When I was back in London my internet connection was robust and driven along by a load of
strong-thighed men who were headed up by that very nice Ben Hur Chap.
Whereas, in these parrrrts, I have to contend with this little shit sorting out my
internet connection. It wouldn't be so bad, but the fucker's asthmatic...
Now all this internet who-hah interferes mightily with the day job, where I boldly help my husband with his business. This (in the main) involves furiously tapping away on my keyboard whilst trying to resemble Doris Day (or some other overly tidy, efficient and anal tart), pointing at things on the computer screen (and knowingly nodding) whilst coming out with enlightening and ‘finger on the pulse’ statements, and skidding my mouse around in such a manic frenzy (whilst ruthlessly multiclicking), that I’m all done by teatime and free to have a bit of grope about on Facebook. Job done.
In the absence of the internet, here's me about to write the fucking obvious on a blackboard.
And here's me serving up the old man's lunch...
So like everyone else on the planet, my aura gets fucked with when I have no internet connection. But then, here’s a strange thing…whenever I get back online, and I’m slavering all over my keyboard – I always wonder, why? Why am I slavering all over my keyboard like some rabid hound that’s not sunk its teeth into a pork chop for over a fortnight? Withdrawal symptoms? Very probably – after all, we’re all knobbly-cardiganed tarts for our internet. But with me, there’s something else: for some very daffy reason, as I impatiently wait for my selection of inboxes to present themselves in all their glory, I begin to wonder if some new and exotic person has got in touch with me whilst the internet was down, or maybe I’ve won something (of a suitably high Ebay value), or maybe I’ve been invited to some glossy event that doesn’t involve a packet of pork scratchings and a fist fight in the gutter on the way home.
Gutted that I am yet to respond her email request to become her new bezzie mate,
Lady Gaga struggles to make telephonic communication with me...
And every time I get back online (and like the tit I am) these thoughts go through my head. And then I look in my inboxes.
And lo, is there any new and exotic person mailing me? Is there, fuck. No, it’s the usual tidal wave of emails trying to flog me moody Louis Vuitton handbags, every form of insurance known to mankind, Viagra by the crate load and a mountain of rogue messages from FedEx and Ups parcels who want all my details so they can rob me.
And sadder than all that, I probably went into slaver mode a mere half an hour after the internet connection buggered off (with no note, no nuffin). Maybe this is just a sign of the times we find ourselves in; where people need counselling if they lose their mobile phone for 5 minutes or are having to be routinely talked down from rooftops over loss of internet connection. Dear oh dear.
Look at this twonk. His 8-year old daughter borrowed his iPad for a bit and he's already at it.
The internet’s back up now. “No shit, Sherlock!” I hear you cry. And five bloody days it was down for (the swines). Anyhoo, I drafted this (between counselling sessions) last week on trusty old Word (who’s so hard and street, that he don’t need no poxy internet). So now I’ve lobbed it on here. Crisis over.
I end today’s offering with an apology to my buddy, Tuck, who’s a very good chum of mine (and has the balls to be neither new nor exotic); he asked me if I’d write a blog about last weekends (now the weekend before..) Eurovision Song Contest. And it was tempting. There’d have been enough gag material there to lunch out on for the foreseeable. But when it came to Le Crunch, I just wasn’t man enough to sit through a good 3+ hours of bollocks. To those who were up to the task, I salute you. As for me, I limped off to the pub for a packet of pork scratchings and a fist fight (with someone markedly smaller and frailer than myself...).
Yes, it's was a real poser. Lashings of vodka and me talking bollocks all night
or staying in and watching two tits from Ireland prance around as though someone's
just inserted a small woodland creature up their crappers. Mmm. Sorry, Tuck.