S.W.A.L.K

Today is our second anniversary. Here I am lying in bed listening to you bang around in the next room. I’m flinching at the sound of every crash and thud, and my eyes are squeezed tightly together – partly in a vain attempt to somehow block out the noise, and partly out of sheer frustration. Even the muffled sound of your voice through the wall is annoying me at the moment.

When I first moved in, I never expected things to be like this two years down the line, but I think it was time that I was really honest with you –  I’ve been going out of my way to avoid you lately.

I’ll come home, and if I can see that your car is here then I’ll turn around, walk back down the road and wait until you’ve gone out. I know it’s cowardly, and I know it’s childish but sometimes I just can’t face talking to you. There have even been times this past year when I’ve felt that working nights was a blessing because I wouldn’t have to see you when I got home. Just the other night, I heard your car pull up outside the house so I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. I’m  only 27; I shouldn’t have to live like this…

I don’t want you to think that I’m writing this letter to get at you. You’re a good man at heart and you’ve put up with things from me that no one else would. I’m indebted to you on so many levels. But, I just need to tell you that sometimes the things you do infuriate me. You can be so inconsiderate at times.

Take today for example, I’m off ill from work and all I want to do is sleep – but there you are, sat in the corner of the room in a pool of screws and bolts like a robots miscarriage. I’m not entirely faultless here; I guess I never told you I was feeling unwell so how could you know? But, this is a two way relationship after all and it would just be nice if you took the time to ask before you went ahead and did these things.

I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m unreliable, horribly irresponsible and I can’t deny that I haven’t tested your patience these past two years – even if we don’t always see eye to eye on things.

But for once, I just need you to stop and actually listen to me…

Changing the lock on my door to a combination code does not mean I’m going to stop annoying you by forgetting/losing my keys. You see, it’s not the lock that’s broken – it’s my brain. I’m just going to forget the code instead. So, unless you’re happy to pay for me to have it tattooed on my wrist, let me spraypaint it over the wall, or you’re willing to go all out and have me chipped – then I suggest you get the fuck away from my door with that fucking drill and let me go back to sleep.

Your loving Tenant,

Karen x

P.S – I’m probably going to be a bit behind on next months’ rent – again.

If these walls could talk, they'd tell you to piss off too.

Over Familiar Territory…

It’s often said that London is an unfriendly place. After experiencing the silently hostile, eye averting intimacy of the early morning commute these past couple of weeks, I feared that I was turning in to one of those people. If you’ve ever lived in London, then you’ll know exactly what I mean. In my defence, there are only so many strange groins a girl can take nestling in her lower back of a morning.

An invited groin however, is an entirely different story…

By the time I got to the office, I was already thoroughly irritated by everyone for purely selfish irrational reasons. Everyone – from the woman smirking as she scrolls through her iPhone, to the guy who insists on reading City AM leaving me with no over the shoulder entertainment and especially those who carry the unnecessarily oversized backpacks. The latter of which is completely irrational because I am notorious for doing this myself – which, in itself is a pretty mundane thing to be notorious for. But still, it’s all I’ve got. I haven’t killed anybody…yet.

 I guess we can safely say that P.Diddy won’t be rapping in my memory any time soon.

As I stood there one day, focusing intensely on the shard like dandruff of the man in front of me, I realised that the type of people that get the tube on a morning can be compartmentalized into two simple categories; those who wash their hair and those who don’t.

I hate them both equally.

The ‘wash and go’ population annoy me because I am so close to their sopping wet heads that I am intoxicated by the smell of their coconut shampoo and it makes me feel like I’m in the most disappointing Bounty advert in existence.

And the rest?

 Well, they just annoy me because I can smell their scalp.

I’ll let you decide for yourself which category I fall into. See, completely irrational.

When I started imagining the people who try and squeeze themselves onto an already overflowing tube, as those poor people desperately clinging on to the edge of my lifeboat as I try to float away from the devastation of the sinking Titanic, and yet I still wanted to peel their fingers from the doors and push them away by the face in order to safe myself – I realised it was too late.

I already was one of those people.  

The sort of person where a ‘Fatality on the Track’ announcement means nothing more to me than ‘Overtime’. Now, despite what you may think of me, I’m not usually such an uncaring inhuman bastard, I have been known to be reduced to tears watching BBC3′s ‘Underage and Pregnant’ – so as you can imagine this has come as quite a shock to me.

I suffer enough from an unintentionally miserable face as it is, without having to have the personality to back it up.

I decided that things, sorry – I needed to change. So today, I smiled at a lady on the bus. Partly out of politeness, but largely because she was carrying a homemade globe fashioned out of a disco ball with an atlas intricately illustrated in poster paint on the surface and a plastic Jesus glued to the top. The attention to detail was exceptional; I’d never even heard of The Republic of Equatorial Guinea.

At first she looked wary of me, and I almost felt embarrassed for openly welcoming her with my face. She must have clocked the almost panic stricken sincerity in my eyes and luckily she took my smile as an invitation to sit down. I shuffled in my seat so she could get comfy and then we both looked at each other and smiled again. I have to say, it was most pleasant and I felt somewhat content with our silent respect for each other; and probably just a tiny bit smug.

That is, until she plunged straight in with her opening gambit and said: “Have you ever been thin?”.

Lesson learned London, lesson well learned…

What they fail to point out on those ‘Stranger Danger’ posters that you see idly jotted around, is not what a stranger might try and offer, or if your lucky, do to you – it’s that they might actually genuinely want to talk to you.

Eyes down all the way people, eyes down all the way.

Kaz xx

Cause That’s How I (Chicken) Roll…

I’ve realised something about myself this week. Something horrible and slightly disturbing, that I can only assume normally comes to surface after your past life regression therapist reveals that you were once that god forsaken horny German divorcee, who plied an impressionable Klara, the housekeeper, with Liebfraumilch, until visions of getting your filthy mits on her ‘Liebfraumilch’ and promoting her to the role of new wife were very much achieved. Fast forward four years and you’re naming your fourth child Adolf.

You know who you are Alois Hitler, you know what your penis did…

On my walk home from work on Monday, I had a fleeting thought about popping in to the 24 hour Asda to let Darren know about my weekend. It was at this precise moment that I realised I’ve become a female version of Alan Partridge; but more pathetic. At least Alan had his own en suite, and a big plate – I’ve only got a shared bog and a bowl.

You see, Darren is not my friend. Darren is in fact the guy who works the night shift in the electronics department in Asda, who I appear to have developed an unrequited friendship with. (But little does he realise, I’m the customer and I’m always right – so it definitely is a friendship.) What I initially mistook as shyness in his demeanour, I think might actually be fear. The midnight creeping of nocturnal shoppers does attract a mass of ‘colourful’ characters to say the least, so it would not surprise me if Darren found my bleary eyed ramblings to be somewhat uncomfortable, disconcerting and only very occasionally – threatening.

 May I just point out that the previous comment is in no way meant to be interpreted as ignorant social commentary in regards to the ethnic communities that populate New Cross – it’s merely an unfortunate coincidence that most of the shoppers I’ve seen have the sort of eyes that scream “I’m only here so I have an alibi.”

Let me explain what led me to think Darren would give a toss about my weekend.  It all began with what started as a typically disappointing week which rapidly escalated into an all too familiar theme of my life. It was my brother’s surprise 30^th Birthday party last Saturday and I wanted to buy him a present. Obviously, I had glorious delusions of grandeur that involved personalised decanters, speeding around formula one racing tracks or spraying Champagne recklessly over ourselves like a Kanye West yacht party – but in Dudley; and definitely not in any unlawfully sexual way that would bring shame on the Bevan family name. Unfortunately, living unhappily nestled like a piece of forgotten popcorn in the bosom of a Barclays overdraft as I do, this was never going to happen –  so I settled on buying him a computer game, book or a DVD instead. He likes all those things so I couldn’t really go wrong – or so I thought. I hold Darren entirely responsible for the inevitably disappointing gift I purchased. You might argue that perhaps if I knew my brother better then I wouldn’t have to rely on the knowledge of practical strangers for ideas of what to buy him  – you might also want to shut the fuck up.

You and your bloody logic.

At first I picked up a book which had some sort of warrior on the front; my rationalisation was that the cover reminded me of the final scene in ‘The Legionnaire’ and my brother is a fan of Van-Damme (who isn’t?) therefore he would definitely love this book. Right? No. Darren was not impressed. After 45 minutes of deliberating gift ideas and fighting the urge to upturn every single one of his stock trolleys if he turned his snotty little nose up at one more thing I pointed at, he finally persuaded me to purchase a PS3 game. Too tired to argue with his blatantly weak sales persuasion tactics of “I dunno, he probably hasn’t got it”, and too embarrassed to openly recognise the stupidity in my decision to rely on his opinion about the taste of a man he’s never even met – I went along with it. Let me break down what happened in the next few days in a few short sharp sentences.

Card declined, feel bad. Remember train tickets home are pre booked, feel worse – want to cry. Realise you can’t go home empty handed, tell Darren to keep it to one side, walk home  – sit on bed and sulk. Wake up late, go to bank, beg for money, get rejected – feel bad. Cry at bank, beg for money relentlessly, get money – feel better. Run (read: fast jog) to work, drop MP3 player down toilet – pre flush – feel bad again. Get nice voicemail about a job opportunity, feel good. Get free cake, feel even better. Get horrible phone call from bank, feel bad again. Ask for an advance at work, feel grateful and happy. Borrow money to buy present, collect present that night, walk home – feel content. Wake up, pack bag, walk to work safe in the knowledge that money is on the way. Get anxious about money, shamefully ask about money, get assured it’ll be transferred that day, feel good again – thank people a little too enthusiastically. Leave work, check purse, count last £4.50, spend on train ticket to get to station. Get on train, laugh at people getting bollocked by nutter, snooze, snore a bit probably, snooze – feel groggy. Get picked up by lovely big sister and spend evening with lovely mom. Sleep. Wake up on day of party, have excellent time with family and friends, eat meat, drink excessively, feel lucky. Find out brother already has game, curse Darren – move on to pub for evening. Offer to buy birthday drinks – feel generous. Card declined. Realise bank have stolen advance, cry in despair, in middle of the pub – feel like a twat. Drinks sponsored by various beautiful people for rest of night – feel like a twat still, but a drunken twat. Be loud and obnoxious. Pass out. Wake up, feel rough, remember have no money – feel complete and utter despair again.

And Breathe…

So this brings us to Sunday. Whilst I did feel terrible that at the age of 26, there are paperboys who have a higher disposable income than me, I knew that as long as I could borrow enough change to get home from Marylebone station, then I could easily last the next 5 days without any money because I remembered that I had 15 left eggs in fridge. Now, maths isn’t my strong point, but even I can rustle up a simple equation that leaves me with:

 15 eggs / 5 days = 3 eggs per day / 3 meals per day = 1 egg per meal.

And on the days when that equation just didn’t seem alluring enough, I could always rustle up a three egg omelette instead.

Plenty of people in the world have existed for much longer and on a lot less than 15 eggs and eternal optimism, so I might as well just get on with it. I mean, I’m not even entirely sure I actually have  pelvic bones, so I’m not exactly going to waste away. And while we’re over here peering into the bright side of life – at least I know that the ‘Card Issuer Declined Diet’ always works. (That’s patented by the way, and before you get any ideas – so is my ‘Chilean Miners Diet’ plan)

I’m fully aware that I’m a bad dresser and incredibly scruffy – but    Sunday was the day it really hit home. I don’t own any posh trousers or a single pair of smart shoes and with a job interview pending on the Monday morning, my mom took one look at my feet and uttered one of my all time favourite Babsy quotes: “Look at the state of your shoes. Your Dad would be turning in his grave – if he had one”. The next thing I know, we’re up the Shopping Centre and she’s treated me to a new pair of said shoes. Trousers. I needed trousers. I’ve only got one good pair of jeans left – and I say good in the loosest sense of the term possible. All my other jeans seem to have slowly disintegrated at the crotch over time and evolved into some sort of homemade chaps. For a long while, I persevered with them, but having to colour my legs in with black marker pen every morning was becoming rather tiresome and despite being petrified to walk up stairs or accidently stride too wide – I was convinced the permanency of the marker pen was very close to becoming a shite and rather unexplainable tattoo.

“Oh, what’s your tattoo, is it tribal?”

“Err, no – its Melanoma.”

Babsy came to the rescue once again, treated me to a posh pair of trousers and even subbed me a few quid for my train home. God love her. I felt a little choked as I got out of the car at the train station that evening, life was so much easier when you just wore whatever your mom put you in – even if it was a knee length pair of flowery Culottes; which I secretly loved! As we sat in the car, mom forced me to put my new shoes on – I think she was worried people might think I was a missing person loitering wild eyed around the train station. And as I sat with my feet disrespectfully resting on the dashboard we laughed heartily (well I did) about the time she nearly disowned on the spot in Totally Uniform because when I took my trainers off I gassed out entire families  quicker than a bunker at Birkenau. Ahhh, memories – they made me feel nostalgic, happy and determined to prove to my mom that she did actually raise a fully functioning human being.

I woke up Monday morning, and my feelings of optimism quickly faded. It was raining, and I’d miscalculated my eggs. I only had ten.  I know, woe is me. Not even my posh new trousers could cheer me up. Just as an added insight into the lavish lifestyle that I lead, these trousers were only £6 and yet I still refer to them as my ‘posh’ trousers; just imagine the state of the rest of my wardrobe. First problem – it’s raining off and on. Before yesterday, I didn’t even own a pair of shoes with a full sole in, so an umbrella is pushing it. By now, the change I had left over from Sunday meant my pocket was not so much burning, but maybe tepid with the heat of the £3.36 I had floating around in there. I couldn’t risk walking to the interview, because I’d probably get soaked, but its ok I thought, I’ll safely transport myself and my two eggs there by the luxury of the train; and I’ll still have £1.66 to tide me over for the rest of the week. Easily done.

To cut a very long story short, the eggs and I made it in and out of the interview unscathed; my dwindling optimism however, was in rapid decline. Let’s just say that as soon as the word ‘Paedo’ left my lips upon entering the building – I had a feeling I wasn’t quite in the right mind frame. I promise you that the context it was used in makes much more sense; I just haven’t got the time or energy to explain.

This brings me back to that fateful Monday evening when I really wanted to go and tell Darren all about the present mishap and overall ridiculous weekend – and that’s when the Alan Partridge syndrome kicked in. Darren wouldn’t care that my brother already had the game, and what was I expecting from him even if he did? A free game? A written apology?

 A hug?

Four months ago, I graduated with a masters degree and had my whole future shining brightly ahead of me, so since when did I become the girl that treats casual shop assistants like long lost family members? Now i’m scared to death that if I could afford to get buses, I’d be the one that lingers by the driver’s window discussing The X Factor like it’s world politics and then utters: “Thank you driver” in a creepily sing song voice as I arthritically step off it.

Boris Johnson, you beautiful ginger bear, your unyielding insistence for inflating public transport prices in London, just may have saved my mental health.

 Loitering around the grand doorway of Asda, my mind triggered back to the £1.66 I was lumbering around town with me. It was 11pm on Monday night by now (please note that I don’t finish work until 10 – I’m sad, but I’m not that sad) which for me means it’s ‘WHOOOPS’ rack night and luminous yellow stickers are literally the only thing I can see. I’m like Vin Diesel in the film Pitch Black when I’m in a supermarket. Sometimes the ‘WHOOOPS’ rack is a bountiful feast of various rejected items all spearheading towards the end of their shelf life. Trodden on crisps, smashed up soup, or if you’re lucky – rotting fruit. (The ’WHOOPS’ rack £1 Challenge is also a specialised diet plan that I am in the process of patenting)  But on this day it had surpassed itself – there was a whole shelf dedicated to Smartprice Chicken Roll for just 20 wonderful pence. 20p for crying out loud, for a pack of reformed meat slices – what more could a girl want?

Millions, apparently.

As I stood there, my arms full with 6 packets of Chicken Roll piled clumsily on top of each other, I suddenly had a personal crisis. I could do the right thing, buy the 6 packets of chicken, and be able to have eggs for breakfast and then equally spread my  Chicken Roll out between dinner and tea up until payday – and still have enough left over for an emergency apple later in the week if my body starts to sweat sulphates.

Or…I could spunk my last £1 on a scratchcard, win big and still have enough money left over for not one, but maybe two celebratory Freddo’s.

Tricky. Maybe this is it, I thought – maybe this is when life gets good? I could be one of those stories that you read in the paper and feel equal amounts of jealousy and disgust, when a woman has spent her last £5 in the world on scratchcards instead of Christmas presents for her 8 disabled children –  and WON! I could be that woman!

 I could even imagine the headline…

“Girl Snubs Ham For Big Stake”

Imagine. Beautiful.

 One day…one day. Alas, as I looked down at my arms and then looked up and caught my reflection in the refrigerator mirror, I realised that day was not meant to be today. Oh no.  And so I shuffled over to the self checkout, my arms heavy, laden with meat and my heart heavy with moral defeat. (My soul destroying scratchcard addiction is something we’ll address in my next post)

But, four days down the line… and I know everything’s going to be ok, because today is when life gets good; albeit briefly.

For, today is the day that the micro-pigs come and visit us in the office, and I defy anyone to be sad on tiny pig day.

Today is also Pay Day.

Thank fuck for that.

I’ll see you same time next month no doubt.

Kaz xx

Oh and if you’re wondering – no, surprisingly, I didn’t get the job.

Best served within the next half an hour

Say, AAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!

It’s 1.40am on a quiet Wednesday morning and once again I find myself wide awake and restless. The house is still, and the gentle screeching of car tyres on the road outside is typically punctuated by consistent sirens, drunken domestic disputes and the blood curdling squeals from the urban foxes. I’ve been trying desperately to convince myself that those squeals are one of delight, and that if I glanced out my window I’d see a small gathering of foxes all crowded around a particularly unappetising al fresco buffet of discarded chicken bones, burnt toast, feral pigeons and Mullerice yoghurts. Although, I’m too scared to actually glance out the window just in case my worst fears are confirmed and what I’m actually faced with is a violent urban fox gang rape.

Despite the obvious comforting ambience, I find myself wide awake for two reasons: number 1, I had a tremendous 4 hour powernap this afternoon, and number two – I experienced the excruciating pain of a wisdom tooth extraction this morning. Jesus wept, it hurts – but it’s always nice to have a sympathetic Jesus. We’re very similar to each other in that respect you see, Jesus and I, we both consider ourselves to have a very high pain threshold. I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen photos yourself – and when I say photos I actually mean windows, because when Jesus was alive they weren’t lucky enough to have digital cameras like us kids today and so from what I gather he pestered friends to paint pictures of him and then had them transferred to glass windows in Churches for all the world to see.

For any of you younger readers out there, if you haven’t been in one, a Church is pretty much a 3D Facebook profile page for Jesus. Although, you can’t just ‘Like’ what he says – you have to ‘Love’ it instead, and he’ll never ask ‘What’s on your mind?’…because he already knows. To his credit though, if you pop in for a chat, he won’t cut you off half way through your conversation like your broadband will.

It’s believed to be around six hours Jesus was nailed by his hands and feet to that cross – six hours, and if you look over any old pictures you’ll see that he barely even shed a tear despite shedding about 8 pints of blood; not one solitary tear.  But – and he’ll go tits at me for telling you this – if you ever saw him stub his toe in his sandals you’d lose all respect for him. He was such a wuss when it came to toe stubbing. Now THAT, would have been an excellent painting.

De-tag, De-tag, De-tag.

I was a clumsy kid, and I’m still embarrassingly clumsy to this day. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve cracked my head open, smashed my face in, trapped my fat hands  somewhere, got my head stuck between the springs of a trampoline or taken a pogo stick pedal deep into the back of my calf; but it’s the embarrassment that sticks in my head more than the pain. They way it seems to work is that, the larger the surface area of the injury, the more tolerable the pain. But sometimes the smallest thing in the world makes me wish I had a portable morphine drip to hand. Like, a spiky crisp. There is no pain in the world that hurts as much as getting a spiky crisp stuck in your throat. Or, eating hot potato – god forbid any of you ever have the misfortune to misjudge the temperature of a spoonful of potato. And I can honestly say I would rather have my feet sledge hammered by Kathy Bates than try to do up the button on my jeans after cutting my fingernails just a little too short. Why does it hurt so much? Why?!

Admittedly, I’ve never broken any bones or been in any life threatening situations and so you may argue that my pain threshold is somewhat inexperienced – and you’d be right. I have a friend whose knees have a tendency dislocate themselves at random and unbearably inappropriate times, and although I’m aware that it’s insulting to liken the pain to how it feels when I put deodorant on a freshly shaven armpit – unfortunately, it’s the only frame of reference I have.

 Just in case you’re wondering, if a friend ever says “I double dislocated my knees at work, it really fucking hurts” – it’s never wise to follow that up with “Oh god, I know how you feel, I underestimated a McCoy the other day.”

Never.

I’m sure you’ll agree though, that where pain is concerned, toothache is in a league of its own. Before I had it removed I had reached the point where the pain in my wisdom tooth was so bad that I began to resent having any teeth at all. In a flurry of hallucinogenic sleepless nights smacked off my tits on a cocktail of Coedine, Panadol and Whiskey, I remember fantasising about a toothless life full of soup, tinned peaches and endless gurning competitions. At the time, it seemed completely plausible that this was exactly where Evolution should be going next. I could start a cult, the Church of Edentulism – a bit like Scientiology only without the bullshit Alien theory; and Tom Cruise. No, instead we would idolise the likes of Albert Steptoe and Les Dawson, whilst singlehandedly providing a solution to the obesity epidemic because no one would be able to eat solid food. With 57 (and counting…) varieties of Heniz soup alone, how could life possibly be dull? The Heinz factory would become like the Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory of the savoury world, laden with Mulligatawny Rivers, Golden Chicken and Noodle showers and Pea and Ham puddles where tiny toothless ‘Urpa-Slurpas’ would be constantly working on new and exciting soup flavours for us to try. We’d even have a flag, very similar to the Welsh flag but with the sacred Soup Dragon proudly displayed in the centre – and the Mighty Boosh ‘Soup Soup’ song would be our anthem. Ainsley Harriot would be knighted as an honorary member of our church for his outstanding contribution towards soup production – despite having a rather offensive array of blinding veneers. We would simply ban him from smiling broadly in official photographs.

There would be only one thing that we do not tolerate in the Church of Edentulism – and that would be Chowder. Thou shalt not eat Chowder.

See, I almost had it all planned out.

 If going to the dentists has taught me anything about myself, it’s that I really shouldn’t mix medication –  and that I need to stop treating my mouth as though it’s an in built Swiss Army Knife. But, the biggest lesson of all that I have learnt is that my life would generally be much richer if I had spent more money on toothpaste instead of Drumstick lollies all these years…

Hindsight, eh – what a painfully expensive bastard.

And so to bed I go…fingers crossed that when I wake up I don’t still have a cheek like a disorganised hamster.

xx

More tits, less teef please Ainsley!

Don’t Blame It On The Sunshine

For at least two weeks now, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, startled, agitated and sweaty; but don’t worry, not in a way that I should be reporting it to the police.

 It’s taken me a while to realise the reason behind these night tremors. At first, I thought I just wasn’t adjusting well to the heat, or I was going through an early menopause – there is no grey area in the dark mind of the hypochondriac. It couldn’t possibly be down to the fact that I’d been sleeping with my window wide open and my radiator on full blast, could it? Perhaps. Maybe it’s a combination of that coupled with my overwhelming guilt at contributing to global warming in such a selfish manner? No, it’s definitely not that. I’m sorry, but it’s just really hard to give a toss about being energy efficient when your rent is all bills included. I must admit that even though I know that they’re considered the green activists kryptonite, I tend to find find the gentle glow of the standby button somewhat comforting, atmospheric even. Like some sort of digital candle – but, less erotic. And when I say erotic, I’m referring to the romantic glow that they  emanate – not that I’m some sort nymphomaniac who gets all worked up over anything slightly phallic looking. Just to clarify, in no way am I one of those Objectum-Sexuals who fall in love with a brick or something equally as mundane and ridiculous.

Although, just for the record, if I was one then I think I would definitely be all about the candle. Just think, unlike the Berlin Wall – they’re so accessible. Going into Wax Lyrical would be like porn, and those middle class Candle Parties would suddenly be like a private orgy.

 Tap in to that market Ann Summers…Tap. That.

Although, on second thoughts it could make every day life just a little bit tricky. Funerals would never be the same again for a start – and I don’t think I ever want to be the sort of person that gets aroused by a Bonnie Tyler video.

I’m digressing.

So, before settling 100% on the notion that my restless nights were the result of a 26 year old prolapsed womb, I eliminated other possible causes first.

 I finally turned the radiator off – nothing. I did the trusted cold side of the pillow flip – nothing. I even perfected the art of slipping my socks off by only using my big toe and still remaining semi conscious. (Sexy, I know. It’s the single girl’s equivalent of slipping your bra off under your top in one seductive swoop.)

And, still…nothing.

I started to wonder if perhaps I was stressed about something. However, I hadn’t been stressed for months…not since that elusive day I finally held the £10,000 sheet of paper I like to call my Masters degree in my chubby little hands. Come to think about it, the sheer fact I own any piece of paper worth that amount of money and isn’t a £10,000 cheque, kind of stresses me out a little bit. Mustn’t dwell… mustn’t dwell.

Then, walking to work one day it finally dawned on me – literally. It’s the Sun – the Sun is making me anxious. Not the newspaper, although that does make me slightly anxious when I read it in public. Partly, because I once got rejected in Costa Coffee from a blind date I wasn’t actually even on – just because I was reading it. But largely, because I always feel a certain sense of shame in the fact that I studied journalism and once genuinely thought that the ‘G8 Summit’ was just a shit name for a shit new band.

Like Blazin’ Squad – but smaller.

I know it makes me sound like a miserable git, but as a big eared slightly warm haired girl – I just wasn’t cut out for summer. Don’t get me wrong, I like Summer – but for one reason only; beer gardens. Nothing quite beats long lazy, hazy days sitting in the sun surrounded by friends with a nice cold drink, and then a Calippo for breakfast the next day.

But, I dread it for so many reasons…

1. My ears stick out. This means that I am constantly tormented by the suns position and how it will affect me throughout the day. For instance, on my walk to work on a morning, the Sun rises slowly behind me and follows me with the kind of intrepid intensity one would only expect from a stalker – thus illuminating my ears with a brilliant orange glow rarely seen outside the core of a volcano. Or more recently; Iceland. Sometimes, it will focus its intentions on just one ear – provoking people to wisecrack: “Oooh, your ear’s going red, someone’s talking about you…” No they’re not. It’s God – and he’s taking the piss. Prick.
2. Freckles. Yeah, some people find freckles cute, I get that – and I can thoroughly appreciate how a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose or delicately patterned across the chest can look pretty. However, when you’re the sort of person that just ten minutes sitting out in the sun makes you look like Michelangelo’s clumsy apprentice who has just given the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel an undercoat in terracotta – life ain’t too sweet.
3. I’ve got inappropriately massive feet. This one is self explanatory. YOU CAN’T WEAR FLIP FLOPS IF YOUR FEET ARE MASSIVE; unless you’re a bloke. Or transgender.  Mine? Well, mine look like plasticine hands – think Wallace and Gromit. If – god forbid – I try and wear sandals, I look like I’ve trod on Chas before I’ve stepped out into the Sun…and then Morph on the way back in.
4. Massive feet also rule out the possibility of wearing cropped trousers of any kind because they only emphasise the fact that you have said massive feet. And so I am resigned to jeans.
5. Skirts aren’t even an option because I’m 90% sure I suffer from undiagnosed Rickets. I did have a moment of madness a week or so ago where I brought a maxi dress. As soon as I got home, I put it on and whatever magical spell had wafted over me in the changing rooms had completely lifted, because I suddenly felt very aware that I looked like I was waiting for my photo call for a plus size model shoot in the Littlewoods catalogue. I’m not even going to go into my experience with a pair of leggings in Peacocks…
6. I’ve got the shoulders of a retired Olympic swimmer which means more ‘broad’ than ‘brawn’, and more ‘malleable’ than ‘muscle’. This in turn means I can’t wear short sleeves, and will be resigned to an uninspiring array of cardigans – all of them in uniform black. (I don’t know why I’m trying to fool you by using the plural of cardigan, we all know the truth)
7. I’ve got naturally curly hair. After spending the last 10, or 11 years worshipping the church GHD, and religiously burning each and every last ringlet out of my follicles on a daily basis – I thoroughly resent the fact that just a brisk walk and some slight humidity can make me look like I’ve just scalped Mick Hucknall; circa 1986.
8. I don’t own a single summery item of clothing. In fact, as I was explaining to Tine last night, in a last ditch attempt to make myself look slightly more summery before I met them at the pub, I actually tried to dangle a pair of sunglasses off the front of my vest. I thought, it would give me that ‘fresh from the park, breezy look’ – the only problem being that my sunglasses broke last summer when I sat on them and now only have one arm. It would have taken just one hawkeyed punter and the whole illusion would have been shattered. Now THAT’S pretty pathetic – even by my standards.

 

I could go on, but I’m just being self indulgent and a bit moany – I blame the antibiotics.

Basically, in a world where everyone looks like a beautiful Russian gymnast in the Summertime, I will still always feel like a  walking Renaissance painting – but a frigid one. I mean, let’s face it, as plump, pale, proud and long necked as those girls were – they certainly weren’t shy of a little nipple action were they.

So, spring has barely even sprung and it appears that Summer has come early, and therefore until I reach that glorious age when I find inner peace and embrace change  –  I will once again find myself stuck in an endless spiral of the same conversation…

 Just for the record when I next see you in the beer garden, yes, I am wearing jeans, yes, this is a cardigan – and yes, I am very hot thank you for asking.

 Repeat to fade…

There’s only one thing for it, next year I’m moving to a Muslim country where my own restricted clothing tendencies are not only encouraged – but admired. Plus, I am very attracted to bearded men. So it’s win win! I think I could be very happy indeed.

I’m sure we could come to some sort of agreement over the binge drinking…

 

“I don’t like big feet – they remind me of gammon” – Alan Partridge

My point exactly Alan, my point exactly.

xx

No Heavy Petting

Why is the Tube so sexy? What is it about the twisted, dark, mysterious turns of the Underground that makes people throw themselves on each other like they’re three fists deep in a Mills and Boon orgy? It puzzles me endlessly, and when it’s not puzzling me – it makes me physically sick. Now, I’m a fairly awkward person so I’m not that big on public displays of affection as it is. When I do try and be brave and express my affection through bodily contact I swing from one extreme to another; there is no friendly grey area. I either hold them with about as much warmth and conviction as I would a leper – or I linger…just a fraction too long for it to become unsettling for them and for us to endure averted eye contact for the rest of the day.

As I was saying, it genuinely baffles me, and I was only prompted to write this after a Facebook status by Louise and Joanne reminded me of my pet hate.

And so it read: “Louise wishes she had stones in her pocket to take on public transport and throw at folk that keep snogging in front of her!! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”

Where levels of being disgruntled are concerned, I was probably the least when I suggested throwing tomatoes at them. Louise was arguably slightly more peeved as she wanted to pummel them to death with stones. The more I thought about these peep show passengers, the more my dislike turned into a simmering repulsion and I could think of nothing more satisfying than throwing knives at them. Massive long ones so you could skewer both of them during a particularly sloppy embrace.

Jo, however, bypassed all these stages of emotion and went straight in there with bleach. To the face.

Now that’s what I call burning loins.

God, it sounds like another Tom Jones duets album. We all know what ‘Reload’ was really all about…

All forms of public transport displays of affection repulse me – but it’s what makes the tongue tied tumuters feel so overwhelmingly sexy that really yanks my chain. (That’s not a euphemism. I haven’t got a chain to yank.)

  Is it the rats? No, it can’t be the rats. I haven’t found myself sexually attracted to a rat in years; not since I stopped watching Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles. They’re not often deemed as the sexiest of vermin, but if you look beyond their obscenely protruding teeth and pop a mahogany robe over their flea ridden bodies – they become irresistible. Trust me. Like little hairy Hugh Heffner’s of Filth; not all too dissimilar from the real Hugh Heffner’s work ethics…

I realise that I’ve just publicly admitted to fancying a cartoon rat. Some of you – JP – would know this already about me, but where the rest of you are concerned… only time will tell if I will regret that statement.  In my defence, it is ok to fancy cartoon characters you know. I’m sure we can all appreciate the fine pencil lines of Jessica Rabbit. Admittedly, she’s not an actual rabbit – but she has thighs like one; so it counts. I mean, being attracted to a cartoon rat – it’s not like entry level bestiality. Is it? Surely if it was, by now I would have demanded sketches of even bigger, more masculine rats in skin tight vests to satisfy my teenage crush. Or, I would have moved on to the actual creatures themselves; if that dirty sex fiend the Pied Piper hadn’t lured them all away into his depraved musical clutches. He knew their two biggest weaknesses… music and men in ridiculous clothing, and he preyed on them mercilessly.

Who knew rats and kids had so much in common, eh?

I don’t know why I’m still trying to justify it…

No, I think I’ve argued my case thoroughly well there, but just to clarify – it’s definitely not the rats that make the Tube sexy.

So, is it the sudden decrease of oxygen? The drunk man in the corner smashing a pasty into his face? (Again, that’s not a euphemism) Is it the gentle bashing of strangers groins, I wonder? The voyeuristic homeless bloke? Or, is it the rapidly multiplying volume of germs combined with the overwhelming smell of armpit…and shit?

 Maybe it’s all of the above.

Maybe, such an overwhelming assault on all of your senses causes your body to switch instantly into flight or fuck mode. But, you can’t ‘flight’ – there’s no way out for at least the next 5 minutes.

So, you might as well just fuck.

I guess, if 7/7 taught us anything – it’s that life is precious, so let your loved ones know you love them as often as you can. Just let them know after the next stop, yeah? I get off at London Bridge…

 

 “I am Morethan Beevan”  – do it in the voice.

xxx

 

Keep your hands in the air where I can see them please...

 

And So That Was Christmas…

I hope you had fun? I did, and according to my chin; maybe a little too much fun. Let’s just say – if Carlsbergs made diets…I probably drank it.

You see, one of the downfalls of having an elastic face – despite the obvious dating constraints – is that yes, whilst I can fashion my head into a convincing square shape, I also retain every morsel of drink and food that passes my lips, straight into the depths of my chin. Like a Pelican. An irritating, mouthy, cider swigging Pelican.  Think, Tracey Emin at a very specifically themed fancy dress party…

Got that?

Good.

Now think of Tandem Paragliding, with Lembit Opik…naked; and he’s behind.

You’re welcome.

Anyway, so when it hit midnight last night, and I found myself tapping at the door of the long since closed local pub, asking them what we could get for £16.43 – specifically – only to emerge 5 minutes later with what at the time felt like a decadent picnic hamper. Although, in hindsight it was more of a generic Friday night in for a 12 year old – but with less drugs than Skins would have us believe they’re snorting/ramming up each other’s arses these days.  So as I glanced down, grinning at our armfuls of miniature cheap wines in various shades of health defying urine, bottles of cider and 2 wham bars, I realised it’s time for the inevitable short-lived January detox.

This consists of my strict 5 day detox routine of warm water, lemons, tuna and grapefruit; money permitting. From the offset you’ll notice that one key ingredient is imperative to the success of the detox. I’m very firm that I must not be exposed to any joy in life whatsoever at this stage. None at all. Much like how I imagine it would feel to be Stephen Hendry’s wife. Smiles and joviality being strictly prohibited and being forced to watch endless frames of snooker whilst repeatedly shining his balls with my special white glove…

This then leads me nicely into my strict 2 day weekend re-tox. It’s a wonderful system where I then welcome every beautiful chemically enhanced and previously banished toxin back into the boundaries of my body. If my body were a Shakespearian play, Juliet would be my liver, and cider my Romeo.  ‘For never was there a tale of more woe, than this of Karen, and her ability to say No.’

It’s easier for me to liken it to that, than the Comedy of Errors that it truly is.

It always appears to me, as a pretty thankless task; a means of keeping the wolf from the door so to speak. Or the wrist from the drip. Or the bed from the winch – or whatever pointless metaphor you want to insert here about my inevitable slow death. Basically, if I pretend to be a semi functioning human being during the week; then I have earned the right to be back at my George Best by the weekend.

And that, for me – well that’ll do pig. That’ll do.

I did have a point to writing this, but I’ve strayed tremendously far away from it – like the secret love child of the Never Ending Story and Homeward Bound.

Anyway, I wanted to write about my new year’s resolution being ‘to get a hobby’ – because I can’t find one I like. And if I do find one I like – I find something wrong with it. I’m a hobby based commitment-phobe. After working nights for some time now, I’d forgotten what it was like to have evenings off – so when the Christmas holidays came it was actually like all my Christmases’ had come at once. (I’ve never had the opportunity to use that sentence before – and I don’t think I’ll use it again, it didn’t feel right.) However, working nights seem to have institutionalised me somewhat and I have completely forgotten what I used to like ‘doing’ – so I just went out and drank a lot; which is no bad thing. But I’m sure there was a time when I liked things that weren’t irrelevant comments facebook and I still had the ability to express my delight without using a cartoon thumb. I could use words – and sometimes, even facial expressions.

So if you have any ideas – let me know. But please don’t suggest walking or jogging or running or any of that shit, because for one – none of those things are hobbies; they are transportation. Essential transportation methods – each useful in their own special scenarios. And two – I’ve already told you I have a stretchy face, and chances are that the sweat I thought was dripping down my face when I was out jogging is actually just a massive flap of skin. Or my eyebrow. God knows – but I don’t wanna risk it.

Like I say, if you have any input then let me know! Oh, but they have to be free. I like free.

HAPPY NEW YEAR YOU FILTHY ANIMALS!

Kaz

I MISS YOU AND I KISS YOU!
xxx

P.S…please help, so that I can stop googling Mara Wilson. I hate her. But I can’t stop looking at her.

 

What is in a Word?

Letters, mainly. That’s the short answer.

And the best I can come up with at 1am. Forgive me, I’m having a slow day…

That’s not to be confused with one of my ‘sloe days’ which involves copious amounts of gin and provides me with a much more valid excuse for being such a dribbler.

Why am I asking this? You may wonder… well let me give you the long answer. Sit tight…

So, I’d done all my usual Sunday rituals, which largely involves voluntary agoraphobia, restricted movement, googling Natalie Cassidy and monster munch; and I was feeling a little bored. I came to my blog for comfort, because a little bit of writing always cheers me up and I clearly have a very fulfilling life and no emotional detachment issues whatsoever.   As always, it didn’t disappoint me – but for very different reasons than I was expecting. I had a little look at the stats for my blog to see what the most popular search terms were for people to find it. Now, as someone who works in customer services it’s safe to say that my faith in humanity is already rapidly diminishing at an alarming rate, and what I found out today did nothing to slow that process down.  Oh no – if anything, my faith took four ecstasy tablets and washed them down with a litre of Redbull and a line of coke.

You can just imagine my joy when I found out that one of the most popular search terms was in fact ‘Charlie Dimmock’s Tits’. Beautiful. Now, if you’ve just stumbled across this page for exactly this reason, firstly – Hello, I’m Karen welcome to the show. Secondly, why the fuck are you still actively seeking Charlie Dimmock’s tits? She hasn’t given them a good airing (in every sense of the phrase) since the late Nineties, and surely there must have been some other middle aged breasts literally knocking about in the past ten years that have captured your imagination. No? Just the Dimmocks, really? Not even Carol McGiffin? Sorry, you’re right. Bad example.They’re not so much breasts, more used broken teabags. Not even branded ones.

As foolish as ever – I thought I’d peaked at Charlie Dimmocks tits. So just imagine my even further surprise when I scrolled down the page and found out that nestled between ’Charlie Dimmocks nipples’, ’Little Jimmy Kranky’,’ Jonathan Cainer talks utter bollcoks’ and ’Heather from Eastenders hair’  another one of the most popular search terms was ‘Gollem blowing kisses’.

That’s either the best dinner party you could ever wish to go to - or the worst orgy.

Depending on how you look at it…

Bytheway, someone should really tell Charlie that apparently she’s still big news. That’ll cheer her up. For a bit.

 Again, if you’ve just chanced upon this page for the very reason shown above, firstly – Hello. Secondly, do you need to talk? As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve never watched Lord of The Rings but despite the somewhat misleading title I do know that it’s not ‘that’ sort of film. I have absolutely no idea why anyone would ever need to see that, and now I can’t get the image of Gollum trussed up like Marilyn Monroe, wig and all, promiscuously blowing a kiss at me whilst unsuccessfully trying to preserve his modesty and stop his dress blowing up over his slippery little thighs.

Ugh. God I need some sleep.

Do you know how many people do want to see ‘Gollem blowing kisses’?

 Six.

This upsets me. And not just because of the recurring spelling mistake.

If it was an isolated incident I probably wouldn’t care, because I know on the grand scale of things that six is not actually very many – but it’s six too many for me. And six people I never want to meet.  Although, if the theory of the Six Degrees of separation are anything to go by…I’m probably already friends with one of the perverts.

It’s not you is it? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t think I could ever look you in the eye again if I knew.

All of this got me thinking. I’ve cruelly judged these people based purely on this minimal information I have about them and if people tried to piece together a picture of my character based purely on my temporary internet files, I don’t think it would bode very well for me either. Not that I’m into any weird shit or anything – I just have a very inquisitive mind. I let Matthew Kelly borrow that line when he had to go to court…it worked a treat for him.

 Someone showed me a funny animation the other week that had an excellent little quote in it, which effectively became the only reference point for me to turn to when I wanted to search for it myself. To an outsider, I completely understand how seeing that I’d looked up ‘My Anus is Bleeding’ could be misinterpreted. It certainly doesn’t portray me in the best light. Especially when it’s  followed by some of my other recent search terms such as ‘Celebrity Paedophiles’ , ‘Jamie Oliver Frying in a Pan Like Ham’, ‘Big Ears and Short Hair’ and ‘How to Lamb a Sheep’ – and that’s just from tonight; and that I’m willing to admit to anyway.

Like I said earlier…I’m having a slow day.

It’s ok though, i’m not too worried because i’m quite a paranoid person. So much so that I once covered my webcam on my laptop in Blu-tack because I got freaked out that people were watching me. Not that I’m into any weird shit or anything  – I was only sucking my finger seductively in between dress rehersals when I was performing as Captain Hook in Peter Pan. Oh no wait – that was Leslie Grantham. Silly me. I’m always doing that, getting my life mixed up with Leslie Granthams – it causes me an awful lot of grief. As I was explaining, I’m pretty paranoid by nature (and I wholeheartedly blame the Truman Show for that) and in this instance my affliction serves me well for once. Therefore I always ensure that I delete my TIF’s and log off correctly when I’m using a computer in a public place.

So my secrets are safe with me.

I guess what I’m trying to get at in my own very special way is…

What is in a word?

And the answer is: a lot.

…of evidence in my case.

****************

‘Allo Princess

xxx

 

 

 

 

JUST TO CLARIFY - THIS IS NOT ME!

 

AND I DON'T THINK THIS IS ME - BUT IF IT IS IT'S A VERY BAD ANGLE

I Wish I Was Cool…

I really do.

I wish I was one of those people who had a hilarious drunken, drug fuelled anecdote that ends up with me and eight Russians waking up in a prison cell in Glasgow because we’d kidnapped a midget and tried to sell him as a live in rent boy to disgraced Politician; he’d be in the cell as well at this point but for very very different reasons…

I even strangely wish I was like that guy I read about in the paper (Please note, I use the term paper very loosely because it was in The Sun admittedly) who got so pissed that he tried to threaten his tight mate into buying the next round by declaring “If you don’t buy it – I will shoot myself in the cock”.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the sound of the cash register dinging that echoed around the pub in the next tense few minutes – not unless it’s very similar to that of a shell from a shotgun bullet.  And I’m pretty sure he hadn’t just spilt his Bloody Mary.  Not that I would ever question the liquor of choice of a shotgun wielding alcoholic. Appletini? Certainly Mr Bickle…You’re not driving are you?

Stubborn friends can be such a ball ache can’t they? Quite literally in this case. But still, I bet they laugh about it now. What a hoot. Sometimes I wonder if he’s the reason the term getting ‘Bollocksed’ was invented.

Or  like Raoul Moat. I bet if he hadn’t died, he and Gazza would be sitting in the pub right now going…”Aye, well do yuz remember that tyme I got soo drunk that I held meself hostage? Whut was ah thinking, man?”

You catch my drift.

But I’m not cool, I never have been, I never will be…and I’m ok with that. I’m the kid that would turn up on mufty day wearing fake two stripe Adidas joggers, with shoes and a fake Fila jumper I got from Wolverhampton Market. And if that little ensemble was in the wash (which wasn’t often), I’d probably wear some chequered trousers that were too small for me, a scrunchie and an oversized denim shirt. Very reminiscent of an early 1990’s Pauline Quirke; and not at all in an ironic way. Put it this way – my favourite top was a sleeveless turtle neck with the words ‘Bonjour’ embroidered on the neck line.

I don’t know why.

I’d never even been to France.

I didn’t smoke, and still don’t. I was the annoying kid at school that stood at the end of the Alley way spraying myself with Exclamation Dare perfume every time you took a drag. I’m a bit better now – I’ve moved on to Versace Red Jeans.

 I don’t do drugs, and never really have. I tried Mushrooms – but they just sent me Tits. I think that was largely due to the fact I did them whilst watching Michael Jacksons Moonwalker; which is never a good idea – even after a bag of Skittles. And I don’t think the fact my mate just kept laughing hysterically and saying…”Are you dead? You look dead. Kaz, I really think you’ve actually died you know. Seriously. What is wrong with your face?”  Everything just went completely black and white for the whole day – and not in an alluring Film Noir kind of way. It was more of terrified abused puppy whimpering behind the sofa in an abused Dogs Trust advert kind of way.

Awesome. Thanks Joey.

And Weed – well weed just makes me think I’ve weed…myself. I don’t know how else to explain that one.

And Poppers? I’m so naive, I once drank a bottle of poppers out of someone’s car boot by a ring road because I didn’t know what to do with it; and subsequently slipped into a mild coma for around a day and a half.

That’s never cool. 

I can’t even handle prescripion drugs. I’m not a good sleeper me, unless i’ve had a cheeky glass of wine (oooh dependant). So once  i tried taking a couple of Valerian to help me sleep, and in my stupid paranoid head managed to convince myself that I might never wake up again. Like accidental self euthanisation. So i downed about 10 black coffees in a row to counterbalance it.

It didn’t work. Well half of it did….

 From the neck down I was like Usain Bolt – from the neck up…Stephen Hawkins.

See…pretty nondescript.

Drink? Now I do like a drink. I can handle drink. I’m obnoxious when I drink, but in a very charming way I’m sure.  

You see, I talk to other people and it’s all…

”Oh man, I got so fucked up on MDMA/Coke/Rum that I ….”

And a hilarious yet slightly disturbing anecdote will ensue. It’s usually then that I realise that I have very few and very tame responses in my drunk tank:

“Jesus. That’s Funny. You know what I did once, I was so drunk that I…”

1. Woke up and thought I’d been attacked and beaten up as my whole face was completely bruised. Turns out i’d smashed a jar of beetroot in the kitchen.  Lesson learnt, have a wash. Cool Points: Nil

2. High -jacked a German tourist bus when on Holiday in Spain, declaring that I was going to start a new life with them.  I still wonder to this day how my life would have turned out if they’d just let me go with my dream and not kicked me off that bus.

3. Accused a polite kebab shop owner of secretly filming me having a wee. God knows why I thought he’s wanna see that, he’s probably seen better a doner kebab reel than my squatting thighs. To make matters worse as an act of punishment I then proceeded to rub my tray of chips in his face after specifically requesting that he drowned them in tomato sauce. You’ll never know how sorry I am Mr Dixie Chicken. I really did rub them in good. Like a malicous late night tv show on Bravo, a cross between Bodger and Badger and ‘Leeds – At Night’.

4. Ate an entire net bag of Babybel Lights after a cider binge. Have you ever done that? Don’t. It’s awful.  I won’t go into details, but all I’ll say is that it ended up like a deleted scene from the Sleepers DVD…

I had a similar experience with a Whiskey and Pickled Egg chaser…

5. Got bit by a smack head. – Yeah that one was pretty bad. My wrist blew up like a bowlers bicep.  But don’t be put off, you can still hug me.  If Eastenders has taught you anything, it’s that you can still Party with Todd Carty – and buy his fruit.

 I could go on…but they get progressively tedious. Yet I must say it’s been strangely cathartic for me to explain how inexplicably uncool i am.

Maybe, if you’re round this way again i’ll tell you about the time I got run over by a taxi by tying to ride it Michael J Fox style,  went to a casino, forgot I went to a casino and then accused the bank of  fraud,  went on a 24hour bender and missed my moms wedding rehearsal – or if you’re lucky I’ll tell you about the time I pissed the bed.  

Brillent.

You’ll be back. I just know it.

As Winston Churchill once  said:

“In Victory, Deserve It. In Defeat, Need It.”

And Oliver Reed…

“You meet a better class of people in pubs”

Indeed you do Ollie, indeed you do.

BANG xx

I Told You I Was Ill…

With my financial situation currently being slightly more depressing than booking up on a cruise down the Gaza Strip…I found myself idly ‘thumbing and fingering’ through the Jobs section on the internet. Again.

The irrational part of me was gutted that I would be missing out on £40 because of my debatably good health when I stumbled across this ad…

 But the Hypochondriac in me was FUCKING ELATED!!

Do you have – or are you a carer for someone that has - any of the following conditions:
a. Arthritis
b. Alzheimer disease
c. Asthma
d. Back pain
e. Bladder problems
f. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD)
g. Diabetes
h. Erection problems
i. Glaucoma
j. High blood pressure
k. High cholesterol
l. Smoking (and looking to give up)
m. Ulcerative colitis

We are looking for people affected by these conditions either directly (as a patient) or indirectly (as a carer) to take part in focus groups. It should take around 2 hours and we will pay you £40 for your time. 

 I could happily talk about my erectile dysfunction for £20 an hour -  it’d make a change from doing it for free during my pre-coital cigarette.

 Oh shit, I forgot – I havn’t got a penis.

Bloody Alzheimers….tssk.

Kaz xx

 **If you, or anyone you know has been directly affected by any of the issues raised in this blog…here’s a picture of a comedy penis to take your mind off it.