Tyred.

For those of you who have seen A Good Year (girls for Russell Crowe, or, guys, because you wanted to get into her pants so decided to go in order to swop a chick-flick for a chick-lick) you will soon realise, before this sentence is out, that this post has absolutely nothing to do with that movie at all. The title of it says it all and yet has not been deemed fit as a witty or exciting headline.

Were it not for the insane hours I’ve been working in preparation for an interview today and my utter lack of profane content due to the fact that the soldier of my dreams has swept me off my little well-heeled feet and rendered me devoid of any sentiment with which to offend, I would have posted this yesterday, the 1 year Anniversay of The Granny Wrangler (all presents, monetary gifts and general felicitations most welcome). Alas, it is today that I write, and my intense inner perfectionist is riled. It will have to cope I’m afraid.

A year has passed on Mud Island and as I look back on my very first post I realise how much has happened, what was not achieved and then what was – the unexpected, the awful, the happy, the desperately sad, the magical, and it only seems fitting that I call it a day. Or call it a year. One hell of a year. In all senses of the word.
I have loved it, I have loved you all being here – to laugh with/at me, to pick me up and dust me off when I was inundated with cat crap, chicken crap and one particular trail of ‘puissant poo’ of a geriatric nature. I would say it’s been crappy. But you’ve made it all worth it.

Should I ever decide to start up again, I will stealthily sneak out of the shadows under another disguise and you’ll have to discover me all over again but to be honest, for now, do not hold your breath.

With so much love, cynicism, profanity and gratitude (now get outta here you clowns! )

The (ex) Granny Wrangler.

*SMOOCH*

**UPDATE** Apparently, contrary to broadcast, our hero is an officer and not a mere lowly soldier. Thank you Sandhurst. I shall consider myself spanked. Mmmmm.

Teacher, Teacher!

One of the many advantages of living in the UK, alongside Waitrose home delivery (O-ka-O-ka-DO) and stab-wound-free public transport (except in Tooting where bloodstained shirts are all the rage this season), is the plethora of musicals and shows which ooze from every street corner. A cultural injection just waiting for you to excitedly present a pale cheek. And the other night, I did just that. And in fact, I wasn’t the only one.

Showing in a theatre in the heart of Camden, and described as “Cirque du Soleil without the Disney and disinfectant”, we, being the intelligent individuals we are, expected something a little different - astounding acrobatics but without all the bright costumes, which, in hindsight, is pretty much what we got.

Imagine if you will, the horror that befell Yours Truly as the house lights dimmed to the painful hack-sawing of a perfectly decent cello by a rather unsavoury looking character, and a sudden glaring spotlight revealed our first acrobat ambling across the dingy insipid little stage. Naked. Like the chef. Only nakeder and ten times hairier. And as this was a woman, I was a more than a little disturbed.
Inching over to a laundry basket, she proceeded to pick out pair after pair of large ‘granny pants’ (so *that’s* why I went) only to hold them to her nose and inhale deeply in a quest to find a relatively suitable and odourless pair. This took so long I nearly whipped my own off and hurled them on stage in an effort to cover her up, but I think red with polka dots would have been a tad gaudy for her.
Poen finally put away, but mammarys all a-flap, she took to the trapeze as the audience gazed up in horror and I scrabbled for the program to see if we were watching indeed ‘Acrobat’ or actually a production of ‘Milkshake’.

As winter follows autumn, so too does penis follow poen and it was only a matter of moments before a man appeared on roller skates, his various appendages flying willy-nilly (ahem), taking great delight in shaking them and wiggling them with obscene pelvic thrusts as he roared around the stage, before starting to extract silk scarves from his bung-hole like Sodom The Magnificent. When he too took to the high ropes, I shrieked, squirmed and closed my eyes, convinced I was about to witness the world’s first ‘castration by rope burn’ incident. In what was an hour of sheer horror, I sat agape as the ‘meaningful’ and ‘arty’ acrobatic display played out its course, with only one question on my mind: are the ‘2 veg’ all that huge??

Where You Love From.

You've so distracted me,
Your absence fans my love.
Don't ask how.

Then you come near.
"Do not..." I say, and
"Do not...," you answer.

Don't ask why
this delights me.

| Rumi |

Any Unattended Luggage Will Be Destroyed.

This is a final boarding call for all passengers on flight FO 69, that's Foxtrot Oscar 69, to Anywhere But My Sodding House, now departing from gate 1. Passengers are advised that all bags will be subjected to a thorough search and any silver, jewellery, electronic equipment or money found will be confiscated and Bitch Slaps will be issued. Please ensure you have all items of clothing, including cheap extensions and unwashed microscopic thongs, safely stashed and refrain from any form of hugging or kissing as you leave the boarding gate as infectious diseases and sheer violation of basic human rights are not tolerated by the Airports Company of My House. All liquids on your person must either be swallowed or be restricted to 100ml containers. This includes any form of lubrication, Gentian Violet or gynaecological ointments. Thank you for flying with us, we look forward to never seeing you ever again. Now Foxtrot Oscar, you sif little skank.

Strip Search.

Must remember to breathe. Must remember to breathe. Rainbows and fairies and squirrels, oh my! Granadilla lollies. Pony rides. Smarties. Breathe in... freshly cut grass. Breathe out... freshly lit grass. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts.

Dear Sweet Housemate has tired of The Stripper. The Stripper is, after all, an anatomically artificial, narcotic inhaling psychopath. Who has apparently been going through Dear Sweet Housemate's phone whilst he slumbers and has happened upon some rather unsavoury texts pertaining to his new found thoughts on the living situation. Whilst my phone and laptop accompanied me to work for the last two weeks, I have however noticed some things lying around my room which i swear were tucked away, only to appear mysteriously on my carpet. Granted, i noticed these things when i blindly stumbled through the door in a green haze of Jagermeister post-birthday celebration-ness, so I can't profess accuracy here. But still.

She has been told in no uncertain terms to, and i'll put this politely, F*CK THE HELL OFF. Tomorrow. Did i mention that she's a narcotic inhaling psychopath who reads strangers' text messages whilst they're in the throes of some serious theta waves? Did i also mention that she didn't take the news particularly well? Or that her ex boyfriend (the reason the slapper's here in the first place) said "ja, i suppose she can get a little vindictive. changing the locks might not be such a bad idea really". Sweet weeping Mary. I think i'm going to f*cking throw up.

Monthly Performance Report

Today's the last day at el Hedge Fund, so herewith my final Monthly Performance Report:

The Temporary K.A.T.E* Fund finished June with a return of 100%. Temporary markets were volatile in the first quarter owing to highs in the Acronym sector (AS). Resolve fell early in the month following strong figures in the cupboard stocks. Gains in the Waistline, resulting from high levels of inflation, were driven by Hobnobs and Chocolate Digestives. The Company bread basket suffered the biggest loss. Hawkish activity by the IT Fund ensured Apple stocks were kept at an all time low although a lot of movement was experienced in Workstations. The long positions in currencies were severely affected by the close proximity of Selfridges and Pret. In spite of all this, June was an excellent month, helped by strong performance by the Distribution Fund and a diversified Company Fund. The Temporary K.A.T.E Fund ended the month flat to down owing to retirement of the Fund.

(Yay for Monday's lie in)

And, unlike all these other secretive little bloggers, I hereby proclaim it's my birthday tomorrow so bring on lashings of love, champagne and small chihuahuas in diamond collars. I think i may need that lie in on Monday more than I anticipate.

* Keynesian Aggregate Trading Equity - I know, so technical.

Not Your Average Tent Pole.

In a scene reminiscent of Zimbabwe 2004, I have once again found myself subject to living in close proximity to what can only be described as a squatter camp. In so many more delightful ways than just your basic ‘smoke rising amidst the chickens’ vibe (aaargh, chickens, *shivers*). But fear not, there is still smoke. Plenty of it. And, as the saying goes, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Serious fire. In a Bloodhound Gang denying their requirement for water kinda way. (Eeesh so much angst this morning lady)

The squatter camp sprang up suddenly about a week ago with the arrival of a ‘lady’ who was here from Joburg to stay for the proverbial ‘couple of days’ with my dear sweet housemate. Upon arrival, madam flounced through the door, peroxided to the hilt, far too orange to be taken seriously, and reeking of make-up in a relatively scary Pretoria-Chic kind of way. Immediately, as one naturally does when confronted with such an overwhelming dose of fake, I realised something was amiss.

Night after night, morning after morning, I endured the stench of stale cigarettes clinging to the walls of our rather airless little flat as she insisted on smoking inside, and I was as charmed as all hell to traipse into the kitchen each morning to find the cereal bowls had been used as ashtrays. Charmed I tell you! If *I*, self confessed princess, can grab an umbrella, brave the urban foxes and trek out into the pouring rain to drag on a Marlboro in the wee hours, then so can bloody she!

It was late the other evening, when I happened across a scrap of material lying halfway between the washing machine and the dryer, that a whole wallet full of copper dropped in my mind. On closer inspection, it wasn’t in fact a little clothing label which had dropped from one of my Dior shirts as I had initially expected, but rather a teeny tiny little thong. The size of an actual Brazilian on dental floss. Only, it was blue. And not as fuzzy. Picking it up with a pair of tweezers, my eyes out on stalks, I flung it back into the washing machine from whence it came, just as I heard the door open. She had just arrived home from a job interview she told me. At 11pm. An eyebrow raised (on the inside of course), I politely enquired what line of work she was in, bracing myself for what was to come. I’m a stripper came the answer, as if she was telling me she was a shelf packer or a chartered accountant.

A real life squatter indeed.

Have Your Kyk And Eat It.

Nobody, but NOBODY tries to sneak a birthday past here, no matter what side of the mountain you think you're from!

HAPPY BIRTHDAAAY!!!

(from me and the lizard who *insisted* he be allowed to don a party hat for the occasion).

mwah mwah mwah, air kiss, air kiss, dahling!

Dumb With An Amazement Too Fathomless For Words.

Wednesday's story (unedited) courtesy of http://www.bestrx8.org/ - the home of cheap Viagra prices (only $2.00 per pill!). Pay attention, there are contextuals at the end.

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For 25 marks:

What flavour soup contributed to their garden faces?

or

Was the brusquerie taurine induced?

**UPDATE**

Goddamnit. Just received a way better one about the cake prince who enjoys chatting without low a real vesical bind pause. *sigh*.

Keynesian Economics And Dignity’s Demise.

Listen very carefully for I shall say this but once and only once. I am dof.

Late one particularly rainy Friday afternoon, last Friday to be exact, an email circulated my department as they are, vexingly, wont to do in this city. Cape Town Friday-Grab-A-Drink-At-3pm afternoons they are not.
This particular piece of communication was a teaser for Monday's little department get-together (read generally hideously boring weekly meeting). Cleverly disguised as a bit of incentive, the instructions were relatively simple: Choose a number between 1 and 100 and send it back. The person who’s figure was nearest to two thirds of the average result would win a prize. Magic words those. Within nanoseconds I was proud and delighted with my carefully considered number and eagerly sent it off, knowing that an entire weekend of Christmas Eves awaited me - the fitful insomnia in anticipation. As Monday dawned, I skipped in, acceptance speech in hand, having practiced my “Oh I *really* did not expect this at ALL! I dedicate this prize to the pursuit of world peace and accept it on behalf of Africa’s starving orphans” face in the windows of Selfridges en route. Cue weekly meeting, complete with three members listening in from New York (oh I do so love an international audience) and flashy presentation slides. Within the first sentence, I felt my face beginning to turn a delightful shade of puce and the rising nausea was making composure maintenance a little tricky. “As we all know, if every one of you happened to choose 100 as their number then the highest number possible to be closest to two thirds of the average would be 67, and the chances of that being the case are very slim.” Obviously. So glaringly freaking obvious. The ascent of the carrots had begun. Cue large colourful graph splashed across screen. There, in all hues known to modern physics,were the results. Results, all dangerously clustered around the left hand side of the chart, of some very serious high brow mathematical calculations. And just to balance it out, on the far right hand side of the screen, in the brightest and highly visible green was a lone bar, extending a mile high and most definitely visible to the New York office, if not from outer space. The Bar Of Great Hilarity. Yes folks, Yours Truly, in all her intelligent glory had chosen a number she thought was “pretty”. No calculations. No lateral thought. Nope, 77.5 just seemed like a friendly number. Except it was 10.5% higher than is even mathematically possible. HeyZEUS.

21 won.

I can assure you I will never be able to glance at Selfridges windows ever again. I am suitably ASHAMED.

Ever So Slightly Dark.

Ok, Threshold Has Officially Been Reached.

I'm a little disturbed. Ok make that more than a little disturbed. I’m *horrified* beyond human horrification (it is a word if I say it is).

Ever since yesterday’s list was published, my hits are going through the roof. And it’s not link-love, regular readership or even the curious ones having a little google session to see what crops up. It’s the fact that allofasardine there are all these search terms nicely bundled in one page and the search engines are going ouma-pomp-bevok!

The dilemma is: Do I take it down in it’s entirety? Do I leave it up with a message emblazoned across the top saying something along the lines of ‘Hey you sick f*ck, I bet your mother’s proud, now sod off and don’t you dare darken my doorstep ever again!”. Or do I call myself something else, set up a new blog and move to Panama and take Michael Schofield fairy cakes in his prison cell? (Oops, sorry)

URGH, I can’t stand being associated with such depraved, saturnalian scum-of-the-earth. You people make me sick.

Getting Buffed.

Hit And Miss.

I've lost the will to blog. I'm no longer a Granny Wrangler, I'm a freaking PaperCut Wrangler... Which holds a certain appeal, as far as a name goes although I'd be a little hard-pressed as to how I'd typeset the word PaperCut and what on earth would I do with the knickers? A pair of the disposable paper ones they give you when you go for a Brazillian maybe? I digress.

The point is, at the end of every day I trudge home. I'm f*cking tired, even more f*cking grumpy and more often than not devoid of any form of humour. And I *like* making people laugh, be it with me or at me, although the former is generally the more preferred of the two.

I miss Benson & Hedges, I miss Muppet's constant bloody indecision, I miss my little silver 1 Series. I miss running through the wheatfields, I miss chatting endlessly on google chat with my friends who are really trying to get through an honest day's work and could do without the smutty innuendos i throw about mid-spreadsheet. I miss the Farming magazines which I was convinced were copies of Hardcore Hussies & Their Favourite Kitchen Utensils. I miss being made to turn left and go through the village to find a safe turn around point because Muppet thought it was too dangerous to turn right out of the driveway. And I miss the cat crap. Every single little perfectly formed poo plopped on the bathroom mat. I miss it all so much it hurts.

Do you really want to listen to me bitch and moan and churn out reams of profanity, as unclassy as it may be? Do you really care to read my vicious self-deprecating diatribes? Do you give a flying continental f*ck whether or not I was lascerated by the entire population of the 90gsm block of Xerox paper in the stationary cupboard? If I howl and sulk like a spoilt child because I don't get my way in everything I do will you even bother coming back... ever? And most of all, if i neglect my writing from time to time will you forget about me?

Off(washing)line.

I have a mountain of dirty laundry to sort so please excuse me.

I See Wed People.

They're everywhere. Strolling around like regular people. Standing at bus stops. Grocery shopping. Buying super absorbent tampons at Boots. Ordering cappucinos, no espressos, no maybe lattes, no baby, what do *you* think i should have, ok cappucinos but maybe just skinny ones. Catching the Tube in the morning. Everywhere.

Let's face it. Nothing says "i love you possum" quite like causing a stranger to vom in their freshly-colgated mouth before the sun has risen or the Tokyo Stock Exchange closes. Nothing says "aaaaw bubba, i want to make wickle babies with you forever and ever and EVA" like slurping and guzzling eachother's necks inches from someone's face in a crowded sweaty train. Nothing. Nothing at all. Because yes, Coupled Freaks, your very public salacious suck-fests are clearly what dreams are made of. They make our day. They make us want to hug everyone around us and make love to everybody in the carriage. Twice. In fact, if we started now, everyone could be impregnated before we even get to Fulham Broadway. Minus the Chav in the corner - she's already got one up the duff with a foetus queue to rival lunch hour at Home Affairs. But everyone else is fair game.
I do not shitting care how much you sodding 'wuff' eachother. If you're that desperate, wake up 5 minutes early and flip her over for a depraved pre-breakfast rogering but then for God's sake get on with functioning like a normal human being once you walk out of the front door. Keep it in your pants. And here's an idea: instead of groping at eachother's bits the entire way to work, why don't you use your hands to hold the rails because hey, when Retard-Bob the train driver slams on brakes, you'll find you're able to actually stand upright instead of toppling over and continuing your dry humping on my lap. Rocket science, i know.

Straight From The Tart's Potty Mouth.

Ask, dear public, and ye *shall* receive.

Over The Hedge.

Totally and utterly over it.

Yes, Yours Truly has a job. A job in Finance. Yours Truly, the one who has a strong design/creative/writing background, is working for a Hedge Fund, and sweet weeping Mary it is *diabolical*.

It's a bit like this really: Take a body. Say for example you're a gonad cell. You work away in a creative role. You like what you do. Other people like what you. You make pretty stuff. And whilst you're not a heart cell or a liver cell, you still perform a very necessary role in the body as a whole. You are by no means a toenail. Then one day, the blood stream knocks on your door and whisks you off into the dizzying heights of the skull. You're in the brain and everyone's wearing grey. They're all talking in ones and zeros and zipping to and fro, frenzied and freaky. And you start to feel stupid. Completely and utterly f*cking useless. Whilst you're specialised in what you do, this is clearly faaaar away from home. Except, of course, if you happen to be a male gonad cell, in which case the two types of cells are practically one and the same.

Whilst it may sound like I'm working as the treaurer for a tiny branch (hahaha. ahem.) of National Parks, or a charity for prickly vermin, this is not the case. There are numbers. There are acronyms. There are codes and Index thingys. Bar charts, pie charts, squiggly lines. Every f*cking email is cc'd to every creature in the ENTIRE f*cking hedge, and what makes it worse is that it means nothing to me. It might as well have been written in a Japanese dialect of Siberian Yiddish (spoken predominantly in East Timor) whilst on acid and chewing a donut. Gigabyte upon gigabyte of nonsensical numeracy. And there's a lot of paper. I'm scared of the paper. Ridiculous but true. It wants to cut me. It does. Every piece i touch taunts my delicate little hands and i can actually hear a potential paper cut creeping up on me. The A4 Xerox wants to slice me and suck my blood, leaving me lacerated and twitching amongst the 4 billion different recycling bins and endless supplies of chocolate Hobnobs.

Screen Grab.

Muggles Need Not Apply.

In the run up to Harry Potter mania in July, Yours Truly has decided to run a little competition. It's called:

Who Wants To Own The Dark Lord?

The Prize:

Voldemort himself.



Beautiful, pristine, and enshrouded in mystery and magic of a dark and terrible kind, He Who Must Not Be Named has lain, hidden from the world since November 2005, gathering strength in a secret chamber far below the city, venturing out only in the dead of night, his shiny blackness a shadow against the night sky. The PortKey within has carried dark wizards for 12 000 kilometers, and comes with the balance of a 2 year Reparo charm. With more enchantments than your heart could ever desire, the magic under his dark hood will amaze and Stupefy you.

The Competition:

The first person to deposit 2666 Galleons, 10 Sickles and a Knut (roughly R90 000) into my secret Gringott's account wins.

The Rules:

The use of charms, spells, jinxes, curses and other incantations is severely prohibited. This includes and is not limited to: Accio, Evanesco, Wingardium Leviosa.
Voldemort is protected by a Finite Incantatum spell and a Hex Deflection as well as a Shield Charm which will cause any forbidden spells to rebound upon you.
This competition is open to Death Eaters, members of Slytherin, and Parseltongues over the age of 18.
Potters, Muggles, Mudbloods, their families and advertising agencies need not apply.
E&OE.

Failure to adhere to any of the above rules will result in prosecution by the Ministry Of Magic with the threat of an extended period in Azkaban.

For more information please direct any queries by Owl or email (thegrannywrangler@gmail.com).

Tuesday Tourettes #2

Fuck. This. Shit. I'm on the warpath. Anybody who posts in any 'humour' section today and fails to make me laugh, get the fuck out of my way because i swear to the King of fucking Fray Bentos I will fucking kill you until you fucking die. Don't make me spell out PMS you fucking unfunny people.

God, i'm such a stroppy little bitch. A bloody good smacked bottom is what I need. *sigh*

Burning Sensation.

British Sensationalism, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways for you shall I?

Holiday time in a certain British household. Mom and Pops pack up their thronging herd of blonde children plus all the usual crappy paraphernalia and head to the airport. They've had shots for every disease known to science, because honestly, you never know when you're going to get bitten by a rabid olive when you haul down your broeks for a quick squat on the side of the road. With the tail pipe sparking off the asphalt they're bound for Gatwick, leaving practically nothing behind. Sure the kitchen sink could cost them in overweight baggage but again, best to be prepared you know.

The holiday goes swimmingly until one night, when the folks, digging around in one of the suitcases, have a startling realisation.

Pops: Oh bugger. It would seem we have left our Common Sense behind.
Mom: Oh that is a shame. Oh well, lets leave our children sleeping, all alone, in an unlocked room, in a foreign country and go out for a spot of dinner.
Pops: Splendid idea! I might just put my finger in a wall socket whilst we're out too.

Hands up who can guess what happens next?

Splendid. You're right. 1 X missing child.

Cue instant Media Orgy - Sky News is practically having one massive on-screen orgasm, flashing BREAKING NEWS on a shitty yellow scroll banner (which doesn't really go with their whole red/blue theme they've got going, in my opinion) over and over again, splashing cute blonde-haired blue-eyed tennis gear pictures with an 'Aaaaah' factor to rival the f*cking puppy in the loo paper ad.
Emails start flying around the world with the tennis pic - Have You Seen This Little Girl? (A goat herder in a little village in Tibet swears he saw her clinging to the underside of a llama but he only checked his email on his blackberry a few days later and besides, it could have just been the mixture of shrooms and goats piss on an empty stomach).
Lakes of Tesco's shitty mixed-bunch flowers, candles and teddy bears spring up all over the place in true British style, websites are set up, Facebook groups are set up (get lives you sad sad people) "ordinary" people fly down to help in the search, appeals for money are made. MONEY i tell you. Because money can solve anything you know. I bet you its a fake site. Its the guy who wanted people to donate money so he could buy a Hummer but nobody fell for it.

What the hell is this all for people? SERIOUSLY. Is it because she's blonde? Is it because she's cute? Is it because those tennis shorts just tugged at the heart strings? Do you know how many fucking children in this world are abducted or go missing? In America alone 2 185 children are reported missing EVERY GODDAMN DAY! Children in Khayelitsha disappear at a frightening rate, getting gang raped again and again and left strung to trees, their broken bodies swarming in flies. Where's their f*cking media attention? Do you see the appeals? Do you see the thousands of Rands wasted on shallow floral bullsh*t lining the streets? I don't think so. So what makes this one little girl so special? My god people, its a f*cking tragedy, yes, but you know what? She ain't the only one.

What's In A Nail File?

It's just before dawn at a secret location. There's a chill in the air and somewhere an animal howls a deep and mournful cry. A woman slips silently out of an armoured vehicle, her head down, dark hair knotted loosely yet perfectly at the nape of her neck. Punching in a 43 digit code she has imprinted in her memory, the door swings open and she enters, her well heeled footsteps echoing off the marble.

Down a flourescent hallway and through another steel door where her retina is scanned, she enters her laboratory. Vast whiteboards cover the walls, their faces swimming in a patchwork of equations and what seem too crude to be blueprints yet more refined than simple sketches. The numbers, letters and brackets are dizzying. To a mere mortal it is both deeply unnerving and overwhelming.

She places her Hermes on the desk beside a titration column where a velvety violet liquid is condensing and trickling and she peers closely before scribbling a note in the adjacent pristine notebook. The letters appear to be symbols. It is Japanese. And yes, it is a Haiku.

Walking over to her towering super-computer the fingers on the woman's left hand start to fly across the keyboard at an astonishing rate as effortless strings of code begin to fill her screen. With her other hand the woman reaches for a mechanical glove which she slips on. A screen to her left springs to life and an aerial view of an operating theatre swiftly comes into focus. A man is lying on the table, his brain exposed, surgeons and nurses are standing by ready for the woman to begin her surgery by satellite link up. As the steady flow of code continues in front of her, so does the rhythmic heartbeat of the patient on who's brain she begins to operate.
A knock on the door. A thick file bearing the MI8 insignia is deposited on her desk by a robot which beats a hasty retreat. 17 seconds later, with a flick of her wrist, her last stitch is tightened and the Alaskan operating theatre erupts with deafening applause. Another life saved. Another space shuttle system designed. Another terrorist plot foiled. And all before 6.30am.

A satisfied smile spreads slowly across her flawless skin and she sighs as she telekinetically draws a double espresso towards her from across the room, smug in her achievements as a London receptionist. Because really, that is what London receptionists do. Ask any Temp Agency in the city. Any temp agent. Who happens to not be lying in a pool of their own blood, my stiletto puncture marks rammed into their ashen temples, inch-deep scratch marks down their faces and sawn off street poles protruding from their ruptured spleens. Because as far as I was aware, being able to identify between a stapler, a punch and a box of Redfern's ringbinders should pretty much crack it. But clearly, in London, this is not the case. It is not the f*cking case at all.

Poking Around In My Wallet

My Job, My Wallet and I have always been pretty close. We've added each other on Facebook and write on each other's walls all the time. Admittedly i think my messages are the funnier of the three but I'd never actually come out and say that. Feelings get hurt. Things get messy. But at the end of the day, no matter who is ultimately cooler, we just love each other to pieces.

Not so long ago, however, things between My Job and I got a tad unpleasant. The friendship was waning as I guess some fickle Facebookers friendships just do. We tried to get along, we really did. I'd leave comments on photos and write on My Job's wall but it was never reciprocated. Despite the 'no poking' pact we'd all made (poking just complicates things, especially in a threesome) our friendship came down to a few half hearted pokes now and again until eventually I couldn't bring myself to click that little button anymore. No matter how hard My Wallet tried to convince me to stay friends with My Job my mind was made up and one day I snapped. I logged in, found My Job in my 'friends' list and positioned my mouse over 'remove friend' before clicking down hard.

And then we were two.

My Wallet held a deep seated resentment towards me for my hasty decision and the two of us bickered and grew snappy, but we took a long trip to Africa together in the hopes that things would settle. Instead, after two weeks the relationship was taking even more strain and we'd both lost a few pounds. My Wallet, unfortunately, more so than me.
It was upon our arrival back in the UK that we decided that in order to maintain a healthy friendship we'd need to spend less time together. It was designed to make that quality time mean so much more. So we took a bit of a breather. We see each other occasionally but whenever we do I put on a brave face and try to pretend its just hayfever that's making my eyes water. I miss the fun we shared, tagging each other in photos and inviting people to silly groups we invented when we were bored. Happy times. But I do know that I'm the one who caused all the hurt and if i ever hope to rebuild the relationship I need to invite another Job to join before My Wallet will consider playfully poking me again and suggesting we go for an impromptu little Mojito.

When i logged in this morning i saw there'd been a lot of recent activity on My Wallet's mini-feed. Yesterday My Wallet was listed as in a relationship with Penny. A lump rose in my throat. And then i saw it. The updated status message taunting me with four little grey words:

Your Wallet is empty.

Oh sweet f*ck.

The Envelope Please...

Tagged by The Lush a few days ago to spare a few kind words about a couple of other blogs, I thought it was high time i got my lazy arse into gear and handed out a trophy.

Thing is, the whole thing's a bit like choosing your bridesmaids. Not everyone gets to wear the hideous minty green satin sack at the end of the day and along the way there will be many a lip oozing from gravel rash. Solution? Choose only one maid of honour (or in this case Best Man) and you hopefully minimise the damage. Ever so slightly.

So without further ado, The Granny Wrangler's Golden Statuette (a plated Zimmer frame) goes to: Christian Bale. Or rather the man who Christian Bale looks like: The witty, dangerously deep dark and talented, 'when i type i swear to GOD there's angel music' Monsieur *Kyknoord*.

Cool and classy with a deliciously intellectual humour, The Other Side Of The Mountain is a thing of blogging beauty. Pant-wettingly funny, sad, poignant and arbitrary bordering on genius. Never a spelling mistake, positively dripping with grammatical prowess and the use of wonderful words like 'defenestration' makes both blog and writer a duo i can only aspire to be like. Technically and grammatically sound, this is writing at the highest standard (in my ever so humble opinion) so when the SA Blog awards were frivolously tossed out with a giggle not so long ago, i thought it an utter travesty that a blog so deserving of Best Writing didn't win. The award was meant to be about the art of writing and not merely topically controversial content. Everyone's a couch critic (check the Malibu beach houses of all the American Idol judges), hence I'm making my own awards up in my little head and guess what Kyk? You bloody win hands down! MWAH! Love your talented ass!

Oh shit, the music's starting already.

Google’s Anatomy.

Episode 24: Season Finale.

A group of NHS nurses are sitting around eating chips and watching Eastenders reruns, arguing about who’s turn it is to pomp doctor McRaj, consulting a crude roster one of them has thrown together on the back of a latex exam glove, which, unfortunately, looks like it may not be as sterile as one would hope as it embarks on any form of cavity search.

Somewhere a telephone rings.

Spewing forth a mouthful of Lays (uncanny that) the one who, it would appear, was given special permission by the pope to wear her legs upside down, answers with a “yeah” which might as well have “what the f*ck do you want” tagged onto the end of it.
On the other end of the phone a timid, helpless, gasping-for-air South African accent croaks down the line but is drowned out by a loud hammering. The vibrations can only mean one of two things. Either this is yet another “the cake mixer and I got a little drunk, wound up in bed together and now I can’t reach the off button without getting my fingers stuck in the blades” scenario or her feverish body is clearly wracked with a dark and dangerous tropical disease. Whilst the nurse detects a mysterious hint of a ‘baked goods’ tone in the young South African beauty’s voice it is unfortunately the latter.

“Whatcha problerrrrm?” Nurse Cankles enquires with the enthusiasm of a sun baked dog turd.

“Well,” replies the polished (and wildly intelligent) South African on the other end, “I’ve just been in the bowels of deepest darkest Africa and judging by my symptoms I am concerned that I may have contracted Malaria. I was hoping you could advise me as to what i should do."

“Can I have ya postcoooode plaaayze”. (Trying to work out whether there is an off-license en route, no doubt). Much admin is entered into, pfaffing and shuffling, whilst our heroine is dangerously close to death’s portal. "Malaria you say?" (hours later. clearly not the quickest enema in the colonoscopy ward) "Whatcha sim-timz?"

The well versed list is rattled off. It reads like a W.H.O checklist.

[[silence]] [[clickety click click]] [[silence]]

"Eeeeerm. Well Google's giving me a list of similar symptoms here... You may tr..."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, WHAT? What the F*CK did you just say? Did you just say GOOGLE?? Did you just actually type G-O-O-G-L-E-.-C-O-M into your browser? Jesus CHRIST lady, my life is hanging in the freaking scales of Hades' ARSEHOLE and you're F*CKING GOOGLING MALARIA?????? Is somebody f*cking kidding me? Are you seriously f*cking KIDDING ME?? Please please for the love of f*cking GONADS tell me there is a camera crew dressed in Spur uniforms and smoking crack ready to come charging around the corner singing "i don't know but I've been told" before i die from an embolism. Or Malaria. Or Typhoid. F*cking HELL!

4 days, 3 blood tests, 2 doctors and one massive f*cking Google search later, the South African waif still teeters precariously on the edge of the precipice of death but knows that she has a reason to live - she has the necessary qualifications to be an NHS nurse. Hell, nursing today, surgery tomorrow - you should see her down a bottle of Tequila and then play Operation. Yee-F*cken-Haaaa party people!

Bankrupting The Tooth Fairy

If you don't like chocolate cake please raise your hand. Ok would someone please toss out that doos at the back. Come on, everybody loves chocolate cake. A heavy handed slice of pure unadulterated deliciousness to make your knees go weak with every nibble, laden with enough calories to make Dakota Fanning look like a pretzel, and oozing with seven different kinds of wicked. So widely adored is this wonderful creation and yet sadly, so often frowned upon and guiltily avoided. But then I suppose rules and diets are always made to be broken, so it is only natural that one day, when you've been on celery sticks and rice cakes for a looooong time and you've walked past the bakery a thousand times but haven't dared go in, there comes a time when you catch sight of the ultimate Cake Of The Day. The cake of all cakes. Death By Chocolate. Tiered. Solid. Yummy. Standing in the window. You get giddy from the smells wafting on the breeze and you start to salivate. In a relatively attractive way of course. Not drool all down your front like i did on the plane last night only to wake up when the guy in front of me (seat 74K, you know who you are sir) let his bowels go in a most disturbingly thunderous manner, to discover i looked like a spring break wet t-shirt contestant, minus, of course, the heady blend of silicone and peroxide. No, i repeat, attractively.
All of a sudden your 'f*ck it' switch trips, you fly through that bakery door, stumble over the sofa... uh, step... and throw yourself headlong into the gateau, fervently gorging yourself silly, caution, amongst other things, thrown to the wind. And when it ends with a happy sigh your eyes glaze over, your knees give way and you think to yourself, by god if that wasn't the most incredible chocolate cake i've ever tasted...

Godammit, i'm hungry again.

Good Life Or Death

You know you’ve made it when you start receiving death threats. Not little preschool collages which say ‘I’ll get you, bitch’ cut out from crappy issues of Cosmo and the side of a Butlers’ pizza box. No, the more sinister kind which arrive in your inbox and say if you don’t continue blogging whilst you’re on holiday (you bitch) we’ll hunt you down and wee on your computer. Scary stuff. The thing is, whilst I do value my life, my computer really could do with an upgrade so it does all sound a little tempting to be honest. I really thought I’d hide from the world for two whole weeks especially as I will probably find myself in a position where I am completely chilled and unable to even utter anything slightly offensive and profane. Even as I type this I am sitting on my balcony safe in the lush southern suburbs, gazing lovingly at the mountain as the sun slips softly behind it, an icy glass of Vrede en Lust’s Chenin/Semillon blend next to me and I can hear the Egyptian Geese squawking as they fly over. That’s not the kind of shit that’s interesting now is it? For those of you still in the UK, well, you want to read how shit the weather is, how many times I’ve been mugged and how much I’m missing my daily Starbucks injection, just so you can feel that you’ve got a good deal. It ain’t happening. Frankly, there’s no point in blogging whilst I’m all rustig coz its going to be dreamy and delicious and you’ll think I’ve gone soft and I greatly value my ‘offensive little heinous bitch’ image and couldn’t possibly jeopardize it. So, if in the unlikely event I feel like I’m about to claw somebody’s eyes out, threaten to shove 43 cheeseburgers down some skanky schmodel’s gullet or am overcome by an urge to maim/murder, believe me, you’ll be the first to know. However, if that beer’s been running through your system and you feel you may need to relieve yourself, give me a shout and I’ll arrange my laptop to be poised and waiting…

Friday The 13th: The New Blood(y Mad!)

Holy fok, mother of Jacobus, I am a COMPLETE f*cking tosser.
We all know it takes a special kind of stupid to fly British Airways rather than Virgin or Emirates or hell, even United 93. But how many of you can stand proud and say, you know what, I have stared death in the eye and laughed til i thought my sides would split right open in the middle of the tarmac? How many of you have actually a) opted to fly BA and b) chosen to do it on FRIDAY THE F*CKING 13TH OH MY GOD AM I BLOODY MAD???

Whilst I've been all sunshine-and-ponies about heading home, 2 weeks, rah-rah beach, Wedding Of The Century, raunchy unladylike behaviour and then a safe return to captivate you with antics beyond Granny Wrangling, I feel it is my duty to warn you that given some of my grave mistakes of late regarding choice of carrier and flight dates, maybe its best to not hold out such high hopes. I don't expect vigils and chanting. Just remember me. In your prayers. Tonight, when you snuggle down all alone because you didn't score, between trying to see the 'offensive' in "nice shoes, wanna pomp?", and applying ice to the welt on the side of your now puce little face, pray for me. Your joint prayers and my total inebriation should help see me through the night.

If you're in Cape Town, look for the girl in the red polka-dot knickers, face down in a puddle of champagne and be sure to say hi. If she turns around and starts speaking Japanese you'll know you probably got the wrong chick. But you'll feel good for trying.

Ok-bye.

The Inside Of My Nutshell

In anticipation of my immenent arrival in The Land Of The Rand I received what is possibly the most incredible sms ever typed by human thumb, by someone who apparently knows me better than i know myself. I had to share her genius with the world.

She'll be comin o'er Table Mountain when she comes.
She'll be comin in french knickers when she comes.
She'll be cravin woolie's fudges,
she'll be wearing pink & levis,
she'll be smokin Marlboro ciggies,
she'll be perving wentworth miller,
she'll be sipping low fat lattes,
she'll be skattering old wrinklies,
she'll be blowing princess kisses when she comes.

If you ever needed a summation of me, that would be it.
I honestly, without a doubt, have the coolest friends in the entire universe.

Ouma's Rusks And That's It.

If you cast your little eye upwards you'll have noticed that as of today, I'm as free as a pair of Scottish testicles in a tornado! The Wrangling she is over. And I am making absolutely no effort to contain myself. None whatsoever. The glass of bubbles, the bath of bubbles and the number of friends who have lost hearing in one ear from me screaming like a bloody banshee down their phone lines can all attest to that. Never again shall i suffocate in a hot car when grandma's dropped one and can't smell it. Never again will i have to cook another f*cking omelette and chips. Never EVER again will i look at another purple rinse trying to cross the road and think to myself, "ag, shame". Step out grandma, step riiiight on out there. In fact, quite frankly, if a plague of locusts flew in tomorrow and gobbled up every old person on the planet (except Cher, they may mistake her for a blow up pool toy) I'd be pretty ok with that. N'er again another bottom shall i wipe nor a urine sample shall i decant. I am footloose, most fancy and utterly free!

Now I just need to find a bloody job. Cr*p.

Spring With Dick And Jane.

When you think of spring you think of daffodils. You think of newborn fluffy lambs frolicking in the lush green grass as butterflies flutter on the gentle breeze. Bunnies chew on dandelions, their tails wiggling in delight. Birds twitter and kerfuffle in the trees and bluebells nod in the forest glades. You think of the perfect story book Spring.

But you would be wrong.

There's a different story over here. Picture if you will, England in the spring:

See Dick.
See Jane.
See the sun. The sun is shining. This is rare.
Dick likes spring. Dick likes beer more. See Dick drink in public. Drink Dick(head) drink.
Dick is drunk. It is breakfast. He is a f*cking hero.
Spring is sunny. Sun makes Dick remove his shirt. Dick is not at the beach. Dick is at the shops. Dick does not care. See Dick's pasty nipples. Dick's nipples love spring. Dick loves his pasty nipples. Jane does too. And Jane loves Dick. A lot. See the stretch marks around Jane's mouth. See Jane's three prams. Yes Dick Yes!
Dick is a shirtless, pale, scrawny, drunken, pasty lascivious little motherf*cker who uses Spring as an excuse to expose his nipples to the world at every goddamn opportunity he f*cking well gets and runs around pomping Jane just like the f*cking bunnies in the story you wish you were reading instead.

Run me run.

Red Or Black?

The countdown of sleeps has officially begun.

The ticket is booked, the diet's been had, the running appears to have had a dramatic effect (terrified children weeping and cowering as i thundered past was pretty dramatic ok?) and the dress for The Wedding Of The Century has been bought. And its a size smaller than i would have bought if i'd been shopping for it two months ago. Remind me to take back all those nasty mutterings I have spat into my bowl of fibrous sh*t-a-bix every morning. Granted it looks like i've been painted into it. Not like a Picasso with a nipple on my forehead and another three on my elbow. Painted into it in a good way.All that remains is a Clifton tan (read 'quick Carribbean spray paint behind Cavendish followed by a wink and a nudge'), a french pedi and a decision on red wedges or black ones, and i'm good to go. Would somebody grab an airbrush and zip me up please, this Wrangler's going home. Almost.

A Century Of Crap.

Well loyal blogger-buddies, we've done it. I've managed skryf 100 posts and you've managed to read them. Ok, not all of them but I reckon Kyk has cast an eye over 95% which makes him twinkle like a little star, whilst maintaining a certain degree of manliness of course.
For those who fell along the away, sies on them. For all you who joined along the way, how bored were you?

Anyway, should you feel so inclined, herewith a little collection of what i think were some of the noteworthy moments in this wild adventure that has been Granny Wrangling. Some to tickle, some to shock, some to emphasize the CRAP i've been through, and some just coz i loved writing them.

•• Mavis The Marvellous (no relation to Seth's chick)

•• I'm Blind!!!

•• who-what-where-how-when-why-me?

•• Keep Your City Beautiful

•• The Goddamn Fucking Chicken Wrangler Trilogy: Rustic Hell 101 closely followed by Coming and Going and of course the video The Chicken Wrangler.

•• Ode To A Skidmark

•• A Pint At The Typhoid Arms

•• F Is For Funny

•• Same Day, Different Shit

•• The End Is Naai

It troubles me to realise how many cleaning products are contained in the above content. Thanks y'all, i loves ya. I really loves ya. (If you didn't nominate me for the blog awards then i don't but i'm just pretending to).

**SMOOCH**

An Afternoon In Spring

There are moments when you cast everything aside, you slip on your shoes and just as silently slip out of the door, turning up the dusty track and pressing into the wind. As you pass the trees they whisper above your head and your ponytail is sardonically tossed in the zephyr, tugging painfully on your darkened mind. Somehow you can’t remember the last time your hair bounced and clung and pricked your eyes, or the last time you noticed, or the last time you cared. But you press on, ignoring the murmurs and the leaves spiraling in your path and the breeze drags across your burning face, biting as it goes. A warm trail carves a silvery path from eye to ear where it nestles and bubbles and you’re not sure whether the gushing air has drawn it or your soul has granted it freedom. Your footsteps fall heavily on the stony path and your shaky breaths grow deeper and more urgent and you’re not sure whether the path below you is growing steeper or the path before you is getting harder. But you feel that you can't go further. You seek solace in the evening solitude as you drop to the ground, the grass tickling your ears as the tear escapes once more and slides down the greenness to silently thud onto the ground below. Somewhere a bird cries out but you cannot hear it in the roaring silence. And you lie there, single clouds skidding high above you and you stare. A distant voice, a dog barks, you press yourself deeper into the undergrowth. And you’re terrified they’ll see you. Or that maybe they won’t. And you curl up tightly as the breeze chills your spine. And you lie there. And you lie there. And you lie.

Oh Look, Fruit Bowl's Empty.

If the fruits of the spirit are indeed love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control, well i have in my posession a one-way ticket to hell (flying BA, sans nuts and G&T, stuck in a window seat with a broken seat-back tv thingy sitting next to Ray Romano with flatulence. Him. not Me).

Christ on a crutch! I am moments away from an embolism, apoplexy or anything else relatively biological and cardio-vascular. So all of a sudden Muppet's got his rods in a bloody great twist. The maid (read "cleaning lady". pffft) has decided to take the opportunity to have some sort of tunnelling caterpillar surgery on her hand. Which means no dusting or lovingly wiping the toilet bowl, neither of which, delightfully, fall under my job description. Needless to say, given the size of my heart and my exceptional upbringing, i ask if there is anything she usually does that he'd like me to do today instead. No, there's nothing. So i get my computer out and decide to get on with some work (designy stuff and all and all). Milli - nay nanoseconds later he bellows. Changed his mind, would love me to do his bathroom. Don gloves, grab clothespeg, vomit bucket and bleach. Lots of bleach. I'm pretty much like a Domestos ad except, funnily, i'm not smiling as much. Uncanny that.

Scrub, scrape, chisel, retch, vom, mop up, leave. Return to computer.

Bellow.

Can i please dust every item in the cupboard under the stairs. I. Sh*t. You. Not.
Grab a duster, feign asthma attack which goes unnoticed much to my utter disgust and get on with it. I swear i even polished the f*cking lightbulb. Return to computer.

Bellow.

Cup of coffee. Stomp, flick, pour, throw (i wish). Return to computer.

Bellow... The day continues in this fashion.

Round 3.30, a man is arriving for a meeting. I am sitting at my computer. For a change. All of a sudden there is an almighty yell of "HELP!!!". Now may i just point out in my profession, when you hear a yell like that, your first reaction should be the tightening of both sphincter and intercostal muscles in panic, you look for the 911 phone number and then bolt to the rescue in time to (hopefully) save the other hip. I flung back my chair, slamming it into the antique table behind me, tripped straight over my power cable, which (up yours you liars at Apple) does not come out if you trip on it. Made an unwittingly spectacular save courtesy of my ample backside. Flew through the house, head whipping wildly trying to catch a glimpse of twitching grandpa mid heart attack. Eventually locate him in the office. The printer appears to have run out of ink.

Speechless.

W Is For Winner.

Bring out the pom-poms y'all i just won over at ideate.
I so totally rock out. Like, SOOOOO totally.

Wracked With Woe.

My camera is f*cked. I am ready to sit down and cry my bloody eyes out. It's going to cost me 150 quid to repair. Its now, new, worth less than half that. If they even make them anymore. I can't afford another one. I can't afford to get it fixed. I can't afford to live without it. And i think i severed a muscle in my neck trying to clobber a moerse spider in my bath this morning so now i've got a headache and i'm walking around like i have a pole shoved up my bum.
I'm MISERABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Quick, somebody hug me, or feed me marzipan, or buy me a Nikon D80 and a Caramello Bear)

Kumbaya Se Ma.

The world's bloody Do-Gooders are starting to irritate the living sh*t out of me (insert additional and totally unnecessary gratuitous expletives for effect).

'CO2 emissions', 'Recycling', 'Organic' and 'Fairtrade'. Four words which, were it not for my unfortunate tendency to enjoy profanity, would be four letter words.

All of the above: a desperate attempt by the majority to 'do the right thing'. For god's sake people. We're a bunch of puppets, all running around tearing our hair out over which colour bin we should put things into. Empty envelope? Chuck it in the paper bin. Oh no wait, it has one of those window thingys. Better rip it open and take out the window and put it in the bin created especially for bloody window thingys. Which is pink with stripes. By the way.

We are forced to feel some kind of Catholic guilt on steroids for even contemplating taking a flight anywhere. But anywhere. I'm sorry but when i feel like going home i sure as f*ck won't be dialling Rent-A-Mule for a trans-continental trip across Africa. I'd never get that kind of leave and besides, donkeys enjoy a healthy dose of flatulence and the levels of CO2 emissions would have me reciting countless Hail Marys and regretfully flagellating my sinful thighs with a stick of organic rhubarb (which i'll make sure is disposed of in the little bucket labelled 'compost' once i'm done) for weeks on end.
And then there's the whole Buy Organic orgy. Forgive my pedantry but doesn't 'organic' denote something which is living? F*ck i can't remember a time i enjoyed a steel tomato as much as the one i had last night and as for that last consignment from BionicVeg last week, well, they're now doing a ball-bearing-less grapes. This sh*t is dreamed up for people who want to be able to jump up and down in their Priuses screaming 'look at me look at me, i'm doing 'the right thing'! I give goats to villages at Christmas, my children don't have nasty pesticides on their food (pity), i buy bananas for the Fairtrade logo because i don't realise the only people benefitting from it are the strategy fat cats and the packaging people who picked their noses for an hour and then shat out a piece of piss-poor design. My car cost me an arm and a bloody leg but hey, it's environmentally friendly and besides, everyone will stop their nasty cars and stare, agape, worshipping me because i embody all that is socially attractive and they will bring their children begging me to anoint them with organic extra virgin olive oil! And because i'm such a f*ckwit I'll continue to believe that i'm most probably the single most perfect human being on the planet. My GOD i rock.'

What the hell makes such a tiny, muddy, colourless little island so important? Do you honestly believe you'll single-handedly make a difference? Try explaining to a starving disease riddled child in the third world that it's in his best interests to rather walk to the hospital 4 towns away or that he should eat something organic. Eating anything is one hell of a privilege for a terrifyingly large percentage of the planet. Do something closer to home. Donate money to AIDS/Cancer/Malaria research, hell, develop a strategy for keeping your 12 year old's legs closed or something, but for god's sake, the world has been getting hotter for a billion years and no matter what we eat we should be grateful that we have food on our plates in the first place. That's a fair trade isn't it?

Enter Miss Piggy.

In a rare reprieve from The Muppet Show, this weekend saw princess fleeing to the big city in search of the finer comforts life has to offer and where better to indulge one's pomposity and delusions of grandeur than in the world's finest department store. Yes, using her squirrel-lined gloves to beat a path through the swarm of animal rights activists dirtying the streets of Knightsbridge she ducked through the green doors of Harrods narrowly missing a sweaty barrage of All Stars and Birkenstocks which pelted the glass behind her and headed straight for Morelli's Gelato, pausing ever so briefly to shed a tear of happiness as she passed the shoe section.

Morelli's is famed for it's claim that, given 24 hours notice, they will whip up any flavour your creative little heart desires, be it Vinegar, Baked Beans on Toast or Spring Onion & Bitter Chocolate. Seeing as we had neither the 24hours nor the black AmEx we opted for something a little more run-of-the-mill. As run-of-the-mill as Harrods can be at any rate.

Menus were perused, bank managers were consulted and fantasy-sized sundaes, complete with lashings, shavings and drizzlings (sordid indeed), were consumed until buttons popped, livers imploded and manicured fingers were forced down throats as knees and tiles connected on gilt bathroom floors, our faces turning Harrods Green.

By God it was worth every carrot.

A Literary Classic

If you read one post today let it be this one. I implore you. If you derive as much sordid pleasure from the ongoing Blogwars Soap Opera of late and love nothing more than a well versed tongue tucked into giggling cheek, as i do, then The Lush's latest screenplay The Blog & The Beautiful is sure to tickle every one of those little places Anne Summers can't reach.

"Chernobyl" - RoboSnoWomble 2.0 (TM)

Super Powers: Stomping, Zapping, Incinerating, Baking Cookies.

Habitat: Overground. Underground.

Diet: Snow fairies, children and 'Boffin Jocks'.

RoboSnoWomble 2.0 (TM) - Coming soon to a Common near you.

Is It Just My Tastebuds?

Ok this post is not about politics, as promised. Its about ethics. And disgust. Cartoon courtesy of today's Daily Telegraph. Funny, I'm not amused. One f*cking bit. And judging by the words i have just used in an email to The Telegraph I think they are aware of that. Providing their intelligence isn't as poor as their taste.

Having A Hard Time Remembering.

M: The doctor thinks I need to take something to calm me down.

Me: Oh, ok. (somewhat surprised) Well what does he suggest?

M: He's prescribed me Viagra.

Me: (gulp, choke, splutter, roar with uncontrollable mirth inside till tears pour down the inside of my cheeks, regain composure, straighten face.) Don't you mean Valium?

M: (absolute mortification descends) Oh yes, ah, of course. Valium. Yes. Valium.

Bless.

How Creative Is Too Creative?

Scenario:

We are on a mission. We're on a specific mission around the nearest town. He has a list. There are three things to get. In three separate parts of town. And it's market day. Which is a bit like Sundae Sunday at Fat Camp.

So. I'm briefed on our plan of attack. First stop - newsagent. Then on to chemist and then around the block to buy ice cream and loop back home. Get in, get the goods, get the fuck out. Suits me perfectly.

Strangely enough, there is no parking outside the newsagent, so the next two items are accomplished first with yours truly double parked and receiving lascivious stares from policemen issuing parking fines. Items 2 and 3 done.

With all the ins and outs I cheerfully suggest that we now double park outside the newsagent and I run in and grab whatever magazine it is that is required. No thank you, I am told. I know what I'm looking for. Fine. Mr Secretive.

Double park for the umpteenth gazillionth time and off he trots. Start to mull magazine conversation over. Eyes begin to look like dinner plates. Jaw drops onto steering wheel. Palms sweat. No. Nooooo. No ways! Oh my God, NO.

Muppet returns, magazine discreetly folded over. Gets in. Off we go (frog-hopping at first as leg muscles appear to have seized due to shock). We drive home in silence. Man and Magazine alight from the car and slink inside.

Am I just too creative? No seriously?

** MAJOR UPDATE **

It turns out it was a farming magazine!! After all that. Well that's the cover story anyway and one i'm quite frankly going to believe for the sake of my own wellbeing.

Stuff What You Can’t Get By The South African Shop In Southfields.

• Large Gem (from Kauai)
• R15 movies (ta Vitality, mwah mwah)
• A G&T at Kelvin Grove when you should be at work
  
• Uva Mira Chardonnay
• Snoekies’ Tuna
• Cinema Nouveau (the joy of being able to appreciate the art of cinematography without swarms of snot gurgling brats seeing if they can piss into someone else’s popcorn 6 rows below, shoving maltesers up eachothers noses and squealing little prepubescent pink-shoed bitches on their cell…uh… mobiles kicking you in the kidneys every 7 seconds.)
• Medium Dugg’s Dynamite
• Mahendra’s toe-curling sign-offs
• Sinnful’s ‘African Dream’
• Survivor Tuesdays

(insert sad face)

Right Bloody Pom I Am.

Gee, i cannot wait for next week.

"And if one pair of knickers should accidentally fall..."

It was with sheer delight that i opened my inbox this morning to be greeted with this vision of beauty. Of life truly imitating art. Truly I say unto you.

Courtesy of the photojournalistic prowess of the King Of Wit himself, Monsiuer Kyknoord (is it getting hot in here or is it just me?), this little gem of a scene apparently belongs to some rather strange vibrating neighbours of his. Fair enough. My influences are far-reaching. HRH then went on to point out "Sadly, no polka-dot g-string, but still…".

As if Buttro wouldn't melt in his mouth.

We all know where that red polka-dot g-string went to Monsieur. Oh yes we do. Mind you keep that belt of yours firmly buckled... ;)

Priceless.

If Only Zimbabwe Had Oil.

If a key falls on a blog and there are people around to read it, does it make a difference?

Truth be told, I am too angry to write. Too sickened and too repulsed. Not by the satanic bastards who are raping and pillaging my homeland and the people who shaped my life and livelihood, the same vile torturous mongrels who i hope, one day soon, will begin an eternity of rotting in hell. No, i'm sickened by you South Africa. You who stands by with your quiet f*cking diplomacy, your mouth closed for fear of opening it and losing the blood diamonds you are concealing between your clenched teeth. Yes, Nkosi Sikelele you cowering sycophant. You make me sick.

The straw which broke the camel's back.

** Before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, i am officially South African... now. And my hateful comments aren't directed at you. You know who i'm pointing a finger at. And i promise to never talk politics in here again.

But I am working it.

Step Six is always the hardest. Goddammit.

MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF NUTS

Like pregnant pre-schoolers, pustule fodder disguised as 'Fish 'n Chips' and celebrity racial slurs, nothing quite screams 'British' like the Health & Safety standard issue yellow reflective vest.

As abundant as puddles of vomit in any given Walkabout, or Burberry at a Wimbledon bus stop, these convivial little jackets are just British through and through. The very essence of the culture and everything it stands for. Caution erring on the side of stupidity. A desire to 'do the right thing'. And general f*cking uselessness.

Gone are the days where you find yourself hurtling down the road in your BMW and suddenly spy a blinding glare of chartreuse on the road up ahead, causing immediate skidmarks on both tarmac and leather interior as your stomach sinks in anticipation of a speeding fine and fifty billion points* on your licence. No, these days in Sunny England, what would, in any other normal country, be an illustrious member of the Highway Patrol traversing the country roads with his little radar gun (peeewpeeewpeeew!) is more than likely a Royal Hedgehog Protection Volunteer (RHPV), a school child with a hall pass or a bus driver who's stopped to take a leak.

No, I am not sh*tting you. Ok the RHPV oke yes.

Practically every goddamn activity now requires the use of these fashionable little boleros. And why? Just ask "Owfensayf'ee"**. Bus drivers wear reflective vests. Board any bus on the island and you are guaranteed to come face-to-side-of-face with Jaundice Jerry and his merry dayglo jersey. What, i ask you with tears in my eyes, is the bloody point?? His Owf? His Sayf'ee? Gee, mind the bus driver, almost didn't see him inside that F*CK-OFF BIG RED BUS!!

If you're riding a horse you have to wear a vest. Just in case a hedgehog doesn't see you coming. Or a bus driver (coz you'll sure as f*ck see him). Is this meant to distinguish a rider and his mount from say a tree? Because a tree wouldn't be in the middle of the f*cking road now would it dipshit?
Hunters wear them (great camo buddy) Parents dress their spawn in mini versions, ugly dogs are made uglier by the pet version and soon they'll start putting them on the mannequins in the Selfridges windows with the usual crappy "I Taught Your Boyfriend That Thing You Like" and "Daddy's Little Money Grabbing Wh*re" slogans and we can all own our own little piece of putridity. For the love of GOD people do something useful with the f*cking things! Like cover Russell Brand's head with one so we don't have to look at him anymore. That would take care of my personal health and safety.

* Another truly British obsession. What with Weight Watchers and the Traffic Department on steroids the country's gone Point Bevok.
** Health & Safety for those of you who don't speak Chav.

Not once, not twice but...

So, i've been thinking.

In light of all my recent bitching, moaning and general lacklustre crabbiness, coupled with innuendo creeping in from every angle, a comment by Parenthesis' Resident Best Friend Mike got ye olde cogs turning, bringing me to a startlingly sad realisation: I'm in need of a bloody good sh*g. A bit like yesterday's shower-scene. Only without the Geriatric connotations Revo and Mark threw into the mix.
No, a proper passionate throw-me-up-against-the-wall-and-trail-your-tongue-from
-my-ear-to-my-collarbone goose-bump can't-feel-my-legs kind of sh*g. A selfish 'i'll reciprocate tomorrow night if you don't mind' encounter. With someone who's sole mission is to put a smile upon my face. Thrice. The kind of smile that, if it wasn't for your ears, would wrap around your head. Thrice.

And preferably with someone i don't work for. Revo.

Is that too much to ask?

** It turns out this has been glaringly obvious to everyone except me. For ages. For example.

This Link Will Change Your Life.

Ok so it won't. What it will do is direct you to Sky's site where, if you like, you can ask them very nicely if you can write one of their blogs for a month. If that's your thing. I've mulled it over and don't think my potty-mouthed cynicism would go down all that well but I gave it a shot. I asked very nicely. Didn't use the F Word once. Hands up who's proud? Group hug.

Muchas smoochas to The Worry Monk for the heads up.

Shower Time.

I love Muppet's shower.

You know those hollywood showers, where the only thing steamier than the water is the slippery tangled deliciousness of two (sometimes three) passionate human beings, grinding eachother up against the tiles, brows soaked, tendrils trickling, plastered against the other's cheek as moans of 'shut up and eat me whole' echo off the walls? The ones where trembling hands slip across writhing thighs and slide down the cool foggy glass, carving an amourous trail through the film of steam and sweat that cling to everything around them?

Well it's not one of those. But feck it's nice.

Tuesday Tourettes

Of course you're a f*cking bad mother, you're FOURTEEN for christ's sake! If you couldn't afford to buy your hideous chavvy blue eyeshadow from Poundland last week what makes you think you can feed a f*cking army of illegitimate mongrels all of sudden? Put a f*cking condom on his f*cking d*ck and shut the f*ck up you useless little trashy wh*re.

F*ck you and your multitude of vomitous technicolour pixels. I don't need you or your f*cking mule you limped in on.

I don't give a flying F*CK how many billion tons of goddamn CO2 i pump into the atmosphere just because i left my f*cking phone on charge or my hi-fi on over night. I don't know about you but i actually have a life and couldn't be f*cking bothered to sit and reprogram every single f*cking station each f*cking morning in the off chance that I MAY choose to listen to one later that day.

What the f*ck do you think this is? A game of f*cking Pass The Parcel for retards??

Do i HONESTLY look like I give a flying continental mother-f*cking orga*smic holy SH*T about how special you think you are? Because honey you ain't. You're more than likely just the result of one of your sl*tty mother's many blind drunk f*ck-fests and your father is probably your uncle for all you know. Which would explain your f*cking cleft palate.

Ignore me. Don't comment. Come back another day.

Same Day, Different Sh*t.

From widely acclaimed Granny Wrangler to Chicken Wrangler Extraordinaire (who could forget that?) and now, proudly announcing my official promotion to Turd Wrangler Of The Highest Repute. The fun never ends and believe me you've never lived until you've been elbow deep in the fresh excrement of nearly every species in the animal kingdom.

The day started off like any other. I rolled out of bed onto the carpet, examined my feet in dire need of a pedicure and vowed to finally do something about it today, tripped over the rug at the bottom of the stairs (i swear the bastard lies in wait) and grumbled my way through breakfast, bemoaning the contents of my cereal bowl - fibrous enough to pass an elephant, tusks and all. Just an ordinary morning. Save for the fact that one of the cats didn't show up for it's kibbles or mouse terrine or whatever it is they eat, and Muppet was in a mini-flap. Thus began a hunt throughout the entire house kissskisssing and spsssspsssing like a cat on a braai (what i had in mind to do to it when i found the bloody thing). It was eventually found half starved in one of the upstairs bedrooms where it and it's bowels had spent the night, locked in and forgotten about. Gave the room a quick sweep looking for landmines or wet patches and, satisfied that kitty had held it in last night, bless, trudged downstairs again to round off my breakfast with caffeine and nicotine.

Lord & Lady Thinkthayre-Speshill were expected for lunch, which, thanks to my foray into silver service waitressing with which to finance my varsity binges, went swimmingly judging by the gushing accolades bestowed upon me on their departure. I never tire of these. As they were leaving, Lady Whats-Her-Name announced she'd be 'spending a penny' before they spun off in their vulgar automobile and promptly disappeared upstairs. In what seemed like a matter of milliseconds she flew down the stairs, her ample bottom quivering in shock, only to inform Muppet and I rather breathlessly "your cat seems to have relieved itself on your bathroom rug. I just thought it was polite to mention it". Oh joy. For once i didn't appreciate the politeness. I knew what was coming.

As they flew out of the driveway in a shower of gravel, Muppet swung round and gave me that look. That look which says "Poppet i just shot your pony by mistake", or, translated, "be a pet and pop upstairs with a plastic bag will you?". If i was a bloody pet i wouldn't have crapped on the rug on the first place and would be happily curled up on a moth eaten pillow somewhere dreaming of mice and farting occasionally. So, with a painfully professional lack of protestation, I grabbed a Sainsbury's bag, bottle of carpet cleaner, a brush and a gallon of Febreze and made my way up muttering curses not fit for a lady of my stature, with a look of sheer mortification on my face.

I don't see fit to go into detail as i'm sure a little creativity on your part will suffice, however i will say this: the feline from who's bottom the faecal surprise had been born, for all his despicable shortcomings, had the consideration to pass something exquisitely formed and solid enough to allow a swift disposal with a flick of my dainty wrist. Thanks Benson. You're a f*cking rock star. Poes poes poes.

The Sweet Separation Of Finger & Bum.

Ok, so it's official. I have finally submitted my entry to Parenthesis' "Dazzle Me Why Don't You" competition and frankly, whilst i'm bursting with pride that i finally managed to do it in spite of all my whining, the contents of the depths of my imagination have caused me quite a bit of concern. My psychiatrist would have a field day were i ever to show him what these fingers banged out over the past 48 hours and I imagine he may just up my dosage to bring me down to earth for a bit. Oh well. He'll never have to know.

Macabre? Yes. A little disturbing? Very. Containing references to squirrels and nudity, (semi)inadvertent haiku and use of some very large words including 'defenestration'? But of course. I play to win you know.

Herewith "Have Lied, Will Travel".

Piss Poor Excuse Alert

Oh dear friends, i hope you've all had the most splendiferous weekends. I am brimming with tales of cat turds, helium balloons and inapropriate conversations, and a disturbing foray into the secret English sport of Duck Racing has been caught on video... But alas. Being the Competitive Little Bitch that I am, this evening sees me with my head down scribbling like fury as the clock over at Parenthesis' place ticks louder and louder. You see coupled with that Competitive Bitch thing is a bit of a Procrastination thing and a dash of Missing Mojo, so yes, I'm determined to do a damn good job but haven't left myself enough time (story of my life really) and all this sans mojo, well, things could get a tad messy. Hence, whilst i'm crafting my masterpiece, i shall also be drafting a list of saucy things to promise the dashing and dangerously talented Monsiuer Kyknoord in return for first prize. I am utterly shameless. But utterly saucy too. Kyk, watch that inbox my boy...

Hey Brit, Here's A Business Idea...

Hows about an Amy Winehouse cover to get your career back on track?

"They tried to make me go to rehab but i said nooo nooo no".

Or should we just give you a case of Cuervo and a straw and let you get on with being super mom?

Buggered Beyond Belief

Today i did a very stupid thing. All in the name of a chocolate digestive. And a dress i want to buy for The Wedding Of The Century.

I donned a pair of takkies, chucked on my gym pants (bought for slouching around the house splashing bolognaise and Ben & Jerry's on), plugged Ibiza Annual 2006 into my ears and then, for the first time in 8 years, i started to run. Yes run. That thing i only do when i know McDonalds is closing or i'm being approached by some guy outside CentreCourt who wants me to sign up for paintball. I ran. And ran. And ran. For like 500m. The rest of the way was power walking. Let's not get ahead of ourselves now - it has been a while and Little Miss 20-A-Day was not feeling too happy. I think i felt every last Marlboro to have ever nestled into my precious little alveoli scraping it's merry way upwards as my eyes bulged and i gasped like a dying goat. My arms had pins and needles in them for the entire duration (an HOUR i'll have you know) and my fingers swelled up like a pack of Cumberland sausages. That can't be a healthy sign can it? But in all this i must tell you that not once did i stop. And when i eventually turned around and headed home (for fear of dropping dead alongside a wheatfield in the middle of nowhere, twitching in a fresh roadkill manner, and never being found unless a family of foxes happened to drag me to the front step of the nearest pub) i realised i had earned a biscuit (according to my weightwatchers book) and by the time i got home i would have earned two.

I'm bloody stupid. But then I'm going to look like a million dollars in that dress. Not like i'm trying to make an impact on anyone... or anything... per se.