UK Political Parties -OR- UK Hypocritical Twatties.

With the latest elections having just passed, it is clear that more and more of us are finding ourselves utterly confused with the policies of the current political parties vying for our vote here in the UK. Many still opt for the Eeny-meeny-miney-mo option, anti-Thatcherites rightly blaming it for the rise of the Iron Lady in the mid eighties; although many still believe that she exercised a form of mind control to get to Number 10. Either way, my Ancient Greek ancestors did not write and write and write about how best to rule a country just to be ignored. Enough of this ignorance, I say! Let's exercise our democratic right the correct way. Here is my guide to the UK Political Parties:

The Labour Party: Pregnant mothers unite in the current leading majority of government. However, they are now losing support swiftly due to excessive moaning, the fact that they are all eating us all out of house and home - an unfortunate side-effect during the current economic climate, and that they have been claiming money to get their birthing pools cleaned, apparently.

Their long-term aim is to throw all men into a torturing vortex of fiery doom by 2013, though they appear not to have thought this through properly as it may well lead to their demise. Plans to develop a method for immaculate conception were thrown out in a mass zealous strop by all members after finding that there was no chocolate available during the meeting. But then, they are known for their irrational tendencies.

The Conservatories: A party of generally un-aesthetically pleasing glass structures, usually added to the side of a property, the Conservatories are aiming to have left their mark in every household in Britain by 2015. Often accused of an unyielding disregard for the state of people's body temperature, they have been blamed for many a case of sun stroke. However, they fervently deny this, siting excellent garden views and extra storage facilities as just a couple of their pros. So as not to hamper their 2015 aim, those who cannot afford to build a conservatory or do not have the space for one will be mowed down by evil dogs in a ceremonious hunt, jollyfied only slightly by the sound of a trumpet. Yah, yah, yah.


The Lib Dames: A group of Liberace tribute acts, some say that the Lib Dames exclude most areas of society. Their party tagline 'Bling is Best' is considered an unachievable ideal by many during the current recession, although chavs beg to differ, claiming they can bejewel themselves for under a fiver and still have change for fags. Many worry that taxpayers money will be used to lavishly furnish the Houses of Parliament, although the Lib Dames insist that this is nothing new.

The Green Party: With a ridiculous passion for its namesake colour, the Green Party rejects anything that moves beyond it in the spectrum. Often accused of basing their party policies around obsession and, some say, consequent bipolar disorder, many of its members wake up hating themselves on account of being a sort-of skin colour. Currently trying to pass an act that states all trunks must be chopped from underneath trees, many think the Green Party are actually closer than we may think to worldwide domination thanks to Gucci earmarking green as the colour of the season. It's so in, dahling.

UKIP: A party representing the narcoleptics of society, UKIP fight for the right to make no distinction between day and night. Although many have tried to explain that this would seriously effect the economy, society as a whole, and those who enjoy dogging, nobody in the party managed to remain awake long enough to hear the pinnacle of the argument. A positive point of having narcoleptics in the Houses of Parliament, and one that is currently enriching the lives of most MP's and day time TV watchers respectively, is the speed at which proceedings occur during Prime Minister's question time in order to try and catch the UKIP members before they nod off.

RESPEC': Certainly a very modern form of Political Party, Respec' is made up of the chavs of society who brought their descriptive language traits with them, izzit. Currently baffling everybody in the Houses of Parliament, the teens often break into rap and break dancing to get their points across. That's if they actually turn up. Their aim is to rob from the rich and give to the ever increasing numbers of yooff what can't be arsed to work, innit, but instead spread their seed and watch their girlfriend's wombs grow. They are presently trying to pass an Act in parliament recognising procreation as a job. With a very decent income, incidentally.

The BNP (Banoffee Pie): Represented by a band of fascist, yet house-proud women, the BNP's aim is to send all foreigners home, because this is their land. Daddy told them so. Unwavering in their belief of British superiority mixed with an irrational hatred of most people they just can't understand, many of its members have use of only one brain cell that gets passed around the party. A firm favourite of the late Diana Mitford, they are currently looking to intersperse anti-asylum propaganda adverts with a cooking tip of the day. Should they come into power, those who cannot agree with their ideals will be publicly humiliated and sent to India to work for the Empire.

Lets all move to Monaco. They have a very pretty royal family.

Affection, addiction, affliction, and other such painful emotions.

Coffee can be very inspirational. One sip of coffee and suddenly the sky is bluer, the grass is greener, your eyes start twitching with the excess work they’re doing filtering in the brighter colours…

This splendid, “medium, black Americano please” (“do you want milk with that?”) drew me to consider something that was brought up on twitter recently – men & women. Friends. Double acts; they always seem to be of the same gender. Morecambe & Wise, Peter Cook & Dudley Moore, Fry & Laurie, French & Saunders, the two Ronnies; Ant and Dec might be the only exception to the rule. And even they both look like women. This thought got me wondering – why? Why, God, hasn’t Ant McPartlin taken a step towards the Antonia dream and had gender reassignment surgery?

Ant & Decla

Not really.

It got me wondering why, bar perhaps Phil & Fern (both happily married to other folk) and Richard & Judy, (married to each other, perhaps not happily) is it that a man/woman team just doesn’t seem to work out well? Is it that, as a general rule, such double acts can only reach the dizzy heights of day time TV? Or that perhaps somewhere down the line feelings might develop, things might change, and suddenly we’d all be tuning into Phil and a heartbroken Fern? Phil and an “I might carve my heart out with a blunt ruler if I have to look into your eyes during a link once more” Fern? Can a woman and a man be just friends? What about if the desired deforms their face in an act of rebellious vengeance against the damn feelings of lust separating them from one of the people they care most about in the world, but platonically? Would the desiree not desire as much anymore, and be willing to rekindle their friendship? More importantly, was the nineties’ singer Des'ree named after a person what does lots of desiring? So many unanswerable questions, yet not one person willing to test out my self-deformation theory. Foo’s. All of you.

Talking of the effects of coffee on my brain cell, the psychic barista at Costa Coffee struck up conversation today! Tomorrow, we’ll be best friends.

But forgetting caffeine for a moment, and the dangers of the testosterone/oestrogen combination, the Sun was shining at the weekend! I went to a family birthday party on Sunday and the kids managed to persuade some of us adults to play a game of girls v boys football. Why I agreed I’ll never know – I’m the front man of fairness, the ambassador of candour. Five blokes, most of whom are established at a Sunday league standard of football is no equal match against a set of girls who can count on their pinky how many games of football they’ve ever played and still have a finger left spare. One girl was about 8, didn’t have shoes on, and spent her time playing with a hula hoop while taking up her position as “striker”, marked by my dad, 6ft 3in, who shattered many of his teeth in an overzealous attempt at goal in the early nineties. You might say he hit the post, but in person. The goalie, who was the birthday girl, was far too busy listening out for the signal to go and blow out her candles to pay any attention. The rest of us, incapable as we were anyway, had to deal with two rampant teens who seemed intent on brutally murdering anyone who dared to approach them when they had the ball, two little kiddies, 5 and 6 respectively, who would cry if we succeeded in an attempt to tackle them, and their father, whose only objective was to set up his sons to get multiple hat-tricks, in preparation for their position as Man United’s newest and youngest sibling act within the next few years, definitely.

I ended up taking the position of striker while the young girl of 7, who had decided to stop playing without informing anybody, sat on the grass contemplating life, or something equally as important to a 7 year old. My newfound position was almost purely to hold my dad back – probably not the most important aim for a striker traditionally, although eventually literal in meaning when I found my only option was to clasp my arms round his body and jump on his back.

Even after we had recruited an ex-professional footballer (yes, he was a man, but we were running out of options, and I was having far too much fun explaining that “Uncle’s a girl!”) we still lost by about seven goals to two. That’s if the game finished. I’m not sure – I went inside for a coffee 20 minutes in.

I think I’m addicted to caffeine.

Non-caffeine related aneurysms, when to get married, animal love, and other such disastrous situations.

Something different happened today when I went for my usual Costa coffee. The barista TOLD ME what drink I was having. She's either psychic or I go there too often. Is once a day, 5 days a week too often? Maybe I'll timeshare my daily coffee with Starbucks.

But thank God for coffee I say, as the last week at work was busy, busy, busy, and at least it kept me alive during the darkest moments of office work. In a somewhat unusual twist of events, I've actually not had time to bombard the Twitterverse with my crazy thoughts. This has left me with severe headaches, and probably an inoperable aneurysm - nothing to do with OD-ing on caffeine. I always knew the internet, or lack thereof, would be the death of me. Incidentally, before I die, can somebody remake 'the OC' and call it 'the OD'; a programme about a group of teens who go about their daily lives constantly OD-ing on drugs. It would be far more interesting, and definitely something I'd tune into before my time is up. Thaaaaanks.

Anyway, I found out something highly interesting while partaking in the activity of 'working'. Turns out there's a hotel in Portugal that claim to know when you're ready to get married! You take a simple, two-stage test and Bob's your tranny Aunty, you'll know the answer. So that the romantics of us don't bombard said Portuguese Hotel's website (as I'm sure there is a serious risk of this happening) this is what it says:

"Found that special someone that makes you smile when you wake, that makes you feel warm inside when you think of them before you fall asleep? Then you've found the one you want to spend the rest of your life with."

I feel I should point out here that, as far as I'm aware, it's still illegal to marry animals, so don't bother popping the question to Pebbles the cat just yet. Perhaps browse the Political Parties' manifestos first, see if any of them have anything about animal/human relations. UKIP might surprise you.

On my way back from my daily dose of Costa (he's lovely) I came across a Lollipop Man helping some chavettes cross the road safely. 'Excellent,' you might think, 'right on!' 'Word up!' Good old Lollipop Men & Women, risking their lives daily by stepping out infront of cars so that children don't have to. Well, not anymore apparently. In what I might suggest is now the easiest job in the world, it appears that Lollipop People (quick, get Roger 'Mr. Men' Hargreaves on the blower from beyond the grave. I've got new characters.) have relinquished the life-threatening part of their job, and now spend their days merely pressing a button at a set of traffic lights, waiting for them to turn red, and then standing in the middle of a completely safe, car-free road, presumably to guide people like the piss-head chavettes across this tarmac of doom after their dinnertime bevys. 'Follow the fluorescent man, for he will guide you to safety when you are blind drunk.' Maybe that's what they teach in the Green Cross Code these days in schools. Now there's one animated hedgehog advert I would love to see. Or perhaps the Lollipop man was there to stop angry folk like me from burning some midday rubber and mowing them down.

In a completely irrelevant turn of events, I went for a walk yesterday and saw some grown men playing with man-sized, remote controlled aeroplanes, probably in a bid to revisit their youth and stay forever young. Freud might describe this phenomena as "never wanting to grow up, because they want to shag their mothers." Anyway, disregarding the fun and larks what come from these aeroplanes for a minute, I think they're the way forward; an insight into future travel. Forget EasyJet, their prices are attrocious. Just hop onto the back of one of these babies and remote-control yourself to the destination of your choice. I think I've persuaded a friend to buy me one, much like this "yo, buy me one of them there aeroplanes. Thanks." Try it, it might work.

I think I'll ring up the Green party and inform them that I've revolutionised public transport.

Disclaimer: I've never mowed a Chav down. I have mowed the lawn once, but dad wasn't best pleased with the final outcome.

Celebrating the ageing process, hilly restaurants, how Road Runner nearly killed me, and other such depressing nonsense.

STOP! DON'T MOVE! DON'T GO ANYWHERE! I just found out that two thirds of N Dubz are Greek! But of course - any man with an elfin, under-3-foot stature who wears a bobble hat as head gear and talks with a speech defect because it's 'cool' has got to be from my neck of the woods. Peace out, ma hommie. Ma likkle, tiny, borrower homeboy. Izzit.


Dappy Dick. He's got a duck on his shoulder.

So, I went x-biking on Friday. As you may have gathered from previous posts, this has been the cause of many a death of mine, probably leaving you to draw but two possible conclusions (if you could be bothered to draw any conclusions at all). 1. That I am of the feline variety and my time is nearly up, or 2. that I am Jesus and I just keep rising. Flying in the face of what would have either been anthropomorphism or clear-cut blasphemy, I am neither. In fact, I am the prophet George Orwell. Prophets never die. Elvis is a prophet. So is your 140 year old Great Aunty who happens to be a millionaire.

Anyway, I regress. This time to 1640's Portugal. Some people revolted.

Back to X-biking; our instructor, Helen, is actually a sadist. She had a cold and was clearly suffering. Any normal person...no, let me rephrase...any person of the non-sadistic sort would have probably relaxed a bit in class. Taken a back seat. Driven the Ford 1903 Model A of life. Not our Helen. No, she was getting off on working herself harder, in a way much similar to this: "Ugh, come on everybody! WE CAN DO THIS! YEAHHHH. Pedal faster! FASTERRRR! *sniff sniff*" So I absolutely wasn't surprised that, when she clambered off her bike once we'd finished, she turned into a little lemon tree exuding a fragrant citrus smell.

No, of course not. She almost fell to the floor in exhaustion. Just that I figured the lemon tree might be far more interesting. Unless you know Helen, in which case - she's fine, don't worry! My Grandad assures me that lemon trees live to a ripe old age.

On Sunday I met up with some friends for one of those birthday things. The girl, who was borned on the 16th May, along with 75% of the population if my Facebook birthday reminders is anything to go by, turned 26, so there were plenty of "God, you're old!" jokes. I wonder what we'll say when she's old? "God, you're dead!"

Dinner went by sans hitch, although I ended up with a sort of yuk sum-juice moisturising hand cream as I'd used my wet napkin cleaning up my sweet chilli chin, and, ever the lazy bugger, I could not be arsed to climb the hill to the toilet to wash my hands. Yes, there was a hill. But it's all OK, I now know the secret to lovely soft hands.

One joyful event procuring from my inability to remember that, in order to get out of a restaurant alive, you actually have to pay them - or at least wash their dishes - was that I got to drive my friend Nic's brand new Golf GTI back from a cash machine (which didn't live up to its name anyway) after he'd lent me money to pay for the delights of eating at the restaurant with the hilly terrain, where one Chinese waitress was clearly stalking a particularly hungry member of our party under the pretext of making far too much small talk. Anyway, to put it bluntly, I think Nic's deformed. It took me at least half an hour of pressing and turning every single nob I could get my hands on (gross, I can't believe you just thought what you did then. You bad person.) in order to find myself sitting upright and facing the road. Nic has little stumpy legs, a long torso, and eyes on the ends of his fingers; I can't believe I didn't notice there was anything wrong before. He also drives like a maniac. It's like someone drugged Road Runner, presented him with a 1984 cc, six speed, 'blow on the accelerator and you're half way to Fiji' car and just said, "let rip. And remember, roundabouts are there to be driven over."

Thank God I'm George Orwell. I could have died twice over this week.

A small blog on being bashed by a thought, how animals want to kill us, how, really, we should all call him Gordy and other such lunacies.

I was in Costa Coffee again, and a thought struck me. (This happens too often - I wish they'd stop striking me & leave me to my mind numbing boredom once in a while.) Anyway, the thought that smacked me down good this time was how stupid we've all been. The animal kingdom has been involved in a conspiracy to kill us all and we've been sat around discussing the benefits of face masks and making jokes about flying pigs! Those swines that be the subject of our sniggers are currently indulging in the last laugh.

"Pah! What evidence do you have?" I hear you ask. Watson, just look to the past. First and foremost, what about that damn snake what lived in Eden and made naughty little Eve eat the apple back in the day, subsequently dictating that our entire lives were and are continuously being filled with heartbreak, woe, excruciating child-birth, and the unnecessary necessity to walk around with clothes on? Here we are blaming it on ourselves; original sin? Original terrorist! That bastard snake went on to spawn Adolf Hitler and Alan Quaeda, and other evil people who's names begin with A.

I could go on; the murdering rats who went round spreading the plague. The cows who tried to create a nation of mentally incapable humans by turning the 'mad cow' on us - though to no avail! (Although my mother is still wondering aimlessly around the streets of the UK wielding her crazy rants on innocent passers-by in an attempt to lure them to suicide.) Then, of course, the birds got involved with their own special version of flu. And now the pigs, being lazy and unimaginative buggers, have followed suit.

Tiernan Douieb unknowingly pushed me into considering the following intellectual thought: Some say that George Orwell correctly predicted the future in his book 1984. I say he did the same with Animal Farm. The man's a genius, and probably some kind of prophet. While you read this, little Simba is sat on his throne as head of the jungle planning the next terrorist attack on innocent victims of the human race, while our elected government are barking on about the sorry state of the economy and how they absolutely will say sorry for spending the money we don't have on getting their moats all sparkly and clean.

Get your priorities right, Gordy.



Disclaimer: My mother is not a mad cow. I love her very much.

The legend of Bob, boys and their pies, how I bathe in a shower of spit, and other extraordinary tales.

It came to me the other day, after years of allowing it to gently pass over my none-too-bothered brain. Suddenly, I was bothered. Or, should I say, 'bobered'. *Insert appropriate wooping/jeering at my excellent pun* And this is what got to me: why do people, especially Americans (apparently), feel the need to insert a 'Bob' at the end of a perfectly reasonable, if slightly boring, name? At what point did Mr. and Mrs. Walton decide that Jim's name just wasn't good enough? Was it that Mr. W, stressed with the troubles of naming his son, was sat on the verandah with his non-alchoholic beverage when a lightbulb appeared above his head: "I know what his name needs! It needs a Bob! Olivia, Bob is what we were looking for! Praise the Lord!" (They need to make that episode, I want to see it.) Is it that two yawn-some names can produce one, fantasmagorical name? So many questions, so little of my time I want to put into finding the answers!

But lets forget, for a moment, that the Bob 'suffix' sounds plain silly. Let's put aside and accept the idea that mummy wanted to give little Jimmy two first names. After all, it's not really a rarity; that Sarah-Jane Twat off Corrie has a similar double-barreled first name. No, let's place those thought's firmly in our past and, instead, consider the cruelty exercised by those parents who call their son Tracy.

Talking of sons, I went to the football on Saturday - West Brom v Wigan. Now is the time to express your surprise that I am indeed a footie fan (WBA). Yes, I have a season ticket. Yes, I know the offside rule. Yes, I am a girl. At least that's what mummy's always told me. But it's not all bad, being amongst probably 80% of a stadium's worth of smelly, foul-mouthed men, with steak and kidney pie spewing down their football t-shirts. Talking of which, one of my fellow fans asked me whether I'd been corrupted by all the swearing. In my head I replied with "I don't know what you mean...I taught you all!" What I actually said was more like "Bla bla, ya de ya, stammer stammer stammer, cough cough." Ah my excellent brain to mouth connection, working so well yet again.

Anyway, it was an unusual day, not least because we were apparently playing a group of Greek ladies exhibiting their plummage *see picture*, or that we won. I had my hair up in a ponytail, and the man who stands behind me, screaming into my ear hole (one day I shall demand to see CCTV footage to prove that this is the case), and who likes to shower me with a fortnightly floury of his spit (if you could swallow the excess once in a while mate, you'd be doing a great public service) decided it would be OK to flick my hair! Is this acceptable behaviour? Is it perfectly fine that a man who I don't really know, but have plenty of his DNA on my person at least twice a month, should feel the need to mess with my hair? What, if anything, is seen as socially acceptable groping? I must admit, dear friends, I had a very 'Carrie Bradshaw off SATC' moment of ponder. The 'this made me wonder' one. (Unfortunately, my daily thought doesn't come with an NYC apartment and all the Christian Louboutin's a girl could bathe in.) I decided that, quite frankly, it was bloody annoying. But then we scored soon after and the World was put to rights once more. Bastard.

I've just found out that the Walton's named one of their sons 'Zebulon'. I now have a new found respect for Mr. Walton and his lightbulb.



West Brom playing a team of Greek girls, fluorescents on show.

What happened when I engaged my brain matter, how the Greeks use their plummage, how horses have babies and other such disasters.

I was thinking yesterday, over my Costa coffee, which, incidentally, did not smell of fish - this makes me all the more concerned as to why it did that one time. Ah but if I could ease my troubled mind just once. Anyway, I digress. I was thinking that we're all a bit messed up really, aren't we? You might be a bit of a stalker. You might wash your hands a few too many times, or feel the need to take a right turn after every three left. Or, much like my sister, scope every millimetre of the house for a slightly ajar door or drawer and obsessively open and close it. Many a night did I rue the fact that I hadn't quite shut my wardrobe properly, "Oh for GOD'S SAKE Nat, BUGGER OFF! I was asleep then, you BITCH!"

Personally, I sniff a bit too much. And sometimes when I cough I have to count myself in. Wikipedia informed me it's a mild form of Tourettes. And there was you thinking that it's merely swearing far too loudly at inappropriate moments! Pah! Come bathe your brain in my font of wisdom and knowledge.

Where was I going with this? OH YES. Mayday. Greeks. Spending Mayday Bank Holiday with the Greeks is much like visiting a Cash & Carry of prospective partners. No, wait. I'm wrong. It's like visiting a local Co-op of prospective parents-in-laws. Cash & Carry gives the impression that there is much to 'choose' from. The men spend the day playing football and eating. The women spend the day presumably looking at the men. And I spent my day eating, and jotting down hilarious anecdotes about women in huge, orange earrings and ridiculously tight, brightly coloured tracksuits and wondering if, perhaps, this was some kind of mating call, much like the attraction plumage employed by such birds as the peacock. According to Wikipedia (they will never know how many degrees they helped to pass,) during mating season, a peacock “will often emit a very loud high pitched cry.” There was a lot of this going on as well. I’m starting to ponder the thought that perhaps we Greeks aren’t human but, in fact, of the bird kind. After all, as was pointed out on twitter, there must be a reason why I quite like goji berries, actually, and what? I might suggest to some of the ladies, though, that they would do well to adopt the peacock’s choice of colour scheme, if only to make things easier on the eyes. I was almost blinded by fluorescents.

Another big event occurred in my life yesterday, aside from thinking. I bought Grazia magazine so it could tell me about the best pretty dresses under £50, and something highly disinteresting about Horseface Jessica Parker having twins via a surrogate mother. This information turned out to be utter balls – the dresses, not the surrogacy. Some woman, desperate to become a ‘writer’, got whatever job she could at Grazia by feigning an expertise in fashion and the ability to actually care about it. She had very clearly just google-imaged ‘dresses’. Then it was a quick copy and paste job and off she went to let her hair down and her skirt up in South Ken.

As for HJP, I don’t know what’s going on; I didn’t read it. Now, where’s that Orange magazine….