If you’ve been sitting on my facebook recently you may have noticed that, yet again, old mrs blogger is in trouble, again. It’s wearing me cables thin, I’m getting frayed.
Thank you thank you thank you, by the way, for the kind messages and friend adds – it works. Hallelujah, or I’d be off to the knackers yard for sure. More please. Sit right on it, (search for godiva’s escapades).
Yes. Trouble. Trouble is. I’ve been causing it.
It all started when I proudly went to watch my wife squeeze her box on halloween. Not usually one for forced occasions, (remember g-ma at christmas?), I relish in the delight of turning up dressed like a dead whore to numerous establishments in town and blending in for a change.
And I had the vodka in my bag, as usual. And I managed to reserve a booth - unheard of. And secured two concubines for the evening to assist me in wrecking the joint.
The star of going to the chapel was present, spouting such extremities as ‘your royal blogness’ – though still claiming not to have read about his future demise. He brought a pet with him who had adhd. Fine, just don’t touch me. I said don’t touch me – I’ve just got my blue belt…..
Yes yes, time to digress – the whole kickboxing debacle. After my fight being cancelled I’ve chilled out about it. Kick bitches in the head a few times a week still, occasionally reel when I see veins still popping out of my arms. Pick people up and throw them across the room. Attack concubines in killer heels.
The day before all hallow’s was my kickboxing grading. Passing through streets of middle-class white kids with a bit of hartley’s jam on their straw boaters, (zombies apparently), I was glad that I am happy doing what I do, whilst all around me, others are doing as they do (‘If’’).
I grade. And a few palpitations and dodged flirtations later, I am being presented with my blue belt.
I’ve earnt the highest grade, but now it’s over my mind’s not on the job. And it’s not because I’m knackered. It’s because I’m not bothered. I’ve got a blogumentary to make - ‘yeah, give me the highest grade ya buggers, what’s for tea?’ - and both grown grading men are looking at me expectantly, and I keep bowing on the spot. Which is extremely fun, because they have to bow back.
‘You’ve got to come here and get your belt!’
I’d just been stuck on the spot thinking about chicken dippers, doing my best bow for a few minutes….
After this it was time for my pre-halloween warmup. I decided to go and see ms foto:
I was supposed to have a quiet and innocent fish dinner, then strictly home for filming and blog. But that’s when I ended up drinking sake and doing an abba film shoot in a crumbling regency building with a pair of 3D glasses on. Dancing with overjoyed labradors on the beach. Playing twinkle on the violin in the street that a lush had passed out of her window.
How I ended up stranded like a debauched banshee at samson’s, with a clearance sandwich and half a twirl.
So, still warm from the night before, on all hallow’s eve, there I am, in a busy bar. All my wife’s counsel are there – baked up to the nines, skanking about to dance of the clown, (a song I forced her to write about ex following my miserable howlings). Tits out in george street’s there, and the guy from the music shop who lurches at me tongue first. The gospel man with his adhd sidekick. We sit with the owner of the bar and are soon drinking shots of cough-medicine.
Before I know it I’m being carried out of the bar sideways by two men, and getting double-spanked in public.
Yes, me and my bit of fluff have picked up another speck. Half-italian. Tick. Young. Tick. A bit like ‘the boy’, on a post-coalition budget. I’ve blabbed about the blog. It’s been handed over. We arrange to do a photo shoot of me and my martial girls post-session, sweaty and pumped.
And I think no more of it.
Until tuesday, that is. What is it about tuesdays?
Monday had me all happy-go-lucky, a motorbike ride in my witches costume, crotchless tights and all, along the coast. Lunch with gunter and monsieur henderson, borrowed aviators a must. Squeezing into an extra-small leather £200 dress that got my tits all barbarella. ‘Rock chick’ the effeminate staff commented. No shit, thought this mwag. .Home to studio G to create some filmic mischief.
But tuesday. At work, which is a problem in itself. I text jim to ask for the italian’s number to set up the photo shoot. He replies – just to warn me, jules’ ex is on the war path. The italian’s tipped her off about three men and a little ‘lady’, my offering to them for a lovely night out. I am puzzled – I don’t remember any incriminating evidence? Then jim reminded me – the bit where jules tried to pull a girl ‘with a face like a spade’. Yessssssssss. And jules, if you’re reading this when I published it, Friday November 5th, don’t give the blog to the boy - it’s not monday yet,we haven't done the blogumentary interview. Don’t go changing history before it’s happened eh?! (Now there's a temptation if I ever gave one).
So I ended up deleting the damn thing. My blog post. And that’s a first. But it’s safer. Yes, I can kick arse, but when there’s psychosis involved I’m straight out the back door. Though I must say I am beginning to see the funny side of the whole affair – I said it, I wrote it, they read it, so did the italian, who also said it. I came, I saw, I deleteth.
*For those of you who haven’t read three men, and want the background to this sticky web I’ve spun, drop me an email. Or come and sit on my facebook and I’ll tell you a story.*
But mainly, I’ve been causing trouble with my latest project; the blogumentary. The blog becomes her. You’ll be hearing a lot about this in the next few months:- you’ll most likely be in it in the next few months….
And I’ve planned a scene with ‘the boy’ in it. It’s been three months since I texted him with all my hinges broken, and I said that I would give him the blog in three months so that he could find out what I didn’t say. Because, as you may remember, we didn’t say much to each other. But I said quite a lot on this here forum.
In bed, delirious at three in the morning after my ordeal with the axe-yielder, (hi if you’re reading by the way, you sound like at least two barrels of fun), I cooked up a good ‘un. What if I could get the boy round on the three month date exactly, saying I wanted to film him? What if we then went and did open mic with my steel-stringer that I will have partied with on Saturday? What if I ask the boy to film me singing blog about you at him, surrounded by a pub full of confused onlookers?
And lo and behold, come wednesday it’s arranged. The date is fixed for monday. And come monday he’ll be reading this. Hello. I hope our interview went well. I hope I said what I meant to say on camera. I hope you haven’t launched a campaign that will send me rollicking up a catalonian mountain. Again.
In preparation for this hideous event I’ve created, I’ve read every single blogging entry and edited none. And it’s time. And I should be careful what I wish for. And he’s game - unaware of my alter-ego becoming me, but curiously aware of some serious trouble-making I’ve caused.
So, to ‘the boy’ - I genuinely hope you like this. You were always good at getting me. You like creativity. Dear god please say you do. If you do, sign in as ‘the boy’ and leave a comment. If you do, please write me a song called spank for my blogumentary. If you don’t, find a way of telling me so my innards don’t erupt, like they do every time I receive a random email from an escapader:
Like (in response to an email entitled mmmmmmmmusicians that you may have received - send me an email to be added to the mailer):
'FUCK OFF, WHO ARE, STOP SENDING ME THIS CRAP'.
That beautiful, succint use of grammar and language overwhelming me. Ah? You don't like me? I knew it. It's my friend's husband. She knows 'who are', mr disgruntled, she knows 'who are'.
Or, thank you ms mushy pea, (portrait to follow when I get my hands on you, interview for blogumentary earnt):
‘your last blog finally pushed me into sharing the joys of godiva with other friends. A thing that was long overdue. I have been loving you in silence for too long. I want you, with spicy fries and mushy peas. Soon, dear god let it be soon xxx’
And somehow, for ‘the boy’, and for all of us, we can choose our attitude. Make peace with the unknown and the known. Let the things that reel out of our control keep on rolling…..let witchery guide us into oblivion…….
postscript: Readers, I invite you to re-read this blog pretending you are ‘the boy’ reading the whole thing. This is the first post you’ve ever read. And somehow, it’s all about you. And somehow, the readers know you already as a character. He wouldn’t be the first…
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Which choose your own misadventure will you go for?
Mushy peas: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqaOp7sIy0w
or
Double mushy peas with klithpy bits…(what a dilemma): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrVDViSlsSM
love you, G x
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