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.

Resumé/Resume

Dear Mr Prospective Employer Sir,

What an exquisite neckpiece. Hermès? I thought so. Please find attached PDFs of both my CV and portfolio.

Yours Faithfully
Madame TGW.

PS. Just thought you ought to know that should you decide to employ me i'm going to bombshell you with the fact that i have already booked and paid for my two week trip to South Africa for 'The Wedding Of The Century' roughly 2 weeks into my contract with you, so will be requiring more days leave than days already worked in your wonderful company. Look forward to hearing from you!


And hence this next piece of communication:


Dear Mr Muppet

Thank you for your kind offer of a second contract with you for a further gazillion weeks. You rock. Please ensure that the wifi is up and running upon my arrival and that the BMW is filled and ready to go. See you tomorrow.

Regards
Madame TGW.

Eric.

Moist Slice Of Fame Anyone?

If ya can't beat 'em join 'em... as best you bloody well can. Three cheers for coda for resurrecting Spread The Love again this VD, an extra 3 cheers to him for choosing my tasteful design and 10 cheers for me because i've gotten two things today: a card (thanks Damien ;) and out of bed in general. Today shall be a day of great achievement methinks.

A Lesson In Global Domination, TGW Style.

So once i'd finished stamping my foot i gave The Agency a little tinkle. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hi Agency Lady.

AL: Hi You.

Me: If you don't find someone to replace me IMMEDIATELY i swear to god i will leave this psychotic bitch first thing in the morning and let her get her own f*cking bran flakes (with only a little bit of milk, can't have them doing backstroke in it now).

AL: Ok we'll scurry around and cater to your polite request.

(3 hours pass - i have tried calling AL twice in those painful hours) Ring Ring

AL: Hello You

Me: So?

AL: We are flying a replacement wrangler in from Spain.

Me: It's a bout bloody t... SPAIN?

AL: Yes.

Me: My god i rock. I mean you do. Thank you Agency Lady. Your job is safe for another day. That will be all. Now go away.

After several hours and a brief "Hola" rapidly followed by "Adios y buena suerte, este mujer es una puta loca", I flounced out of the house, nose in the air, waving goodbye to 500 odd pounds which i'd just flushed down the toilet (metaphorically of course) and caught the fastest South West Train to London, still cursing like Joeleen (Tsow-Leeeen!), the resident Buitengracht street bergie.

The End Is Naai.

Enough. Finished. Forget It. Officially don’t care anymore. You can take your Zimmer and shove a rubber-bunged steel leg up your flaccid rectum you bloody fogey! I am sick to the bleeding teeth of this sh*t. If I have to witness one more wet fart mid-casserole, decant one more urine sample into a freshly washed out Nescafe bottle, hear you wheeze one more nasty word about me on your ancient 19-voetsek phone to your equally decrepit and cabbage-scented cohorts only to pull out a saccharine smile as the handset hits the cradle, or fetch you another f*cking glass of f*cking water I’m going to f*cking bludgeon you to within an inch of your f*cking sad and intensely lackluster life and hang you from your shower rail by your f*cking emergency pull-cord thingy-ma-flab. Hence, in the interests of public safety and to save the Oxford Dictionary people a lot of money by not inventing cause for the entry ‘Geriatricide’ I have decided to quit. And I’m not a quitter. I’m really not. 8 years of 20-a-day proves that. But this? This is absolutely f*cking ridiculous. I want out and I want out NOW. My suitcase is zipped.

**Once again, apologies to the British Police Force for my dramatic and completely fictitious ramblings. I wouldn't do it. Promise.