Hog on the Run

40 or Bust

2006-02-25T22:26:00.000Z

30 rushed up and grabbed Sidekick like a mugger, leaving no marks apart from an increasing level of general grumpiness. Now he's coasting towards 31 with nary a peep of complaint.
I can remember a time when 30 seemed like a distant country with no airport. Now I've been living there for a couple of months, having been forced kicking and screaming onto a direct non-stop flight. Only a few years ago, I was a called a lady for the first time - by a mother, instructing her tiny daughter to get out of my way. I wanted to pick the kid up and explain that I am a girl, dag nammit. A girl! No lady! Now that I am 30 I have to concede the point. I have officially passed the gateway.

However, I refuse to accept the encroaching decrepitude. Where will it stop? I have a vision of myself , wrinkled like a piece of perished rubber, wearing the same clothes I do now, but with the added support of a cast iron wonderbra, causing equal amounts of barely concealed horror and mirth as people see me hobble by.

My job ~~forces~~ allows me to regularly converse with people who are 17, 18 or 19. I sometimes feel like they have been brought up on another world and have travelled back to planet Earth to perform experiments of a social nature on me. This is, I reassure myself, perfectly normal paranoia. Isn't it?

One of them politely asked me the other day if I was going out at the weekend. He then stalled and looked slightly embarrassed, before saying, with a throwaway sort of gesture, "Of course not, you're too old to be going to pubs." I would like to state for the record that this is untrue, despite the perfectly acceptable argument that I cannot remember the last time I was in a pub. My memory, it goes without saying, is as good as it ever was (i.e. less use than a chocolate teaspoon).

All future birthdays are now cancelled. I will henceforth only be celebrating lustrums 'cos they happen less damn often.

Years are just numbers , right? Right? Good.

Why I'll Never Be a Music Journalist

2006-02-21T11:19:00.000Z

Me: Who's the "big" rapper that's dead? Is it Biggie Smalls?

Sidekick: Nah. S'the Notorious B.I.G you're thinking of.

Me: (musing) Right. Right.....

Sidekick: There are other dead rappers, though. They all released songs about it - like O.D.B..

Me: What - Old Dead Biggie?

Sidekick: Er, no. Old Dirty Bastard.

Me: Right. Got it. Thanks.

The Pwoer of Loev

2006-02-14T12:15:00.000Z

"Do You have enough pwoer to provide your patrner high

quality SE-X on St. Valentine day?

Get a MON-STER pwoer, nothing can bring your ererction down!

Show your partner the PWOER of your LOEV and she will always remember You.

Loev will ALWAYS be associated with YOU!

Your order will be PRIVATE, nobody will know what You use.

Follow the link and get SSPECIAL DISSCOOUNT for that period."

Reading this email left me with several questions:

1. How did they know I was concerned about my ererction?

2. What's a DISSCOOUNT? SSPECIAL or otherwise?

3. Should I trust this complete stranger with my body?

The answers are:

1. The internuck knows all and sees all.

2. A small type of duck known for it's ability to fly remarkable distances.

3. Of course! I'd be a fool not to, considering the special duck and all.

If you'll excuse me, my order has just arrived from Gunter Schlong Enterprises.com. I'm just off to show Sidekick the PWOER of my LOEV, so that loev is ALWAYS associated with me.

Gormless-ness Insurance

2006-01-20T22:58:00.000Z

Next week I will be making an utter Fochaber of myself by pretending that I have bottomless reserves of cool and can snowboard exactly like someone who does not have my unique "gifts" in the realm of physical prowess.

Every year I imagine myself, poised at the top of the slope, ready to glide down as if born to ride, maybe carving a few turns deep enough to lazily allow my hand to drift over the surface of the powder. Steep patch? No problem! I can turn the board as if it is on rails. The sky is an unlikely shade of blue, the mountains are like swarovski crystal and I glide along with mindblowing skill. In my mind.

Reality is more like this: Warmly bundled, my be-bootened form is as graceful as a rollerskating polar bear. (This year's boots more streamlined look are an improvement on last year's, which made me look like 2005's elephantiasis sufferer of the year.) This level of padding is enough to impede my balance, never mind my non-existent boarding ability. I've seen horrifying videos: my vast arse pushed out behind me like an airbag, knees bent, face as per Donald Sutherland pointing out the non pod-person in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" virtually catatonic with fear, hands flailing like Tyrannasaurus Rex reaching for a bowl of mashed potatoes.

Why do I insist on putting myself through it? Petrushka* only knows, maybe it has something to do with the rush of pure joy and ecstasy caused by reaching the bottom without breaking any bones, gashing flesh open with my own board, or cracking my skull open on a passing skier**. Any accusations that the happiness I feel is caused by imbibing luscious quantities of Vin Chaud (or "hotbooze") will be ridiculed while I knock back another shot and start snorting/giggling helplessly into it.

In any case I am taking no chances. I have doubled up on the holiday insurance.

*She's as likely to know as anyone else.
**If anyone can do it I can.

Updating Your Ass

2006-01-18T12:32:00.000Z

'Cos it's just so yesterday.

I know it, I am lazy. I spent my two week Christmas break lolling about the house, increasing my waist size by consuming fat-based food and listlessly spending money that I do not yet have, on things that I don't need.

Gob Less Visa.

I could try to turn inactivity into some sort of art-form, but that would be too much like work.

Frankly, little has changed since last I wrote, dear diary, besides the following:

I invented a miniature jet propulsion suit for dogs which has really taken off in Japan.
I took up air hockey professionally.
I now know exactly what hedgehogs having sex sound like*.

One of the above may be true. Or not. I have also taken up being non committal about most things. That's all folks, nothing to see here. Move along, move along.

*Grunt, grunt grunt. Groo! Grunt grunt. Seeing as how as you asked.

Okapi: Never Again Just Taking a Walk*

2005-12-09T12:40:00.000Z

Seeing as how smoking is now as socially acceptable as admitting a liking for kissing dogs' bottoms, and also on account of it not being advised for sufferers of my own weird disease**, I have committed myself to quitting the evil weed.
Apparently it is bad for you or something, Christ, why didn't someone mention it? Fuck, I've been smoking for about ten years! If only I had known.....

I checked out various websites a while back with a view to the big quit, hoping for a bit of encouragement and advice on how to go about it. I downloaded a little animated cartoon guy from an Australian website because he looked cute, and I honestly thought it would help. Of course, on running the programme the little blighter popped up every ten minutes, interrupted whatever else I was doing and barfed up a lung. Literally. With sound effects. I was so disturbed by this that I have continued to smoke for months. But now I am ready, I am prepared for the worst.

I fully expect to have gnawed my own arm off by the end of the weekend.

*My dad is a member of Ash and I still haven't mentioned the fact that I smoke lest he disowns me or summat. I just "go for walks" a lot when at home.
**Henoch Schonlein Purpura. It's odd! It's rare! It's my body acting like my kidneys are foreign bodies and mobilising the white blood cell army against them! Out, Damnable kidneys! Out, I say!

Tower of Meat

2005-10-21T19:50:00.000Z

One of the most interesting things about my job is illustrated by a little passage almost hidden right at the bottom of my contract which says,
"and apart from all the usual stuff, typing and such, you'll also do pretty much whatever weird shit we need you to do, or just fancy watching you do whilst we snigger generously, ok? Thanks".
This has led to me:

carrying out a desperate, all-across-town search for brown card (or thick paper) for fashioning reindeer antlers.
forcing colleagues to take home a haggis after someone over-ordered the blasted things for a Burns night supper. Ten of the fuckers, I ask you. Only twenty people work here, and not so many are fond of sheeps intestine stuffed lightly with more intestine, barley and, well, blood. And seasoning! Don't forget the the seasoning.*
buying a selection of garden lights (solar powered, not plug in, thank you very much) several of which I had to return the next day as they were too "glitzy".
driving the comedy van thirty miles along the motorway for an MOT. At thirty miles per hour, no faster, as pieces of trim kept falling off, not to mention some of the smaller engine parts easing themselves free of the structure, presumably bouncing off to enjoy a happy life of liberty.
and finally, the coup de grace, catering.

Sometimes, we do lunch, and not in the way you might think, oh no! We could just get a caterer in to provide food for conferences and courses, but that would be no fun! Much better to force me to go to Asda and pile a trolley high with such delicacies as wee willie winkies**, various meats on sticks, horrid little samosas, mini pork pies***, baby-bloody-bell cheese, and so on. I also have to cut the crusts off sandwiches, I mean honestly, I didn't realise anyone did that any more. Happily, one of the other girls at work helps me out with this crap sometimes, which led to us taking things just one step further and producing the "tower of meat" special. It went a little like this:
"Let's do a whole platter with rolled up bits of cold meat - I mean, we've done the half grapefruit/cocktail sticks/wee willie winkie/cube of cheese/pickled onion hedgehog extravaganza. Twice. We could just go for it and get that 70's party vibe...."
"Oh God yes".
Picture the magic: a platter measuring roughly 60cm by 40cm piled to a depth of 15cm with rolled up tubes of ham, with a choir of mini pork pies nestled atop it. Then we did another one, beef this time, with more pork pies, and in the centre, the glory of yet more wee willie winkies, arranged so that they reached for the ceiling. And then cherry tomatoes, as a concession to health.

Tell me you don't want me to cater for your next party, I won't believe it.

*Scottish food is actually perfectly pleasant, and haggis is very good fried. If you can avoid thinking about what you are eating.
**It's a sausage, just a sausage.
***Only 40% trotter and snout. The rest is pastry. And seasoning.

By way of explanation

2005-06-21T07:15:00.000Z

I'd love to say that I've been to Peru or something in order to explain my regrettable absence, but no, I just have a nasty case of blogstipation. Maybe I need to read War and Peace or something equally fibrous in order to move the blockage. Ho hum.

In the meantime, I got some fabric that I ordered from the States, which was fairly exciting. Anyone got any good ideas as to what I could use this for? I got all enthusiastic when I saw it and had to have it, now it's going to sit in my vast fabric repository until I get around to ruining it in some pointlessly crafty project. Darn it.

Goods Man

2005-06-07T19:19:00.000Z

I'm quite into my sewing, me.

I'm currently fashioning a dress to wear to a wedding in a couple of weeks, primarily so that I can say, when people ask, "What, this? Oh, it's just something I threw together for the occasion...". The danger is, of course, that people will furtively point and mutter close-mouthed "What is she wearing? It looks like she threw it together". It's Vogue pattern No. 2494, fact fans.

Anyway, for a couple of years I bought Burda's pattern magazine which had loads of designs every month. Lots of work, and I never actually completed anything I started, which is the story of my life. Today I took an urge to seek it out again, but of course, the Burda magazine is all in German, and my German sucks bigtime. So I translated it via the magic of Google and got this, which is better in every way from the original:

Camp Field Gallery
Long, narrowly, catchless (catchless?) - the blazer is elegance purely! The special attraction lies in the many division seams. They guarantee not only the perfect seat (eh?), but also the interesting look: The individual part consist times of poplin, time of satinstretch. Thus refined matte gloss effects develop (and to think I've always wanted a jacket with refined matte gloss effects). Further highlight is the slim sleeve. It is slit at the seam and approaches on the handrueken pointedly (thank God for that. I hate a sleeve that doesn't approach the handrueken pointedly). The coronation/culmination is the strengthened shoulder - absolutely camp field, absolutely point! (absolutely impossible to work out what they are getting at!)

"Goods Man" is the source that is listed all over the site for zips and things. I think. It's difficult to be sure. Have a look here
Six on a caper! Thus the order functions.

Okapi's Guide

2005-06-02T17:25:00.000Z

To Job Interviews - new and improved!*

Preparations

The night before, discover a small amount of clear nail polish on your suit trousers at knee height. It looks as though a snail has just wandered over them, or a small child has used them as a hankie. As you only have one suit, remove the nail polish with a strong smelling solvent designed for the purpose. Realise that the trousers now reek of oranges. Attempt, futilely, to remove stench by dowsing them with water from the tap. Fail. Wash trousers in washing machine and hope they will dry by morning.

Inspect face. Notice two new spots muscling in on formerly humanoid visage. They are large. They are scary. Mutter the words "fresh faced new employee". Laugh bitterly.

Have a look at the company website in order to be able to ask interesting, insightful questions at the interview. Find yourself utterly unable to take in anything of use. Giggle slightly at oil company terminology: downhole tools, t&a department etc. Google "bollocks" instead. Fight the urge to shout "last chicken in Sainsburys!" at the resulting images.

Sleep fitfully.

Just Before the Interview Begins

Retire to restroom to check on face and general appearance. Carefully camouflage spots (now seemingly pulsing with barely disguised malice) with expensive concealer. Note that sadly, this makes no difference. Spots now look like tumerous protusions, only less red than before. Try not to think about this. Maybe they are looking for an employee with a chin that looks exactly like a mutant potato.

Drive straight past turnoff on the motorway and enjoy the rising panic as you realise that you have only ten minutes to find the bloody place.

Find the bloody place. Do that weird walk/run/walk thing across the car park in order to get there on time/not look like a flustered idiot/get there on time.

At the Interview

Make your first impression count! When the HR lady comes to reception to get you, make sure to be staring gormlessly out the window, and let her say your name at least twice to get your attention.

During the walk to the interview room, between small talk, your jacket should reveal itself to be ever so slightly musty, as if it had been in an attic for several years. What with the excitement of the journey, and hot footing it across the car park, the trousers now pull their big surprise - the fetid smell of oranges wafts about as you move. Pull your chair ever so slightly further away from the interviewers. Be furtive - although any peculiar behavior you exhibit now will pale into insignificance as the interview progresses.

When asked questions such as "Tell us about some recent achievements", it's best to pull some entirely lame response out of your saggy, sponge like brain like "I took up horse riding again after a ten year gap!". (Later on, you can employ the simple trick of humming loudly - La la lalala LA - until you forget it happened.)

Pick a moment to go completely, hopelessly blank. Your mind may feel like it has malfunctioned, in a biological version of the blue screen of death. You may drool a little. Don't worry! This shows your human, fallible side. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you say "Sorry, I've gone completely blank. What was I saying?" as this will make you look a right twunt. It would be preferable to simply run from the room. La la lalala LA!

Well done! You made it to the end of the interview without saying "I'd like to get my fingers into more pies!". Hang on, no you didn't. Never mind. La la lalala LA!

Post Interview

Now you can relax. Doubtless job offers will start to pour through your door! Sit back and enjoy the adulation. And hope they didn't film you, or tape it, because you can bet they are replaying it for yucks every day.

*As opposed to old and inferior

An Apology

2005-06-01T16:31:00.000Z

For Sidekick, O light of my life.

There are some people who are easy to care for when they are unwell. They are gracious despite their discomfort, remaining cheerful no matter what.

It may surprise you to know that I am not one of these fabulous people.

Some say that women can bear more pain than men could ever take, and that a cold for a woman becomes flu for a man.

I like to buck a trend, me.

This week I hosted a cheery little gastric fluey virus, which did it's best to lay me low. Here is a short exchange between me and the saintly Sidekick, just to illustrate my point:

Me: "My head hurts." Pause. "My back hurts." Pause. "Have I got a temperature?"
Sidekick: (laying a kindly palm on my forehead for the nth time that day) "Yes, You are still pretty hot. Want a drink?"
Me: "No, I can't drink, I'll BE SICK!"
Sidekick: (Patiently) "Come on, you have to drink, you'll make yourself even worse."
Me: (Petulantly) "OK. Fizzy water. With the juice in it."
Sidekick: "Here. Try This."
Me: (Sipping a microscopic amount of fizzy water with the juice in it) "Bleiurgh! I CAN'T DRINK IT! I'LL BE SICK!"
Sidekick: You have to drink. I got you Ginger Beer, to settle your stomach, it's not the cheap crap either. Want a glass of that?"
Me: (Snappy now) "I can't drink it, when the fizzy hits my throat it makes me feel like I'm gonna hurl."
Sidekick: "OK, can I get you anything else? A bowl in case you throw up?"
Me: "I DON'T WANT A BOWL IDONT'TWANNABESICK! A damp towel?"
Sidekick: "OK....." (Rummages in the cupboard) "Er. Is a tea towel alright?"
Me: "YES whatever." (I slap the teatowel on my head and relax for approximately 30 seconds before...) "OH GOD now I'm too cold again."
Sidekick: (tucking me back under the covers again) "OK now? Just take it easy"
Me: (wailing and whinging, I disappear beneath the covers)

Repeat this endlessly until I feel better*, and Sidekick needs a week off work to recuperate.

Bless you. I think you are ace. And thanks for the teatowel, it was actually quite soothing.

*And I do! Today I could drop kick a horse.

I was a girl guide you know

2005-05-24T20:00:00.000Z

Today I had wayward hosiery.

Hold ups are sexy, right? All that bare flesh at the top of your thigh, fresh air fluffing your unmentionables, a suggestion of a wayward nature. I remember seeing Coupling (the Brit version, OK, it was quality stuff) where the theory was put forward that only 5 pairs of stockings exist in the entire world. Women who have a new man in their life are allowed to borrow the sacred stockings during the early days of their relationship, in order to kindle passion. Once that time has passed, the stockings are passed on to the next lucky lady in line, which is why us girls only wear them when you boys are all new and fresh to us. Today was my day.

Anyway.

On discovering that the only pair of tights I could find had holes in them, I dug around in my drawer and found a pair of serviceable black hold ups. So far, so good. A slightly thrilling way to start the day, no? They were quite pretty, all lace topped and glossy. What could go wrong?

Cut to later on. Sadly the silicon sticky bits seemed lacking. Deeply lacking. Every time I stood up I could sense an odd looseness around the thigh area, a feeling of insecurity. Hmmmmm.

Surely, nothing could be sexier than hold ups drooping sadly around your knees, only being prevented from dropping all the way to the floor by what were previously one hot pair of knee high boots. Flappage was happening. Think of this vision as being like pirate boots with a humiliating twist.

I spent some time (all morning, really) running to the loo to yank them skyward. Only to feel them creep floorward again.

I briefly toyed with the idea of sticking them to my thighs with a Heath Robinson type construction involving panty liners folded back on themselves, tucked down the tops. Then I remembered that the only thing panty liners sticks to is pubes. Thank God, knowing my luck the damn things would have appeared at the hem of my black skirt like white ghostly paper harbingers of doooooom.

So I did what any ex-girl-guide worth her salt would do. I put rubber bands around my thighs to halt the inevitable pull of gravity.
Ladies, having no feeling in your toes, and a strange double bulge of thigh showing through a pencil skirt is worth it, if it rescues you until lunchtime, when you can escape to the blessed shop and purchase tights, fully crotch-covering wonderful fabulous desperately unsexy tights.
Happy Days.

Typo of the Day

2005-05-23T13:01:00.000Z

"Using aching tools" instead of "using machine tools".

Oops. Hehehe.

Girl on Girl Action

2005-05-21T16:50:00.000Z

For the record:
Yes, I went to an all girls school for four long, miserable years, from age 11 to 15. In the spirit of destroying men's long cherished fantasies, I now feel the need to puncture all myths regarding this. Like an overfilled football stabbed with a darning needle.

We played hockey. I did not, at any time, want to look up any of my team mates' skirts. In fact, we spent as much time as possible wearing tomato red "tracky bottoms" in order to fend off the freezing wind. The most exciting thing that ever happened was me hitting a friend in the face with my hockey stick. Accidentally, of course. The second most exciting thing was another friend developing pleurisy just before a match and nearly suffocating on her own lungs. She only quit after half the match was over, people. She was that hard. Orgies caused by the overflow of team spirit into the dorm room never occurred.
Admitting that you ever flicked the bean/pushed the wee man in the boat*/insert euphemism of choice here was tantamount to outing yourself as a lesbian. In fact, the atmosphere was so anti self-love that even using non-applicator tampons was grounds for being ostracised as unclean. Group masturbation sessions never occurred.
The showers in the boarding house were placed in individual cubicles. With proper shower curtains and everything, my God, the luxury. Once upon a time my lovely housemates stole my towel from the shower room, leaving me two options: streak through the halls back to my dorm room or wrap myself in the shower curtain for dignity's sake. Guess which option I went for? I did not see another girl naked at any time during my four year incarceration. Group boob-soaping in communal showers never occurred.
Any games played outside classes tended towards either violence or gossip. I'm talking about such time-honoured classics as chase-punch (little known variation on kiss-chase) or truth or dare. Lies were told, arms were thumped, kicks were aimed at heads, alarm clocks were locked in the hall cupboard outside the house mistress's room after being set to go off at 3am. How we laughed as she forced us out of bed at 5am to run round the hockey pitch in our pajamas as punishment. Lingerie clad pillow fights never occurred.

Glad I've got that off my chest.

In a move which pretty much sums up the story of my life, only two years after I left the school started taking boys. Gaaah!

*Sidekick always gets this one wrong and insists it goes, "helping the old man row the boat ashore". I don't know what this suggests to you, but it makes me feel slightly ill.

Interesting

2005-05-20T14:32:00.000Z

Prophetic Warning

2005-05-16T16:34:00.000Z

Beware mortals, for I have had a vision! I dreamed last night of social unrest, women confined to their homes, gunfire in the streets. And then the zombies came. Not Dawn of the Dead zombies either, the speedy ones from 28 Days Later. Helllloooooo!*

The worst bit was hiding in a sweet little old lady's home. She reached out and held my shoulders, telling me I was safe. Then her face disintegrated into grey mush and she howled at me, cracking her jaw in the process.

Thankfully I woke up at this point, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Moral of the story? I really need to keep an eye on my caffeine intake after 6pm.

The last time I had dreams like that was when Sidekick was trying to quit the evil tobacco weed using those sticky patches. Naturally one detached itself from his chest and stuck itself to my armpit (how? how?), leaving me to spend the night in nicotine overload hell.

I will go to bed early tonight. And concentrate on pretty flowers and fluffy bunnies.

*If you haven't seen 28 Days Later this will mean nothing. Sorry about that.

Upperclass Tupperware

2005-05-14T18:39:00.000Z

I swear the '80s are coming back to haunt me.

You remember tupperware? My mum was a demon for it. Every dish cooked in our house involved at least one tupperware container for putting leftovers in, you know, the tiny amounts of food that you then transfer to the fridge so that they can fester in peace? And there were other "useful" items: a plastic mat with numbered circles on it for rolling out pastry to the correct diameter for your pie dish, acres of muffin tins (various sizes from large down to pointless), a strange white plastic tube-shaped thing that may, or may not, have been some sort of space age corkscrew, and a yoghurt maker that was sometimes used to incubate eggs.

At one point I remember we had an automatic potato peeler, which consisted of an industrial strength dish attached to a vicious motor, lined with skin flaying sandpaper. You added potatoes and a bit of water to stop the apparatus from catching aflame and switched it on. It made a noise which suggested Heathrow Airport had upped sticks and settled in our kitchen. The tubers exited displaying a slightly terrified air, with little bits of skin still clinging desperately to the outside. They looked like torture victims, that's all I'm saying.

But I digress. Back to retro cookware.

Last night I was ~~forced~~ pleased to attend a Pampered Chef "Party". The basic premise is an Anne Summers party without the kink. Or the risque lingerie (although, who knows what the hostess had on under her demure blouse 'n skirt combo?) You sit, presumably in a rapture of consumerism, while a flustered housewife demonstrates overpriced cooking utensils. The best seller is a sort of stone ware plinth thing which normal people use for cooking pizza on.

Voila. Only £19.95!
The hostess suggested that you spend 30 minutes chopping (with their chopping thingy of course: £24.50!) various foodstuffs including chicken and mayonnaise and mild chilli sauce in order to concoct something fabulous.

"Big Chopper" hur hur hur. Sidekick got all excited when he realised it used some sort of cam arrangement to turn the blade. Only deranged housewives and engineers could get a kick out this shit, I swear.

The gorgeous end result *nausea*

High Points:

Sniggering helplessly with like-minded friend over comments like, "of course you make all your own pastry from scratch". Yeah right.

Hostess lady getting confused and asking for prompts from her more experienced colleague in the audience. "These knives are dishwasher proof!" colleague: "No, they're not".

Man in front of us making involuntary grunting noises.

And finally, someone let rip a truly foul smelling fart. Everyone in the audience was looking at each other in a "Bloody hell. Was that you? 'Cos it wasn't me" way.

Did I mention that my social life is dead? Dead, I tell you, dead.

Banned in at least one country

2005-05-11T20:51:00.000Z

Here's a little present for the lovely Karla

Consider it a pre-flat-warming gift, in honour of this post. Yes, her blog is so reprehensible that you cannot see it in the United Arab Emirates.

(Damn trackback thing, I can't get it to work)

Voila:

I thought I might try a less fancy version, perhaps in red, or tasteful tones of sand? Just let me know.

In other news:

Pornography: this, translated from the original Greek means "the writing of harlots"
Pudenda: latin this time, meaning "that of which one should be ashamed"

Just thought you should know.

Special Offer

2005-05-09T22:25:00.000Z

For sale: One set of *magic bathroom scales*.

White, reasonable condition, traditional style, measures weight from 0 to 18 stone. Would grace any bathroom, or why not keep them in the bedroom, making it easy to weigh yourself straight after waking?

Special features:

Wipe clean plastic coating
Easy read dial
Automatically weighs you at 3 stone less than you actually weigh. *

I'll take offers. I'd been weighing myself and thinking "Wow! It's great how I'm losing weight and not dieting or nuthin'. Damn that's good. Funny how I don't look any different, though....". Maybe I'll post them on E-Bay under "supernatural".

*May, on reflection, be broken.

Delusions of Terror

2005-05-06T18:51:00.000Z

As usual, I was wasting time skipping merrily amongst the Blogger blogs when I was brought up short by this statement pasted right across the top of the page. Weird:

"Note from the paranoid author of this blog:
Due to my increasing (though variable degrees of) paranoia, please refrain from linking to this blog. This is not due to any misconceptions of superiority (even though I may be better than you or anyone else out there), but only to a severe dread of being discovered by my friends or family. If you are my friends or family, please stop reading this blog. If you cannot stop, please do not ever let me know that you know about this blog. If you have to let me know, hypnotize me first, and then make me forget what you tell me. Otherwise, read on."

It was all I could do not to link to this blog just to be contrary. Not sure what that says about me, but it can't be good.

The worst thing is that now I can't find the page again in order to check for salacious and dirty reading matter, although I can reveal that the current post contained......a recipe for........SOUP. Nasty little munchkin.

The Mandatory Political Post

2005-05-04T19:03:00.000Z

Election 2005!

I've held off on this one as I didn't want to go into too much detail and therefore bore anyone. This is a complete lie, actually I just didn't want to bore myself, but the bible told me I had to do it.

In case any Britishers out there hadn' t noticed, tomorrow is your opportunity to go forth and vote like a good 'un. Here's a short run down to help you make up your mind:

1. Labour
Primary face: Tony Blair
Characteristics: Dodgy, could be fond of untruth. Still having trouble with unnatural looking body language, despite years of public practice. Increasingly pissed off with Paxman. Don't mention the war. More toothy than he used to be.

2. Conservative
Primary face: Michael Howard
Oh no, hang on, Michael Howard
Characteristics: Dodgy, may be a bloodsucker. Stiff, and with a really peculiar accent. Wants to either lock people up or prevent them from getting in, depending on who they are, and probably also on his mood. Why not help the Conservatives with their campaign here?

3. Liberal Democrats
Primary face: Charles Kennedy
Characteristics: Dodgy, looks like if you poked him, the mark would stay for hours. May be made of plasticine. Like all liberals, has difficulty with decisions. New dad, so watch for signs of swinging to the right (politically speaking). Possibly booze fuelled.

That's it really. There are other parties but voting for them is basically pointless. Anyone want to make a choice for me?

Never mind, it heralds the return of Peter Snow and his swingometer! Woooo.

Living and Mooing

2005-05-02T17:53:00.000Z

I experienced what is perhaps the essence of true adulthood this weekend. This single event, more than anything else, illustrates that I am hurtling towards 30, and half my friends are rapidly fleeing it: the dinner party.

More than that, this was an actual fondue party. For real, there was a cheese fondue, and hot oil, all in all it was an accident waiting to happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once upon a time the pub was the place for social interaction, meeting there at about 7ish after having scarfed down a pizza by way of ballast. Being fairly sozzled by 9ish was par for the course, in fact it was actively encouraged. This, my Bacchanalian idyll, my drink fuelled Eden, is long since gone. Because, let's face it, it was all about getting your phreak on (as I believe the kids call it these days).

These days it is all done differently. Most of our circle is now regularly (or perhaps not so regularly - it is also no longer de rigeur to ask) getting their phreak on with just the one person. This makes social gatherings change. The underlying tension is gone, leaving a different dynamic for interaction. This particular party started off as a gathering of the damned.

Imagine a bus stop. Then imagine a group of listless people waiting for a bus, one which may never come. Now position them on a group of sofas around a coffee table laden with three (count 'em) fondue sets. Give them neat little glasses of white wine, or pint glasses of lager. With guests quaffing tidily, silence descends. I deeply regretted not having stayed at home, I mean, Casualty was on and everything.

Thank God I managed to breach the gap and start up conversation with the other geek in the room, otherwise I might have had to strangle myself with my own knickers just to end the boredom. I never get tired of talking about how Trekkies are sadder than Star Wars fans, and about how, if I get the chance, I will drive toothpicks into George Lucas's cold, black heart for what he has done with the last two films. Or what browser is best, or about sites to go look at. Geek and proud of it, that's me.

The food was good too.

And finally, the crowning glory of the evening. One guest, desperately trying to cling to adulthood while everyone else was trying to forget it, piped up with this little gem: "I'd love to see a live production of The Mikado..." There was a short pause as we tried to compute this, like someone kicking the record player at a real party. Silence. Then Sidekick said "Naw. That'd be really dull - watching them tighten nuts and bolts and stuff". I replied "No, you're thinking of Meccano."

He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down. Being childish really kicks ass sometimes.

The Joy of Spam

2005-04-30T11:06:00.000Z

I've got a fancy email spam detector program at work, which is pretty good: try it here. The trouble is that I have to check it once in a while to make sure no vital missives from NASA are stuck in there and can't get to me ( they will call, one day, and then yea verily, I shall save the Earth). The layout in this program shows you the subject line thusly:

Subject: cockroach dossier boris

Well, as far as spam goes, the subject line caught my eye. That is one magical title, the imagery, the mystery, the poetry of it, magnificent.

Turned out to be the usual offer for WALLIUM C1ALlS VlAGRRA of course, but frankly, as far as drugs go I prefer nicotine, caffeine and cocaine cut with baby powder and meringue dust.*

What a disappointment.
And who the hell is Silas Huntley? Or Gilah Holt? Apparently someone thinks they work with me, 'cos the email was addressed to them. These spam generators are getting artsy perhaps? Spam as literary art? Laudable.

*just kidding about the baby powder

Quick & Dirty

2005-04-26T20:44:00.000Z

Deranged hair? Check

Eyebrows accidentally over plucked into a permanent expression of surprise? Check

Fat buster tights forming weird triple ridge beneath skirt, around hip area? Check

Legs with stubble you could light a match on, on account of not having shaved? Check

Business entirely as usual. Must be nearly Wednesday then.

Regrettable Conversations

2005-04-25T18:57:00.000Z

I expect to be hit with some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit any day now.

Me: "Have you got those info sheets from last week?"
Him from work: "Yup. Copies of 'em." Short pause. "I'll give you one."
Me: "That'd be great! .......Hur hur hur."

And previously, aiming for some sort of group harassment charge:

Me: "Have you heard about Steak and Blowjob day? It's the masculine antidote to Valentine's day."
Another, different him from work: "Great! So everyone should come round to yours later then." General laughter from gathered colleagues.
Me: "I'm not doing steak for that many people."

So, for the record, I swear I am innocent. I am merely victim to my total inability to think before I speak, leaving me to regret my words at a leisurely pace later on. You know that flesh creeping sensation as you remember what you said? Remembering the look on other people's faces? The expressions of disbelief?

They'll never get the charges to stick, right?

Writing

2005-04-22T15:25:00.000Z

While the ire is hot.

To the aging professor who cut me up in Asda's car park:

I hate you. I do not care how new your pathetic car is. I do not care that I may have driven within 20 foot of it.

When your pale, moon shaped, beard wreathed face rose like a guppy's from the gloom I felt disgust, and bowel clenching fury. Why did you goggle at me? Your beady little eyes fixed upon me as if seeing the world for the first time, but surely, with your driving skills, this must happen all the time. And your Paddington Bear hard stare? My God, I swear, I was so scared, no, really.
Thank the unlucky star that shone down on your unfortunate birth that I didn't just ram the back of your precious motor. Believe me, I was imagining doing it, and it was good.

Next time I see you, all bets are off, sucker!

Thanks. I feel better now.

In which we dine out

2005-04-20T21:33:00.000Z

Me and Sidekick went to the local brand name restaurant for food last night, to celebrate the fact that we had nothing to celebrate other than a lack of desire to shop n'cook.

I found this advert kindly left on our table. How nice!

2005-04-20T21:00:00.000Z

I may have altered it a little...

Cycle of Gripe

2005-04-18T19:36:00.000Z

Today, the following exchange took place:

Me: Sorry for being so grumpy. I'm probably just a bit hormonal.

Sidekick: ........You think?

Me: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!

Then I ruined a perfectly good and workable strop by sniggering to myself. Dern it, I was 21 to 13 spats and pulling away too.*

*Gratuitous Princess Bride reference

Acceptance

2005-04-14T19:39:00.000Z

What I wrote:

Dear Mrs Smooze,
Thank you for your invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding.
We will be glad to accept, and look forward to joining you in celebrating the happy event.

Yours sincerely
Okapi

What I wish I wrote:

Dear Mrs Smooze,
Why did you send us an invitation to Cooty and Pooter's wedding? Thanks though, we'll be there with bells on. Or with nothing but a smile on, which'll make the photos more interesting.
I barely know Cooty, having only spoken to her with regards to cat-sitting, but I'm assuming she is a good soul, and that there will be at least one free drink on offer at the do. This is payback for the aforementioned cat-sitting.

I love you, Mrs Smooze, and cannot live any more without you. By the time you read this I'll be face down in a vat of spicy curry.

Yours sincerely,
Okapi
PS. We'll always have Paris xxx

Boot Based Erotica

2005-04-13T20:41:00.000Z

It's not really
related in any way but it reminded me...

Way back in the dark past, when I was still trying to improve my handwriting to something approaching legibility (NOWADAYS WHEN I HAVE TO HANDWRITE I USE CAPITALS SO IT CAN BE READ) and working out just who the hell I was, I decided to buy a pair of commando type boots. You know the kind; long, hefty, hardwearing, great for wearing with stupidly short skirts and eye-paringly bright tights*. I harboured goth intentions, a reinvention of myself as "kewl" or maybe "hott". In hindsight, I must have looked like I was wearing them either for a bet, or so I wouldn't blow away in high winds.

In the shoe shop was the most beautiful boy, no older than me, perfect in black T shirt and tousled straight-from-a-warm-bed hair. Nervous sweat inducingly gorgeous. So far out of my league I could have cried. But he is coming this way, and shitshitshit, he is talking, quick! form words you moron! After silently gibbering for a matter of minutes I succeeded in stuttering out my size and hefted my boot of choice at him, simpering helplessly like a drugged chimp all the while.

He came back with the boots and I was so pleased with their lumpen effect, I paid for them there and then.

Picture the scene. There I am, preparing to walk out wearing my new pavement crushing megaboots, when he stops me and points out the price tag still hanging from the laces. I fumble pointlessly with it and stand up. And then he kneels down on the floor, looks right up at me and bites the fucking tag off. While looking at me in a meaningful way, remember. Goodbyes were said. I left the shop and giggled hysterically all the way down the road.

Formative experience that. If only I was a little older and wiser at the time, I'd damn well have asked him what time he finished.

*Translation: Pantyhose. My God that is one filthy suggestive term

When the moon's not phat*

2005-04-12T20:30:00.000Z

Winter. I dread the encroaching nights and foul black mornings and ache for sunshine and light. Nothing makes me as happy as those first few bright mornings, or the pleasure of not having to drive home through murky darkness at 4.30 in the afternoon. But there's something I had forgotten about the glory of spring.

We have an anorexic strip of forest backing onto our house, which is lovely from the point of view of, well, the view.

Sadly, in the forest lurks an evil beast. He is small, sheathed in black and beady of eye. He has a lot of little friends. He is (dramatic pause) a crow (cue eerie violin a la "Psycho"). The little bastards nest out there in cosy family groups of around 400, and what they love above all else** is to discuss the issues of the day. Their argument generally goes along these lines:

RAWK RAWK RAWK RAW-KKKK.

GRACK! (cough cough) ARK!! CRAWCK, GROOOUUUWCK......

KARK! BLARCK BRRCRACK! BLECH! RAWK RAWK etc.

They are like a massed choir of angry bronchitis sufferers.

The dawn, arriving at around 5.30am, encourages them to come forth and make whoopee, dragging me out of sleep until I sit up in bed shouting "WHAT? What do you want from me? Mediation, fer Chrissakes? SHUT IT YOU MOULDY FEATHERED HARBINGERS OF DOOM!" Which has no effect, of course. I'm working on arming the local cats with advanced climbing gear and sniper rifles. Which will be useless until they get the hang of the strap-on opposable thumbs. It's a long term plan of course.

*This title has no relevance to the above post, until you watch this and think about forests
**excepting sheeps eyeballs and rotting entrails

2005-04-12T19:11:00.000Z

How others see the crow

2005-04-12T19:08:00.000Z

How I see the crow

Mindless Tedium

2005-04-11T20:40:00.000Z

You must have experienced that moment of self knowledge, when it becomes clear that all that is exciting, fresh and new is behind you. Never again will you feel the thrill of the new, the pounding heartbeat of life, the frenetic song of existence. Ahead is only drudgery, day melting into day, month into month, year after year, until finally, weak and exhausted by ennui, your life is snuffed out like an inconsequential tea light.

In other words, I had to get up at 6.30 this morning to go back to work after a week off. It's remarkable how a night of mild insomnia followed by an obscenely early shower can make you question the meaning of life. However, I am not alone. Apparently getting up too early
can be bad for your health. I'm bringing it up at the next staff meeting, with the suggestion that I am allowed to start at 10 instead of 8. For my continued good mental health, of course.

How to...

2005-04-09T12:57:00.000Z

Go snowboarding in Scotland. Follow these simple steps for sporting adventure.

Notice snow falling at a time when you can actually use it, ie during your week off.
Decide to have one last hurrah before snow is off the menu until December.
Check status of The Lecht
Make plans to leave early, carefully pulling out all the necessary kit from it's hibernation space in the cupboard. Don't forget your hat, gloves, snowboard, etc.
Rise at the ass crack of dawn, or in my case, force someone else to rise by the time honoured method of pulling the duvet off them.
Discover that the road to the Lecht is closed. Due to snow, naturally.
Go back to sleep.

And reeeelaaaax. You have just experienced the best that Scotland has to offer for winter sports!*

*in April, mind.

Proof of Life After Death

2005-04-08T22:03:00.000Z

Who knew that funerals could be so relaxing? This morning I dozed off while watching the ceremonial dispatch of the perennially behatted one, and had a dream that I was sitting at a table with him. The Popester was making a sculpture (abstract, possibly some sort of human form) out of jelly. It was pink jelly with sparkles in it.

Odd.

Damn you Firefox

2005-04-04T22:37:00.000Z

You blanked all my bookmarks! Why? Why! Do you hate me? Did I have an inappropriate number of sites on my list? How will I ever find all of that ~~rubbish~~ stuff again? NOoooooooo.

Returning to the point.

I am not entirely convinced that I achieve full consciousness until quite late on in the day. Generally, I stumble around in a fog for several hours before the world around me resolves itself into a comprehensible whole. Mostly this does me little harm, although I have attempted to make coffee by adding fizzy water from the fridge to sugar and coffee granules. The major difficulty is that anyone who talks to me before, say, 10am seems to be uttering prophecies, or speaking in tongues. Things I have misheard this week:

"Fargle, the Binman cometh!"
("Remember, I'm playing badminton tonight.")

"Mixmag, has the cat gone?"
("Did you feed the cat?")

"Give it to Ahab, he'll return the pox forthwith."
("Give me the number, I'll fax it.")

I see two possibilities:

I am channeling some long dead seer
I need more coffee/my ears cleaned

The Signs

2005-04-01T16:24:00.000Z

Please enjoy this useful documentation.

A Tale

2005-03-31T09:39:00.000Z

Once upon a time, there was a very little girl who refused to eat solid food. The Mummy was at her wits end, but the very little girl would not eat the Gerber goo, nor even the home-cooked goo, no, not at all.

One morning, the Mummy was horrified to discover the Daddy, happily engaged feeding the very little girl tiny pieces of black pudding. This delicacy, for the uninitiated, involves spices and unmentionable "fruits" of the pig. It is in no way suitable for small persons' digestive systems. The Daddy, blithely ignoring the Sainted Doctor Spock, and indeed, health and safety in the home, pointed out, "Look! She likes it". And she did.

And thus it was written. So it would be in the very little girl's home, with the Mummy attempting to uphold the household rule of law, and the Daddy thumbing his nose at such things and just going with it.

Kudos to you, Dad. I hold you single handedly responsible for my tendency to go my own way, and for my inability to believe anything without checking it out for myself.

And for my love of black pudding, even now I know what's in it.

Things to waste your time with

2005-03-30T20:31:00.000Z

Strangely compelling, yet pointless, and not good if you suffer from motion sickness.

Sideshow Boob

2005-03-28T16:24:00.000Z

Last time, I absolutely promise. Or call it a leitmotif, whatever makes you happy.

At the weekend I purchased a new bra. I rather liked it, it's kind of meshy and slightly floral, with those sort of foamy line-enhancing cups. Foolishly, I did not try it on, assuming that manufacturers of lingerie actually stick to sizes when they make the damn things. Idiot.

I tried all the usual manoeuvres while getting dressed, tightening the straps, hoiking the twins up and resettling them, to no avail. The bosoms rested in the cups (hate that word) like a pair of Victoria sponges that had been cooked for too long and had shrunk back in the tins. Running short on time and patience, I slung on a loose sweater, hoping this would disguise the evidence, and made haste for the office. Uplift, schmuplift.

On reflection I should have thought the whole thing through more. In the bathroom mirror, the tightened straps made my chestal orbs appear to be levitating against the wool. There was a definite amount of quad boob going on , only the top two halves of the quad had seemingly sunk. I also noted a certain level of oscillatory action. Look into my boobs, you are feeling sleepy, very sleepy.......

I can only assume that either a) Lingerie makers are assholes or b) my boobs have shrunk.

Sidekick notes, "Bigger is better than smaller, I suppose. Although, that's a matter of opinion". Definitive, I think you'll agree.

Pointless Observation of the Day

2005-03-28T11:40:00.000Z

Why is it that you can smell snow, but you can't smell water?

Office Fun

2005-03-25T10:41:00.000Z

When bored out of your tiny mind, why not send letters to people who don't even exist?

Mr C
38 Pootle Lane
Ferckley in the Wold
Botswanadon
BB5 4RR

25 March 2005

Dear Mr Cheese & Onion

Please find enclosed a timetable for eyeball pain / headaches this year.

On the 8^th of June, a shower of bastards is expected in the morning. Be sure to take the necessary precautions.

Please contact me if this change causes any difficulties for you.

Yours Sincerely

Okapi

Office Ham Sandwich

Procrastination

2005-03-24T12:09:00.000Z

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

Douglas Adams

It's amazing just how long I can put off doing something. My approach tends towards leaving it until it is a) too bloody late by a long shot or b) pointless. I now believe myself to actually be incapable of just getting on and finishing it. It is for this very reason that it took me four and a half years to finish a three year university degree. Do I need to explain that playing Zelda on my Un-intendo 64 was infinitely more necessary to me than completing a 4000 word essay on the political effects of the printing press? Or that discussing porn in the pub was more interesting than dissecting the history of the romantic novel (providing a comprehensive list of all references)? Or that seeing Rolf Harris in concert was more vital than revising? Actually, I never went to that concert, stayed home "to revise", but instead had a two hour bath and watched a documentary on the SAS. Bloody typical.

Even right at this moment, I am completely failing to tidy the bedroom in any way. Look at me. I'm still not moving, despite the fact that it would really make Sidekick happy if I would just have at it.

The point to all this is how enjoyable procrastination can be. Every now and then, if you just can't be arsed, let it go. After years of practice I can take not being arsed-ness to a whole new level of slothful inadequacy. It's my art.

Suppose I'll go put some clothes away and hoover. But first I need to read this book I got yesterday, smoke a few and then perhaps a face mask? So many fabulous ways to waste time, so little excitement in the things I should do.

In other news: today I consistently typed "pumpls" instead of "pumps" and "chimney bresty" instead of "chimney breast". I feel sure my brain is doing this on purpose, with the sole intention of preventing death by complete boredom. Is sniggering a sackable offense?

Pumpls. I like it. *Snigger*

Office Security

2005-03-15T17:18:00.000Z

MEMO TO ALL STAFF

For your convenience and safety, we provide the following information:

Owing to the sheer numbers of staff now on leave with stationary-loss stress related illness, all pens, writing instruments, pencils and markers must now be chained to their owner.
Tippex "mouse" style correction pens are now banned. They are obviously too bleeding edge, and no one can be trusted not to purloin them when they are left unattended.
Any individual found keeping a pencil sharpener for their own use will be fined. Please use the cast iron sharpener, which can be found holding the door to accounts open.
Pens will no longer be handed out willy-nilly. If you require a new pen, please return your used-up pen so that records can be kept. Your new pen will be available for collection after a waiting period of 24 hours.
On no account leave food on your desk overnight. Or in the drawers. Even if they are locked. It just will not be there the next day, including the packet, which the gremlins will remove to make it look like there was never any food at all.
There is only one labelling machine in the building. Please remember this, and do not remove it so that it can be hidden in your office.

That is all

Signed, the ~~office ham sandwich~~ office administrator

God I hate being in charge of The Cupboard

Deviancy and the Dolls

2005-03-11T22:14:00.000Z

While shopping the other day I found the most amazing thing. Wow, I thought, all Barbie's endless horizontal jogging with Ken has finally borne fruit. This cannot be, surely not, especially since I read this: it can't be true.

Let me tell you, virtually all my childhood games with Barbie culminated in her and plastic bewigged, genitally deformed Ken making the beast with two backs. My parents must have thought, "How lovely, see how peaceful the girls are", when really we were just waiting for them to leave the room so that we could move on from the dressing up to the stripping off*.

God only knows how that came about. Schpickley suggests that it was our way of releasing our fledgling sex drives. Or that we were just deviants.

Sometimes Barbie fancied a bit of rough, so she'd have it away with Action Man, who had the advantage of real hair (i.e. felt (thanks Schpickley) but only one leg. He also had perma-pants, molded in place and including a belt like Honey Rider's. We called him the legless lawyer, obviously conscious of class issues even aged eight.

It turns out I was wrong. The doll was Midge, one of Barbie's friends (although plainly one Barbie hasn't really got time for anymore, since Midge married tedious finance analyst Allan, got herself up the duff, and left behind her youthful dreams and morally bankrupt sex n'drug lifestyle.) I love the explanation for Allan's existence:

Allan® was conceived for three important reasons. First and foremost to target the "shared clothes" ideal with Ken®, second for the double dating possibilities and lastly as a "buddy" to Ken®.

The shared clothes ideal? And note those telling quotation marks around the word buddy. Read between the lines, and this says only one thing. Ken is definitely a switch hitter. For his part, Allan is a bigamist, marrying not only Midge, but also poor, innocent, trusting Vicky in Brazil.

Midge, for some reason, has freckles, which I can only assume somehow illustrate how wholesome her marriage-sanctified pregnancy is. Where are the stretch marks, the haemorrhoids, the morning sickness? She has a magnetically attached stomach/womb thing going on instead apparently....Still, considering the hoo ha she created over there you'd think playing with the doll would somehow instantly cause teen pregnancies**. It's too late to worry about it! Kids have a tendency to think up things you just wouldn't even imagine, no matter what you do.

Ignorance, lack of better options and low self esteem cause teen pregnancy. Not dolls. Just my two cents....

*The dolls, ok, the dolls. Deviancy in this case only goes so far.

**(2002? Well, I know this story is old, but this is Scotland, and we've only just got the 'lectric and the indoor water closet)

Don't let the couch watch

2005-03-08T17:43:00.000Z

Very small link dump, on account of not feeling inspired right now. Where the Fuji is that muse I ordered from Amazon? They said he was available with 24 hour delivery.....

snuff movies for inanimate objects
The couch puts up the best fight. For a while, it looks like it might just make it, bouncing out before succumbing. The mattresses are just too sad for words; they just give in, as if life has been too much for them. Perhaps they were already dead, gone from this world to another where their mattressy souls frolic, surrounded by such wonders as the burnished antique four poster frame or the stainless steel moderne plinth. The worryingly yellow toned stuffing that pours out looks overly fleshy somehow. View, and be amazed at man's appetite for destruction.

From a link snaffled from fazed.

What I Did On My Holidays

2005-03-07T22:05:00.000Z

Or rather, what I did on Sunday.

I give you this.

2005-03-07T22:03:00.000Z

"Bush"

2005-03-07T22:00:00.000Z

I know, I'm like a bug eyed poster girl for Lucozade. Sidekick's little bro has some aggression issues to work through.

The venue: Glenshee
The website makes it sound like some sort of alpine paradise, but in reality, you really have to need to snowboard to try it. There's only two chairlifts and the rest are instruments of torture known as "Pomas" or "T-bars". The pomas aren't so bad once you get used to being yanked off your feet, but the T bars....oh the unearthly anguish! You are simultaneously hauled upwards toward the sky and forward towards the ground. I have surprising bruises on my inner thighs. The thing about Glenshee (which I repeated endlessly to the two skiers in our party) is that it just isn't designed for boarders.

Still, perfect day, beautiful snow, and I managed to get away without damaging myself. It's all good. Tell me again why I have to work this week?

Updates

2005-03-05T09:50:00.000Z

I am attempting to right the wrong that is my hair. Currently, I am sitting here with my head oozing "non-drip gel colourant", patiently removing said non-drips from my forehead before they turn my skin blue. I feel like Adrian Mole painting his bedroom black - "bloody purple still showing through!". Doubtless the backs of my ears are now a cracking shade of Celtic Woad. Why do I bother? Vanity, thy name is Okapi.

Also, I had to answer the door this morning to one of Sidekick's mates, who wanted to borrow the mothership. And me having barely moved from my pit.

Hair like straw, flying in all directions as if caught in its own personal tornado? Check.
Unshaven hairy legs protruding from the bottom of shapeless dressing gown? Check.
Face that needs a good ironing? Check.
Too much coffee style morning jitters? Check.
Inability to understand much of what he said on account of not being conscious? Check.

Wow. I bet he was impressed.

Bugger. Update on the update.

He just came back to return the keys. He's seen all my best sides this morning. Fuckity fuck. At least I had pyjamas to cover the rainforest that is my Winter legs. On the other hand: Hey: What? What?!? WHAT!?!?!

P.S. Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "Fuckity fuck" with "Bucket Fuji". Nice one, but no cigar.

Today's Minor Misfortunes

2005-03-03T22:14:00.000Z

My underwear appears to be trying to kill me. I experienced a series of stabby sensations in my chestal region, like carpet burn, only sharper. On retiring to the ladies room, I noticed that one boob had acquired a sort of hemispheric attitude, as if I had chopped a grapefruit in half, stuffed one half into le brassiere, then forgotten to do the same on the other side. Assuming the worst ( spontaneous Pam mams?) I fearfully lifted my sweater to check the evidence. Turns out, the underwire on the left had decided to tear free from it's moorings and make a break for freedom. I then had two choices: allow extra time for bathroom visits to check on the situation vis a vis my globe-boob, or remove the offending strut and spend the day looking lopsided. I opted for number one. (Yes, I know, I should rename this The Boob Blog. Let me tell you, these appendages are out to get me.)
I have inadvertently turned my hair a rich and entirely unnatural shade of bruise-like purple. Do not trust the manufacturers of hair dye products! Or alternatively, when the instructions say "Do a shade test" do not assume that they are joking. Since when was "raisin" purple? The colour also has the surprising effect of throwing my nose into sharp relief. Nuts.

On the plus side, the joker who overtook me on the way to work this morning in his pidly Peugeot (and me driving the mothership, who hates to be overtaken) had obviously not noticed the enormous cock n'balls which someone had drawn in the snow on the car's bonnet. Or maybe he put it there. Either way, justice is served.

You want how f*#$!?g much?

2005-02-28T17:11:00.000Z

Me and Sidekick sometimes fill an empty afternoon with the perusal of Show Homes. Round our way, crafty developers are forever chucking up a variety of ~~rabbit hutches~~ charming new-build houses.

It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.

You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."

I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."

And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.

The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.

On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.

"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.

She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.

Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.

2005-02-24T19:56:00.000Z

Art for your eyes

Trade Descriptions

2005-02-23T21:05:00.000Z

Yes, I have one of those hit count things which basically tells me if anyone reads this rubbish, and where(ish) in the world they are. My apologies, therefore, to whoever it was from Iran (!) who searched Google for this and came here. Sadly the snippet has changed. When I first tried it the short, er, teaser entry in Google for Hog on the Run read "hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special." An open invitation you might think.

Dear reader, you must have experienced such disappointment. Please accept my deepest sympathies, and my sincerest hope that you find the bosoms you are looking for.

Strangers are just friends we haven't met

2005-02-21T20:13:00.000Z

It's a necessity to listen to music during the drive to work in the morning, an activity of such vital importance that I would be unable to work up to full consciousness without it. The primary reason for not carrying a passenger is that we might argue over which band to listen to, and the rage I'd be spun into by not being able to listen to The Killers, or Fugazi, or Dean Martin if I bloody well want to is simply not worth braving. But it isn't just the listening, oh no. It's the singing too, "singing" being a term I use to loosely describe my bellowing and hooting along with any given track.

This morning it was The Beastie Boys.

Okapi: (braying) "Let me get some action from the back section,"

(I'm trailing cigarette smoke from a lazy hand, window rolled down, all is good and right in my motorised world.)

Okapi: (bleating) "We need body rocking, not perfection."

(I am forced to stop by the car in front of me, lights, who stops for lights? I notice a man standing next to the car, on the driver's side.)

Okapi: (ullulates) "I wanna do the freak until the break of dawn,"

(Oh shit on a stick I've locked eyes with him)

Okapi: (howling) "Tell me party people is that so wrong?"

(Godamn it cut out the "singing"! You could still escape with a scrap of dignity intact.
But it's too late. I cannot look away, it's like my eyeballs are held in place by iron rods. Hapless witness stares back, mouth slightly open, face bewildered.)

Beasties: "The ship is docking,"

(No point in stopping now, it's just one more person seeing me make a right twat of myself.)

Okapi (bitterly, fixing pedestrian with a jaundiced expression suggesting I shout at complete strangers daily) "INterlocking!"

Beasties: "End up-rocking,"

Tortured onlooker actually steps back slightly, and raises a hand as if to fend me off.

Okapi: (triumphant now, made righteous by refusal to end the blood-curdling horror) "electro-shocking!"

Innocent bystander: looks bemused, but chastened.

After a final parting stare, I swivel forwards as if nothing had happened.

And drive away.

2005-02-17T15:05:00.000Z

Me Again

Mouchie Speaks On Social Matters

2005-02-17T14:40:00.000Z

Boots the Feral

While I understand the need to help those cats that haven't got monkeys waiting on their every whim, I was disgusted to see how these moggies were forced to give up their lusty-bits. I know my night yowling days are long since gone, but the monkeys are sick! They are obsessed: note how the whole "neutered" angle is pushed again and again, ugh, neutered, what a filthy term.

"Boots the feral is provided with everything a cat could hope for -
food, water, love, and shelter. And as you might expect, he has also
been neutered. There isn't a day that goes by when he is not grateful
for all he has. "

That's right. Boots also adds, " Yes, I was overjoyed the day they
trapped me, chopped me baws off, then offered me a light snack as
recompense. Kitty Treats more than repay me for the loss of my
Tom-hood. Thanks, guys. Really."

The real truth about us

Don't get me wrong. It's just hard to maintain the pretense when I know exactly how superior I am to you. Yes, you.

2005-02-16T19:35:00.000Z

Where schpickley comes from, there is an all encompassing phrase to describe any event or action that we can't quite bring ourselves to say in it's proper form. This is known as "A Rudeness". Let me demonstrate - Dad's just done "a rudeness" in the toilet or Turn the channel over, I can't bear to watch that couple having "a rudeness" right in front of me. Indeed, Okapi has experienced a number of "rudenesses" in her time, the summerhouse of '81 in particular.

This brings me to a conversation I had at the weekend with my sisters, schpickled-onion and schpicks-nose. We were discussing things of "A rudeness" ilk and wondered how the blazes we should refer to such things. One sister believes when talking to her young son, the correct terminology should be used at all times - "My word, what magnificent breasts you have Mama" - while the other believes in 'harmless slang' - "tee hee hee girls have got boobies you know". Ridiculous really - can you imagine settling down with your latest copy of erotic-fiction for plebs only to find…."his masculine hands caressed her boobies and flicked her nips before making their way down to her ladies front bottom". Hmmmm, doesn't really work does it? Does it?! Anyway, I had to say, as mentally disturbing as it is, maybe we should be using the correct terminology? That is until my young nephew ambled up to me with his favourite cuddly toy affectionately known as - Winnie the Faeces. Now that's just wrong.

The Chip Effect

2005-02-14T20:32:00.000Z

It's a long lasting tradition in our house to take adverts too seriously. This is generally explained as the chip effect, owing to a long ago comment about a McCains Oven Chips ad showing the sundered potatoes feverishly exercising in order to get fit enough to be oven chips. An aspiration indeed, and I think it was Schpickley's sister who complained, "As if chips would really do that." Bloody good point. To further illustrate this phenomena, I give you:

Kinder Bueno: why would anyone want to eat a chocolate bar that gets some sort of erotic charge out of being consumed? It's disgusting, and reminds me of the cow in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe who, rather foully, wanted to be eaten. I like my chocolate dark, chocolatey, and entirely devoid of any voice demanding that I enjoy her creamy centre. Lick my ripples, fer chrissakes....

Bakers dogfood. Sidekick says "Isn't it a bit shortsighted to put two Dobermans in charge of a top secret dog food store?".

Those goddamned Tesco trolleys. What possible difference would Tesco doing loans make to a trolley's life? People would still shop wouldn't they? Especially if they'd just taken out a loan, right? Flippin' dumb-arse trolleys.

Prawns wearing woolly hats and scarves, with tiny mittens just visible, in what I think was an Iceland commercial. Okay, they were frozen prawns, but it made me want to play with them. Believe me, not everyone finds it funny when you put prawn heads on all your fingers and then make them "talk", some may even find it puts them off their food. Particularly humourless ex-boyfriends. (They have very high voices and tend to sing, if you are going to try it*).

Maybe I'm just taking it too literally.

*Prawns on Fingers, not humourless ex-boyfriends

Forget Everything and Remember

2005-02-08T11:17:00.000Z

Schpickley-Aye and me decided to enter our massive intellect into a pub quiz.
(For why Schpickley Aye? She does not know, but it had some significance when she drunkenly signed up to Blogger. She can remember posting a medium-sized rant to losthog, but it never appeared. Apologies, therefore, if you received a blog post that made little or no sense.)

For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.

In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.

When we skulked back to the car (knuckles dragging the ground and making "uh-hunk, huh grunt" noises as you'd expect), I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?

One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.

Tasty Victuals

2005-02-07T18:52:00.000Z

I think it has something to do with nostalgia, because I remember my Mum having a set of recipe cards that were disturbingly similar, but whatever,
these pictures made me laugh until I was near hysterical. Tears, snot, the works. Slept well that night, let me tell you. Apart from the dream about Rosy Perfection Salad.

2005-02-06T21:22:00.000Z

Hello?

2005-02-06T21:21:00.000Z

Is this thing on?

Ha! I despise you.

2005-02-06T21:20:00.000Z

My monkeys don't think I can do much except eat, sleep, barf and produce turds but they are wrong, so wrong.

Just the other day I left a two foot long streak of crap on the carpet while carrying out a booty rub. Damn, it was itchy. The best thing is there's only one piece of carpet in the whole house, but I managed to paste it freely with my poop within 20 seconds flat.

The bigger monkey remarked, " She can get a fair speed up, can't she?". Too right. A cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.

2005-02-06T21:19:00.000Z

You can just see the evidence here.

NuStyle

2005-02-03T22:56:00.000Z

It's a triumph of style over substance, but I've made the change. No more blogger template. Queue endless twatting about with text colours and trying to change the background picture. Fun - geek style. Keeps me occupied for hours.

Bosomy

2005-02-03T21:22:00.000Z

This morning, in between the usual foul language, tripping over stuff, including the cat who is permanently underfoot, drinking the coffee helpfully provided by Sidekick, washing while still unconscious, I mistakenly grabbed a lethal combination from the wardrobe - a push up bra and a fitted shirt. Which gapes.

I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.

When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.

Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter.
The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.

Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.

(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)

Filth

2005-02-02T22:36:00.000Z

I'd just like you to know the most suggestive word ever: stimubation. Say it, roll that bad mother round your mouth. I couldn't say what it means (think of the children) but it sounds nasty.

Now use it in conversation.

Weddings and other such rot

2005-01-26T20:17:00.000Z

Being one of those happily engaged (swoon! at the romance) but really can't quite make the extra effort and do the deed type of people, I love to see someone making a mockery of those who see a wedding as a status symbol:
Enjoy

I still haven't worked out if there is a good way to finally make Sidekick an honest man. Options include:

* The "Registry Office Number". Get married to the strains of your chosen deeply cheesy ballad (I'd suggest "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica for preference) and allow the most important day of your life to be presided over by Betty, who's put on her best hot pink polyester skirt suit. She'll list your vows in a voice that somehow manages to drip sarcasm, saccharine sweetness and boredom in equal amounts. This is legally binding. And she'll make sure you know it.

* The "We wrote all the vows ourselves" wedding. Speaks for itself, really. I'd recommend stealing Johnathan Safran Foer's words from "Everything Is Illuminated" along the lines of some very worthwhile promises (I will refill the toilet paper holder, I will allow you to have the last word in every third argument, after you have given up hope of ever seeing me do the washing up, you will come home to discover that the draining board is empty, etc) rather than listing just how much you looooove your other half. Of course you do, but there are bound to be cynics at the wedding, and providing 80+ (colour co-ordinated and stylish, possibly avant guarde) sick bags may prove a budget breaker.
Mr SF's site

* The "Druidic Rune-Fest". Still, at this point, a winner for me, owing to my conviction that my father would disapprove mightily. Childish I know, but I am the youngest, and therefore genetically most likely to disappoint.
Hire a long haired aging hippy chap to make the incantations, dress like an extra from the Rohan set of LOTR, and force all of your friends and family to join together in blessing your marriage in an empty field somewhere "celtic".
Note: check for bovines before beginning. They can become almost terrifyingly curious once they get over being startled.

* The "Piss off abroad and avoid having anyone you know watch". Good for those who want to combine sun, sea and strong liquor, with absolutely not under any circumstances spending any time or cash on Great Auntie Ethel. Bit of a cop-out really. Suffering the presence of your family is an integral part of any wedding. And you know that foreign food doesn't agree with you. Ever since you were a kid you've got the runs every time you're away from the house for a night...sorry, I've slipped into mother mode. See? You cannot escape, no matter how much you want to.

* The "We've got an obsession and we are not afraid to blackmail you into taking part" celebration. Suggest on the invitation that anyone not wearing a really excellent Star Wars costume will not be allowed in, and have all the hymns translated into Wookiee. Aren't you a little short for a wedding guest?

So there is my dilemma. Anyone got a better idea, let me know. The time it takes me to come to a decision, I'll be away the crow road before I get to be a Mrs.
Pity. I've got a dress pattern ready to sew and everything....

2005-01-14T13:15:00.000Z

I've spent a frankly mind altering amount of time looking at other people's blogs of late. It's become a compulsive thing. So I'm rambling through the pages, peaceful, calm, looking for the fabled blog of perfection. It's like resting in a well padded armchair. Then it happened.

I skipped from here (isn't that nice? Recipes and stuff.)
To
Aaargh!

Some p*rny filth called Milk and Cookies, spreading like the juice of unfettered young men across my screen.

Including: (wait for it) AMATEUR VIDEO!

There were bosoms everywhere, and I'd swear if you moved, they'd follow you around the room. My office is filled suddenly with everyone I work with.
NIPE!

I clicked out of there so fast I damn near did myself a mischief (while simultaneously wondering just exactly where the cookies came in - urk).

Other things that make me go straight to next blog:

AnYtiNg wAd luKes LiKe Dis LoL HaAhAAz
To help with any sites you find that have this affliction, here's yet another translator. Should you care. For the love of God, will they eventually start talking like this too?

Stuff like this. What a waste.

Also dopey blogs that just rant on about a certain celebrity or other unrequited love object. I found a certain blog today about that opera singer chappy (Jason something?) but it was just too sad to post - I must protect the innocent.

There is good stuff:

Parade of Delusion

ilevel

Lowland Seed

Look at them. Savour the entertainment.

Minor Humiliations

2005-01-13T20:14:00.000Z

A daily occurrence. Most recently:

* I made a letter template for customer letters including the phrase, "If any further assistance is required, please me on the extension number below". The real problem? No-one did.

* Having cloth ears, I have difficulty with names. I recently put a call through confidently proclaiming the caller to be "Dave Imstadt". His name was Fred Mutch.

In the past:

* The gym our school used had a fitness room where all the blokes hung out, rather than playing squash or whatever. Myself and a "friend" decided to penetrate (eh?) this bastion of masculinity in the hope of attracting them to our staggering and fabulous girlness. Climbing aboard the Torturomatic (tm) running machine, I strode out, waiting for awareness of my presence to permeate the room. I was young, I was nervous, I was sure that boy from my French class was watching me. I smiled tentatively, absolutely convinced of having staked my claim, sure I could now use the gym every week. Great! I belonged! Then my "friend" reset the belt speed from "leisurely stroll" to "minute mile coronary certainty" and I shot backwards like a greased pig from a slingshot and rebounded from the wall. Never been to a gym since.

* Getting fiendishly drunk seemed to be the only way to survive the coming of the millennium, trapped as I was in the third tackiest night club in the world. "Neebleys" or whatever the hell it's called is situated within easy perpetrating distance of the Police Station, but approximately 400 light years from anywhere you'd ever want to be. It still has those streamers of silver paper (think circa 1985 Top of the Pops) strung round the dancefloor, and every inch of the place is painted black. The walls sweat on busy nights. Into the home straight now, Sidekick takes me to a friend's house for the bells. If I'd known, I'd never have had that last vodka and redbull, but a game of Trivial Pursuit was proposed.
Which brought out my vicious competetive streak.
By 2am I am yanking the box of questions from the grasp of somebody's mother yelling "You don't fucking know anything, don't answer any more questions! You fuck!". Don't drink. It can make you the source of pure parental horror. Oh, the humanity.

There's more, I'm sure of it, but I have blanked the memories. If I wake screaming in the night when they come rushing back, I'll probably add them in an effort to exorcise the demons.

It is not quelqu'un never trusted, this forehead has only one.

2005-01-08T17:50:00.000Z

Or Never trust someone who has only one eyebrow.

Gorgeous

Just a little translation thingy. Made me laugh like a Red Setter with a new frisbee.

Example:
* original: "I work in a fruit store, from dawn until dusk".

* result: "Work in a memory of the fruit, between l'aube and l'alba".

Nice.

Okapi out.

Fortune Favours the Mould

2005-01-08T17:35:00.000Z

So I will never win obsessive housewife of the year, but I consider myself to be a not-entirely unclean person (unclean! Unclean!) but what's with the bright orange mould that is taking over my bathroom?

I swear I have never seen it anywhere else. Perhaps I should culture it in a petri dish and send it to some science whizz?

Gaaadss....it's even colonizing the shower curtain.

At least it isn't the dark mould that led to the ultimate collapse of the bathroom wall. Sidekick, while leaning on the wall, cleaning the bath, ended up falling through it practically ending up in next door's stairwell.

But that was a long time ago, and I've stopped laughing now.

What could be the result of orange mould? Warp dimensions? A new life form? Only time will tell.

2005-01-07T18:24:00.000Z

Please notice "snow" adhering tastefully to my behind.

Little Chance

2005-01-07T17:46:00.000Z

So, hang the disappointment caused by merely being bandwaggony, every other person / creature / disembodied frog-like head with a computer and a handily-held pencil in the mouth is doing the whole blog thang, right?

Nice pic huh? Mystery substance sticking to my supposedly non-stick breeks (look it up, why don't you?) may actually be marshmallow or Yeti doings..... and to think that what mostly passes through my mind when sliding downhill strapped to piece of kevlar'n'wood is "Gee whillikins! 30 seconds vertical and I haven't succumbed to gravity!".

Alright, I freely admit it's really "Check it out - Pushing the big 3 0 and still cooooool...". And I never actually think "Gee whillikins". Tragic.

Technical term for the, um, "stance" I am demonstrating is "too pooped". The shame, the turrrrrible shame.