Schnaarfing Coke

I think the doos who runs Coca Cola deserves a bitch slap.

I remember the old days. If you liked coke, you drank coke. If you didn't, you could sod off and drink meths or petrol. They couldn't care less, because at the time, roughly 2.6 billion people (excluding the pygmies, various refugees and most probably George W Bush) knew you couldn't beat the feeling. Coke was coke was coke. And lumo roll down socks were hot. Things change.

Fast Forward to 2006 where, when you walk into any shop in England, you'd better brace yourself for one monumental branding c*ck up. There are now a staggering NINE different ways to banish toilet stains or de-crust the build up on your car battery.

The latest little variant which the brand pimps are whoring around like a lady boy with 6 nipples and a Corvette, is Coke Zero - a sugar free variant targeting men who won't drink Diet Coke coz they think it's faggy. I'll give it to Coke that they do deliver on their promises - it has Zero appeal. It tastes just like the normal stuff. But then it's got a swanky black and white label with flashes of silver here and there which they believe makes it all manly and stuff. "Hey boet, i just dropped my Coke Zero, won't you bend over and pick it up for me?". Give me a goddam break. Their pay off line couldn't get more camp if it lived in a pink tent and worshipped Zsa Zsa Gabor - "Enjoy Coke-ness, with Zero Calories" - have you ever heard such piffle?

Open their industrial fridges and you'll now find Coke Cherry, Coke Lime and Coke Lemon (we're splitting hairs on the flavour frontier on the last two) and if that's not bad enough, let's introduce the sugar free versions of all of those too. I can't wait until they bring out Diet Coke Roast Beef With Shallots And Mushy Peas. Don't laugh - i reckon it's in the focus groups as i type.

One cautionary heads up for South Africans who pop over here: woe betide you should ask for a Coke Light when you're ordering from your more-often-than-not dof pommie waitress. She'll look at you aghast, her eyes bulging wildly in a 'something large and prickly just dropped out of my bottom' kind of way, gum chewing coming to a grinding halt, pen suspended shakily in mid air (which is really just for show coz she probably can't read or write). Much like good manners and well behaved children, Coke Light does not exist in this country. It is Diet Coke. Coke Light - Diet Coke - Coke Light - Diet Coke. Am i just dangerously above the average intelligence of a protozoan hiccup or is it simply impossible to approach this with a degree of logic and/or (let's be lenient here) plain common sense? I sense another addition to the Bitch Slap list coming on.

If this is what they call 'The Coke side of life' could somebody please pass the razor blade?

Spending Money Chasing Cars

Sainsbury's shopping list, Thursday the 28th:

Milk
All Bran
Grapes
Pasta Salad
Snow Patrol
Diet Coke
Roasting veg

I never cease to amaze myself. Nobody i know could walk out of the house with the aim of buying a couple of staple foods to tide them over and end up coming home with something they really don't need, cleverly packaged amongst all the organic bullshit. But see there's my arguement (i'm arguing with myself now and i believe that's not a particularly healthy sign) - the new Snow Patrol cd could definitely be categorized as a 'staple' in that it is a little piece of plastic which is essential to my well being on this planet (ooo the mind boggles!).

This is why i found it necessary to forgo the larney 'Taste The Difference' pasta salad in favour of the cheaper boring one, and why i put the uber slab of Aero back...

Keep Your City Beautiful

I've always been a sucker for a man in uniform. Of course that doesn't literally mean I'm a Fellatio Slave for the good looking half of the British Army. Keep it tidy. Or at least keep it vaguely beneficial to me. I digress.

So I woke up this morning with a very large smile on my face (that's better) and sauntered into the kitchen scantily clad in a fabulous pair of La Senza knickers and a little vest, to plunge a cup of real coffee which i planned to enjoy with my morning nicotine hit. I breathed in that heady scent of freedom. No brown curtains, no smell of rotting teeth and toenails, no scabby granny pants the size of an Irish Wolf Hound lying on the floor waiting for me to come along and pick them up with a stick. My facewash was untouched. My food was still in the fridge. I hadn't woken up in the middle of the night with a Daddy Long Legs burrowing up my nostril or a rain spider galavanting across my pillow. I hadn't been shouted at at the crack of dawn by that crotchety old bitch. Yip, I am a billion miles away, free at last and loving every goddam second of it! And although i woke up alone (aaaaaaah - the bit about the big smile and the lacy french knickers was just a tease) it was still unbelievably fantastic.

With a little bit of celebrating on the cards, although just a teensy bit - i'm saving myself for this weekend, i thought i'd head into London for a bite with best mate A, in the swankiness that is Liverpool Street. Believe me when i say that the second those tube doors opened and i had finished gasping for fresh air after having my nose shoved in some McDonalds poster child woman's armpit, the heavens opened and i swear to God i could hear angels singing. There, all around me, as far as my big brown eyes could see, were men in designer suits dashing to and fro, Starbucks in one hand, financial gazette in the other. And we're not talking ancient here. We're talking "I'm a hot young Boss model who's just being paid to walk around here in my fresh-off-the-med tan and my dark tousled hair purely to bring joy and happiness to innocent little Granny Wranglers who have been cruelly cut off from society for weeks on end'. We're talking hundreds of religious experiences on legs. We're talking my language.

Ok I got a bit carried away there. I could go on for hours but that would just be revolting and the tone could get a tad grubby so i'll stop. I just deemed it very necessary to paint a picture of my perfect day which i believe i fucking deserved!! Long live me. And long live the hot little investment bankers swarming all over this beautiful city. Watch yourselves boys, there are a few things I can think of that i'd like to do with those expensive silk ties of yours...

God I love this city.

1 More Sleep

Today is my last day and unfortunately, due to internet restrictions i don't have too much time available to write anything substantial... excuses excuses. So i shall leave you with a list of all the things i'm going to miss about my little stay with Lemony in the dungeon of doom:











Have a great monday, i know i will.

T Minus 5 And Counting

Thank the good Lord and all his happy little wing-ed cherubs I’m into the home stretch. I can officially say that today is my last Thursday in this squalid little hovel. On Tuesday next week I’m jumping on the fastest train National Rail has to offer me and I’m roaring into London to go and get sh*t-faced (god, I’m so common it gives me a nose bleed) with ‘The Crowd’ until I can no longer remember my own pin number, let alone the 3 weeks in hell I have endured. That is providing that I don’t saw my own limbs off with a cheese grater and die from a severed artery before then. Be it the light at the end of the tunnel fast approaching (no thanks to Eskom) or the couldn’t-give-a-flying-f*ck attitude I’ve adopted in light of her recent behaviour, I’ve decided to do exactly as I please and couldn’t give a stuff about anything she has to say or do (whilst of course maintaining a degree of professionalism and all the other job mandatories). Up yours and the demented f*cking mule you rode in on lady, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here!

Sulk.

Following up on the 'face scrub in the loo' story, i now have it on good authority that this little incident was indeed a 'f*ck you, bitch' directed at me and is by no means the first time it's happened i believe. She also went through the fridge this morning, picked out a couple of my things and threw them away out of pure spite. Of course i only noticed once we got back from our weekly shopping trip to Sainsbury's and when i confronted her she blatantly lied to me. Like the ham grew a pair of f*cking wings and did an olympic somersault off the milk bottle and into the bin whilst my back was turned. For f*ck's sake, do i look like a f*cking imbecile? I'm grumpy and COMPLETELY humourless this afternoon.

Hollandaise Sauce!

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to mention Exceptionally Delicious Bum (EDB – which, ironically, could also be a shortened version of EDiBle). There’s a family connection there and he often pops in to see Lemony, mow the lawn (a la desperate housewives) and do all the general boy stuff which needs doing (I make a little ‘to do’ list from time to time. He’s on it.). If you were to see the kindness and selflessness you’d be knocked off your feet. He is an exceptional man – with an exceptionally delicious bum. Oh and he’s Dutch which makes him all yummy and foreign-like too. And don’t get me wrong, when I say Dutch, we’re not talking your average Vrystaat oke from Kimberly. This one’s a proper clogs and café one, fresh off the streets of Amsterdam, baby!

So anyway, it is the little visits from the EDB which keep my sanity at an acceptable level and make the trials and tribulations of atomic explosions in the bathroom which need mopping up, just that little bit more bearable. Just the prospect of being able to have a conversation without shouting my head off and enunciating every syllable, even if it is for only an hour once or twice a week, is fantastic.

The EDB has just been round now (he hasn’t been for a whole week!) and we’ve been sitting in the sunshine smoking up a storm and using the F word quite a lot. Aaaaah – someone on my wavelength for a change. Terribly un-ladylike, I know, but the reprobate in me needs a little oxygen from time to time. Give the girl a fucking break! Now that he’s gone however, it’s safe to shoehorn my way into my bikini and attempt to soak up a smidgeon of sun before it disappears for the next 11 months. Vaarwel!

The Loo Gets a Facial

So Sod paid me a little visit yesterday to remind me that his little law still exists, just in case i'd forgotten (hardly bloody likely!). Naturally things always seem go awry just after one thinks everything is looking hunky dory. I, stupid f*cking moron that i am, rang the agency to say that i'd be happy to extend my little visit by a week which means as of today i'd only be halfway through as opposed to only 5 days to go. Anyway, as you know, she absolutely loathes me going off for my two hour break every day . I would imagine she walks around the house calling out ‘Hello? Hello? is there anybody here?’. I do feel sorry for her and often have to force myself out before my conscience gets the better of me (I care too much sometimes). Anyway, she was particularly unhappy when I left yesterday but she had been crotchety and weird all morning so I didn’t feel too bad. Upon my oh so hapy return I went into the bathroom and noticed mountains of this chunky white stuff floating in the toilet. I was absolutely horrified as it looked like she had been sick, until on closer inspection I realized it was my very expensive Neutrogena face scrub!! (I only know this because it’s white with distinctive little red scrubby bits in it) Total sense of humour failure - exceptionally un-f*cking-funny. She must have rummaged through my wash bag which sits in the corner with all my stuff in it and squeezed it into the loo?!?! I'll admit i initially thought it could have been a malicious little ‘f*ck you’ but by the same token I don’t imagine she’d be that switched on. I mentioned it to her daughter on the phone last night and she said she’d probably mistaken it for the Harpic or something?!?!!??!?!?!??!?! Stupid me - I mean of COURSE you keep the Harpic in a bath bag next to the toothpaste and tampons, how dumb am I?! F*ck sakes man, maybe advertising wasn't that bad. On the bright side, looks like the toilet bowl is gonna be the prettiest damn loo on the whole block - and glowingly blackhead free at that! Who'd have thought?!

Objet D'Kak

So when I opened my eyes this morning (sans suicide note and body, thank fuck) I thought I’d take a little amble with my camera and snap a couple of my favourite pieces of crap scattered prominently throughout the house...

Exhibit Number One:

Description: “Swan” Compact Teasmade.
Location: Dangerously close to my bed.

Firstly, I’d like to open the discussion by posing a rather important and exceptionally intellectual question. What the fuck is it?!

Could it be a time capsule where miniature evil swans from the future teleport themselves into your room late at night and peck you to death should you fail to leave a sacrificial fresh tea bag as a humble offering before you turn out the light? I haven’t slept a wink knowing that this portal of death sits ever so dangerously close to my head, it’s two little red eyes glowing in the darkness. A street lamp flickers on the pavement outside and every hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I swear I can hear the demonic flapping of molten bionic feathers beating against my window pane.

On the bright side, at least it has a 6” x 4” slot where you can slip a picture "of your choice" in so you have a happy memory right before you as your blood spills onto the pillow and you begin your slow and excruciating decent into the bowels of swan hell.

Exhibit Number Two:

Description: Execrable Totem Pole.
Location: The fire place.

So I’m guessing this household doesn’t dig old Father Christmas all that much? Why else would you want this heinous little technicolour, migraine-inducing carving keeping a watchful guard at the entrance to your chimney? Perhaps it was left by the swans as a friendly little ‘reminder’?

Exhibit Number Three:

Description: Old Coffee Jars Filled With Nails And Shit.
Location: Garage shelves.

Need's no explanation. Just mirth. In fact I laughed so hard I almost had a little accident right between the WD40 and the spare tyres. Fancy a steaming cup of rusty nails you old hag?

** Footnote: Should any members of the British Police be reading this, please note that last comment was merely a little joke and in no way hostile or threatening. Amen. Oh and do sign the visitors book.

who-what-where-how-when-why-me?

Who’s coming today?
Are we the only ones in the house?
Is there anybody else here?
Is anybody coming today?
What day is it?
What are we going to do today?
Are we the only ones in the house?
What day is it?
Who’s bedroom is this?
Are you alright dear? Can I get you anything?
What day is it?
Can I get you anything?
Is this door open for a reason?
Can I get you anything?
What day is it?
Shall I open this door?
Hello?
Is there anybody else here?
Where did I put my glasses?
How many are there of us in the house?
Can I get you anything?
When are we going out?
Who’s bedroom is this?
Hello? Is there anybody in the house?
What day is… ooo, is this door open for any particular reason?
Can I get you anything?
What day is it?
Who’s coming today?
Are we the only ones in the house?

And then it’s time for breakfast where halfway through my cup of coffee she threatens suicide.

Perhaps we could look into that?

I'm BLIND!!!

Oh my god oh my god oh my god! I'm BLIND! I can't breathe! Christ on a crutch, MY EYEBALLS ARE ON FIRE!!

breathe breathe breathe
Excuse me whilst i take a moment in the name of composure...

Ok, i'm good... uh...no...

breeeeeathe

Ok. I've just seen Lemony STARKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have bolted from the house to take a few hours off and get out of the corner i've been rocking in, muttering incoherently, since the ordeal. My pulse is yet to return to normal. I have decided i never want to get old and have two insipid shrivelled pancakes flapping on my thighs (i swear to god) and what looks like the remnants of Tutankhamun's flattened test*cles hanging off the back of my knees! AAAAARGH - flashbacks - eyeballs drenched in acid. I can see a bright light. Must...not...walk...towards it...it's so prettyyyyy...

KitKat In The Hat

One ring, two ring,
red ring blue ring,
Em is going to be a During!

Mark is dashing
Mark is bold
A most romantic story told.

I want to hug them on a box
I’d hate to hug them near a fox
I want to fly home, cheer the man,
I want to hug them,
Sad, I am.

Yay you two! Lots of love xx

Lemony Snigger

So I’m sitting in a new room drenched in brown velvet curtains and mouldy wicker baskets, on what seems to be one of those hospital beds which has a remote control thingy to put your feet up or head up, depending which part of you is dying first. Yep, I’m officially with the Granny Of The Moment, hereafter referred to as the GOTM. You know how all these legal documents get away with it – they say it once, and then they abbreviate or acronym-ize the bloody thing out of sheer bloody laziness. I’m bloody lazy. (And also bloody English using the word bloody at every turn). Would probably make a good lawyer in that case but then I’d have nothing decent to write about. Today was successful. I picked my nose. I lied a lot. The end.
I wonder if Thabo Mbeki ever dabbled in the law – the right side of it anyway?

So going back to the GOTM – I have managed to survive 48 hours. And when I say survived, I mean to the full ‘Out wit, out play, out last’ if-I-win-I-deserve-a-million-dollars, kind of thing. I have decided to affectionately dub this GOTM ‘Lemony Snigger’ due to a strange obsession with little iced lemon sponge cakes which she eats by the boxful, and the fact that she truly is a bit of a laugh. My initial nomenclature included the likes of Agent Orange and Ditzy D, but the first seems a tad harsh and the second made me sound intellectually bereft and lazy. I’d hate to be thought of as thick. So Lemony it is.

Vital Stats

Age: 88 (she thinks)
Nappies: No
Wheelchair: No
Hobbies: No
Friends: No
Short term memory: No
Taste: No
Appetite: No
Will to live: No (Apparently she often threatens suicide)
Objection to my smoking: No
Gardener and Maid: Yes!!!

All in all, Quite a granny I tell you, and what a piece of work. Her dress sense is hardly appropriate for a woman of 60, let alone nearly 30 years older. She tends to favour quite racy skirts and smears herself in fake tan every morning so she’s a delightful shade of orangey brown. Her hair is whitey/blondey/yellowy, so in order to paint a mental picture for you, plonk that coiffure atop the carrot-coloured leathery skin and you’ve got what looks like a rather melty vanilla cone, dripping in gold. Or picture that lady from There’s Something About Mary. It’s quite a scream. Literally. She’s as deaf as a post (I don’t think she can hear herself farting), and clinically demented. No really. Not like a raging lunatic, just early stages – a bit ‘forgetful’ from time to time it the politically correct term I believe.
Stay tuned, this one’s going to be interesting…

Still Alive... Barely.

So I managed to survive the whole Zimfest ordeal although there are a few people who, had they not been protected by law and some kind of weird dark magic, would surely be choking quietly to death on their own blood, had i had my way. I'm too sulky to go into it in all it's glory so i shall give you a quick run down of the happenings.

• 12x savannah dry
• 10x port-a-loo trips
  
• 4x apple fizz pops
• 1x box of koeksisters
• 1x enormous boerie roll
  
• 7x Heathrow Injection Victims
• 1x Ex
• 1x very thin jersey (in 16 degree greyness)
• 2 sticks biltong
• 1x chick who i haven't seen in a few years who said "Oh my god, how are you? What's been happening? The last i heard you were a lesbian?"
• 1x exceptionally large sense of humour failure.
• 4x urges to commit homicide. consecutively.
• 1x Savannah Dry
• 2x Alabama Slammers
• Nando's Burger with Cheese
• 1x large glass of water.
• 2x trips to the loo in the middle of the night to heave my lungs out.
  

Dumb bitch. Sorry, i'm still sulking.

Boerie & Bollies

The reason i've been so quiet for the past couple of days is a) nothing short of a miracle, and b) because i have a weekend of sheer debauchery bearing down upon me like some bergie with exceptionally pungent halitosis seeping out from between the gap in her front teeth. Aaauugh - makes the very hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Zimfest 2006 is upon us. God help us all.

Every year, a billion relocated 'Zimbos' and their Saffa (FOK that's such a stupid word - the person who invented it deserves to have Manto Tshabalala-Msimang shoved up their arse) mates, who just wish they were Zimbos, get together for a day of boerie rolls, Bollingers beer, homegrown tunes and one hell of a laugh bumping into all the ex's from schooldays and checking out who's voluntarily turned themself into a massive billboard for the infamous Heathrow Injection.

Of course i'm the new kid on the block so, against my better judgement, i thought it best to put on a brave face (and a squirt of Uber-Dork-Repel on my neck) and brave it into the masses to see what all the fuss is about. This little 'day in the rain' must get disgustingly out of hand if the last minute change of venue is anything to go by. Apparently residents who live near to this year's proposed location, caught wind of it and complained to the police... 5 days BEFORE IT EVEN BEGAN. If i make it out of there alive and without someone else's carrots all over my shoes, it'll be a small miracle. May the farce be with me.