hubble bubble....

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

book my face

I have a few ‘real-life’ friends who haven’t yet succumbed to the lower levels of loneliness expressed from the milky boob known as…..the facebook.

You are not alone.

And look what happened to that poor bugger, might have been happier if only he’d discovered farmland, instead of just caging monkeys for fun….

In the beginning, you’d say to these non-bookers, ‘yeah, check my facebook, zebras from botswana’, or, ‘I’ll send you an invite – all the info’s on there’, or, ‘look at me singing about bum sex at a party’.

They don’t get to leave ‘comments’ like I do:

A: we’re ENGAGED!
Random: really? Wow...already ? Seems like you just started dating. You silly, impulsive kidz! The best news EVER! (like)
Random: Congratulations x
Godiva: is that just because you left the country and you’re coming to see me?

Hadn’t contacted her for sixteen years. Apparently her fiancé got a bit worried after seeing my profile pics……Not sure I’ll be seeing her again.

But no, the friends who have not yet ‘signed up’, (what a subscription), retain their highly-esteemed sense of freedom and individuality……

Well they did, but now they’re champing at the fucking bit. ‘Hmmm, maybe I should just join, it would be easier…..’

COME AND JOIN US.

My mother has. That means it’s got to be time….and welcome to FB, Mr Murray, and thank you for the advice on getting some smackeroons for my blogumentary…..

And I hope you ‘like’ it. What a fantastic fucking function eh? When it first appeared, bookers would seem a bit coy - it’s not very british to openly exclaim a ‘like’ for something now, is it? But we got used to it like the other apps, (or is it function, or is it something I’m not down enough with the kids to know about yet), and we let our floods blow full swing. Like baboons on viagra, we enthusiastically ‘like’ everything! Everyone!

Douglas has got the shits. Like!
Deborah is going shopping, then home for a nice cup of tea and some lamb chops. Like!
Godiva only goes to bed with her phone when she's got a boyfriend..............or seriously suicidal friend of course...but often just sleeps under the table..

You guessed it….I Like!

And I’ve just discovered the ‘like’ button on godiva’s facebook. And I was just about to write ‘godiva’s escapades like the like button’, when I realised that this would surely foil my marketing ploy. Yes, I have to think strategically these days….

So to increase traffic/comment/banter on godiva’s book, I realised I could ‘like’ everyone’s status on my news feed! And then they’d like me back, right? Comment, get a bit friendly with the old ‘likes’. Bit of harmless flirting….?

Clever, huh?!

No, not a pippin.

Hundreds of people manage to like godiva when she’s safe inside her blog page, but not many people want to sit on her facebook.

Does that mean no one really likes the poor bitch? Is she such a conniving little whore that no one wants to befriend her?

No.

It means that zuckerberg has excellent spamming restrictions, and thinks..I am..a tin..of spam.

Thanks mark, your face ain’t exactly one for TV either.

So facebook is an AMAZING networking tool, I love it. But it doesn’t love godiva.

I have around 32 dutiful friends, and not for want of plastering my facebook all over my blog. But clicking on a simple button is sooooooooo boring these days!

Well it’s time for you, reader, to bother. With 32 friends it’s more like a wake than a party. I love you guys…love me back!! I bet you would if I died…….

So join me. Now. Or else.

Come and sit on my fucking facebook…..xx

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/profile.php?id=100001527947316

if that don’t work, (zucker ain’t bein too sugary for me these days), search for godiva’s escapades and add me! xxxxxxxxxxx

(then watch this week’s song…AFTER!! Yeaaaahhhh - it’s on me facebook)

GO-divas...!

This week a video special; directed, filmed and edited by the one and only DOCTOR, and starring hers truly.

This is what happened last friday night…….enjoy! xx

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXX2Ny9Zmc0   WATCH IN FULL SCREEN!! x

Three men and a little ‘lady’

Oh god.

I’m a mwag.

But before I tell you how revoltingly drunk I got last friday night, let me fill you in with a little tangential context, (for a change).

Since midsummer I’ve been building myself up, physically and psychologically, for my first big kickboxing fight. In a ring. With some other bitch.

It’s been a great, if daunting, focus for me after what has been a rather large comedown of a post-summer.

Veins have appeared above my skin, I pretend they’re not there, for fear they’ll rise further and burst. I appear to be eating the diet of a horse – oatcakes and carrots mainly, but a LOT of them, and still my stomach is that of a gymnast and my legs occasionally gangle and splay like a thin person’s.

I gave up drinking. I was training three times a week, even if it involved getting a terminally long bus through town on a saturday morn amongst cagouled bag-hoarders and hut bulles on their way somewhere.

It felt good, like I was heading for an achievement. Progression. Something to work towards. The future.

And then just about a week ago, I got the heeby jeebies after training. My teacher asked if I was fighting in november. Yes. I said. But also in october – if that’s alright?

Bit of a silence. Hmmmmm, adrenalin comedown? I skulked off to blog one out, (thursday night’s epic for me), and put it to the back of my mind. But then on the tuesday it was revealed that I hadn’t been entered into the fight. And I hadn’t paid my eleven pounds.

So I did a proper speech. Said how I was really ready, had been gearing up for it, could do with a bit more sparring practice but yeah, well up for it.

And the teacher heard this as ‘I am a puny pathetic wimp who doesn’t keep my word and am petrified of other girls’. So I explained again, (yes, I know I’m not the most straightforward of speakers), and she offered me this ‘truce’.

‘Well, come along anyway, bring your kit, and if someone drops out you can fight!’

Hmmmmmm. A completely shit compromise, methinks.

Then she adds a bit of insult to ‘injury’ (if only):

‘Then you can fight in november and have a non-decision’.

Right. So I can fight with loads of other gimps in fucking november and not even know if I’ve won. Up yours.

Not being one for negativity, I try and turn it round in my head. What good could come from this confusion? All the girls at class can’t understand it, my whole family and friends keep asking me about it, and I’m not sure what the best simple line to say is. Erm. I’m not fighting. The teacher didn’t enter me. Crap.

The only consolation was that I had turned down a guest place at the last ever show of a famous dance outfit, because it was the night before my phantom fight. Perhaps I could go and get fucked off my face with a load of musicians instead? So I text my mate. But the spaces are more than full. Bugger.

I feel like I’ve gone and dumped myself again. Is it me who doesn’t say what I mean, or is it that nobody else gets me? What part of ‘I’m ready’ could be interpreted to mean ‘oooo I’m scared, wibble wibble, please don’t make me fight!’?

The same part of ‘I love you’ that was misconstrued to mean ‘myeah, whatever, yeah, that’s fine, let’s go our separate ways’, with the boy.

Right. How to deal with this defeat that didn’t even produce a bruise?

I’m going to go out and get fuckfaced, that’s what. Frig all this moderate sobriety, (erase spain, readers, erase spain).

And I’m sitting with monsieur henderson on his birthday, drinking overpriced tea out of thimbles, and who should saunter towards us? The boy. Yes, the boy. The boy in glorious, sunlit technicolour. Me in soggy-arsed tracksuit bottoms. Always the way, always the way……

And I’d been thinking how nice it would be to see him, not whilst honking out some heartbreak hotel numbers on the ukulele, but just to have a drink with him. Might clarify things further….

So I ask him out on friday night, apparently spontaneously, but secretly pre-meditatively, (how’s that for a word?) Yep, he’s free. It’s in the can pete, it’s in the can. Might be a bit toppy, pete, might be a bit bottomy, with any luck pete……

And I’m going to get wankered. And see some bands.

I opt for the writer’s dress costume - a bit tired now but comfortable and fairly calamity-free. New shoes. A bit high and wobbly on the cobbles. Half a bottle of vodka in my bag. A classic disposition.

We meet. On time, like in olden days. We drink, like olden times. We talk bollocks at each other, like golden times. We opt for duty, and get up to head off to a dingy karaoke bar where a friend is honking out some good uns.

And bump smack bang into mummy. Yes, you may remember mummy from way back when….

We have a pleasant chat about scientology and horses, and I make a note to use this as a bloggortunity for my next project; undercover cunt (U/C), where I expose dark practices under the guise of an innocent bystander. Yes, mummy, I would love to come to the scientology do with the grandiose marquee, thank you.

At the gig we bump into my lovely wife, who has been silently disapproving of our date, but at least I told her about it, unlike my husband, who will only catch news of my dangerous decision to meet my ex as he reads this.

Sorry. I am weak. And eternally randy.

The boy receives a text from a musician friend of his. A name from the old days, when we were fanciful and hooning round london bridge, bruising hips on cello cases, ejaculating on sheets and escaping near-murder in seedy hovels.

We go to meet him and his friend in another musical establishment. I now have three men to my bow. I curtsy instead. It’s safer in a short dress. And we watch a band together, the half bottle of vodka in plastic going down a treat. Then to the bar for more drinks and inane yabbling.

I end up with the pretty blonde one, who remarks on how nice it is that me and the boy were together for ages, then not, then are again. Yes. That does sound rather fucking nice I think, but this is a double date now, and the boy is busy chatting up the other man. We’re not together, I explain, imploring the boy to finally lay his balls on the bar and explain something to someone.

But no, a few jägermeisters later and there’s nothing to explain, as we fly off to another venue, skip the queue and take up residence on stage next to an awesome screaming trumpeter. I blab on about my non-sensical existence. I take one of the new men to the toilet, holding his hand. I chat to a jovial fatty about something or other, and my blog cards are all over the shop, and my wallet’s left on the table as we move on, yet again, to a last-chance establishment.

And there we blab more, and I realise I haven’t had the boy on my own all night. Yes, this night was another attempt to finally draw some kind of line under some kind of chapter in my life, and woe be gone nothing’s materialised. And suddenly one of the new men has gone home. And now there are three. Which is a far more complusive number.

I remember I was seeing a guy once, full-blooded phallus, empty-blooded brain, obsession with lollipops and japanese schoolgirls, who rammed me from dusk till dawn. A few stone lighter, three days later still in bed, he commented how he thought I could probably take on quite a few men. I asked him; honestly, how many? And he came up with an honest, if slightly ambitious number.

Six.

Six whole men. All for me……

Anyhoo. There’s only two here, and one of them is quite small, and one of them is a child, so it must be manageable…..

The blonde disappears inside to let some out, and I am left alone, at last, with the boy. And he tells me he’s off home soon. And it’s quite clear there’s no room at the inn for this magdalene, and he looks petrified, the poor lamb.

The blonde returns. The boy sits next to him to like a scavenging parasite, sorry, networker, and I desperately look for a way to corner him. COME ON! Just tell me to fuck off will you, so I can set about causing certain destruction elsewhere. But no. I see no other way, and plonk my stocky load upon his lap, full pelt. Even anaesthetised by the vodka and other tonics, I can feel his bony knees screaming to my fleshy arse, ‘go away, go away, hideous woman!’

So I let him go. What’s to lose?

Then there were two. Okay, this should be easy. The blonde is lovely. Bubbly and smiley, he knows me now - he’s been wedged in the front seat of the godiva express all night. I have a good old pre-menstrual moan about my terrible longing for what was never there; the scent of roses in the morning air.

And he’s got the horn. Scanning the desperate, late-night crowd, he picks out a shape which looks vaguely human. Her face looks like a spade, I say. He doesn’t care, he says. Near her is a fatty. A smiling, joking, fun fatty. She’d be up for anything, I suggest, but he’s up for the spade. The hideous spade.

I evade my glance as some kind of unparallel transaction fails, and we decide it’s best out of there. And there’s no way I know where my home is, so I’m going with him. The booze train takes us back to a high rise flat nearby and suddenly everything’s brightly lit. My brain, still dimly lit, turns me into some kind of manic machine.

I shriek around the flat, pointing at non-descript, generic up-with-the-joneses fixtures and fittings that the previous owners have inflicted upon the place. IT’S SO GAY! I keep yelling at everything.

There was a strange half-vibrating chair, broken by god-knows what, a guitar that seemed completely allergic to me, there were large glasses filled with brown potent liquid that I administered confusedly.

And there was godiva, the blonde, and the other one.

Jules et Jim, I think. Jules et Jim.

Again, time has slipped away and there’s no awake left in any of us. The blonde (jules) nips off, invariably for a drunken wank where you forget to be conscious half way through. And then there were two again.

I look at the sofa. It’s a gay reject of a leather squeaker. Everything’s too bright, there’s no way I’m sleeping in here. I look at jim. Words tumble out, and no thoughts follow.

‘I’mnotsleepingonthatgaysofa
i’msleepingwithyouinyourbedan
icantbebotheredtohavethisconversation’.

He laughs. He offers me the floor. Not fucking likely. I take all my clothes off save for my primark panties. I collapse.

And now it’s day. I’m not sure which day.

And now I’m nearly naked with this jim. In the light of a day. By proxy.

Proxy is good. He’s nearly naked too. I have no idea what time it is. I just know I’m not fighting right now, and judging by my inability to be vertical, I have definitely achieved my aim of getting completely rat-holed. And now I’m in a completely new space with a completely new person. And I like it. And he’s a musician. But not a child this time.

And we have a lot in common when it comes to important things such as mental illness and suicide, which is what most of my encounters seem to be based on nowadays.

And we spend the day together, me so riddled with toxins I can’t even look in a mirror, thank god for my poor eyes, and him, easy going and enjoying my demented company.

But as it gets to around teatime I look down at my costume for the day – ragged writer’s dress, bruised bare legs, oversized flip flops and boy’s sunnies, with a furry lesbian jacket and zebra bag, and realise that not only is my carriage about to become a fucking pumpkin, my ugly sister emigrated to australia two years ago and glass slippers don’t fucking exist.

We head back to his flat – I don’t appear to have many belongings anymore, and I think I’d better go and have a look round his gay laminate flooring. And as we are about to enter the hungover lift from hell, an unknown number calls me.

It’s some guy called james with the most feeble voice I’ve winced at in a long time. He’s calling from a bar. I realise he must have my wallet there! I tell him I love him. He goes silent. I tell him I’ll come and get it. I think he’s scared.

Only when I terminate the call do I wonder how he got my number. I realise he’s not the jovial fatty I imagined he was from the night before, and that to him I must be a monstrous stranger. A stupid stranger who leaves her wallet splayed open, blog and all, on the table in a crowded bar on a friday night.

Now it’s definitely time to leave. I bid farewell to the smiling, contented jules et jim, barking various imperatives at them as I stagger out of there. And into the bar to pick up my wallet. A nonchalant lump gets in before me looking for his keys defeatedly. No fucking chance. I barge through him, and present myself, stinking in my be-flip-flopped glory.

The feeble man from the blower looks at me passively. But I’m not going to explain to him. Oh no. He must know that this creature presenting herself before him can only be….

He reaches behind the bar and holds my wallet, the slight whiff of a question mark lingering between us. I open it. And then I see it. The calling card. The cursed card of cannes I use to get leery business men off my back and into a divorce suit with their wives. THAT’s how he knew who I was.

James the weak, meet godiva the rank. Best viewed in the dark after a bottle of turps.

Liked by artists, tramps and madmen alike, the world over.

Now chant it together; ladies, men, and infants:

Mmmmmmmmusisians……….Mwag x x

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For those who spotify:  http://Open.spotify.com/track/3ofD5S8sLXoPdnMgY4gIsO

And for those who don't (the video is not my fault):  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOaJlYY2Q9k

autumn brings the retrospective

Autumn brings the retrospective. Like a squirrel-woman with OCD, I clear out cupboards galore and try to hurl my unwanted baggage into distant memory. I find myself as I clear out my bureau – I find my old travelling notebooks full of poems and diary entries.

Poetry is, and always has been, my first love. But as adrian henri guiltily whispers to me:

You keep our love hidden
Like the nightdress you keep under your pillow
And never wear when I’m there

So I’ve published some poems on this site – scroll down on the left and see after ‘who the hell’. I hope you like them. And it is national poetry week, after all.

And I will be quenching my guilty thirst for the past, and will be publishing from time to time writings from that never saw air, that have been sorrowfully tucked up in damp drawers for far too long……

First up is a diary entry from udaipur in rajhastan, india.

My wife and I had been travelling together, (well mainly laying down actually, riddled with dysentery), and she had left me to my misadventures for a month. On the eve of her leaving, I sat upon a rooftop and starting endlessly scribbling away, with no blog at the time in which to plant my words. And here is what I wrote:

independence day

Start the tab.

Stop the clock.

What a difference a day makes.

Hot showers and mosquito cocktails await me.

A fresh page beckons me.

Loula has left me to return to the UK, smiling with love and joy. Mr mahuna from our overpriced hotel has curtly accepted my request for the use of his pool and dilapidated internet for the rest of my stay in udaipur, even though I am crossing to the other side to a far more fitting, crumbling haveli of an abode.

I walk over the bridge over dried-up water, singing to myself for wont of familiar culture:

‘as long as I gaze on, udaipur sunset…….’


‘welcome to the ‘otel panorama!’

This is my first of 38 days as a lone woman in a country full of confused men.. Seamstresses of men. I pop in to see one, and a pleasant mute fixes my jagged zip whilst his ageing father snores on the ground.

This is fresh inspiration:- the cool breeze in the morning, lazy days and as much uninterrupted masturbation as I can finger.

Viewing the world as beautiful, the horizons as endless, and pen and ink as my treasure trove.

No distractions, having to find my own fantasies.

Again, I go to the yoga ashram to find no yoga tonight. A quick chai saves me from certain deflation, and I head to mr mahuna’s pool for my customary sixty lengths, praying that the irksome lanky indian boy will have finished his desperate splashing and leave me alone in my watery world.

As I swim, the sky grows dark and the wind rises. If lightning strikes now…

But it doesn’t, and gaily swinging home commando under my ali ba-bas I have to reprimand a group of indian men, including my tailor and his dad, who are trying to make me bend over.

Another constant bystander ogles me,

‘look nice, like indian’.

Oh, what a shawl over the head can do for an arian.

Back at the ranch, I sit upon the roof, sipping hot milk coffee under the canopy shelter, and again the sky breaks.

The clouds swarm and the thunder roars.

Three months without relief of my beloved english rain, and the gods have answered my prayers:

on the eve of gangaur the sky breaks
the thunder comes and lightning strikes down
the lizards come to rest in my witches haven
the begrudging rain stubbornly falls upon the lake


with full but unsatisfied belly i sip my cinnamon milk
still only a thin layer of rain refuses to quench the arid wasteland
i can hope for more but settle for less.


uninterested humans stuff their holes, eyes not registering the transaction.
a mosquito declares battle with my covered body.
nearing drums and bells provide a dramatic soundtrack to the non-action.
periodically i repeat the mantra; 'do not force octopussy on me again'


and at last the rain thumps down upon the tin roof:


soothes our souls, saves our souls, cleanses our palates.

And to finish, an inspirational quote from my beloved Steinbeck, to help see you through this rainy windscreen of a week:

‘Men do change, and change comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.


Change may be announced by a small ache, so that you think you’re catching cold. Or you may feel a faint disgust for something you loved yesterday. It may even take the form of a hunger that peanuts will not satisfy. Isn’t overeating said to be one of the strongest symptoms of discontent? And isn’t discontent the lever of change?’

I think I’m getting a beret….xx

india: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVL3UzEhrIE&feature=related

or

rain: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6_7B9avI0c&ob=av3n

or

change: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pl3vxEudif8&feature=related

go, tell it on the mountain

Spain. Hot. Phwoargh; no more pasty faces, no more pastie faces, for that matter. Though the spaniards have been known to hog down a few carcasses of an evening. Jamon y queso all the way.

The transition from blighty to euroland is effortless enough. I manage to be completely manky for my trip, having sunk a vodka or six with monsieur henderson the night before at a magazine launch.

On the dazzling budget flight I have the pleasure of sitting with a herd of british idiots. One is definitely gay, though I don’t think he’s out, and the ample woman to my right shoulder plies me with cheap mint imperials and keeps shrieking ‘oo, I wanna wet me lettuce’.

A charming backdrop for my romantic gazing out at the mashed potato clouds, as my inflight, inhead transistor plays Paul Weller’s above the clouds…..

“Above the clouds, what's to be found
I have to wonder - will I be around
As my anger shouts - at my own self doubt
So a sadness creeps - into my dreams
When you're scared of living - but afraid to die
I get scared of giving - and I must find the faith to beat it”

And someone guffs very near my face. I shield myself from these heathens and pray that the bloke who keeps shouting daily mail jokes at me will disappear up his own flatulent arse. We are not amused. We are an artiste.

My phone tells me I am now a ‘movistar’, and the edge of reason crosses my mind – I ain’t no Bridget Jones, but I do always stop breathing whenever police are present, and though I packed my own bag, I have no idea what’s in there….

Border control let me in less a good frisking to my dismay, and I realise I have no map, instructions or compass, and pray that my famed aboriginal tracker instinct will kick in and won’t lead me into a dark forest of donkeys as history has had it….

I make it to the central train station, and head to the tourist info. Which is shut. I ask a nonchalant sweaty pig for a map but he just shrugs. I want the old town. Viaje? No, that’s journey. No bother, I set off using my tracker instincts, and find I have led myself towards the port. Once a sailor’s girl….And a heap of dodgy looking Vietnamese set me scuttling in the other direction. Which is a short cut. To nowhere.

I swig down some 17c warm water to avoid turning into dust, and stumble upon a quaint town map, that tells me I am here, and that the place of the virgin is somewhere near some trees. A bit of an extreme from sailor’s girl to virgin, I wobble off in a vague direction.

Fuck the virgin, there’s a quiet street café where I can write. The raging queen behind the bar informs me that the 3.60 special, advertised as available ‘todo el dia’, is only in fact available up to 2pm. So I ply myself with uht coffee, dismissing unlikely salesmen selling jingle-jangles, and thank Vishnu that body language is 80% of communication, as all I can muster right now is some scratchings of Hindi.

I catch the train to the countryside by a small miracle, and enjoy the wild landscape , which alternates in glorious european style, between expanses of mountain wilderness, hideous industrial outskirts, and villages from days gone by. I can sleep, the only babble being in catalan. Then a hideous englishman boards and bores the fishermans pants off his lady friend by musing upon who Les Dennis might actually be. They have the wrong tickets and the stern conductor gets his fire up. I do my best impression of a russian prostitute, (fairly convincing), and manage to keep him from severing my head in the name of the Queen.

I arrive in Tortosa, and my lively friends rock up, beers in hand, wind in their sails, freedom in their hearts, and the holiday has truly begun. At their solar-powered mountain ranch the sun sinks sleepily below the jagged horizon and we feast on ham, cheese and vino before drink-driving to the local village fiesta.

Now we’re not talking bestival here. We’re talking a difficult-to-find google image of a few confused women dancing with tea trays in handstitched 70s a-line skirts. Right up my avenida.

This time, we are denied access to the main event of the night; trestle tables adorned with food in colours according to your suburb. I am particularly horrified at the yellow table’s unidentifiable fried objects, and the poor local ceramicist who has dyed her hair baboon-orange, but has been allocated to the blue table. To eat blue food.

There being no room at the inn, we sit in the street at a local bar slurping free-hand vodkas with some other ex-pat outcasts.

It’s time to make our own fiesta, armed with some miscellaneous children, some olives so salty I develop rod-stewart cheekbones, and some help from a certain columbian friend…

Suddenly I am no longer in the darkening street framed by posters of bocadillos and julio eglesias, I am in a four by four, baby slung on lap, performing lines from a narcotic play…and when we emerge, alienated but hungry for the night, we are allowed into the abandoned hanger of a festival. The fruit of the looms have disappeared, as have the trestles, save for a few hepatitis-lined bottles of grappa and cava, which we purloin.

But rather than a chas n dave tribute band, which would have been equally as fun and more apt, we have a spanish ska band. Through my altered perception they are amazing. Suddenly we form a freakish troupe of blonde skankers, crazed looks on our dials, swigging second hand liquor and keeping a boggling eye out for the baby….

But as I start a conga, kickbox with some eighteen year olds and perform acrobatics with any man strong enough to hold me, the baby disappears from sight and we are three crammed into a rickety bog, locals aghast, baby in the mosh pit….

Still having not caused sufficient damage, we cram into another four by four down a dirt track, and carry on carnaging. At which point I start to feel a little sick. What’s wrong godiva? Can’t handle your class a, b, cs and ds anymore? Was it the fourteen hour viaje to get here? I switch on my phone as a plea for any kind of reality to hit me.

It does. It’s seven in the morning.

I am a twenty-four hour party person.

Thankfully my good companions burn out and we wind our way, stupefied, up the olive-covered mountain and truly finish ourselves off at the ranch with a dribbled philosophical debate on the purpose of life.

Which, according to me, is to form a union with any troubled soul who should call out to me, and to him is to buy up land with water for when the end really kicks in….

So the non-existent itinerary for the next few days, including the kickboxing match with five stallions I had arranged the night before, disappears further into the void, and instead I declare myself ‘aunty death’, and immerse my shaking, ageing body in vitamin d, nurturing my soul with hermaphrodite-drawing competitions and chorizo.

And the sun beats down, and we are without dongle, and the world floats off satisfactorily beneath us. And though I haven’t had a sufficient shit, there’s time to try. And the warm rays erase a comedown, and I love my friends, and from the mountain I never want to comedown.

So for six days I don’t. Not exactly soaking up the local culture, as the nearest neighbour is three miles away, but enjoying every drop of this simple life.

Alas, easyjet calls. At the train station the man informs us there are no trains the next day. There is a general strike. Like the one I narrowly avoided in france the week before getting here. Will this be another near-miss, or will we have to charge up the dongle and send apologies to my life that for the next few days there will be no life happening.

I would like to pretend that I was enraptured with the news, but the truth of the matter is I couldn’t be bothered with that degree of change after watching time stand still save for the drift of a few falling petals for the last week.

The autobus saves us. I am to leave tonight and stay in valencia. Adventure. That’s more like it.

Although not a cheap ticket to ride, the clientele on this bus needs a lot of help to be desired. Using my survival skills, and armed with a ham and cheese baguette, I sit next to a man whose prostrate has dropped significantly low enough to have a wee problem rather than a libido of any kind, and I dream and I dream out of the window.

This is even more awesome than the train journey, and as the sky blackens I gaze out at the silhouetted mountains and dream of being among them, with nothing but time on my side.

I stave off the temptation to realise that my bladder is near to bursting, and we stop at a place called castillo, where the bus terminates. This is not valencia. I garble in spanglish at the driver, who, in true public transport fashion, shrugs at me but indicates haphazardly that the bus shall be travelling on. Can I have a cigarette, I ask? He looks extremely disapprovingly at me. But I’d heard his ‘cinqo minutos’ at another passenger and repeat this to him, my head swelling up with pride that I have not been deterred by the barrier of language.

But unfortunately, the man loitering behind me has also heard, and follows me off the bus. He starts cooing slimily at me. I move away. I snarl, ‘ingles’, he says that I speak spanish though don’t I? For the wont of a more mediterranean expression, I opt for what I thought was a universal one, and growl ‘fuck off’ at him. But it doesn’t work. ‘BYOOTIFUL’. He says. Now, I’m all for women’s lib, but this ain’t it. The slimy fucker. Where’s the old man who smells of piss when you need him?

Well he’s back on the bus, but now three other old men who smell of piss approach me from the other side. Like a twisted, boosh-esque lambada, they encircle me. I can’t be arsed to find out what they are actually pretending to want, and skedaddle sharpishly back onto the bus. It seems no assault course in india can numb me from the perils of sexism, and I make a mental note to burn my bra. And strap my tits down.

I arrive at the hostile bus station in valencia at around ten pm. Having purloined a map at last, I plan to walk like a true brigadier to my prebooked residence. But even I am not stupid enough to risk dodging the unsavoury characters that belay me, and I get in a cab. And the fat fucker behind the wheel is not willing to understand my catalan. Or my map. I repeat words endlessly and hope we aren’t driving to my demise, and suddenly nearing the hostel he understands me. It’s not ‘HO ME’, it’s ‘HO ME’. Well that’s a lesson learnt……..

Yes, dear readers, a distinguished lady such as myself had vowed never again to stay in a hostel, but with twenty euros to my name I succumb. Will it be a repeat of the last time I stayed in a bedbug-ridden dorm with a stunted goblin monkey swinging into my bed to spoon-rape me, I wonder?

I gingerly ask how much a single room is. No singles. A double room? No. Six, twelve or sixteen-bed dorms only. I take my starched linen and enter room 32. A bald man suddenly sits bolt upright in the dark and mumbles canadian at me about the only spare bunk being above him. I wonder if I’ll flash my nether-regions at him from betwixt my be-moo-mooed legs, and try to disguise my horror at this mixed-sex modernity.

I go downstairs to write; the promise of a roof terrace quashed as it shut at ten pm. Outside the front I am taken hostage by hostel-dwellers. A grolsch-voiced dutchman informs me that the national strike tomorrow will affect all transport including aeroplanes, and that I’d do well to book myself in for another night here as spaces are filling up. Not with the consumption to withstand enforced panic, I abandon the writing session and wait for a free computer.

And I’m forced to take part in a deranged game of pictionary-charades, where, being the only english native, I keep winning by mistake.

I check my hotmail. I’m not ready for the seventeen facebook messages and mundane, evil chores that hotmail demands of me, and I wonder whether the lack of dongle for the past few days was an oversight.

There’s a message from easyjet a few days before saying I should change my flight. Horror sets in – how many nights will I be forced to lay awake on a soggy mattress waiting for the teenage maladjusted to clonk in from their late-night sangria sessions?

Well, one, as it turns out. No problema. And despite being the only female in the room, I sleep easy, borrow toothpaste the next morning and head to the roof terrace for some final sunsoaking and a discussion on east berlin, pre-wall.

And I know how much I love travelling. And I don’t care if it’s escape. I just want to stand for myself in my own context, surrounded by the unknown.

And I find my way home smiling, with no problems and a near-empty plane.

And I want this feeling to last. But as we touch down a grey sky awaits me, and as I switch on my phone reality bites me. And as the rain pelts upon me like acid from nuclear fallout, I wonder how I’m going to survive this holocaust.

And I wonder if I should follow the sun…...

Godiva went over the mountain, Godiva went over the mountain
Godiva went over the mountain, to see what she could see……….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90u1IV4dw8o

The ex factor - featuring the ex men and the ex ex

What the holy moly has occurred?

Since I caterpaulted ‘all by myself’ to the world, every ex this inside of the M25 corridor and beyond has emerged from their hermit’s shell to show me their hairy underside.

In fact, there’s probably at least a two fist’s worth reading right now.

Hello boys.

Please don’t let this public airing deter you from your flailing plight.

I have found this rather curious. Since I’ve been spreading the word about this blog, the ex men have been forthcoming. It has crossed my deluded mind that it could be BECAUSE of the blog.

Have all of the men that passed me by, that I slung under the bridge, or that I thought I buried, finally GOT me? And now they want to get me?

Have they finally understood that the ‘closed book’, ‘tough bitch’ façade is actually the awesome front. And I don’t go out back, as you all know……..

That what there is to see here is a straightforward, impatient sex pest who wants not to be honoured, but obeyed and adored?

So I’ve got some men lined up on my bunsen burner. Burn, baby, burn, there ain’t no disco but I’ve got an inferno willing and able to be all-consuming. (cit. god)

Like a stack of dominos ready to floor.

Saving up my sexual energy until it burns so brightly that no odd-shaped phallus or peculiar accent will deter me from getting laid. Trying to build up an armour so that I don’t suddenly break down in the middle of an oral session, shouting GUTTED! GUTTED!

I thought I’d use afaux-holistic method to aid me in my quest.

In the corner of my bedroom, (the love corner according to old chinese masters),
is a small glass objet filled with rizlas. Very romantic, you might think.

And on these rizlas are written a series of names. I am ‘the collector’. I add to it daily. I walk about town stumbling into various sparks from the past, and something in them is drawn to my aching soul, and in return, they go in me sorbet pot. (Oh palate, be cleansed). I’ve taken care to ensure not EVERY cock out there goes in, as we don’t want to get an injury from the adage ‘be careful what you wish for’ camp, do we now?…..

The rizla chart, (in no particular order – not a chart really, is it?! Let’s do bullets instead):

• Neanderthal man.
• Ex-boyfriend from when I was 21. Still has own teeth. Hopefully still has the same genitals. Seen sniffing round me at my birthday party by cunning loiterer.
• Facebookers talking about bending me over, which include a now-married ex from my homeless days sending phwoarghs over the cyberwaves from new zealand, (thank you by the way), and the dutch tranny from india having a craic at a joke, (israeli men, hallelujah).
• The dealer from earlier this year. Stomping t’wards me in the street pointing in my oblivious face. Smackering my lips up and telling me I look good. I, completely bewildered after my ‘focussing’ meditation session, reacting by turning and making the universal sign of the ancient telephone and mouthing ‘call me’. Hideous, I must throw out those friends scripts. Has since texted me saying I need a spank. I do. Maybe not from him, though.
• Music producer. Groping.
• Film director. Staring.

And the newest entry, (who thank god, won’t be reading this YET), is possibly in at number one.

Walking over the railroad bridge, (oh PLEASE grant me an american-english license), hardcore and stacked in my fighting gear, I run smack bang into the cheeky playboy who used to front my brother’s band. His mate hides a DVD under his arm - ‘hot tub babes’.

The new specimen is sexy, shifty, has great presence, and would be an awesome and easy good lay I imagine. He sprogged one out with a Louise Redknapp looky-likey in her eternal days.

He kisses me, leaving cheap whore’s boudoir scent all over my soon-to-be-pumped body.

‘You look like you could cause some serious damage’, he says. That’s not the half of it, I think.

I say I’ll facebook him, and he yells his ridiculous lady-of-a-name across the bridge at me so I can look him up.

I facebook him. Apparently, he is looking for ‘random play’. Can do, my friend, can do.

And I have also been keeping up the home front with some new conscripts:

I have managed to command a whole bistro into a stunned and awesome silence by demanding that the barman pleasure me in some way, (red wine in a bloody mary?! I demand more) -: this shortly before conducting a war of credit cards belonging to two potential suitors, hands everywhere, (I forgot I had an arse for a few weeks).

We exited the bar three abreast, one man in each hand, but none in my bush.

I sleptwalked to co-op with no knickers on and got chatted up by a buff chav by chicken cottage. I was a beautiful sight to behold, apparently: hair unwashed for four days, mckenzie blim-burned baggies and flip-flops all on splendorous show. Whatever turns you on, honey. I’m yours.

But still I have ingested no cigar. And I want one, but I don’t want a half-smoked bum-end that’ll give me nothing but a clap-cough.

So I’m sticking to my latest mantra; ‘you only wank twice’.

And I’m hoping that I don’t get to the desperado point and sink a few mingers, but that I’ll come to my senses before they become inundated with mismatched hormones, and teabag a good ‘un instead…..

And if there be no horn of plenty, I’ll stick to my mantra till there is.

‘Oh the cum on the sheets is all mine, all mine, the cum on the sheets is all mine’.

sweet tuesday

Ah, sweet tuesday! What a day!
I dress in my pre-conceived lady’s costume – a dark-patterned shift dress, shock-whore primark tights, high heels with glue coming off the soles, a boyfriend (ha!) cardigan and some knock-off shades from the lloyds pharmacy. And a bra. Of course. My lady costume, my woman-in-drag.

I mean to visit the dentist down the road, who I leap about with on Monday nights at the open mic, and who used to be in Queen, to sort out me railings, but a forty wanksworth, strums and cursors later and I’m having to get a shifty on for my one o’clock.

Yes. My one o’clock.

Glory be, I am a writer! Poor, destitute and misunderstood. A writer.

Colvich calls for a ladies’ coffee. I decline. I have a one o’clock. Then my one o’clock calls and leaves a message. It’s going to be a one-thirty o’clock. Far less fucking catchy I think you’ll agree.

And though I’ve sacked off the rock star dentist I will not let time defy my new-found persona, so I jig my mental diary and decide to pay a visit to that well-famed establishment: le primarche. To buy tights. Without holes in the crotch.
I have light-grey ribbed numbers in mind, a bit convent-girl-cum-sensible-Kensington type tights.

I walk in. The security guard looks at me - I don’t belong. Thank god, (did I mention I’m religious?) I head upstairs to find that the hosiery section is actually by the ‘customer serving area’ downstairs. Still undefeated by this moroccan abattoir of a place, I join the long queue. Last time I did this I got sandwiched between an ex-client of mine, (no, not one of THOSE), and an ex flat-mate; physically challenged, mentally deranged, and a downright pain in the non-proverbial arse.

Not this time.

Instead, a deaf girl straddles the queue like a deranged donkey, and stands at my left shoulder, hyperactively yabbering at me that her mum will be home soon so she must get to London Road, and will this god-awful plastic-wrapped polyester travel bag fit in the overhead lockers on a non-existent american plane?

‘Should be fine’: I desperately attempt to dampen and thwart.

But she doesn’t stop. Obviously a regular bearded lady at this festival of freaks, she harasses everyone in the queue whilst I desperately search for my holy grail. The schoolgirl tights. Of which there are none, of course. Disturbed and breathless, I grab a two quid pair of 80 deniers. They are hideous, but hide they will in the cupboard for a couple of years, a decade or so.

Shaken but not stirred by my bystander’s ordeal, I get to the checkout. I receive a text. From the Neanderthal.

‘hello x’.

For frigs sake, what IS this? My ex-flatmate who knocked up the next girl who moved in, that’s who. The one that I let not enter me, but massage me with mango stones we had slurped upon. The one who now lives in nowheresville with the girl who moved in, with two offspring.

The one who facebooked me, and I simply replied, ‘that’ll teach you to wear condoms’.

I laugh, and the lady at the till looks at me enquiringly.

‘It never rains, does it?’ I say curtly, hoping she’ll mechanically digest my comment, sedated by her besludged primarched brain cells.

‘Oh dear love, hope your day gets better’.

‘No, no’, I quip. ‘I’m just not sure what these people WANT from me, you know?’ *wink* She shrieks. It appears I appeal to a wider audience these days.

As I turn to haughtily scarper someone calls my name. It’s only bloody colvich in the queue! And I’ve got half an hour…….

I wait outside. I text the Neanderthal back saying I’m busy. Colvich and I bribe the bootmakers into giving us a cheap deal, then plonk ourselves down for a cheap filter coffee and shared sarnie (what a rank word).

We talk about universal vibrations - not of the purple pulsating kind - how the vibrations you transmit to the ethos will attract back the very same.

Hence the ex men jumping out at me from all frigging corners. Hence the creative bursts, like economy sausages splitting when fried . Wonderful.

My one-thirty arrives. He calls me whilst I’m in the chapel of slump and asks if I am doing a dump. I say I am. He tells me my hair is so dry it’s going to catch fucking fire if I don’t do something about it. I tell him he smells of milk. He does.

All the best men do (used to think it was too many cups of tea).

We have a brief but mystifying literal exchange, shake on some deadlines, then he has to leave to visit someone who’s dying of cancer.

We trot up the street together arm in arm. He asks me if it still feels like walking through soho with my dad. I say no. I say it feels like, it feels like walking in the world: two super human-beings.

I head to mr fish’s studio to ask for his help in knifing a portrait, but it’s shut. What now? The library, of course, you arrogant writing tit. You blogging bastard. I look for pahalniuk. They only have a copy of Lullaby that looks like someone’s wiped a years-worth of bogeys, done a massive guff on, wiped up their spunk with, and hurled under an Indian bus, and I decide there’s enough stains on my carpet as it is.

I like this new lady godiva, artist-in-residence, nonsense.

It all started with a drunken tarot reading – the fool in the past, the creator in the present, and the woman with one tit out in the future. Yes. The queen of wands. Or godiva, if you think about it.

My wife explains its witchety meaning: apparently it’s the choice between acting like a cheap tart or becoming a lady. Lady godiva.

And to the world’s wonderment, I’m headin straight t’wards that second option.

I test out the theory formed after my ‘focussing session’ with mistress white the tai chi guru. I say that although we dress all blokey so we can squirm about in the mud, people still stare at us because we’re those people nutters love.

I ruse how perhaps they stare at my tracksuit bottoms because actually, it’s more normal to wear a skirt. I say how maybe if we dress like ladies we’ll be ignored. (They actually stare at me in my tracksuit bottoms because my greedy buttocks keep peeping out).

Well………..the slack/skirt theory remains unproven, I’m afraid.

Several men wobble off their bikes at the sheer sight of me in my get-up.

A strapping american basketball player stands with his mouth open, gawping at me strutting along the promenade in the sun.

He speaks:

‘Now, THERE goes a pretty lady’.

What is this, fucking Oklahoma?

‘You’ve made my day’.

‘Thanks’, I smirk back.

Suddenly he turns desperado:

‘Actually, have you got a minute’.

‘No. Sorry’, I say.

And I haven’t: I have to read the erotic review, have a wank, then beat the shit out of a room full of testosterone-fuelled animals. Sorry!

Shortly after this I have to cross the road to avoid two moustachioed men blocking my path.

I’m wondering if they know I’ve got peacock’s leopard-print pants on under my frock, and that the tights I’m wearing have a hole so big in the crotch another tiny rip would bring me to my knees…

And as I’m thinking this – (it’s not the first time - I remember walking down zombie alley in some short-shorts once, thinking the punters were getting an eyeful, when in fact I had all my clothes on inside out, labels and all), someone has the generosity to lean out of their car window and shouts,

‘nice tights’.

Oh fuck. It’s the hole in the tights, isn’t it? What the hell do I look like from behind in the glaring sunlight?

Oh bloody hell, has my crotch-hole wormed it’s way into view?

This ain’t no lady! It’s a walking advert for incontinence pads.

I rush into my spaceship. I clamber onto the side of the bath, the only way to see below the waist in a mirror.

And it’s fine.

There is no hole. (There was no blanket).

Nada. Hola. (ever the linguist) Nada. Blanket. (cit. derek and clive)

Yes. Ever the cunnilinguist….

And ever a lady who knows how to work a good pair of pantyhose..…….Gx

something for the weekend….

I decided that as part of my rehabilitation programme I should go to London to hook up with my Cannes-partner. He knows me well, and knows nothing of the boy.

I stop off at the world’s end co-operative supermarche to buy some plonk and am delighted to be surrounded by other crawling insects ravaging through the reduced ready meals. These chelsea chavs are the best in the world – an eastern european wears a kappa tracksuit with some gang name written on the back, and carries a small wide-eyed human. Out of my spaceship and into the void…..

I crack open the vino immediately. I mix it with soda in the pretence it will err a hangover. I haven’t had a drop since ‘see you next tuesday’ or ‘maundy wednesday’ for that matter. It goes to my head. It goes to my brain. It goes to my legs. A few hours later and I’m in a delirious whirlwind of confusion in a local drinking establishment. You couldn’t write it. The guests at our table are the following:

• Two Glaswegian make up artists and their dog. I tell them about jimmy who was also a Scottish make-up artist. Who hung himself. Cheery.
• Some bald-headed creature blurting out Melinda Messenger at me. Unwise.
• A strange delicate but drunk old lady and her family. Quaint.

Woah, this is a hardcore homecoming. We go back to tim-na-nas for copious random amounts of booze. Colvich and the tonemeister turn up for the craic. We yabber about my party and my blog, and suddenly they’re gone. And some new conscripts stagger in through the front door as colvich and tone disappear out the back. Who’ve we got this time? Extremely drunk people. I vulture on a few of them; and as I have no idea what language is, let alone what I’m saying, my attack is preyless.

And the rest of the night is a bit of a blur, and not of the tender kind. Puking was involved, as were failed acrobatics. Somehow I managed to have a shower, get into my moo moo and half-make the sofa bed. And pass out. That was the easy bit. Some time later I feel my right calf completely seize up into a crampic spasm, and I’m so pissed I don’t wake to sort it out.

I turn to my right and there’s someone on the sofa with me, saying, ‘I shouldn’t stay’, and other various deluded ramblings. Fucked, I opt for the old ‘it’s alright babe, it’s alright’ (last uttered whilst pissing in someone’s doorway delirious on mdma).

And it’s the morning. And my innards break and my womb-lining lunges spurting forth. And I’m not sure of my name or how I got here.

The kings road is a familiar place for me in this state. I love the poshness mixed with the wonkiness of the horse-bred folk that frequent it, and have my own special trot. There’s a juncture with my mother’s maiden name and married names as streets either side. I feel good here.

I canter into boots to buy some compacted cotton wool to stick up my plethora, and go to the till, proud of my soon-purchases. I demand attention. A beautiful dark-skinned creature emerges from out back, beautiful wide smile, big eyes, suit. He doesn’t seem to be able to work the till, but by God, he does a good job of working me.

And I sing to myself in a distracted, ship’s-skivvy kind of way.

‘you’re deep in tune’. He says.

‘you what?’ I say.

‘deep in tune, I’m trying to work out what you’re singing’.

‘Bonnie Raitt, can’t make you love me’, I pipe back.

‘Oh, I thought it was singing in the rain!’

So he’s completely uncultured but willing to have a go. Excellent. A perfect specimen for the job. I educate him on the awesome film, of which all he knows is that ‘it’s old isn’t it?’ and I demonstrate the sloshing tap dance for him excitedly up and down the aisles. Not bad seeing as I was just trying to plug a hole.
This reminds me of the time I cautioned my friend that if she played ‘lord of the dance’ at her wedding I would gallop up and down the pews lifting my hideous lilac skirts. I think we ended up with ‘make me a kennel with your fleas’. Or was it fleece? I don’t remember.

I move onto another establishment where the ladies go to hide their loneliness and spend on credit cards that lurk in their subconsciousness. The shop assistant is a young chav. But a fit one. I force him to help me. He invites me to a special evening. I decline as I’m not a local, but this second booster is making me feel a million miles from my lonely attic by the sea.

People pass by, they’ve got their troubles, I’ve got mine, but we appreciate it’s okay to be a human. In Chelsea. A few art books and a mocha later and I decide it’s time to venture over the river to my beloved Johnny London. I shan’t be having a drink, of course…..

Now the Borough is an awesome place. But it’s real, and I’m planning on getting the cranky misfits bus from sloane square to elephant. Which is a bit of a come down. I get to the bus stop and run – it’s a Sunday but the bus is there! Now it’s gone…..No bother, I’ll keep on wanderin like the hobo I am. I wonder if my oyster is loaded, but I can’t face any more transactions today, so chance it.

I keep on walking. Past ‘John King’ antiques in Pimlico to Buckingham Palace Road. To get the other chavvie bus that will drop me at the end of my old road. Plan.

It’s windy, yes even in London it’s windy, and I’m not sure if it’s this that’s making my eyes leak. I decide to take advantage of a bit of weather and turn it into a ‘woe is me’ weep. And after ten minutes or so the bus comes. A girl in a lovely dress gets on, and I think I’ll tell her how lovely she looks. But I’ve got to get past the scary Chinese bus driver first.

I get my oyster card out. I bleek it. The light remains red. I look at mr driver. He’s not budging. I get my wallet out. There’s 31p. I look, imploringly this time, at the driver. He stares at me steelily and shrugs.

‘I, I haven’t got any money’, I stammer. He shrugs again. And before I turn with my tail between my legs and exit the bus, a large glob of boo-snot drips from my nose onto the floor. As I stare at the driver dejectedly. How low can you go?

Undeterred by this should-be humiliating experience, I walk to Victoria, stick some cash on my oyster and waste time waiting for the next bus, whilst the person I’m visiting wheels it up to the backstreets of Shoreditch to score. An epic journey. I cry romantically, staring out of the window as I used to do when I was five and projecting along to sir Clifford. At one point I’m more or less in the lap of the larger lady beside me. Oh how sweet it is to wallow in London where no one knows your name.

And I wonder whether I’ll be morose and emotional for my Johnny tonight?

Not a chance. A bottle of cava and some green later and we’re off. Into a creative carcrash with the wonder that is garageband.

He’s written a song, mock-donna summer, called discoeey7, which we quickly rename discojam. What a godawful name. To match a godawful song. I gratingly wail ‘sexy boy, I want sex boy’ over the top of the 80s uplifting groove as he growls ‘sex on demand, sex on demand’. And then we splutter for a bit and stop recording.

It is a fucking wreck. We delete it, knowing that although we couldn’t face our failure ever again, it would have been priceless in the morning.

After another pass-out it’s bank holiday monday. We spend it flatly, dining on overpriced urban eggs served by a jaundiced bulgarian. We head uptown to soho to look for guitars, finding the shops all shut. We neck a quick vodka in the street and visit noel fielding’s art exhibition at maison berteaux. We came here once before, and left running with a certain kleptomaniac and original canvas to boot.

This time there’s a room full of homage to Bryan Ferry, and protruding from the wall is a painting that stops me dead in my contented tracks. It’s a tiger. The boy loved them. And it’s called ‘tyger with chlamydia’, and the tiger wears boots and says ‘shit off’.

That evening I’ve scored myself a gig. With some amazing irish musicians I used to beatbox with back in the day. We meet at the local pub we’re playing in and after a few buckets of wine it’s my turn to croon. I honk out ‘black is the colour’ in anti-traditional rusps. The audience stare, and ask me who exactly’s version is that? Johnny scarpers. Godiva drinks more port.

And when we’ve warmed up we do well. The old drunk at the bar pipes out ‘where do you go to my lovely’ for the 942nd time this year. The owner joins in. A small midget-like man in a suit strums ingeniously on the ukele and we ooze along with him in glorious celtic technicolour.

And suddenly it’s half-two in the morning. And me and the mighty quinn are standing bedazed waiting for her nightbus that will surely become a minicab without a fairy godmother.

And I’m standing on the corner of my old street, with the lamplights running low and the skyscrapers omitting moody green light over the pavement. And I remember that this is where my lover once left me, smiling and waving, for the last time before he hung himself.

And I stagger off to bed, seeking respite in the warped mattress where me and the boy joyously ejaculated a few months before.

And I ask my saviour, the lord Johnny, to redeem my soul. And he tells me,

‘yes, you did fuck him in that bed, but you also fucked a hell of a lot of other people in that bed’.

And with that, I resolve to not fuck myself up too much more:- a bright, garagebandless morning awaits me and my new life beckons….

maundy wednesday......

Thought I was fine today, maybe a bit come-downy. Went to work. Did some extremely subdued tasks. Got a pissed off email from a mate who I’d blogged about. Semi-sorted it. Low level. Sadness pervading through the office from my mighty gills. A sudden flurry of people telling me I look beautiful on facebook. Which obviously, makes me profoundly sad. The beans on the toast in the park in the rain. Arrange to flee to London town for the weekend to get away from it all.

Nearly meet a friend. Get a lift to tescos in the rain with a cheery girl from work. Where did she get that serotonin? Not fricking tescos, that’s for sure.

Bought a few limp cancerous low fat ready meals to eat cold in the middle of the night, and stooped home.

Not fine. Not fucking fine at all. Winter has come and I am holed up in a squirrel’s nest. I know: I’ll treat myself, I’ll suppress my ADHD long enough to watch a film. Picture fucking perfect. Yes, that’ll cheer me up.

Wailing. WAILING. WAAAAAAAAIIIIILING.

I am Jack’s wailing mess (cit. Pahalniuk).

How dare a man hold a woman in that way? There is something wrong with me. Split up with a teenager and watch a Jennifer Aniston ‘movie’ in my tracksuit bottoms? Who will love me now? WHO? I’m reminding myself of that little blonde munchkin from big brother, you know the one. Miniature with ridiculous gesticulation. What a beautiful re-incarnation.

So I get stoned and write instead. And here I am; everytime the phone goes it’s someone random texting me something strange. Not a lithe mischievous young creature telling me he wants to rip my clothes off.

I’m fluctuating at the moment between fucking someone for the sake of it, (note I don’t have to say fucking someone ELSE anymore), and being a barren depressed fat stoned spinster.

In the moments of ‘hope’ for a new horizon I realise I need to get my backlog out. I had remarked several times to friends that I needed to think who to fuck now that I knew the curtain was slowly slipping down.

Here’s the latest one:

• Desperate agoraphobic. Big cock, stupid shallow style. Extremely cheap thrills.
• Ex-boyfriend from years ago. Wallow in sepia goo.
• Wine me up man. Mmmmmmm.
• Dodgy arse-obsessed French man – brother of the groom and best man. Shallow, immature, smooth, brown, sexy. Just moved to London.
• Keep desperately trying to claw at the young man in the hope he might black out at some point and I can attack him.
• Music producer. A new entry in at number six. Not sure his records have got that high in the charts, (not that they have charts these days).
• Random. Most likely disappointing. Feelings of pain and anguish. What no text.
• My finger. Makes me want to cry.
• The vibrator I bought so I wouldn’t fuck someone when the boy was away. (being sandwiched between two young music producers from Coventry with a tongue in my mouth and a cock poking me from behind doesn’t count does it?). As mentioned before, I believe, you wouldn’t know how disgusted I am with that thing.

By the way, just played a game on facebook: ‘who does it look like I’ve fucked but I haven’t, and who have I actually fucked but wish I fucking hadn’t?’ It’s fun, you should try it, Godiva’s back in town. And I’ve a sudden craving for meat….and winds of frickin change is on my itunes, (opium-induced moment in Laos made me buy the Scorpions).

What did I love about him? His gangly ways, that’s what. His inability to shut up and his comfortableness with that. Our ability to mouth words at each other that neither bothered to absorb.

Side by side. The lion and the lamb. The dragon and the snake.

see you next tuesday.....

Two weeks after the initial and ineffectual ‘dumping’ text, it’s time to finish this thing off and face the silence. I wait till 11.30am. I text him to say we have to meet today to close the chapter.

I go out to buy some hideous-smelling foam cleaner with which to try and frantically eradicate the stain he made on the carpet. Fucking great. Got to stare at that forever. The red wine spilt at half four in the morning when I think I’m about to get it but actually he’s about to disappear from my life forever. The stubborn stain I cannot remove, no matter how much I pretend it doesn’t exist.

I go to the seafront, bumping into a friend. We dine on beans on toast and chat. My soul is empty but my lily is open. It’s nice. Then at 2.30pm the boy texts back to say ‘sure thing’. Oh how cheery this whole affair is, how deep, how meaningful. What a lovely ‘sure thing’.

4.30pm comes and I boldly board the 49 bus to the park and choose a spot in the sun. To the left some young girls are talking about some shitty art project featuring themselves. They sound so young and pointless. I realise it’s the gangly frickin model he tried to fuck that turned him down. I’m not moving. They pilfer some rizla off me, not quite clocking I am the paedophile rumoured to be interfering with a rock star, and disappear.

He calls - he can’t find me! I’m next to the path, near the busker. I find it hard to explain, then I see him, like a mirage, right in front of me. I hear him in my ear. A sensory delight. Double jeopardy. He sits.

And, would you predict it, yet more mundane chat. Oh god.

I’d reduced my speech in my head to something like this:

‘I want to be your friend. I believe in you. But I can’t see you, because if I do, I need to be with you physically.’

Rubbish, but hopefully to some point.

Instead, I blurt some flimsical waffle about the fact we haven’t pissed each other off, and I don’t want to start resenting him when I see him, or think of him as a wanker (I think his condom consumption confirms he seldom needs to wank).

His response? Oh, I’ll know about his band through facebook. Fuck-his-face book.
And that he was going to say pretty much the same thing to me. How fricking convenient. I think the truth of the matter is, whatever I said pretty much, he would have ‘said the same’. Either ‘the same’ is his standard break-up speech, or we are extremely well-aligned; in which case, where are my oats?

And that’s about it. Mundane waffle recommences. Ninners from my party suddenly appears, half cut. Time for more party gossip. Unaware that she is witnessing the most ineffectual break-up of the decade, she says how great the party was. I asked if I kissed her.

‘yes, but no tongues’.

Oh, I explain. I kissed someone I shouldn’t have but have no idea who……

‘Kate’.

Shit! She wasn’t even on my list! Well at least SOMEBODY’s giving me some answers.

A decidedly dodgy hare Krishna in his garb drags a poor young boy behind him droning. My attempts to lure them over are thwarted.

And the boy saunters off to work, his gangly legs and horse-like gait already like silhouettes of memories.

He turns: ‘We should do open mic soon’.

Erm, yes, give me a few days to write some bitter and twisted songs and I’d love to join you.

I CAN’T SEE YOU AGAIN BECAUSE I NEED TO FUCK YOU. What part of this doesn’t he understand? Oh, all of it, because I might just have forgotten to say any of it.

Kickboxing saves me from another half bottle of whisky. And the adrenalin produces some pretty interesting hormonal takes on the relationship. Streak of piss, bit like a girl, never gave me anything anyway. Hasn’t left much inside me. Oh, come inside me. That’s the gist.

He only talks about himself. He’s shit with his emotions and communicating them. He’s juvenile. He’s incapable of having a relationship. He can barely feed himself.

Well that makes two of us – bingo?!!

Delete. Erase. Deny. Fuck my ex. Write. Become religious. Eat chips.
Wank.

The telly tells me to smear Philadelphia on everything and I’ll suddenly have a sickeningly sweet relationship with a mature, airbrushed, plastic man.

George Harrison sings ‘my sweet lord’ to me, and as I seriously think about going to a church to redeem myself, the speakers blow.

Still not in god’s good books then……as my sister kindly pointed out in last years’ birthday card. Was it ‘the anal sex song’ that did it I wonder, or the new tune I’m penning: ‘Jesus, come inside me’? I wonder……

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0AUHWdTT9M

Sunday bloody Sunday......

So, if you read the last entry you may remember that I left you after the wine shop and before ingesting the wine. Party for one. Must stay up till midnight strikes and I can leave the last year behind….well I shouldn’t have gone to the wine shop. I remember looking half a bottle of red down and knowing this probably wasn’t such a good idea. I roll a fat one. I honk on the guitar. Everything is sprawled out on the floor. I ring duke and interrupt an intimate moment whilst shrieking a country version of ‘que sera’ at him.

I decide to publish a blog at midnight. Even with one eye completely squeezed shut (the eyelashes are growing back, thankfully), I can’t actually see the words I’m posting on the world wide web.

But a girl needs some satisfaction. So I post. I proudly tell everyone on facebook also that I have posted. I also go status-mad, a sure sign that a girl’s been dumped. You know the ones, suddenly they’re telling ‘the world’ (but hoping their ex sees and him alone), that they are gutted, broken, crawling the walls, licking the floor. The sequence went as follows:

Godiva is dangerously close to blogging her fingers off for the next three hours (no euphemism intended). wine me up had come up top trumps as usual. oh red wine, wash over and subdue me........9.41pm

Godiva has been literarilily (like it?) constipated. enema administrated....

av it

Then a youtube of Grizzly Bear’s two weeks….11.02pm

Godiva: ‎1800 words.....how many blogs to split into?! (so far...)11:29pm

Godiva: okay. published. next one tomorrow. get on it. 12.14am

This was followed by two youtubes, curtis mayfield ‘keep on keepin on’, followed by hayseed dixie’s ‘you shook me all night long’. Stanley vitte likes this. Thumbs up. 12.39, and 12.44, respectively.

Like I said. Party for one. Oh, but it didn’t end there. What would be the ultimate treat for ms godiva? Orgasm. God damn it, I’m gonna show that vibrator who’s boss. Conquer the beast. Let its rubbery walls not break me.

Oh dear. I try to get horny first, yes that’s a good idea before you try and ram a nine inch pulsator up you. I get the lube the smear nurse gave me out and slather it all over. I have an unconvincing wank. I get it and switch it on somehow (I spent a frantic ten minutes trying to prise the goddam battery compartment open in the kitchen. A recommended way to get to know your ‘toy’ I believe). Maybe I should write romantic novels?

Anyway. It’s time for the point of entry. Easy does it girl, that’s it girl, easy does it. I wince. I get it somewhere. It’s horrid. I get the clit bit in the right position, ramming the purple monster deeper in.

I fucking hate it. I pull it out and fling it across the room, lube a-flying. I never want to see that waste of forty quid again.

Hmm, maybe that’s how I should see my relationship with the boy.


Monday bloody Monday……………..

I awake. It’s my birthday. There’s lube all over the shop. There’s the purple beast in the middle of the carpet. I am alone. I appear to be vaguely intact. It’s my birthday. Hm.

What do I do? Cleaning. Meet up with duke, and depress each other out of our heads. Go home. Maybe a sleep will help, (or maybe a text from a certain little someone? No chance).

Then I get trussed up like a forlorn turkey and make my way to my wife’s for rehearsal and certain cake.

I get to my wife’s. I am a dreary mess. They play happy birthday to me as I come in and there’s a cake all lit and ready for bulimia. It depresses me. The poor sods, obviously also quite depressed, set grins on their faces like grimacing masks.

BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY! BIRTHDAY!

I’ll saw off my belly button when I get home, I didn’t get born.

Love it, three people with heartache in a room gobbling cake. A mighty celebration.

My wife suggests we just go to hell with it and sings the blues at our gig tonight. The only blues I can think of requires me to play slide and I can’t. What a useless piece of shit I truly am, on this, my birthday.

So we crank up some possibles and realise it’s all we’ve got, and trundle to the pub. The pub is full of fat greasy men in tight red t-shirts watching football. And completely eyeing me up as if I was the parton herself, as I huff about with my geetar. This is all I need – a constant reminder that most men are even more inadequate than the boy that’s surely gone.

And then my friends turn up. It’s my birthday. I apologise for being absolutely fucking depressed, but as they should know, I hate my fucking birthday and it’s over with the boy. Seriously, I don’t how they they could sit near this rain cloud and not get soaked. I think I managed a downpour by the end of the evening.

We have a mighty introduction from the organiser of the night, as usual. Then we play three random happy and sad and strange tunes, which no one really gets or is in the mood for, the stench of tight football shirts and wet bottom lips infesting the space.

Awful. Luckily everyone fucks off.

Me and my wife hit a strange ex-goth pub on the corner and set down our instruments - the heavy burdens we both had to carry. We prop ourselves up on bar stools and order a drink. My wife is making it better for me. We have a last chance saloon kind of chat about what to do when the world falls out of your bottom, and the bottom falls out of your world. That’s more like it. Matching. Mature. Real. Moody.

And that’s my kind of birthday, thanks for gettin hitched x