Whale Oil Beef Hooked.

I can’t get over these british accents. For such a tiny little puddle of mud, it never ceases to amaze me how many different ways there are to say something. Take broccoli for instance. Brocklee, brawclay, brohalay, brawklee, brohlee, glahchenfwilldergrish, if you’re welsh, and, if you’re just an eastend dirty knickers type, dem veg whoh are gween yeah?.
Is this just standard no matter which part of the world you in? Is a different accent warranted for every 100 km travelled? Sorry, make that 62.137 myowz.
Quite frankly, and I’ll readily admit, perhaps my ignorance, if that’s what it is, is due to my decidedly colonial upbringing. For me Durbs, Joburg, Cape Town and a general Vrystaat accent are pretty easy to distinguish between. When it comes to the locals however, the best I can do is ‘he’s from zim and he’s from South Africa’. Is this just me being a typically ignorant whitey?
Being a foreigner here, I really have to engage my ears and brain every time I ask anyone for anything and when the posh old BFG talks about orphans all the time, I take me ages to realize that she’s not pulling a Madonna on the crowd but rather referring to something which happens with regular occurrence. Mind you, if I had a pound for every time I’ve been asked if I’m from Australia I’d never have to wipe another bum or boil a piece of brawklee til it resembles the remnants of some student’s 3am kebab.
I ask you with tears in my eyes, do I look like I’d like to spend a romantic weekend curled up in front of the fire with Dolly the sheep?! For f*ck’s sake.

Reason To Love Your Job No. 1

You don’t have to come home after a long weary day and stand in a 5 litre navy blue bucket, toes curling up the one side, holding a shower head as close to you as possible so as to avoid the post-soap-down clean-up of the entire bathroom as the level rises faster than that of the swimming pool at fat camp.
You haven’t twisted and contorted in ways which, in other careers, could earn you an extra 50 quid an hour, just managing to get all the important bits, only to realize you still have to exfoliate, shave, wash your hair and brush your teeth. And Nicole Ritchie’s probably eaten 4 meals since you derobed. Go and give your calculator a hug. Go on.

Religious Freak Out

Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last bitching session. All the niceties of my current sitution have temporarily suppressed my inner bitch and she is now teetering on the edge of her stilettos in a rabid, pre-m*nstrual black widow kind of way. It is in moments like this that I choose not to ignore her in the interest of personal safety.

England, a country where commercialism is next to godliness and ironically is a religion all on its own. Card shops are it’s temples, garish over priced confection it’s communion, High Streets it’s purgatory. Cross yourselves people, the most religious festival on the calendar is about to begin.

Have you heard the parable about the 20 something girl who bought a bag of the juiciest, crunchiest apples this little puddle of mud has ever seen and stuffed their cores with cyanide and razor blades before rubbing her hands and giggling with maniacal glee as she waited for the doorbell to ring. Guess what kids? It’s not really a parable. There are no hidden meanings. It is what it is. And you’re about to witness a Sunday school lesson you ain’t ever gonna forget if you don’t keep the F*CK away from my front door this Halloween. I shall be waiting with a stake to drive through your hearts, whether you’re dressed up as Dracula in drag or not.

Hello little girl, would you like a sweetie…?

Ode To A Skid Mark.

Oh Intrepid explorer,
Why do you stray so far off course,
Your amber tail streaming out behind you like a comet across a Percale milky way?
Nestled beneath a sea of duck down you lie in wait,
A sardonic smirk upon your face.
Have you lost your way?
Were you unwittingly separated from your herd?
A million questions to ask, but how will you ever answer.
Oh itsy-bitsy smear of repulsion, oh puissant poo,
So tiny your appearance yet so powerful your effect.
Your putridity abhors me to the core.
You may have conquered my sight and my integrity but you will never thwart the Omo army to which I shall now deliver you.
Be gone to the bowels of hell from whence you came!
Be gone!

Of Feet & Mouths

So, like, I can be a little outspoken at times. I know, I know, you wouldn’t think, would you? Well last night I can safely say I truly outdid myself.

The dinner conversation went something like this…

Me: What a lovely painting you have framed on your wall over there
(nose begins to grow faster than a cabbage in a cow pat)
Did one of your grandchildren paint that for you?

BFG: Excuse me?

Me: That painting which bears some semblance of a chicken (gulp) chatting with a see-through fish and what appears to be two fried eggs flying in the sky with a lopsided punk-ass star. (The exact wording isn’t important). Did one of your grandchildren paint it?

BFG: (Insert look of sheer horror/amazement/nausea) That is a Braque.

Me (aside): What the f*ck is a Braque?!? Other than vomit on a canvas.

BFG: He’s a very famous artist.

I pour a dash of single cream into my steaming bowl of humble pie.

Me: Oh. I didn’t realize. It looks like something I could have painted when I was in grade one.

Can anybody spell “apoplexy”?

Breaking The Curse

“Oh I do like to be beside the seeeeasiiiide…”

So. So far so good. But seeing as there are no longer any chickens to count I shall have to resort to not crossing any bridges in a hurry. The night is but a puppy. A Shar pei.

Enter the BFG, the local Bridge club’s answer to Roald Dhal’s gigantic hero. A freak of nature, as old biddies tend to be rather minute on the whole, the BFG is my height. Ok, let me rephrase that. Her hump is my height. Her head hangs somewhere near where her boobs would be were she 70 years younger. Minor details.

Loving being by the sea. In a city. With people. And cars. And shops. And public transport. And coffee shops which don’t have diseases crusted down the price column on the menu where vuilgat country types have dragged their bitten, bleeding fingers down the list in search of a good deal. Oh the common folk, how they turn my stomach.

I think I can cope for another 12 days. Think.

Masochistic Me

So it's friday and whilst all of you bloody sods skip off into your weekends filled with sunshine and booze and tortilla chips and fluffy love cuffs, I am about to do the unthinkable. I'm on the 11.05 GOTM-bound train from Waterloo to Fogeyville where an old dear, just short of a century, eagerly awaits my arrival, gripping onto her zimmer frame with delight. No doubt word has reached her (albeit through a hearing aid) of my fame, my International Domestic Goddess status, my charm and my unsurpassed experience with poultry. She's one lucky woman. I, on the other hand, am not. They say bad stuff always happens in three's, and given the last two loons i've had (and survived!) i reckon there are another two weeks of cynical, potty-mouthed posts coming your way. Or perhaps just three days in I'll run off with a randy sailor. God knows i need it.

My favourite photo of all time: "The Kiss", Times Square, New York, photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt, Life Magazine, Aug. 14, 1945.

Short Live The Queen!!

Nothing says "f*ck you, bitch" quite like a clandestine glass of french "champers" and a bit fat smoke right in the middle of Her Majesty's living room at 12.04am on one's last night.

Thank god that's over. I can't even talk about it, it makes me queasy. The important thing is that i've left, i never have to see the bitch again and i shan't need to look at the sh*t-encrusted butt crack of a chicken ever again in my life.

Somebody hook up my IV to a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Ta.

The Chicken Wrangler

Just to prove to you that i don't tell fibs...



Or you can view it here

Coming and Going

So, s*x with a client…

(Knew that would catch your attention)

First off, may I categorically state that I have NOT participated in ANY activities of a perverse or s*xual nature with this woman. I have, however, unfortunately borne witness to some extraordinary and darkly disturbing near-org*smic activity which in turn has scarred my mind with both visuals and a soundtrack of old wrinkle-tits in the sack with her ankles behind her ears squealing like a wild boar on merry-go-round!

Methinks an explanation would be somewhat beneficial at this point.

Maam, my GOTM who’s nanny must have left the lid off the Royal Jelly back in the dark ages, has what can only be described as a rather noisy approach to appreciation. In short she appears to org*sm every 7 minutes. Every time the woman so much as chews a mouthful of something as banal as a poached egg or has a swig of her very own pressed apple juice, her royal highness practically slips off her chair in excitement, groaning like a goat in labour. God forbid you should bring out her tomatoes from her garden for dinner; the neighbours will need a cigarette after THAT performance!
Regulated to mealtimes, this kind of behaviour can be bearable to some extent but, for my sins, extends far beyond the confines of the dinner table. The bowls from Provence, the orchid on the windowsill, the bloody metal fire prod thingy her father ‘invented’ and the cabbages in the veggie patch, all wield the supernatural power of a 200 volt vibrator in a bath tub. Christ Almighty!

Luckily, having learnt a lesson from my joyous stay with the demented bat Lemony, I told The Agency I’d only agree to the first two weeks upfront, as they had asked me to do four. Gave them a little tinkle on my newly acquired Vodafone sim card yesterday (the only network which works in this godforsaken little backwater) to say that I would be packing my bags next Wednesday and getting my freezing cold, chicken shit covered bum back to civilization. Sorry but if she’s coming, I’m going.

** I've had to amend this slightly due to all the complaints of firewalls blocking my humble scribblings! Funny that they don't seem to mind the F word but heaven forbid one should say org*asm!!!! What is this world coming too (pun unfortunately intended)?

Rustic Hell 101

Coursework (1st Semester)

• Poultry & General Husbandry
  o Avoiding Bone Fractures When Slipping in Fresh Excrement
  o French Manicures & Chicken Feed
  o Wellies & You – Farmyard Haute Couture
  
• How To Live Without An Internet Connection
  NOTE: This will be the first in the "How To Live Without’ series. Other subjects include How To Live Without A Microwave, How To Live Without A Daily Cappuccino, and most importantly How To Live Without A Cigarette Every Hour. The series will be concluded with a final seminar entitled "How To Live."
  
• Roasting a Guinea Fowl, Eating It, and Keeping It Down
  
• Operating an Aga (Suggested reading: What The F*ck IS an Aga?!)
  
• "CHRIST ALMIGHTY!" and it’s many uses
  
• How To Serve The Gardener His Coffee Whilst Maintaining A Smile
  NOTE: The practical examination will test your ability to sustain unfaltering composure when the dirty old pr*ck exclaims he wants more milk and orders you to fetch it from the fridge immediately.
  
• Carbon Dating Cutlery & Crockery With Panache
  
• The Symbiotic Relationship Between Firewood & Arachnids
  
• Items Which CAN Go Into The Dishwasher
  This subject will consist of only one lecture

NB
Campus transport is in short supply. It is strongly recommended that you budget at least an hour and a half out of your daily two hour break if you intend on seeking out civilization.
Tea is served every thirty seconds.
Straight jackets need to be fitted for size and ordered well in advance. Please reserve these as soon as you arrive to avoid disappointment/suicide.

Suggested reading for Post Graduation:
Gumtree.co.uk - This is an excellent resource for long term accommodation in Greater London.
Creative Review – Advertising jobs in London
The Guardian – Publishing jobs in London
Belle De Jour – Excellent advice on becoming a High Class Whore in London (Not to be confused with Advertising).

Welcome to Hell.

The Princess Of Wales

All rise for her royal highness Madame Granny Wrangler of Wales.

(Cue Baroque music, crazed screaming fans, Hello! Magazine photographers wetting themselves in excitement and exhilaration, and the odd distant gunshot fired off by bodyguards at wayward bratty children who happen to breach the perimeter)

Yours truly is officially off to Cymru today on an all new wrangling extravaganza! Details are sketchy but when i alight from my fast train this afternoon, i am due to be collected by taxi (complete with name card touting dude) and chauffeured a very long way to the manor house where i shall kick off my shoes and collapse into a heap of duck-down filled bliss atop my large bed next to my very own en suite bathroom, whilst my contented sighs echo down the 19th century stone corridors and through the countless other bedrooms.

I don't particularly want to speculate and get all shot away in case it doesn't end up being as wonderful as it sounds, but some of the things Google has been whispering in my ear are pretty promising. I'll need a day or two to suss out the area and find myself an internet connection so if things are a little quiet, i've either been eaten by a rabid mountain goat at the foot of the black mountains or i'm just sodding miles away from civilization. Could have just stayed in Africa in that case!!

Even if it isn't all it's cracked up to be, as long as the only bloody dragon in the picture is the one on the flag, i'll be happy. And so on and so on and so forth.

Sobriety Sucks Ass

Well so much for my weekend of foul behaviour. I was jumping up and down trying to convince all and sundry to put on some dancin' shoes and bust a move at The Ministry of Sound or somewhere equally hedonistic (hell i would have settled for The Puzzle if push came to shove!) but they were having none of it. Sigh.
I did, however, meet up with the Camel Man today and had an amble through the city before stopping at a cute little italian place (run by argentinians. go figure) for bottle of rather nice red which, on an empty stomach, was probably not the best of ideas. We always seem to do that and the results are always a little shabby. I staggered onto the tube, but i'd like to blame the shoes for this one. Borrowed them for the day from a mate and was completely crippled half an hour into the day. After limping down the road like i had a guitar up my arse, the CM finally told me to stop whingeing. I threatened to show him whingeing. In the middle of the road outside St James' Palace. In front of the guard with the grizzly bear on his head. It nearly got ugly and i nearly got sectioned. Never a dull moment.
So, whilst this probably isn't the most inspiring stuff you'll read today, it was good and chilled and happy and will prepare me nicely for my next GOTM who i start with on wednesday. Here's hoping she's not as psycho as the last one! More anon...