My hips don't lie (they just stretch the truth)
OK, I've just had a really good stare at that disturbing picture on MySpace. I think it might be paint, not margarine. I think he is lying on the landing of his parent's house (recognise the banisters, how sad??). I think whoever took the photo is straddling him.
Otherwise, he daubed his chest with emulsion, lay on the floor and took that photo himself. Which is a little bit too strange, even for me
I suspected as much...
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/31082006/140/home-britain-s-silly-names.html
Wonder where the name Cave comes from (it's my name). There is an obvious answer, except I don't think primitive man had surnames. They didn't even have postboxes
I've found some more ex-boyfriends on MySpace. They all look too happy to show you though. Clearly, life after me is filled with sunshine and trips to Thailand and nubile Americans. Bah.
My mum and sisters are staying at an Asian guesthouse in Brighton this week, with a four poster bed and complimentary mints in the reception. At least, you think they're free. Even as you are approaching the jar, the lounge door is ripped open, and grandad is standing there, giving you a look which clearly says 'get off my sugary things you greedy, greedy girls'. We even tried approaching the jar with extreme stealth last night, but just as my sister was extracting a hand full of booty, grandad rose up through the floor in a cloud of smoke, and scared her so much that she dropped them all over the floor.
In other news:
http://www.digitalspy.co.uk/article/ds36418.html
Unless you get extensive DNA testing done, how are you gonna know that those are genuine Britney bitemarks? He could have just stolen the rest of his nan's lunch when she fell asleep in it.
There are 13,000 Christians downstairs, singing 'Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam' or some such nonsense. I could go slap Prodigy on the speakers, or pump goats blood under the living room door. But no. Why bother? Because in 2 days, I'll be in Brighton baby! Away from the lentil and tuna concoctions that fug up the kitchen, the awkward, awkward silences when I'm watching anything that's past the watershed eg. News at Ten.
OK, that's enough mockery of God's children. It's too easy, like pissing on a puppy's head.
What else can we mock? I do so love to mock. Ah, here we go. Check out my first ever boyfriend. What is that he's smeared with? Margarine?
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=47490965
To: saymanaser@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: You cumm very quickly and without any control!
Date: Tue, 29 Aug 2006 16:12:46 +0200
Dear user. Stop disappointing your partner and join the lucky ones who have overcome this. The great thing about Extra-Time is that it works, making you last longer from the very first time. Lack control over your squirting? Partner unhappy with the time you last in bed? Enter: http://slbomann.com/gall/get/ Get the courage and performance you need.
I'd be far more interested in an e-mail that tells you how to come very quickly, to be quite honest. And user? User of what? Men? Drugs? Plastic bedsheets?
Going to stop grumping now. Here, read this, it's bloody fantastic. From the pen of Lord Bath of..Bath. Pre-watershed viewing is not advised.
1.
So long ago I saw you last unwrap
that bulging bosom from its draped attire,
to offer me so lusciously your paps
which, ever since I sucked them, I’ve admired.
If now within those orbs there be desire,
I’ll fondle them to make their lust ignite,
and when the turgid nipples are afire,
I’ll satiate my whetted appetite.
As when, upon a woodland floor at night,
two sprigs of bracken, glut with vernal sap,
pop rampant in their pullulating might -
I’ll pluck them, and I’ll squelch them in my lap.
2.
I wonder if you wake up in the night
to ponder, in a meditative mood,
how much my kneading fingers could excite
you to display your secret aptitudes.
I’d nibble you, voluptuous and nude,
until the ripples of your belly ran
like tremors on a silver sea, when viewed
from any windless prominence of land.
I’d have you upturned, and your breath would pant
as I infused the glow of anthracite
to sate your palpitating womb’s demand -
full skewered, like a barbecued delight.
3.
So long have you been absent from my bed
that I have forfeited the taste of thee
within my testicles. I want you spread,
recumbent, tethered sacrificially.
Be open to my lust. Respond to me
by gripping me within your gaping thighs,
that I may thrust you to eternity,
retrieving both of us - immortalised.
Come not to greet me in demure disguise,
but as a double piglet, to be fed
at both extremities, with gasping sighs,
and every trace of inhibition shed.
4.
I see you on my couch, with legs apart,
your pussy preening in my avid gaze.
I knead it gently with a potter’s art
caressing it and, slowly, it obeys.
A fuchsia bud, responsive to the rays
of summer, swells, and in a moment pops,
so that the petals open in a blaze,
all pink, like icing in the pastry-shops.
And as my tongue intrudes, the vulva throbs;
a scented feel of litchi it imparts.
I rise, and then it wiggles like the gobs
of large anemones, when fish depart.
5.
My shadow moves across your pallid thighs;
and now that they await agape for this,
I prod those lips till they are sensitised,
and gouge my organ in their orifice.
The mistral moaning in a state of bliss
will sound as silence by comparison
to all the ecstasy within your kiss -
a frenzy wafted from the Amazon.
And when the spasmic gushing all is done,
you’ll turn to me with delicate surprise,
in sensual whisper, to make comment on
those wasted weeks ere we were harmonised.
No wonder women fall at his feet. 'Come my little piglet, let me lap at your ample thighs' *shudders*
No matter how much you try to remind yourself that you're getting paid for it, and the money will probably get you that lovely chrome toaster from Robert Dyas, perfect for checking your reflection in of a bleary-faced morning. What was I saying? Oh yes. Working on Saturday night is no fun at all!!
They don't put anything good on TV. I assume this is to punish you for being so pathetic you couldn't even persuade a tramp to go down the pub with you. Or for choosing a profession which requires you to spend your weekends trying to explain how to work a washing machine to a teenage asylum seeker using only the thumbs up gesture and some universal grunting noises. Whilst everybody else is out sticking pills up their nose and humping car bonnets.
There's just been a programme on about people moaning about holidays. THEN DON'T FRICKIN' GO! Jesus, I know the British have a reputation to uphold when it comes to griping but really, it's not as if their hotel room blew up or their first born was eaten by a shark. They just didn't like the posh people in ski suits, or appreciate the pyramids sufficiently. GET A GRIP! You're all making money from this self-indulgent 'ironic' whining, so that you can go on another expensive holiday and then come back and moan in the sequel about toothless old men spoiling your view, or not being able to buy a decent banana and avocado smoothie for nigh on a fortnight.
Oh, grumpity grump, that's me tonight folks. Still, the carnival will be fun. Shall we be really mean, and make all the kids form a big crocodile which they aren't allowed to break free from unless they sever their hands with their teeth?, And make them wear name badges and stuff? And insist on accompanying them to the toilet? I knew I should have been a teacher. No, we're going to have a lovely day, it will be filled with primary colours and inanimate curried objects and hopefully we will bring all ten of our charges back with both their hands and their stomachs intact.
Here's a satisfying experience for anybody who wants a little personal fulfillment on a Saturday morning, and doesn't find it in shoe shops. Instructions must be followed to the letter, or we cannot guarantee best results.
a) Bounce enthusiastically round the dancefloor of Bognor's No.1 club (there are only 2 clubs in Bognor)
b) Remove silly shoes as they keep flapping off feet
c) Bounce enthusiastically over small shard of glass, which becomes embedded in big toe. Hobble for while, before deciding to ignore and continue to bounce
d) Next morning, realise shard of glass is still in toe and unless blood poisoning is an attractive option, had better remove it
e) Run very hot bath and soak black, stinking feet
f) Take pair of tweezers, try desperately to reach down to big toe and maintain dignity
g) Give up, curse freakishly short hamstrings. Haul foot up onto opposite knee, praying landlord has not installed camera in bathroom
h) In between wimpy girly yodels of pain, dig around in toe for offending shard
i) After twenty minutes of contortions, yodel with delight as shard shoots out of toe with a delicious 'pop'
j) Feel a sense of fulfillment flood through entire body, much like the hot tap on full flow.
Or you could always try baking
I don't know if anybody remembers me mentioning how now my meds have gone up by another 50mg, the onset of dementia seems all the more likely. Well, I've had that suspicion confirmed. Just realised that I forgot to put any knickers on this morning. This is not for the sake of titillation. I actually genuinely forgot. Also, I left a candle burning in my room, trotted off for a couple of hours to visit La La Land, came back in just now and it's melted all over the book case, the floor, my CD rack. Aaaargh! Can somebody tell me what day it is please?
...to feel good. Except if you want to feel good in Bognor's premier nightclub on a Friday night. Then it's going to cost you a considerable amount of drinks. Oh well, I've got to go, it's Johnny's last supper, as he's leaving the fold of Chichester for the brand shiny new pastures of...Bedfordshire. To become a primary school teacher. Which he'll be excellent at, as he has inhuman amounts of patience, and no matter how many times he hears 'Sir, I've wet myself' or 'Timmy's been sick in the sandpit' will merely utter a brief prayer under his breath and fetch the mop.
Grace Dent has a new blog! Yay, huzzah and thank fuck for that, as I was getting rather worried that I would have to start buying the Guardian again if I ever wanted to read her opinions on 'Celebrity Enema' or 'When Good Kettles Go Bad'.
"Tiny hipster-short bikinis are what it's all about this year," says fashion designer Ben de Lisi, accompanied by footage of emaciated women on catwalks, "but of course you need a very long, boyish body to wear them."
What? A long boyish body? Say, like one that belongs to a long boyish boy? Yes, that'll fly with any woman older than 18 who's had dinner this century. Where do I get one of these boyish boy garments? Tell me now! I've got an X Factor audition I must humiliate myself on."
http://www.radiotimes.com/content/features/tvod/
My sister went to a festival last weekend, which she hasn't shut up about since. Am getting very tired about hearing stories of men dressed as chickens and people throwing up in bins. Yes, I know, I'm old and grumpy, and couldn't afford to go.
Anyway, she met a man there. His name is 'Amazing Dave'. Apparently he is addicted to ploughmans, and always relies on 'a couple of broccolis' to sort out his system after a particularly heavy session. He has hair in which a family of squirrels could happily set up home in, and build an extension for Granny. It's huwge. He floats around Britain, blagging his way into other people's parties, festivals and homes. She is in love with him. She wants to be his bitch, and trail round Guildford after him in search of the next illegal acid house dance-off in some teenager's garage.
She is coming down to Brighton next weekend, specially to see him, and seems to think that we'll be quite happy to let him sleep in our flat. Well, that'd be a no. It's going to be our first night in our icky wicky extra special oozy woozy pad of lurve. I do not want Amazing Dave curled up under the fridge, or trying to impress us by juggling his own eyeballs. I know that's not the Brighton way, and we are supposed to throw open our homes in a benevolent Bohemian spirit, cooking elaborate meals and sharing them with people we met on the bus and playing harps and snorting coke off each other and stuff. But that's gonna take some practice. We're going to spend our first night reading poetry to each other in the nude. Not searching Dave's mop to find the remote control, and listening to the story of the time he woke up in somebody's shoe.
You may not notice any change in my usual drivel, but I genuinely don't have anything interesting to write about.
Urm, I have eczema on my feet. Anybody requiring graphic close-up shots can PM me their e-mail address and I'll be more than happy to oblige. How the fuck do you spell eczema? That looks suspiciously American to me? Excema? Exczema? Answers on a carrier pigeon folks.
Went to the doctors and have gone up another 50mg on current dose. This week I have already left my keys in Wales and my jacket on the train thanks to the happy heads. God knows what I'll be forgetting this time next week. Will probably be found wandering in Trafalgar Square, asking passers by if we won the war. I'm turning into Nana Moon!
Oh well, see if this clip makes tea come down your nose (you will have to be drinking it at the time)
I'm sorry but I had to do it
However, just down the road from this cosy scene, a drive by shooting has taken place:
Aargh, I'm an adult. The boy and I have found a flat. It's right on Brighton seafront. Between a chippy and a rock shop. It's quite small but you can see the sea from every window, and it has a breakfast bar:
Next week, we are putting the rest of the deposit down. Then opening a joint bank account, buying a toaster, getting a subscription to 'Homes and Gardens', ordering matching raincoats off the back of the Daily Mail, spending Sundays arguing in garden centres. It's gonna be all gooey and cosy and we can have friends round for dinner and key parties and awkward silences.
Is anybody going to the Notting Hill Carnival? Danny and I will be there with a bunch of over-excited asylum seeking teenagers, sharing a small flask of gin and trying to stop everybody from falling under the floats. Feel free to pretend you didn't see us.
What have we all been doing this weekend? I went to London to see my friend Claudia, who I lived in Leicester with many moons ago. She's from Mexico, where they have colours we have never even thought of, so moving to the midlands must have made our country seem like a big grey breezeblock. Anyway, Camden has changed a lot since the last time I was there. It's like a hippy version of Harrods these days. We lost hours and hours poking around, and I bought things that I know nobody will walk down the street with me when I wear them. My credit card very near melted with excitement. Not that I have one. I still owe Blockbuster £30 (actually to be precise, my sister owes them) and have been blacklisted as a result. I have an imaginary credit card, in that I occasionally spend money like I have one. Or several. And they belong to Daddy.
Ooh, and on Friday I went to Christian barbecue, shared a bottle of Absolut with Leonie who kept making very anti-religious remarks in her special loud voice. Then we went back to the lovely Johnny's, where I had to spend most of the night keeping tabs on Danny, who Leonie's special loud voice had informed that I would be quite interested in popping Johnny's cherry, should the opportunity ever arise (it won't). He was gagging to tell Johnny this, even though he would have probably burrowed into the nearest flowerbed with embarrassment, and then taken out a restraining order on me.
The boys played croquet! On a Friday night! The girls sat on the swings and gave everybody special Pride and Prejudice style names. Danny was Lord Arbuthnot. I was Miss Scrofula. Miss Scrofula and Mistress Prim (Leonie) then got over-excited and tried to rugby tackle the Reverend Collins (Johnny). During this spot of horseplay, Miss Scrofula tripped over a croquet hoop in a rather spectacular fashion, and spent the remainder of the evening with a bag of Sainsbury's best frozen peas clamped to her foot. Most agreeable.
Big Brother 2006 contestant Nikki Grahame is to have her own TV show, Princess Nikki, on digital channel E4.
The programme will follow her attempts to hold down an everyday job - referencing her stroppy turn as a PA in a Big Brother task.
It will be shown on E4 after Big Brother ends later this summer.
"They won't tell me what jobs I'll be doing, but they've told me they'll be tough," said Ms Grahame in a statement.
"As long as they don't make me a bin woman or put me on a fishing boat in the middle of the North Sea, I'll be okay."
A producer for the programme said: "Bin woman and deep sea trawler fisher-person are high on our list."
I was about to crack open a packet of custard creams, seeing as had finished ruining the maggot's tea party that was the kitchen at work. It's now cleaner than I reckon Ainsley Harriot could ever hope to get it. But then that bloody Venus Godess advert came on, the one with all the giraffe-limbed women running along the beach in scraps of lycra. That's put me right off calories in general. Bastards.
So I can now either deal with the general feeling of lumpiness by going and doing sit-ups till my skin spilts. Or hoofing down TWO packets of custard creams, cackling every time one of those effing L'Oreal women tells me I'm worth spending £16.99 on lip gloss.............
Let's get things in perspective shall we? (me)
http://gamepolitics.livejournal.com/318127.html
For some reason this won't play on the computer at work, but I guarantee that if it did, I'd be parcelling those custard creams up and posting them to Africa.
Will stop being silly now. Really think I may be turning into some kind of monster. One minute I'm furious and taking it personally if the water is too hot in the shower, or I can't find an earring. The next, I'm all dribbly and weepy and getting in a state about that mistreated mobile phone in the Carphone Warehouse advert. And it's not even PMT.
Was watching GMTV this morning, and the daily scaremongering was about binge drinking. When talking to the 'expert' (how do you get to be an expert in binge drinking without, well, binge drinking?) she turned to the camera with a know-it-all smile and stated: 'what a lot of people don't realise, is that alcohol is actually a mind-altering drug'.
Well...yes? When else do we generally think we're that amusing, attractive and clever, or that what that lampost really needs is a great big hug? When else to British people ever get over themselves enough to dance on tables and talk to strangers? Of course it's mind- altering, that's why we like it!
Also, another shocking fact, one on four mothers have allowed their children to see them drunk! Well...yes? What else do mothers do at weddings?
...and she told me that Neighbours made up 'spigging hufta' specially for us Pomms! Is that not the most pleasing piece of trivia ever?
Also, a 'bogan' is a chav, a 'bludger' is somebody who never does any work, and nobody says 'don't come the raw prawn with me' apart from Alf Stewart in Home and Away. So, you'd never actually hear an Australian say 'Don't come the raw prawn with me, ya spiggin' hufta!' Although I did make her say it, just the once. She stopped talking to me shortly afterwards.
This song actually made me go 'arf'. I haven't laughed like that since I found fart jokes funny (and yes, that was a lot longer ago than you may think). Listen to the Glyn song first. I demand it.
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewProfile&friendID=73523904
More, and yet more photos of people in daft wigs. Will the merriment never end?
That wig was a bit of a whore, it hardly stayed on my head, too busy working the crowd.
I'm at work. We're having double glazing fitted. The noise is actually making my chair rattle, and my temper shoot off the scale. My manager has left me here alone with a great big list of things to do, most of which involve phonecalls. I hate phonecalls. I never know how to introduce myself, whether I should ask after the person's health, their wife, their dog etc. And they always ask me how to spell names that I can barely pronounce. Still, I've finished his list, so ha, have beaten the system!
I keep forgetting to take my tablets, it's been about three days now. That probably explains the temper tantrums. Thank God I don't rely on the pill or I'd have enough kids to start up my very own sweat shop.
