to life yet. Having zero dinero with which to party, myself and a band of merry queens took over the residence of Gypsy Frills Anonymous (GFA) for probably 6 hours too long. GFA has, for some reason, housed a nearly homeless Queen of Fun for the past 4 months. Well, Queen of Fun suits a grubby face and eating out of garbage trucks as well as I suit sleeveless so I guess GFA didn;t have much choice in the matter. Or maybe the rumour of paying her in kind is true. I had been through a number of names for GFA but nothing seemed to fit. First there was Jobbie Queen for reasons i dare not go into and then there was Spawn of Gay but then after being knocked flying by the ruffles hanging off her sleeve, I knew Gypsy Frills Anon was the best possible solution. Maybe GFA will not agree. If people ever liked me before, they rarely like me after they read my weblog and then abhore me full heartedly when they finally get an alias. Oh well. Of course some people never get mentioned, ever. I'm being sidetracked again. I will simply pick out the highlights of the evening for me. Hold on. I may be sometime. when I'm mean I don't mean to be. Hmmmm. It was a pleasant affair with much freezered vodka being drunk, much talk on jobbie etiquette (is there really such a thing?) and other such nonsense that makes my weblog seem tame. What do you mean it is? I worry about my friends. I think I deserve compensation for them. If anyone wants to swap one or even buy one straight up then I'm sure we could come to some sort of arrangement. I could recommend them all for something different, depending on your tastes. They each have their own specialities. For example, Beautiful Boy's talent is turd talk, Babs' is willies and their strange shapes and smells, Lil Red likes inappropriate violence and The Queen of Fun loves to astound us all with tales of lesbo porn while strip teasing down to her minute thongs. I'm not sure we are capable of talk that doesn;t have a poo, a pie or porn as the main theme. I hope not at least.
This abode we were hanging out is my favourite place to carry out misdemeaners. It's the same place I thefted an odd assortment of belongings and it was also here that I burned the underneath of the sofa cushion and it was in that very house that I left the Queen of Fun a parting gift of itching powder which led her to believe that she caught crabs from a Turk. I love mischief and last night was to prove to be no different. Not only did I pocket some swanky nail varnish that will go bonny with my dancing outfit for next week, but I also had a rummage through some drawers and was very shocked at the contents these pants revealed. I can't go into that right now. On the way out I tried to get away with GFA's copper collection, a camera spool and a box of tampons which I found wedged somewhere they never need go this morning. I really must return them. After writing obscenities on every passing frosted window I skipped merrily off home to pass out with a line of drool running down my face. I am beautiful, let's not argue. I awoke after a meagre 4 hours sleep to face a day at work where the only reward was extra breaks and time and a half pay. My weekend has passed too quickly and in order to prolong it I thought going dancing tonight was the only answer. This thought was erased as quick as something real quick when I realised my eyes hadn;t been open in 4 hours, I had real BO and the stench of stale cabbage was clinging to my hair. Oh and the final of "I'm a celebrity: get me out of here" is on. More about that momentous occasion tomorrow cause I'm missing a dramatic socialite having a breakdown on national TV. It's very exciting.
You are the NSYNC #1 Fan Barbie! You are in your teenybopper stage and quite possibly still have many barbies or took this quiz in order to figure out which barbie to purchase next. You are too young to be randomly surfing sites online. Be careful.
This is pretty much what I look like today (poor little doggie) after drinking 3 whole pints which appeared to be half shandy-fied and 2 vodka and diet cokes on an empty stomach all before 9pm. It's a sorry tale that I was so wasted after 5 drinks but not one you are unused to hearing. However, I did not vomit. I'm trying to get my puking habits (which I fear may now be psychological) in order and it has been maybe 2 weeks since I chucked up due to alcohol. That's a lie. I vomited acrid bile in Inverness as silently as I could, aware that I could wake up the other sleeping guests at anytime with my bouking and back splashes. I did not hurl in Glasgow or at the family bbq I attended last Friday, despite my worries to the contrary. I'm proud of myself. I hope you are too.
My favourite blog of the moment is Yankee blog. I read it daily along with everyone needs a shady lane and trashwhore diaries. I get something different from each one. From one I get all the smut a girl/boy/TV/beast can handle, from another I get accused of stalking and from the other I get a mixture of anything I want. Work out for yourselves which I get from each one. If you wanna. I like them. You should too.
I have decided there are more important things in the world to worry about than dieting. Such as, people dying from incurable diseases (obesity is not one of these), people starving in third world countries and world peace. Oh yeah, and lesbo porn and Britney Spears and tuna cheese melts. In other words, i am too lazy and too obsessed with bad food stuffs to give them up for good but will continue to eat porridge for breakfast (one question, does porridge make you constipated or make you shit loads?) and not eat chips for every meal topped with 8 pounds of cheese. Yes i really will.
I'm going on a diet. I've had enough of catching my size tens on my over fed belly. I'm also done with taking up 4 seats everywher I go as I try and squeeze my fat ass into spaces that are way too small. No longer will my chin hang lower than my boobs and no more will my eyes disappear amongst my swollen facial skin. I've also had more than enough of people looking at me and knowing what my main interest in life is before they even speak to me. It's impossible to tell who is a stamp collector or who loves anal or who drawas till life passionately but as soon as you glimpse at me you know that my main pleasure is food. You know that I eat a whole block of cheese with every sandwich and wash it down with sugary pop. You also can tell that I exercise rarely and that getting up stairs makes me lose my breath. I'm not suddenly gonna starve myself and drop to a size 8 cos we all know that the only time I ever came close to that as when I suffered 'emotional trauma' (my biggest excuse for everything that went shit last year...). Maybe I should get the cause of this suffering to inflict mental anguish upon me once again, in a bid to get back into those slimmer clothes I bought around that time. No, i'd rather be clinically obese than go through all that all over again, even if it did mean that I looked hot in flares and not bad in fitten shirts. No, clearly throwing up is the only answer. Just kidding, I'll reserv that sport for when I'm drinking. My 'diet', also known as 'Fee eating normal sized portions' began yesterday when for 1 day, and probably for 1 day only, I cut butter and cheese and sauces out of my life and drank enough water to ensure I pissed every 4 minutes. I also necked some multi vitamins and concocted some porridge that looked like turds in a bid to be all kinds of healthy. The amount of eggs I ate will ahve me farting till at least saturday. I felt rather good about myself and so far this healthy eating regime has continued right through til this morning when I found myself elbow deep in porridge once again. Only time will tell how long this lifestyle will last. I don;t plan plan on exercising just yet. One step at a time you know. If I were to attempt stomach crunches and side stretches in order to rid myself of my chubs, I know it would only cause trouble. I'd shudder the whole house trying to lay my whole body on the ground or I'd shatter glass with the pitch of my shriek as I'd try and haul myself off the ground. The only incentive I can think of to even raise my eyelids would be to have Buffy playing on the TV in front of me so every time I got up I'd get a flash of her kicking some hot ass. that's all the incentive I require. I don't plan on turning into some lesbo Bridget Jones (cos clearly I know that I don;t need a man to make my life perfect, although a hot lady does help :-) ) but no doubt I wil keep you posted with my progress as I try and de-fat myself. Not bloody likely considering I'd die of old age before I even dropped a pound. Off I go to chomp on dry oatcakes and sardines. Divine.
Confused about: sticky out pubes
Not being jealous
earl grey, no milk
My nu barbie watch
being back at work
having the cold/flu
not being allowed cheese
pubes caught in toe nails
my treble chin
I have just painted my nails badly, eaten boiled eggs and am now waiting to go to work in about 2 hours. Compared to this time last week, I am having a really shit day. I can estimate that at this time last week I would have been holding on tight to Lil Red as we were released from a metal platform and flung forward down a big water slide in a rubber boat. Yup, I was at Landmark. It was a beautiful day and I was being a big kid, shock. Landmark was the highlight of my 3/4 day trip away. It’s like an adventure kinda park, so much cooler than an amusement park, with no pumping cheesey dance music and no ned kids running around smoking cheap fags and swearing at everyone. Our guest house (which did THE finest breakfast) was situated across the road from this wonderful place so it was a case of, eat food, shower, step across the street and we were there very early and in the mood for pure unadulterated fun. Our first stop was the infamous water slides. Once we had climbed the far too many stairs to get to the top, after many fag and water breaks, we were there and in the thicket of so many kids that there was no way we were turning back. For someone that doesn’t appreciate heights a great deal I impressed myself greatly by even getting up the stairs. We went all 3 water slides in tandem because the more weight in the boat, the faster you go. And boy did we go fast. At one point we left the slide and had images of ‘death to the dollops’ as we went careering into the wall at the end of the run. Boy did we get a cheer for that one as the skinny little workers had to come and lend us about 50 hands just to get our asses out of the boat. It was around this point that the word ‘dollop’ came into frequent circulation. A dollop is a ‘semisolid lump’ and just has the best ring to it and describes me so aptly. An example of how this word may have been used in conjunction with our activities in Landmark is as follows: “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the water slides will be closed for the next hour due to 2 dollops being stuck in the water flume.” Or, “Would the 2 dollops please evacuate the children’s playground as they are rocking the entire play area each time they climb a rope or take a step forward.” At one point we did think we were stuck in the enclosed water flume. It went so slowly that we could have sworn we had stopped. In the length of time it took for us to reach the bottom of the slide I managed to french plait my hair, teach myself self-oral and learned how to play the flute through my every orifice. It was lengthy. We had images of us finally sailing out the other end, 4 hours later, to much applause as we made a heavy landing and soaked the whole park in the process. It seemed as though we were the only ‘adults’ there without kids but this did not stop us having more fun than the all the kids in the place put together. Spotting at least 5 slides in the ‘dry’ adventure park there was no way I was gonna go all “I better not go in incase I make an ass of my self” routine. Of course I was gonna make an ass of myself as I shoved my arse into small tubey shoots and heaved my body up climbing nets but hey, I didn’t know anyone here and I came here to have as much fun as humanely possible. And so I did. I went head first down slides and felt the metal against my flabby gut as my t shirt rode up, I got my massive feet trapped in holes while kids pointed at me and I fell in a heap on the mud after some kid barged past me as I tried to run for a swing. Despite all this, I remained laughing cos what’s the point in having fun if you can’t make a fanny out of yourself? It’s what I do best and while the bruises still remain a week on, my injured pride has made a full recovery and is seeking out new and sillier ways to look like a twat. It shouldn’t be hard.
The two gays returned from their trip to Turkey just the other day. I was horrified when I saw them. They looked as though they had changed race over night, although I don’t know of any race that would take the credit for this pair he he. Their usual pasty complexions are now leathery and jobbie like and I didn’t quite know who was Queen of Fun and who was Babs under all that colour. I think Babs was the one with swollen ankles (deep bain thrombosis I’m led to believe…) and I imagine the Queen was the one in the skirt showing off her thong line. Of course I could be wrong. I don’t understand the appeal of tanning personally. That may be because my skin always stays a nice shade of milky no matter how many rays I catch and if I’m lucky to change colour then it’s always red, redder than a period. I like the peeling that comes afterwards. You know when your lying in bed with someone (in my case my teddy bear) and you awake in the middle of the night to discover they are lying there with what looks like a full body covering of snake skin when really it’s all you skin that has peeled off and they have since rolled all over it. It’s hugely embarrassing but does make for a great conversational piece. “Why Jan, would you mind keeping to your side of the bed as it appears my skin is flaking off and attaching itself to your face and you now look not unlike a scaly, dried up fish, as well as smelling like one but that’s something else entirely.” You understand my point? It’s not a good look. And people who go to stand and tan. I don’t understand why so many of them let themselves go such a deep shade of orange. Surely they must look in the mirror and see Dale Winton glaring back at them? Surely they must hear the taunts of ‘is it painted on?’ and ‘has an orangutang escaped from the zoo?’ being hurled at them so why do they reckon that it’s the bomb to be the colour of a whore’s make-up. If skin were meant to be orange we’d all be oompahlumpahs running around with mad orange hair and mad orange clothes but that’s not how it works so why do people insist on risking skin cancer in favour of turning an unhealthy shade of terracotta? I’ll never understand so I will take my colourless skin and outright jealousy elsewhere while I sit indoors as the sun shines through my window taunting me with it’s heat.
Back soon, once I drink some vile flu drink to make my legs stop shaking like I’ve never walked on them before.
Listening to: Prodigy – Music for the Jilted Generation
Why do some lesbians think it necessary to brawl with each other in full public view? I just witnessed 4 lesbos of varying shapes and sizes hurling abuse and throwing kicks and punches around. I eyed them cautiously from the comfort of my shop and only became a little bit concerned when a wheelie bin went flying past the doorway. It was quite a show they put on. It had me and my work collegues on tenter hooks (whatever they may be) as we egged them on silently and discussed the undignified way in which the carried out their domestics. It wasn't until one of them turned round to face us and gave me a wave and a cheery grin that I realised I actually knew these people. I was ashamed to be associated with these things that throw each other around like that. I mean, just cos they look like ugly men, does that mean they have to act like they've been shooting up way too much testosterone and crunching raw meat for every meal? Must they live up to every stereotype that is cast their way? I really wish they wouldn't. Whay anyone would want the whole of the world to hear about who they have or havn't been shagging is beyond me. I'm more concerned about the visuals that this has thrown up. I really never wanted to ever think about any of these cowboy, cigar smoking freaks in the throws of passion but after some of the accusations that were bandied about mid fight I now know that Jumbo Jenny is selfish in bed while her girlfriend Lean Lenny has been doing her cousin. Chucked in for good measure is the knowledge that their mutual friend with the 4 eyebrow piercings has been licking both their pusses unbeknownst to each other. Until now that is. Oh and the mutual friend ('Dee I'm led to believe) can't find the clitoris apparently. I really will sleep well tonight, safe in the knowledge that not every lesbo is a fantastic lay. Goodnight readers.
It would appear that the further north of Scotland you go, the more invisible gay people become. I mean, Glasgow and Edinburgh have really decent gay scenes, Glasgow being far superior and even Dundee has at least 3 gay bars. Dundee is commonly known as the 'armpit' of Scotland although I'd prefer to term it 'the loose labia' of Scotland cause it's so minging it's like a whore's fanny but still, despite it's shite shops and shiter inhabitants and shite infested streets, people would still rather visit the gay bars of Dundee than come anywhere further north. This includes me. I mean the bars/clubs are nothing special in Dundee but every time I've been, despite the attire of many attenders, you're always guaranteed a good night. It doesn't even matetr that the fag hags have teased up the way hair and many a poof slinks about in a tracksuit for the occasion because the gays are friendly and the music is cheesy and this equals scope for a good night, every time. Aberdeen, supposedly the 3rd biggest city in Scotland (after Edinburgh and Glasgow) now has only 1 gay club and no gay bar. Gayness is slightly visible during the day with only the odd couple holding hands in public and rare displays of affection in straight bars. It sucks, really it does but that's how it is. So, when myself and Lil Red headed even further north we didn;t expect to be flaunting our gayness anymore so than we would here but we did kinda think there was sure to be at least one gay bar, however empty and however shite, so we could sit and be ourselves in the company of fellow benders. Our first evening in Inverness and we found what their idea of trendy would be: a couple of bars by the river with blue lighting and hard chairs and ridiculous names. The trendiness was spoiled by the stench of the toilets and half the people that drank in them. This didn;t stop us getting drunk and moving on to the next 'trendy' bar however. The next one was within the centre, multi coloured, very comfy but with a mere 4 drinkers inside and as 2 of these were us, it didn;t make for an enjoyable relaxed stay as we were overheard by the bar staff with our every word. We were then advised, after being thrown out at 10.30pm cos the bar was to empty to open any longer, to cross the road and go to Hootenanies. Try saying that when drunk. It was a mixed clientelle, rather friendly but still no sign of any homos. We asked around, hinting slightly at our sexuality, for a nightclub to frequent and were pointed in the direction of 'Gz'. It should have read 'Zzzzzz'. As soon as we walked in we were aware that we had stepped into a time warp and someone dressing like moi (ie not in burberry, skinny black trousers and a gypsy frill) was not all that welcome. After paying an extortionate price of £3.30 per alcopop we hung by the dance floor to watch the slugs dance. It was quite a scene. Boys air punched in all seriousness and the girls shoulder shimmied midst pouting. The hair which was big moved violently from side to side making me feel quite sea sick. Not one person in the place could dance properly. Tiffany came one so LilRed and myself thought we'd show them how it was done. We were glared at like foreign freaks. No one understood that it was their dancing that was wrong, not ours. We felt like we were Jack and Kelly Osbourne dressed as jobbies by the way people looked at us. The obvious poofs were the worst danceers I've seen yet and no words can describe their 'air cello' moves which when performed in tapered dress trousers and shirts was quite a comedy routine. Despite their blatent poofiness, it was clear each poof was not out, even to themselves and this made obvious by the campest of poofs who tried to pull every girl in order to impress their sport label t shirt clad straight mates. It was quite horrible. Even as horrible as the 2 that thought they should dare approach me and Lil Red. How on earth did they think that we would be interested in them in adidas and skinny jeans while we were stood there in Diesel and Rude? As if. I sometimes get the impression that because I don;t look like a girle girl that ned boys think I'm up for anything, that I should be grateful of any offers those hideous things put my way. I should always be appreciative of a ned and his burberry who wants to take me home and show me his cheesey willy, that's right. We didn't stay long at our school disco and we left feeling dejected at the state of a supposed city's nightlife. NOt a gay bar in sight but we did find out later that Tuesday was gay night in one bar. Wow, how gutted were we that we weren;t staying for Tuesday night? About as gutted as I was when I realised I'd never have to endure stubble rash from a face ever again.
I promised to return in an hour to give you tales from a lesbo's life. It's been almost 3 now and I'm just here, with lots to tell you but with no time in which to do so. The reasons for this are simple. SImple and unimportant but I will tell you that I do have a bit of flu. I don't want sympathy but any you want to give would be good. You can imagine how I felt when I had to go collect a dog from the kennels just an hour ago, to be faced with lots of pretty dogs and heaps of smelly poo and pee. Not to worry though, I'm sure a few early nights and no alcohol will cure me nicely, as will plenty of hugs and masses of sugary tea. All that sugar can't be good. The only reading material I have in my possession right now is that lesbian porn. I may flick through it and see if those open gashes can cure me of my illness. I would read all the delightful stories written by the 'real lesbians' themselves but there is only one. I much prefer a story to the pictures so I'm quite devastated that the only story is one about a teenage lesbo getting it on with her mate... pretty decent so far you may think but not when it takes the double page to build up to their first snog. That's not porn, that's just filling 2 pages cos there wasn't enough ugly women to fill the magazine with. OH but I forgot to mention that in the centre pages there's a great picture of Mandy and Clare for my wall. OH my mother will be so proud.
I'm away to drink tea and think about something that's not filled with chicks and short perms.
Damn machine is really pissing me off. I just finished a lengthy and detailed post about the wonders of lesbian sex, full of graphic, hardcore detail which excited even me and when I tried to post it on my weblog it disappeared into the realms of cyber space, never to be seen again. No one will ever know about that rainy night in georgia when I met those chicks for the first and last time. I guess the disappearance of hot lesbo sex was trying to tell me that no one is interested in reading about naked chicks cavorting with each other in the great outdoors with only fingers and tongues for comfort. Oh well at least I saved you all the bother of reading it and will now talk about something not so completely different. Lesbian porn.
A generous offer was made to myself and Lil Red by The Gentleman the other day. Nope, it wasn't £200 to watch a girl on girl snog, nor was it as much food as I could eat for a week but the Gentleman decided to fund our trip to Glasgow for a night to accompany himself, the Beautiful Boy and The Beautiful Boy's Beautiful Boyfriend (from here on now known as Sexy G). Remembering all the fun and debauchery of pillow fighting and climbing in cardboard boxes of the last Glaswegian escapade, how could we refuse? Having asked Beautiful Boy to purchase some reading material to take my mind off the raging hangover I was suffering which was due to an over indulgence in Smirnoff Ices the previous night, I was more than happy when he produced a lesbo porno. You may find this hard to believe but this was to be my first viewing of real lesbo porn. While I have had more than my fair share of hetero porn, having purchased my first copy at age 12, this the fist time I’d seen all girl on girl action in paper format, with double pussy on every page and more boobs than I could ever handle. And not a cock in sight. Heaven. Or so I thought. As soon as I turned the cover I knew I was in for a real treat… I’m quite used to seeing regular porn stars in their flattering stances with their huge permed hair, their teased nipples and their overly painted faces but these ‘real lesbos’ were something else. In fact they looked like a party of aged, make-up less whores who had just been eaten out for the 800th millionth time and were enjoying it as much as they enjoy plucking their belly hair. I thought Beautiful Boy had found this mag in his cupboard from his straight days, a good decade ago and the ‘fashion’ did nothing to dispel this thought. All the couples either had a bad item of clothing still on as they were fingered and licked or they lay there on some tasteless rug or throw that would not have looked out of place in a Laura Ashley (a shop famous for floral prints). One coupling, Jane and Anne-Marie I think, were both getting down to the nasty with bloody shoes on. Who the hell fucks with shoes on? I’ve heard that some boys fuck loafers (or is that luffahs??) but this was ridiculous. I think it was Jane with her cropped greasy hair who wore the gleaming white no-name aerobics shoes which were pulled so tight you could see the pain in her face and the thick brown sandals and white calf length shoes were clearly visible as Anne-Marie was rimmed and held her legs aloft. Surely that’s dangerous. Death by bouncing shoe. While I was utterly disappointed with this magazine, I did go through it a good three times to check that Mary with her large quiff and larger pussy and Donna with her shorn locks and grossly out of control bush were for real. Sadly they were and I may never look at a ‘Bonnie Brenda from Scotland’ again. Do lesbians really do that kind of thing? Am I completely uneducated in the ways of the lesbo? Should I too cut my hair squint and wear tasteless decorative scarves while getting busy with an ‘Yvette’? Or maybe I should make sure I can bend right over sideways and hold my running shoes while Angel puts her tongue to use. Maybe that’s when I’ll make it to a ‘real lesbo’ as these girls were termed. I’m very excited at the prospect.
And so this is one magazine that will not become soiled and instead will make an appearance at family parties and weddings so others can be privy to the cover-to-cover muff glory. The delights of that many split beaver and overly sucked nipples are something that everyone should be witness to. Tremendous reading where the pubes are patchy and the facial expressions are patchier. Not to be missed. Really.
I’m off to think about how to apply for a job on Girl2Girl. Give me an hour(it can't take longer than that to pull up my socks and grimace my face surely?). I need to fill you in on my week of flitting from Inverness to Carrbridge to Cruden Bay to Glasgow. It’s going to be very exciting. I’m a bad liar.