Have you ever been to Mecca? I have. Not the real Mecca, I don't like flying. I went to Cunt Mecca. The place where the most hardcore of all cunts like to go on a weekend. The Knobhead Devout. The Twat Fundamentalist.
YOU might have been as well. Though not by choice. Unless of course you're a cunt. In which case you might plan your week around it. Especially if you're in need of a Nordik lampshade or an avante garde curtain pole.
I had the misfortune of visiting Ikea.
Ikea, for those out of the loop, is a warehouse crammed with discount, flat-packed furniture, that - like the chocolate river to Augustus Gloop -attracts a cunt like nobody's business. And you're reading the words of a woman who's spent time in a Scouse Netto. Think on.
Long story short, I went to look at furniture. You can get half decent wardrobes in Ikea for 25p a pop. But I'm telling you, it's not worth it.
As soon as you approach the grey (they're always grey) habitat of the soulless, you encounter some cunt with his ugly kids in a 4x4. Driving in like he owns the joint. Paying scant regard for the Highway Code in a bid to squeeze his fucking totally-necessary-in-the-city people carrier into a Corsa sized hole, just because it's four inches nearer to the furniture.
Eventually I get in.
It's the kids. I'll be honest. I'm not arsed about the fucking parking, or the greyness of the exterior. It's the kids. And the parents of the kids.
Kids in Baby Gap clothing. Ugly, posh, ginger kids with names like Aubrey and they run in front of you and sort of punch you in the fanny and instead of the customary 'Sorry' from an harrassed parent (the likes of which you would get from single mothers in any shit bit of any city in any country), you get a sort of, 'Yeah bitch, what?' staredown from some middle-class cunt in a fucking beret and tracksuit. They think that little Aubrey is the future, and should be allowed to express himself on account of him being a CHILD. THEIR CHILD. And important.
And yet, one need only take a perfunctory glance at Little Aubrey to work out that the pie faced mongaloid (not a REAL mong, I'M not the cunt here) is only ever going to be a replica of his dull parents. Equating colour with style, assuming a taste for obscure jazz makes them interesting, boring the fucking WORLD with their views about Satre.
I escaped to the cafe bit to get cheap cake (another Brucie Bonus) and a brew, only to be subjected to more of these pointless little drones. Sat around with tiny little tupperware pots, trying to forcefeed their useless fucking kids bits of apple. Looking exasperated and screeching, ''Come on Cassius, you LOVE Falafel!" Making sure the entire cafe is in no doubt as to the cosmopolitan consumption habits of their ridiculously titled progeny. Loudly congratulating any half-mumbled preference for one bit of knobby posh scran over another. Ignoring the violent interludes between siblings, or worse, using elaborate syntax about reason and sharing and peace to address four year olds in need of beats as they steadfastly refuse to listen and continue twatting their brother with an Ikea weaning cup.
In all, visiting Ikea leaves you with 25 reasons to never have kids.
In other news, I'm four months pregnant.
Want to get married and buy cheap shelving units?
Sunday, 21 December 2008
The Lady's Not For Burning.
This recent speculation about whether or not Thatcher will receive a state funeral is not limited to the dull, arse-rag that is The Daily Mail. No. Everyone's obsessed with the fat, old fucker's death, which can only be applauded.
As a British Subject and devoted servant to Her Majesty, I would just like to wholeheartedly support the proposition for giving this lying, thieving, murdering, scheming, GINGER tyrant a televised funeral funded by "The State".
Particularly when the state in question has a history so richly steeped in Imperialism, slavery, misery, division and death. I can think of no greater British figure-head who best encapsulates this spirit.
As someone who once paid taxes, I FOR ONE, have never looked forward to a televised broadcast with more gusto and exhuberance.
If parenting is the barometer of a successful human being, how glorious it will be to see the unconvincing transvestite antics of the stuttering, speech impeded Carol Thatcher sobbing into her thrice hourly G&T as the hearse - guided by the weighted horses - canter past Buckingham Palace, and Prince Phillip is forced to wear his solemn face, despite his aged prostate rendering him desperate for a slash and the voices in his head taunting him with the threat of Johnny Foreigner who wants to make him eat garlic.
Post Script: Might I also add, that whilst there is such misery, pain and human suffering being reported in the news at the moment, how nice it is that The Mail have chosen to cheer us all up for the summer with a news report that for once gives us something to look forward to.
As a British Subject and devoted servant to Her Majesty, I would just like to wholeheartedly support the proposition for giving this lying, thieving, murdering, scheming, GINGER tyrant a televised funeral funded by "The State".
Particularly when the state in question has a history so richly steeped in Imperialism, slavery, misery, division and death. I can think of no greater British figure-head who best encapsulates this spirit.
As someone who once paid taxes, I FOR ONE, have never looked forward to a televised broadcast with more gusto and exhuberance.
If parenting is the barometer of a successful human being, how glorious it will be to see the unconvincing transvestite antics of the stuttering, speech impeded Carol Thatcher sobbing into her thrice hourly G&T as the hearse - guided by the weighted horses - canter past Buckingham Palace, and Prince Phillip is forced to wear his solemn face, despite his aged prostate rendering him desperate for a slash and the voices in his head taunting him with the threat of Johnny Foreigner who wants to make him eat garlic.
Post Script: Might I also add, that whilst there is such misery, pain and human suffering being reported in the news at the moment, how nice it is that The Mail have chosen to cheer us all up for the summer with a news report that for once gives us something to look forward to.
Cervix With A Smile.
"Women. The only creatures that bleed for five days straight and don't die'' - Bernard Manning.
There's something deeply unattractive about a woman who describes her menstruative processes in any great detail. A well-placed use of the word "cunt", an intimate knowledge of the off-side rule, a reluctance to perform domestic duties and a record collection without shite r'n'b' records can all be attractive in the right light.
"I like a bird who knows her own mind. I'm bored with shagging girls that giggle and comply. Where's the fucking challenge?" Says Joe Bloggs, 34, Morcambe.
Correction Monsieur Bloggs, you like a woman who adheres to a post-modern conception of womanhood. Who is at one and the same time able to dress in a woollen mini, own Prada handbags, play Grand Theft Auto and grab the bull by the horns in regard to anal sex suggestions, because she is unburdened by the patriarchal restrictions of old and is now engaged in a far more complex set of restrictions (still patriarchal) in which she can shag who she wants but as she's wearing crotchless knickers she's only got a 5% chance of getting a conviction if the sex is non-consentual.
I'm going off track. Periods. So.
Women amongst one another have a vague approach to menstruation too. It's all euphemisms and inferences (time of the month, on, woman's trouble). Women who willingly discuss the fact that two pints of blood are edging their way painfully from their cervix into their sub-standard sanitary choice are viewed as uncouth, smelly and odd. I say two pints of blood because, contrary to the 'period chat' you get in top infants which consists of a buxom no-shit nurse showing you an expanding tampon in a bowl of water in the school library in which she insists that although it seems like more you only get two tablespoons full during your entire period, it's pints. It's fucking pints.
I'm supposed to sit at work, on the bus, around the Christmas table, at an interview, in the Doctor's waiting room, at the Dentist, in a traffic jam and in a nightclub with pints of blood stealthily eminating from my groinal region and the most i can permissably say on the matter is, 'I'm a bit under the weather [whisper] I'm on'.
FUCK. THAT.
If i'd been stabbed in the arm and was shakey and weak from the blood loss, i wouldn't be expected to do the Macarena, or lift piles of paperwork, or stand up on the centre aisle of the bus.
Women are so out-of-touch with their inherently female bodily function that even THEY haven't twigged that the PRE in Pre Menstrual Tension, relates to the time directly BEFORE your period when your body thinks it might be pregnant so you get fat and hold on to water, and you don't shit or sweat until you come on and everything gets released. The Mood stems from the fact that your hormones instigate a process that holds on to all the shit you won't need when you bleed. Therefore when some cocky cunt says:
"Oooooooooh, someone's being a tetchy fucker. Is it because you're on?"
The appropriate response is:
"No the fact that i am on, despite being hideously painful is actually an emotional release and i feel much calmer that i did yesterday, when my body thought it could be pregnant so held on to my superfluous Mars Bars and gave me toxin fuelled hormonal rage in a bid to prepare my body for reproduction. I'm a tetchy fucker because i'm a smelly fat lesbo who likes to discuss her genital blood flow with anyone who will listen''.
My ma was brought up in a Catholic country and HER ma said she couldn't touch meat in the fridge when she was on because she'd contaminate it. Seems a bit medieval and against the basic principles of sisterhood? Well how have we moved on when you can show gang rape on telly at half past nine, but all period adverts feature blue fucking blood?
Love from The Smelly Fat Lesbo x
PS If you've got a dick and you've got this far, well done.
There's something deeply unattractive about a woman who describes her menstruative processes in any great detail. A well-placed use of the word "cunt", an intimate knowledge of the off-side rule, a reluctance to perform domestic duties and a record collection without shite r'n'b' records can all be attractive in the right light.
"I like a bird who knows her own mind. I'm bored with shagging girls that giggle and comply. Where's the fucking challenge?" Says Joe Bloggs, 34, Morcambe.
Correction Monsieur Bloggs, you like a woman who adheres to a post-modern conception of womanhood. Who is at one and the same time able to dress in a woollen mini, own Prada handbags, play Grand Theft Auto and grab the bull by the horns in regard to anal sex suggestions, because she is unburdened by the patriarchal restrictions of old and is now engaged in a far more complex set of restrictions (still patriarchal) in which she can shag who she wants but as she's wearing crotchless knickers she's only got a 5% chance of getting a conviction if the sex is non-consentual.
I'm going off track. Periods. So.
Women amongst one another have a vague approach to menstruation too. It's all euphemisms and inferences (time of the month, on, woman's trouble). Women who willingly discuss the fact that two pints of blood are edging their way painfully from their cervix into their sub-standard sanitary choice are viewed as uncouth, smelly and odd. I say two pints of blood because, contrary to the 'period chat' you get in top infants which consists of a buxom no-shit nurse showing you an expanding tampon in a bowl of water in the school library in which she insists that although it seems like more you only get two tablespoons full during your entire period, it's pints. It's fucking pints.
I'm supposed to sit at work, on the bus, around the Christmas table, at an interview, in the Doctor's waiting room, at the Dentist, in a traffic jam and in a nightclub with pints of blood stealthily eminating from my groinal region and the most i can permissably say on the matter is, 'I'm a bit under the weather [whisper] I'm on'.
FUCK. THAT.
If i'd been stabbed in the arm and was shakey and weak from the blood loss, i wouldn't be expected to do the Macarena, or lift piles of paperwork, or stand up on the centre aisle of the bus.
Women are so out-of-touch with their inherently female bodily function that even THEY haven't twigged that the PRE in Pre Menstrual Tension, relates to the time directly BEFORE your period when your body thinks it might be pregnant so you get fat and hold on to water, and you don't shit or sweat until you come on and everything gets released. The Mood stems from the fact that your hormones instigate a process that holds on to all the shit you won't need when you bleed. Therefore when some cocky cunt says:
"Oooooooooh, someone's being a tetchy fucker. Is it because you're on?"
The appropriate response is:
"No the fact that i am on, despite being hideously painful is actually an emotional release and i feel much calmer that i did yesterday, when my body thought it could be pregnant so held on to my superfluous Mars Bars and gave me toxin fuelled hormonal rage in a bid to prepare my body for reproduction. I'm a tetchy fucker because i'm a smelly fat lesbo who likes to discuss her genital blood flow with anyone who will listen''.
My ma was brought up in a Catholic country and HER ma said she couldn't touch meat in the fridge when she was on because she'd contaminate it. Seems a bit medieval and against the basic principles of sisterhood? Well how have we moved on when you can show gang rape on telly at half past nine, but all period adverts feature blue fucking blood?
Love from The Smelly Fat Lesbo x
PS If you've got a dick and you've got this far, well done.
Proper Fucking Punk.
Jamie,
I spent part of last night soul searching.
It happened by accident; I was fucking around on specialist porn sites and trying to find the lyrics to 'American Pie' and one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was on the our school section of Myspace. Which is where I spotted your profile. I've got to tell you it opened up the emotional floodgates for me.
The thing is Jamie – and this may come as something of a surprise to you – you're the only person I've ever knowingly bullied in my entire life. That one afternoon in 1993 haunts me to this very day. I've been on marathon drinking sessions at university, or enjoying intimate moments with new men, or watching Countdown and trying to solve the crucial conundrum, and your fourteen-year-old face flashes into focus and I can't get rid of it.
Ironically, in adulthood you're JUST the sort of person whose friendship I would seek. Your cavalier approach to fashion and sub-cultural appropriation was nothing short of punk. The thing is Jame – can I CALL you Jame? – at fourteen I was a very insecure young woman. I was looking after my brothers (you remember those cheeky bastards, right?), my Mother was after the Academy Award for her well-executed role as 'victim' and my Dad was AWOL on European sex rampages. Not that this excuses my behaviour, but my confident bravado was masking a wealth of domestic problems.
I'm not sure how it began really. It could be that day you brought in pictures of your parents at their Western Re-enactment nights. Your mother was in cowgirl gear and had pigtails. Your father was wearing a full Native American Squaw headdress. In retrospect, the howls of laughter emanating from my inner bowls, might have been hiding a more sinister observation. I mean, YES your parents were mid-forties cowboys in Central Manchester. But they were together, they were happy.
And that day at the end of term when we were allowed to bring in records from home. It was a wrench trying to find obscure rap records that would have the heady lure of offending our Born-again Christian form teacher, whilst at the same time obtaining the adulation of my peer group. So when you brought in Billy Ray Cyrus, and proceeded to line-dance to Achy Breaky Heart, I saw this as an affront to teenage codes of conduct.
I've watched Napoleon Dynamite, Jamie. I know I was in the wrong on this one.
Those fake Nike trainers your Ma got from Longsight market; they were called Nuke, Jamie. We all lived in relative poverty, so it seems absurd that your parents' two-fingers-to-corporate-America-and-tenner-in-the-back-pocket-of-a-Manc-Stallholder statement, would mean that for the next three years at school Nuke would become your nickname.
Which brings us back to THAT afternoon. Stacey Carter tried to make you smoke on the way back from school. When you refused, we stood around you in a vicious little circle, screeching, 'Don't break my heart, my achy breaky heart…' What utter cunts.
You looked at me for assistance, since we went to the same Primary School, and I just laughed along. Then you ran home crying. I want you to know that when I got home I couldn't eat my tea. And, in all honesty, it's not the only tea I've lost to the incident. If you've lost as many teas, then I'm really, truly sorry. Actually, I'm really fucking sorry anyway.
But listen Nuke, I should congratulate you on the birth of your daughter. She really is beautiful. And Dominique is a real conversation starter when it comes to naming a white child. Too few people stick to tried and trusted naming patterns, so 'kudos' on your non-conventional outlook, once again.
In other news, I went to see Dolly Parton twice in one week last month. So who had the last laugh, Jamie?
You're my childhood hero. No bollocks.
Yours faithfully,
Lucia x
I spent part of last night soul searching.
It happened by accident; I was fucking around on specialist porn sites and trying to find the lyrics to 'American Pie' and one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was on the our school section of Myspace. Which is where I spotted your profile. I've got to tell you it opened up the emotional floodgates for me.
The thing is Jamie – and this may come as something of a surprise to you – you're the only person I've ever knowingly bullied in my entire life. That one afternoon in 1993 haunts me to this very day. I've been on marathon drinking sessions at university, or enjoying intimate moments with new men, or watching Countdown and trying to solve the crucial conundrum, and your fourteen-year-old face flashes into focus and I can't get rid of it.
Ironically, in adulthood you're JUST the sort of person whose friendship I would seek. Your cavalier approach to fashion and sub-cultural appropriation was nothing short of punk. The thing is Jame – can I CALL you Jame? – at fourteen I was a very insecure young woman. I was looking after my brothers (you remember those cheeky bastards, right?), my Mother was after the Academy Award for her well-executed role as 'victim' and my Dad was AWOL on European sex rampages. Not that this excuses my behaviour, but my confident bravado was masking a wealth of domestic problems.
I'm not sure how it began really. It could be that day you brought in pictures of your parents at their Western Re-enactment nights. Your mother was in cowgirl gear and had pigtails. Your father was wearing a full Native American Squaw headdress. In retrospect, the howls of laughter emanating from my inner bowls, might have been hiding a more sinister observation. I mean, YES your parents were mid-forties cowboys in Central Manchester. But they were together, they were happy.
And that day at the end of term when we were allowed to bring in records from home. It was a wrench trying to find obscure rap records that would have the heady lure of offending our Born-again Christian form teacher, whilst at the same time obtaining the adulation of my peer group. So when you brought in Billy Ray Cyrus, and proceeded to line-dance to Achy Breaky Heart, I saw this as an affront to teenage codes of conduct.
I've watched Napoleon Dynamite, Jamie. I know I was in the wrong on this one.
Those fake Nike trainers your Ma got from Longsight market; they were called Nuke, Jamie. We all lived in relative poverty, so it seems absurd that your parents' two-fingers-to-corporate-America-and-tenner-in-the-back-pocket-of-a-Manc-Stallholder statement, would mean that for the next three years at school Nuke would become your nickname.
Which brings us back to THAT afternoon. Stacey Carter tried to make you smoke on the way back from school. When you refused, we stood around you in a vicious little circle, screeching, 'Don't break my heart, my achy breaky heart…' What utter cunts.
You looked at me for assistance, since we went to the same Primary School, and I just laughed along. Then you ran home crying. I want you to know that when I got home I couldn't eat my tea. And, in all honesty, it's not the only tea I've lost to the incident. If you've lost as many teas, then I'm really, truly sorry. Actually, I'm really fucking sorry anyway.
But listen Nuke, I should congratulate you on the birth of your daughter. She really is beautiful. And Dominique is a real conversation starter when it comes to naming a white child. Too few people stick to tried and trusted naming patterns, so 'kudos' on your non-conventional outlook, once again.
In other news, I went to see Dolly Parton twice in one week last month. So who had the last laugh, Jamie?
You're my childhood hero. No bollocks.
Yours faithfully,
Lucia x
Filth, Father.
Forgive me Father, for i have sinned.
It's been thirteen-and-a-half years since my last confession. And that last confession wasn't genuine. I had to tread a tightrope with that one. I had to maintain the fine line between 'believable' and 'not so true as to compromise my position on the non-eternal damnation stockpile'. But it's alright. I only half believed in damnation then, and now i have conclusive proof that in accordance with the well orchestrated Catholic rhetoric, damnation IS, in fact, real. But I no longer fear it. I live it. It's located in the communal staff area at my place of work, between the mortal hours of 1-2 PM (G.M.T), so i may as well have been honest.
That last confession about not helping my Ma to do housework around the gaff? I SHOULD'VE mentioned her black vibrator and KY Jelly. I should've discussed my liasons with boys at bus stops, that involved impure thoughts and savage sex scratches on my teenage thighs.
So i thought i'd remedy my dishonesty Father, by giving my current confession to you straight.
I have a dirty little secret. I have a filthy little non-Christian outlet and i think the best person to offer me advice on the matter is a sexless fifty year old, peddling lies, in a dress. Did i come to the right wooden box?
It's about a boy. Quite a young boy, as it goes. But you know all about that, right Father?
And yesterday i made a purchase for him.
It took me a while to pluck up the courage. I wandered around Tesco piling extra small condoms, panty liners, vaginal douches, Grease 2 on DVD, incontinence pads, hemorrhoid cream, those knickers that pull your gut in, facial hair remover cream and fourteen packets of laxatives, before i had the courage to ask the fella behind the counter if he had what i wanted. And as he handed it to me, i put it at the bottom of the trolley, under the other shit, and tried to avoid the eyes of the girl as she scanned it through.
When i got it home, i sat looking at it for a little bit. Wracked with guilt, but throbbing with excitement. I took it out and fingered it's shiny surface, and the sensation it caused was not ENTIRELY unrelated to the genital region. I slipped it in the CD player and sat back, enraptured.
See Father, I bought the Justin Timberlake album. And it's not the first Justin Timberlake record i've clumsily purchased and hidden under the illegal porn, under my dirty clothes, in the washing basket.
And, i'll be honest here. It's not just his music.
Now i know, what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'How can one be enamoured by a skinny corporate white man, making fourth-rate black music?' and, 'What can she find attractive about the orchestrated off camera simper, the schnide-o Michael Jackson dance moves, and the David Beckham earring?' You might even be forgiven for failing to see the appeal in 'A clear record executive puppet, who makes a living by buying the talent of great black music producers, feigning friendship with them by dancing in unison in heavily stylised music videos, and creating a final flourish by participating in elaborate handshakes with Pharell'.
But Father - and here's the rub - there's just something ABOUT the cocky little cunt. He says 'filth' to me, as he moonwalks his way through Timbaland produced RnB records aimed at 12 year old Yank girls. I look at his face and think, 'cunnilingus'. Even the lip licking interludes in the million pound music videos; my better judgement rationalises the process- it's a direction, it's been market researched, 45 record executives have worked out demographic requirements and acted accordingly. But fuck me Father, if i'm guilty of a little transparent, market-researched consumer-led sexuality, it's a burden i'm willing to bear.
I don't know how i developed a lust for a groin-grabbing 20 year-old, Father. But it's been eating away at me for some time now. And since we're on the subject of Justin and eating away, you would though, wouldn't you Father?
Fucking RIGHT you would! You, me and KD fucking Lang.
I'm not sure i'd CRY him a river, but he'd sure as fuck get one.
It's been thirteen-and-a-half years since my last confession. And that last confession wasn't genuine. I had to tread a tightrope with that one. I had to maintain the fine line between 'believable' and 'not so true as to compromise my position on the non-eternal damnation stockpile'. But it's alright. I only half believed in damnation then, and now i have conclusive proof that in accordance with the well orchestrated Catholic rhetoric, damnation IS, in fact, real. But I no longer fear it. I live it. It's located in the communal staff area at my place of work, between the mortal hours of 1-2 PM (G.M.T), so i may as well have been honest.
That last confession about not helping my Ma to do housework around the gaff? I SHOULD'VE mentioned her black vibrator and KY Jelly. I should've discussed my liasons with boys at bus stops, that involved impure thoughts and savage sex scratches on my teenage thighs.
So i thought i'd remedy my dishonesty Father, by giving my current confession to you straight.
I have a dirty little secret. I have a filthy little non-Christian outlet and i think the best person to offer me advice on the matter is a sexless fifty year old, peddling lies, in a dress. Did i come to the right wooden box?
It's about a boy. Quite a young boy, as it goes. But you know all about that, right Father?
And yesterday i made a purchase for him.
It took me a while to pluck up the courage. I wandered around Tesco piling extra small condoms, panty liners, vaginal douches, Grease 2 on DVD, incontinence pads, hemorrhoid cream, those knickers that pull your gut in, facial hair remover cream and fourteen packets of laxatives, before i had the courage to ask the fella behind the counter if he had what i wanted. And as he handed it to me, i put it at the bottom of the trolley, under the other shit, and tried to avoid the eyes of the girl as she scanned it through.
When i got it home, i sat looking at it for a little bit. Wracked with guilt, but throbbing with excitement. I took it out and fingered it's shiny surface, and the sensation it caused was not ENTIRELY unrelated to the genital region. I slipped it in the CD player and sat back, enraptured.
See Father, I bought the Justin Timberlake album. And it's not the first Justin Timberlake record i've clumsily purchased and hidden under the illegal porn, under my dirty clothes, in the washing basket.
And, i'll be honest here. It's not just his music.
Now i know, what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'How can one be enamoured by a skinny corporate white man, making fourth-rate black music?' and, 'What can she find attractive about the orchestrated off camera simper, the schnide-o Michael Jackson dance moves, and the David Beckham earring?' You might even be forgiven for failing to see the appeal in 'A clear record executive puppet, who makes a living by buying the talent of great black music producers, feigning friendship with them by dancing in unison in heavily stylised music videos, and creating a final flourish by participating in elaborate handshakes with Pharell'.
But Father - and here's the rub - there's just something ABOUT the cocky little cunt. He says 'filth' to me, as he moonwalks his way through Timbaland produced RnB records aimed at 12 year old Yank girls. I look at his face and think, 'cunnilingus'. Even the lip licking interludes in the million pound music videos; my better judgement rationalises the process- it's a direction, it's been market researched, 45 record executives have worked out demographic requirements and acted accordingly. But fuck me Father, if i'm guilty of a little transparent, market-researched consumer-led sexuality, it's a burden i'm willing to bear.
I don't know how i developed a lust for a groin-grabbing 20 year-old, Father. But it's been eating away at me for some time now. And since we're on the subject of Justin and eating away, you would though, wouldn't you Father?
Fucking RIGHT you would! You, me and KD fucking Lang.
I'm not sure i'd CRY him a river, but he'd sure as fuck get one.
88.
My appetite has become insatiable. I'm starting to actively look forward to those Marks and Spencer adverts. I've considered taping them, but i can't be sure when they'll crop up. But when they do, it's glorious. Semi-sexual.
Finest Organic Free-Range Lincolnshire Pork Sausages, lovingly embraced by a succulent Cranberry and Merlot Gravy, gently straddling Devonshire Creamed Mashed Maris Piper potatoes....etc etc. This is my porn.
Anyway, it's with this new desire to roll in mashed potatoes and have butter intravenously inserted into my straining guts, that i've taken to watching 'The Two Fat Ladies' on UKTV Gold.
I love them. Both of them. Seriously. For those of you unacquanited with Jennifer and Clarissa, allow me to introduce you...
If you've read any of the blogs you'll know where i stand on the class issue. But these two old fuckers are the exception to the rule. They're so posh i find it hard to make out a lot of what they're saying. Which is ok because the words i CAN make out are ridiculously entertaining. They have this programme where they drive around on a motorbike (one sits on the motorbike, the other one is shoe-horned into a sidecar) to essentially ogle men with semi-interesting occupations. Not that you see much of the men. Thank fuck. Who needs cotton when you can have silk?
Jennifer and Clarissa then spend twenty five minutes in a kitchen (each programme has new men to ogle, with new occupations and a new kitchen to cook in) making what can only be described as platefuls of saturated fat and sugar.
Anyway the food is not the point. The point is that i could watch their chubby little pudding fingers work a pizza base all day. One of them died. The one with dark hair. I wasn't sad at the time but all week i've been grieving. People take the piss out of the two fat ladies (the clue's in the title) but i reckon ogling men a fifth of your age whilst ladling the chip fat down your gullet is pretty high on the list of ways in which one should want to go.
Beats getting your nappy changed at 'Sunnydale Retirement Home', being forced to listen to piss-poor versions of 'Sentimental Journey' in an NHS establishment that reaks of piss and eating liver.
Your Good Health Ladies. Chin Chin x
Finest Organic Free-Range Lincolnshire Pork Sausages, lovingly embraced by a succulent Cranberry and Merlot Gravy, gently straddling Devonshire Creamed Mashed Maris Piper potatoes....etc etc. This is my porn.
Anyway, it's with this new desire to roll in mashed potatoes and have butter intravenously inserted into my straining guts, that i've taken to watching 'The Two Fat Ladies' on UKTV Gold.
I love them. Both of them. Seriously. For those of you unacquanited with Jennifer and Clarissa, allow me to introduce you...
If you've read any of the blogs you'll know where i stand on the class issue. But these two old fuckers are the exception to the rule. They're so posh i find it hard to make out a lot of what they're saying. Which is ok because the words i CAN make out are ridiculously entertaining. They have this programme where they drive around on a motorbike (one sits on the motorbike, the other one is shoe-horned into a sidecar) to essentially ogle men with semi-interesting occupations. Not that you see much of the men. Thank fuck. Who needs cotton when you can have silk?
Jennifer and Clarissa then spend twenty five minutes in a kitchen (each programme has new men to ogle, with new occupations and a new kitchen to cook in) making what can only be described as platefuls of saturated fat and sugar.
Anyway the food is not the point. The point is that i could watch their chubby little pudding fingers work a pizza base all day. One of them died. The one with dark hair. I wasn't sad at the time but all week i've been grieving. People take the piss out of the two fat ladies (the clue's in the title) but i reckon ogling men a fifth of your age whilst ladling the chip fat down your gullet is pretty high on the list of ways in which one should want to go.
Beats getting your nappy changed at 'Sunnydale Retirement Home', being forced to listen to piss-poor versions of 'Sentimental Journey' in an NHS establishment that reaks of piss and eating liver.
Your Good Health Ladies. Chin Chin x
Def: (Noun) MONG
Sunday Morning Drivers. Jeremy Kyle. Fat Yanks Who Hover Around Leicester Square Wearing Beafeater Hats, Booming, 'Honey, let's get our portrait painted...'. Wayne Rooney. People Who Think The Word Cunt Is More Offensive Than Bitch. Dan Brown Enthusiasts. Sudoku Players. Priests. The Pope. Voice-Over Artists. Bono. Art Students. Drama Students. Students. Political Bores (of the "You cant say youre starving, when there are children dying in Africa!" variety. Yes I can. I can even say I'm glad they're dying if I like. Fuck off). People Who Say I'm not being funny, but... Porn star men (get a haircut, you big-dicked mong). People Who Say The Lottery Won't Change Them. People Who Create MySpace Pages For Pets. Adults Who Read Harry Potter On The Tube. Novelty Tie Wearers. People From The Home Counties. Fat Naturists. Environmental Activists. Paul McCartney. Heat Readers. White South Africans. My Father. Americans. Australians. Radio 1 Listeners. Anthea Turner. Chris Moyles. Jeremy Clarkson. Self-Righteous Men Who Like To Tell Women What's 'Wrong' With Them, For Their 'Own Good'. The Royal Family. Part-time Football Fans. England Car-Flag Owners. Teachers. The Police. Politicians. Shoreditch Cunts. Doctors Receptionists. Dentists. Toni and Guy Employees. People Who Put On Dinner Parties. People Who Fall Over And Try To Pretend They Haven't. People Who Own Ramones T-Shirts And Don't Own A Fucking Record. Parents Who Take Their Kids Out To Smack Them. Posh Parents Who Are 'Hands On' And Think Their Kids Shit Gold And Should Have The 'Artistic Freedom' To Stab Strangers In The Genitals With Toothpaste They've Just Knicked From Waitrose. Parents. Everyone Involved In The British Justice System (aside from criminals). People Who Wear Tie-Dye. Scousers. Born Again Christians. People Who Laugh At Their Own Jokes. Nose Pickers. Loud Eaters. Excessive Perspirers. Dido fans. People Who Quote 'Little Britain'. The Religious. My Mother. Carol Vorderman. Daily Mail Readers. White Peoples Dreadlocks. Self-Help Gurus. Self-Help Book Readers (Eg. The Road Less Travelled By People With More Pressing Shit To Worry About, Women Are From Venus, Men Are From Grimsby). Tofu Eaters. Liberals. Robbie Williams. Robbie Williams Fans. Robbie Williams Fans Family Members. People Who Listen To Robbie Williams Records In Supermarkets And Find Themselves Humming Along. Morning Whistlers. Notting Hill Tarts (One Gucci Slouch Bag? Check! One Pair of Oversized Shades? Check! One Serious Alcohol Addiction, Fucked-Up Relationship With Absent, Rich Parents And Several Stints In Rehabilitative Centres Working Out That Priviledge Has Brought You an Eating Disorder, An Annoying DJ Boyfriend And An Inability To Recognise The Existence of Other Planet Inhabitants? Checkitty Check-Check!). John Prescott. Mrs Prescott. All The Prescott Children. People Who Insist On Ownership Of Shared Armrests. People Who Win By Shouting. My Ex-Partners, Almost Without Exception. Teenage Pilots (if he doesnt know who T'pau are, I'm not fucking flying). Tax Men. Lawyers. Council Tax Administrators. Thatcher (just die you aged hag, and take your lesbo daughter with you. I've seen more convincing trannies on a DSS budget). Dustbin Men (loud cunts).
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