Wednesday, 18 December 2019
The observationist: Age
The observationist: Age: Age before beauty? I mean, come on...i've seen some very attractive older people and some people who have aged horribly. Surely beauty i...
Age
Age before beauty? I mean, come on...i've seen some very attractive older people and some people who have aged horribly. Surely beauty is in the eye of the beholder. When folk say stupid shit like 40 is the new 20 or 50 is the new 30 i want to put pins in their eyes. 40 is always going to be 40 and 50 is always going to be 50. The only difference these days is that there are more injections you can have to lift your eyelids, stretch out your wrinkles and make your lips look fuller. You basically get chemically ironed. There are people who get a bit of 'work' done then deny it. Well how come you now resemble a cat and your boobs look thirty years younger than you? You may look slightly younger externally but your knees still make that weird crunching noise when you come down some stairs.
My lovely eldest daughter did my makeup for me a while ago and told me she was used to younger skin. How rude! Just because i've got that thirty year edge on her does not mean she can dis the lived in skin. I've seen stuff and lived stuff. My skin has seen and lived stuff. How very dare she?!
A friend of mine who is a more mature lady of a petite stature with funky blonde hair visited a well known supermarket (who shall remain ASDA) a few years ago. She was buying wine-don't judge her reader-and when she reached the till, wearing her large designer sunglasses, the much older shop assistant asked her for ID. My friend (who shall remain Kelly) lifted her sunnies and exclaimed 'excuse me?!' The much older shop assistant took a second look and said 'oh, sorry. It doesn't matter'. Cheeky bitch! I had a similar incident recently in the very same supermarket. I was also buying wine with my groceries. I approached the till and a 60+ woman was training a young slip of a lad. I put my shopping on the belt and when he got to the wine the 60+ said to the young lad 'now, when we're scanning alcohol we look at the customer-discreet like-and ask for ID'. She then looked me up and down and said 'on this occasion we won't bother'. Fuck me! I'm hardly hag like! I'm willing to put money on that it was the same woman that served my friend. Just because she looked like a well worn charity shop pleather handbag did not got give her the right to insult me. As you can tell, i'm still offended nearly 6 months later..
I find that as i get older i care less about what people think about me. That doesn't mean i don't still want to look nice, i do, i just don't have the energy to go for 15 mile runs anymore or resist that bavarian slice in the fridge.
People say 'you only live once' which is a ridiculous statement. You live every day but you die once. It just doesn't sound as succinct. YOLO is something the yoof say because they don't know any better. They're too busy pulling the middle out of themselves or 'aving it large in Ibiza focussing on 'finding myself'. Do me a favour. I didn't find myself until last week when i caught sight of my arse in a changing room mirror.
I haven't started looking around stately homes for fun yet but i do like a DIY shop. I also like to make sure my pantry, wine rack and freezer are constantly full incase it snows but i don't panic buy bread. I'm sort of on the cusp of old i think. I don't subscribe to anti ageing creams, tena lady or Saga holidays but they are looking more inviting every day.
When your'e a kid days seem like months and time passes by very slowly. All of a sudden you start to recognise fashions making a comeback and old songs being resurrected by some pop amoeba you've never heard of.
I remember, as a teenager, playing my choons so loud in my bedroom my dad had to climb a ladder up to my window to bang on it to tell me dinner was ready. My dad was a teenager in the 1960's and some of the crap he used to listen to back then was questionable at best. The group names like Dave,Dee,Dozy,Beaky,Mick and Titch and Manfred Mann were mental. Give me Goldie looking chain or Anthrax any day.
I walked past a shoe shop the other day and casually looked in the window. I saw a pair of flat boots and thought 'ooh they look comfortable'. Does that mean i'm getting old? I put my bra on the wrong way round and it fit better-is that a sure sign old is upon me? I don't know. What i do know is i can't hold a wee in like i used to and i like a dressing gown.
On a recent trip to my homeland, Dublin, with my bestie we wanted to go for a coffee. We must have walked about 10 miles extra around the city centre just so we could find a coffee shop that had two available seats so we could sit our decrepit bones down. Madness.
Once you get to 70+ there's plenty of help ot there if you need it. My nan used to be a home help where she would get paid to go around to old ladies and gents homes. She would do a bit of cleaning, run errands and cook them a meal. I went to stay with my nan when i was in my mid twenties so my nan would have been in her mid sixties at the time. One morning she popped her head around my bedroom door and told me she was popping out to see one of her old ladies. Bloody hell!!! If my nan was going to see who she considered to be an old lady, just how old was this woman? She must have given Methuzla a run for her money.
My teenagers think anyone over the age of thirty is old which doesn't bode well for me. When they were little and asked how old i was i used to tell them i was 21. One day they asked and i repeated '21'. They both said 'so is nanny!'. Rumbled. It's hard for kids to guess an adults age because it's an alien concept to them. Grown ups are old and that's it. We tell them that one day they'll be our age but they don't care. They're too busy taking selfies and doing vlogs or some shit. I like to remind my kids that it wasn't that long ago they were sitting in their own poo and breast feeding. I particularly like to do this if they show off in front of their mates. Keeping it real.
In conclusion, age comes to us all at some level. We creak, get grey hair in places we were not warned about, our gums recede, our bladder gripper gives up, we make noises getting up from a chair and when we get refused entry to a nightclub because we are too old we say 'thanks mate because my feet are fucking killing me'.
Grow old gracefully or disgracefully, the choice is yours. Age is just a number and you are still alive so live your best, much slower life.
Dum spiro spero (while i breathe i hope)
My lovely eldest daughter did my makeup for me a while ago and told me she was used to younger skin. How rude! Just because i've got that thirty year edge on her does not mean she can dis the lived in skin. I've seen stuff and lived stuff. My skin has seen and lived stuff. How very dare she?!
A friend of mine who is a more mature lady of a petite stature with funky blonde hair visited a well known supermarket (who shall remain ASDA) a few years ago. She was buying wine-don't judge her reader-and when she reached the till, wearing her large designer sunglasses, the much older shop assistant asked her for ID. My friend (who shall remain Kelly) lifted her sunnies and exclaimed 'excuse me?!' The much older shop assistant took a second look and said 'oh, sorry. It doesn't matter'. Cheeky bitch! I had a similar incident recently in the very same supermarket. I was also buying wine with my groceries. I approached the till and a 60+ woman was training a young slip of a lad. I put my shopping on the belt and when he got to the wine the 60+ said to the young lad 'now, when we're scanning alcohol we look at the customer-discreet like-and ask for ID'. She then looked me up and down and said 'on this occasion we won't bother'. Fuck me! I'm hardly hag like! I'm willing to put money on that it was the same woman that served my friend. Just because she looked like a well worn charity shop pleather handbag did not got give her the right to insult me. As you can tell, i'm still offended nearly 6 months later..
I find that as i get older i care less about what people think about me. That doesn't mean i don't still want to look nice, i do, i just don't have the energy to go for 15 mile runs anymore or resist that bavarian slice in the fridge.
People say 'you only live once' which is a ridiculous statement. You live every day but you die once. It just doesn't sound as succinct. YOLO is something the yoof say because they don't know any better. They're too busy pulling the middle out of themselves or 'aving it large in Ibiza focussing on 'finding myself'. Do me a favour. I didn't find myself until last week when i caught sight of my arse in a changing room mirror.
I haven't started looking around stately homes for fun yet but i do like a DIY shop. I also like to make sure my pantry, wine rack and freezer are constantly full incase it snows but i don't panic buy bread. I'm sort of on the cusp of old i think. I don't subscribe to anti ageing creams, tena lady or Saga holidays but they are looking more inviting every day.
When your'e a kid days seem like months and time passes by very slowly. All of a sudden you start to recognise fashions making a comeback and old songs being resurrected by some pop amoeba you've never heard of.
I remember, as a teenager, playing my choons so loud in my bedroom my dad had to climb a ladder up to my window to bang on it to tell me dinner was ready. My dad was a teenager in the 1960's and some of the crap he used to listen to back then was questionable at best. The group names like Dave,Dee,Dozy,Beaky,Mick and Titch and Manfred Mann were mental. Give me Goldie looking chain or Anthrax any day.
I walked past a shoe shop the other day and casually looked in the window. I saw a pair of flat boots and thought 'ooh they look comfortable'. Does that mean i'm getting old? I put my bra on the wrong way round and it fit better-is that a sure sign old is upon me? I don't know. What i do know is i can't hold a wee in like i used to and i like a dressing gown.
On a recent trip to my homeland, Dublin, with my bestie we wanted to go for a coffee. We must have walked about 10 miles extra around the city centre just so we could find a coffee shop that had two available seats so we could sit our decrepit bones down. Madness.
Once you get to 70+ there's plenty of help ot there if you need it. My nan used to be a home help where she would get paid to go around to old ladies and gents homes. She would do a bit of cleaning, run errands and cook them a meal. I went to stay with my nan when i was in my mid twenties so my nan would have been in her mid sixties at the time. One morning she popped her head around my bedroom door and told me she was popping out to see one of her old ladies. Bloody hell!!! If my nan was going to see who she considered to be an old lady, just how old was this woman? She must have given Methuzla a run for her money.
My teenagers think anyone over the age of thirty is old which doesn't bode well for me. When they were little and asked how old i was i used to tell them i was 21. One day they asked and i repeated '21'. They both said 'so is nanny!'. Rumbled. It's hard for kids to guess an adults age because it's an alien concept to them. Grown ups are old and that's it. We tell them that one day they'll be our age but they don't care. They're too busy taking selfies and doing vlogs or some shit. I like to remind my kids that it wasn't that long ago they were sitting in their own poo and breast feeding. I particularly like to do this if they show off in front of their mates. Keeping it real.
In conclusion, age comes to us all at some level. We creak, get grey hair in places we were not warned about, our gums recede, our bladder gripper gives up, we make noises getting up from a chair and when we get refused entry to a nightclub because we are too old we say 'thanks mate because my feet are fucking killing me'.
Grow old gracefully or disgracefully, the choice is yours. Age is just a number and you are still alive so live your best, much slower life.
Dum spiro spero (while i breathe i hope)
Wednesday, 20 November 2019
The observationist: Social Media And The Internet
The observationist: Social Media And The Internet: The age of digitisation is upon us and it's everywhere we look. The internet has it's good points, bad points and very bad points. G...
Social Media And The Internet
The age of digitisation is upon us and it's everywhere we look. The internet has it's good points, bad points and very bad points. Good for finding out pointless trivia, bad for being a conversation killer. Such as, did you know that Bob Holness, host of TV quiz show Blockbusters, was the first ever James Bond on South African radio in 1956? But did you also know that Sir Bob of Holness also played the saxophone solo on Baker street by Gerry Rafferty? No? Well that's because he didn't. It was Raphael Ravenscroft. There you go, conversation killer. I hate Google gonads. They are very boring people with absolutely no imagination. I wonder how often the look up 'why have i got no friends left'. I use word hippo a lot when i'm writing mainly because i've run out of amusing noun synonyms. I looked up a British favourite 'dickhead' and the word 'langer' came up. It amused me for 5 minutes but then i discovered a myriad of other words which i have now stored in my 'names to call Audi drivers' part of my brain. Words such as clod, chode, nyaff, shitfucker and asshat. You, dear reader, are welcome.
I'm not knocking the internet because i use it a lot, especially when doing research. The internet is great for a lot of stuff like doing my kids homework. We shop on-line, play games, slag off celebrities, watch videos, do our banking and wanking and a million other things but the most common thing we do on-line is use social media.
The most used social media platform is Facebook with around 2.8 billion users. 2.2 billion people use at least one of the Facebook off shoots every day. I only know this because i looked it up using my preferred search engine-Dogpile. I ain't no google gonad! This does, however, beg the question...what the fuck were we doing before the internet? The mind boggles...think i'll look it up.
Social media can be amazing for connecting people to long lost friends or family but more and more we see keyboard warriors who have nothing better to do than cyber bully other people they often don't know. Asshats, the lot of them! I can't abide bullying in any form but at least have the decency to flush my head down the loo or take my dinner money or give me dirty looks. Don't sit at home with your screen of choice typing bile and hate slowly eating away at someone's self esteem reducing them to sleepless nights and self loathing because you don't have the actual balls to step outside of your safety bubble and enter the real world. Chances are if you did you would probably have an asthma attack while eating a gluten/dairy/sugar free rice cake because you chose the wrong pleather sandal...that's if the sunlight doesn't kill you first. Man the fuck up princesses. Even the term 'keyboard warrior' pisses me off. There is nothing warrior like about these pathetic turd skins.
Other social media platforms like Twitter, Instatwat, Snapwank, TikTok, pinterest, Flickr, WhatsApp, Tumblr, Visco and Youtube are really popular but they are all based on how many 'likes' or 'retweets' or 'shares' the user gets. This particular aspect doesn't matter so much with well rounded adult users but a lot of teens use it like a life manual and put themselves under enormous pressure to get the most hits on their accounts. Teens suffering from anxiety because not enough people 'liked' their photo of their dog taken during 'golden hour'. Golden hour, for the uninitiated, is the time of day when the sun comes up or goes down producing the best natural light to take a photo with optimum clarity. I only know this little gem because i have two selfie obsessed teenage daughters who have trampled me under foot in their rush to get outside during golden hour to take photos. Me? I just look out of a window using my eyes. Proper old skool. Because of this fake popularity contest,amongst mainly teenagers, Instagram have recently changed their policies to restrict or hide the amount of likes a post gets.This hasn't gone down well with folk who rely on the amount of likes they get so they can flog their wares or just get through a day. Do me a favour. The world has gone mad! Some Facebook users add people as 'friends' just so they look good in the popularity stakes. They don't know them but when these people they don't know don't respond to a post they have a meltdown. If i see one more post on Facebook which says something like 'if you don't give me any attention i'm gonna delete you because i'm a needy twat' i'm probably not going to notice anyway. These sheeple should probably delete themselves from the gene pool or try getting a life where they don't have to rely on someone blowing smoke up their arse or clapping their hands shouting 'ooh look...they done a fing' which to be honest chances are they didn't do themselves anyway. These sycophantic, self serving shithouses are making me quite bilious. Now fuck off and get some real mates who love you no matter what. Who'll tell you when your'e being a dick then tell you they love you, who'll laugh in your face if you fall over then help you up, who'll cry with you when your'e hurting, who'll give you their last £ when your'e skint, who'll be there for you at your worst and your best, who'll come round to see you then nap on your sofa after stealing the love of your pets, but most of all the good people who will cross oceans to be with you. We should all be more ocean.
I researched other apps for the purpose of this blog just to see what else was out there and i was surprised to find some really useful ones but unsurprised to find some really weird ones. Useful ones like Cafemom which is for young mothers and expectant mothers which offers great advice unlike the patronising tones of Mumsnet. FourSquare is a great local search app which helps you find the perfect place to eat or shop or pretty much anything based on your location. this one has around 40 million users but i'd never heard of it until now. Cellufun and Discord are apps with over 250 million users for the gamer community. Thedots and DeviantArt are apps for the art community, reverberation is a great app for musicians and professionals to connect within the music industry. Funnyordie is a good app for comedians of any genre or discipline and a lot of celebrities follow this particular platform. A few of the less popular or useful to the masses apps are ravelry which is for knitting nerds, Care2 is for sandal wearers and people who think they can save the world by eating tofu and sucking the milk out of an almond, Classmates is an app for finding old classmates but is most likely used to stalk ex boyfriends or to see how fat that slag, Sue, has got.
Dating sites and apps are as popular now as when they were first launched. Match.com, meetup, badoo, tagged, meetme, muzmatch, elitesingles, e-harmony and plentyoffish are a few of the tamer ones where you might meet someone nice, go for a drink maybe have a bit of a snog. At the other end of the spectrum you have Tinder, blendr and Grindr. Tinder is for straight guys and gals who are basically looking for sex. You swipe like, exchange phone numbers, meet up and get pumped in the back of a vauxhall vivre. Classy. Grindr is for for gay/bi/trans guys and gals who want a quicky. This is my all time favourite app. I mean, where else can you get a mobile alert that lets you know there's someone 3 feet away that wants to suck you off? Bloody brilliant. I am definitely coming back in the next life as a gay man. Blendr, invented by the same guy who gave us Grindr is just a free for all.
The one thing i don't like about some dating apps is the ease of flashing. Gone are the days of some dude with a beard (always a beard...why?) jumping out from behind a hedge with his lad out. Nowadays blokes flash their nobs via a phone with alarming regularity and at the drop of a hat and women flash a boob like they're breast feeding the nation. I call it 'the Rasputin effect'. Nobs and knockers all over the gaff whether you want them or not. Rasputin the infamous sex pest who happened to have a beard.
To conclude, social media and the internet are an almost necessary evil and used at some point in our daily routines even if it's behind the scenes. Use them both wisely. Remember that nothing is ever permanently deleted even when you think it is, don't be cruel, love one and other, take lots of photos, create conversations-don't kill them, make friends, find friends, buy stuff, sell stuff, be kind, learn new words but most of all stop flashing at strangers. What would your Nan think?
I'm not knocking the internet because i use it a lot, especially when doing research. The internet is great for a lot of stuff like doing my kids homework. We shop on-line, play games, slag off celebrities, watch videos, do our banking and wanking and a million other things but the most common thing we do on-line is use social media.
The most used social media platform is Facebook with around 2.8 billion users. 2.2 billion people use at least one of the Facebook off shoots every day. I only know this because i looked it up using my preferred search engine-Dogpile. I ain't no google gonad! This does, however, beg the question...what the fuck were we doing before the internet? The mind boggles...think i'll look it up.
Social media can be amazing for connecting people to long lost friends or family but more and more we see keyboard warriors who have nothing better to do than cyber bully other people they often don't know. Asshats, the lot of them! I can't abide bullying in any form but at least have the decency to flush my head down the loo or take my dinner money or give me dirty looks. Don't sit at home with your screen of choice typing bile and hate slowly eating away at someone's self esteem reducing them to sleepless nights and self loathing because you don't have the actual balls to step outside of your safety bubble and enter the real world. Chances are if you did you would probably have an asthma attack while eating a gluten/dairy/sugar free rice cake because you chose the wrong pleather sandal...that's if the sunlight doesn't kill you first. Man the fuck up princesses. Even the term 'keyboard warrior' pisses me off. There is nothing warrior like about these pathetic turd skins.
Other social media platforms like Twitter, Instatwat, Snapwank, TikTok, pinterest, Flickr, WhatsApp, Tumblr, Visco and Youtube are really popular but they are all based on how many 'likes' or 'retweets' or 'shares' the user gets. This particular aspect doesn't matter so much with well rounded adult users but a lot of teens use it like a life manual and put themselves under enormous pressure to get the most hits on their accounts. Teens suffering from anxiety because not enough people 'liked' their photo of their dog taken during 'golden hour'. Golden hour, for the uninitiated, is the time of day when the sun comes up or goes down producing the best natural light to take a photo with optimum clarity. I only know this little gem because i have two selfie obsessed teenage daughters who have trampled me under foot in their rush to get outside during golden hour to take photos. Me? I just look out of a window using my eyes. Proper old skool. Because of this fake popularity contest,amongst mainly teenagers, Instagram have recently changed their policies to restrict or hide the amount of likes a post gets.This hasn't gone down well with folk who rely on the amount of likes they get so they can flog their wares or just get through a day. Do me a favour. The world has gone mad! Some Facebook users add people as 'friends' just so they look good in the popularity stakes. They don't know them but when these people they don't know don't respond to a post they have a meltdown. If i see one more post on Facebook which says something like 'if you don't give me any attention i'm gonna delete you because i'm a needy twat' i'm probably not going to notice anyway. These sheeple should probably delete themselves from the gene pool or try getting a life where they don't have to rely on someone blowing smoke up their arse or clapping their hands shouting 'ooh look...they done a fing' which to be honest chances are they didn't do themselves anyway. These sycophantic, self serving shithouses are making me quite bilious. Now fuck off and get some real mates who love you no matter what. Who'll tell you when your'e being a dick then tell you they love you, who'll laugh in your face if you fall over then help you up, who'll cry with you when your'e hurting, who'll give you their last £ when your'e skint, who'll be there for you at your worst and your best, who'll come round to see you then nap on your sofa after stealing the love of your pets, but most of all the good people who will cross oceans to be with you. We should all be more ocean.
I researched other apps for the purpose of this blog just to see what else was out there and i was surprised to find some really useful ones but unsurprised to find some really weird ones. Useful ones like Cafemom which is for young mothers and expectant mothers which offers great advice unlike the patronising tones of Mumsnet. FourSquare is a great local search app which helps you find the perfect place to eat or shop or pretty much anything based on your location. this one has around 40 million users but i'd never heard of it until now. Cellufun and Discord are apps with over 250 million users for the gamer community. Thedots and DeviantArt are apps for the art community, reverberation is a great app for musicians and professionals to connect within the music industry. Funnyordie is a good app for comedians of any genre or discipline and a lot of celebrities follow this particular platform. A few of the less popular or useful to the masses apps are ravelry which is for knitting nerds, Care2 is for sandal wearers and people who think they can save the world by eating tofu and sucking the milk out of an almond, Classmates is an app for finding old classmates but is most likely used to stalk ex boyfriends or to see how fat that slag, Sue, has got.
Dating sites and apps are as popular now as when they were first launched. Match.com, meetup, badoo, tagged, meetme, muzmatch, elitesingles, e-harmony and plentyoffish are a few of the tamer ones where you might meet someone nice, go for a drink maybe have a bit of a snog. At the other end of the spectrum you have Tinder, blendr and Grindr. Tinder is for straight guys and gals who are basically looking for sex. You swipe like, exchange phone numbers, meet up and get pumped in the back of a vauxhall vivre. Classy. Grindr is for for gay/bi/trans guys and gals who want a quicky. This is my all time favourite app. I mean, where else can you get a mobile alert that lets you know there's someone 3 feet away that wants to suck you off? Bloody brilliant. I am definitely coming back in the next life as a gay man. Blendr, invented by the same guy who gave us Grindr is just a free for all.
The one thing i don't like about some dating apps is the ease of flashing. Gone are the days of some dude with a beard (always a beard...why?) jumping out from behind a hedge with his lad out. Nowadays blokes flash their nobs via a phone with alarming regularity and at the drop of a hat and women flash a boob like they're breast feeding the nation. I call it 'the Rasputin effect'. Nobs and knockers all over the gaff whether you want them or not. Rasputin the infamous sex pest who happened to have a beard.
To conclude, social media and the internet are an almost necessary evil and used at some point in our daily routines even if it's behind the scenes. Use them both wisely. Remember that nothing is ever permanently deleted even when you think it is, don't be cruel, love one and other, take lots of photos, create conversations-don't kill them, make friends, find friends, buy stuff, sell stuff, be kind, learn new words but most of all stop flashing at strangers. What would your Nan think?
Wednesday, 6 November 2019
The observationist: Money
The observationist: Money: Money, cash, dosh, moolah, scheckles, wonga, spondoolicks, whatever you call it, we either don't have enough or want more when we do hav...
Money
Money, cash, dosh, moolah, scheckles, wonga, spondoolicks, whatever you call it, we either don't have enough or want more when we do have enough. Money makes the world go around according to Liza minelli and that irritating song. Irritating and factually incorrect.
I was a single parent to two daughters for nine years and after my ex husband left we had nothing. I was so thrifty and economically bereft i probably could have done a better job than the chancellor of the exchequer. I had my own GDP. Once my youngest started pre-school i put myself through university to get my B.A and had a part time job cheffing. I forgot what sleep was but i was never going to let my situation get the better of me.
I wasn't born into money or handed anything on a plate. I worked hard and continue to do so. People who look down on folk down on their luck piss me off immensely. They assume the worst and are most often wrong. The stigma attached to being a single parent is, in most circumstances, unjust and unfair. We don't wake up one morning and think 'hey...you know what i'd love to do with my life...' The situation arises for various reasons. Mine was marrying a despicable copper bottomed shit who invented the little black book. I was unfortunate but life goes on.
I write for a living now, which i love, and i have a wonderful partner who i also love.
My mum came from an affluent background and will readily tell you that her family were the first on their street to get a television. It might be worth noting that this was 1950's Yorkshire and not 1980's Newcastle. My dad, however, was born into poverty. He used to tell me and my sister that he was so poor his mum used to paint his feet black and lace his toes up or that when he were a lad he used to have to get excited watching kids go to the fair. I suspect the first one to be a fib mainly because he told us a lot of mad shit and still does. For example he also told us that he was so tough as a kid that during the war he was evacuated to London. Just to clarify, my dad was born in 1950.
Where you live depicts your social status and depends on what you earn-or at least that is the view by today's society. If you live in a council property then you are considered skint, lazy or a benefits scrounger, if you live in a large house or cottage in a nice village you are considered well off. If you live in a mansion or a castle you are considered a bit of a twat. None of which are entirely true apart from maybe the last one. I live in a nice village where in the words of my long suffering partner 'there's a lot of money in this village and none of it's ours'. We have a pub, a community centre and a church in our village. No shops. Most of us go to the pub at least once a week where we chat and have a laugh with absolutely no pretense. The village folk are good people and have made us feel welcome although if my Irish family rocked up one day with their dogs on pieces of string and asking why the Guinness in the pub tastes like shite they may take a different view.
The reason behind my partner making the comment about none of the money being ours is because i like to spend it on holidays...regularly. What better thing is there to spend our hard earned cash on? Haters hate if you like-i won't hear you from Greece. Him indoors complains i've booked another holiday but i don't see him complaining at the all inclusive bar or when he's snoring on a sun lounger. The poor bastard.
Some folk spend their money on cars or motorbikes or clothes but we all, at some point, spend our money on bills. Bills are a boring necessity which means you are officially a grown up. The childish voice in my head still wants to spend money on sweets and comics and fuck the council tax. I don't listen to that voice because if i did i'd be living in a converted bean bag eating my own toe nails. It's time to put away childish things.
The best piece of advice i've been handed down by one of my beloved aunties is 'you don't get rich by spending your money'. I live by this until i find a bargain holiday somewhere warm.
Some people are good with money and some aren't. It's just the way it is. I do the finances in my household and i like to pay the bills and save where i can. I'm a bit like Shylock but not as generous and without a beard. Everyone else in my house likes to spend money willy nilly (ha ha...she said willy-that's the childish comic buying voice in my head again) My kids are pretty good with money most of the time. I've trained them to respect the money they earn but that doesn't seem to translate with the money i earn. That is fair game. My youngest daughter is the only kid i know that will try and spend money at a doctor's surgery. She makes Elton John look like an ameteur. The sultan of Brunei would blush at her concept of other people's money. She's a good kid though and she'll do alright. She's already a published poet and sports photographer so i don't worry.
To conclude this blog i'll leave you to read and digest some dodgy Abba lyrics penned from their hit 'money money money'.
'in my dreams i have a plan,
if i get a wealthy man
i wouldn't have to work at all
i'd fool around
i'd have a ball'
What the actual fuck??? This song was written by two men for two women to sing. They are basically referring to women as vacuous money grabbing hose beasts with absolutely no moral compass and who can't survive without finding a rich bloke ( or O.I.L - old ill and loaded) Times have changed since the 1970's ladies and gents. We women want orgasms now too.
I was a single parent to two daughters for nine years and after my ex husband left we had nothing. I was so thrifty and economically bereft i probably could have done a better job than the chancellor of the exchequer. I had my own GDP. Once my youngest started pre-school i put myself through university to get my B.A and had a part time job cheffing. I forgot what sleep was but i was never going to let my situation get the better of me.
I wasn't born into money or handed anything on a plate. I worked hard and continue to do so. People who look down on folk down on their luck piss me off immensely. They assume the worst and are most often wrong. The stigma attached to being a single parent is, in most circumstances, unjust and unfair. We don't wake up one morning and think 'hey...you know what i'd love to do with my life...' The situation arises for various reasons. Mine was marrying a despicable copper bottomed shit who invented the little black book. I was unfortunate but life goes on.
I write for a living now, which i love, and i have a wonderful partner who i also love.
My mum came from an affluent background and will readily tell you that her family were the first on their street to get a television. It might be worth noting that this was 1950's Yorkshire and not 1980's Newcastle. My dad, however, was born into poverty. He used to tell me and my sister that he was so poor his mum used to paint his feet black and lace his toes up or that when he were a lad he used to have to get excited watching kids go to the fair. I suspect the first one to be a fib mainly because he told us a lot of mad shit and still does. For example he also told us that he was so tough as a kid that during the war he was evacuated to London. Just to clarify, my dad was born in 1950.
Where you live depicts your social status and depends on what you earn-or at least that is the view by today's society. If you live in a council property then you are considered skint, lazy or a benefits scrounger, if you live in a large house or cottage in a nice village you are considered well off. If you live in a mansion or a castle you are considered a bit of a twat. None of which are entirely true apart from maybe the last one. I live in a nice village where in the words of my long suffering partner 'there's a lot of money in this village and none of it's ours'. We have a pub, a community centre and a church in our village. No shops. Most of us go to the pub at least once a week where we chat and have a laugh with absolutely no pretense. The village folk are good people and have made us feel welcome although if my Irish family rocked up one day with their dogs on pieces of string and asking why the Guinness in the pub tastes like shite they may take a different view.
The reason behind my partner making the comment about none of the money being ours is because i like to spend it on holidays...regularly. What better thing is there to spend our hard earned cash on? Haters hate if you like-i won't hear you from Greece. Him indoors complains i've booked another holiday but i don't see him complaining at the all inclusive bar or when he's snoring on a sun lounger. The poor bastard.
Some folk spend their money on cars or motorbikes or clothes but we all, at some point, spend our money on bills. Bills are a boring necessity which means you are officially a grown up. The childish voice in my head still wants to spend money on sweets and comics and fuck the council tax. I don't listen to that voice because if i did i'd be living in a converted bean bag eating my own toe nails. It's time to put away childish things.
The best piece of advice i've been handed down by one of my beloved aunties is 'you don't get rich by spending your money'. I live by this until i find a bargain holiday somewhere warm.
Some people are good with money and some aren't. It's just the way it is. I do the finances in my household and i like to pay the bills and save where i can. I'm a bit like Shylock but not as generous and without a beard. Everyone else in my house likes to spend money willy nilly (ha ha...she said willy-that's the childish comic buying voice in my head again) My kids are pretty good with money most of the time. I've trained them to respect the money they earn but that doesn't seem to translate with the money i earn. That is fair game. My youngest daughter is the only kid i know that will try and spend money at a doctor's surgery. She makes Elton John look like an ameteur. The sultan of Brunei would blush at her concept of other people's money. She's a good kid though and she'll do alright. She's already a published poet and sports photographer so i don't worry.
To conclude this blog i'll leave you to read and digest some dodgy Abba lyrics penned from their hit 'money money money'.
'in my dreams i have a plan,
if i get a wealthy man
i wouldn't have to work at all
i'd fool around
i'd have a ball'
What the actual fuck??? This song was written by two men for two women to sing. They are basically referring to women as vacuous money grabbing hose beasts with absolutely no moral compass and who can't survive without finding a rich bloke ( or O.I.L - old ill and loaded) Times have changed since the 1970's ladies and gents. We women want orgasms now too.
Wednesday, 16 October 2019
The observationist: halloween
The observationist: halloween: But we see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!-it wr...
halloween
But we see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
The mimes become it's food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued
Ligeia Edgar Allan Poe September 1838
Well if that doesn't put the willys up you i don't know what will. A poem about a fella whose wife dies a slow painful death remarries not long after and the same fate befalls his new wife only this time, while he sits with her body, she comes back to life in the guise of his first dead wife. Gothic romantic or just smacked off his tits on opium? Either way a perfect start to my blog on Halloween.
We love Halloween in our house and have a vast collection of spiders, costumes, cobwebs, fake blood, masks...you name it we've got it. My dad even made some headstones for the garden which we still have and use.
Each year as my kids get older i have to up my game to terrify them in the true Halloween spirit (pun intended). Last year i hosted a zombie apocalypse Halloween party for around 20 difficult to please teenagers. We lived in the middle of no where and our house was only accessible by a long, straight dead end dirt track. A perfect plan hatched. This time if at least one kid didn't have an asthma attack or actually shit themselves i was hanging up my scythe for good. I put police tape all over the house and across the drive way with a large 'zombie outbreak' sign hanging ominously from the big oak tree at the drive entrance. I made a coffin, filled it with bones and placed a lamp inside just under the skew lid. I then set to work on Halloween themed party games. We had blow the balloon up until it pops (top tip use extra large balloons but don't tell the kids) It takes ages but the determination to win in front of their peers takes over. The cringe factor of the balloon popping in your face while everyone eggs you on is brilliant fun. We played zombie tig. One 'zombie' is it and everyone they tig/tag becomes a 'zombie'. Eventually you end up with 19 'zombies' chasing one human. The best game by far is 'what's in the box'. All you need for this is a largeish box with a hole at either end, various bowls of seemingly horrific items (such as spaghetti-worms, grapes-eyeballs, jelly-gore) and a blindfold. Blindfold the kid and get them to put their hand into the box to guess the item. A bit of bluff works a treat here if you can get any one else in the vicinity to shout things like 'oh my god! that's disgusting! I can't believe you've put that in the box or just make disgusted noises. You can also move the box about a bit to suggest there's a live creature in there. Simple but effective, especially if you put a real lamb's heart in the box like i did last year. One of my daughter's friends actually took it out of the box and gave it a sniff. When the other kids started screaming she took her blindfold off, squealed and lobbed it across the kitchen where my dog promptly ran off with it and ate it. The horror etched on those kids faces will stay with me forever. The girl who threw it has been receiving counselling ever since and will probably go on to be a serial killer. I lied about the last bit.
Turning the house into a zombie zone and the party games would pale into insignificance compared to my piece de resistance. They were merely an amuse bouche for what preceded. An actual zombie invasion. As previously mentioned we lived in the middle of no where with a dead end dirt track. The track was the only way in and the only way out. Now i may have permanently damaged their teenage minds or given them nightmares forever but the fact that they willingly attended one of my Halloween parties is my disclaimer. Myself and some other 'grown ups' dressed as full on zombies-makeup, rotten limbs, ripped clothing etc. We then positioned ourselves on both sides of the track in the dead of the night and waited for the car headlights delivering our victims to approach. Once they were close enough we went full zombie scratching at the car windows with our bloodied stumps and surrounding each car. Some of the 'cool as fuck' teens tried to style it out by getting out of their mum's cars and casually walking up the drive (one with a zombie hanging off her leg) right up until the point we gave chase. I had no idea a 15 year old boy could scream that high! the other teens clung onto their parents and refused to leave the safety of the car until we backed off . Which we did...until they got half way up the drive....then it was every human for themselves. One of the girls' dads' actually pushed his daughter out of the car and sped off shouting 'good luck' as he went. Too much 'Walking Dead' i reckon.
When the killer clown phase was all the rage a few years ago that became my costume of choice, naturally. My kids were old enough to go off trick or treating on their own so i was left to man the fort and sweet distribution. What happened next is clearly my kids fault for leaving me home alone on Halloween for a few hours. At that time we lived in a cul-de-sac and had a large front garden with a path from the gate to the front door. I placed the artificial head stones either side of the path, liberally adorned the trees, windows and front door with cobwebs and spiders. I put lit pumpkins on the front door step and played a spooky sounds CD. I then put on my killer clown costume complete with plastic chainsaw. I sat in a dark corner of the garden, unseen, a few feet from the front door and awaited my first victims. When the local mandem descended on my house ( i say mandem but they were probably 10/11 years old with a dad as a chaperone) i waited stock still in my dark corner until they got to around a foot from my front door. It was at this moment i jumped out and revealed my killer clown alter ego. The screams that came from those boys will haunt my neighbours for a long time to come. They all ran off and i swear one of them actually cleared the hedge. The dad who was chaperoning the yoofs found it hilarious and said 'thanks mate. That's the best scare they've had all night'. They did not come back for sweets.
Those who know me will testify that i love to dress up for Halloween and my costumes always have a lot of thought gone into them. I've been to parties dressed a dead knife throwers assistant, a shark attack victim, a corpse complete with coffin, a zombie Freddie Mercury, a nun, bad santa and the grim reaper and dead Amy Winehouse to name but a few. The grim reaper costume was interesting as the party was in the day time (weird) and i had to do a full grocery shop on the way. Walking around Asda dressed as death complete with scythe did not phase me in the slightest but my teenage daughters who were with me at the time were mortified. I wouldn't have minded but one of them was dressed as Wednesday addams and the other as what looked like a hernia.
Some folk don't like Halloween but those people are weird. Avoid.
Halloween is one of the world's oldest festivals and is celebrated globally by people of different faiths. Mexico celebrate with Dia de los muertos (day of the dead) which starts on October 31st and finishes on November 2nd. Halloween originated in Ireland from the celtic festival Samhain and is a massive deal over there. Halloween is older than christmas. It's a time to remember the dead including martyrs, saints and all faithfully departed christians (not sure about the unfaithful ones-they're probably in hell or something having a horrifying time with the devil ironically) It's also a time to scare the crap out of our kids and elderly neighbours.
This year will be no different for us. We will dress up, enjoy the scariest night of the year, eat too many sweets (weirdly encouraging our kids to take sweets from strangers is ok at Halloween) and pay our respects to our dead.
On that note i'll leave you with my favourite petrifyingly pant shitting poet.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered,
Weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of
forgotten lore-
While i nodded, nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door.
'tis some visitor' i muttered 'tapping at my chamber door'
only this and nothing more.....
The Raven Edgar Allan Poe January 1845
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
The mimes become it's food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued
Ligeia Edgar Allan Poe September 1838
Well if that doesn't put the willys up you i don't know what will. A poem about a fella whose wife dies a slow painful death remarries not long after and the same fate befalls his new wife only this time, while he sits with her body, she comes back to life in the guise of his first dead wife. Gothic romantic or just smacked off his tits on opium? Either way a perfect start to my blog on Halloween.
We love Halloween in our house and have a vast collection of spiders, costumes, cobwebs, fake blood, masks...you name it we've got it. My dad even made some headstones for the garden which we still have and use.
Each year as my kids get older i have to up my game to terrify them in the true Halloween spirit (pun intended). Last year i hosted a zombie apocalypse Halloween party for around 20 difficult to please teenagers. We lived in the middle of no where and our house was only accessible by a long, straight dead end dirt track. A perfect plan hatched. This time if at least one kid didn't have an asthma attack or actually shit themselves i was hanging up my scythe for good. I put police tape all over the house and across the drive way with a large 'zombie outbreak' sign hanging ominously from the big oak tree at the drive entrance. I made a coffin, filled it with bones and placed a lamp inside just under the skew lid. I then set to work on Halloween themed party games. We had blow the balloon up until it pops (top tip use extra large balloons but don't tell the kids) It takes ages but the determination to win in front of their peers takes over. The cringe factor of the balloon popping in your face while everyone eggs you on is brilliant fun. We played zombie tig. One 'zombie' is it and everyone they tig/tag becomes a 'zombie'. Eventually you end up with 19 'zombies' chasing one human. The best game by far is 'what's in the box'. All you need for this is a largeish box with a hole at either end, various bowls of seemingly horrific items (such as spaghetti-worms, grapes-eyeballs, jelly-gore) and a blindfold. Blindfold the kid and get them to put their hand into the box to guess the item. A bit of bluff works a treat here if you can get any one else in the vicinity to shout things like 'oh my god! that's disgusting! I can't believe you've put that in the box or just make disgusted noises. You can also move the box about a bit to suggest there's a live creature in there. Simple but effective, especially if you put a real lamb's heart in the box like i did last year. One of my daughter's friends actually took it out of the box and gave it a sniff. When the other kids started screaming she took her blindfold off, squealed and lobbed it across the kitchen where my dog promptly ran off with it and ate it. The horror etched on those kids faces will stay with me forever. The girl who threw it has been receiving counselling ever since and will probably go on to be a serial killer. I lied about the last bit.
Turning the house into a zombie zone and the party games would pale into insignificance compared to my piece de resistance. They were merely an amuse bouche for what preceded. An actual zombie invasion. As previously mentioned we lived in the middle of no where with a dead end dirt track. The track was the only way in and the only way out. Now i may have permanently damaged their teenage minds or given them nightmares forever but the fact that they willingly attended one of my Halloween parties is my disclaimer. Myself and some other 'grown ups' dressed as full on zombies-makeup, rotten limbs, ripped clothing etc. We then positioned ourselves on both sides of the track in the dead of the night and waited for the car headlights delivering our victims to approach. Once they were close enough we went full zombie scratching at the car windows with our bloodied stumps and surrounding each car. Some of the 'cool as fuck' teens tried to style it out by getting out of their mum's cars and casually walking up the drive (one with a zombie hanging off her leg) right up until the point we gave chase. I had no idea a 15 year old boy could scream that high! the other teens clung onto their parents and refused to leave the safety of the car until we backed off . Which we did...until they got half way up the drive....then it was every human for themselves. One of the girls' dads' actually pushed his daughter out of the car and sped off shouting 'good luck' as he went. Too much 'Walking Dead' i reckon.
When the killer clown phase was all the rage a few years ago that became my costume of choice, naturally. My kids were old enough to go off trick or treating on their own so i was left to man the fort and sweet distribution. What happened next is clearly my kids fault for leaving me home alone on Halloween for a few hours. At that time we lived in a cul-de-sac and had a large front garden with a path from the gate to the front door. I placed the artificial head stones either side of the path, liberally adorned the trees, windows and front door with cobwebs and spiders. I put lit pumpkins on the front door step and played a spooky sounds CD. I then put on my killer clown costume complete with plastic chainsaw. I sat in a dark corner of the garden, unseen, a few feet from the front door and awaited my first victims. When the local mandem descended on my house ( i say mandem but they were probably 10/11 years old with a dad as a chaperone) i waited stock still in my dark corner until they got to around a foot from my front door. It was at this moment i jumped out and revealed my killer clown alter ego. The screams that came from those boys will haunt my neighbours for a long time to come. They all ran off and i swear one of them actually cleared the hedge. The dad who was chaperoning the yoofs found it hilarious and said 'thanks mate. That's the best scare they've had all night'. They did not come back for sweets.
Those who know me will testify that i love to dress up for Halloween and my costumes always have a lot of thought gone into them. I've been to parties dressed a dead knife throwers assistant, a shark attack victim, a corpse complete with coffin, a zombie Freddie Mercury, a nun, bad santa and the grim reaper and dead Amy Winehouse to name but a few. The grim reaper costume was interesting as the party was in the day time (weird) and i had to do a full grocery shop on the way. Walking around Asda dressed as death complete with scythe did not phase me in the slightest but my teenage daughters who were with me at the time were mortified. I wouldn't have minded but one of them was dressed as Wednesday addams and the other as what looked like a hernia.
Some folk don't like Halloween but those people are weird. Avoid.
Halloween is one of the world's oldest festivals and is celebrated globally by people of different faiths. Mexico celebrate with Dia de los muertos (day of the dead) which starts on October 31st and finishes on November 2nd. Halloween originated in Ireland from the celtic festival Samhain and is a massive deal over there. Halloween is older than christmas. It's a time to remember the dead including martyrs, saints and all faithfully departed christians (not sure about the unfaithful ones-they're probably in hell or something having a horrifying time with the devil ironically) It's also a time to scare the crap out of our kids and elderly neighbours.
This year will be no different for us. We will dress up, enjoy the scariest night of the year, eat too many sweets (weirdly encouraging our kids to take sweets from strangers is ok at Halloween) and pay our respects to our dead.
On that note i'll leave you with my favourite petrifyingly pant shitting poet.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered,
Weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of
forgotten lore-
While i nodded, nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door.
'tis some visitor' i muttered 'tapping at my chamber door'
only this and nothing more.....
The Raven Edgar Allan Poe January 1845
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
Tuesday, 24 September 2019
The observationist: Friends and friendship
The observationist: Friends and friendship: I like to think i'm a good friend to have because i'm loyal, trustworthy and obviously hilarious. My friendship circle is big becaus...
Friends and friendship
I like to think i'm a good friend to have because i'm loyal, trustworthy and obviously hilarious. My friendship circle is big because i'm a people person unless those people are mung beans then not so much. I have friends from all walks of life, sexes and nationalities. Some are ridiculously rich and some are on the breadline. I've got posh friends, celebrity friends, hermit friends, dog lovers, cat lovers, the frivolous, the tight as a gnats arseholes, swearers, vicars (fyi the vicar is the worst swearer i know), doctors, sportsmen/women and professors. All of my friends have two things in common. They are all good people and we make each other laugh. Different jokes for different folks but we are all on the same level. These people are my tribe. People that do not belong in my tribe are tossbags that have nothing better to do than make other people feel shit about themselves. The bonobo monkey effect-throwing shit for shit's sake. Also in this category are fun sponges, moral hoovers, cock wombles, audi drivers and boil in the bag pork mannequins. I unashamedly love my friends and i'd do anything for them apart from perhaps hide a body although after 3 gins i'm open to negotiation. They've seen me at my best and the absolute depths of despair. The highs and lows are the fabric of life and they've never judged me on either.
The word 'friend' can be open to interpretation though. Facebook being the main offender. For those of you that have a facebook account how many of you can say that you personally know everybody on your friends list? I'm not saying that you can't be friends with someone you don't really know because friendships can be forged in the most unlikely circumstances. Look at winnie the pooh and piglet for example. A bear and a pig? All i am saying is sometimes you will accept a friendship request on line just to be nosey or think 'well we've got friends in common so they must alright'. This isn't always the case. Some of my very close friends have friends who are vacuous twats and if i had a cup of water and they were on fire i'd drink it.
Friendship is a personal thing. It's a connection you have with another human being that makes you think 'i like this dude. I want to spend more time with him/her'. One of my best friends has been my mate since we were 10 years old, so around 30 years give or take. We will always be bezzers, mainly because we make each other laugh at stupid shit. There isn't anything she doesn't know about me and i like that. It's comfortable and safe. She has been known to come to my house for a catch up then we have both just had a nap.
A term i hear a lot is 'frenemy'. This is where, as far as i can make out, a friend who is really your enemy. I'm not a fan of blended words like 'frenemy' or 'chillax'. These are generally bandied about by what i like to refer to as 'funts'. Two can play at that game. Why would you want a friend who is a complete dick to you? I don't get it. Cut those people out of your life. I've got two teenage daughters and unfortunately this seems to be a common theme at school, particularly for my youngest. One minute i'll be having her 'best pal' over for a sleepover and the next this 'best pal' is ghosting her and calling her names on social media. I know it's a learning curve and it teaches my child important life lessons but i never liked that precocious little bell end of a pal anyway so i find it hard to be sympathetic.
The sign of a good friendship is someone who will laugh with you, cry with you, hold your hair out of your sick when required, ask for and give sound advice, be non-judgemental and listen to you. A good friend should only ever be in three places; behind you because they've got your back, by your side to encourage you and in front of you to catch you when you fall.
During my research for this particular blog i have discovered there are a few different categories of friends. Whoda thunk it?
1/work friends-Most adults meet and make friends at work. More often than not once we leave that job we never see or associate with these people again. These are 'work friends'. We don't want to remove them completely from a friends list because we want to know if Kevin from accounts ever got round to fingering Karen the receptionist or if it was just a pipe dream of his. We want to know if that funt fiona looked as hideous in her wedding dress as she did in that boob tube and hot pants combo she wore to the works christmas party. Work friends should probably come under the sub heading 'people i have nothing in common with but am forced to spend a large amount of my day with for money' but that sounds alarmingly close to a call girl or gigolo. Don't get me wrong, i do have very good friends i've met through work as i'm sure you do too, dear reader, but ask yourself this-
a/can i be myself in front of him/her?
b/do i want to spend time with this person out of work?
c/do they understand my sense of humour?
d/would i answer the door if they came to my house or hide behind the sofa?
If the answer to any or all of the above is NO then these are 'work friends'.
2/frenemys-People that pretend to be your friend then do a number on you for their own selfish gain like grassing you up to the boss or bitching about you behind your back. These people are everywhere and will try to infiltrate your friendship circle because you have something they don't and want...a personality. These people are also known as twats. Avoid.
3/friends of friends-this is a tricky one because if people are friends of your friends then it'd be safe to assume you'd also like them and all get along like the brady bunch. It doesn't always work out that way. Some of my friend's friends are complete bean bags and i'll leave it at that but you know who you are.
To conclude, a wise man or woman once said 'you can choose your friends but not your family'. Never a truer word has been spoken-unless your'e Charles Manson.
Choose your friends wisely and treasure them because they love you for you, they'll never let you down and they also know all of your secrets so when you did that thing with that thing that you probably shouldn't have done it's forever sealed in friendship.
The word 'friend' can be open to interpretation though. Facebook being the main offender. For those of you that have a facebook account how many of you can say that you personally know everybody on your friends list? I'm not saying that you can't be friends with someone you don't really know because friendships can be forged in the most unlikely circumstances. Look at winnie the pooh and piglet for example. A bear and a pig? All i am saying is sometimes you will accept a friendship request on line just to be nosey or think 'well we've got friends in common so they must alright'. This isn't always the case. Some of my very close friends have friends who are vacuous twats and if i had a cup of water and they were on fire i'd drink it.
Friendship is a personal thing. It's a connection you have with another human being that makes you think 'i like this dude. I want to spend more time with him/her'. One of my best friends has been my mate since we were 10 years old, so around 30 years give or take. We will always be bezzers, mainly because we make each other laugh at stupid shit. There isn't anything she doesn't know about me and i like that. It's comfortable and safe. She has been known to come to my house for a catch up then we have both just had a nap.
A term i hear a lot is 'frenemy'. This is where, as far as i can make out, a friend who is really your enemy. I'm not a fan of blended words like 'frenemy' or 'chillax'. These are generally bandied about by what i like to refer to as 'funts'. Two can play at that game. Why would you want a friend who is a complete dick to you? I don't get it. Cut those people out of your life. I've got two teenage daughters and unfortunately this seems to be a common theme at school, particularly for my youngest. One minute i'll be having her 'best pal' over for a sleepover and the next this 'best pal' is ghosting her and calling her names on social media. I know it's a learning curve and it teaches my child important life lessons but i never liked that precocious little bell end of a pal anyway so i find it hard to be sympathetic.
The sign of a good friendship is someone who will laugh with you, cry with you, hold your hair out of your sick when required, ask for and give sound advice, be non-judgemental and listen to you. A good friend should only ever be in three places; behind you because they've got your back, by your side to encourage you and in front of you to catch you when you fall.
During my research for this particular blog i have discovered there are a few different categories of friends. Whoda thunk it?
1/work friends-Most adults meet and make friends at work. More often than not once we leave that job we never see or associate with these people again. These are 'work friends'. We don't want to remove them completely from a friends list because we want to know if Kevin from accounts ever got round to fingering Karen the receptionist or if it was just a pipe dream of his. We want to know if that funt fiona looked as hideous in her wedding dress as she did in that boob tube and hot pants combo she wore to the works christmas party. Work friends should probably come under the sub heading 'people i have nothing in common with but am forced to spend a large amount of my day with for money' but that sounds alarmingly close to a call girl or gigolo. Don't get me wrong, i do have very good friends i've met through work as i'm sure you do too, dear reader, but ask yourself this-
a/can i be myself in front of him/her?
b/do i want to spend time with this person out of work?
c/do they understand my sense of humour?
d/would i answer the door if they came to my house or hide behind the sofa?
If the answer to any or all of the above is NO then these are 'work friends'.
2/frenemys-People that pretend to be your friend then do a number on you for their own selfish gain like grassing you up to the boss or bitching about you behind your back. These people are everywhere and will try to infiltrate your friendship circle because you have something they don't and want...a personality. These people are also known as twats. Avoid.
3/friends of friends-this is a tricky one because if people are friends of your friends then it'd be safe to assume you'd also like them and all get along like the brady bunch. It doesn't always work out that way. Some of my friend's friends are complete bean bags and i'll leave it at that but you know who you are.
To conclude, a wise man or woman once said 'you can choose your friends but not your family'. Never a truer word has been spoken-unless your'e Charles Manson.
Choose your friends wisely and treasure them because they love you for you, they'll never let you down and they also know all of your secrets so when you did that thing with that thing that you probably shouldn't have done it's forever sealed in friendship.
Tuesday, 3 September 2019
The observationist: school
The observationist: school: Ah yes, those halcyon days at school where you went some place to spend the day with your mates and maybe learn some shit that you would nev...
school
Ah yes, those halcyon days at school where you went some place to spend the day with your mates and maybe learn some shit that you would never use in adult life (i'm talking algebra) then come home and demand tea with menaces because all you'd had to eat that day was a can of irn bru and 19 mars bars from the tuck shop.
School hasn't changed that much from when i attended to now when my girls go. I suppose the only real difference is that teachers are no longer allowed to dish out corporal punishment such as lobbing a black board rubber at your head or giving you a crack with a ruler/slipper/cane or furry part of their hand. I bet the more seasoned veteran teachers long for those days especially when some lippy tweenage chavalanche tells them to 'fuck off slap head' or declares 'they is offended' because the uniform they have to wear is a bourjois concept based on a militant regime where everybody is seen as equal so as to deter prejudice and favouritism...i blame the internet. I don't recall uniform being such a big deal when i was at school. As long as i had the correct school tie on and top and bottoms vaguely matching everyone else's, i was good to go. Nowadays uniform is so unique to the school you can't get away with 'similar'. Everything is addled with logos and the school crest, even down to the bloody PE socks. Schools put so much pressure on the pupils to look as though they are representing their school in the world uniform olympics that parents have to fork out an arm and a leg and re-mortgage the family home just so their child fits in and looks the part. Hitler might have got away with this kind of rigorous uniform policy but do me a favour...where the fuck is the school's inclusion policy that they love to bleat on about? If a school wants to be a sandal wearing, yoghurt eating, aluminium collecting, tree hugging "we include every child because every child is different" inclusion policy flag bearer then let my child wear leggings and flip flops and stop being hypocritical twats. Fascist bastards.
It's that time of year when the school holidays are over. A crack team of wildlife trackers are despatched to herd the kids back to reality. Most kids have gone fully nocturnal by the end of the 6 weeks British school holidays, or 8 weeks if your kids go to private school. One well off friend of mine whose 3 kids go to private school once said 'i pay more and their off for longer. Where's the justice in that?' The shock of having to get up at 7am instead of going to bed then is probably some sort of infringement on their basic human rights but who cares? Not the parents that's for sure. Parents across the UK rejoice at their kids going back to school because they don't have to entertain and constantly feed their often ungrateful offspring. Not to mention break up fights between siblings, host christ knows how many sleep overs and hear the words 'i'm bored' a million times a day. Once the kids go back to school we are set to suffer the barrage of social media photos of other people's kids in their uniform with such pithy quotes as #soproud or #bigschool or #missyoualready . If parents put these photos up they should be made to use their actual feelings to accompany them like #thankfuck or #thoughthisholidaywouldneverend or #cantaffordchristmasthisyearbecausetheuniformissofuckingexpensive . My kids are also going back to school but i won't bore you with the details #triedtotakethembackadayearly .
So they'll be back around a week and the homework onslaught begins. Oh joy. My 6 year old asked me to help her with some maths homework that a NASA scientist couldn't decipher. The countless projects i have helped with over the past 10 years should have got me at least another 5 GCSE's and a mention in dispatches. I've done my time. I didn't sign up for more homework when i had kids.
Around 2-3 weeks into the new term and the detentions start. The buzz of starting a new year at school and seeing your mates has worn off and the feral kids break free. The uniform becomes a little less rigid, behaviour deteriorates and teachers start drinking gin out of a hip flask at break time. When i was at school in the 1980's a detention was the worst thing ever. If your parents found out, you were in the shit. Nowadays kids wear it like a badge of honour. It means nothing and certainly is not a deterrent. In my day detention generally meant detention centre in later life. You were a wrong 'un.
Not long after the new term comes the parents evening. As a kid we dread this because the teacher might actually tell our parents what bell ends we are. This doesn't usually happen because the teacher wants to make out that all of their pupils are 'quite brilliant if a little talkative'. It's a complete waste of an evening better spent going to the pub or binge watching Peaky Blinders.
After parents evening come the school reports. Another waste of precious time. My school report from the age of 6 to 16 were reasonably good apart from maths. Even though i attended around 6 schools during this period, because my dad was in the army, each teacher said the same thing-' Nichola shows no particular interest in this subject'. How right they were.
School, for most , really is the best years of your life. You might not think it at the time but hanging out with your pals, making friends and learning important social skills is much better than going to work, paying bills and adulting. Give me school any day.
School hasn't changed that much from when i attended to now when my girls go. I suppose the only real difference is that teachers are no longer allowed to dish out corporal punishment such as lobbing a black board rubber at your head or giving you a crack with a ruler/slipper/cane or furry part of their hand. I bet the more seasoned veteran teachers long for those days especially when some lippy tweenage chavalanche tells them to 'fuck off slap head' or declares 'they is offended' because the uniform they have to wear is a bourjois concept based on a militant regime where everybody is seen as equal so as to deter prejudice and favouritism...i blame the internet. I don't recall uniform being such a big deal when i was at school. As long as i had the correct school tie on and top and bottoms vaguely matching everyone else's, i was good to go. Nowadays uniform is so unique to the school you can't get away with 'similar'. Everything is addled with logos and the school crest, even down to the bloody PE socks. Schools put so much pressure on the pupils to look as though they are representing their school in the world uniform olympics that parents have to fork out an arm and a leg and re-mortgage the family home just so their child fits in and looks the part. Hitler might have got away with this kind of rigorous uniform policy but do me a favour...where the fuck is the school's inclusion policy that they love to bleat on about? If a school wants to be a sandal wearing, yoghurt eating, aluminium collecting, tree hugging "we include every child because every child is different" inclusion policy flag bearer then let my child wear leggings and flip flops and stop being hypocritical twats. Fascist bastards.
It's that time of year when the school holidays are over. A crack team of wildlife trackers are despatched to herd the kids back to reality. Most kids have gone fully nocturnal by the end of the 6 weeks British school holidays, or 8 weeks if your kids go to private school. One well off friend of mine whose 3 kids go to private school once said 'i pay more and their off for longer. Where's the justice in that?' The shock of having to get up at 7am instead of going to bed then is probably some sort of infringement on their basic human rights but who cares? Not the parents that's for sure. Parents across the UK rejoice at their kids going back to school because they don't have to entertain and constantly feed their often ungrateful offspring. Not to mention break up fights between siblings, host christ knows how many sleep overs and hear the words 'i'm bored' a million times a day. Once the kids go back to school we are set to suffer the barrage of social media photos of other people's kids in their uniform with such pithy quotes as #soproud or #bigschool or #missyoualready . If parents put these photos up they should be made to use their actual feelings to accompany them like #thankfuck or #thoughthisholidaywouldneverend or #cantaffordchristmasthisyearbecausetheuniformissofuckingexpensive . My kids are also going back to school but i won't bore you with the details #triedtotakethembackadayearly .
So they'll be back around a week and the homework onslaught begins. Oh joy. My 6 year old asked me to help her with some maths homework that a NASA scientist couldn't decipher. The countless projects i have helped with over the past 10 years should have got me at least another 5 GCSE's and a mention in dispatches. I've done my time. I didn't sign up for more homework when i had kids.
Around 2-3 weeks into the new term and the detentions start. The buzz of starting a new year at school and seeing your mates has worn off and the feral kids break free. The uniform becomes a little less rigid, behaviour deteriorates and teachers start drinking gin out of a hip flask at break time. When i was at school in the 1980's a detention was the worst thing ever. If your parents found out, you were in the shit. Nowadays kids wear it like a badge of honour. It means nothing and certainly is not a deterrent. In my day detention generally meant detention centre in later life. You were a wrong 'un.
Not long after the new term comes the parents evening. As a kid we dread this because the teacher might actually tell our parents what bell ends we are. This doesn't usually happen because the teacher wants to make out that all of their pupils are 'quite brilliant if a little talkative'. It's a complete waste of an evening better spent going to the pub or binge watching Peaky Blinders.
After parents evening come the school reports. Another waste of precious time. My school report from the age of 6 to 16 were reasonably good apart from maths. Even though i attended around 6 schools during this period, because my dad was in the army, each teacher said the same thing-' Nichola shows no particular interest in this subject'. How right they were.
School, for most , really is the best years of your life. You might not think it at the time but hanging out with your pals, making friends and learning important social skills is much better than going to work, paying bills and adulting. Give me school any day.
Thursday, 27 June 2019
The observationist: Public Transport
The observationist: Public Transport: I drive so i don't use public transport very much. I ain't no bus wanker! I was a bus driver for nearly four years and the calibre o...
Public Transport
I drive so i don't use public transport very much. I ain't no bus wanker! I was a bus driver for nearly four years and the calibre of passengers was questionable at best. I'd have people getting on drunk at 11am who'd leave a suspicious looking stain on the seat., horrible teenage girls with so much makeup on i should've charged them twice, OAP's who often smelt of wee or cats or both and the most annoying of all passengers-parents with screaming babies in prams so big nobody else could get on and probably wouldn't want to. One drunk woman got onto a colleagues bus, lifted her skirt and while pointing to her unkempt lady garden said to the driver 'can i pay with this?' Without batting an eyelid my colleague retorted 'do you have anything smaller love?' See, the calibre of a bottom feeder. Bus wankers.
Taxi drivers are a rare breed aren't they? If i were a taxi driver i'd probably be a border line serial killer because of the amount of times they get asked 'been busy mate?'-at pub/club kicking out time or 'what time do you finish?' at the start of their night shifts. These two questions should fall under the jurisdiction of harassment and mental torture then be followed up with a kick in the shin to the punter. London cabbies are my favourite because they lock you in until you've paid the fare. It's like a hostage situation until you find your purse or wallet. I once got into a London cab aged a mere 21 years old on a very cold and foggy day. I was expecting some kind of Dick Van Dyke-esque cheeky cockney chappie using his best rhyming slang who would perhaps chirp 'ello me darlin, this bird of a feather is bleedin awful. It's got me in a right two and eight. It's like a pea soup out there innit?' Instead what i got was a foul mouthed sweaty bald man who shouted 'oi! treacle! are you getting in or what?' i got in and then he graced me with a phrase i'd not heard before or since 'fuck me! it's as thick as an elephants spunk out there innit!' Charming. I suspect his finishing school was bombed.
Trains are a tedious form of public transport. For long journeys you book your seat only to find some dickhead has sat in your spot. After some deliberation checking not once, not twice but thrice that you have the right seat, right day and right train you approach the fugitive seat wanklette. First off-they are not asleep. They're merely doing a crap impression of a coma victim so feel free to poke them and say 'excuse me, you are sat in my seat'. We then feel compelled to show them our ticket as proof. I find if they refuse to move or are rude in any way retaliate like a crazy person and ask them if 'they want some'. I'm not sure what 'some' is but most people back down at this point. I've never had anybody say 'oh yes please. I'd love some' which is a good job because that's all i've got-bravado and a menacing stare. The toilets on trains are a delightful combo of other people's bowel odours and loo roll so harsh it removes the outer layer of your skin should you be forced to use it. There's always piss on the floor and some pithy quote carved into the back of the door like 'Shazza sucks dog cock' or 'Mark is a bummer'. If your train is on time then you my friend are winning at life. If you end up with a replacement bus service because, as is all too common, your train has been cancelled, then you my friend are a bus wanker.
Aeroplanes (or airplanes if your'e from the U S of A because i know you like to be different) are a curious form of public transport. We get in this big metal thing designed to look like a bird in flight and then it hurtles down a run way at warp speed and takes off. The smell of aviation fuel fills our nostrils and our brains are screaming 'what the fuck are you doing!!!?' and then we are flying. It's the most unnatural thing for a human being to do (unless you've seen a live sex show in Amsterdam). We haven't evolved with feathers or bat wings (bingo wings-yes) yet here we are above the clouds heading to a destination hundreds or sometimes thousands of miles away. We are trapped in a giant metal penis with wings thousands of feet in the air with other people we don't know therefore we don't like as is our default setting. We endure other people's farts because we can't open a window, revolting food and the world's smallest toilet that when flushed almost sucks out your soul. On budget flights we have so little leg room that cramp sets in before take off and the inevitable arm rest tussle begins and results in arguments. Your only option here is to drink lots of alcohol. My pet hate on flights is when some bell end decides to spontaneously start a round of applause when the plane lands. Why??? It's the pilot's job to land the aeroplane without killing everybody on board. A joiner never gets applauded for putting a shelf up, a care assistant never gets a standing ovation for emptying a catheter bag (although they should) and estate agents...well they're just twats and don't deserve anything but contempt. I'm a fairly frequent flyer and only once have i been on board an air craft when the turbulence was so bad the oxygen masks were deployed. Flying is as safe as houses. Clapping is not necessary. Next time you are on a flight and somebody starts whooping and clapping by all means join in but slow clap. That always kills a mood-especially at a wedding.
My advice is learn to drive or walk. Public transport is unreliable, unsanitary and unbearable.
Taxi drivers are a rare breed aren't they? If i were a taxi driver i'd probably be a border line serial killer because of the amount of times they get asked 'been busy mate?'-at pub/club kicking out time or 'what time do you finish?' at the start of their night shifts. These two questions should fall under the jurisdiction of harassment and mental torture then be followed up with a kick in the shin to the punter. London cabbies are my favourite because they lock you in until you've paid the fare. It's like a hostage situation until you find your purse or wallet. I once got into a London cab aged a mere 21 years old on a very cold and foggy day. I was expecting some kind of Dick Van Dyke-esque cheeky cockney chappie using his best rhyming slang who would perhaps chirp 'ello me darlin, this bird of a feather is bleedin awful. It's got me in a right two and eight. It's like a pea soup out there innit?' Instead what i got was a foul mouthed sweaty bald man who shouted 'oi! treacle! are you getting in or what?' i got in and then he graced me with a phrase i'd not heard before or since 'fuck me! it's as thick as an elephants spunk out there innit!' Charming. I suspect his finishing school was bombed.
Trains are a tedious form of public transport. For long journeys you book your seat only to find some dickhead has sat in your spot. After some deliberation checking not once, not twice but thrice that you have the right seat, right day and right train you approach the fugitive seat wanklette. First off-they are not asleep. They're merely doing a crap impression of a coma victim so feel free to poke them and say 'excuse me, you are sat in my seat'. We then feel compelled to show them our ticket as proof. I find if they refuse to move or are rude in any way retaliate like a crazy person and ask them if 'they want some'. I'm not sure what 'some' is but most people back down at this point. I've never had anybody say 'oh yes please. I'd love some' which is a good job because that's all i've got-bravado and a menacing stare. The toilets on trains are a delightful combo of other people's bowel odours and loo roll so harsh it removes the outer layer of your skin should you be forced to use it. There's always piss on the floor and some pithy quote carved into the back of the door like 'Shazza sucks dog cock' or 'Mark is a bummer'. If your train is on time then you my friend are winning at life. If you end up with a replacement bus service because, as is all too common, your train has been cancelled, then you my friend are a bus wanker.
Aeroplanes (or airplanes if your'e from the U S of A because i know you like to be different) are a curious form of public transport. We get in this big metal thing designed to look like a bird in flight and then it hurtles down a run way at warp speed and takes off. The smell of aviation fuel fills our nostrils and our brains are screaming 'what the fuck are you doing!!!?' and then we are flying. It's the most unnatural thing for a human being to do (unless you've seen a live sex show in Amsterdam). We haven't evolved with feathers or bat wings (bingo wings-yes) yet here we are above the clouds heading to a destination hundreds or sometimes thousands of miles away. We are trapped in a giant metal penis with wings thousands of feet in the air with other people we don't know therefore we don't like as is our default setting. We endure other people's farts because we can't open a window, revolting food and the world's smallest toilet that when flushed almost sucks out your soul. On budget flights we have so little leg room that cramp sets in before take off and the inevitable arm rest tussle begins and results in arguments. Your only option here is to drink lots of alcohol. My pet hate on flights is when some bell end decides to spontaneously start a round of applause when the plane lands. Why??? It's the pilot's job to land the aeroplane without killing everybody on board. A joiner never gets applauded for putting a shelf up, a care assistant never gets a standing ovation for emptying a catheter bag (although they should) and estate agents...well they're just twats and don't deserve anything but contempt. I'm a fairly frequent flyer and only once have i been on board an air craft when the turbulence was so bad the oxygen masks were deployed. Flying is as safe as houses. Clapping is not necessary. Next time you are on a flight and somebody starts whooping and clapping by all means join in but slow clap. That always kills a mood-especially at a wedding.
My advice is learn to drive or walk. Public transport is unreliable, unsanitary and unbearable.
Friday, 31 May 2019
The observationist: Jobs
The observationist: Jobs: ' Jobbe of worke' circa 1550. Jobs have always been an integral part of life whether you get paid in money or kind. Most adults an...
Jobs
' Jobbe of worke' circa 1550.
Jobs have always been an integral part of life whether you get paid in money or kind. Most adults and some kids have jobs. We can't send kids up chimneys anymore because apparently it's illegal but we are still allowed to make them carry a bag, often heavier than themselves, full of newspapers to houses where the internet hasn't been invented yet and old men answer the door wearing a dressing gown. The kids are then paid 2 pence an hour for the privilege. Go figure. I had a paper round once for about 3 weeks. I hated it. It was during that 3 week period i discovered, at age 14, that adults can be absolute bell ends about stupid shit like 'where's my Sunday supplement?' 'why's my newspaper wet?' 'who's done my crossword?' Twats. It was mutually agreed with myself and the newsagent owner that i should probably leave.
My eldest daughter has a job. she's a dog walker. She earns her own money. My youngest does jobs around the house to earn hers. Either way both girls have to earn it. I don't get money given to me and neither do they. You may think this is harsh but it's a life lesson taught to me by my dad who, according to him, was down the pit at 5 years old and joined the circus to be a human cannon ball when he was 8. I suspect he may be telling a little white lie.
I've had a variety of jobs since leaving school because like most folk i didn't know what i wanted to do or be. My eldest wants to be a hairdresser and that hasn't wavered since she was a toddler. Girlchild number two however likes to think outside the box and wanted to be a water feature for a number of years. You may think that's slightly weird but the most interesting people i know are slightly weird. She is now a published poet and motorbike road racing photographer at age 13. See-interesting.
When, as young adults, we enter the job market we have to face the dreaded interview. This process doesn't get any easier no matter how old you get. Interviews are nerve racking because you have to bring the best version of yourself to an unfamiliar place and tell complete strangers how awesome you are without sounding like a self serving cock womble. It's a fine line. You have your c.v scrutinised like your about to enter it into the T.T and you sit there sweating wondering if the embellishments you've added will be noticed. Fibs like your actual exam results might not be as good as you've made them out to be or not to be (a little joke there for anyone who scored above a 'd' in English literature) Hobbies and interests is always a good read. Who knew that skinny little mousey Carol on reception was once a Dutch wrestling champion or big Keith in the warehouse enjoys embroidery or that ugly Mike the delivery driver likes nothing better than to slip on a tight sequinned dress and perform as his alter ego-Michaela-at a drag club and belt out Shirley Bassey's greatest hits. C.v's are very rarely checked for authenticity apart from the references so next time you type yours my advice is go to town on it. Be all you want to be and stand out. Ultimately this will get you an interview and possibly the job.
In my job i occasionally get to sit at the other side of the desk and do panel interviews with my boss. We are good cop/bad cop. I am always bad cop. I like genuine folk and can spot bullshit a mile off. The blokes seem to be the worst offenders at spouting absolute bollocks although we did once interview a 30 stone woman for the position of set runner who claimed to be a trapeze artist. Often a male interviewee will attempt to flirt with me because they think if they flatter me i'll give them the job. Once they start with flirty banter or 'flanter' they may as well leave. Flanter at your peril. Interviews are a boring necessity to find the best candidate for the job not the best candidate for a blow job.
The workplace can be a minefield. Who is a friend? who will stitch you up like a kipper? who is the office perv? who is the office bike? who is the office dickhead? If you don't think your workplace has a dickhead, chances are, it's you.
If your'e lucky enough to have a job and can just about keep your head above water then your'e officially a grown up. If you have a job you hate you probably wish you were still a kid. If your'e in the very small minority and have a job you love your'e a fucking show off. I'm one of those show offs. It's not the best paid job in the world but i get to do something i love-most of the time. Standing around in the rain or cold for hours on end waiting for the lighting to be just right or an actor to remember their dialogue is not my favourite thing and those who work with me under these conditions will freely testify that i am prone to whingeing like someone who has just lost a whingeing competition. The down sides of working mostly from home are i can't ring in sick and i don't get invited to office parties.
Office parties are the sort of events that come under the 'what happens at the party stays at the party' rule. Most people who attend these functions see it as an opportunity to let their hair down and show their work colleagues what they're really like. Some people go that step further and will spend most of the evening getting horribly drunk, call their boss a c**t then attempt to finger Alison from accounts underneath the buffet table-or worse case scenario...Michaela. Happy days.
Worse than the office party by a mile are those awful team building days where some fucktard from H.R will arrange for everyone to go paintballing or bowling or an escape room. It's enforced fun and now your'e having to spend a day off work with the shithouses you spend your working life trying to avoid. Especially Dave whose B.O is so bad you can taste it and cross eyed Kelly who has one eye going to the shops and one coming back with the change, but worst of all is your boss who has the worst halitosis known to mankind. He has the sort of breath that can actually repel mints and could easily kill a small child or a sick pensioner.
Work is a necessity for most people in order to live so either leave the job you hate or do something different. Only you are in charge of the path you take. Embellish your c.v and leave the twatty mundane jobs to the twatty and mundane.
Jobs have always been an integral part of life whether you get paid in money or kind. Most adults and some kids have jobs. We can't send kids up chimneys anymore because apparently it's illegal but we are still allowed to make them carry a bag, often heavier than themselves, full of newspapers to houses where the internet hasn't been invented yet and old men answer the door wearing a dressing gown. The kids are then paid 2 pence an hour for the privilege. Go figure. I had a paper round once for about 3 weeks. I hated it. It was during that 3 week period i discovered, at age 14, that adults can be absolute bell ends about stupid shit like 'where's my Sunday supplement?' 'why's my newspaper wet?' 'who's done my crossword?' Twats. It was mutually agreed with myself and the newsagent owner that i should probably leave.
My eldest daughter has a job. she's a dog walker. She earns her own money. My youngest does jobs around the house to earn hers. Either way both girls have to earn it. I don't get money given to me and neither do they. You may think this is harsh but it's a life lesson taught to me by my dad who, according to him, was down the pit at 5 years old and joined the circus to be a human cannon ball when he was 8. I suspect he may be telling a little white lie.
I've had a variety of jobs since leaving school because like most folk i didn't know what i wanted to do or be. My eldest wants to be a hairdresser and that hasn't wavered since she was a toddler. Girlchild number two however likes to think outside the box and wanted to be a water feature for a number of years. You may think that's slightly weird but the most interesting people i know are slightly weird. She is now a published poet and motorbike road racing photographer at age 13. See-interesting.
When, as young adults, we enter the job market we have to face the dreaded interview. This process doesn't get any easier no matter how old you get. Interviews are nerve racking because you have to bring the best version of yourself to an unfamiliar place and tell complete strangers how awesome you are without sounding like a self serving cock womble. It's a fine line. You have your c.v scrutinised like your about to enter it into the T.T and you sit there sweating wondering if the embellishments you've added will be noticed. Fibs like your actual exam results might not be as good as you've made them out to be or not to be (a little joke there for anyone who scored above a 'd' in English literature) Hobbies and interests is always a good read. Who knew that skinny little mousey Carol on reception was once a Dutch wrestling champion or big Keith in the warehouse enjoys embroidery or that ugly Mike the delivery driver likes nothing better than to slip on a tight sequinned dress and perform as his alter ego-Michaela-at a drag club and belt out Shirley Bassey's greatest hits. C.v's are very rarely checked for authenticity apart from the references so next time you type yours my advice is go to town on it. Be all you want to be and stand out. Ultimately this will get you an interview and possibly the job.
In my job i occasionally get to sit at the other side of the desk and do panel interviews with my boss. We are good cop/bad cop. I am always bad cop. I like genuine folk and can spot bullshit a mile off. The blokes seem to be the worst offenders at spouting absolute bollocks although we did once interview a 30 stone woman for the position of set runner who claimed to be a trapeze artist. Often a male interviewee will attempt to flirt with me because they think if they flatter me i'll give them the job. Once they start with flirty banter or 'flanter' they may as well leave. Flanter at your peril. Interviews are a boring necessity to find the best candidate for the job not the best candidate for a blow job.
The workplace can be a minefield. Who is a friend? who will stitch you up like a kipper? who is the office perv? who is the office bike? who is the office dickhead? If you don't think your workplace has a dickhead, chances are, it's you.
If your'e lucky enough to have a job and can just about keep your head above water then your'e officially a grown up. If you have a job you hate you probably wish you were still a kid. If your'e in the very small minority and have a job you love your'e a fucking show off. I'm one of those show offs. It's not the best paid job in the world but i get to do something i love-most of the time. Standing around in the rain or cold for hours on end waiting for the lighting to be just right or an actor to remember their dialogue is not my favourite thing and those who work with me under these conditions will freely testify that i am prone to whingeing like someone who has just lost a whingeing competition. The down sides of working mostly from home are i can't ring in sick and i don't get invited to office parties.
Office parties are the sort of events that come under the 'what happens at the party stays at the party' rule. Most people who attend these functions see it as an opportunity to let their hair down and show their work colleagues what they're really like. Some people go that step further and will spend most of the evening getting horribly drunk, call their boss a c**t then attempt to finger Alison from accounts underneath the buffet table-or worse case scenario...Michaela. Happy days.
Worse than the office party by a mile are those awful team building days where some fucktard from H.R will arrange for everyone to go paintballing or bowling or an escape room. It's enforced fun and now your'e having to spend a day off work with the shithouses you spend your working life trying to avoid. Especially Dave whose B.O is so bad you can taste it and cross eyed Kelly who has one eye going to the shops and one coming back with the change, but worst of all is your boss who has the worst halitosis known to mankind. He has the sort of breath that can actually repel mints and could easily kill a small child or a sick pensioner.
Work is a necessity for most people in order to live so either leave the job you hate or do something different. Only you are in charge of the path you take. Embellish your c.v and leave the twatty mundane jobs to the twatty and mundane.
Thursday, 9 May 2019
The observationist: Sex
The observationist: Sex: I can comment on this as i have two children so i've definitely done it twice. Sex used to be a taboo topic but these days everyone'...
Sex
I can comment on this as i have two children so i've definitely done it twice. Sex used to be a taboo topic but these days everyone's talking about it which isn't necessarily a good thing. It doesn't matter how old i get if i hear my parents mention it i do a sick in my mouth and then poke out my mind's eye. It' almost like the human race has only just discovered fornication.
There are so many different sexual orientations that the good old hetrosexual is virtually passe. Back back back in the day we had straight, gay and bisexual but now we have transgender, transsexual, binary, non-binary, gender fluid (which i thought was something found on prostitute's handbag) and pan sexual...wtf is pan sexual? is it someone who masturbates into crockery or gets aroused by Peter Pan?
I'm a hetro female because i fancy men. I'm not at any point going to think 'hey, you know what...i think i'm going to sample drinking from the furry cup'. Other women are not my thing although i do appreciate the female form and all of it's flaws and imperfections because i am one. I like muscles, hairy chests, beards and willys, although some might argue that the first three of my criteria can be found in the lesbian community anyway.
Once you've seen one nob you've pretty much seen them all. The variations are only slight ranging from length to girth. If your'e lucky you'll get the holy grail-both. For those of us ladies that have given birth vaginally to one or more children girth is very important. You can't make dough with a needle as my dear old nan used to say who was also a mum of three.
As a hetro woman i'd like to point out that nobody, straight or otherwise, likes-as i refer to it-a spaghetti cock. These are the longish skinny members that wouldn't touch the insides of a drinking straw. Neither use nor ornament. Don't come at me with one of those because you'll be wasting my time and yours.
If your'e lucky enough to be having sex in the first place then good for you. If your'e lucky enough to be having good sex then your'e living the dream. I have friends who haven't had sex for years. Not because they're unattractive but because they just haven't met anyone. Today's 'sex market' has tools to aid you in your quest such as Tinder, grindr, CFNM parties and loads of others but we as people still prefer to clap eyes on someone at work or in a club and think 'i wouldn't mind a go on that'. Animal instinct is what drives us and ultimately what makes us procreate and keep the world turning.
Sexual positions are a relatively recent invention despite what the karma sutra claims. You have the standard three (or the holy trinity) that most sexually active people will have experienced. The missionary, or mummy and daddy sex, is probably the most common. Lying down, man on top pumping away like a sewing machine in a power surge. This position is ideal for intimacy as it's face to face so lip and eye contact are an inevitable delicious bi-product. If your'e only using this position then you really need to open your mind or run for the hills. It's the one position where you'd most likely hear 'pull my nightie down when your'e finished love'. Not very imaginative but does the job. On top is a favourite of the female as she is in control of the outcome. From behind, or the doggy position, tends to be a favourite of the fellas as he's in control here when the rest of his waking day he's being told to pick up his clothes, take the rubbish out or cut the grass. Although pleasurable for both parties the bloke will tend to 'go off' first much to the annoyance of his partner. This will often result in the silent treatment, which to some men might be blessed relief or sex being removed from the agenda for a month. Us women like this position because it means we don't have to look at the ridiculous faces men pull at the point of no return. I have been known to actually burst out laughing which is a bit off putting. One draw back of the doggy position is when air is pumped into the recipient resulting in a fanny fart or quife which can send the guy's love length flying out at such a rate of knotts he could have his own eye out or get whiplash. If this happens to you my recommendation is simply to style it out.
Obviously there a lots of other positions which i've looked up for research purposes only. Some have really bizarre names like 'the wheelbarrow' (go on then i'll try it but don't take me past my mum's house) 'the rocking horse', 'the catherine wheel', 'the bridge', 'reverse cowgirl' (good for the less well endowed fellas), 'the plough' (similar to the wheelbarrow but in a field-i imagine), 'the toad' and the beautifully named 'ascent to desire'. Look them up. They exist and coming to a sex life near you! I've tried a few on the list but unless i warm up beforehand i'm more likely these days to get cramp than climax.
For some folk sex isn't enough to get their freak on. They need extra stimulus and i'm not talking about sex toys like the rampant rabbit, finger bobs or the bully boy black prince anal intruder. I'm talking about kinks and fetishes. Swinging, dogging, impact play, bondage and voyeurism are listed in the top ten of British favourites.You've probably heard of all of those or maybe practise a few but what about omorashi? This is becoming or being aroused by observing their partner wetting themselves. I imagine omorashi practitioners who happen to be single would do alright hanging around the back of a pub or club at kicking out time. Teratophilia is a sex fetish that involves being attracted to people with physical deformities. I bet the hunch back of notre dame was beating them off with a stick. Coprophilia or scatophilia is a poo fetish, where the person likes nothing better than to observe his or her partner having a shit crouched on a glass coffee table while they lie under it. Legend has it that hitler was a fan of this particular fetish. To be fair if watching someone curl one out over glass seems disgusting he did do a lot worse. It also makes me wonder if this was the real reason my neighbours were barred from DFS. They do have pampas grass in their front garden which incidentally is the international bat signal for 'swingers live here'. The kink that amused me the most is dendrophilia or arbophilia which is when someone is sexually attracted to trees. It brings a whole new meaning to the term 'tree hugger' or 'i've got wood'. A friend of mine at uni used to post her worn knickers to people on line for a fee. It paid her way through her degree. Another friend of mine is a dominatrix and her best client likes her to lock him in her shed while she shouts 'slag!' through the keyhole.
To conclude this weeks blog i'd like to finish with a simple request. Where can i purchase a bully boy black prince anal intruder?
Asking for a friend...
There are so many different sexual orientations that the good old hetrosexual is virtually passe. Back back back in the day we had straight, gay and bisexual but now we have transgender, transsexual, binary, non-binary, gender fluid (which i thought was something found on prostitute's handbag) and pan sexual...wtf is pan sexual? is it someone who masturbates into crockery or gets aroused by Peter Pan?
I'm a hetro female because i fancy men. I'm not at any point going to think 'hey, you know what...i think i'm going to sample drinking from the furry cup'. Other women are not my thing although i do appreciate the female form and all of it's flaws and imperfections because i am one. I like muscles, hairy chests, beards and willys, although some might argue that the first three of my criteria can be found in the lesbian community anyway.
Once you've seen one nob you've pretty much seen them all. The variations are only slight ranging from length to girth. If your'e lucky you'll get the holy grail-both. For those of us ladies that have given birth vaginally to one or more children girth is very important. You can't make dough with a needle as my dear old nan used to say who was also a mum of three.
As a hetro woman i'd like to point out that nobody, straight or otherwise, likes-as i refer to it-a spaghetti cock. These are the longish skinny members that wouldn't touch the insides of a drinking straw. Neither use nor ornament. Don't come at me with one of those because you'll be wasting my time and yours.
If your'e lucky enough to be having sex in the first place then good for you. If your'e lucky enough to be having good sex then your'e living the dream. I have friends who haven't had sex for years. Not because they're unattractive but because they just haven't met anyone. Today's 'sex market' has tools to aid you in your quest such as Tinder, grindr, CFNM parties and loads of others but we as people still prefer to clap eyes on someone at work or in a club and think 'i wouldn't mind a go on that'. Animal instinct is what drives us and ultimately what makes us procreate and keep the world turning.
Sexual positions are a relatively recent invention despite what the karma sutra claims. You have the standard three (or the holy trinity) that most sexually active people will have experienced. The missionary, or mummy and daddy sex, is probably the most common. Lying down, man on top pumping away like a sewing machine in a power surge. This position is ideal for intimacy as it's face to face so lip and eye contact are an inevitable delicious bi-product. If your'e only using this position then you really need to open your mind or run for the hills. It's the one position where you'd most likely hear 'pull my nightie down when your'e finished love'. Not very imaginative but does the job. On top is a favourite of the female as she is in control of the outcome. From behind, or the doggy position, tends to be a favourite of the fellas as he's in control here when the rest of his waking day he's being told to pick up his clothes, take the rubbish out or cut the grass. Although pleasurable for both parties the bloke will tend to 'go off' first much to the annoyance of his partner. This will often result in the silent treatment, which to some men might be blessed relief or sex being removed from the agenda for a month. Us women like this position because it means we don't have to look at the ridiculous faces men pull at the point of no return. I have been known to actually burst out laughing which is a bit off putting. One draw back of the doggy position is when air is pumped into the recipient resulting in a fanny fart or quife which can send the guy's love length flying out at such a rate of knotts he could have his own eye out or get whiplash. If this happens to you my recommendation is simply to style it out.
Obviously there a lots of other positions which i've looked up for research purposes only. Some have really bizarre names like 'the wheelbarrow' (go on then i'll try it but don't take me past my mum's house) 'the rocking horse', 'the catherine wheel', 'the bridge', 'reverse cowgirl' (good for the less well endowed fellas), 'the plough' (similar to the wheelbarrow but in a field-i imagine), 'the toad' and the beautifully named 'ascent to desire'. Look them up. They exist and coming to a sex life near you! I've tried a few on the list but unless i warm up beforehand i'm more likely these days to get cramp than climax.
For some folk sex isn't enough to get their freak on. They need extra stimulus and i'm not talking about sex toys like the rampant rabbit, finger bobs or the bully boy black prince anal intruder. I'm talking about kinks and fetishes. Swinging, dogging, impact play, bondage and voyeurism are listed in the top ten of British favourites.You've probably heard of all of those or maybe practise a few but what about omorashi? This is becoming or being aroused by observing their partner wetting themselves. I imagine omorashi practitioners who happen to be single would do alright hanging around the back of a pub or club at kicking out time. Teratophilia is a sex fetish that involves being attracted to people with physical deformities. I bet the hunch back of notre dame was beating them off with a stick. Coprophilia or scatophilia is a poo fetish, where the person likes nothing better than to observe his or her partner having a shit crouched on a glass coffee table while they lie under it. Legend has it that hitler was a fan of this particular fetish. To be fair if watching someone curl one out over glass seems disgusting he did do a lot worse. It also makes me wonder if this was the real reason my neighbours were barred from DFS. They do have pampas grass in their front garden which incidentally is the international bat signal for 'swingers live here'. The kink that amused me the most is dendrophilia or arbophilia which is when someone is sexually attracted to trees. It brings a whole new meaning to the term 'tree hugger' or 'i've got wood'. A friend of mine at uni used to post her worn knickers to people on line for a fee. It paid her way through her degree. Another friend of mine is a dominatrix and her best client likes her to lock him in her shed while she shouts 'slag!' through the keyhole.
To conclude this weeks blog i'd like to finish with a simple request. Where can i purchase a bully boy black prince anal intruder?
Asking for a friend...
Wednesday, 27 March 2019
The observationist: car boot sales
The observationist: car boot sales: The car boot sale season is almost upon us here in Great Britain. I'm not sure if this is a national or international past time. I can&#...
car boot sales
The car boot sale season is almost upon us here in Great Britain. I'm not sure if this is a national or international past time. I can't imagine there are many car boot sales in the Maldives. For anyone who doesn't know, a car boot sale is a kind of second hand market where people turn up in their cars and sell their unwanted items to the general public out of their car boot.
Spring comes around but once a year closely followed by the spring clean which mostly involves getting rid of all the crap in your home. We drag hundreds of bags of outgrown clothes, board games with bits missing, books we'll never read and toys we hate (the noisy ones) to charity shops but then signs for imminent car boot sales appear and we think-hang on...surely charity starts at home? I can sell this crap! So we start stockpiling our unloved and unwanted shite preparing for a foray into becoming a weekend market trader.
The really organised among us will have a table to display our wares, possibly a clothing rail, a tin or tub to put our takings in and a man sized picnic and flask. The less organised may have a blanket at best, some loose change in the glove compartment and a half eaten pie under the passenger seat.
I am of the organised boot saler variety. I haven't done that many as a seller because they always seem like a good idea but after around two hours of strangers haggling and poking around in my stuff, albeit stuff i don't want, i've had enough. Why do buyers always say 'how much do you want for this?' to which you reply 'two pounds'. Then they will come back with 'I'll give you 50 pence'. I'm probably not the best sales woman at this point because my likely retort would be 'fuck off! We're not in Marrakech dickhead! If i'd wanted 50 pence i'd have said 50 pence not Two quid! Now do me a favour, have a word with yourself and piss off! Now go back to your mummy and tell her it's Two pounds or nothing for that stretchkin unicorn.' Fucking kids! Honestly!
I once went with my dad when i was around 13 years old to sell a load of stuff we had accumulated over the years. We were a bit late turning up and as we rolled up in my dad's Mazda 929 estate (very uncool) the buyers spotted us. They began to swarm the car like wasps at a picnic. It was terrifying, reminiscent of a zombie apocalypse. People desperate to see what we had for sale pressing their faces up against the car windows like that time i accidentally parked in a dogging spot to breast feed my daughter. My dad parked up and opened the car boot. People started reaching in grabbing anything they could reach saying things like 'how much do you want for this mixing bowl?' 'how much is the roll of lino?' How much do you want for the teenager?' Ok, i made the last one up but you get the picture. We finally managed to get our table up and set up shop. After around an hour my dad decided to go for a wander to see if anyone else was selling crap to replace the crap my mum was trying to get rid of. I was left in charge of our mini empire. While he was gone i made two sales. Pleased with myself i couldn't wait to share my entrepreneurial genius with my dad. He returned and keen to impress i showed him the five pounds i had procured. He was suitably impressed right up to the point when i told him what i had sold. Some smelly football boots and a metal thing with a handle on it. It transpired that i had in fact sold his very expensive rugby boots and his car jack. I've heard my dad swear before but never with actual tears in his eyes.
On another occasion many, many years later i had just left the army and moved back to the U.K. I found a job and a flat to rent. The flat was a strange design. It was sort of out on a limb from the other flats with nobody above or below and it had a large attic. I'd decided to do a car boot sale at the local race course as i had once again accumulated a lot of stuff i didn't need anymore. I sorted through what i wanted to get rid of and what i wanted to keep. The stuff i wanted to keep was then divide into what i wanted to keep and use and stuff i wanted to keep but store in the attic. I opened the attic hatch and to my surprise it contained suitcases full of clothes and a few boxes of tat. I rang my landlady to inform her of my find and to ask what i should do with it all. She told me it must have belonged to a previous tenant although the flat had been empty for a year prior to me moving in, so i should throw it out or take it to a charity shop. I told her i was doing a car boot sale with my old stuff and i'd take the attic stuff with me. She agreed this was a good idea.
Car boot sale day came and being the organised boot saler i am i got there early to get a decent pitch. I set up my table and even had a clothes rail and hangars for the clothes i'd found in the attic. I arranged everything beautifully and awaited the punters.It was a lovely sunny day and they came in their droves. I sold a lot of stuff and was feeling particularly smug when a shrill voice shouted out from the crowd surrounding the clothes rail. 'These are my clothes!' Well i haven't seen a crowd disperse that quickly since Shaun Roper at middle school did a fart so rancid our teacher was sick in a bin. Turns out the shrill voiced woman lived in my flat a year previous to me and just happened to be visiting friends in the area on that exact day and then had decided to go to the local car boot sale where i was selling her clothes. How mad is that? It's like the butterfly effect but without the death and destruction, just flares and boob tubes.
I prefer going to a car boot sale as a buyer to have a nosey at what folk are selling. I like the ordinary folk who have raided their attics or garages or sheds, found stuff they'd forgotten about then decided to sell it for next to nothing just for the craic. People that sell at car boot sales as a tax dodge job wind me up. If i wanted to buy wholesale sweets crammed into plastic boxes for a quid or car parts or my own body weight in out of date body creams i'd go to the market.
I want to see the remnants of people's lives laid out on a trestle table. I want to see 1970's lampshades, kerplunk, a rowing machine, betamax video tapes, unicorn stretchkins, a pogo stick, a prosthetic limb and a million mills & boon books. I want to go to a car boot sale and discover things i never knew i needed. A lexicon of life's melange, the flim flam of miscellany, a hodge podge of oddments and perhaps a new grate for my fire. I'm a firm believer in one man's rubbish is another man's treasure which is why i'm clearing my garage out tomorrow and preparing to do battle with the car boot sale fraternity this spring. Has anyone seen my trestle table?
Spring comes around but once a year closely followed by the spring clean which mostly involves getting rid of all the crap in your home. We drag hundreds of bags of outgrown clothes, board games with bits missing, books we'll never read and toys we hate (the noisy ones) to charity shops but then signs for imminent car boot sales appear and we think-hang on...surely charity starts at home? I can sell this crap! So we start stockpiling our unloved and unwanted shite preparing for a foray into becoming a weekend market trader.
The really organised among us will have a table to display our wares, possibly a clothing rail, a tin or tub to put our takings in and a man sized picnic and flask. The less organised may have a blanket at best, some loose change in the glove compartment and a half eaten pie under the passenger seat.
I am of the organised boot saler variety. I haven't done that many as a seller because they always seem like a good idea but after around two hours of strangers haggling and poking around in my stuff, albeit stuff i don't want, i've had enough. Why do buyers always say 'how much do you want for this?' to which you reply 'two pounds'. Then they will come back with 'I'll give you 50 pence'. I'm probably not the best sales woman at this point because my likely retort would be 'fuck off! We're not in Marrakech dickhead! If i'd wanted 50 pence i'd have said 50 pence not Two quid! Now do me a favour, have a word with yourself and piss off! Now go back to your mummy and tell her it's Two pounds or nothing for that stretchkin unicorn.' Fucking kids! Honestly!
I once went with my dad when i was around 13 years old to sell a load of stuff we had accumulated over the years. We were a bit late turning up and as we rolled up in my dad's Mazda 929 estate (very uncool) the buyers spotted us. They began to swarm the car like wasps at a picnic. It was terrifying, reminiscent of a zombie apocalypse. People desperate to see what we had for sale pressing their faces up against the car windows like that time i accidentally parked in a dogging spot to breast feed my daughter. My dad parked up and opened the car boot. People started reaching in grabbing anything they could reach saying things like 'how much do you want for this mixing bowl?' 'how much is the roll of lino?' How much do you want for the teenager?' Ok, i made the last one up but you get the picture. We finally managed to get our table up and set up shop. After around an hour my dad decided to go for a wander to see if anyone else was selling crap to replace the crap my mum was trying to get rid of. I was left in charge of our mini empire. While he was gone i made two sales. Pleased with myself i couldn't wait to share my entrepreneurial genius with my dad. He returned and keen to impress i showed him the five pounds i had procured. He was suitably impressed right up to the point when i told him what i had sold. Some smelly football boots and a metal thing with a handle on it. It transpired that i had in fact sold his very expensive rugby boots and his car jack. I've heard my dad swear before but never with actual tears in his eyes.
On another occasion many, many years later i had just left the army and moved back to the U.K. I found a job and a flat to rent. The flat was a strange design. It was sort of out on a limb from the other flats with nobody above or below and it had a large attic. I'd decided to do a car boot sale at the local race course as i had once again accumulated a lot of stuff i didn't need anymore. I sorted through what i wanted to get rid of and what i wanted to keep. The stuff i wanted to keep was then divide into what i wanted to keep and use and stuff i wanted to keep but store in the attic. I opened the attic hatch and to my surprise it contained suitcases full of clothes and a few boxes of tat. I rang my landlady to inform her of my find and to ask what i should do with it all. She told me it must have belonged to a previous tenant although the flat had been empty for a year prior to me moving in, so i should throw it out or take it to a charity shop. I told her i was doing a car boot sale with my old stuff and i'd take the attic stuff with me. She agreed this was a good idea.
Car boot sale day came and being the organised boot saler i am i got there early to get a decent pitch. I set up my table and even had a clothes rail and hangars for the clothes i'd found in the attic. I arranged everything beautifully and awaited the punters.It was a lovely sunny day and they came in their droves. I sold a lot of stuff and was feeling particularly smug when a shrill voice shouted out from the crowd surrounding the clothes rail. 'These are my clothes!' Well i haven't seen a crowd disperse that quickly since Shaun Roper at middle school did a fart so rancid our teacher was sick in a bin. Turns out the shrill voiced woman lived in my flat a year previous to me and just happened to be visiting friends in the area on that exact day and then had decided to go to the local car boot sale where i was selling her clothes. How mad is that? It's like the butterfly effect but without the death and destruction, just flares and boob tubes.
I prefer going to a car boot sale as a buyer to have a nosey at what folk are selling. I like the ordinary folk who have raided their attics or garages or sheds, found stuff they'd forgotten about then decided to sell it for next to nothing just for the craic. People that sell at car boot sales as a tax dodge job wind me up. If i wanted to buy wholesale sweets crammed into plastic boxes for a quid or car parts or my own body weight in out of date body creams i'd go to the market.
I want to see the remnants of people's lives laid out on a trestle table. I want to see 1970's lampshades, kerplunk, a rowing machine, betamax video tapes, unicorn stretchkins, a pogo stick, a prosthetic limb and a million mills & boon books. I want to go to a car boot sale and discover things i never knew i needed. A lexicon of life's melange, the flim flam of miscellany, a hodge podge of oddments and perhaps a new grate for my fire. I'm a firm believer in one man's rubbish is another man's treasure which is why i'm clearing my garage out tomorrow and preparing to do battle with the car boot sale fraternity this spring. Has anyone seen my trestle table?
Thursday, 14 March 2019
The observationist: Fashion
The observationist: Fashion: I don't make any claims to being a fashionista by any means. Infact, i think i'm the opposite. I don't mean i will go out of my ...
Fashion
I don't make any claims to being a fashionista by any means. Infact, i think i'm the opposite. I don't mean i will go out of my way to dress like i've recently escaped from an institution for the criminally insane or that i'm disrespecting all fashion. I wear what i want to wear and won't be dictated to by the latest trends designed by a failed art student. I like to be comfortable and dress according to the weather. This isn't because i'm in my mid forties, i've always been that way inclined. When i was a teen my friends would go on a night out looking like they'd thrown an outfit on and missed, i preferred my doc martins and a warm coat. I never caught hypothermia and i don't have bunions. I like a top and trouser/jeans/skirt combo or occasionally a dress. Co-ordinated but doesn't scream 'look at my labels' or 'i'm a twat'.
I like a classic designer such as Chanel but i can't get my head around anything designed by Vivienne Westwood.
I'm a child of the 70's-the decade that taste forgot-and i don't recall seeing anyone with gaffa tape across their nipples or their earlobe stretched so wide you could train a small pony to jump through it. Just good old platform shoes, flares and mullets to die for.
I was a teen in the 80's and the closest i got to following a trend was getting my mum to buy me some fluorescent socks. Other than that 80's fashion with it's leg warmers, shoulder pads and huge hair bewildered me and i wanted no part of it. Imagine my horror when it started to make a come back in 2018 and my two teenage girls wanted me to buy jackets with shoulder pads and boyfriend jeans. I had a new romantic flashback and felt the urge to backcomb my hair and don electric blue mascara. Don't worry though readers, i had a word with myself.
Sometimes i think fashion designers are either trying to outdo each other or seeing what they can get away with. A prime example of this was the crotchless jeans that came out last year. Did anyone actually buy those? I doubt it although they're probably really popular in dogging circles. Practical and airy.
I know some folk are particularly dedicated to fashion and will feel compelled to buy whatever the latest trend is. I've got nothing against these folk as i believe each to their own, it's just not for me. I've never been a follower of anything which is why i'm rubbish at twitter and instagram. My attention span is too low for that caper. Even social media falls foul to fashion. Facetube, instatwat and snapwank go in and out of favour like a 1970's disc jockey. I can't keep up so i don't try to. My teens are always telling me how to get more followers but i'm not that bothered about being followed unless someone is actually physically following me wearing a mac and carrying a chloroform cosh and some rope...then i may call the police.
Inexplicably diets also go up and down like a bride's nightie in the fashion stakes. Surely if a diet works how can it become uncool? About a decade ago when the atkins diet was de rigueur people on it would cut out all carbs, lose 9 stone in a week and pay £6.00 for a loaf of carb free bread which had the density of plutonium and would survive a nuclear explosion. They lost weight, sure, but had unbelievable halitosis and shit out actual fire. Not for me chief. These days people love a detox diet where they eat mad bollocks like seaweed, kale, cotton balls, tapeworm eggs and their own toenails. Cabbage soup, macrobiotic, potato, juice cleanse, charcoal, baby food, vision and shangri la are all real names of real faddy diets that are no longer fashionable.
Hairstyles seem to vary from being quite localised to the national hair do of choice. Hair straightners changed a lot of people's lives in recent years by being able to tame even the wildest of barnets. I confess, i do own a pair of these but it's very rare i will use them. My hair is blonde and naturally wavy which i quite like although my great nanna used to say 'do you even own a brush? You have the hair of nazzymova'. I have no idea who nazzymova is but i bet they had fabulous hair. I don't really like unnatural hair colours on people. I always feel like asking them if they're a natural purple or blue.It just looks odd. It's almost like they are saying 'hey look at me with my fun hair because i'm a fun person', which incidentally they generally aren't. I've met a few punks in my time and not one of them told me a joke. I had a perm once in the late 80's in a feeble attempt to follow the fashion and i ended up looking like a Ken Dodd tribute act. Never again.
From all of the different fashions, clothes, hair, shoes, diets etc the one that confuses me most is makeup trends. From the garish brown and green thick eyeshadow and red lippy of the 70's, electric blue mascara and black eyeliner of the 80's to the fresh hell of the 'natural look' in the noughties with teens and adults plastering so much foundation and highlighter on they actually gain a stone in weight. The end product is neither natural or practical. Don't even get me started on the thick eyebrow that makes ladies and gents look like they're constantly angry. My eldest daughter subscribes to this trend and sports the heavier eyebrow much to my annoyance. The eyebrow doesn't irritate me as such it's the fact that she takes so long doing it. She has missed the school bus countless times due to her morning eyebrow regime. It both infuriates and perplexes me that she's late for school but her eyebrows are on time. As i am not a big fan of too much makeup or ever changing fashion i shall continue to bow out of needing to look like everyone else and continue, instead, to march to the beat of my own drum.
I like a classic designer such as Chanel but i can't get my head around anything designed by Vivienne Westwood.
I'm a child of the 70's-the decade that taste forgot-and i don't recall seeing anyone with gaffa tape across their nipples or their earlobe stretched so wide you could train a small pony to jump through it. Just good old platform shoes, flares and mullets to die for.
I was a teen in the 80's and the closest i got to following a trend was getting my mum to buy me some fluorescent socks. Other than that 80's fashion with it's leg warmers, shoulder pads and huge hair bewildered me and i wanted no part of it. Imagine my horror when it started to make a come back in 2018 and my two teenage girls wanted me to buy jackets with shoulder pads and boyfriend jeans. I had a new romantic flashback and felt the urge to backcomb my hair and don electric blue mascara. Don't worry though readers, i had a word with myself.
Sometimes i think fashion designers are either trying to outdo each other or seeing what they can get away with. A prime example of this was the crotchless jeans that came out last year. Did anyone actually buy those? I doubt it although they're probably really popular in dogging circles. Practical and airy.
I know some folk are particularly dedicated to fashion and will feel compelled to buy whatever the latest trend is. I've got nothing against these folk as i believe each to their own, it's just not for me. I've never been a follower of anything which is why i'm rubbish at twitter and instagram. My attention span is too low for that caper. Even social media falls foul to fashion. Facetube, instatwat and snapwank go in and out of favour like a 1970's disc jockey. I can't keep up so i don't try to. My teens are always telling me how to get more followers but i'm not that bothered about being followed unless someone is actually physically following me wearing a mac and carrying a chloroform cosh and some rope...then i may call the police.
Inexplicably diets also go up and down like a bride's nightie in the fashion stakes. Surely if a diet works how can it become uncool? About a decade ago when the atkins diet was de rigueur people on it would cut out all carbs, lose 9 stone in a week and pay £6.00 for a loaf of carb free bread which had the density of plutonium and would survive a nuclear explosion. They lost weight, sure, but had unbelievable halitosis and shit out actual fire. Not for me chief. These days people love a detox diet where they eat mad bollocks like seaweed, kale, cotton balls, tapeworm eggs and their own toenails. Cabbage soup, macrobiotic, potato, juice cleanse, charcoal, baby food, vision and shangri la are all real names of real faddy diets that are no longer fashionable.
Hairstyles seem to vary from being quite localised to the national hair do of choice. Hair straightners changed a lot of people's lives in recent years by being able to tame even the wildest of barnets. I confess, i do own a pair of these but it's very rare i will use them. My hair is blonde and naturally wavy which i quite like although my great nanna used to say 'do you even own a brush? You have the hair of nazzymova'. I have no idea who nazzymova is but i bet they had fabulous hair. I don't really like unnatural hair colours on people. I always feel like asking them if they're a natural purple or blue.It just looks odd. It's almost like they are saying 'hey look at me with my fun hair because i'm a fun person', which incidentally they generally aren't. I've met a few punks in my time and not one of them told me a joke. I had a perm once in the late 80's in a feeble attempt to follow the fashion and i ended up looking like a Ken Dodd tribute act. Never again.
From all of the different fashions, clothes, hair, shoes, diets etc the one that confuses me most is makeup trends. From the garish brown and green thick eyeshadow and red lippy of the 70's, electric blue mascara and black eyeliner of the 80's to the fresh hell of the 'natural look' in the noughties with teens and adults plastering so much foundation and highlighter on they actually gain a stone in weight. The end product is neither natural or practical. Don't even get me started on the thick eyebrow that makes ladies and gents look like they're constantly angry. My eldest daughter subscribes to this trend and sports the heavier eyebrow much to my annoyance. The eyebrow doesn't irritate me as such it's the fact that she takes so long doing it. She has missed the school bus countless times due to her morning eyebrow regime. It both infuriates and perplexes me that she's late for school but her eyebrows are on time. As i am not a big fan of too much makeup or ever changing fashion i shall continue to bow out of needing to look like everyone else and continue, instead, to march to the beat of my own drum.
Friday, 22 February 2019
The observationist: love
The observationist: love: When the rain is blowing in your face And the whole world is on your case I could offer you a warm embrace To make you feel my love. I&...
love
When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.
I'm not the biggest Bob Dylan fan in the world but i do appreciate his song writing which has the ability to touch your soul. In my opinion this is the most beautiful love song ever written.
The word 'love' has a very broad spectrum though hasn't it? We love our family, friends, partners and pets but how many times do we say 'i love your hair' or 'i love sausage egg and chips' or 'i love that film' or in my case 'i love that Ducati 916'. We often use the word love for something we really like, however, i do love the Ducati 916 incase Mr Ducati is reading this.
The love you feel for your kids and family is different from the love you feel for a partner. In simple terms you would, without a second thought, die for your kids. You'd put yourself in mild peril for your family but, if your'e being honest, when it comes to your partner (if your'e lucky enough to have one) self preservation kicks in. I'm not saying you love them any less just that it's a different kind of love. I know there are people out there who become obsessed with their significant others and claim they would do anything for them but i'm not sure they would unless they were slightly unhinged. If my fella asked me to make him a bacon sandwich, sew a button on a shirt or give him a lift somewhere i would because i love him. If my fella asked me to slay a kitten with a turkey baster, throw chilli powder in my nan's eyes or burn next door's house down because they looked at him funny i wouldn't do it because it's mental and the recriminations to myself would be swift and uncompromising. Self preservation would most certainly kick in.
Falling in love is such a strong emotion that we often don't know how to deal with it and behave irrationally because we desperately want it to be reciprocated. We want the object of our desires to love us back so we show them the best possible version of ourselves and will often masquerade as their perfect partner. For some reason we don't realise it at the time but the other person will also be doing this. The upshot of that is that if and when you do enter into a relationship after a few months you notice any little flaws in each other and they will either irritate you or if you are actually in love you will accept them. It's a bit like false advertising. If people were actually 100% honest at the start about themselves nobody would start a relationship and the human race would become extinct. For example if i knew that my partner could snore loud enough to wake the kids in the next room and neighbours in the next house, or had a nutcase of an ex-wife, or didn't like crab sticks, or picked his toenails or did farts so rancid they actually wake me up choking and gasping for air i might have thought twice. I know the not liking crab sticks is a small thing but i love them-or is it really like? If he knew that i pluck hairs from my chin, didn't like aufwiedersen pet, had OCD or was very argumentative he'd probably have run a mile. My point is that despite these things we do love each other because all the good stuff far outweighs the shitty stuff. It took me a long time to find my true love and nobody else will ever come close. The best bit is, i know he feels the same. We feel lucky to have each other and we don't take our relationship for granted because we've both been on the other side, Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince or princess.
I'm dreading the day my two daughters enter into their first proper love relationship just incase they get their hearts broken. I think one of the worst expressions i've ever heard is 'puppy love'. It's such an unfair comment and a load of old bollocks. Love is love regardless of your age. The feelings are exactly the same whether your 9 or 99. If somebody were to break one of my daughter's hearts it would break mine too because i love them so much. Their pain is mine. It's only natural to feel huge empathy for your loved ones-especially your children. We can't stop heartbreak from happening and we have to let them live their lives so other than shipping them off to a nunnery I'll be there ready to cry or rejoice with them. I'll be their mum and their anchor ready with either a box of tissues and a tub of ice cream or a new hat. Obviously if some boy does break my little girl's heart i will slay them with a turkey baster, throw chilli powder in their eyes and burn their house down.
The worst kind of love is the unrequited kind. Most of us have been there and it's pretty much soul destroying. You can't make someone else love you but that doesn't stop us trying. Sometimes a knock back can harden your heart and make you cynical especially if you've been in a relationship where you've given everything and the other person has thrown it back in your face. It makes you distrusting, guarded and not as willing to give your heart to another. Some people will go straight from one relationship to another because they don't want to be on their own. I'm a bit of a deep thinker and it took me 12 years of mending and processing to allow somebody else into my life. Everybody is different and that helps the world go around-well that, gravitational pull and magnetic poles.
Valentines day definitely cashes in on love and has done since the 14th century thanks to Geoffrey Chaucer. It's celebrated world wide as a day when couples express their love by paying over inflated prices for flowers, chocolates, cards or a meal out. Saint Valentine was executed for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry. How romantic. These days people just nip off to Gretna Green or Las Vegas. It's worth noting that Chaucer who wrote a poem about the 14th of February being a day where you declare your love for your true valentine actually married for convenience a woman (Phillipa Roet) whose social standing served to elevate his own. She also had a few quid and supported him. When she died he had to get a job, so not a case of practice what you preach or quite the romantic he was perceived to be. He was actually a bit of bell end.
Valentines' day for me doesn't mean huge bouquets of flowers or grand gestures. A home made card and a 'i love you' will do me nicely. That gold digger Chaucer has got nothing on Bob Dylan.
I could make you happy, make your dreams come true,
There's nothing that I wouldn't do,
Go to the ends of this earth for you,
To make you feel my love.
And the whole world is on your case
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.
I'm not the biggest Bob Dylan fan in the world but i do appreciate his song writing which has the ability to touch your soul. In my opinion this is the most beautiful love song ever written.
The word 'love' has a very broad spectrum though hasn't it? We love our family, friends, partners and pets but how many times do we say 'i love your hair' or 'i love sausage egg and chips' or 'i love that film' or in my case 'i love that Ducati 916'. We often use the word love for something we really like, however, i do love the Ducati 916 incase Mr Ducati is reading this.
The love you feel for your kids and family is different from the love you feel for a partner. In simple terms you would, without a second thought, die for your kids. You'd put yourself in mild peril for your family but, if your'e being honest, when it comes to your partner (if your'e lucky enough to have one) self preservation kicks in. I'm not saying you love them any less just that it's a different kind of love. I know there are people out there who become obsessed with their significant others and claim they would do anything for them but i'm not sure they would unless they were slightly unhinged. If my fella asked me to make him a bacon sandwich, sew a button on a shirt or give him a lift somewhere i would because i love him. If my fella asked me to slay a kitten with a turkey baster, throw chilli powder in my nan's eyes or burn next door's house down because they looked at him funny i wouldn't do it because it's mental and the recriminations to myself would be swift and uncompromising. Self preservation would most certainly kick in.
Falling in love is such a strong emotion that we often don't know how to deal with it and behave irrationally because we desperately want it to be reciprocated. We want the object of our desires to love us back so we show them the best possible version of ourselves and will often masquerade as their perfect partner. For some reason we don't realise it at the time but the other person will also be doing this. The upshot of that is that if and when you do enter into a relationship after a few months you notice any little flaws in each other and they will either irritate you or if you are actually in love you will accept them. It's a bit like false advertising. If people were actually 100% honest at the start about themselves nobody would start a relationship and the human race would become extinct. For example if i knew that my partner could snore loud enough to wake the kids in the next room and neighbours in the next house, or had a nutcase of an ex-wife, or didn't like crab sticks, or picked his toenails or did farts so rancid they actually wake me up choking and gasping for air i might have thought twice. I know the not liking crab sticks is a small thing but i love them-or is it really like? If he knew that i pluck hairs from my chin, didn't like aufwiedersen pet, had OCD or was very argumentative he'd probably have run a mile. My point is that despite these things we do love each other because all the good stuff far outweighs the shitty stuff. It took me a long time to find my true love and nobody else will ever come close. The best bit is, i know he feels the same. We feel lucky to have each other and we don't take our relationship for granted because we've both been on the other side, Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince or princess.
I'm dreading the day my two daughters enter into their first proper love relationship just incase they get their hearts broken. I think one of the worst expressions i've ever heard is 'puppy love'. It's such an unfair comment and a load of old bollocks. Love is love regardless of your age. The feelings are exactly the same whether your 9 or 99. If somebody were to break one of my daughter's hearts it would break mine too because i love them so much. Their pain is mine. It's only natural to feel huge empathy for your loved ones-especially your children. We can't stop heartbreak from happening and we have to let them live their lives so other than shipping them off to a nunnery I'll be there ready to cry or rejoice with them. I'll be their mum and their anchor ready with either a box of tissues and a tub of ice cream or a new hat. Obviously if some boy does break my little girl's heart i will slay them with a turkey baster, throw chilli powder in their eyes and burn their house down.
The worst kind of love is the unrequited kind. Most of us have been there and it's pretty much soul destroying. You can't make someone else love you but that doesn't stop us trying. Sometimes a knock back can harden your heart and make you cynical especially if you've been in a relationship where you've given everything and the other person has thrown it back in your face. It makes you distrusting, guarded and not as willing to give your heart to another. Some people will go straight from one relationship to another because they don't want to be on their own. I'm a bit of a deep thinker and it took me 12 years of mending and processing to allow somebody else into my life. Everybody is different and that helps the world go around-well that, gravitational pull and magnetic poles.
Valentines day definitely cashes in on love and has done since the 14th century thanks to Geoffrey Chaucer. It's celebrated world wide as a day when couples express their love by paying over inflated prices for flowers, chocolates, cards or a meal out. Saint Valentine was executed for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry. How romantic. These days people just nip off to Gretna Green or Las Vegas. It's worth noting that Chaucer who wrote a poem about the 14th of February being a day where you declare your love for your true valentine actually married for convenience a woman (Phillipa Roet) whose social standing served to elevate his own. She also had a few quid and supported him. When she died he had to get a job, so not a case of practice what you preach or quite the romantic he was perceived to be. He was actually a bit of bell end.
Valentines' day for me doesn't mean huge bouquets of flowers or grand gestures. A home made card and a 'i love you' will do me nicely. That gold digger Chaucer has got nothing on Bob Dylan.
I could make you happy, make your dreams come true,
There's nothing that I wouldn't do,
Go to the ends of this earth for you,
To make you feel my love.
Thursday, 7 February 2019
The observationist: Embarrassing Parents
The observationist: Embarrassing Parents: My dad holds the record for most embarrassing parent ever. The extreme lengths he went to to show up me and my younger sister are legendary ...
Embarrassing Parents
My dad holds the record for most embarrassing parent ever. The extreme lengths he went to to show up me and my younger sister are legendary and will probably be held forth in in history books for future generations to marvel and poke ridicule at two bewildered siblings.
He once told me that cellotaping orange peel to my teenage spots would draw the spot out and clear it up. Like a fool i believed him and walked around the house with orange peel festooned upon my face like an actual mental patient. Obviously it did not work and i am forever a mockery in citrus based circles.
Occasionally my dad would pick me and my sister up from school to spare us the 4 mile walk home. However, he did not spare us the shame of rocking up in his very uncool Mazda 929 estate with Mike Oldfield's tubular bells blaring out. My friends would laugh and point and shout 'that's your dad that is!' The mortification level was so high I'd refuse to get in the car which resulted in him following me in the mirth mobile down the road shouting 'get in the car'. I'm amazed he wasn't arrested.
Aged about 13 and 10 respectively my sister and i had pals over for tea which my dad insisted on cooking (i should have smelled a rat as my dad never cooked tea). We sat in the dining room while my dad busied himself in the kitchen behind a closed door. Tea was hotdogs and chips with a surprise pudding. We all ate our hotdogs and chips, delicious. My dad makes the best chips ever. Fact. We waited for our pudding cunningly named 'kiwi surprise' discussing what the surprise element might be...kiwi fruit?...sure...ice cream?...maybe...Suddenly the kitchen door was flung open and in leapt my dad dressed as a full on maori warrior. He performed the most disturbing haka iv'e ever seen while carrying four desserts. Our friends found it hilarious. My sister and me were so traumatised and embarrassed by what we had witnessed we vowed revenge of the highest order. It was kiwi fruit and ice cream, incase you were wondering, with a slice of disconcertment.
I went shopping with my dad once into our local town, In my dad's defence for what happened next i did MAKE him come with me and he does HATE shopping. So there i was walking through the town centre on a busy Saturday afternoon with my beloved dad when he became bored. My dad and boredom do not play nicely. He took it upon himself to start dragging his leg and shouting 'wait for me! Don't leave me like last time!' I walked faster, he shouted louder and people started to stare at the spectacle. I stormed over to him and hissed 'stop it dad, your'e embarrassing me'. He then decided it would be hilarious to shriek 'please don't hit me again. Don't use the stick!' If the ground could've opened up i;d have dragged him down there with me. Unbefuckinlievable!!!
Don't get me wrong, i had a brilliant childhood full of laughs and adventures and i wouldn't change a thing. However, I'm a parent now also to two girls who just entering into teenagedom so unfortunately for them it's my turn to become world's most embarrassing parent. Now i know why my dad did it. It's so much fun.
I tell my kids all sorts of mad stuff just to see if my acting degree taught me how to be a really convincing story teller/fibber. I've told them i had a job cleaning chimneys when i was 6 years old. Iv'e told them i have two other daughters that i sent away to a naughty girls home. I've also told them my mum-their much loved nanny-used to be a spy and that's how she met grandad, Funnily enough they don't believe the first two storys/fibs but the genuinely believe that nanny used to be a spy. My mum and dad like to perpetuate this myth to the point where my mum has actually bought some tight black leather gloves (which she mainly uses for strangling assailants-obvs) and she occasionally talks into the bottom of her sleeve saying things like 'man...aged 50ish...blue audi...took my parking space...have him killed...'
My girls missed their school bus recently due to their tardiness so i had to drive them there. Knowing their friends would be waiting for them at school i wore my pyjamas, slippers, dressing gown and for good measure i put some rollers in my hair. I put on my most embarrassing CD at full volume, in homage to my dad,. I pulled up right next to their group of friends despite my daughter's protests. I made sure everybody saw me and told them both if they missed the bus again next time i would get out of the car and plead for them not to leave me. They haven't been late since.
I have, and i'm not ashamed to say, run alongside a school coach as it pulled away carrying my daughter and her entire class on a trip and pretended to cry very loudly waving a handkerchief shouting 'mummy loves you' She was 13.
One evening they both had friends over for pizza and while we were sat at the table i declared a 'lets see who can make themselves go the reddest' competition. When it came to my turn i strained so hard i may have farted. I say may...i did.
I have hidden behind a shower curtain for 20 minutes waiting for my daughter to come into the bathroom just so i could leap out at her resulting in a scream so loud i swear my dad heard it 20 miles away and punched the air. I have hidden under her bed, in her wardrobe, behind doors and once up a tree. I have pretended to be a non descript foreigner when she phones me and i know she's with her friends and has her phone on loud speaker as all kids do these days. I like to sing badly at karaoke when we're on holiday and i often pretend to be mentally deficient when I'm out with her. I believe it's character building. My daughters believe i'm an idiot.
One day they will look back on their childhood and realise that they had a brilliant, happy fun filled time full of laughs and adventures.
Life is too short to be constantly fixing your eyebrows, going to the hairdressers or not hanging out with your kids. All too soon they'll be gone with families of their own to embarrass, so get off your phones, be silly, embarrass your kids at every opportunity, have fun, make memories and be a parent. Embarrassing parentage is a right of passage. Your parents did it. You do it and in time your kids will do it too. Life is for living. It shouldn't be something that passes you by while the boring stuff happens.
He once told me that cellotaping orange peel to my teenage spots would draw the spot out and clear it up. Like a fool i believed him and walked around the house with orange peel festooned upon my face like an actual mental patient. Obviously it did not work and i am forever a mockery in citrus based circles.
Occasionally my dad would pick me and my sister up from school to spare us the 4 mile walk home. However, he did not spare us the shame of rocking up in his very uncool Mazda 929 estate with Mike Oldfield's tubular bells blaring out. My friends would laugh and point and shout 'that's your dad that is!' The mortification level was so high I'd refuse to get in the car which resulted in him following me in the mirth mobile down the road shouting 'get in the car'. I'm amazed he wasn't arrested.
Aged about 13 and 10 respectively my sister and i had pals over for tea which my dad insisted on cooking (i should have smelled a rat as my dad never cooked tea). We sat in the dining room while my dad busied himself in the kitchen behind a closed door. Tea was hotdogs and chips with a surprise pudding. We all ate our hotdogs and chips, delicious. My dad makes the best chips ever. Fact. We waited for our pudding cunningly named 'kiwi surprise' discussing what the surprise element might be...kiwi fruit?...sure...ice cream?...maybe...Suddenly the kitchen door was flung open and in leapt my dad dressed as a full on maori warrior. He performed the most disturbing haka iv'e ever seen while carrying four desserts. Our friends found it hilarious. My sister and me were so traumatised and embarrassed by what we had witnessed we vowed revenge of the highest order. It was kiwi fruit and ice cream, incase you were wondering, with a slice of disconcertment.
I went shopping with my dad once into our local town, In my dad's defence for what happened next i did MAKE him come with me and he does HATE shopping. So there i was walking through the town centre on a busy Saturday afternoon with my beloved dad when he became bored. My dad and boredom do not play nicely. He took it upon himself to start dragging his leg and shouting 'wait for me! Don't leave me like last time!' I walked faster, he shouted louder and people started to stare at the spectacle. I stormed over to him and hissed 'stop it dad, your'e embarrassing me'. He then decided it would be hilarious to shriek 'please don't hit me again. Don't use the stick!' If the ground could've opened up i;d have dragged him down there with me. Unbefuckinlievable!!!
Don't get me wrong, i had a brilliant childhood full of laughs and adventures and i wouldn't change a thing. However, I'm a parent now also to two girls who just entering into teenagedom so unfortunately for them it's my turn to become world's most embarrassing parent. Now i know why my dad did it. It's so much fun.
I tell my kids all sorts of mad stuff just to see if my acting degree taught me how to be a really convincing story teller/fibber. I've told them i had a job cleaning chimneys when i was 6 years old. Iv'e told them i have two other daughters that i sent away to a naughty girls home. I've also told them my mum-their much loved nanny-used to be a spy and that's how she met grandad, Funnily enough they don't believe the first two storys/fibs but the genuinely believe that nanny used to be a spy. My mum and dad like to perpetuate this myth to the point where my mum has actually bought some tight black leather gloves (which she mainly uses for strangling assailants-obvs) and she occasionally talks into the bottom of her sleeve saying things like 'man...aged 50ish...blue audi...took my parking space...have him killed...'
My girls missed their school bus recently due to their tardiness so i had to drive them there. Knowing their friends would be waiting for them at school i wore my pyjamas, slippers, dressing gown and for good measure i put some rollers in my hair. I put on my most embarrassing CD at full volume, in homage to my dad,. I pulled up right next to their group of friends despite my daughter's protests. I made sure everybody saw me and told them both if they missed the bus again next time i would get out of the car and plead for them not to leave me. They haven't been late since.
I have, and i'm not ashamed to say, run alongside a school coach as it pulled away carrying my daughter and her entire class on a trip and pretended to cry very loudly waving a handkerchief shouting 'mummy loves you' She was 13.
One evening they both had friends over for pizza and while we were sat at the table i declared a 'lets see who can make themselves go the reddest' competition. When it came to my turn i strained so hard i may have farted. I say may...i did.
I have hidden behind a shower curtain for 20 minutes waiting for my daughter to come into the bathroom just so i could leap out at her resulting in a scream so loud i swear my dad heard it 20 miles away and punched the air. I have hidden under her bed, in her wardrobe, behind doors and once up a tree. I have pretended to be a non descript foreigner when she phones me and i know she's with her friends and has her phone on loud speaker as all kids do these days. I like to sing badly at karaoke when we're on holiday and i often pretend to be mentally deficient when I'm out with her. I believe it's character building. My daughters believe i'm an idiot.
One day they will look back on their childhood and realise that they had a brilliant, happy fun filled time full of laughs and adventures.
Life is too short to be constantly fixing your eyebrows, going to the hairdressers or not hanging out with your kids. All too soon they'll be gone with families of their own to embarrass, so get off your phones, be silly, embarrass your kids at every opportunity, have fun, make memories and be a parent. Embarrassing parentage is a right of passage. Your parents did it. You do it and in time your kids will do it too. Life is for living. It shouldn't be something that passes you by while the boring stuff happens.
Tuesday, 22 January 2019
The observationist: pets
The observationist: pets: I am owned by a basset hound, two terriers, a belligerent cat, a hamster and some fish. I love them all with equal measure but sometimes i w...
pets
I am owned by a basset hound, two terriers, a belligerent cat, a hamster and some fish. I love them all with equal measure but sometimes i wonder who is in charge.
My hound is typical of the breed. Stubborn, greedy (loves a bin), smelly and a hound. He likes nothing better than to roll in a fresh fox turd resulting in a smell so revolting i have to hang my head out of the car window instead of him while he luxuriates in the back with his new doggy cologne. He will eat almost anything and is partial to fresh horse poo (the warmer the better) but will not touch fish. Typical of a basset, he loves to howl. I can hear it start like an air raid siren as soon as i pull onto the drive and it doesn't stop until i'm in the house. I suppose one of the good things about having a dog is that they are always pleased to see you no matter how long you've been away. The cat couldn't give any less of a shit. I can leave the house for 2 minutes or a week and i will get the same greeting from my dogs because they have no concept of time. Because i have three dogs it's always a battle of who can get to me first. The hound, being the biggest and currently weighing in at 4 stone of solid muscle, usually wins. I don't have a favourite dog because they're all so different. The hound is my boy and a bit of an arsehole at times but he adores my kids and would without a doubt lay down his life for them and me protecting us from any perceived foe. So far, this week, he has saved my life from the postman, another dog barking about three miles away in it's own garden and a wheelie bin i left down the bottom of my driveway. He has decided in his hound-like brain that he will only do as he's told for one person-me-and everyone else can go and fuck themselves. I am his pack leader.
My middle dog, a scruffy terrier cross, is my good dog. She is super loyal, very well behaved and i love her dearly. Her only real issue is that she's a total psychopath. She loves all humans and cats but despises all other dogs. It's a bit like taking a tasmanian devil for a walk.
My other dog is also a scruffy terrier cross with such long hair that sometimes it's hard to tell which end is which. People who've met her wrongly perceive her as a bit on the simple side but she is in actual fact an evil genius. She knows she's cute and uses it to her advantage. She'd make a great MI5 agent.
I recently employed a cat to catch mice as we live in the countryside. The cat has other ideas. She does not want to be a farm cat, roaming the countryside to her hearts content only returning to be fed and de-ticked. Nope. She wants to be carried around on a silken cushion and fed constantly. As far as cats go she's a bit rubbish but we love her so she stays.
My hamster, Jeff, is a legend. Super friendly, likes nuts and cucumber, tormenting the cat and watching bargain hunt on the tv. Hamsters are brilliant pets.
Why do we invite these animals into our homes when quite often they attempt to destroy it by chewing, clawing, digging, shitting on the carpet, pissing in slippers and stealing food. They often behave in such an irrational way that at times we despair and say things like 'never again' and 'how long do these live?'
We love our pets so much we will dress them up, buy them presents and mourn them when they die, but what makes us choose a specific animal to share our lives with? Some people have exotic pets like snakes and lizards, some go for rodents or birds, most folk will go for a dog or a cat and those amongst us who are slightly unhinged will have all of these. It's a companion thing. Lord Byron was told he couldn't keep a dog in his student digs so he kept a bear. A fucking bear!!! It's bad enough when i get home from work and my dog has tipped the kitchen bin over again but imagine if you got home to discover your pet had eaten your entire room and two of your children.
Pets can try your patience most days. A few days ago i was in a rush trying to get my teenagers ready to catch their school bus which they inevitably missed so i was forced to drive them to school in my pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. There's nothing quite as spectacular than two petrified teenagers being driven to school by an angry mother in her nightwear ensemble at around 110mph then handbrake turning into the school car park. My youngest asked if i was the stig. Is it illegal to drive in slippers? I don't know. Anyway, i arrived back home to see my smallest terrier (the cute evil genius) running towards me when she saw the car pull up. Sweet. My middle dog, and good dog, was sat on the back door step. I quickly realised that in my haste herding my kids i had forgotten to lock the back door. The hound had jumped up at the door handle and let himself and the two terriers out. He was no where to be seen. After around 30 seconds of mild panic i heard him baying off in the distance somewhere. I turned around to see him about a quarter of a mile away tearing across a field towards some sheep. I shouted him, he acknowledged me, then turned to run in the opposite direction. Clearly having the time of his life he refused to come back. I had no option but climb the fence between my garden and the field and leg it, still in my nightwear, after him. I eventually caught him up and i was so out of breath i could actually taste blood. The best i could muster was a very feeble rugby tackle. It's amazing how fast you can run in slippers when you have to. All those years as a kid chasing the ice cream van paid off. Finally back home he ran straight into the house mud going everywhere. Oh joy. I dragged my disheveled self through the door only to notice that girlchild number 1 had left her packed lunch on the kitchen work top and the cat, who the dog had let in, was stood up there eating it. It was at that exact moment i caught sight of myself in the mirror, realised that not only had my pyjama top buttons had come off and a boob was hanging out but that i also had mud on my teeth. FFS!!! It's quite a look. 'Never again' 'How long do these live?'
I've come to the conclusion that my dogs and cat have no respect for me or my home and i am better suited to caged pets and not one's that roam around thinking they own the gaff.
I know at the start of this blog i said i don't have a favourite pet but actually, and i'm not gonna lie, i do. Jeff the hamster. The fuckin legend.
dedicated to my aunty barbie who chose this week's topic.
My hound is typical of the breed. Stubborn, greedy (loves a bin), smelly and a hound. He likes nothing better than to roll in a fresh fox turd resulting in a smell so revolting i have to hang my head out of the car window instead of him while he luxuriates in the back with his new doggy cologne. He will eat almost anything and is partial to fresh horse poo (the warmer the better) but will not touch fish. Typical of a basset, he loves to howl. I can hear it start like an air raid siren as soon as i pull onto the drive and it doesn't stop until i'm in the house. I suppose one of the good things about having a dog is that they are always pleased to see you no matter how long you've been away. The cat couldn't give any less of a shit. I can leave the house for 2 minutes or a week and i will get the same greeting from my dogs because they have no concept of time. Because i have three dogs it's always a battle of who can get to me first. The hound, being the biggest and currently weighing in at 4 stone of solid muscle, usually wins. I don't have a favourite dog because they're all so different. The hound is my boy and a bit of an arsehole at times but he adores my kids and would without a doubt lay down his life for them and me protecting us from any perceived foe. So far, this week, he has saved my life from the postman, another dog barking about three miles away in it's own garden and a wheelie bin i left down the bottom of my driveway. He has decided in his hound-like brain that he will only do as he's told for one person-me-and everyone else can go and fuck themselves. I am his pack leader.
My middle dog, a scruffy terrier cross, is my good dog. She is super loyal, very well behaved and i love her dearly. Her only real issue is that she's a total psychopath. She loves all humans and cats but despises all other dogs. It's a bit like taking a tasmanian devil for a walk.
My other dog is also a scruffy terrier cross with such long hair that sometimes it's hard to tell which end is which. People who've met her wrongly perceive her as a bit on the simple side but she is in actual fact an evil genius. She knows she's cute and uses it to her advantage. She'd make a great MI5 agent.
I recently employed a cat to catch mice as we live in the countryside. The cat has other ideas. She does not want to be a farm cat, roaming the countryside to her hearts content only returning to be fed and de-ticked. Nope. She wants to be carried around on a silken cushion and fed constantly. As far as cats go she's a bit rubbish but we love her so she stays.
My hamster, Jeff, is a legend. Super friendly, likes nuts and cucumber, tormenting the cat and watching bargain hunt on the tv. Hamsters are brilliant pets.
Why do we invite these animals into our homes when quite often they attempt to destroy it by chewing, clawing, digging, shitting on the carpet, pissing in slippers and stealing food. They often behave in such an irrational way that at times we despair and say things like 'never again' and 'how long do these live?'
We love our pets so much we will dress them up, buy them presents and mourn them when they die, but what makes us choose a specific animal to share our lives with? Some people have exotic pets like snakes and lizards, some go for rodents or birds, most folk will go for a dog or a cat and those amongst us who are slightly unhinged will have all of these. It's a companion thing. Lord Byron was told he couldn't keep a dog in his student digs so he kept a bear. A fucking bear!!! It's bad enough when i get home from work and my dog has tipped the kitchen bin over again but imagine if you got home to discover your pet had eaten your entire room and two of your children.
Pets can try your patience most days. A few days ago i was in a rush trying to get my teenagers ready to catch their school bus which they inevitably missed so i was forced to drive them to school in my pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. There's nothing quite as spectacular than two petrified teenagers being driven to school by an angry mother in her nightwear ensemble at around 110mph then handbrake turning into the school car park. My youngest asked if i was the stig. Is it illegal to drive in slippers? I don't know. Anyway, i arrived back home to see my smallest terrier (the cute evil genius) running towards me when she saw the car pull up. Sweet. My middle dog, and good dog, was sat on the back door step. I quickly realised that in my haste herding my kids i had forgotten to lock the back door. The hound had jumped up at the door handle and let himself and the two terriers out. He was no where to be seen. After around 30 seconds of mild panic i heard him baying off in the distance somewhere. I turned around to see him about a quarter of a mile away tearing across a field towards some sheep. I shouted him, he acknowledged me, then turned to run in the opposite direction. Clearly having the time of his life he refused to come back. I had no option but climb the fence between my garden and the field and leg it, still in my nightwear, after him. I eventually caught him up and i was so out of breath i could actually taste blood. The best i could muster was a very feeble rugby tackle. It's amazing how fast you can run in slippers when you have to. All those years as a kid chasing the ice cream van paid off. Finally back home he ran straight into the house mud going everywhere. Oh joy. I dragged my disheveled self through the door only to notice that girlchild number 1 had left her packed lunch on the kitchen work top and the cat, who the dog had let in, was stood up there eating it. It was at that exact moment i caught sight of myself in the mirror, realised that not only had my pyjama top buttons had come off and a boob was hanging out but that i also had mud on my teeth. FFS!!! It's quite a look. 'Never again' 'How long do these live?'
I've come to the conclusion that my dogs and cat have no respect for me or my home and i am better suited to caged pets and not one's that roam around thinking they own the gaff.
I know at the start of this blog i said i don't have a favourite pet but actually, and i'm not gonna lie, i do. Jeff the hamster. The fuckin legend.
dedicated to my aunty barbie who chose this week's topic.
Tuesday, 8 January 2019
The observationist: Relationships
The observationist: Relationships: Now before i start i do not claim to be a relationship expert. Infact, i think i'm the exact opposite-whatever that is. The only qualifi...
Relationships
Now before i start i do not claim to be a relationship expert. Infact, i think i'm the exact opposite-whatever that is. The only qualification i have is that i have had some relationships. I'm not very good at them. I've been married twice. My friends call me 't' yorkshire Elizabeth Taylor. I wouldn't mind but i'm Irish! In their defence i do live in North Yorkshire and have done for around 30 years. I left Ireland when i was 9 years old which, coincidentally, is when i discovered i could take off my kagool.
My past relationships have always been a bit fraught, mainly because i'm a nightmare to live with. I like a clean tidy home and the men i have allowed to move in with me have not.
I am diagnosed with OCD-the list making anal kind so a bit of an acquired taste. My OCD doesn't make me a bad person or want to iron my hair but it can be overwhelming for those that live with me-mainly my partner. My kids are used to it but my lovely fella is still coming to terms with the fact that he lives with a crazy lady who likes nothing better than a pube free plughole or perfectly drawn curtains. He has decided to give my OCD a name, i think he read it somewhere, and he'll say stupid shit like 'hey, there's no room for Kevin here today'. Fucking Kevin!!! Fuck Kev! He's a twat!
My parents have been married for nearly 50 years. They've been together since they were 15. Can you imagine that? In this day and age it's virtually unheard of. I think people expect to much from a partner these days. We're only human after all. The slightest hurdle, with some, and it's bail city. Dating apps don't help. They are a portal for the deluded and needy. They scream 'look at me. I may be on here looking for mr/mrs right now but i'm probably a bit of a shit'.
Call me old fashioned but i like a half decent chat up line. I'm not a fan of 'do you want a photo of my nob?' If there are any blokes reading this, just so you know, if you send us a dick pic we will show all of our friends, our mums, neighbours, zumba class. woman on the checkout at Asda and my nan. She doesn't get to see many willys these days. So you'd better make sure it's a good one.
Relationships are mostly good which is why we enter into them in the first place but i don't think you really know someone until you live with them. That's when the mask really slips and we have to have a poo at some point. My partner thinks it's perfectly acceptable to sit on the loo with the door open and have a conversation with me while he creates a smell that almost killed the dog and temporarily blinded me once. I don't. I want privacy and to be able to wipe my bum without an audience. Is that too much to ask?
Living together is a test for any couple. It can make or break you. Once you get used to the fact that your beloved has weird habits they will get over the fact that so do you. Habits like brushing teeth while taking a shower, using an unfeasible amount of loo roll, stopping breathing for a few seconds when asleep, talking to themselves after an argument or becoming a crack sniper when using a nail gun. My other half likes to go into the garage and cuddle his motorbike. I like to put my cold feet on him when i get into bed and twiddle his chest hair.
Relationships are a continuous work in progress. If your'e not prepared to work at it and take the rough with the smooth then maybe being with someone exclusively isn't for you.
Arguments and disagreements are common and help to release tension and are an amuse bouche to a relationship so these couples who tell folk they don't argue have probably just met or don't live together or have as much personality as a placenta. I've had some huge arguments with my fella over something ridiculous but my problem is i will NOT back down. Ever. Because i am right even when i'm wrong. He's a good egg though and in an effort to diffuse the situation he'll say 'okay'. Okay???!!! The only thing that enrages me more than 'ok' is being told to 'calm down'. when those two words are uttered, and i'm not convinced innocently by by the way, i will drag up old arguments from three years ago or ask him if he ever wants sex again. That usually wins. I say usually-i mean ALWAYS.
I once made the mistake of going on holiday with an ex as we had already paid for it before we split up. Thankfully we had separate beds but as soon as we set foot in the hotel we realised we had made a huge mistake thinking we could act like adults and enjoy the holiday regardless. We had a massive argument in the room and in a fit of frustration he threw my bed pillows over the balcony and they landed in the pool below. Not to be out done i launched his suitcase over the balcony where it proceeded to open mid air and scatter his clothes in trees, neighbouring balconies and the pool. End of argument. I think i won.
To conclude, anybody who is lucky enough to find 'the one' hold them close, respect them, love them because 'the one' is a chance encounter that you may never get again.
My past relationships have always been a bit fraught, mainly because i'm a nightmare to live with. I like a clean tidy home and the men i have allowed to move in with me have not.
I am diagnosed with OCD-the list making anal kind so a bit of an acquired taste. My OCD doesn't make me a bad person or want to iron my hair but it can be overwhelming for those that live with me-mainly my partner. My kids are used to it but my lovely fella is still coming to terms with the fact that he lives with a crazy lady who likes nothing better than a pube free plughole or perfectly drawn curtains. He has decided to give my OCD a name, i think he read it somewhere, and he'll say stupid shit like 'hey, there's no room for Kevin here today'. Fucking Kevin!!! Fuck Kev! He's a twat!
My parents have been married for nearly 50 years. They've been together since they were 15. Can you imagine that? In this day and age it's virtually unheard of. I think people expect to much from a partner these days. We're only human after all. The slightest hurdle, with some, and it's bail city. Dating apps don't help. They are a portal for the deluded and needy. They scream 'look at me. I may be on here looking for mr/mrs right now but i'm probably a bit of a shit'.
Call me old fashioned but i like a half decent chat up line. I'm not a fan of 'do you want a photo of my nob?' If there are any blokes reading this, just so you know, if you send us a dick pic we will show all of our friends, our mums, neighbours, zumba class. woman on the checkout at Asda and my nan. She doesn't get to see many willys these days. So you'd better make sure it's a good one.
Relationships are mostly good which is why we enter into them in the first place but i don't think you really know someone until you live with them. That's when the mask really slips and we have to have a poo at some point. My partner thinks it's perfectly acceptable to sit on the loo with the door open and have a conversation with me while he creates a smell that almost killed the dog and temporarily blinded me once. I don't. I want privacy and to be able to wipe my bum without an audience. Is that too much to ask?
Living together is a test for any couple. It can make or break you. Once you get used to the fact that your beloved has weird habits they will get over the fact that so do you. Habits like brushing teeth while taking a shower, using an unfeasible amount of loo roll, stopping breathing for a few seconds when asleep, talking to themselves after an argument or becoming a crack sniper when using a nail gun. My other half likes to go into the garage and cuddle his motorbike. I like to put my cold feet on him when i get into bed and twiddle his chest hair.
Relationships are a continuous work in progress. If your'e not prepared to work at it and take the rough with the smooth then maybe being with someone exclusively isn't for you.
Arguments and disagreements are common and help to release tension and are an amuse bouche to a relationship so these couples who tell folk they don't argue have probably just met or don't live together or have as much personality as a placenta. I've had some huge arguments with my fella over something ridiculous but my problem is i will NOT back down. Ever. Because i am right even when i'm wrong. He's a good egg though and in an effort to diffuse the situation he'll say 'okay'. Okay???!!! The only thing that enrages me more than 'ok' is being told to 'calm down'. when those two words are uttered, and i'm not convinced innocently by by the way, i will drag up old arguments from three years ago or ask him if he ever wants sex again. That usually wins. I say usually-i mean ALWAYS.
I once made the mistake of going on holiday with an ex as we had already paid for it before we split up. Thankfully we had separate beds but as soon as we set foot in the hotel we realised we had made a huge mistake thinking we could act like adults and enjoy the holiday regardless. We had a massive argument in the room and in a fit of frustration he threw my bed pillows over the balcony and they landed in the pool below. Not to be out done i launched his suitcase over the balcony where it proceeded to open mid air and scatter his clothes in trees, neighbouring balconies and the pool. End of argument. I think i won.
To conclude, anybody who is lucky enough to find 'the one' hold them close, respect them, love them because 'the one' is a chance encounter that you may never get again.
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