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….