...capable of some indescribable outrage

Get off of my Time

2010-11-17T16:46:00.002Z

Eugh thing. Client just gave me the wrong number to call her. I call. Some buttery old bugger wheezing on a fag end answers. I resist the temptation to hang up immediately, but after establishing (quickly) that I'd reached the wrong number, he was cloyingly persistent, crapping on about 'Anthony Keith Menswear of Pimlico*'.

Was the over-the-phone version of stepping into a shop/area of a department store knowing you've made a wasteful choice, only to be kettled by the sales assistant towards The Wrong Thing For You. Does this work on people?? 'Oh I know I said I was looking for a knee-ish length silk type dress for a summer wedding, but you're so right - the black Lycra-lace thigh cropper is what I meant.'

Anyway, valiantly trying to close the call and hang up, I left the tinkering-with-himself tailor muttering, creepily:

"Well, we're always here to give you a little chat. I can't fit women but I can chat to them. Any time you like. Any thing you like. God bless you."

It's a good thing the wind didn't change direction on my facial expression by the time I bashed the receiver!

*I'm glad I'm not a 13yr old boy with a trouser leg in SW1P.

Anyone for (telephone) tennis with minors?

2008-09-05T12:08:00.010+01:00

Just received this email from the Club Secretary at my tennis club, and given his nervous-officious manner, it really made me chortle:

From: ******
Sent: 05 September 2008 11:58
To: ********
Subject: Latest Tennis members telephone list.

We have had numerous requests for an updated list, which I have attached.

Please note Juniors are not included.

Kind regards,

*****

Patriot Porn

2008-07-02T15:41:00.004+01:00

Well, I recently cruised the 'Inside Passage' of Alaska, departing Seattle on a vast ocean liner stuffed with flag waving red state patriots, many of them citing the cruise as the perfect trip, relieving them from the fear of flying with terrorists, walking, and finding sensible food at night. Many many people were lovely, but some were so proud I thought there'd be a mutiny when the Captain announced we'd entered Canadian waters. (There was certainly some disaffection and hasty checking of itineraries). Some examples might be:

1. National pride expands US territory.
Some chick from Newport Beach (more Chino than O.C.), on reaching the summit of a mountain pass via narrated train journey, proclaiming to the group: "You gotta love this country hahhh? (Triumphantly.) Go-a-a-d bless the U...S... of... A...". We were in Canada.

2. State/Regional pride.
The persistently proud and competitive wearing of sweatshirts/ caps/ body art displaying one's state /city origin. It must be disorientating to holiday without your vehicle and its identifying state plate, so instead you get to advertise 'Delaware', 'Iowa', 'Nebraska' or 'North Dakota' on your person. Anyhows, state discipline quickly gave way to a wider national pride and desire to impress the folks back home, (or the taxi driver at Kansas City airport), so that within an hour of boarding ship, the name of most recently visited Alaskan port would be emblazoned abreast low-lying man breasts, and uni-boobs everywhere. This trend was most prevalent in the eat-yourself-into-a-wheelchair buffet court mind ;-P.

3. Mawkish pride.
Without doubt the most disturbing display was witnessed at the Bellagio water spectacular back in Las Vegas. The fountains splashed to the now unpleasantly arrogant 'God Bless the USA' (watch here). The assault on the senses was merciless; the red white and blue, the astonishingly embarrassing, and just plain weird lyrics, and the sweet stench of Alabama folks singing along and making sex noises. I assume the footage is used regularly by way of repetitive torture at Guantánamo.

Birthday homage to The Louche Perspective's post about Monikisms.

2008-01-11T13:28:00.001Z

10 things my other half said, which might explain any expectorant on my screen/book/walls...

1. (Menacingly). "If you don't let me read your blog entries about me before you publish them, I'm going to start writing profanities all over it"

2. (Pensively). "I've always wanted a silver birch"

3. (Like a 5 yr old boy swinging his feet around the pedestal). "Can you pass me the wet loo roll?"

4. (Admonishingly). "If you get too hot and take your pyjamas off in the night... can you try and do it without waking me up this time?"

5. "A bush should be a uniform colour. Not with smatterings of purple here and there."

6. (Piquantly). "Can't you pull your stomach in when you shower? I'm trying to watch here ;-)"

7. (Assertively). "Full leather seats are either too kinky, or too sweaty". (When did it become *or*?)

8. (Barely jokingly). "Shall I call your granddad to see what he thinks about your behaviour?"

9. (In a somewhat parental tone). "Is your hair falling out?"

10. (Gravely). "The less you talk, the quicker I'll be"

Happy Birthday to The Louche Perspective

I ain't ever writing this book...

2007-12-20T22:19:00.003Z

Not written, no contract drawn up (nor will there be), and already they're *discounting* my work?!

Showtime vomits on our village

2007-10-01T15:24:00.001+01:00

Hook Norton had 'Showtime'. You Just Can't impose badly rendered bad musical theatre on impressionable young people who don't get out of the area much. I would know; I was forced through 3 hours of 'Joseph & His Technicolour Dreamcoat' as an 8 year old, and as a DIRECT result, I:

1. Endured a crush on a biblical figure (the 12 yr old playing him was HOT)

2. Suffered significant waste of life & lost ageing thesp lusting opps at the NT

3. Tolerated tabloid serialisation-worthy interval advances from those that would seek to prey on the Sentimental.

The whole damned shebang (they say that at lot in musical theatre) represented an always guilty, always socially debilitating longing for The Musicals. Thankfully, the whole tawdry affair has now been put to bed in the ground, along with the stained librettos.

So... however you look at it, whichever way round, upside down, legs together, syncro, malco, pissed, stunned, stupefied... this is very wrong, and bound to mis-shape village life:

http://www.broadedged.f2s.com/newsletter/photos/showtime.jpg

It's approaching Springtime for Hitler wrong. So bad it must have been good, and I'm almost pruriently sorry I missed it. Almost. AND, they used a place of worship to SELL tickets; probably a blessing in disguise. Viewers ruined for other churches, and aaaall thaaat jaaaaaazzz (What's not to sing about?) I also suspect the show was slightly misrepresented, as I'm not sure there are too many fillies of a certain age doing a Cilla Black round here. It ain't exactly 'Anthing Goes' in the 'High' Cotswolds. And what on earth was for 'supper'? A lightly seasoned selection of matured camel toe? Please no, that's All I Ask of You. Oh bar humbug, can't you feel the love tonight? No.

This is not a wind up...as seen on Ebay

2007-06-20T22:26:00.000+01:00

beautiful cream coloured marquee

only used once for a party

like new

polyester/rubber washable covers

plastic coated metal tubular poles in white to match

was erected on our lawn for a party and has unavoidable rain splashes around the base

but easily cleaned off

you will not be disappointed once erected as my wife was'nt

happy bidding (ps rrp £350)

Quote du jour

2007-05-25T11:40:00.001+01:00

Jonny:
"I've just realised that the reason things seem small to me is because I have such big hands."

Which lead me to thinking... compulsory reductive 'hand jobs' for those with a predilection for little people?

Red Top Scandal for my school

2007-05-13T21:12:00.000+01:00

I think my old school got off lightly with this story. 'Enterprise project'... of sorts. In my day it was capitalist 6th formers hiring a room for £100, and selling 300 tickets at £20 each to a caustic mix of 14-18 yr olds. The cash would invariably be used to buy enough blow & hooch to dance the night away and still excel in advanced mechanics comps 'n county javelin trials in the morning. Fitting, I always thought, since the cringe school motto was 'mens sana in corpore sano' and suggested role model Margaret Hilda Thatcher... Also, 'sozzled at 15' is lenient reportage.

ebay excuses!

2007-05-09T10:32:00.001+01:00

I sometimes wonder if the population is not in decline, owing of the sheer amount of people who have (hush) 'deaths in the family' meaning that they can't dispatch their goods on time. One man wrote me a lengthy missive explaining how his Grandparents had been involved in a suicide pact attempt, and that medical staff were restricting access to the shed where he kept his goods.

Another time, I was sobbed to by a vendor in Idaho that his Aunt had gangrene in her feet and was having them removed, preventing my ear plugs from being parceled up. (Possibly he was abusing her lower dexterity?) The close proximity of ear toys and rotting flesh lead me to cancel the order, on the strict proviso that Jonny promise to stop dreaming about me, aloud.

Then there was the American dentist, who had performed a subsequently libelous root canal and had forgotten to order his stock of toothbrush heads for his 'shop'. (Like he forgot to clean his dental instruments?) I have since changed my ebay settings to buy from Europe only, where less people are suffering for my consumerism. Mind you, this just in today, apologising for the delay of some garden equip:

Hi

Sorry I was away for some time. I asked my wife to send them and she couldn't even do that.

I will send them today or tomorrow morning.

Please accept my DEEP apology.

I love the way people bitch off their wives and husbands to perfect strangers on email. I once sold a red dress for a friend and the man buying it commented that whilst he was happy to do business, his wife was no Lady in Red, and he wasn't at all sure why he was bothering to truss her up. Also, vizzavi my garden equipment, I am not so sure a 'DEEP apology' is quite called for. The item was a hose pipe. We might become the next ebay casualties.

Ear toys

2007-05-04T14:40:00.000+01:00

Just been browsing some outrageous US Navy Seal NASA technology inspired ear-wear for all activities, wet or dry. Obviously people who are kept awake all night by snorers need porno ear wear to get them going. Note that these are for PROs only! Adds piquancy to the old c*ck in ear of an adversary insult... Does the soft poly-urethane tip make it any less offensive I wonder? Tits to that, I say.

At the gym with Homer Simpson

2007-04-12T21:16:00.000+01:00

The HANDS have struck again! Jonny caused a minor delay on exiting the car park at the gym today because his fingers were simply 'too fat to dial'. Hahaha. He had the right exit code for the barrier, but his finger tips were apparently too big for the buttons. Blushing, he grew ever more confused and self-conscious, and as the queue of cars behind us lengthened, he took to petulantly mashing the keypad, looking at me like a guilty child waiting for his scolding. As we pulled away, he asked sheepishly: "Do you think it's time for me to get a 'dialling wand'?"

Who sleeps in a bed like thiiis? POIROT does!

2007-03-26T19:09:00.001+01:00

Who sleeps in theRolls Royce of beds? The opportunistic 'Bed Consultant' trying to persuade me to upgrade our proposed Vi Spring to the 'Signatory' model was indiscreet enough to reveal: "I sold one of these to *Poirot* you know. You can have a name plaque like *he* did"... lol. This was tasty gossip indeed, being a huge fan as I am - the very bed where Hercule rests his little grey cells. Gateway to a world of inter-war dandified lugggsxxxury, Belgian truffles, Chaps, Saville Row tailoring, sweeping curves at Whitehaven Mansions, the Charleston, decadence at Quaglino's, the Orient Express, ocean liner opulence... (gasp) oooo, ohhh the image so very nearly coerced me.

I was pleased (and almost uncontrollably amused) to note that it was the fictional Hercule Poirot who bought the bed, and *not* the actor David Suchet. I appreciated the distinction. Who knows, perhaps Mr. Suchet popped into the store in full Poirot regalia, dressed as befits the occasion of buying a ten thousand pound bed... One can just imagine the scene - the costume-padded rotund little man trotting around the store struggling to mount and dismount the lofty beds. I wonder if he brought Miss Lemon along to test the firmness of the mattress [1], or perhaps that cheery saphead Capt. Hastings to ask ridiculous questions about hand nested calico pockets:

"I say old chap, how's your horse hair? Golly, I do like a hand teased long strand. Is it *loose*?.... Well I'll be damned, is *that* Belgian ticking? What a jolly fine double stuffing you'll have here Poirot!"

On as almost completely separate note, the average high st. bed guy is no less seamy than your typical Carpet Shite (sic) salesmen. The obscenely, nauseatingly perverted Benson's Beds vulture was actually touching cloth as we bounced about on the bed testing the movement transfer. Euuuuggghhhh. "When you finally decide to go to sleep...". Foul.

[1] Miles, knowing your fondness for Miss L. as I do, I urge you not to try this at home... She is *too* autistic for you!

The Wrong Stuff

2007-03-23T10:09:00.001Z

Spotted, Monday: Mucky Mark Wright, of 'The Wright Stuff' coming out of the Instant Tan Centre on James Street, Marylebone on his mobile phone with a bottle of tan deepener, and a lol languorous leer for Jonny. He's absolutely frightful in real life; taut stonewash denim, faux leather jacket, and a waddle so confusing to the rear fabric of his jeans that he *must* have had over-ripened bum grapes.

My mind boggles, his will

2007-03-20T18:05:00.000Z

So we're moving in less than two weeks time. It's a good time to start packing the things you know full well you won't use/ consume/ strap on before the move. Today we picked up some sturdy wine boxes from Sainsbury's, and filled them with the week's food and wet bog roll. (And some more wine, I noticed, despite being told to pare heavy goods purchases). Anyway, on returning home, I packed up all the bottles of spirits, a couple of bottles of vintage champagne we'd bought during the Thresher's yuletide bonanza, and most of the wine, leaving 4 or 5 bottles to see J through the pre-move.

The Panic set in pretty quickly, with Jonny hastily rummaging through the boxes, 'sweating cobs' and accusing me of lady-controlling his epicurean enjoyment of good wine. Or, as he put it, looking at the full wine rack I'd left: "Ww-w-where's all my wine?" Now, he *knows* that between now and the move, the only beverage propah I'll be drinking is half a bottle of pop when we exchange contracts. His drinking regime at home is never more than half a bottle of wine or a couple of beers... no more than 5 nights a week. Unless, of course, we're socialising, taking all the edges off, or my Dad's staying. Despite this, he's arranged for the following items to be made available, remaining unpacked :

1 bottle Sancerre
1 bottle Pinot Grigot
1 bottle Chablis
3 bottles '05 Bordeaux (on special offer today)
Several shots worth of Zubrovska Bison Grass Vodka (traditionally a 'quick fix' when aforementioned Dad is in town)
1 bottle sake
1/4 bottle VSOP champagne cognac

We move in 10 days.

He says that to ME?

2007-03-15T19:58:00.001Z

The Bogs, Me, Jim, Gills
Originally uploaded by Caroline M.

Just had a chat with my Dad about Building Regulations, and managing the unreasonable needs of Estate Agents who're trying to steam roll us into signing a contract before the searches are even complete. Jim - perhaps one of the most boorish, opinionated, inappropriately risqué and downright offensive conversationalists I've ever known, chips in:

"Just call them Cal-line, and use that gently persuasive tone I taught yer, and no firing up with your... how shall I say? Heheh... your abrasive manner heheh... ok Love?"

Harumph! I assured him that my abrasive manner is reserved chiefly for 'Daddy Dearest' (as he's taken to calling himself). Yes yes, I know he *means* well.

Pulling the wool

2007-03-15T14:43:00.000Z

Heh heh heh. What's the difference, this way or that?

Short shorts

2007-03-14T16:46:00.001Z

Volte face VOLTE FACE I was screaming inside as I cycled behind Jonny today. I didn't think anything could be more horrific than the thought of seeing him in cycling shorts. They're for professional athletes, who rely on their super smooth dynamic technology and air vents, and for NO-ONE else. It's not that Jonny is ugly of body or anything, just that it's not right, spesh when you've got a high rising butt. The long legged fitted gear are somehow fine, the short cycle shorts, not. It's for this reason that I've never suggested he buy any proper cycling kit, for fear that he'd buy the shorts. But with the sun out today, he'd switched his usual jogging trousers for a pair of short shorts. Yikes. The shorts were billowing in the wind, rising ever higher as he bobbed and bounced about on the potholes, blissfully unaware of his rising hemlines. Beware oncoming traffic, you're going to get an eyeful. Bensta, I'm reminded painfully of your ball slips during cross-legged relaxation in the orange shorts. No pic avail :-(

As planned, we stop off at a shop selling exercise equipment. The employee is faultessly helpful and informative, and it's all going very well. Then the boss, a strapping rehead enters. He's clearly perplexed by Jonny's attire, and trying his best to answer our questions sensibly. We're all stood there talking figures, and yet all so distracted by Legs Eleven. Boss, who was sat down, unable to escape from Jonny's legs, battled on with his sales pitch:

"Yes we can certainly discuss these prices... it depends what mood I'm in... if I've got my negotiating hat on (unsettled now), and had my lunch already (trying not to look at the legs) I might be feeling generous."

I had to say something; everyone was thinking 'Why is this otherwise normal looking young man wearing thin flimsy swimming shorts in my face, it's March. I'm not enjoying this, am I?'... So I chipped in: "Yep, so basically, come in just after lunchtime and when Jonny's not wearing short shorts". Phew, the salesman could chuckle at last. Jonny seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, having been a bit confused with the strange atmosphere. I think we'll head to a cycling shop sometime soon. It won't be easy though - he's a defiantly shameless short short wearer. He really really REALLY REALLY really is. As his close male pal, it falls to you to say something, Aleeexxx...

"I am a CUSTOMER, NOT an inconvenience!"

2007-03-13T17:01:00.000Z

Much amusement at the Bristol branch of The Woolwich this afternoon. Banking hours are laughable, we all know this. What type of business closes at 4.30pm in the afternoon to its customers? So today we turn up at The Woolwich with cheques in hand at 4.26pm, running late, nothing new. We have a system of once-a-week-bAnking, getting there as late as possible in order to a) have some semblance of a normal working day, and b) piss off the bank staff. Today they thought they'd had the last laugh, as the doors are locked when we arrive. I don't have my watch on, am irked that the doors are locked, assuming they've closed at 4.30pm on the nose, probably a minute earlier, but how to prove that?

Jonny though, has his watch on. His watch is 5 mins fast and it's showing 4.31pm so he *knows* the lazy sloths inside have closed early. Now we're mad. Jonny starts knocking on the door and ringing the bell. He's not giving up. Then he starts pointing to his watch and banging (the door) a little. "I'm know it's not 4.30, I *know*. I've got a right to get in here until 4.30 on the dot". The staff inside seem to be scurrying into back rooms, scared of what this man with the big hands gesticulating wildly outside might do.

Amazingly the Chief chief in the branch marches over to the door and lets us in. "I'm sorry Sir... we appear to have had a problem with our clock." Ha ha ha. Likely story. Back in the day job, when, inconceivably, I was awarded the title of 'Head of IT' for my ability to find the 'Task Manager', I abused my posn. by regularly moving everyone's PC clocks fwd just a little. The golden rule of taking the piss is: 'Don't take the piss', and The Woolwich wenches had gotten greedy with the clock. The clock cheating cover-up was farcical. They'd hastily taken the main clock off the wall and the Manager was heavily beaded with panic sweat, ordering a young boy to remove the other clocks. The lad look confused, probably because he'd been sent around earlier in the day to move them all forward.

Manager: "Oh I'm sorry, we usually check closing time with the Talking Clock, but today we forgot". Yeah yeah, your in-branch clock skipped 5 mins in one day did it? Wow. As we banked, the cashiers got a cute little telling off by their manager who was reminding everyone that, had they not discovered the inaccuracy, this man banking his cheques "...could have reported us to Head Office"... Jonny simpered, unconvincingly: "Ohhh Iiii'd *never* have done that". Yes we would.
Customer- 1 Corporation - 0

Confessions of a reformed Northern pie eater

2007-03-10T15:56:00.000Z

The benefits of decent aerobic exercise, I'll explain wtf in a sec:

Lungs become larger and more efficient, increasing O2 throughout body
More red blood cells
Heart and lung muscles strengthen
Cardiac output increased so heart has to beats less
Resting heart rate decreases, heart lasts longer
More capillaries, healthier organs
More mitochondria
Better muscle endurance
Decrease in Coronary Heart Disease risk
Decreased blood pressure
Increased bone density which needs to be built up in youth
Body fat decreases
Bad cholesterol decreases
Increased flexibility
Stronger joints, ligaments, tendons which can't be significantly improved in old age
Increased blood and oxygen flow to the brain
Increased growth factors that help create new nerve cells
Increased chemicals in the brain that help cognition
You can sometimes eat a pie

This morning, I heard an obstructively large individual exclaim: "What do I need to exercise for? I'll just have a Diet Pie for lunch". Pfffff!! I immediately longed to counter-obstruct this carefree pie-hard by standing in front of him in the Greggs queue, wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with the above list. Diet Pie? Now, I remember my exhausting pie days, and I wasn't aware it was possible to make pastry without a subcutaneously crippling blend of lard, suet, shortening and various other mortal ingredients. I *definitely* recall the satisfying effect of pure lard in my meat 'n potato pie lunches, flushed down by a slice of 'fruity' winberry pie. This, shamefully, had *nothing* on the freshly delivered cheese 'n onion pastries in kidney gravy, sloshed down with a 'cancel-the-swimming-training-I'm-grossly-fat' custard tart for 'afters'. So, hardly surprising that the 'Diet Pie' concept confused me. I'm guessing that Greggs are now offering a 'reduced' fat puff for the weight conscious. 'Reduced fat', of course, meaning 'a bit of a smaller portion', or '99% fat only'. It's food industry knavery.

There's no point Govt. complaining about obesity and not regulating the dishonest food industry, is there? (I'm still reeling about Ginsters healthy snack 'solutions'). Anyway, I wish someone had pointed out the dangers of the two crust (and smoky bacon crisps, choc Hob Nobs, doughnuts, Milk Tray, Frosties & Drifters) to me as a tween. I feel sorry for my younger pie-eyed, pig-ignorant self. I blame my poor, put upon Mum. We lived above a pie/pizza/chip/sweet/booze/sandwich/grocery store during my formative years, and the corned beef 'n onion barm cakes she'd make for the 'deli' minded passing truckers made me violently ill. Catering Margerine nearly took my life. If you've never had it, it's way wayyyy worse than 'Stork'. The taste and texture conjures a sensation of having wiped your tongue in the pussing moob fat of a bloated syphilitic cadaver recently dragged from a toxic waste plant. It'll put you off animal fats for life...

No matter how fastidiously we prepared my sandwich, in isolation of any thing which had come in contact with the evil marg., somehow a smidgen of the synthetic yak would rub its way onto my Corned Dog Bap. It was then that Mum (exasperated by my picky tastes and mistrust of her food prep.), suggested I eat pie produce for lunch; delivered freshly every day, full of quality ingredients, and, crucially, made by someone else. 'It's only shortcrust, meat, and vegetables'. (Yeah, like the time Falafel King said Falafel was just 'beans and pulses', no deep fat fryer here officer).

So in addition to Sat Fats tax, they should post some sort of laminated [1] warning of the cons of pies for everyday use, and the pros of regular exercise in every fast food outlet, school dining hall and maternity unit in the land, with the added note that a desperate dash to the Cornish Bakery Outlet does *not* constitute vigorous exercise. Mind you, digesting a 'Wigan Kebab' [2] probably would.

[1] They will hock their meaty ketones on it.

[2] Miles, I hope this isn't lost on you...

Working from home, 5pm Friday

2007-03-09T17:14:00.002Z

Sitting in the office with small [1] business partner/ my old man, no employees, and I ask: "Can we discuss the surveyor's report?" (on the house we're hoping to buy). His response, with not so much as a smidgen of irony:

"Err, I thought we could do that *outside* of office hours" ROFL.

[1] The business, not the man.

Farmers are the new Anarchists

2007-03-09T15:54:00.000Z

This news clip about a Farmer's hilarious attempt to build on green belt land and get away with it had me chuckling, especially as council planners can be so corrupt themselves. Building on green belt is obviously distateful and wrong, but his night-time building escapades and panto concealment are deliciously farcical. What an entertaining twunt. Watch the video!

It reminds me of the day a distantly related fraudulent Farmer was hauled in for Tax Evasion, lol.

Gruesome Twosome

2007-02-27T18:24:00.000Z

New Beonscreen postings:

Do you have a fetish for mannequins or a fetish for vomit?

Do you have phobia of pregnant women or a phobia of feet?

Then click here (you sick fuck). 'Fetishes and Phobias' is a party theme I plan to realise.

The above TV ad renders the average, know-where-you-are-with-him/her sex addict appeal and its likely applicants, unadventurous, and well, less ridiculous by comparison.

I guess the ideal 'contributor' would be a married sex addict with heavily pregnant wife who morning sicked on her own size 11 feet and can only muster a few positions due to her condition. BTW, she most definitely *isn't* interested in 'trying out things [she'd] never usually consider doing?'

Shower tourists

2007-02-26T22:12:00.000Z

What is it with roaming eyes in the shower these days? Almost weekly I have to tut or reproach someone for peering into my shower cubicle. It's not that I'm shy, far from it; it's the principle. If the cowboy door is closed and the shower is running, don't look in - simple. So what if oftentimes I enjoy languishing in the shower, head bowed, arms crossed, rocking from side to side like the proverbial Romanian orphan? I like it. To the casual intruder, the image might resemble a boy who suddenly grew boobs and is checking out what they actually do. But that’s the body-curious onlooker’s problem. Mind you, that sight is nothing if you’ve ever attended a communal shower. Extreme pub(l)ic hygiene does need to get a room.

Then there’s bog chancers. This mostly affects women. You go into the toilet, you close the cubicle door, then you find the lock doesn't work. What the hell, you hold it firmly shut, clearly shut. There are 20 other available cubicles, with doors ajar, evidently empty, yet you can *guarantee* some chief will try your door, causing head injury or momentary confusion over who is actually in the wrong. At this point I usually issue an apology, then hastily, audibly retract it: “Actually, it wasn’t my fault, it was yours”. (I perform this Apology Retraction to strangers a great deal, especially when there’s mutual fault, and the other person fails to apologise also).

Anyway, showers… Today a woman actually opened the door to my shower, stepped in, and only then deigned to introduce her purpose: “Oh, I was wondering if I’d left my key in here”. By now she’s IN my f*cking cubicle. I don’t care if you’ve left your aristocratic Grandmother’s 5 carat engagement ring in my cubicle, have some dignity. I was agog, aghast, didn’t know what to say. It’s not that I’m shy, far from it; it’s the principle. Totally unacceptable! AND she rested her hands on my towel. I struggled to find the right words. “You could have knocked” didn’t seem reasonable for a cowboy door shower cubicle. She definitely wasn’t taking a day trip to the Isle of Lesbos either, it was just sheer rudeness - a willful and self-important disregard of *my* privacy. I’ll wager it rarely happens in quite the same way in the men’s showers, as what straight man wants to chance upon another chap carefully lathering his bell end?

The Wizard's Wand

2007-02-25T23:06:00.000Z

Here to follow, a barely post-pubescent Daniel Radcliffe on stage, displaying all his new manly wares in the already darkly disturbing but brilliant: 'Equus'.

Get your NSFW Blue rinser paedo porn here. 'You be Harold, I'll be Maude' etc. Patrick Marber's got nothing on this.

One of those occasions where your Gran [1] remarks: "My, my hasn't that Harry Potter grown up? He has a likeness of your Granddad when he returned from the war", then stashes the Daily Express pull-out in her 'reading' drawer.

[1] apologies to Grans.

Hooky Hooky

2007-02-25T18:10:00.000Z

If all goes to plan, we’re moving to Hook Norton, and if it doesn’t, I’ll delete this post and confine myself to solitude for several days, with strong bitter. Here's how life might be, in pics:

Jonny's sick of being banished from the bedroom

Jonny, circa 2020 at the Hooky beer festival….

Jonny gets a BOGOF deal from Bolivia for the housewarming

Miles after he said to his personal trainer: “I’ll have a Daniel Craig”

Jonny heads back from the shops

That crazy Lexta, at the DIY again

5 mins walk away, Ben’s new spiritual homeland!

Sian’s new car, hahahahaha

Jonny listens as Alex tells him its the BEST beer he's ever had! (check out the comment, lol)

Lex just wouldn’t leave the poor sow alone, yikes!

Sian and her blow up doll, at this summer 's beer festival, hee hee

Jonny makes plans to ‘take the edge off’

It's time to take a country lover

Miles' Beast II?? :-P

Something literary for Lex

Bensta, the chancer

The boys having a lie down

Do you think they have corporate accounts?

400m from our house is Marv’s new house:

The village council prepares for Ben's arrival ;-)

My new running track

Sian wins the jeep derby

Sian shows off her army training!

We don't live in the same village as these people

Bensta gets bitter on 'Hooky' beer

The nearest Jonny’s getting to his own church wedding

Country life did not suit Caroline well

That’s us this summer, nearest pub

Miles fails to distinguish his fetishes for meat and violence

Michelle cries wolf, AGAIN, or was it Sian, or Sam?

Disturbing in SO MANY ways...Who did this to her? So wrong

C*nts are still running the world

2007-02-25T18:02:00.000Z

If this theory stands, then we should be charged whilst queuing to be charged for goods we're being overcharged for in a store etc. Why can't they scrap road tax and increase the price of fuel to directly tax the car dependent, that way not even the unlicensed can escape paying? You get cashback if the public transport for your commute isn't 'fit for purpose' and only if it's too far to cycle...

Work doodle

2007-02-22T21:24:00.000Z

Just found an hilarous doodle by J-man. He seems to have been devising a new mission statement for our little business, inspired by apathy. It reads:

"Welcome to ********.com. We aim to be: unwilling, unco-operative, and thoroughly unsupportive. Don't worry if you can't get hold of us - we're probably at the gym, shopping or anywhere but here. You can chance it by calling us on **** *** *** between 11.30am-3.30pm Tues-Thurs. Alternatively, just send us an email! It's less intrusive and allows us to respond whilst catching up on the TV we've missed whilst 'in meetings'. Have a nice dayyyyy"

Estate agent f*ckery

2007-02-20T15:53:00.002Z

How absolutely ridiculous. Just received a 'spray and pray' mailshot from KnighTossers Frankfurters, showcasing properties 'with the added benefit of parking' Do people spending millions of pounds on property ever think to ask the plummy-but-nauseatingly-scummy agent: "Is there a cheeky little spot outside for the Maybach?"?? Fuzzy duck.

For £25K a week, even in the capital... wouldn't you expect them to knock down an entire fecking Mews for your chopper to land? And for 26,000,000 Euro in the South of France, you'd really hope there was a place to squeeze the Bentley whilst you took an extreme dip in the 'shark pool' with your real estate agent...

'Find me a Fanny'

2007-02-20T15:31:00.000Z

I'm sure Tana Ramsay is going to just *LOVE* the wording of this listing for his new show, as approved by the production company's legal team. Mind you, she has given birth to 4 kids...

Dinner for two

2007-02-20T11:39:00.001Z

I arrived home late last night, having called J en route to tell him not to worry about cooking for me since he had to pop off to vote at the tediously weary AGM for our building. (Very responsible, unlike one of the directors who flunked off with that common malaise: 'Choir Practice'). Anyway, to my surprise, I found a half eaten prawn curry on a plate in an otherwise pristine kitchen. It had my name on it. Figuratively only - what it really had was a fork rested on the plate, which, if I'd examined it, was unclean and therefore 'in use'. In my defence, I had said: 'If you cook something, leave me a taste'. Since portion control isn't one of his strengths (no jokes please), I assumed this was my 'taster'. Reheat and consume. At 10pm after the meeting hosts had run out of Russian booze, he came bounding up the stairs to say 'hullo' and 'I need to finish my food as it was too hot to eat earlier...' Oooo dear. I'd be the kind of animal who sated herself before feeding her starving young.

Strange goings on

2007-02-19T21:03:00.001Z

The couple living in the flat opposite are quite strange. They take a boxed delivery from 'The White Company' almost every week - how can they need that much bedding/ white stuff? J thinks that the guy has a weak sphincter, or that they perform home enemas for shits and giggles, literally. I guess we may get to the bottom of it at the block's AGM, habitually held in their flat.

The other odd occurence of recent weeks was a conversation overheard as they left their flat opposite. 'Overheard', as we often stand behind our door to wig on their increasingly bizarre interactions.

The woman is calling the lift in silence.
Man: "Oh, by the way, I picked up the Dry Cleaning - your share was £20. Shall we go to the cashpoint?"

I mean, WTF? They've been together for 10 years, and aren't married on paper only to elude CGT on their property portfolio, so it's not as though there was any need to frogmarch his partner to the cashpoint!

No, this is not my happy face...

2007-02-19T21:00:00.001Z

Getting older has its pros and cons down at David Lloyd Leisure Centre:
Pros:

I can get into the jacuzzi with Z list footballers without them thinking I'm a wannabe WAG.
Devastatingly angular 6th Form dandies with floppy hair and rosy cheeks are falling over their gangly limbs to talk to me for kicks/ dares. (DAFOL [1] )

Cons:

When I go into the luxury hairdressers, the teens are thinking: "Aww bless, her husband must have bought her a treatment voucher because he's banging the nanny", or worse (nineteen yr old nanny).
A 12km run will require some proper stretching, else sleep will be ruined by lactic acid aches.

So, to effect a really decent stretch, I've discovered across a device called 'The Power Plate' which is basically a stand-on/sit on vibrating machine. Even though I don't sit on it with my eyes closed and look heaven-ward (as in the pic), you can't avoid the *I'm using a vibrator in a family leisure centre* issue. See here for suggested exercises. I hasten to point out that I don't perform any of these particular self 'massages', but people do, they REALLY do. Anyway, the Big O is clearly in the eye of the beholder at my gym as rubber necking male passers by seem convinced that you're self-pleasuring, even though you scowl back, 'there's nothing to see here... do you want a picture, pervert?'... style.

Anyway, it's a very weird and not altogether comfortable sensation; it might soothe your muscles, but it also vibrates your innards, and seems to flirt with retinal detachment and the possibility of colonic irrigation (without the warm water and fluffy slippers, obv), right there and then. Mind you, I would definitely recommend it - you soon get use to it, and the benifits are certainly worth it. To quote the Marquise de Merteuil: 'You'll find the shame is like the pain, you only feel it once.'

[1] Dreaming About F*cking Old Ladies.

VD Day - Bread & Circuses

2007-02-14T17:52:00.000Z

'VD day' makes me nauseous. Firstly, it has its origins in christian martydom. Secondly, it's now a Hallmark holiday alongside those other religious relics like easter, christmas, marriage, and the preposterous notion of 'christening' an unsuspecting child. Thirdly, it's now a prescribed homogenous night out where everyone sits in restaurants, 2-by-2, exchanging platitudes and reeling from the expense of the jingoistic gift they've bought on the way home from work. A commerical triumph - just another way to keep the proles happily distracted and fuelling the economy.(M&S have all their rosé champagne and wines on special offer, presumably just because they're pink - blush). It's embarassing and usually unromantic. Sitting in a restaurant on the 14th Feb makes me feel so self-consious anyway; it's all such a cringe. Since people watching is the only interesting reason to dine out tonight, much fun can be had by dining out as a threesome, as we did last year. Especially if your 'extra' is up for some crowd teasing...

Finally, if all that wasn't ghastly, religious, and commercial enough, it now transpires that I was most probably actually conceived on this day. I was born on November 25th, just more than a week late. Go figure. My parents aren't shy about this, more's the pity. My friend (Ben) once slept [1] in a garish 70's flammable brown sleeping bag with yellow lining, with my Dad cruelly informing me the next day of it's seamy past.

Go out another night, write a hand written love note, recite a sonnet (not aloud) if you have to, but don't buy anything in red packaging.

[1] Deriving his signature voyeuristic delight from the occasion!

Saucy Skinny on Salisbury

2007-02-09T21:04:00.000Z

Check out the url on this cheeky story. Ah we've all been there. Why are naturists always so unnatural looking? At least it keeps some of the strange ones off the streets/ internet/ playgrounds...

Calling all Oedipuses!

2007-02-01T18:20:00.000Z

Having consulted a few friends, I'm still convinced that there are no circumstances under which suggesting this TV show to your mother could be in any way acceptable:

Are you a yummy mummy or the son of a yummy mummy?
Yummy Mummies & Sons! Win £50K on new MTV Show!
http://www.beonscreen.com/uk/user/show_details.asp?ID=2060/

You know your work discipline is in trouble when...

2007-02-01T16:52:00.000Z

...you try to convince your business partner that you *need* to watch 'Richard & Judy' in case your client (a Producer on the show) asks you about it...

Fun with Fonts

2007-01-31T16:26:00.000Z

Elephantine Magic.

Boyfriend chatted up in Sainsbury's

2007-01-30T18:11:00.000Z

Raven haired shopping beauty to Jonny: "Excuse me, do you drink red wine?"
Jonny: "On occasion, yes"
Girl (making good eye contact & angling her head): "Ooo, I wonder if you could help me choose a nice bottle?"
Jonny: "Yes (please)"

Lol. He ran before she had chance to suggest sharing it. Nice pulling tactic lady - hang out in the pricey booze section of a middle class supermarket. It's certainly warmer than loitering outside The Savoy waiting for some rich Arab to invite you into the champagne bar. (You know who you are!)

ps. He walked away chortling: "Pretty, pretty gooooood".

CBB

2007-01-26T16:50:00.000Z

Excellent. One of my Dad's stock phrases is: "Made by morons, for morons." Just seen a suitably rugged construction worker commenting insightfully on Celebrity Big Brother. He said:

"Big Brother is SHITE. It's made for morons, WITH MORONS IN IT... by morons."

Love it! AND he said it in joiny uppy, which means he's qualified to comment.

Naughty sugar, Sugar?

2007-01-25T20:54:00.000Z

Sofa chit-chat, the other day:

Man:"What the *hell* happened to Yammy Bleeth?".

Me: "You just said that out loud".

Man: "Never mind, find out, FIND OUT!"

So, I posed the question to 'The Bastardly' and they deliver a scary Wikipedia link (Yikes Yammy), but for my friend Alex-who-likes-Yammy's-Yammies, they also posted some vintage shots.

Reality TV

2007-01-23T21:13:00.000Z

'Breaking news' stories on 24 hr news channels - more often entertaining than newsworthy? My favourite bits usually see the BBC's Jon Sopel deviating from his usual Beeb sobriety into garrulous commentary of unfolding non-events. His tautly serious waffle when reporting on unclear live footage is typical 24 news nonsense, but let's blame his producer-in-earpiece. It's always the same... there's nothing more to report... reporter intonation dips below normal vocal range and they'll start t-a-l-k-i-n-g l-i-k-e t-h-i-s, a-n-d t-h-e-s-e p-i-c-t-u-r-e-s a-r-e l-i-v-e... (Royal weddings and funerals are easier as they just throw in a 'flanked by the cortege'.) I like to add in my own ditties: "...and as there are no dead bodies in these live pictures, we will in fact be returning (in that special mawkish way you like) to the war in Irarrrrq" (where something bloody is bound to have happened).

Anyway, yesterday Sopel was tasked with narrating the pant-wetting scenes on Branscombe beach where the good folk of Devonshire were looting all manner of beached goodies from that poor listing off-shore tanker. It was reality TV at its best! Ok, so the environmental demi-catastrophe is dreadful, but the beach ball was hilarious. The newsreaders visibly moistening their breeches as a pack of 'scavengers' constructed industrial crutches from sodden palates to carry as many bumper packs of Pampers as possible. Sopel: "And look at this one! He's got a backpack, hey why can't he fill that too? He's missed a trick there...look at her, look at her she's having a look, nahh, doesn't fancy anything in that container ". Cut back to the studio where Sopel is slightly guiltily chortling away and performing rummy impressions of PC Plod carry-on style!

The beach scene was great simplefolk 'theatre', and vizzavi the industrial containers at least, why shouldn't they help themselves? They've been screwed by a shipping accident, let them have some free nappies, tractor parts, and luxury goods! The comments on the BBC website marked some differences between unconforming, playful Devon folk, and affluent hyperactively law-abiding cityfolk. Looting doesn't suit cityfolk. I'm in neither town nor country, but still feel deeply self-conscious about accepting a coupon in public. What would a Londoner know about looting a beach anyway? The tractor parts were for real tractors, not Chelsea ones, and they don't sell salinated face creams at Selfridges. Mind you, if the Napoli had to run aground, it'd have made better TV had it been off a Northern coastline. Scousers would have pummelled eachother near dead over those saltwatered bimma bikes. Northern stag & hen parties would have drunk all the wine (and brake fluid) before getting it off the beach, and an enterprising Cheshire Avon lady would've made a killing on Ebay. Mind you, wherever it beached, no-one wants those sodding holy bibles.

What a piece of work is a man...

2007-01-17T20:55:00.000Z

I know where the 7 year itch is. Actually, it's more of a maddeningly pesky ache, occuring around the 'string' at the top of the 'arches', just below the 'ball', not far from the 'pads'. No, I'm not describing some ineffable indiscretion with my tennis coach - that's not the rub here- but the throbby spot on my boyfriend's foot which he claims only my hands can soothe. (Since you wonder, I'm no foot fetishist - plus his feet are ritually clean - I guess you could say I'm disinclined but deeply kind.) 'Anna Lee...Anna Lee, the Heeeee-aaaaaler...' he sings as I set about my nightly task of massaging his feet. Why? Because after 7 full years at the helm of his insteps, I've mastered the topography of his feet and he's grown used to his nightly elysian fix. It's the 7 yr itch he wants me to scratch.