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.

My Milkshake Brings All the Boys To The Yard – And Then It Makes Them Sick

The Eastern Europeans Guide to Woo-ing a Lady in London

1. Choose a cafe or preferably, a nondescript fried chicken outlet. This is a very important part of the system as it will become your ‘patch’, and will also dramatically affect the type of woman you are likely to meet. Don’t think you could ever love a woman who eats a chicken leg like a Lion eats a Zebra in the Serengeti, and has fingers so greasy that she struggles to hold onto her purse like a bar of soap in the shower? Then move. London has a rather remarkable selection of rather unremarkable, 30% meat-based eateries in most boroughs. If the woman of your dreams is a late night, or even mid-day processed meat fan – then this may be the best option for you. And believe me– she will look even more beautiful when she’s basking in the glow of delicate Neon lighting.

 2. Now that you have selected your chosen ‘patch’; you must stay there. You are not permitted to move any further than a 3ft radius of the doorway to your takeaway. If you are really are serious about woo-ing, you need to be willing. This means long hours. You should expect to be there for at least 14 hours a day.  It’s a full time job and should not directly affect any benefits you may be receiving.  You may want to bring a chair. The more experienced amongst you may already be aware of the advantages of setting up a small seating area, two metal chairs and a small wonky picnic table should suffice.

 3. You now need to consider forming a small gang. Endlessly woo-ing ungrateful and often repulsed women can be a lonely job; invite some friends to join you and keep you company. Be careful to keep a sensible balance in the group, around four to five of you should be just intimidating enough for women and children passing by, even some men. But it is not too intimidating that it may force them to cross the street to avoid you – and therefore directly into the arms of a rival group of woo-ers at an opposing takeaway. Personality is a key part of this group formation. You need to ensure that you have a ringleader, who is very loud and obnoxious and speaks slightly better, if not stilted English than the rest of you. The other members need to be made up of confident people who are not afraid of forced social interaction with strangers, or rejection – and at least one of you must never speak and have perfected the art of an intense rapey glare.     

 It is useful at this point to mention that the ‘rapey glare’ is a practical way to ensure that all women will feel thoroughly uncomfortable in your presence; and is something that can be practiced in between woos on slow days. Ask your mute friend to show you how to do it.

4. This brings us to the act of wooing itself. You should limit your English to as few key words as possible. ‘Hello Baby’ is a particularly useful phrase. ‘Mmm, you is nice’, ‘I like you Baby. Where you going? Talk to me Baby! Ooooh!’ is also a foolproof chat up line. You should repeat this phrase incessantly as the woman walks hurriedly away from you until she is out of view or another woman walks by. She will like that.  Remember you can’t afford to be picky, so don’t discriminate against any woman. You must approach them all, even the ugly ones. Throw in the occasional wolf whistle if you want to make them feel special – this will help them with their self esteem.  If you really like one particular woman, and she is ignoring your existence as is commonplace with this type of job, you should probably just grab her. Hold her hands really tight for at least ten threatening seconds then release her and snigger. Passers-by probably won’t intervene, even though she is struggling and quite obviously petrified.

 5. Don’t ever expect to actually meet a woman this way. And if a woman ever does respond to your advances, you should probably avoid her. She is clearly mentally unstable.

 Good luck.

p.s If you do ever end up going to prison –  which can be an occupational hazard in this type of post – i will happily be your pen pal.

My Warmest Woos and Wishes.

Kaz

BANG xx

Horrorscope: Serial Killers and their Star Signs

 Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce to you my new favourite pastime; Serial Killer Star Signs.

Anyone who knows me will already be aware that I live my life by four different horoscopes on a daily basis. Don’t judge me. I’m painfully conscious of the fact that it’s pathetic, but everyone needs a hobby… and I haven’t got the knees for netball. Or the motivation. But I do have asthma.

 I check them religiously, and basically abide by everything they tell me. I won’t sign a contract on a Mars/Venus day, i will fall in love with a foreigner on demand and I once even wrapped a Gold watch in my lottery ticket and kept it in my pocket for two days because Mystic Meg told me it would make me win the lottery.

Needless to say – it didn’t.

I suspect it was for one of two reasons. Either Mystic Meg was lying and using both her ‘psychic ability’ and affiliation to the National Lottery as some sort of cheap yet very effective marketing ploy which preys on the poor and gullible (me). Or…it was because the watch was actually only Gold plated.  In that case, Meg should know that if I could afford any other jewellery that didn’t come from the Elizabeth Duke section in the Argos catalogue then I probably wouldn’t need to win the lottery in the first place. Nor would I be holed up in a single room in South London living off my sister’s scraps like a stray cat in a Spanish harbour. And I most certainly would not be seriously considering adverts on Gumtree that say ‘Attractive City Lawyer Offering Free Accommodation For Intimacy’.   

No. I’d be sat here dictating this whole blog to one of my two man servants, on a boat, while the other one ‘Ped Egg’d’ my feet.    

I’ll leave that image with you for a moment…

Even though there is plentiful evidence to suggest that they are load of bollocks, I still can’t help but get sucked in by my horoscopes and then be bitterly disappointed when they don’t come true. Admittedly, the mere fact that Russell Grant can predict your ‘Gay Horoscope’ and your ‘Pet Horoscope’ when he still hasn’t predicted his own impending heart attack should probably give me some inkling that they are in fact a load of aforementioned bollocks.  Alas, it does not. It only makes me wonder why my life according to Mr Grant, would appear to be so much richer if I were in fact a lesbian – or a fish.

And why do I believe them? I hear you cry. Well I’ll tell you for why… Jonathan Cainer. That’s why.

That man is a genius. His character profiles of the star signs are spot on.

I urge you to go on his website and exploit his ‘Find Something Unique Out About Your Friend’ feature. All he needs is someone’s name, birth date and gender and he can describe them like a long lost relative. I was so impressed by his powers that after checking through all my friends character profiles, I felt compelled to test his knowledge further…really push him to his limits.

Famous Sportsmen? No, too competitive. Pop Stars? No, too obvious…

Hitler? Now we’re talking.

And so I developed my new favourite hobby: Serial Killer Star Signs.

In the words of the great Neil Buchannan “Try It Yourself”… It’s brilliant.

Here are a few of my favourite ones just to get you started – with a famous dictator thrown in for good measure.

• Adolf Hitler – A very Special Aries

Adolf Hitler is an energetic Aries with an irrepressible zest for (German) life. When you need a problem solving or a decision making, Adolf Hitler is the ideal candidate for the job. If you are ever worried about how to handle something – or you need someone you can absolutely rely on – Adolf will be the first to stride forward boldly declaring “Don’t worry we’ll soon sort THIS out.”

And, what’s more, he will. (I had heard…)

Adolf Hitler is not the kind of person to issue an empty promise (to quote the man himself: “Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it and eventually they will believe it”).

 What Adolf says Adolf does – regardless of the consequences (clearly)! That’s part of the trouble. Adolf just doesn’t know how to play the game of ‘consequences’. He likes to live for the moment. He likes to throw himself passionately into whatever he happens to be feeling, thinking right here right now. That’s why Adolf usually ends up getting whatever he wants. (“I vant Poland! Mine!”) That’s also why, regardless of what he gets, he always ends up wanting something else! (“Zis Poland is shizer …I vant Russsia! Mine!”)

It is not that Adolf is fickle, more that he is fast. Fast on the uptake, fast on the trigger, fast on his feet and fast with his thoughts. He may give you the impression of being calm, and measured but inside his head, there’s a state of the art computer, processing information at the speed of light. His ideas are not the only things that can come and go in a hurry. Sometimes Adolf ‘s moods are just as mercurial (yeah, I remember that awkward ‘Genocide’ phase he went through…) One moment he is secretly seething, the next; perfectly poised. You can usually tell though – because Adolf rarely hides his feelings. (“I just plain don’t like Jews, zats all.”)

(Wait for it… this is the best bit…)

You can’t help loving Adolf Hitler because no matter what he does or what he says you know that he has a heart as big as a mountain.

 

• Ted Bundy – A very special Sagittarius.

Ted Bundy is a great intellectual. He is also a great adventurer, a great party animal, a great judge of character, a great conversationalist, a great comedian, a great philosopher and a great self publicist (and murderer). Indeed, Ted Bundy is rather of the opinion that if anything in this world is ‘great’ it must (be killed?) have his name on it and if it isn’t, maybe he will (just put his penis in it?) try it anyway and make it great by the simple act of lending his name to it. Ted is a Sagittarian and there are two things that no Sagittarian can resist (Women? Rohypnol?).

The first is a challenge. The second is a tendency to exaggerate. Therefore whatever Ted Bundy sets out to accomplish in this world must be: a) difficult and b) big. Why set out to climb a piffling little hill like Everest when there are mountains on Mars that are truly steep? All you need is a rope (an important part of any serial killers kit), a pick (i think it’s a typo, they forgot the ‘r’) and a spaceship. In Ted’s mind, this represents a perfectly logical thought process. Who cares whether he actually manages to get to Mars? He will have fun trying and at least, if he tells enough people that this is his plan, nobody will ever think of him as boring. (He certainly was not that)

Here we have the essence of Ted Bundy’s biggest secret fear. Ted Bundy is absolutely terrified that one day someone will rumble him. Oh shame of shames, what will he do then? (Go to prison…) To keep this dreadful possibility at bay, Ted will go to any length, he will climb any mountain and he will swim any sea (and burn the evidence…). Or perhaps, more realistically, Ted will set out to prove that he really is a great intellectual\adventurer\philosopher (rapist?). And much to everyone’s surprise in the fullness of time… it will all turn out to be true!

• Dr. Harold Shipman – A very special Capricorn

Harold Shipman is an unsung hero (ooh, I wouldn’t say that), an undiscovered genius (or that)…and an unknown quantity (or that). It is because Harold is such an unknown quantity that his heroism goes unsung and his genius undiscovered. Some people will blow their own trumpets from the highest hill even when those trumpets are battered and badly out of tune. Harold is rather the opposite. No matter how bright the light inside him shines, he will always find a bushel big enough to hide it under. (So modest) Harold wants to be thought of as stable, steady and solid. He tries his best to do what the world expects of him, he wants to be a trooper – a loyal, reliable, down-to-earth kind of character. In the attempt to give this impression Harold strives to be restrained (he probably could have tried harder though to be honest) and realistic. He almost succeeds. Through diligent effort Harold manages to persuade himself and the rest of the watching world that he is a known quantity (well done Harold, you infamous old killer, you.). At best he will allow himself to be known for his talent in one particular area (murder) or for his courage with regard to one particular topic.

Deep down inside Harold yearns to be wild and crazy, footloose and fancy-free. He wants to break the rules, question convention and court controversy. Only one thing stops him – a little voice in the back of his head that says “Excuse me, who do you think you are? That’s not the kind of activity that Harold Shipman can get away with.” (Apparently not)

If you want to be a true friend to Harold Shipman you must encourage him to ignore that voice. (NOW you tell me? Doh!) He will love you for it and he won’t need much encouraging. Harold Shipman was born to be brilliant. He was destined to be daring. One day he will realise this and then…the world had better look out. (Or just ward 10 of Tameside General…)

Well, we all have our quirks…

“Knowing Me, Knowing You…A-Haa!”

xx

(I cannot stress enough that all of this is meant in jest – i’m 30% sure that Jonathan Cainer is not a subscriber to True Crimes Weekly…although he did ‘become a fan’ of Fred West on Facebook the other day…)

The Chocolate Van Business Plan

SO…it’s Easter. God or Jesus or someone did something brilliant around this time, alot of years ago, but i forget what it is because in a vain attempt at irony – i gave up Christianity for Lent.

Oh yes, that’s right, i remember – God made chocolate.But not just any normal chocolate. Egg shaped chocolate.  It was highly controversial in biblical times, because they had never seen or tasted anything quite like it. They thought they were Hen droppings. A plague worse than locusts. An outbreak of Hens with incontinent bowels.

Biblical people were all very thick you see. I put it down to a birth defect due to the fact they were probably all inbred - nothing is sacred in a barn. 

They even thought Jesus could turn water into wine. He couldn’t – it was just a jug of squash. The joker. Jesus was like that you see. Always messing about, he was such a card. He did it so much though, that he got quite irritating. The last straw for the Israelites was when he pretended  to feed five thousand people with just a few loaves of bread and some fish. Everyone was amazed and thought he’d performed some sort of miracle. He hadn’t, he’d just used some clever trickery with a set of fairground mirrors. The people got really pissed off when they went to grab some fish and smashed their hands into a mirror. Jesus just laughed. He made them look like right twats.

But he’s not to be looked up to or admired, because his childishness backfired on him. And his next prank was to cost him his life. He pretended to nail himself to a cross so he could recreate the final scene of the only film ever made at the time ‘Monty Pythons Life of Brian’.

But the silly beggar actually DID nail himself to the cross. (God knows how he knocked in the left nail – everyone knows Jesus was left handed) Everyone was so sick of all his jokes, and still reeling from ‘FishSandwichGate’ that they just ignored him.

And so he bled to death. Like i said, i forget the rest… ask Matthew; he’ll know.

On a lighter note – being as it is Easter and i’m a little bored, i’ve been looking for a job. And i think i found the perfect one for me. Apart from being paid to merely exist – that would be pretty brilliant.

I found an advertisement on Gumtree for someone to ‘run a chocolate van’. Driving around, selling chocolate out of the window of an ice cream style van. Easy.

One problem though – the person specification:

APPLICANTS MUST:

1. Have physical strength and be able to lift water bottles and brownie batches – Check. If being a fat kid has taught me anything – it’s that i can lift a batch of brownies. And some. Hell, my left arm is like a bowlers.

2. It’s a fun world when you work in a chocolate van – but it’s important that you don’t lose your head among the mayhem.  - Check. Being as i’m not a 6 year old, i am fully capable of being able to sniff a smartie without getting smacked off my tits on E numbers. If i wanted to do that – i’d just do drugs. And even then i’d only do it on the weekends – and lunchbreaks.

3. You must be over 25 and have a full clean driving license.  - BOLLOCKS. The fact i can’t drive screws me over again. To be fair i should have seen that coming. It is a van after all. Maybe i could joyride? No, best not. There’s is definitely no street cred in joyriding a chocolate van. People will just think i’m a greedy bitch.

So i need someone to be my business partner. I’m hoping that Bex will do it, if i can convince her to let some of her morals ‘slip’. I have already devised a business plan in order to make the offer so irresistable that she can’t say no.

Here goes…

Dear Bex,

You like chocolate. I’m more of a savoury person, but i do like chocolate aswell. And we can always discuss ordering some of those chocolate covered pretzels in to satisfy both our needs when we get the business up and running. You are not 25 but can drive. I am 25 but cannot drive. You have blonde hair. I do not. I have a wide selection of wigs. I don’t think you do…? Can you see where i’m going with this? Good. All you need to do, is don a wig of your choice from my vast array of styles, then head down to the DVLA and pretend to be me (you need to work on the accent, and your walk) and pass my driving test for me. With as many minors as you can possible manage. Don’t make me look stupid. Then when all the documents come through, we will drive our Chocolate Van in sugary unison all over the country. We will make more money with it than anyone has before, because we will be shrewd and cunning busineess women. We shall park up outside hospitals and clinics on blood donation days – offering a sugary boost to the do-gooders instead of that crap old cracker they give you. Selfishly gaining from their selflessness. This is just the start of it Bex, i have so many more ideas. We will wear comedy name badges, and call ourselves ‘Type 1′ and ‘Type 2′ – in reference to the epidemic of Diabetes we will be spreading across the nation. It will be beautiful Bex, but more importantly. It will be ours. Please think about it. Be the woman i always thought you were.

My Warmest Wishes,

Kaz xx

If Bex rejects my foolproof plan and you the casual reader think this sounds like the job for you. For us. Then please do not hesitate to contact me*.

*(Topic lovers need not apply. You’re disgusting)

Sweet Like Chocolate, Boy.

Bang xx