Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Why cars and arses are linked, the toils of travel, why I got farted on, and other such excremental rubbish.

Let's talk laziness, and here's why: my mother, 50, F, GSOH, PITA, BREAD ROLL, Walsall, wanted to know if she could possibly borrow my computer in order to change a few things round on some report bla bla bla zzzz. She was in her room, and I was in mine (watching Shameless and talking to @thesophie on'tinternet). Now, we don't live in a big house. We haven't got seven bedrooms, 50 acres of bedroom space, and room for a pony and a field of grazing cattle in each. I would guess that from my mum's room to my room is about five steps. So we might all agree that the best way to ask me for this favour would be to toddle over to my room and ask in person. Ha! Always think outside of the box; especially if you're feeling particularly lazy or you've suddenly lost the use of your legs in a freak accident. My mother, in fact, chose to ring me! From HER mobile, to MY mobile. When I picked up, I could HEAR HER TALKING from her room. I blame this on the inventor of the car. That sorry day was the day most of us forgot how to walk.

Naturally I wouldn't let mum borrow my laptop unless she came to collect it personally. As if I was going to get up and walk to her room! She has yet to drop by and collect it.

Talking of getting off your arse, my cousin keeps going on about wanting to go to Africa and help the needy. Fair play to her - we'll probably all die from swine flu while she's gone, so essentially she'll be saving herself. I suppose not even swine flu could survive some of the awful diseases running rampant in the third world, so she's safe. Unless she contracts Malaria or Cholera or something equally horrific and as such, ironic. Yet, a bit nostalgic too. "You're a sodding psychopath," I hear you say. Well, I might be, but don't tell me you don't get the impression sometimes that life was better in the past, when people used to shit in the streets, and there was a new disease in vogue every other day. Even if you could die of the plague, have your leg chopped of sans anaesthetic, and, perhaps a little later in the timeline, run into Hitler casually slaughtering millions. (I'm really following a pattern with these here blogs. All I've got to do is mention 'sadist' against and I'm laughing.) Sadist.

Anyway, yes, travel. I wouldn't say I haven't travelled much per se. Instead, I might say: 'I haven't travelled'. Unless you constitute returning to Cyprus almost every summer, going to Ireland, Scotland, Germany on a school trip, and driving through France and Belgium to get to said Germany as extensive travelling. Ooh, mustn't forget Wales. I've been there and all. But I've spent my time doing other things so HA! Flutter thee away like an annoying moth before you suicidally run into a light bulb and DIE. For instance, every so often I like to go on road trips in my car. And there was that time when I was upholstered onto an 8 piece, dining room, chair set for a year. Although, to be frank, it was quite lonely and I got farted on far too much. People just don't have table manners any more.

Things aren't what they were...

Monday, 27 April 2009

Mini-blog on such subjects as shovels, hen nights, and why I'm considering self harm.

I've been thinking some more about the make-up lady in Debenhams. I might take a shovel to work tomorrow and give her a make over.

So, I went to a hen night last night. Complaint 1: Why hen? Why do men get to say "I'm going to a STAAAG do, GRRRR, RARRRR, I am strooooong," while we women compare ourselves to the lowly hen? A breeding machine who can't even fly. It's like we're willfully stamping on years of feminism while hypocritically burning our bras. (Although, bras are so important. How silly to burn them. The feminists of the 70's must be ruing the day they agreed to attend a bra burning bonfire, while walking & simultaneously kicking their boobs out of the way.)
Complaint 2: Why do I want to drink through a straw with a tiny willy stuck on the end of it? Quite frankly, I don't. Unless I have yet to think of the reason why I would. Hen nights are far too phallus-based. Enough, I say! Let's base them on something sexy, like arms. However, BHS's willy sweets were Goddam tasty. Prize for the parent who sends their kiddie to school with a box of willy sweets in their packed lunch.

Goodness me, what am I watching? Something with Andie McDowell and Gerard Depardieu. I might stand on a plug. It would be far more entertaining.

Saturday, 25 April 2009

Self induced traffic, why Hitler lied to me, food, and other such delights.

There I was, driving to work this morning, happy as Larry (we all love Larry), singing along to the Charlatans, delighted that FINALLY I'd managed to leave the house on time... But, more often than not, fate has a sly little way of writhing in and making sure everything goes wrong BECAUSE THAT'S HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE - I must always be a tiny bit late for work! Just like Jessica Fletcher will always be haunted by murderers. And good for her, I say. She intertwined it with her job, got on with things, and discovered an amazing flair for crime solving.

Anyway. BAM: traffic jam on the M5, apparently caused by a small, piddly accident that didn't hurt anybody anyway. And WHY, you might ask, was there traffic when all had been cleared? Well, let me tell you. We, the British public, pretend to keep ourselves to ourselves, stiff upper lip, emotionless (feel free to add in your own plethora of such pejorative characteristics.) But it's all a load of bollocks. As soon as someone has even the tiniest bump on our roads we all instinctively slow down to LESS than snails pace just to have a right royal nosy at what's going on. We must all admit that part of us is desperate to see something awful. Something disgusting. Something that makes the whole family gather round, arms on your shoulder when you get home, "what's happened, are you ok?" "No, I'm NOT OK! I drove past a crash today and saw this guy impaled on an unfortunate and particularly sharp and knife-shaped, concrete slab that had just happened to break off the edge of the motorway bridge, SUCH was the force of the collision. Blood everywhere. I definitely need a lot of *chocolate* *alcohol* *insert own item of weakness*" We're all sadists really.

I got to work in the end, already slightly angry at still being late, despite making the effort to leave earlier. My boss asked me a question and I saw it as an excellent way to release the pent up anger. Had a tiny tiff, started work, did lots of tweeting and counted down the milliseconds till lunch...

I walked through Debenhams on the way to my usual Boots luncheon, past the over-priced 'designer' wear, the jewellery, and the make up lady, whose face, plastered in foundation, has single handedly deterred me from ever buying anything from her, and got to the perfumes. Yesterday, a woman who shall not be named - because I do not know her name - sprayed me with a lovely perfume and told me it was on special offer, "BUT ONLY FOR TODAY!" I was broke yesterday (I've now been paid, leaving my financial situation looking deceptively better) so I had to just walk on, mourning the loss of the fame and fortune I could have had, had I bought the amazing smell in a bottle. But, what was this I saw? The blady LYING COW was there again, AND SO WAS THE OFFER! She had ruddy well lied to my face! Much like the time when Hitler told me that the gas-releasing implements in the chambers I was building back in the early 40's were going to release a mild form of LSD to enhance the underground German party scene. Bastards, both of them. I didn't buy it, just to make a point. I shall now blame her for everything that goes wrong in my life from now on. So there.

Blimey, I've written lots tonight. Perhaps because I subconsciously know that I won't be on the Internet much this weekend, due to having a jam-packed weekend, bitch. Tomorrow lunchtime I'm heading to Rubgy to meet some friends and eat some food. Then tomorrow night I'll be in Nuneaton for a hen night, where I will eat some food. And then on Sunday I'm going out for my Grandad's birthday (happy birthday Gramps!) to eat some food. Essentially, I'll be eating a lot. But it's OK, 'cause I died X-biking earlier. Ghosts can't put weight on. Bahahaaa.


Friday, 24 April 2009

Reports, Cavorts, Resorts, and other such things that rhyme.

Today has been the MOST boring day I've had in the office for a while. This is perhaps because I've had to work straight through for much of the day (in between tweets OBVIOUSLY) but also because I'm helping to write blady reports about blady travel exhibitions and conferences that my boss attended. They've got nothing to do with me, but he is aggravatingly unskilled in the proper use of the English Language, so I basically have to rephrase everything he says and, "well, you may as well type it while you're at it." Excellent.

But Elle, you might say, for why are you writing in such a negative manner at 17:27pm? Surely you can now depart for home in anticipation of a sofa, a cup 'a chai and some probably awful but nonetheless mind-numbing (this can be a positive sometimes, so I'm using it as such here) telly.

NO! I must reply. YOU ARE WRONG! GO AND SIT IN THE NAUGHTY CORNER, A'TOP THE NAUGHTY STOOL. (Yes. Stool. That's right, there's a poo in the corner. And you gotta sit on it.) For, good people, I went and booked a Bollywood Aerobics class for tonight. Chuckle if you will at the idea of me bobbing up and down to some Bangra, but don't come running to me when you die of heart disease and obesity before you hit retirement. WORD. I shall be tripping at the sight of my fast moving knitting needles while the worms 'neath us devour you and spiders hide 'twixt your ribcage.

Last night I went x-biking, and I considered POKING MY EYES OUT in a sadistic way to ease the pain of bike riding at high resistances, much like Van Gogh (who often rode a bike in this way). But I felt for my fellow x-bikers; I might have put them off their exercise. So instead I swore under my breath, while figuring out if I could attend Friday's class. I think this is what S&M must feel like. Painful, but slightly addictive.

God I'm grumpy.