Crime, coffin-dodgers and 'Grunt'

I love the crime in these paarrrrtts. It’s so namby-pamby and, ‘How very dare you!” When I think back to the horror of what was contained within the pages of The Walthamstow Guardian, it still gives me the heebeejeebies. Here, there’s various accounts in the local press of youths being given a ‘good talking to’ about the error of their ways. Try that any of that caper in London, and they’ll have your truncheon off you and be bashing it in your bollocks before you can say ‘Juliet Bravo’.

"How very dare you!" It's an oldie, but still a goodie.

Pick the bones out of this fucker...

           

           You get quite a few car accidents down this way, too. Mostly, it’s the coffin-dodgers – they’re all at it. Last year one of them just drove into the window of the hairdressers. Willy nilly, if you please. And others just seem to randomly veer off the road – maybe a sign that they shouldn’t be cruising around when their afternoon nap is due. You should see them, shooting off at all angles, down that ditch, up that cow’s arse. If they ever got any faster than 20 miles an hour, I swear one of them is going to be meeting the Big Chief earlier than they’d like.

Anyhoo…I’ve had a funny old few days: I came over all holier than thou and wrote a story without any foul language in it. And I don’t mind telling you, it’s taken it out of me. Nearly cracked open the Ovaltine. What next? I hear you say. Effing poetry? Nah, I don’t think so. The only way I could recover from my ordeal was by reclining on my sofa and snotting and guffawing to Peep Show last night.

The story was lobbed off to Mslexia yesterday for their annual short story competition. I think a cast of thousands go in for it. Nice work at £10 a pop. If I knew what day of the week it was, I’d start my own literary mag called ‘Grunt’ (or similar) and would let any old sod grease my palm with quivering tenners in exchange for a guest appearance opposite a vodka advert. I can see it all now…

Gym Clothes, William Hill and Burnt At The Stake

January. And my gym’s full of humans I haven’t seen before. And they don’t half clog the place up. Curiously...although attending a temple of exercise, they do seem extremely reluctant to actually do any; and appear content to just waft aimlessly from workstation to cardio machine without breaking into a sweat. Two birds even managed to row next to each for about five minutes, whilst relentlessly chatting about work bollocks throughout. Dear oh dear. Move on, sisters, I need to have a go. Still, all the cloggers did have nice new gym clobber on: one tart brazenly displayed a ‘70% Off’ tag from the back of her undersized LA Gear top as she breezily pedalled away (Level 0) on a bike and fucked about with her iPhone.

I’m telling you, If William Hill would take my money, I’d soon let him know which one’s won’t be darkening the pedals of the cross-trainer again after the end of the month.

I'm 'fucking gutted'. These two were fatties when the came in. After 40 minutes of posing

and talking bollocks they now look like this. Am I missing a trick?

So, January 2011 and my Bic Biro’s gone all-a-quiver: after ruthlessly ignoring it for ages, I’m going to have a bash at lobbing something into the Mslexia Short Story Competition. If you’re not in the know (and maybe, frankly not that arsed..) Mselxia is a magazine for birds that write. Mind you, if they knew I was using words like ‘birds’ they’d probably burn me at the stake (I do worry when I see anything ‘Just For Women’ – makes me think they could be just a tad on the mad side and suffering from a distinct lack of humour). But there’s hard cash (vodka vouchers) up for grabs and if nowt else, it’s all good practice.

Slight technical hitch – deadline next Friday. Best start peddling like fuck.



Dr Zhivago, Fanny Battering and The Good Ear Review

I haven’t done one of these for a while, as my keyboard aura has been fucked with. I blame it on Christmas, myself; it gives me a large dose of the heebeejeebies – what with all those cherub-faced children, having to engage with fuckers you’d rather chin any other time of the year, and then there’s the lashings of greed and hypocrisy. It gets right on my knockers (I can tell you) and has me reaching for the vodka bottle. I wonder why anyone bothers with it. Still, it seems to have caught on.

          And then there was the snow. What a laugh that was. And how bloody cold was it? My bathroom looked like that iced-up house in Dr Zhivago (of note, my attempts to successfully pull off a credible Julie Christie impersonation fell somewhat short of the mark. In fact, it could be said that I resembled a multi-layered bag lady as I shuffled around my bathroom with gloved hands, that couldn’t quite wrestle the toothpaste onto the toothbrush; such was the severity of their shaking. Mind you, a mate of mine said I looked more like Tony Christie. And I suppose there’s a case to be made for that too).

           

 Julie and Omar visit my gaff, to make sure I'm not exagerating or telling porkies..

Julie brutally disses me by demonstrating how easy it is to look like a babe when your tits are frozen... 

            So, I don’t like Christmas and I don’t like being cold.

I thought I’d go to the gym. It’s a good time to go, over the festive season – the gym has a distinct lack of humans in attendance and their showers are piping hot, so it’d be a win-win situation. So off we set (my husband and I), and I was in buoyant mood, “Tangerines and nuts for everybody! Merry Christmas to you all!” But my newfound optimism for some quality time at the gym was short-lived. Upon entering the birds changing room, I was greeted by the sight of a wizened old fowl, stooped over and vigorously patting talcum powder onto her fanny. She looked up and smiled, before applying a fresh scoop of talc to her bits and continuing to batter away.

Now I don’t know what it is with some birds in the changing rooms. And I don’t mean lesbians or any of that caper, I just mean the ones who give it all that, “Us girls together” bollocks. They just seem to want to show off their giblets and grunge all over the gaff, rather than being a bit more modest, a bit more discreet, about it all – you know, use of towel as a shield or even (like me) use one of the shower/changing rooms (where I can hop around on one leg whilst trying to get my pants on in private). But there they are; legs apart, vice-like grip on each end of a towel and making exaggerated sawing motions with it between their legs. Get a room, I say. Dear, oh dear.

So, I drank a lot of vodka last month. I had to. I went to pubs that had hound-flanked log fires; where the birds kept their clothes on and house doubles were the order of the day. I ate steaming plates of pub grub, talked bollocks with my husband and dropped the odd howler of a fart. It really was, the only way to get through it.

Just before the real horror of Christmas kicked in, I slapped myself around and managed to send off a blindingly good monologue submission to ‘The Good Review’, before all was lost for the rest of the year. I’d been working on it for a while, so really, it had been more a matter of tidying up.

So now I’ve come out the other side, and my fingers have begun tapping away again. My aura has been restored. Love to everybody (this is, in fact, a lie). And the festive season now seems like a distant memory.

Although sadly, I fear the image of the biddy and her talcum powder may be indelibly etched into memory for time immemorial….