141109 charity case

Oh sweet lord, who needs canapés when there’s natural acid?

I am in the middle of a charity ball. Writing with a fucking pencil, hiding in the corner awaiting opportunities to thieve hand-made chocolates.

And my brother’s band is on. And a million posh drunk people are dancing. Which is a contradiction in terms. Do I stroll onto the dance floor and perform an elaborate buleria, I wonder? And the band are fucking good; better then they deserve.

But what’s this on the official invite I’ve swiped? Burger and chips. BURGER AND FUCKING CHIPS, for £100 a head? And I’m with my friend’s husband. And we’re stoned. What could be more appropriate?

The piece of paper I’m writing on says,

‘The Big Love Ball. Sorry! Not this time!’

You’re telling me! About to menstruate at any given moment, I sit ballooned but neatly tucked into my glittery tights and Balinese whore’s dress.

Too many manners to spit at you, but not enough to have developed any self-awareness, they waft before me in varying states of disarray.

There are three women who look like they’ve necked a couple of Es. One of them, hardly a spring chicken, is spiralling out of control. She gushes over to an upper-class hippy in a chiffon tunic and kisses her. When she walks away, the others curl their lips and turn their noses up.

I love them.

Give me your fucking money.

What is it you’ve been wishing for, Godiva? Wealth. I’d buy enough time to sort myself out, then I’d sort everyone else out. Personal kickbox instructor, dance teacher, yogi, masseuse, chef, stylist and surely a discreet gigolo, I would, indeed, be sorted. And here are the ones who could give me that.

And they either bob from side to side like they’ve got something itchy in their control pants, or they swagger about being snapped and papped; a host with a boyband version of Stephen Fry’s quiff poses with a punter. Before the flash goes he wriggles his body smarmily from side to side to create some sort of cad effect. Repulsive.

Sitting here, I remember I have a purpose here. I remark to the well-kempt blonde next to me that my job is to scream at the end of every song, hoping she will imagine a sense of irony in my tone. Alas, she politely dismisses me, I’ve obviously got a bit rusty.

No, my job is to help the photographer with his nift camera work.

Horrified, I realise that this is the closest I’ve been to a date in ages. In fact, have I been on one this year?...........

The answer is, if I remember at all correctly, (which is a worry), yes. But if you want to get down to statistics, let’s just say I ended up in bed with less of the dates, and more of the animals I led to be slaughtered in my farmyard.

And now I am on a warped date with my friend’s husband, the photographer. Well, if it’s a date, statistics prove that we won’t end up in bed, which is a relief. But other people’s husbands are known to like me. A kind of cheaper, feral alternative to a wife. Oh lord, thank you for the guilt you have bestowed upon me, for I simply couldn’t.

You hear about these women who go off with their friend’s husbands, and I imagine it to be a cheap glittery shift dress from new look and a couple of bottles of lambrusco that did it. But now I understand. Should the wife really have been the catalyst in someone else’s love story? Whatever happened to networking?

He just tried to steal this piece of paper from me, and he doesn’t know about my blog. Or the fact I’m writing about him. Shit, that could’ve been an awkward moment - or a lambrusco moment. A writer and a photographer, and he hasn’t got his wedding ring on. Hmmmmmmmmmm, best unpublish this blog if they ever clock on.

*ASIDE: Talking of things catching, my stalker’s back, isn’t he? Had to turn him away from twitter, ignore him on facebook and block him on ‘friendster’, and that’s just today. I ask you. What the fuck’s ‘friendster’ anyway. One of those weird sites you added when you were following Malaysian teenagers’ lead in social networking, only to discover facebook a month later.*

Back to the big lurve ball. The old bird on E is psychotically staring intently into the eyes of a relatively-innocent looking Greek guy. He looks like his burger didn’t go down well and he’s still hungry. And it’s me he wants a slice of, as I provocatively bop in a mock-posh way from side to side.

Smell the danger baby, that’s a corned-beef upbringing for you, come and get a bit of rough! I’ll give you burger and chips, a lemon curd sandwich AND a spam fritter if you play your cards right!

011109 the taxi of shame shall not equal the long walk goodbye

I’m in the mood for lurve
Simply because you’re near me

Well it had got to that stage. I’d go to Tescos and the pubescent cashier would look at me all Mrs Jones and I’d slip my card into his slender machine and the message would come up ‘card inserted too early’. Talk about passion killer.

I’d gyrate my way around my department at work, putting off the TCP-ridden leprechaun in the corner.

It was time to get laid. And it didn’t matter how, when, where or who I did it with, sometimes the why is enough.

Broken. It has been, and let all of nature rejoice and sigh relief, for once again I am furrowed and abundant - notice I avoid ‘fertile’.

I decided. That’s all. On the witching eve, dressed as ‘evil bitch’ or ‘vampire bait’, I would take a man tonight. I simply needed to, and there were three parties, four bars and a club to choose from in my quest.

Slightly stoned and excited, I entered the pub where the 24-year old barman stood behind the bar like a prize piglet. Let the perving begin. I was sat around a table of dribbling zombies, both in appearance and character, it seemed. There’s not much to be said about quantity, if you ask me.

But those two deadfaces opposite looked interesting. Twins, that’s two-for-one.

I gave it a shot. My wife remarked, ‘would you like them if they weren’t twins?’ accusationally.

It unfurled that I had already declared all of her friends ‘idiots’ and she was demanding an answer for my evilbitch behaviour. Aha! What is poison for the goose is rape for the gander, (or whatever), and I settled to enjoy taking on a halloween disguise that came all too naturally.

I joined the twins outside and had the pleasure of the most mundane, non-descript conversation one could imagine. Definitely pulled in theory though, so there was the test-drive.

Second stop. Regular pub where my wife is a fixture and has dated most all of the shrunken dick lady men behind the counter.

But who was this? The charismatic owner, a fine specimen himself, neatly nestled next to another trick or treat. He clocked me at the same second and though I turned back to the bar in mock-calm, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Surely the grail of my desire could not be attained at only the second leg of my stumbling?

‘oh, that’s just his brother; he’s rich, he lives in Chicago and everyone wants to sleep with him’.

Right.

If that ain’t a carrot, I don’t know what is. And of course, though I enjoy sleeping, one would hope for a party piece beforehand.

I basically ro’ped myself just in case. Bit of wine, bit of vodka, bit of sambuca, get it down, then all the conversations you remember will be good. And all those ‘oh…’ moments will trot by unnoticed. La la la, what about the bit where he had a mask on and he looked bipolar, and then he overheard me debating whether all bipolars are also bisexual. Something about butchering. Something about his ex-wife and it all being a big drama. Think at that point I wasn’t capable of even feigning sympathy, but extremely capable of demonstrating wildebeest.

Is it good when a man laughs about things you said, (oh God, please not what I did), long after the fact? I’m always suspicious that funny does not equal ‘and I absolutely have to return for the second fuck’.

So my fantasies have begun. In the morning he had to catch a plane, so I gathered my strewn belongings and stepped out into a storm, the wind dislodging a few cobwebs.

Suddenly I turned back and knocked on the imposing wooden door………

‘Changed your mind?’ he said coolly. I realise now he meant the taxi, but oh how I savoured the ambiguity. No, I’d left my scarf but…………………………….

I stop by a coffee house, with an ochre aura of smug sex about me, not to mention the sex stench and bleary eyes, and demolished some protein before embarking myself on my good friend Luke. Let’s prolong this walk of shame, let’s bask in its blustery glory.

So we prolonged, and it was music for the soul. We laughed about how fit men affect normal thought processes. When the magic man mentioned he sat up late at night, playing the blues on his ownsome whilst his little boy slept upstairs, I had to gag myself to prevent screaming ‘ME, ME! CHICAGO!’

But this time I’m trying not to procrastinate, deviate, lament, self-deprecate/defecate, just to enjoy what was and what can be, and to move through this beautiful universe knowing that I am now not the loneliest, most sexless bugger walking these wintry streets.

211009 choice

Tonight, I particularly enjoyed saying ‘you choose’ to the transexual in the co-op. I always feel, probably wrongly, that people in alternative or marginalised groups should be advocates for the cause. I didn’t catch the name badge, but let’s just say Charity would be more apt than Joy. Me, in my sweaty kickboxing gear, and her in her tabard, we are a sorry pair, so I try to bridge the gap each week but I never manage to break the suspicious stare.

When purchasing a lighter, she asked me what colour I’d like, at which point I uttered the midas words ‘you choose’. And there was the spark, there the bridge was clambered across.

There, was a red lighter.

I wanted the aquamarine, but sometimes you’ve got to take what you can get.

191009 in search of a magic faraway tree

If you can’t see the wood for the trees, run to la montagnes

Cecilia came up with a new one tonight at flamenco –

‘front bottom, FRONT BOTTOM’.

Ex-bloody-actly you enblazened genius! She was, of course, referring to the hip movement needed when excavating the rhumba, but the twinkle in my eye caught hers alright!

A break is always good for getting things into perspective. Wiping the floor with English men (still impartial to a Celt), I longed for the understanding of a man with hot blood pumping through his veins, who could lift me with one arm whilst tearing flesh from a spurned animal with the other. But as we know, extremes aren’t always the best course of action………………

Aboding doomsday, I prepared for my trip by bleeding in as many places as I could, then going to London in the cold eventime to get twisted on vodka at a groove armada gig.

And to add to my womanly joy, the husband of the lead singer decided to give me a lecture on why it was I was alone. Very easy to say from the smug-but-boring side of the fence! Apparently, I’m too fast, too overpowering – too much! Shall I change my personality for a nice boy then? Do I really want that? Pah!

A French guitarist named Dorian took rather kindly to me, but with a tampon-change a minute I was taking no risks.

I awoke on a too-short sofa and embarked on my journey into a longed-for wonderland.

Stepping off the plane into a warm sunshine nomansland, I instantly felt a weight off my knotted shoulders.

And there were my amazing hosts, the beautiful Evie, in tow with man and bebouncing baby.

We spent the night pigeoning in Catalan, drinking cheap wine and eating some sort of swine.

Saturday saw us attending a few parties – of which I’d been prewarned of the clientele. And they weren’t exaggerating. The first was further up the mountain, so we clambered into the back of the pick-up whilst the sun set, baby gleeing in the wind.

We arrived at the neighbours meek but warm place – stone walls, a fire burning, and presented them with the anomolous cake we had purchased from some dodgy Spanish supermarket. Apparently we did well with ‘chocolate’; the yellow one was in fact egg yolk flavour!

And there was the herd of wild stallion. Feral, to be more accurate. Some strange Chilean man in chorded slacks who lived in Stuttgart when he wasn’t pillaging, leaping up and down the rugged terrain off his head on some brand of carpet cleaner. A big, rotten-toothed foul-breathed local raucously laughing whilst stumbling about panting over the startled babies. These were men having a bewildered good time at 7pm in a shack. These were not the kind of passionate men with whom I choose to grace my custom.

Quick escape, and a hurtling ride to the piece de la resistance – another self-built house in the middle of nowhere, populated with swollen-eyed drug-smugglers and petty thieves. And I am standing with a plastic cup full of unidentifiable liquor, holding a baby whilst my friend ventures to the eco-loo down the bottomless path.

How the other half live.

Now the world is full of extremes, but where oh where is my middle man?x

121009 wild horses

So I’m off to Spain on Friday to test out a few moves on the locals. I asked my happily settled friend I’m visiting if there were any suitable chorizos on the menu.

‘erm, only ex-drug addicts and old people’.

Well, nowhere I haven’t been before. And I shall be bleeding which will make me slightly more unappealing and more likely to be sympathetic to the underdog.

My horoscope today said

‘Start upgrading this weekend by enhancing your image. The best way to do this is to bring joy to yourself. When you feel better you look better and other people will notice.’

Easier said than done when you’re living out of a ryanair one-bag on an isolated olive farm with nothing but the wind for company. On the blob.

Oh yeah, if it wasn’t for the soul I’d have nothing left!

I softly fell out of the hope of my French assassin lover demanding I fly to Geneva to drink champagne from his navel, I briefly thought a binge may have begun when I got my tits felt up on George Street, but it was nothing but a dying dream.

Instead, I focussed on the hope that the guy I first ever welcomed into my fold would come up trumps. Yes, the brother of the bride of the groom of the brother of the French assassin. To make things clear.

He is a serial monogamist, because he loves sex and appears to have no guilt complex; more fool him. But he wants my loins, and I his rump, and after dinner we’d skip the mints………..

Having someone on the back burner is a safe way to insure your sanity. No more angry sexually-frustrated outbursts at the world; chuckling softly to myself at internet advances rather than reaching my fist through the screen to try and grab some cybercock.

But I waited……………and a woman’s week is a man’s minute, and my plate was still empty. I put one egg in one basket and dropped it on the floor. I went to check my simmering broth and the hob wasn’t even on. Bugger. Strictly off the boil.

In a desperate attempt to grasp a piece of him for my own, I today sent him a very simple text:

‘fucking ring me, I want to know when I can get some possible sex’.

Unremarkable, you may think, but it grabbed him by the balls and we have a phone date on Sunday, (he lives in the wilderness).

O Lord break this seal that I have been re-given…….

081009 the barreness

My reputation at work as a sex maniac is really not helping. I’ve been known to shout at the top of my lungs my tale of bewoed barren-ness.

My new alter-ego – the barreness.

Anyway, today a group of cheerful housing officers asked me if I would like some children. I replied that I would need someone to put something inside me first and then I’d think about it. They decided I must have no end of offers, just hadn’t met the right man yet. That would be any man, with any kind of penis please.

A mid-life quaker lesbian with flowing fiery hair offered me a turkey baster at which point I coughed up more than a squirt of coffee and walnut cake.

Another colleague mused how he’d spent £600 on bedding and explained that a welcoming bed reaps a merry harvest. And it is the harvest moon. ‘Mind you’, he said, ‘you do alright’. SCREAM! My bed is barren as am I, sorry, tired and second-hand, impractical and haunting.

So I looked in a bed shop, (I am skint), and was drawn to one bed, a divan bed as it happens. £1200. What’s a girl to do? Not that easy to shoplift, but oh so easy to lie in.

But buying a bed also means staying put, and as my reflexologist told me today ‘oooooo, from your toes I can tell you know where you’re going’.

Down Tescos for a one-pot wonder, that’s where I’m going………….

061009 giving up on love

So tonight at flamenco I found myself aching for a camera, oh please! A snapshot of my life for the punters!

I am in the adult education centre, surrounded by an assortment of twisted allsorts.

There’s this woman I can’t bear whose name I forget instantly. She is like a string bean with something disgusting bursting from her intestines. Her face is pompous, she is very English, very unaware and intensely insulting to be near.

Her mate from tennis, on the other hand, is great. Ann. She has a labrador called Zoe, so I immediately assume the persona of bitch and we hit it off, much to string bean’s downturned-mouth disapproval.

Spontaneous laughter abounding at the crazy Spanish gypsy before us, who bears her aged but beautiful thighs at us and encourages us to know ourselves and dance. Oh yeah.

Not really the kind of advice given to a sex-crazed truthsaker, but what the hey, let’s make a bad situation worse by unleashing my sexuality on the conservative streets and suburban housewives.

The music changes for the mood of the dance, and Cecilia the teacher tries a modern slant on things.

‘Hokay, I think thith one you know’.

Please no, it can’t be……………….and off we strut, second-hand skirts bustling as we are told to let out this attitude. You are in a room with all these women and one man, and you will get him!

Welllllllllllllll, not being big-headed or anything, but when you look at what’s on offer here, I’m not going to have to try too hard.

One of my faves, Maria, really lets rip, though still holding on to something to prevent a leakage.

‘Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me’. She mouths. Oh yeah, she knows the lyrics, how very modern of her!

So after stifling my raucous laughter at this wretched display of womanhood, I assume a slow, panther-like strut, shoulders back, face not giving it away. Work for it baby, you’ve got a girlfriend after all………………..

‘oh………deeeeeeeeeeeefellent!’ Cecilia smoulders at me.

I mouth, ‘yeah, I don’t give a shit about him or her’.

And this, oh my poor readers, is unfortunately true. I have decided to play the oblivious card. Some say hard to get. I say nigh-on impossible. And the menopausals are strutting around out of time stamping their feet, and I’m coolly swinging my beflamencoed hips.

I win. But I go to bed alone.

220809 keeping it in the family

I got to the wedding, which was a small miracle.

I was introduced to the brother of the groom, who looked more funeralesque than best man, but sharp with it. The brain whirred, but ground to a halt. If you read the last instalment, you will be familiar with the ‘noise art’ poem ‘love is love’. I took one look at the French odyssey before me and decided I should retire from bloodsports and focus on getting through the day alive instead.

In the ceremonial room I bonded with as many distant relatives as possible, forming a human sympathy shield to protect me from myself.

The boy I lost my virginity to was now a man standing gazing at me at the front of the congregation, his bewigged girlfriend oblivious in many ways.

Next to him stood Mr Sharp. That sounds like a maths teacher. No, the inglourious basterd known as ‘Romain’. Next to them both stood an oversized oil painting of our victorious queen. Oh how I love a ceremony.

A few rotten-toothed old pals from our hometown dragged themselves in from way back when, and we were set to go.

A hideous almighty noise droned throughout the room, and it was time for Mr Ego to enter. With umbrella and ridiculous hat I could only thank the lord, once again, that twas not I marrying this twat.

I shed the proverbial tear, then realised I was being summoned forth, and there was nowhere to escape. The groom had wanted to coach me beforehand as it was his masterpiece I was about to murder, but I seethingly refused. ‘Just improvise’ he quaffed in his heavy French accent -I’ll throw myself out of the fucking window, I thought.

It was bad. But it was better than any other sucker in there would have done. Whilst screeching in a part of the ‘performance’ my voice quivered in a vibrato tone one could not mistake as pre-suicide nerves.

It ended. I was taken back to the moment after my Michael Jackson dance at lovebox festival, when I assured myself that we will all be rewarded for our dutiful acts…..

And that I did. Cruising down the Camden canalway, one could not refuse the gallons of free champagne – normally I’d go and get poked in the bushes for an hour or so, but nowhere to run to this time…….

So I spent the afternoon being told off by the father of the bride for corrupting his sons, and bonding with the mother of the man in black. They had to separate us in the end, after posing for a photo where we proudly displayed the V sign. And that’s when I realised I loved Freud. Come to mummy mon petit amie, come to maman.

Although I had predetermined that I couldn't be arsed with competing for a manly prize on this day, I found myself slow dancing to that unforgettable tune ‘unforgettable’. That’s when he licked my face for the first time.

Round and round on that barge I went, and every few minutes he would walk by and lick my face and walk off again.

Turns out I didn’t really need to compete for him as half the congregation were lesbians, apparently clamouring after my good self!

Some Italian felt up my arse for the pictures, and then my first love decided to declare his undying love for me – in front of wig-woman. I thought I’d better make the most of both worlds and kiss them both as much as I could at once.

Thank god for that! We were allowed off the boat and scavenged the streets of olde London town, mixing with lecherous after-work suits. And all the while he keeps on telling me he wants to lick me all over.

This scares me. I am not a larder. And what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned poke?

So it’s all the usual french romantic stuff. Which I have either transcended, or given up on. If memory serves correctly the shower, window, floor and even the bed were consummated. And he was a big fan of arse club that the young boys seem to belong to nowadays.

And I was turning thirty-two on Sunday, so I thought what the heck, and let him stick his finger in. What’s the worst that could happen? You should do something new every day I’ve heard, and if you can’t beat em, join em.

Though he did beat me, with his belt.

So all round, not a bad innings, and then the phone went.

The bride and gloom had bonked each other into oblivion and the groom had decided we should all go out clubbing in Soho to celebrate. Bravado. Ego. Can’t-be-arsed-to-go.

On the way there, my knowledge failed me and we had to hail a cab. Staggering around the near-empty streets on the lookout for a hail, a cycle-rickshaw wheeled past with two occupants.

‘If he doesn’t satisfy you tonight love, you can come home with us!’

Honestly, you can’t take me anywhere. But I realised that the teenage jeans I just bought from a sweatshop outlet have their desired effect, and I shall use them, oh how I shall use them.

So now I was sitting in a bar in Soho with a newly married couple, the groom’s brother, and yours truly. Suspiciously like a date. Don’t do that kind of thing, and rarely after I’ve received my reward.

With horror I realised I had bebonked both the bride and groom’s brothers, and now had to sit and play happy families with the remainder. Brotherly love……..what would Fromm say?

The next morning, as I ejected myself from the hotel, I found myself in the early sunlight supping on a pre-hangover filter coffee in Russell Square. Beloved London. Magical City.

Time to reflect on the faux-romance. My head felt happy but wonky, and then I realised I had broken my shades at some point and a jagged edge was protruding into my brain.

Class. That’s what separates those frogs from us pommes. And nothing like a wedding to bring people together and set them apart.

A bien tot! x

200809 I love my family

Yes readers, sometimes ‘love’ transcends the boundary of a quick fumble behind the wheelie bins.

After dining on a ‘frugal foodies menu’ at a vegan restaurant, I spot my mum and dad sneaking into the chippie and coming out with sausage and chips, whilst I freewheel in the brusk wind along the promenade.

I love my family.

How good is that feeling when you can really be you, warts and all, with three over-60s who’ve just emerged from a sewer tour.

I said I couldn’t bear it – any whiff of sewage would flash me straight back to four months in India.

Vegan food, all well and good, but give me the protein…..

I mused upon becoming a pescatarian whilst in the land of a million gods, but then my hair started falling out, my periods stopped and I became so weak a dip in the ganges felt like murder (incidentally, on Good Friday I got robbed and on Easter Monday I nearly got raped, how’s that for a resurrection). As my good friend Johnny quipped, ‘oh, so you can rape the willing’.

On Tuesday I found myself browsing the shelves of the non-fiction section of the library. Am I sad? I thought. No, I’m wholesome girl at heart, belonging to libraries in over five London boroughs.

I think of myself as a piss-psychologist, and found Eric Fromm’s ‘The art of loving’. Solid as a rock, he died in 1980, so none of that ‘power of now’ bullshit for me.

There are sections including brotherly love (oo er, we’ve all been near someone’s brother), motherly love (suck that titty), erotic love (praise god all creation praise), self-love (masturbation), and love of god (oh for the love of god). Brackets mine, incidentally.

And it may be the first book I’ve read for a decade without pictures. (have trained travelling partner to quip in literary conflab ‘does it have pictures? No? then she won’t read it’). Rock on, Vonnegut.

I’m on page 11 already. And it is food for thought. The theory that we are all separate and as social beings need to interact, need that validation, and in a culture basing itself on consumerism, we only look at the tin, but don’t sample its contents. Have you tried Campbells meatballs? Catfood, but strangely moreish.

And all this coincides with a wedding I shall attend on the morrow. Received a surprise phonecall from the blusher, asking for a massive favour. To read a poem. Well, more of a futurist poem (fuck Goldsmiths, that means it’s shit). A performance poem. Here we go. Witch of the wedding scares guests into oblivion. Again.

It goes as follows (if you can’t be arsed skip this bit, I’d hate bad art diverting you from my blog):

love is love
(pause)
love is love love is love
(pause)
love is love because love is love and when love is love then love is love
love is love loooooooove iS louuuuuuuuuve
(pause)
as love is love love could only be love
(pause)
love is the love of love and love as love is love who love
love is (pause) love
(pause)
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee
is love (~)
(pause)
in fact love could only be love cauz love is love
(pause)
love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love
(long pause)
love is what love is : love is a love love of a love love, love is the love who love the love but it's not the love who is not love because love is love as love in love... (pause)
(pause2)
LOVE IS LOVE (stronger)
LOVE IS LOVE (more stronger)
LOVE IS LOVE (loud)
LOVE IS LOVE (very loud)
love is love (nearly silent, twice)... (long pause)

(silence)

ovlesi velo ovel slo as loe is l tub so livo secuz vlevo sil vleo

(improvised singing)

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

(silence)

love is love as much as love could be loved, it is indeed a form of love where love is always love
the only aim for love is love, there is no other love than love, love is love
and as love is love love would always remain as love

(silence)

LOVE IS LOVE

Yes…………………………………………………………..well we’ll see what happens eh? I’m not practising it, and will perform from a scruffy piece of paper, possibly flashing my blood-stained panties. Christ help me if it ends up on youtube.

Anyway, the point of this section is that the bride happens to be the sister of the man who deflowered me. I’ve had to go a long way back to fulfil this blog, but this is the ultimate nostalgia.

And then he came to the phone. And then we talked for an hour whilst my neighbour flooded my kitchen. And now I’m persuading myself to fall in love with my memory of him, though it was I who shunned him way back when.

He wants to come and stay. I want him to come and stay. Effeminate, but far from so in the ‘area’ (mano for the Spanish amongst us), it can’t go worse than the choir boy. I say that now.

So in an amazing sequence of events, when I have decided to give up on the internet (again) whilst inhaling my own methane on the seafront, maybe love has come to me. Incidentally, I farted and then literally smelt roses. That was poignant, and could possibly have replaced a lyric of Morissette’s. If Morissette is the female subjunctive of Morrissey, then us ladies ain’t doing so good, and God knows I’m miserable now.

Anyway, had to fit the poo-poo really smells like ro-rosehes bit in somewhere.

Conclusions? As usual, none really, but I turn 32 on Sunday, and what was a wretched feeling is now one of vulgar hope. This is the year of the ex, (another one sending me a CD and having coffee next week). So be it. Will have to check my tarot deck, but I fear it has less to do with the Romanies and more to do with the rheumatoids.

Adios. Happy birthday me, (pray me a fuck) x

140809 what doesn't kill you............

So this latest escapade, dear readers, does not involve sex. Well, unless you count a handful of half-dead Christopher Reeves-style winos telling me how pretty I look in my dress, whilst staring at my legs. She’s still got it.

To keep my aspirations high in this quaint seaside town, I embarked on a project with my friend Obstrovsky called Come Dine With Us.

Let’s get the locals to show off their talents, while tucking into a delectable three course meal in a BYO restaurant, we thought.

The planning was sporadic but thorough. I felt like a bore when holding a risk assessment meeting, but it will always be the unknowns that bite ya.

And bite they did! The fabulous Obstrovsky held true to her faith in humankind when I suggested that the bipolar manager’s friends could be twisted stewed old oddballs.

Our guests arrived – hers rather frumpy and overkeen (who was that tap-dancing pianist?) and mine supportive as ever, slightly grimacing at the prospect of what was to come.

Then his arrived. Late. Demanded the duck not on the set menu, which set my partner on fire.

“Look!” I hissed through grated teeth

“If they want to think they can ruin this thing then they can try, but I’m going to let them stew in their own juices”.

A bit of the old magic sorted that out – we opened a book on who would die first, Biggs or Thatcher, and I bonded ludicrously with some old tart who named herself Nellie Dean.

That was probably the most successful part of the night, though only a quick gesture on our part – be who you want for the evening, design your own badge.

Of course, I am the lovely lady godiva, but one of the old duffs wouldn’t answer to anything other than ‘loser’. Oh, how I enjoyed shouting that one in his face when demanding that he sat down.

I think it was at the point that someone spontaneously started dribbling out ‘my old man said follow the van’ that I realised we had given birth to Frankenstein’s monster. To my appallment, everyone joined in and kept telling me how great it was. I suddenly realised that we had drop-outs from Britain’s Got Talent, not the folkie talents we had dreamt of.

My day job is with the socially disadvantaged, and this was going to be one hell of a night shift. So I drank a whole bottle of red wine before the main, assumed a tragic alter-ego, and let hell break loose.

I remember, (just about), commenting to my dining partner ‘Orson Carte’, that one needn’t obtain special mushrooms nowadays to incur unnameable flashbacks at a later date.

Obstrovsky disappeared for the last two hours, leaving me and the other twenty to honk out all manner of twangy guitar tunes with Sandy the ‘chef’.

And they all keep talking about the next time…………………………

Snatching our cash from the till, Obstrovsky and I wandered stunned through the night streets, among showers of perseids hidden in the clouds, and did a quick stocktake.

‘I hid for the last two hours. You were brilliant. And cunning’, she told me.

Turns out a few of my other faces were required to round up the lost and drunken sheep, and she had been closely scrutinising my inauthentic actions.

One thing was clear. Never again. At least, not in a zoo where the owners friends are complete losers.

Favourite moment? The former owner of a stinkers pub reciting an epic poem about a lion called Wallace, (hopefully it was meant to be funny cos I was pissing myself), and an old trussed up turkey staggering outside for some stale air, finally having thought up a name for herself at near-midnight. Grace Jones. I’ve got the pic to prove it!

xx

080809 The spod, the brand and the choir boy

“To learn a lesson you have already learned is to not have learned it properly in the fucking first place”
Godiva 09

I’m not waiting on a lover……………..have you seen my lover baby, standing in the shadows?

No? Me neither.

What was promising to be a spectacular summer run has dwindled into a plate not worth eating. Oh yay, oh yay, I bring tidings not of joy.

So I turn to witch craft. Love potion number 9. Stand by the full moonlight and brew your worst, repeat some Wiccan words and focus on the one you love. Be sure it is the object of your desires, be careful what you wish for.

Pondering on this googled wisdom, I was forced to ask myself, who is this one I love? Haven’t a clue!

Be careful what you wish for, Godiva.

So the choirboy came to stay…………for four freaking nights. And not an ounce, not an ounce I tell you, of a snifter of cock. This despite having visited the sacred place of his previously, his thinking he’d knocked me up, and a near reconciliation, doused by his flatulence and my principles.

A few nights jamming late into the night left me hopeful. I told you in the last instalment it would go one of two ways……..banging him until the almighty told me to stop, or taking a restraining order out on myself to stop punching him in the brain.

Well guess which one, dear readers? That lovely latter!

He decided on a wobbly seafront walk home after licking lesbians fingers and crowd surfing through the wettest, gayest pride yet, to talk to me about the lack of sex.

It transpires that before chrimble when we fucked, he hadn’t had it since he was twenty one. That’s six years. I couldn’t hear it.

‘No expectations’ I growled. ‘I knew it would go one way or the other’.

Oh just leave will you? No. He wouldn’t. He cramped me in every way possible, smothered my burning flames with a damp shammy leather, I feared my fist would make contact with his head against my instruction.

Never again.

So that’s the lesson I already knew. Had to play it out. Don’t understand where the hell his head was at, but if there’s cock in my house it gets far closer to my bed. And that’s that.

So I realised with the witchety grubs that what I wanted was a good banging. Maybe even the dreaded fuck buddy. So I gave a moonlit focus to that.

And it may have paid off. I called off the internet date. ‘Funky physicist’ he calls himself. My latest song is called physics, and the choir boy ruined that as well, by pointing out the desperately horny hilarity of

‘The residue remains in me’. ‘Yes’ I say, ‘but it’s about the big bang you see.’

‘Big bang’. Indeed.

Anyhoo, in the song it’s saying it’s chemistry, not physics, and I thought I’d better heed to my own words.

The internet gimp in question was a Londoner who’d got in touch and spoken about sex in his profile. Tick.

He was down in Brighton doing a thesis in a lab about photons. Well they sound cool!

They do!

He wanted to meet but didn’t have much time, so we set an hour on Wednesday, short and sweet.

But dragging myself off the tennis court I felt done in, and couldn’t face resurrecting my tired old (birthday soon) body to the peace statue, where I’d set to meet him.

So I called it off in a text, saying it would be better when we both had the time, and he replied with a quip about buying me a great present, but Primark would take it back, light weight.

Very charming mr fucking physicist. The reason these creatures are on interweb dating is because they CAN’T SCORE GRLS IN REAL LIFE. Whereas, give me a room of men and I’ll have swept the floor in twenty minutes. Although obviously, I am having some kind of temporarily glitch………

Internet ain’t no good for me. They aren’t great in the flesh, chemistry can’t be faked, and only the booze can convince you to stick the tongue in.

Nup, I’d rather frig about with the agoraphobic who keeps offering me adult fun. He stays in his house, which means that I can leave.

How will this story end, I hear you cry? Her tangents are twisted and disgustable, and she’s clearly been reading Jeannette Winterson.

Today, I went to London for ‘work’. Which consisted of me nearly fucking a stationery representative over a desk, getting coke-high on coffee, telling various plump members of staff I loved them, and generally controlling the universe.

I feel good – borderline mental, but good.

I popped upstairs to find my beloved brummy pig-queen, the lift door opens and she walks right in! We agree to meet for ‘lunch’.

And we pop down to the river, the dirty old river, but it keeps on rolling.

Something is going on – there are vans parked either side of the cobbled walkway. I ask a man what’s going on and he says he’s busy, so in my new-found aggressive manner I tell him it would have taken as long just to tell me. Must stop watching people nutting each other on Shameless.

Anyhoo, we pop to an old haunt of mine – haunt because I have dumped several men there, and there’s a commotion outside. A film crew is busy setting up a scene in the outdoor seating area (sack the location scout), for a film called Take Me to the Greek, starring none other than the notorious Russell Brand!

And look, there he is, cocking his hips in front of me. The heart starts racing, so all that witchery by the window has paid off – I wish for sex, and the most talked about sex maniac appears before my very eyes! My pig-queen ex-boss stands shaking her head at me, ‘you’ve got a bit over-excited’. Oh yes I have. Imagine how no-strings this could be, and I’m not about to try and sell my story to Mr Morgan. Hell no.

I catch his eye, and he performs a peacockish mating dance for me, quivering his lips and his hips, raising his eyebrows. Before I know it, I have reached into my faux-designer handbag and snatched out an erotic calling card and am waving it at him suggestively. How about this for a lunch break?

Then he disappears on set. A craggy-toothed security guard stands gormlessly between the crowd and the brand. I give him the card and ask him to give it to Russell, meaning at an opportune moment, but he runs off there and then to purloin a piece of his manhood for me.

But he comes back, saying he only got as far as the PA.  Hmmmmmmmm, reformed sex addict’s PA gets given a calling card from a random blonde. Let’s do a probability analysis. I decide not to, pat myself on the back for nearly doing well, and settle down to my fishfinger sandwich.

Work that afternoon flies by, shooting warning looks at the pig-queen not to once again reveal my outrageous behaviour to the solemn-faced housing executives churning away at their work stations.

I return to The Anchor for a second stalk-innings with me old faithful John of Tabard Square, I bump into little Amy Winehouse, my former gym fighting partner and good all-round pagan. She’d been texting me about seeing me and I’d evaded, but there she was, shouting out to me only because I’d been singing Furtado’s ‘I’m like a bird’ unawares.

‘I’m not important enough to you’, she said when I mumbled excuses of not ringing.

A few weeks ago I bumped into her whilst dribbling my way to the station after lovebox. It’s a small world, but this one makes it smaller. I knew the witching had begun.

Johnny and I take a seat on the patio and watch Brand filming. I try to block his shrieking voice from my head – this does not correlate with my hopes of outlandish acrobatic bonking, and eye him up continuously for half an hour. I leave to get my train, deciding he may have my calling card, and if I incessantly stalk him on twitter I could get a result.

Twas not the only witching I did today. My wife Loula, (travel and market wench), had been complaining of the same dilemma over the phone, ‘everything is a bit normal, where’s the witchery?’ And we knew we needed some, and she scored my head with a crystal and we stomped our way through the blues like unstoppable heathen-women.

Yes today is the day for witching, and witching I done good. Now I’ve just got to wait for that booty call..........................................

250709 Cock, sock and two smoking chavs

‘I love a good sock’, yes, all these details about a man are important. If you’ve been single as long as I have, you have time to develop irrational hatreds towards the most irrelevant of nitpicks. The long, towelling kind with a large tight elastication simply horrifies me, but a loose, good quality sheer pair are quite the ticket.

My body is no longer a temple – well perhaps a temple of doom. This year’s summer run is completely explosive and incongruous.  Trying to take stock now, I’m not sure who’s real and who’s not, what I’ve actually got on my plate, and what’s stuck in a virtual pantry somewhere.

At Lovebox festival I performed my MJ dance, then gave myself permission to drink whatever, and however much, I wanted. Lord knows how I am here to tell the tale, but the fact it’s nearly a week later is an indication of the recovery period.

My memory flashes from jumping up and down on stage, to having a nasty rope burn administered to my arm in the north v south tug of war (binliners, washing up liquid, you get the picture).

An old flame of mine turned up for our yearly festival meet, and the tequilas were flying. A 23 year old collared me and asked me out (off his head, but luscious all the same). By the time the headline act came on (my mate was singing for Groove Armada), pieces of my brain were scattered far and wide not only over the fields of Hackney but possibly the Universe, but my God was I enjoying myself. Well yes, I was, and luckily the audience didn’t have to endure my harmonies for at the river, which three of us were supposed to do on stage.

After a terribly strange, magnificent and inappropriate embrace with the ex, I zig-zagged my way to the front of the crowd, and to my surprise was confronted with none other than The Hairy Angel – no not her, see previous blog! He had a lovely young bird with him, which made me feel quite indecent indeed, and she humoured me by asking me to sing the harmony for at the river (was meant to sing on stage but it was pulled), to her. It was then I realised that the power of speech, or singing in this case, was nowhere near my vocal chords.

The show ended, and my mate came out, got mobbed, and dragged me back stage to an array of vodka, chocolate and chicken sandwiches. Then Shoreditch House (four in a toilet, couldn’t name them), then back to hers, where I proceeded one of my infamous lectures to the younger man on life, love and everything. There were smiles and laughter and I woke up flat on my back in the middle of the floor.

What fun!

When I got home, the ecstatic 23 year old from the festival began a series of unsophisticated but tantalising flirtations via the medium of facebook.

It was decided we would meet under the burnt-out pier for frolicks in a few weeks time. Then he either lost interest, died of a drug overdose, or realised I was old enough to be his godmother, and all went quiet on the northern front.

Out with the young, in with the old. The pleasant but ineffectual internet date was still asking for my acquaintance, so I told him I was busy and arranged a date with a curious South African instead.

Yum.

With a rebel yell I cry MORE MORE MORE!

I am getting so rubbish at morning-after anxiety, last night whilst in his throes I actually dreamed of animosity between us yet to happen. The thing is, I deserve these feelings. The date was good, drunken, and towards the end I decided he didn’t like me but couldn’t figure out why. Then he asked for a snog. Then I gave him a snog. Then he said he’d send me filthy texts till we met later in the week, which should have sounded like a good plan.

I had pre-programmed the brain to go home, but the brain was not happy. The brain sent me staggering home with him. He was beautiful, especially when his mouth was shut, and not bad when it was open, and I loved the way he came. The personality bit we can work on.

So today has been a downhill struggle, accompanied by accumulative booze-blues and paranoid womanoid texting. I asked him if I’d blown it by acting like a slut, and he replied that there was nothing to blow. Not technically true, but what am I like? The thing is, I hate that waiting period. Waiting for someone to possibly not text. So now I know I may see him next week. Or I may not. All’s fair in internet dating and war, especially when one party has the patience of a teenager on speed.

Thursday will see an old friend who I shedaddled with at Christmas arriving for a long weekend. That is going to be a strange story – I have reservations, I mean, we’re not that good mates, and if we screw for that long I shall not only lose the power of my legs, but may drag my fragile heart into another palaver.

Then there’s the man who keeps telling me to go to his for adult fun. And the one who keeps offering me a ‘massage’. I’m telling ya kids, it never rains, but I could do with a proper storm……………