My hips don't lie (they just stretch the truth)
You HAVE to read this. I had to bite down really hard on the keyboard just now, to keep my eyeballs from popping out. I laughed so much that my nostril lining is in tatters. I may have a crack at writing my own review, though in no way can I hope to be anywhere near as good as these masters of the noble art of sarcasm. And I'm not being sarcastic.
Can anybody suggest some spanking new songs to put on my MP3 player? I not only know all the words to the current ones, I know how many breaths the singers take inbetween verses. I need help!
Is anybody else mildly excited about the tornadoes which are apparently set to sweep the nation? My mum lives about 30 miles from Aberystwyth and she loves a good crisis. She'll be out digging the shelter as soon as she hears this on the news. I've seen Twister far too may times, so I also know the drill. Am on the alert for flying cows. You should always hide under a bridge or strap yourself to something solid, should you get caught short in the tornado season. It also helps if you're blonde, foxy and fearless, and have a love interest the audience want to see you reunited with. Like this:
Do you think they'll be recruiting people to chase the tornadoes? God, how I would love that job. It would seem I'm more than qualified for it too:
http://movies.warnerbros.com/twister/bin/certif.cgi?name=Emsbabee
I've just had an oral vision. That can't be right. An audio enlightenment? Well anyway, here it is:
A choir. A big fuck off Christian choir, dressed in purple. Singing 'I don't need a man' by The Pussycat Dolls.
I think it'd sound really good. Surely, this is how God saw his word being spread in the 21st century?
Peter Andre and Jordan! Singing live! On This Morning! This morning! I'm gonna have to run some laps, try and calm myself down. Then take the phone off the hook, and try not to strain my spleen laughing.
...on a train, in a park, on the floor, at the cinema, in the bath, during the adverts, in a club, on a window ledge, in a waiting room, at a festival, with a stranger, after dinner, before dinner, during dinner, in a chair, despite the cat, until early afternoon, but never, it seems, in a bed, at night?
Got to stop listening to Jeff Buckley. I'm regressing into an angst-sodden teenage narcissist, in mourning for the world, and the fact that Mark doesn't fancy them and snogged Michelle at the weekend. Not that I'm saying Jeff is one. But he does make you feel very, well, gloomy and self indulgent and inclined to think daft thoughts about people you haven't seen for years. He encourages pining. And alcohol abuse. Neither of which I can sink into with, being at work and about to hold a house meeting. Still, I have a whole weekend off in which to do both of the above. Yay!
My stomach really hurts. The only thing that seemes to temporarily sort it out is food. Of the fattening persuasion. No, this has absolutely nothing to do with hormones, although it may explain my protruding belly and the fact that my skin has gone bleurgh. I went to the doctor and guess what she told me, guess what she told me? She said 'girl, keep taking the tablets. You are dismissed' Bah!
...my boyfriend sits, slack-jawed and fuzzy brained in front of this for the next 18 million years.
Not much point in starting an affair, seeing as we already have an open house policy on our relationship.
Adopt an African baby? Gradually change my appearance over the 18 million years so that by the end, he will have a completely unrecognisable girlfriend? Then see if he's noticed? Randomly flash cars from our bedroom window and see how many collisions I can cause? Scale Kilimanjaro? Learn a new language and pretend I've never spoken anything else? Get to grips with the ironing? Read some important books and have wordy discussions about them over brie and port? Even write an important book? Or a trashy one? Re-tile the bathroom? Become a priest? Wrestle a bear? See how far I can get his toothbrush up my nose? Bake?
I have no news to bring you from my eventful life. I got stared out by seagulls on the way to work this morning, am thinking of lodging a restraining order.
Does anybody have a good idea for NYE? Apart from spending it with Jools Holland that is. That isn't a good idea if you want a depression-free start to the year. Trying to be organised this time, so we don't end up in the only place which isn't rammed, because everybody else is somewhere far better, looking all glossy and sophisticated like they do in those Bailey's adverts (is it Baileys?)
I am now on day 6 of my bastard 8 days in a row at work. This has included two sleepovers, and a third tomorrow. If my patience has completely run out by then, may well find myself campaigning for the 'send 'em all back where they came from' party, other wise known as The Daily Express, next week. Not really. I love my little kiddywinks. I wish they'd just stop asking me for stuff when i'm in the middle of blogging.
"...HOW old are yoooouuu, are you old eeenourf? Should you beeeee in heyar watching THAT?"
I don't know how to begin this little tale. Me and Little G and our respective fellas decided to brave a club on Friday night. Actually, when I say brave it was more like 'he he cidah, les go play, weeeee!'
First my favourite green tea cosy hat (sooo fuckin' Brighton baby, mmm, absolutely) decided it had to whore itself out and sit on everybody's heads. 
G and John had bought soup bowls for our new flat! They had flowers on the lids, huzzah! They are too pretty to ever actually use, we will just eat fake soup from them. Like this:
By then the flat was looking like this:
So we went out to play in the Funky Fish, one of Brighton's less pretentious clubs. And in there, was a man of at least sixty, wearing something similar to this:
He was the roaring 20's, and he was getting far more female action than even a bloke who was pretending to be a lord. This guy had a sidekick / humble slave to beckon the ladies over and inform them just how lucky they were in the presence of a lord. Interesting technique, but he had no chance up against that blazer. I've never seen anybody dance like that in real life. There was tap routines, stomping, grabbing people's ankles. He got down far closer to the floor than most people in that place could ever hope to without just falling over. The ladies were swarming round him like a tray of free drinks He would have got a rapturous round of applause from us, if our hands were in any kind of working order. However:
So instead, I've wrote this little tribute, to the grandaddy of dance, long may you shimmy your way through the weekend
Evil Harold, commemmorated with Warholing:
Evil Nicky, given the same treatment:
And little slaggy Slag Cat. Just because we're on the subject of evil
The rhyming titles are going stupendously well, don't you think? Anyway -
Genius! A blindfolded man playing what looks like a cake tin with two wooden spoons. In the name of art!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZOgoVEud_w
My favourite comment about this video:
"Remember Mrs. Doubtfire. I have seen that movie about 800 times. I have grown to hate that movie, I hate is so much. This movie has no Mrs. Doubtfire likeness and thus, IT IS MY FAVORITE MOVIE.... ever.... ever....
(I hate you Mrs. Doubtfire.... I hate you because I love you)"
And daft teenagers take note, in no way does this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egFF0QB3bVA&mode=related&search=
Compare to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3vd6lL_uec&mode=related&search=
"shut the hell up ilovemusicbot this song rox if ur callin this song crappy dont worship blink just stop thinking about them u faggot blink 182 rox thnx for posting"
Does thinking about Blink182 make you a faggot then? No wonder they've lost so many fans.
Well after months of angst, arguments and general anguish, not to mention alliteration, I have officially become the slut du jour, in that my boyfriend is finally allowing us to have an open relationship. This of course, now means that he will be getting cosy with a different hot-pant clad honey every night of the week, whilst I sit at home, crocheting and cutting my toenails. Because it was my idea, so of course I'm not going to get so much as a wink from the opposite sex. Oh well, at least I can eye up strange men on the train without feeling guilty. Not that I ever had reason to, being as the minute the strange man of my choice clocked me looking at him, I'd pretend there was something fascinating on my shoe, and spend the rest of the journey staring at it.
I have no time, but I just want to say. Was in the doctors a little while ago, and the receptionist has done the following:
* Shaved off her own eyebrows
* Pencilled them back on
* Gone round the pencil in bright blue eyeliner, making the eybrows what I imagine to be twice the normal size
* Gone out in public
I know it's Brighton, and everybody's an indiviudual, but I haven't been here long enough to fully adjust my attitude, so I just want to say, she looks frickin' weird
When you wake up to a world that, although is supposed to be melting, is actually cold and raining and not in the least bit sub-tropical, and the news is full of stories of Siberians overdosing on brake fluid, and 20ft eels in the Lake District, and world leaders just generally being crap...there is one website that can always be relied on to put things in perspective.
Please see here:
http://www.digitalspy.co.uk/article/ds39364.html
And here:
http://www.digitalspy.co.uk/article/ds39385.html
Melua abandons music so that Jordan and Peter can make it. The world makes sense again.
This dry spell re. blogging material shows no signs of ending. What to do? I watched half an hour of Lord of the Rings last night before getting so bored that picking fluff off the carpet seemed like a good alternative. I know, I know, I don't get it, it's a deeply complex story which you need an intelligent mind to appreciate...blah blah. I used to go out with a Lord of the Rings enthusiast, so I know that's how they think about 'non-believers'. Turns out Ghost was on the other side as well. Pah!
Mighty Boosh Series 3 in production people! Apparently being set entirely inside a shoe! How I would love to be trapped inside a shoe with lickle pointy Vince.
Need...to...write...something. But what? Uninspired just doesn't cover it. I think I've been using all my creative energy (limited supply of that as it is) on my MySpace Profile. I still haven't finished tweaking with that. I just can't decide on a border width that best fits my personality.
Oh get a grip woman, nobody looks at these things anyway.
Rhyming titles are fun. Perhaps every title from now on will rhyme.
Perhaps every post too. I might have to free up some more time to make this possible. Quit my job etc. and cut down to one meal a day.
Worth it though.
Did you know there isn't a word that rhymes with month? Yet seasonal poems have never dipped in popularity. Odd.
I've posted this before. But I'm gonna post it again. Why? Because it's the greatest cartoon alive! Alive I tells ya!
How the bloody bollocking hell do you explain ceilidh to foreign teenagers?
Was trying to find a definition on the web that didn't make it sound like an evening of 'local people' dancing in a style last seen on Pride and Prejudice.
Haven't managed that yet. But did find this. Disturbing.
http://www.geocities.com/ceilidhkennels/
And this. Amusing.
...or, the photo that could end my career. Last week, Danny was taking some pictures of officially the most gorgeous baby ever to exist. See here:
Except in this one, one of the kids decided to jump in, and the result was a picture that was somewhat compromising. In short, it looks like we've had a baby. What would the Daily Mail make of that?
David Jason. What a moustachioed hero. I've always wished he was my dad. I have a spooky feeling that he might be, y'know, one of those mix-ups at the hospital that it's oh-so easy to make, given all babies are bald and impossible to tell the sex of, unless you peer down their nappies or tattoo their names on their foreheads.
We're getting off the point here. The first time I realised that David was in fact, my real father, was when Pop Larkin gambled onto the TV one Sunday:
I knew then that I was supposed to be sat round that table, squabbling over the roast bison, or whatever those huge chunks of meat that they were all hoofing down were, with the rest of his brood. I KNEW that I was supposed to bounce around in the back of his pick up truck, and pester him for my fourth ice cream that day, and help him count his money, and look the other way when he felt up middle aged women.
And then there was A Touch of Frost. 'The name's Frost...Jack Frost'. My sister and I loved that so much, we had one episode on tape and recited it to each other. It was the one with the creepy student obsessed with the stupid yet good looking student, who tried to drown her in the swimming pool because he thought she was a mermaid. Frost had to dive into the pool and rescue her. He was a have-a-go hero in a trilby hat! I don't think he even took it off before diving in!
He fights crime! He eats ketchup on iced buns! He is harsh but fair, philandering yet faithful, his moustache just blows me away! He takes in homeless police officers and uptight tax officers! He's the daddy of Sunday night TV! How likely do you reckon it is that he'll adopt me?
My boyfriend's pregnant 18 year old sister got married yesterday. To an unemployed 27 year old who deals weed and lives in a caravan. I don't know where to start with this one, so I'll just say this - shotgun wedding + families at war over cost of everything down to the confetti + Irish relatives from across the water + reception on a race course + mother of the bride starting a conga chain + the best man being a British boxing champion = an Eastenders Christmas special.
Had the filling. I thought it was pretty gruesome, but everybody else in the room was smiling, chatting, squirting themselves in the eye with that thing that sucks all of the saliva out of your mouth, rendering you incapable of any noise but 'grooo'. So maybe I was just being over-sensitive. Or maybe these people enjoy having patients at their mercy for 30 minutes at a time and making them feel like a watery little wimp every time they go 'grooo'. Why else would you possibly want to be a dentist?
An ordinary person takes drugs, it is frowned upon. A celebrity takes them and:
http://www.digitalspy.co.uk/article/ds38889.html
But it's not just Kate Moss. Pretty much every celebrity who gets caught with, or admits to a problem with cocaine, then makes even more money out of it, either by selling their sob story, or upping their profile. How did we manage to get the balance so wrong? If she had been a teacher for example, photographed snorting a line, then off with her head!
...that hypo allergenic is a made up word? It was invented by a cosmetics company in 1953, to make things sound important. I didn't have much faith in Garnier and their promises that kiwis were the answer to everything before this shocking information came to light. But now.....? How can any woman believe that smearing essence of creosote and petunia around their gobs will preserve their youth? What else have they lied about???
Had a haircut yesterday. My first 'Brighton do' The hairdresser was a cnut. No, that's not a typo. He sat me down and proceeded to tell me how wonky, outdated and generally hideous my current cut was. He then asked if he could "bring my hair into 2006". He'd already started snipping when he asked this, otherwise I would have turned round and screamed something along the lines of "no, you spiky haired ponce, this isn't the X Factor, it's a salon, and seeing as I'm paying for this service, I expect you to be nice to me, point out how well my eyes match my shoes, I want to leave here feeling like a million dollars, not a discarded foreskin, so shut your mouth, lie through your teeth and make me gorgeous!"
But I didn't, because if I had balls, they'd be made of cotton wool, so I shut up, smiled politely, and let him cut far too much off. When he'd finished, he stood back, dusted me down and said 'Welcome to Brighton'. Reader, I very nearly punched him.
I don't like my 2006 hair. It's too choppy and the fringe is knobbishly short in the middle. I liked my 1970's style, with the wispy ends and the bits that were always in my eyes. I asked for a trim. Not a mullet disguised as a makeover.
Oh well, onto less trivial things....let me just think of some.....
