CANCEL YOUR LIFE -

the turkey king is dead.

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….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1q4RG8PND0A

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….:

WATCH: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUh60Ru62mI(he seems to have an awful lot of teeth, do you think he choked on them?!)