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.

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.

iKona Wena!

Bored out of my little skull (for a change) i entered a competition or two on Worth1000.com - they were only beginners ones but still, i won. So i rule. The paddling pool. But then i happened upon what the 'big kids' have been getting up to and being Capetonian, only one word came to mind: Heeeeectic.
Have a squizz at the best of the rest.

** Update: Just to clarify that this is NOT my little creation. I wish it was but the sad fact is it's not. These okes are professionals. And stuff. You didn't really think i'd show you mine did you?

Scratching The Underdog's Belly

Aaaaaaawwww... Britain just loves a happy ending.

F*&! You, You Fat F*&!

So i just love the 14th of February. And so does Herpes. Venereal Disease shares the same abbreviation. Coincidence? I think not. Anyway, thanks to ( ) for the heads up, we shall be able to spread a little love (read 'extend middle finger whilst mouthing filthy words') rather than a carpet of boils this year. My recipient list is spreading. For the cards not the boils. Enjoy.


** Please note: No Granny Wranglers contracted any venereal diseases in the typing of this post, nor have they contracted any sexually transmitted nasties. Ever. Any reference to said diseases is purely for advertising purposes.

Eric Watch: Day 4

10.28am Ok i'm over this now. The bastard just won't die. His head's now disappeared so bang goes any hope of intelligent conversation now and lets not forget his boy bits dropped off first so he's officially NO use to me anymore. Seeing as he now just won't f*ck off I have simply poured half a kettle of boiling water on him. I can already hear the strains of Nelly Furtado... "she's a maaaan eater... dadadadadaaah". Evil bitch, aren't I?

R.I.P and all that crap.

Eric Watch: Day 3

8.59am "He's got the whoooole wooorld in his hands, he's got the whooooole woooorld in his hands, he's got the whooo..". You get the picture.

09.02am I have realised i need help. This is sad. F*cking sad. I've gone soft. But Eric hasn't.

Eric Watch: Day 2

8.17am No snow. Frost yes. With the exception of his willy dropping off in the early hours of this morning, either from frostbite or foxbite, Eric is in a stable condition in the flower pot at the front door. He can't possibly last another whole day though. Not a hope in hell. Really.

2.02pm Little buddy's struggling. Left eye popped out of it's socket in the afternoon sunshine.

20.27pm My god, i think He's going to make it another night! Either he's just the best thing since sliced bread or i make a damn fine snowman. Sh*t, now i'm confused. I don't know who rules more. It's hard to tell really, when you weigh up eerm... ja... and then i suppose... well ja... ja... ja... ja it's me. I rule more. Oh stop it, do you really think so? You do? Really? Stop it i'm blushing.

Eric Watch: Day 1

7.46pm Eric is alive and well. He has lost a little weight and is looking rather gaunt but i reckon he'll make it through the night. Who knows, maybe he'll dingle them berries and cause a fresh snowstorm tonight? Tsk tsk.

The Ultimate One Night Stand

I have found him. I have found the perfect man. He is more perfect than my french manicure. So he's pretty damn perfect. His name is Eric. He has brown eyes. He could do with a bit of a tan. He loves the outdoors, is hung like a reindeer and fits in the palm of my hand. He tells me i'm hot. He's only good for one night but hey, he always sleeps on the wet spot (good heavens what's that?!?!), and if he's still hanging around in the morning all i have to do is light up a smoke and he's gone. With one devilish look i can reduce the poor man to a puddle.

Yes, ladies and gentlefolk, i created my very first SnowStud today, complete with ye olde twig 'n berries and i loved every goddamn minute of it.

Couldn't get the pics off my camera but i shall reveal him in all his reindeer-like studly glory in due course.

F Is For Funny.

I had a very short and very sweet conversation this morning with my latest charge Muppet, who seems to be an English Gentleman through and through, with one exception: he's funny. And nice. (My teacher in junior school told me never to use that word. Sorry Mrs Vandoros).

Me: I've been meaning to ask what your cats' names are... (rather sheepish as i've been here for three weeks, fed them twice a day and refer to them as "bloody little sh*ts" under my breath)

Muppet: The black one is Benson... the tabby is Hedges.

(pause)

Muppet Contd: But don't worry, neither of them smoke.

It was there and then that i think i split my sides and wet my broeks all at the same time. I may have snorted as well but I blacked out shortly thereafter and it shall remain a mystery.

Big Brother I'm Watching You.

Can ya just smell the burning trail of the ratings graph as Channel 4 rockets to the stars and straight on til morning? Or are you overwhelmed with the diabolical stench of pig sh*t which is almost visibly leaking out of Jade Goody's ears?

(Aside: Hi my name is The Granny Wrangler and I watch Celebrity Big Brother)

I have often used my chosen temporary career as an excuse to watch trashy television and today more so than ever. What i haven't done however is tarnish this blog with smatterings of lust, disgust or any other reaction pertaining to trashy tv and it's characters. I've kept it tidy. Nobody wants to read about the things i'd like to do to Wentworth Miller given a bottle of honey and half an hour in a hotel room. (Ok, so maybe i mentioned him once but that was out of context and besides, Prison Break is anything but trashy - pssst...new series starts in the states on Monday by the way ;)).

For the uninformed (hows living under that rock workin' out for ya?) :

Everyone (except Osama Bin Laden who was unavailable for comment at the time) thinks Celebrity Big Brother housemate Jade Goody, ("white trash" according to Jermaine Jackson, and famous for sweet-fanny-adams) is a foul-mouthed, inarticulate lower class trashy cow, with an IQ to rival a f*cking fizz pop and a boyfriend who, I'm sure Osama would agree, is as exciting as a sodding broomstick. She and her Recruit-A-Coven buddies in the CBB house, Jo O'Meara and Danielle Lloyd, have been unwittingly making TOTAL ar*eholes of themselves across the globe by doing what thick-o's do best - bullying. And not just anyone mind you. Shilpa Shetty is, like, huge man. And not in a MickeyD's/KingPie kinda way. Like as in a random Checkers deli counter chickybabe versus Angelina Jolie kinda way.

So anyway, the world's gone nearly as mad as Jade's ma and okes are burning effigies in the streets of Bombay (or Beijing, or wherever it is they eat with their hands, Danielle) citing racist atrocities in the BB house. Fleet Street think all their Christmases have come at once, and Old Wotzit face Tony Blair even mentioned it in parliament for Google's sake (thanks Kyk).

Can anybody spell OTT? Anybody? Jade? Fancy a go? Danielle? Ooo, don't forget to breathe honey. Anybody?

* Think of this little link as an intravenous drip for all you BB addicts out there.

** Any bad language in this post is, of course, due to the influence Jade Goody has had on me. I am ashamed to say the least. But i'm not changing it.

I Deserve To Be Shot.

Wow.

It's been a while.

Sorry. I offer no legitimate excuses. Actually I do. I've been on 2 fabulous holidays, spent most of Cape Town face-down in a puddle of champagne, coming up only to take a drag of my Marlboro. No thanks to British Airways, i finally made it to Belgium for the coldest Christmas my arse has ever seen and then found myself face down in Framboise beer and Frieten. Daytime temperatures of -1 and a light dusting of snow was the general order of the day so being inside cramming mincepies into my gob was a much more appealing idea, although i did do a bit of open air skating and munched on honeyed almonds and chestnuts (roasted on an open fire!!) whilst wandering the Christmas market in Brugges.

I'm back, I'm fat and I'm ready to rock and roll. Grandokes, hold onto your commodes, The Granny Wrangler's resurfaced and she's cracking her emergency pull-cord! Time to kick some wrinkly crusty butt!!

SURPRIIIIIIISE!!!

I'M IN CAPE TOWN!!!!

Just before I begin, I’d like to state for the record, that to my knowledge I haven’t told a single porker! At least I think I haven’t.

So. Where to begin? Well basically, this is what happens when you have friends who read your blog and they happen to be the same friends you’re planning on surprising with your whole “hey okes, I’m baaaack”. You’ll forgive my need to be sneaky and devious.

Shortly before I left The Trunchbull, a couple I met in the godforsaken little village I was in, said they had a place for me to stay for two weeks before I went back to Cape Town (they didn’t realize I couldn’t afford the trip at that stage). His mother is Candy Floss. A legitimate case. And she lives 10 minutes away in the pokey little town I’ve spent the past two weeks in. And of course it wasn’t a placement through the agency so it wasn’t a fixed 15 day arrangement. And I could then afford the trip home. And so I did. And now I’m here. And it’s absolutely f*cking FANTASTIC!!

Culinary Prowess

Right, well, i'm pleased to announce i've pulled myself togther again. Sunday was not a happy day. At all. Anyway, moving along swiftly .

I thought it would be appropriate to brag right about now. Just because i can. And i feel like a little bit of admiration at the moment so please, don't hold back on the praise and compliments, oooos and aaaaahs and general disbelief.

Ladies and Gentlemen, pray silence please. The Domestic Goddess strikes again...

A Pint At The Typhoid Arms

Bleurgh. I feel like crap. Cabin fever is getting to me in a big way. It's a Sunday afternoon and in an attempt to escape I've found myself stuck in the dingiest little pub England has ever seen, terrified of even looking at the menu in case an insidious blob of salmonella leaps off and makes babies on my face, amidst a sea of poms whose sole purpose in life, it seems, is to put the 'arse' into Arsenal Supporter.
Hazy action replays of premier league football are silently blaring from about 43 screens throughout the room (I counted them). If it's one thing the English are good at (and it probably really is only one, if you don't count making a damn good Peshwari Nan) it's ensuring that even if you are so sh*t-faced you couldn't tell the difference between the end pocket in a pool table and a urinal, you will still be able to see the game on at least 7 different screens, depending on at which angle your lager-filled neck has decided to hang your flushed and pimply little head. Despicable.
I'm only here because some idiot has left their nearby wireless connection un-password-protected and I'm milking his stupidity for all it's worth. That and the fact that a taxi to the nearest outpost of civilization will cost me £30, which, when the only movie playing there is Casino Royale, sounds about as appealing as riding the escalator in a central London tube station with my tongue sliding lovingly up and down the handrail whilst i fondle the members of the menagerie nestled in the resident Jamaican busker's dreads with my freshly manicured nails.
Oh I'm just such a bundle of joy today.

The Merry-Go-Round

Well bring in the clowns, my life just became a fairground! It's taken a while but i thought it was now high time i introduced you to the latest addition to the list at the top right hand side of this page. May i present Candy Floss: Pink and sweet but that's about it. Bless.

After my treacherous adventures 'oop north' with Lemony, i vowed i wouldn't take anymore jobs with Alzheimer's patients. I have also vowed never to smoke in bed, never to have a one night stand and never EVER to succumb to England's hideous fashions this season. Of course as i write this I'm in bed with a pair of black footless tights on and a Marlboro Light. And any offers of a one night stand would be eagerly accepted at this stage.

My newest Alzheimer's ouma has just headed off to the day centre for the day. The things we do for money huh? Although to be fair, Candy Floss, whilst sharing a vague confection-connection with Lemony, has nothing else in common with her. She is a real sweetheart who lives in a haze of confusion, bewilderment and unhappiness, and is fully aware that she's losing it, even if she doesn't know who i am from one minute to the next and has revolving conversations which spin at a dizzying pace. She thinks I'm from Australia. I have decided to let that one slip. My heart just breaks to see it.

Hands up who didn't realise i had a soft side?

TGW Requests The Pleasure Of Your Company

In the spirit of spreading my International Domestic Goddess status further afield, I have accepted an invitation to be Sommelier at Revo’s intimate little dinner party for 10, which in turn means I have been tagged and must now organize my own. Now seeing as it’s for 10 and I count as one (simple maths, people) herewith my proposed guestlist of 9 dinner-worthy people who are cordially invited to spend an evening in my company, tempted with an endless supply of Cristal and decadent desserts:

Wentworth Miller (I’ll be seated next to/on top of him)
Robert Mugabe (Sushi a la Polonium Mr President sir?)
Gareth Cliff (I just adore the precocious little shit.)
Chelsey & Harry (As if! I wouldn’t be caught dead at the same dinner party as her. But Harry can come. His Nazi costume will add a touch of controversy to the occasion)
Borat (For make nice talkings with Harry The Prince)
Katie Melua (So I can get drunk and vomit on her)
Brendan Cole (for a little after-dinner-hip-action. The man makes me melt in little places I didn’t know existed!)
Mr Kipling, the cake man (My thighs owe it to him)
Donald Trump (To foot the bill)

Hired Help (Consider yourselves formally invited boys): The man on the other side of the mountain, Monsieur Kyknoord & self proclaimed ‘Boffin Jock’, Mark Forrester, both topless, buffed and wearing little black bow ties and leopard print banana-hammocks.

This intimate little soiree will be held atop a luxurious little houseboat on Lake Kariba. That is of course if I am entitled to choose my location?
Petrol and bullet proof vests will be provided in the event you decide to drive to the party.
itsu, Piccadilly, will be providing a special starter for Mr Mugabe. We don’t forsee him staying for dessert.

I Spy.

God, i just had to share this. Seth rocks my world.

Two Hips But No Hooray

If you followed my insane head ramblings of yesterday, well, congratulations. Revo didn't but then he was pissed so it was probably damned near impossible to get a handle on it, bless.

What i didn't make clear i realise, is the fact that these ramblings took place about a week ago, when there could have been the minutest possibility of getting a two week job which would cover the cost of my next return ticket. See when i came over i had to give a random date to return on with the plan being that i'd just change it to April when i head home to The Wedding of the century. That date is a week away. And I just got a new Ouma. And agency placements last 15 days.

*Sniiiiiiiiiiiffffffffff*

Looks like the only sundowners i'll be looking forward to happen at 3.30pm.

Voices In My Head

Not so long ago, one cold grey wet miserable English day (unusual that), the following conversation took place inside my head.

I’m bored. Me too. Lets do something crazy. Like what? You know, like craaaazy. But where do you start looking for a Kurt Darren CD in London? I said crazy, not retarded you doos. Oh. I feel like flying home. Lying on Camps Bay beach for two weeks. What about Clifton? Do I look like a herpes encrusted stick insect with a penchant for organic lettuce leaves and a nose full of cocaine. Nah, Herschel girls have suntans. Precisely. Ok, so how we gonna get there? We’ll fly. Oh. How will we afford it? Hic – sorry, that cider’s given me hiccups. Did we have a cider? Aren’t ciders for Chavs? Who are you? Is it time to go to school? 5 more minutes. Please?

** CRACK**

(1 X Poes Clap aaaaaand we’re back in the game.)

We'll get a job immediately after we leave The Trunchbull, work for the two week placement, leave straight from the granny's place to Heathrow, jump on a plane (coz we have a return ticket booked for that day already) and head home. Easy. Listen, The Agency couldn't organise a c*ck-up in a strip club, let alone get us a two week booking with surgical precision on the exact dates we need. There's no margin for error. It's exactly 15 days between leaving The Trunchbull and our booked date. It can't be done. F*ck you. I hate you when you're sober.

Only in Afric... Uh, England.

Hell i could have just stayed in Africa.

Saved From The Bell

Right. Feeling a bit like Dorothy now, wandering around with a glazed look most doughnuts would give, well, their nuts for. There goes me tempting fate “ooo I’m off to the countryside, hope it’s nothing like the wales incident blah blah blah” Not imagining for a second I’d be plonked in the middle of Rural Bloody Dorset with nothing but a bare fridge and a heinously overweight cat/men*pausal panther to keep me company, and seeing as the fridge was lacking substance and kept moaning about how ‘empty’ it felt, it was pretty much down to the cat, it’s claws and me. Hey I’m sure it’s time to get my prescription renewed?

So much has happened in the past two weeks I don’t know whether I should even attempt to string anything together or just put it down to a black hole in my immediate past. I’ll go boring point form again.

Little village. Population 85. In summer.
No. of shops: nil
No. of sheep: Enough to put a smile on an Aussie’s face every night for 11 straight years.
No. of South Africans excluding me: One.
No. of Pubs: One. Bonus.
No. of very sh*ggable barmen: One. Double Bonus.
No. of sh*gs with said bar man: Nil.
Cr*p.

My ex-GOTM, the formidable headmistress Miss Trunchbull (forgive my Roald Dahl theme of late) was quite a piece of work. She may have both hips intact and more marbles than most 28 year olds, let alone 98 year olds but that just made it worse. Boarding school hell was what it was. The bell was constantly ringing, the food was pretty crap and I stood sneaking fags outside the back door at 11pm, back pressed against the wall as close as my expanding deriere would allow so as not to set off the security lights and alert the Dobermans. My International Domestic Goddess status took a knock most nights where, upon completion of our meal, I was told “hmmm, could try harder”. No seriously. Oh and my printing on the crosswords could “do with a bit of work”. Dead f*cking serious. It was pretty crap. And bloody lonely. And the dining room smelled like cat piss, dry rot and Brussels sprouts. Where can I sign up for another term?

Hello Kitty

Man i seem to be rolling these old ducks off like $50 bills in a wh*re house.
Another day, another fossil and this f*cking chilly Tuesday morning sees me reporting for rolecall in the direction of Stonehenge. I am about to meet the headmistress from hell and her heinous venom-spitting, pernicious poes-y cat for a couple of weeks of fun in the countryside. Countryside spelt OHMYGODIFTHIS TURNSINTOANOTHERF*CKINGWALESJOBIMSCREWED. I can only imagine the look on the woman's face as i asked her over the phone "do you have chickens by any chance?". Or, depending on the volume of her hearing aid, "Has Charles Dickens taken you up the arse?". That would account for much gasping and stretching of one's eyes i suppose. The question, not the act. Mind you... URGH enough!

Anyway, i have ascertained that the only foul fowl belong to the neighbours and shan't be requiring any wrangling for the duration of my stay. Thank god. Now i can focus all my attention on the bitchy little poes-y cat.

Jagshemash!

The weekend that was:

Left a rather forlorn BFG behind, having survived two weeks without ever reaching forward to yank the 3 inch whisker protruding from her chin, which was constantly trailing in her Baxter’s Mushroom Potage.

Very proud.

Had the first decent shower in weeks, sans little blue bucket.

Watched Borat and nearly burst a blood vessel or six.

Suffered severe neck trauma from watching an incredible fireworks display in Wimbledon park. Worth every hour spent at A&E.

Tip toed my way through the squalor that is Clapham. First and last time.

Had to be poured into several taxis. Not very proud. Almost back to A&E.

Finally accepted that ‘he’s just not that into me’. Eina.

Whale Oil Beef Hooked.

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

Reason To Love Your Job No. 1

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

Religious Freak Out

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

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

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

Hello little girl, would you like a sweetie…?

Ode To A Skid Mark.

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

Of Feet & Mouths

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

The dinner conversation went something like this…

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

BFG: Excuse me?

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

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

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

BFG: He’s a very famous artist.

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

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

Can anybody spell “apoplexy”?

Breaking The Curse

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

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

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

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

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

Masochistic Me

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

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

Short Live The Queen!!

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

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

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

The Chicken Wrangler

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



Or you can view it here

Coming and Going

So, s*x with a client…

(Knew that would catch your attention)

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

Methinks an explanation would be somewhat beneficial at this point.

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

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

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

Rustic Hell 101

Coursework (1st Semester)

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

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

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

Welcome to Hell.

The Princess Of Wales

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

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

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

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

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

Sobriety Sucks Ass

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