Let’s not do a round-up of the whole year shall we?
Jesus, that would fucking kill us all; wouldn’t it?!
Here’s a short version…..a round up of the week, in fact, in pictures……and in moving pictures x
Friday night:
Work don't. Dishevelled from the tumultuous rain we gather at a north african restaurant. I pull a learning disabilities drumming teacher in the duration. All goes well till the belly dancer appears.
Godiva is dragged to the floor to private dance for her new beau.
Old boss tells new boss about the time I went to work with spunk embossed on my arm pretending it was a skin complaint. And made her stroke it.
Minimal damage.
Diablo reminds me of the time it was on my stomach. Cum-ins comments that this doesn’t happen anymore. Condoms.
Saturday:
Strap-on-guitar.
Arty arsemas drinkie-poos in regency apartment.
PA to head honcho at young vic. Swipe. Tips on converting wmv files for macs. Swipe. Home-made Swedish cinnamon buns. Gulp. Mulled wine, mulled wine. Fuck that, red wine’s better if you need a hit. When you hit me baby, hit me hard….
Small japanese children designing their own christmas cards. Performance artiste naked in a giant jamjar gives me bum reading. Class. Classy arse. She doesn’t want to tell me there and then. I demand to know.
I am vulnerable, like a child. Not a bad child. Not a bad vulnerable. I am new. Do I? Do I?....she pauses…..‘need?’…..oh god!
It’s a hug. Do I need a hug. Yes sir, but watch yerself or I’ll blab christmas party tears all over yer lovely soft furnishings.
Escape. ‘pop’ to chavvy neighbours ‘do’ in the basement. Seven pm. Fairy dust. Meaty chavs galore. Not enough blood-flow to the head.
Who is this I’m curled up on - like a good, vulnerable child. Ricky, apparently. He’s telling me he’s going to look after me. Hmmmmm.
‘cuddles, that’s nice’, says a semi-lesbian barmaid who’s convinced I’m going out with an oversized jack-black lookalike, or her ex-boyfriend.
I come to. Luckily, I haven’t come too.
I make films:
Fairy dust wears off. Godiva escapes, alone. A big day ahead….
Sunday morn
Early morn train to brockley for cavalry rehearsal.
Sunday night
The doctor's. The neighbours…..
Moon day
Christmas shopping results in single jar of marmalade. And champagne – for me. G-ma’s coming…
it's beginning to look a bit like christmas...
Moon night
Me and jangle-bells rehearse with the band for our gig on wed night. Which mainly involves drinking copious amounts of wine, scranning Pringles till the msg hits us, and pissing ourselves at the hilarious instrument that is…..the tuba
Tuesday
“Work”. Get dragged to HQ christmas do. Fried cheese, garlic bread, head of facilities trussed up bopping about to wham. Female press officer demands slow dance as I try to slope off, head of finance attempts a grope at 7pm. Run to the hills. There aren’t any in london bridge. I make do with steps. A bag-lady witch talking about mother earth and the radioactive urban fox provide me with more intellectual entertainment.
Wednesday
The big day. The gig. Camden. Godiva severs several arteries hitlering the choir.
Just about to unleash ourselves on the unsuspecting camden trendies, I receive a text from mother:
Result.
Thursday I receive another, less fruitful text from mummy:
Happy fucking christmas one and all – mine will involve a bottle of taittinger and seven temazepam….xx
Though new life can bloom in the darkest of winter nights, flames that burnt so brightly suddenly burn so pale….
On monday night, as samson drove me to rack and ruin gallivanting around the spaceship like a demented puppy setting up my new mac, I realised that for the first time in eons I hadn’t been on the internet all day.
I’d been ‘shopping’. I’d been lying on the beach until a hobo came and did strange things to me. Borrowing software from gunter. Drinking cwaffee.
I visited mr fish in his studio to do his tarot. On the way there I walked through the busy tourist area, and by the church - usually full of frustrated misunderstood buskers - time stood still.
A coffin.
Made from wicker. Right in the middle of town. I caught the exact minute the undertakers started to shoulder it in.
Compelled, I went to follow them in. I wanted to see, wanted to know. Who was time standing still for?
Genuinely moved by this experience, I shared it with mr fish, who immediately premoniced that the death card would appear. He hadn’t had the tarot before. In his back room, amongst fish plastercasts and seaside visionscapes, we cleared room for the cards.
He picked strength.
Reversed. (of course).
And still he was convinced it meant death.
My day continued, and I found myself at nightfall kiltering out of control - with samson rearranging me circuits and the realisation that drinking neat vodka and climbing into a cauldron of mulled wine the night before probably wasn’t the most congenial course of action for getting my shit on.
And then I said I’d better check my mail.
Very rare of me to be slack-alicing about the beach and idly enjoying myself of a daytime. Very rare of me not to have been stuck on my decrepid laptop for hours on end working up a nervous breakdown over my imminent choral downfall…
And there was a message.
Inviting me to a funeral.
The messenger had only written the first names of the deceased. A recently married couple, killed in a car crash on the final leg of their road trip through canada before returning to london to settle.
Panicked, I tumble, jaundice-faced onto the love rug. What do I do now? My mac’s asking me what language I want it to speak, but all I want it to tell me is….who’s dead?
It’s not zed.
Nor does the news compute. Can it be who I think it is? A kindred soul, long departed from my life, but doing his bit for the universe in worldly corners? A man who meant the world to me because he was a prolific being. Better to burn out than fade away?
Someone I had met fifteen years ago when I stole his take that fan mail that he never collected from his pigeon-hole?
No- please, the powers that be, no.
There’s a flickr account set up for us to post our photos of them on. I go to it. This will show me who is no more.
I get the photos up.
I have NO IDEA who the man in the photo is.
I breathe. IT’S NOT HIM! IT’S NOT HIM!
I’m so relieved. It’s some other fucker I vaguely knew. Sad, but okay. Samson is helping me. But he says that I’d better reply to the message and find out who the hell is no more.
I message the reaper back and wait for the answer. We eat dinner, we talk it through. I decide it’s almost definitely another member of the band. Shame, but not going to break my back.
Then I get the dreaded reply.
“I’m afraid you guessed right”. What?! But the photos?! He can’t have changed THAT much?! WE looked at flickr. I’d clicked on some random bird’s link. And imagined all of her friends were dead. Glory be.
Samson continues setting up my new beast of burden, whilst flirting on his iphone. Not one for multitasking, I suddenly feel the need to uproot him, turf him out -
“EITHER HELP ME, TALK TO ME, OR GET OUT! I NEED TO MOURN FOR A MAN I LOVED!”
I am distraught. I shake and I rattle. Though often one to smugly think she’s beaten death’s grizzly sickle, (I’m used to suicide – their choice, or illness – their body’s choice). I am not prepared for the advent of someone I fundamentally loved being whisked off the planet.
It’s a new one. I’m broken.
I light a candle. I film myself distraught. The candle goes out on camera.
I drag myself to work the next day. I take my hat off. The light above me goes out.
Has my angel found time to visit me? Everyone else has known for two weeks, has he had time from his busy haunting schedule to come and show me he cares?
I can’t begin to think how to say goodbye. But I can’t go to the funeral. For the brave and sullen-faced family and close friends would coop-up together, but I would act despicably. I would cry. I would throw myself onto the floor.
The guy who broke the news has asked us all for poems and songs for the funeral.
What would I give the mourners? Some shite poem from four weddings and a funeral? No, he’d covered the poetry bit neatly before he left us.
In an email he asked a few friends to design him a tattoo using a quote from the beginning of hemingway’s for whom the bell tolls. Which is actually an excerpt from donne’s meditations.
Along with the above picture, he wrote in his request,
“as an artist your work will be displayed for as long as I’m around, which I hope will be for many more years.”
I didn’t end up putting crayon to paper for his body art, but I did consider sending ‘the up the bum song’ to be played at the funeral. They’d better not play his band’s music at the funeral – although John Peel liked it, the deceased thought it was shite. He was a drummer. He liked reggae, not wispy electropop…..
I would want to tell the wakers just how much this man meant to me. Means to me.
From the moment we met - him carrying a toothbrush in his lunchbox, to the gig where he said “THANK GOD YOU’RE ERE!” when I turned up late, in his amazingly endearing bexleyheath twang.
To the time we went to a party years later and he mused upon my buttocks whilst copping a feel,
“your arse isn’t that great, really, it’s just that YOU fink it is!”
Singing the stones and dancing the jagger as only true believers can.
I’d tell them about the time I sent him the only valentines I’ve ever sent in my life.
A simple message inside. A beat poem he’d appreciate.
‘sometimes I feel like a priest in a fish and chip queue,
quietly wondering as the vinegar runs through,
what it would be like to buy supper for two’. (mcgough)
The only valentines I have ever sent.
But now I’d like to tell you, my understanders, my favourite story about him……
The surprize….
I’d organised a rave. I was supposed to be the compere. My job was to co-ordinate a massive ‘stick it on’ in a farmer’s field, (yes, the police did shut us down at 9 in the morning).
Well compere I was not. I slacked off work that night…..
I had messaged loads of random londoners and south coasters inviting them to this chemical happening, and didn’t get much response, which was fine.
But whilst warming up for the grandiose event, I received a text:
‘see you there in twenty – walking from haywards heath. SMx’.
Haywards fricking heath? That was miles away….
And who the hell was SM?
He did it purposefully. A tease. I was too busy hoovering up daisy dust to get quizzical, but there was a surprise waiting for me, (well, stuck up the arse end of haywards heath somewhere).
About an hour and twenty minutes later, a sweaty be-cowboyed figure could be seen staggering up the mud track towards us urban hippy twats.
The birthday girl frantically waddled to get to him first, hoping it was a random raver she could bloodsuck as maiden of dishonour. A prize pig for the suckling.
But I strode before her, greeting him and welcoming him into this hazy muckfest, this sweaty breast of oblivion. My sir-prize.
We spend the night together, partying with wild abandon like unleashed zoocreatures. We stuck it on a massive sound system by a roaring fire and danced our tits off.
In a tent we did other things.
Yes, dear readers, my lifted angel stays with me in my behazed memory for good reason.
I have wanked over it regularly.
I realised with horror I have done it very recently. I was going to write a love song, but I thought this was more fitting:
His hard bones saved in my memory bank But no more a-wanking shall I go-. Ain’t nothing worse than a dead-man’s wank. Something I wish I didn't know….
Sorry, it just slipped out….
And now never shall I gaze upon him no more. Truth be told, the chances were fairly slight before he died.
And I don’t really know when it happened, or anything about his life since we left the rave and my house caught fire. That was the end of our road together.
Already having grieved our passing relationship when living, on angel wings must I steal away to him now, just to catch a glimpse, just to get some way of seeing him.X
I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Who said spending money replaces some kind of basic emotional need that isn’t being fulfilled?! WHO?! Money can’t buy me love….pah! you been to thailand?!
Pie-fingered, I am a busy girl at the moment. I love it, I still have choice. In what to do with the dark wintry nights. Sometimes I use that time wisely. Sometimes I don’t….
Tonight, after a full-on blurting session with monsieur henderson, (he was wise, I used his yime), I returned to the witches hut and pondered over, (other than soup-eating), what to do with my precious hump-night.
Hmmmmm. I know - I’ll spend a thousand quid on a mac and final cut express, so that I can completely whirl off the radar and become a goggle-eyed stinking obsessive for the duration of my hibernation.
Done. Purchased.
Does this lift my weary spirits? Marginally. Yes.
Do I feel guilty? Fuck no! Tried to dip into the old ISA but compu’a said no, so did a bit of tinkering, and along with my £400 bonus I found out I’m getting this month, the shit won’t flick me till mid january, when I shall be so addled with hallucinogenics I won’t much care. Or I shall find it all terribly amusing.
The less money I have, the less it means to me.
Godiva shall provide.
I’ve had to create a third eye-dentity, by the way. It occurred on another momentous train journey. I was on the way to honk out a jackie green at an irish free-for-all, and two snubby-nosed colleagues boarded the train, and hesitantly sat, with me.
“don’t worry, I don’t bite”, I muse, twinkle in the old mince pie, moving my half-dead rucksack to make space for a pair of cleaner-than-thou tight buttocks.
A ‘middle-aged’, (what the heck is that nowadays), gentleman, and his pert twenty-something posho female compatriot crack open some plastic bottles of wine, (unoaked darling). I eye them up. The wine bottles.
But no offer of sweet supplement sublime for me this evening. Instead, some dry, chin-stroking conversations about blah. Egocentric projections.
I pretend to sleep with one peeper open. They talk about the x factor. I don’t watch, but I’m quite clever at music. They keep forgetting the names of bands. I casually slip out the nuggets they require.
The man now retracts his houghtiness and gets excited about john legend. I pipe out ordinary people for the girl – she doesn’t know it. He ignores her.
“put a bit of the old romance back in the relationship, eh?!” I say – on learning he’d taken his lady wife with him to see the legend.
Now he’s interested. He used to be a journalist. Interviewed simon thingie who knocked up baby spice. What journal, I say. Entrepreneurial, he says. Hmmmmmmmm. None of my alter-egos are the least bit impressed.
The train pulls into the ever-wondrous east croydon. I gather up my morsels.
Suddenly:
“who ARE you? What do you DO?!” In desperation he loses the false air created daily for the dear guinevere beside me.
“Er, I’m on my way to a gig actually. I’m playing”.
“WHERE?!”
“pub.”
He looks out the winda:
“in east croydon?”
“no. london bridge”. I need to exit. I reach into my sow’s ear and produce two blog cards. I hand them over in a deliberate fashion. He thanks me.
“BUT WHO ARE YOU??! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!” - slightly manic now.
I panic - sloth in the headlights - what do I say? Godiva? Ridiculous.
I hurriedly whimper my ‘real name’ and scurry off. I feel dirty, used, name-raped if you will.
So I got to thinking – I need a normal name that’s not me god-given one, so that I can mix godiva with pleasure.
Mother came on facebook.
What a statement.
Mother came on facebook, and asked me how to get foreign characters on her status, as in ‘touché’, as in ‘doppelgänger’, as in ‘שִׁירָה’, But not as in ‘epikhairekakia’, (greek) or schadenfreude’, as it is known in german. (all the journos are getting that one in).
Wickedly, I comment that special characters are a writer’s secret. Let the old girl figure out something technotastic for her good self. And in the process of copying and pasting these scripts, I see my real name - in greek script. And it looks beautiful. And it spells a new name. And I like it. And it begins with ‘G’, which feels right.
The wife tells me that according to psychologists, you shouldn’t change your name. This is because you are attempting to alter your whole identity, and are not addressing the past and are attempting to leave behind the great big shitheap of a mess you have created for yourself for the past blogteen years.
I met a guy in india who kept bragging like a bloating and syphilitic dead squirrel about how he’d changed his name. His new name was a foul mixture of random syllables and paedophile’s dreams. Repulsive.
“and you’ll NEVER know my real name!” he poops out like a mangled trumpet.
Blankly staring at him I realise I have not the strength to kill him with my snake tongue, so I take solace in the knowledge that he has a great big shitheap of a life behind him, and needs to declare this to the unlistening public of india.
But I need my new name, and I’m falling in love with her. I’ve told three of my close advisors, and they love her too!
And as if my bank could sense this new freedom from the shitheap, I complete my order in the online apple store.
And I get an 0845 phonecall. Is it a hoax?
No, it’s a strange recorded woman. With multiple personalities. ‘She’ is ‘calling’ from my bank. They have detected some unusual activity.
The woman on the end of the blower says I have to press various buttons that remind me of my age and fading mortality, in order to validate my overspent existence.
It’s okay, I can do this. I’m quite intrigued by the fact that some duffer keeps interjecting mrs clarity’s monotone with certain personalised words in cockerney.
And this malarkey goes on for quite some time. I have to verify my recent spending. Eek. Did I just spend £978 in the apple store? 1 for yes. Did I spend £16.89 in a, (interjected voice), ‘UK SUPERMARKET’ yesterday? Probably.
Did I, in fact, fritter £4.20 in a bookshop in luxembourg yesterday?....
WHAT?! Erm! Well, it’s only £4.20, but I wasn’t in luxembourg yesterday as far as I can recall. I was tripping through the town centre with ms mushy pea on a paranoid mission to mars, as I remember?
Frickin freezing and there’s a smith’s round the corner.
Was I in a bookshop in luxembourg yesterday? 1. I press. Yes.
The list goes on. It’s only transactions for the last twenty-four hours. It’s getting a bit dreary. Then the lovely tin lady says thankyou, I am permitted to stop pressing the dodgy buttons on my new fifteen quid phone and fuck off.
Unless, she says, I am planning on using my card in the next two hours. In which case, I must press 1, apparently.
I pause. I think I may have spent enough in the last twenty-four hours. But what if?! What if I win ‘learn to dance with strictly come dance dancersize’ in that time and can’t show my ebay-eagerness to the willing seller?! What if I get snowed in and need asda to come to my rescue? What happens if I suddenly remember to pay my council tax online?! Press 1! Press 1!
I wait, with baited breath – what happens if I don’t press 1? 1 is the only option the kind lady is giving me! If I hang up, will the phone start wibbling again and remind me of my instant karma?
“casually spending a grand on a computer you don’t really need godiva? Changing your name willy-nilly just for a bit of bemusement are we? Not likely love, and your purchase ain’t going through till you’ve verified these details. You are old, and you are stupid enough to go all the way to luxembourg to buy your jazz mags.”
I don’t press 1. The lovely lady says all I need to do now is hang up. Hang up and not spend anything for two hours, if I can possibly manage that. Not spend my service charge fund money on a computer I don’t really need. Then sit here and wait patiently for my plastic friend to regain its freedom.
And then tomorrow, I must patiently wait for the object of my love to arrive. And not feel guilty.
No matter how the bloodsucking, recession-causing motherfuckers of banks, who run from their shitheaps of past existences by bankrupting the whole country, repossessing our rot-ridden boxes of ‘homes’ just in time for a fuelpoverty, povertyfuelled winter of discontent, want me to feel.
I shall not feel guilty. No. I shall nurse my winter-bruised coldwater bottle of a soul with some spending balm. I shall tell it, ‘there there, timid wonder, stop your rumbling, goodheart.’
No guilty pleasure shall I gain. But RSI, a mortgage repossession, a clinical diagnosis and some emotional displacement shall all be mine come the morning delivery…..
---------------------------------------------------------
RIP John (but I ain’t your frickin yoko….):
Long live processed, waterpumped, cancerous products to worship;
Let golden drummers of iceland march us to our greasy graves.
Let crispy-crumb and potato supplements shower down upon us;
Fill us with golden delight.
*rumble*
I must point out, I’m a ‘near-vegetarian’, (my wife HATES me when I say that).
And apart from vegetarianism nearly killing me in India, I’m quite good at it. Give me falafel, broccoli and tomato surprise every day of the week.
But also give me clucked-out chickens and tortured turkeys – I love to eat their fucking ugly faces. But more about bernard's legacy later….
pensive turkey
This week, dear readers, I thought it best to mention some current stuff. Never much fancied myself as a current affairs journalist, but I’ll have a go at my current affairs. Mmmmmmmm, affairs.
Yes yes - it’s all very well talking about plectrums, tortorti and mentally ill lovers, but one has to enter into some serious, timely journalism at some point…..or at least attempt to enter a journalist….
A quick summary of the week’s news:
• Played penny up the crack at a photography launch, primark tights pulled down round my ankles, (buttocks not malleable enough in 80 deniers I discovered).
• lived with the neanderthal.
• Went to the midlands, stuck myself in a boxing ring, got mullered in the head by a small asian named wing lok. Horrific. Hilarious. Quite good by the end. Might have helped if I’d had a fight before.
New nickname: “the dynamo” – starts slow, but once she gets going she doesn’t frickin stop. Comparisons to bikes not needed here…. If you know my alter-ego, ask her for the link to the video.
• recorded blog-about-u with a manic schizoid. (http://soundcloud.com/godiva/blog-about)
• filmed more footage for my blogumentary.
• sang with an irish band, complete with midget ukulele player.
• built a sixteen-piece choir for a gig in camden at christmas out of leftovers.
• wrote a song for a 70 year-old gangster.
And now for a summary of tasks I was also supposed to do this week:
• teach a blind person sign language.
• go to spain.
As well as boxing my face off - oh, and of course finding time for my first passion (not THAT) - writing.
and breathing also.
You could say I’ve been busy….
Godiva’s been feeling the pressure. Enjoying the creativity, but feeling the pressure. Having plenty of two-in-the-morning moments and trusting the breaking waters that gush out of my subconscious like female ejaculate - my creative flow.
But then suddenly getting all kerfuffled when remembering that I need to learn daydreamer by adele, pay my council tax, MOT the spaceship and get an escapaders choir together for the christmas single - don't you put it in there......that plus my newsletter, travel writing competitions, portraiting and scrabbling about on the floor looking for plectrums and weed, has led me to lead a fulfilling but exhausting existence.
All that in me hat plus turkey ham for breakfast.
And, like a twizzled turkey, I had been saying to anyone who’d listen, and broadcasting my witchety grubs into the universe, (also works when in need of substances, I discovered today),
"I just need life to stop for a bit."
If the turkey ham doesn’t kill me then god will (cit bad boy bubby)
I got as far as ticking the schizoid, the singing, the choir and the gangster off the list, and then life got cancelled.
Snow. You know?
Now, I don’t need to honk on about how incompetent the british are compared to the russians; the all-seeing innovators known as the media have that covered in a winter-wonderland, stupid-reporter-freezing-her-tits-off-for-a-minute-on-the-box, snowy blanketsworth of safety.
And we all know that incompetence is what makes britain great.
And yesterday after stuffing myself sick all day with all-day-sickening-breakfast sandwiches in my ‘accessible documents training’ in london, (the irony of that course title - always hiding me blog), thought it best to pop back to the doctor’s house before I 'got the train home'.
That’s when I dived bagpuss-first into a deep slumber.
An hour later I woke up, scooted out the door bleary eyed and rancid, and got to london bridge.
That’s as far as I got.
This train don’t stop. Or start, in this case.
‘Stranded’. I told my boss. How very dramatic and unfortunate of me. She hopes I’ll get back ‘sometime tomorrow’. Aaaaaaaaaaaa. Bisto. Sorry, Bernard Matthews bootiful gravy, with butter in.
I turned back contentedly to the doctor's – life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
But I’d posted my key back through his letterbox and was fobless.
One thing for it. I rang the piglady. She was also ‘stranded’. In a pub full of bus drivers eating party sausage for terry’s retirement. Excellent. That’s dinner sorted, (sorry Bernard – not a twizzler in sight).
The doctor called. ‘Smoking man’ next door has a spare key. I bid farewell to her pigness and held my breath as I knocked upon smoking man’s door. His half-vietnamese thai-boxer son answered. Words escaped me ‘I – er – I used to live (she points) – there!’
He stares at me.
‘DAAAAAAAA!’
Scottish, apparently.
Smoking man appears from a strange be-beaded curtain. Lanky and tall in a multi-coloured shellsuit top. Wincing slightly, as always in our brief encounters,I ask him how he is:
‘Och, not so good, not so good! One of those days, y’know? Not so good’.
Oh just give me the bloody key will you?
Next, a careful demonstration of how and how not to use the new council key-fob, a warning that the string could get caught in my bag, and after I said I’d go to tescos for ‘supplies’, him asking me what I need – valium, prozac, morphine and a good shagging please mr supplier - I escaped.
And twenty-four hours later I'm still here, in a peaceful winter wonderland far from the madding news. And flights to spain have been cancelled. And right now I’m not going anywhere.
No longer do I have to furiously laminate tenuous facts about hare krishnas.
Move from the sofa.
Pay invoices.
Or teach sign language to a blind man.
I can breath now; mostly fumes, bin-smell and smoke, but bernard I can breathe!
And I have all the time in the world to do all those thoroughly important things that I think I have to do. That I want to do.
But now that I’m sitting here - arse melting into oblivion, throat husky, eyes weary, I can’t remember what it is that’s so pressing. Is it Richard and Judy? Are they even ON any more? What about Trisha, Ricki Lake?
Did they get cancelled?
Reader, you too can cancel your life.
Forget what you had. Stop worrying about what you need to do. Stop dwelling on the living……and eat more death-giving turkey products:
In memorium…Bernard Matthews, 24th January 1930 – thanksgiving, (gobble gobble), 2010:
Art is pain. So is the culling of 372 million turkeys, according to one angry journo –
“BBC News: ‘Turkey King Bernard Matthews Dies’ Surely that's like calling Hitler ‘King of the Jews?’"
Found that on ‘sickipedia’. If they’re allowed that, I’m allowed ‘pootube’.
Ivanovich the kitsch via the glorious medium of FB:
“Of all Bernard Matthews' poultry products perhaps the most sinister is turkey ham. I shudder to think what the monstrous hybrids that meat comes from must look like.”
And no longer must I dream of a certain mysterious cub……I’ve been stalking his arse off. Not sure his current girlfriend, ‘carebear8119’, would appreciate it….I know her real name, and the fact she loves take that. I love the internet, it encourages us all to be psychos….
post-script:
just had immense pleasure typing ‘bernard’ when searching for someone named bernadette in my blackberry, (no product placement intended – shite), only to realise that ‘Bernard’ shall never lead to ‘Bernadette’ (no R…)
Goodbye sam, hello samantha - all hail the late Sir Clifford….whoops, they haven’t announced his death yet….:
Posts
