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.